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There is drool staining the case notes that are scattered across the table. Damian is experienced enough in watching over Timothy to know better than to mention the soggy papers. Damian is not technically babysitting at the moment, since Tim insists that he is most definitely big right now, though Damian can not so easily be fooled. He may not be as experienced in his caregiver instincts as the rest of their family is, but Damian knows when his brother is on the cusp.
He has been teetering on the edge of his headspace for the last hour or so, his fingers red from how much he’s been chewing on them. Timothy does not take well to what he perceives as making fun of his little disposition, regardless of the fact that they would never earnestly humiliate him for his classification, but that does not mean that Damian can not help him slip. Littles need their headspace just as fervently as caregivers need to provide, if not more so. With the way that Tim clings to his big self, that is only a further indicator of how badly he needs to be small.
His brother is chomping so harshly onto his fingers that he will be surprised if there are no bruises left behind. Damian decides to speak up when he sees Timothy dig his fingers further into his mouth and use his molars to really gnaw. “Father said you’re not to chew on your fingers.” He is careful to keep any judgment out of his tone, not wanting Tim to see it as a jab. Damian would never, but that hardly means anything when Tim is predisposed to embarrassment about his classification.
“‘M not little,” he whines, voice pitched the way it does when he’s so close to fully slipping. He’s more Timmy than Timothy now, needing a caregiver's guidance to help ease him the rest of the way down.
Tone remaining even, almost casual, he says, “You’re still chewing on your fingers.” Damian is unsure whether it’s better for Timmy to be biting himself or to chew on the pen sitting idly in his other hand, waiting for continued note-taking. Since Timmy’s classification was discovered, he was promptly benched from patrol. Red Robin took on a more Oracle-like role in a compromise between him and Father. Bruce would not allow the new baby of the family to risk injury all while Timothy insisted that he could still be useful to the family business. It was Babs who stepped in and said that Tim could help her, that he could still make use of his intellect while remaining out of the real action.
It took months for Tim to begin finding joy on this side of the comms, but his contributions have genuinely been instrumental to the success of several missions. Though, it is not nearly as often as Tim would like. A healthy little spends at least half of the week seated firmly in their headspace. Despite that, Timmy has a bad habit of shoving his littlespace down as often as possible. There have been multiple occasions that he’s ended up dropping out of his own stubbornness and a fervid need to prove that he can be big.
Damian doesn’t know how to get Timmy to understand that his family is here for him no matter his dynamic and headspace. He is just as pleased to help little Timmy with his coloring as he is to help big Timothy make a breakthrough on a case.
“‘M fine,” Timmy mumbles, drool dribbling past his fingers and down his chin. His notes will be illegible. Even if his handwriting had not become messier and messier the further down he slipped, all the saliva has blurred the ink. The end of the pen has bite marks on it, though most of the writing utensils in the Manor do. Damian is unsure if Timothy knows that their Father went through and replaced every single pen in the house with the clickable kind, knowing his son’s habit of chewing on anything within reach and not wanting to risk him choking on a pen cap.
Timmy rubs at his face, clearly attempting to physically prevent himself from fully succumbing. Sometimes all he needs is a small push and he’ll give into his biological needs. “I can provide you with a pacifier or a teether if that is sufficient,” he offers.
He realizes his mistake of vocabulary at Timmy’s open confusion. He clearly can not remember what the word sufficient means right now but he’s too stubborn to ask the definition. “‘M not little. Don’t needa paci,” Timmy snaps, sounding much whinier than he likely intends.
“I did not say that you are little,” Damian answers smoothly. “I am simply offering an alternative so you do not harm yourself.” It’s true that even if Timmy weren’t so clearly fighting his headspace, he would still offer another option, whether it be a chewy fidget or an actual teether. It doesn’t matter how many times Timmy is reminded not to bite himself, he tends to gnaw on his fingers no matter the age of his headspace. It is hardly an unusual habit for a little, but that doesn’t make it easier to keep his fingers from getting bruised.
