Chapter Text
Timothy Jackson Drake, like a third of the population, was born with wings.
This was much to the displeasure of his parents, who were both wingless and saw those with wings as less than. Janet had huffed, turning her nose up at the baby which was presented to her after numerous hours of a fairly painless labour. Little Timothy had two small knobs between his shoulder blades which promised to grow into fully fledged wings.
Jack had frowned, and asked the doctor if he was absolutely sure that it meant Timothy was going to be winged.
The doctor had been slightly confused, since most parents were proud of having winged children, especially if they didn’t have them themselves.
Throughout his childhood, Tim was made to feel ashamed of his wings.
They quickly grew into beautiful black and red wings, with white speckled ends. He secretly loved them, despite never being allowed to feel that way.
Most of the time he kept them concealed, despite the effort and pain. He thought the discomfort and painful ache in his wings was worth having them invisible to the world. His parents seemed to agree.
That was only when they were at home though, since the sight of them often meant they would ignore him.
As soon as Janet and Jack Drake were away on their business trips, Tim was running through the halls with his wings flared. The feathers sung in pleasure at finally being free, and not constricted in their invisible form.
Tim always felt better when he didn’t need to keep his wings concealed. He slept more. He wasn’t as emotionally drained from focusing on the invisibility. He felt free .
He remembered the first time he’d met Bruce Wayne, and how he had to hold himself back from running up to the man and touching his pitch black wings. (They just looked so soft , and Tim had never felt so proud to have wings).
He thought if Bruce Wayne could show off his grand wings, why couldn’t Tim?
Tim had grinned up at the man, blinking with wide eyes. “I have wings too,” he’d explained.
Mr Wayne had looked surprised, looking from the obvious lack of wings on Tim’s back to his parents’ horrified faces. Janet had gripped Timothy’s shoulders in an instant, her nails digging into his skin.
“Silly boy, he only wishes he does!” she had laughed, looking so utterly fake .
But Mr Wayne had chuckled back warmly, seemingly believing the lie. Tim felt his heart drop, as the bubbling joy in his belly simmered out of existence.
He was five when he went to see the Flying Graysons perform. Tim had gaped at the royal blue wings on the boy’s ( “Call me Dick!” ) back. The underside of his feathers were a paler blue than the outside, which were a dark, bold, midnight blue. He had never felt so jealous of the colour of another person’s wings.
Tim remembered how the boy’s blue wings had curled around himself like huge arms when his parents fell to the floor. He remembered how the royal blue colour had dulled slightly.
He was nine when he found out who Batman and Robin was.
He remembered recognising the same aerial tricks from the Flying Graysons’ performance. He remembered gasping when he saw a patch of royal blue hidden amongst the sea of Robin’s bright red feathers.
Paint , Tim had realised. The red was just feather paint .
One year later, when Tim was 10, Robin changed ownership.
He knew immediately when Robin came, fists out, into battle, that he wasn’t Dick Grayson. The red feathers were the same, of course (courtesy of the paint), but it wasn’t Dick Grayson . Tim just knew . They weren’t as big or grand as Dick’s wings, and didn’t arch as high.
His theory was proved when news came out about Bruce Wayne taking in a new ward; Jason Todd.
Jason had beautiful, rust-coloured wings with cool grey primaries which reflected like metal in the light. The complimentary colours worked together so well that Tim wished his wings looked like that.
The older boy was a kid from Gotham’s streets, with a snarky attitude and fiery temper. Tim didn’t know why, but it made the boy all the more interesting to him.
And then Jason died.
And things spiralled from there.
Tim demanded Bruce make him Robin when he was 12. He’d told him everything he knew about Batman and Robin’s identity.
Bruce had looked at the lack of wings on Tim’s back (because concealing them had become a habit of his) and told him that Robin had wings. Tim had replied by saying basically everyone in Gotham knew that there was more than one Robin, so seeing no wings wouldn’t be a surprise.
Batman had said no, unsurprisingly, and so Tim confronted Dick Grayson. The whole ordeal resulted in Dick coming back to Gotham for a bit as Nightwing, and Tim being trained to become Robin.
(Eventually they compromised on a wing-like cape, which, while not being the real deal, looked fairly believable from a distance.
Part of Tim wanted to just tell Bruce that he actually had wings, but his mother’s voice reminded him that nobody could ever know that Timothy Drake wasn’t wingless.)
After a few years of being Robin and concealing his wings from everyone, his parents died. He remembered looking in the mirror to check to see how much his wings had faded, only to realise they hadn’t changed at all.
That was… weird. Wings were known to fade or dull after traumatic events or the loss of a loved one. Tim’s should have changed, right? But they hadn’t, and it only reestablished the point that nobody could find out about them. (Nobody could know that he wasn’t largely impacted by his parents’ deaths).
And then the Red Hood came along, targeting Tim for reasons unknown.
He remembered being pinned down in Titans’ Tower, Hood gripping his cape and pulling . The fake wings had torn off easily, and Hood had scoffed.
All Tim could think was that Hood’s helmet was the same colour as Robin’s feather paint.
“He couldn’t even replace me with some actual wings?” was snarled into his face. Tim tried not to shake. “You’re just a fucking Pretender. A Replacement.”
Tim remembered being frozen in shock at the revelation that the Red Hood was Jason Todd. He then recalled his confusion as he tried to match up the wings. Hood’s wings were a darker rusty red, with black ends mixed with dark greys. They were larger too, arching almost as high as Dick’s. They were vastly different from the vibrant tan and pale cool grey that Tim knew to belong to Jason Todd.
And then shit happened, and Damian showed up, and Bruce died, and Dick took Robin from him. His life fell apart before his very eyes.
His wings darkened during his trip to get back Bruce. The once vibrant, robin red had turned to a blood-like crimson. It was fitting in a way.
Ra’s had grinned cunningly when he told Tim that he knew his secret. Tim’s control of his concealment had slipped after losing his spleen, and Ra’s had seen his wings in all their red and black glory.
“Why are you so afraid of them knowing?” Ra’s had asked.
Tim still didn’t have an answer to that.
And