Timmy’s face scrunches up the way it does when he’s starting to get cranky. It is likely that he needs a nap, though that is an endeavor Damian will likely require backup for. No one can get Timmy into a peaceful slumber like Father can. “Nuh uh,” he pouts, further jamming his fingers into his mouth as if that could somehow prove his point.
Trying a different approach, Damian asks, “Have I shown you the new teether toy I purchased recently? I saw it at the store and I thought of you.”
Immediately, his pout melts away as a shy sort of eagerness takes over. “New toy?” He asks, the words slurred around his fingers.
“Yes, Timmy,” Damian grins, the sort of smile only the baby can bring out of him. “It is a special stuffed animal that has silicone feet, perfect for chewing on. That way you can have a companion while you indulge in your oral fixation.”
Timmy doesn’t seem to register most of what he said, not that he expected him to. “Stuffie?” He asks, clearly as hopeful as he is excited. In his eagerness, he begins rocking forward and back, just barely catching himself from bumping against the edge of the table.
Damian stands, holding a hand out. “Would you like to see?”
Timmy nods, finally pulling his slobbery fingers from his mouth, little teeth indents marring the skin. “Please, Dami.” He raises his arms, hands opening and closing as he asks to be picked up. It seems that Timmy has already forgotten his attempt at remaining big, far too distracted by the thought of a brand new toy, just as Damian suspected he would.
Damian’s natural caregiver strength allows him to scoop Timmy up with ease, placing him securely onto his hip. His brother curls into his hold immediately, always happy to snuggle. Between the rest of their family, his friends, as well as his variety of pets, Damian does not have a lack of physical affection in his life. Even so, there is nothing quite like having Timmy be so excited to cuddle up against him, as if there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
He had only purchased the new teether toy on his most recent outing with Jon, so it has remained safe on his desk for an occasion such as this. Though he would have found satisfaction in gifting the toy to Timmy immediately, there is a different sort of pride in using the gift to help grant him an easier descent into his littlespace.
Timmy is ever soothed by the steady bouncing as Damian carries him up the stairs, his body finally relaxing as he gives into the smallness inside him.
Thankfully Damian had the forethought to remove any tags from the toy and to clean it, allowing him to give the stuffed puppy over to Timmy immediately. With a thrilled little squeal, Timmy takes to the toy right away, putting one of the silicone feet into his mouth. The texture must be acceptable because he gives a pleased hum, chewing more thoroughly onto the silicone. The light brown fur of the toy dog is awfully soft, only the best for the baby of the family.
While Damian would not mind sitting down in the bedroom and letting Timmy play in here awhile, the room is not babyproofed to Bruce’s standards. Damian would never allow any harm to come to the little, though the risk is hardly worth it when it’s simple enough to carry Timmy back downstairs. So with the boy still braced on his hip, he begins the walk down to the den. He will leave the case notes for now, knowing that if it were an incredibly urgent mission that it would not have been assigned to Timmy when everyone knew he was due to slip.
This particular living room has been specifically decorated for when Timmy is small. A plush rug has been laid over the floor, soft enough for comfortable crawling. There’s a whole chest of toys at the edge of the rug, within easy reach of the baby. While there is a television, Bruce dissuades any of them from turning it on for Timmy unless it’s a designated movie night, wanting the little one to get his mental stimulation through actual playing. Not that Timmy knows much of a difference, typically too giddy to have a playmate to give much of an opinion on what they’re actually doing. Damian has no doubt that such a mindset is a byproduct of his neglectful upbringing, a direct correlation to why Tim is so predisposed towards dropping.
He never has to be alone anymore. Both Bruce and Alfred keep a well thought out schedule, ensuring that even with day jobs and vigilante work, that Tim is never without at least one caregiver within the house, ready to take care of him. It does not matter if the world is burning, Father will not abandon any of his kids, let alone his ittiest bittiest baby. Even if they did not know that Timmy is undoubtedly the most vulnerable member of this family, no one would complain about spending so much time with him. It has been a blessing, to say the least, for there to be a little so eager for attention and affection within this family otherwise filled entirely with caregivers.
He balances them out in a way only Timmy can.
Sitting down onto the carpet, leaning against the couch, he settles Timmy into his lap. As he expected, the baby stays snuggled in, continuing to nibble on his new toy. He must be getting those phantom teething aches again with the ferocity that he’s been chewing. Perhaps Damian will have to make a pit stop by the kitchen and grab a frozen teether before Timmy will need to go down for his inevitable nap. Content to let Timmy cuddle for as long as he desires, he pulls out his phone and puts some little-friendly music on, only aiding in the baby’s relaxation.
They get through quite a few songs before Timmy must grow bored. He begins squirming a bit before crawling off of his lap and moving a few paces away, the puppy stuffie still clutched in one hand. That pout is back. He must be growing sleepier, which only makes him fussier the longer he goes without a nap. Damian is about to text Father about preparing him for bed when Timmy suddenly starts wailing.
It only takes a moment to realize what is the matter. As the wet spot on Timmy’s pants grows, Damian mentally curses himself for not checking that the baby had a diaper on. He is so foolish. Of course with the way he had been fighting his headspace that he would have refused to wear the proper protection. Despite Bruce’s encouragement to wear a pull-up no matter his headspace, Tim remains resolute that when he’s big that he can keep his underwear dry.
Fat tears stream down his face as he sobs, the fresh urine surely irritating whatever rash is likely to be lingering. Damian knows that Tim does this. He shoves his headspace down until he can’t anymore, ever unprepared for how helpless he is when he’s small. It’s up to the caregivers, for Damian, to look after him. He has failed. His baby brother is crying hard enough for his chest to hiccup, wiping at his tears with his new stuffed animal. He is helpless to his own discomfort.
Damian lurches forward, uncaring whether he gets urine on himself but not wanting to humiliate the boy any further. Timmy is gasping, face ruddy as he’s unable to get in the proper amount of oxygen.
“Don’ tell Dada, please, Dami, no Dada.”
Something inside him fractures at hearing the pitiful whimpers. There is no doubt inside him that if Father knew about this that he would react with nothing but kindness and patience. Timmy has never gotten in trouble for an accident before, even if he refused to wear his diaper. Even Damian is unlikely to be scolded for this, for Father knows that Damian would never knowingly cause Timmy to wet himself.
“You are not in trouble,” he soothes, voice low and soft. Timmy whines, tears still spilling over, but the reassurance must be enough to ease at least a bit of his fear because he leans closer, clearly needing physical reassurance.
Damian pulls him back into his lap, knowing that there is no harm in having to change his clothes afterwards. He would much rather Timmy feel safe and loved, even when he may feel gross, than for him to feel rejected just because Damian may not want urine staining his attire. Timmy melts into his hold, sobbing against his chest. Despite still holding onto the teether, he shoves his fingers into his mouth and chops down, as if punishing himself.
“No need for that,” he croons, gently pulling Timmy’s hand out and replacing it with the silicone foot of the doggie plush. “You have a teether right here. It is alright, beloved.” He gingerly presses the teether against his lips when Timmy tries to shake his head, but the baby gives in before long, too needy for the tactile comfort. There is something about a little’s biology that craves the oral stimulation of nibbling and suckling, making teethers and pacifiers essential.
Timmy’s cries are not so loud when he has the teether in, so Damian takes the chance to say, “We must get you changed, dearest.”
“No.”
Damian had learned that sometimes Timmy says no even if he does not mean it. That it could be a sign that he is simply overwhelmed, not that Damian has actually done something wrong.
“You are not in trouble. It is simply an accident. Let’s get you cleaned up before you get a rash.” Knowing Timmy, he likely already has a rash out of pure stubbornness, but Damian refrains from bringing that up. It is not his goal to humiliate nor punish him.
“No!” The word drags out into a heartbreaking wail, the boy’s distress picking back up.
It is loud enough that Damian is unsurprised to find them interrupted. “What’s going on?” Dick asks, stepping into the room and crouching down, surely already deducing why the baby is sobbing his little heart out.
Damian will not hide his own shame. “I failed to ensure that Timmy had the proper protection on and he has had an accident.” He tightens his hold just a bit, as if Dick will rip the little out of his arms. It would be understandable for him to do so. It is because of Damian’s negligence and carelessness that Timmy’s rash may be renewed.
“Oh it’s okay, it’s only a little pee,” Dick says, as if it’s no big deal. “We can just wipe him down with some baby wipes.”
Brow furrowed, Damian can not help but question, “Will that be sufficient? You are aware of how prone he is to rash.”
Dick stands up, surely indicating that it is time for Damian to stop wallowing and to actually take care of the whimpering little in his arms. “He’ll need a bath after dinner tonight anyway. He’ll be okay for a few hours,” Dick answers, providing a solution so easily. “Are you okay to wash him off while I clean the rug, or do you want to swap?”
Damian is grateful to be given the choice. Dick is allowing him the chance to redeem himself as a suitable caregiver for Timmy and he will not ruin this opportunity. “I will wash him. Though, he is yet to have his nap.”
Dick is hardly discouraged, an easy smile on his face, ever the natural. “So it’s better to just wipe him down and soothe him rather than to take a bunch of time bathing and then miss the nap window. He’ll just get crankier if he doesn’t get to sleep. I can ask Alfie to prepare a bottle and that should help him go down.”
“That would be appreciative, thank you. I will take him to the nursery.” With a plan in place, it is easier to walk away from the mess on the rug. Damian will trust Dick to take care of things from his end just as Dick entrusts him to care for the baby. Timmy shows no outward reaction to being carried around, tears continuing to slip down his face as they walk. Entering the nursery, Damian makes quick work of picking out comfortable footsie pajamas. This is actually an outfit that Damian had purchased for him a few months back, the kitten design reminding him of Alfred The Cat. Timmy had been so excited to receive the gift, babbling all about kitties.
There is none of that giddiness now when Damian places Timmy upon the changing table. Setting the pajamas down, he gently and efficiently begins stripping off the wet clothes. There is a hamper conveniently placed near the table so he does not have to worry about Timmy further touching the soiled clothing. He will need to clean the teether post-diaper change, but that is of little consequence. Bruce is very strict about Timmy’s sleep safety. Not even a pacifier clip is allowed inside the crib, let alone a stuffed animal. That will give Damian the time to properly clean the teether while he naps.
Timmy’s cries putter out as Damian begins to wipe the uncomfortable stickiness away, as well as his sleepiness seems to begin taking over. He snuffles, rubbing his eyes, showing off just how much damage he has caused his fingers. Damian will have to continue finding alternative means for Timmy to indulge in his oral fixation without causing so much harm to his body. Though he knows that is a mission Bruce has been on for the entirety of being Timmy’s primary caregiver.
It is entirely possible that Damian used an overabundance of baby wipes, but he would much rather Timmy be perfectly clean than to risk his rash worsening. After that, it is simple to put on a glove, apply the necessary amount of ointment, and then fasten the diaper. Disposing of the glove, he then helps Timmy into his pajamas. It seems that all the crying has completely tuckered him out because he is nearly limp while Damian guides his arms and legs through the appropriate sleeves.
Scooping him up, Timmy lies boneless against his chest as he quickly disinfects the changing table. Somehow he manages to enter the bathroom and wash hands all without rousing the sleepy baby. Exiting the bathroom reveals Dick waiting for them, a bottle of sweet milk in hand.
“Hey, is he sleeping already?” Dick whispers.
Damian takes a moment to inspect the little one, and though he seems close to passing out, he is not quite there yet. “He is nearly down.”
“Okay,” Dick smiles. “Do you want to feed him?” He holds out the bottle, and Damian can not help his caregiver instincts from positively thrumming. There is something about providing for a little in this way that makes his instincts sing like little else does. Bruce, as Timmy’s Dada, does the majority of the bottle-feeding, and so it is always a special occasion when Damian gets the chance. Dick knows this, and he is still allowing Damian the chance rather than taking Timmy all to himself.
Taking the offered bottle, he whispers back, “Yes. Thank you.”
Damian settles into the rocking chair, the most cozy seat in the entire house, and cradles Timmy in his lap. Timmy knows this position well, curling in and opening his mouth, ready to fill his belly with warm milk. He is so precious, entrusting Damian with his entire being, knowing that he will be cared for. Even after his accident, he does not hesitate to take long drags of the creamy milk as soon as the teat of the bottle is in his mouth. Damian has to pull the bottle away after a moment, not risking him choking himself with his eager drinking. Timmy hardly whines, knowing that he is not being punished, he simply needs to slow down.
Though Timmy seems to be in a headspace big enough to be able to safely hold his own bottle, Damian still keeps hold of it, enjoying being such an active part of his feeding. Damian glances over, revealing Dick watching over them with the sappiest of grins on his face. If it would not risk rousing the baby, Damian would tell him how ridiculous he’s being, though they both know it would only be half-hearted. There is a unique wave of peace emanating whenever Timmy is in this soft headspace, helping ease any tension the surrounding caregivers may have. The unadulterated adoration and trust in Timmy is almost enough to soothe Damian into a nap of his own, body completely lax.
Timmy gets through almost the entire bottle before sleep overtakes, a couple droplets spilling down his chin. Damian pulls the bottle away, Dick stepping forward and taking it. Since Timmy drank from it, the bottle will only stay good for another hour, but it’s still worth it to keep in the fridge in case he wakes up from his nap early. Though it has been lessening in frequency, the poor darling is still plagued by the occasional nightmare. Despite the state of the art baby monitor in the nursery— and only the nursery since big Tim had advocated that he is much less likely to suffer accidental suffocation when he is big in his bedroom and therefore deserves to have privacy in one of his rooms— Bruce reacts with just as much urgency when his baby cries out from a bad dream as he would for an intruder invading. Surprisingly, Bruce had actually listened when Tim argued for privacy in his bedroom, compromising that the nursery can have as many baby monitors as he’d like, so long as Tim’s ‘big’ bedroom was left alone.
Even before Damian can ask, Dick silently hands over the sleep sack, helping him put it on the little one without waking him up. Once he is secure, he gently pulls the teether out of Timmy’s grasp and instead puts a conveniently placed pacifier into his mouth, the baby instinctively suckling on the soother. With that done, it is easy to place him into the crib without the little one stirring at all.
Damian ensures the baby monitors are on, prepared to alert him if Timmy so much as opens his eyes, let alone cries out, and turns back towards his big brother. Dick still has that smile on his face, pride radiating from him as he wraps an arm around Damian’s shoulders. “I’m proud of you,” he whispers, low enough that Timmy won’t wake. Damian does not bother trying to hide his smile, instead focusing on cleaning the teether before he forgets. He sets it aside to dry, knowing that it’ll be ready by the time Timmy wakes up.
The nightlight is already on so they simply have to leave the door cracked and Timmy is settled to have a good nap.
Damian makes a detour to his own bedroom to quickly change his own clothes, his older brother waiting for him in the hall. When he returns, Dick speaks up again, “Hey, I want you to know that you did a good job. You take great care of him.”
“He wet himself on my watch,” Damian protests, shame burning, “I should have checked whether he had a diaper on or not.”
“Mistakes happen. Timmy is safe and well taken care of. You were able to calm him down and clean him up,” Dick says, with that tone he uses when he’s trying not to be too overbearing but his caregiver instincts still urge him to provide solace. “He’ll have forgotten all about it by the time he wakes up. If he weren’t comfortable with you then he would have squirmed to be put down, but he didn’t. You are a good caregiver.”
Even after all this time, it’s hard to meet his wholehearted affection head on. His small, “Thank you,” is a bit awkward, but Dick doesn’t seem to mind. He gives his shoulder a small squeeze, continuing to lead the way back towards the forgotten case notes. They work in tandem, a well-practiced routine, checking to see what of Tim’s notes are usable. Impressively, before his littlespace had really started to creep in, his observations had been insightful, even with how messy the handwriting is. There is definitely use to be made of his work, despite the drool staining the pages.
Dick helps him gather and sort all of the papers, categorizing by urgency. It is simple enough to send the scans over to Babs, ensuring Timothy’s work is not to waste even if he’s too small to see it through. After that, they work together to continue where Tim and he had left off, completing as much of the research as they can before the baby wakes up.
They get a good portion finished and sent off to Babs by the time Damian gets the alert that Timmy is awake and has sat up in his crib. He is unsurprised that by the time he has made it to the nursery, Bruce is already there, bouncing Timmy in his arms. There is no room for jealousy that Father is the one to soak in the little one’s post-nap snuggles when Timmy has the biggest grin upon seeing him.
“Dami!” Timmy exclaims, the word slurring around his pacifier, his smile audible.
“Hello there, beloved, did you sleep well?” Damian can not help his own grin, chest warming at the little’s obvious excitement to see him.
Timmy doesn’t answer his question, not that he expected him to, “Dami play?”
Bruce speaks up then, speaking so softly, “You can play after you have a diaper change and a snack, pumpkin.”
Timmy lifts his head then, puppy dog eyes out and unapologetic, “Dada play,” he insists.
Shockingly, Bruce actually stands his ground, somehow resisting the full force of Timmy’s wobbly lip and glassy eyes. “Why don’t you see if Dami wants to have a snack with you? Then you can play.” Bruce is excellent at that, meeting Tim where he is at. No matter his headspace or mood, their Father is able to take it all with utmost confidence, ever the steady rock for Timmy to lean against. He has taken to his role as Dada even more naturally than he did to Batman.
Timmy turns his attention back towards his brother, perking back up now that a more reasonable plan has been laid out. “Dami, snack?” Damian must not quickly enough because Timmy rubs a hand over his chest in the sign for please.
There is no force in this multiverse that could prevent Damian from saying yes. “Of course, little one. I would be honored to join you for snack time.” It is obviously the correct answer because Timmy gives an excited little wiggle, not actually wanting to be put down but having too much happy energy in his body to remain still. Father keeps hold of him easily, clearly anticipating such giddy movements.
“Let me just change you and then we can head down to the kitchen,” Bruce says, already carrying him towards the changing table. Timmy is decidedly less excited about that, a small whine escaping his lips as he starts to squirm. Damian steps forward, catching the fallen pacifier before it could tumble to the floor and get contaminated. He puts the pacifier into his pocket since Timmy doesn’t whine for it, knowing that they may need it later.
“Your Dada will be quick,” Damian reassures him, coming to stand where Timmy can see him. His presence seems to help calm the baby because he stops trying to writhe off the table, reaching a hand towards Damian, which he gladly takes. He gives their intertwined fingers three squeezes, unsure if Timmy will remember the meaning but enjoying his pleased giggle all the same.
Bruce is even more efficient with diaper changes than Damian is, able to wipe, apply cream, and fasten a new diaper before Timmy even realizes what is happening. Damian steps in, scooping the little one up and allowing their Father to wipe down the changing mat. He gently bounces Timmy in his arms, similar to the way he had earlier, while Bruce washes hands. Once he emerges, he comes forward and presses a kiss to Timmy’s head before doing the same to Damian.
“Ready?” Bruce asks, grinning at whatever expression Damian must be wearing.
Carrying Timmy downstairs, they find Alfred has already prepared a variety of snacks for them to choose from. To no one’s surprise, Timmy points at the yogurt pouches and rubs his hand over his chest several times in the sign for please, please, please.
Alfred’s hearty chuckle rings out, “Of course, dear heart. What would you like with your yogurt?” Timmy doesn’t answer, too busy reaching grabby hands towards the pouch.
Damian gives him a small bounce, catching his attention, “Berries or biscuits, beloved?” Timmy must not remember the sign for strawberry because he simply points, giving a quick please as an afterthought. With that settled, Alfred begins plating the cut-up strawberries into a colorful bowl. Damian settles the baby into the high chair, double checking the straps before latching the tray on. Bruce comes over next, bib in hand, and easily latches it around his neck.
Alfred has hardly placed the food on the tray before Timmy is grabbing the pouch and beginning to slurp it down with a happy hum. Damian can’t help his laugh, his instincts thrumming at seeing the little being provided for.
A berry-filled bowl is placed before him and Damian remembers that he promised to have snacktime with Timmy. Since Bruce is already filling a sippy cup with water, Damian is free to pull out a chair and settle beside the baby. Timmy has downed his entire yogurt pouch before Damian has even taken one bite, which is of little surprise. The little one adores his pouches, one of the few snacks he’ll eat no matter his headspace. There is a comfortable air about the kitchen, all the caregivers more than happy to watch Timmy eat his fill. It’ll be a few more hours until supper, so there’s no worry about him ruining his appetite.
Once they have both finished eating, Timmy has clearly remembered the plan and is eagerly babbling, “Play, Dami, play, please?” He’s quite talkative today, which is indicating that he is likely in a headspace old enough to color without simply trying to nibble on the crayons the entire time.
“Yes, little one, we can play. Would you like to color?”
He lights up immediately, and Damian preens at his open excitement, “Color! Dada, color!” Timmy calls out, looking towards where Bruce is helping Alfred wipe down the counter.
“That’s so exciting!” He grins. There is nothing fake about his expression, genuinely pleased to see his baby boy’s giddiness. “Once you’re cleaned up then you are welcome to go color. Remember, sweetheart, crayons and markers are for coloring, not for eating.” Timmy pays little attention to his instructions, too caught up in his eagerness.
Damian steps forward before Timmy can resort to trying to unbuckle the straps on the seat, wiping his face and hands with a baby wipe before scooping him up. Timmy nuzzles into his hold right away, such a sweet boy.
There are already little-friendly art supplies in the family room they were in earlier. The rug is now clean and dry, so they are welcome to sit on the floor. There is a small table they use when coloring together, low enough that Timmy can sit criss-cross-applesauce while he fills up the page. Damian sits Timmy down before pulling the table over. While the bin of drawing supplies are within reach if Timmy stands up, he’s so prone to crawling while in littlespace that there is hardly any worry about him taking the markers out on his own.
After laying out a paper, Damian allows Timmy to choose his own writing utensil, the baby immediately grabbing a thick yellow crayon. He gets to scribbling right away, showing no notice towards the outline of a dog on the page before him. There is still value in his art, whether he uses the provided guidelines or not. Damian chooses a coloring page of a dragon, using the markers to practice his blending even with cheaper quality supplies than he is accustomed to.
Timmy giggles, finding so much joy in simply being in Damian’s presence, showing off his scribbles with such enthusiasm that he is helpless but to smile back. “That looks wonderful. I love the use of circular patterns around the ears.” Damian is aware that Timmy put little thought towards the end result of his art, but he gives a happy little wiggle nonetheless, positively beaming upon receiving praise. Damian will gladly sit here and color for the rest of the evening if it means that it’ll make Timmy this happy.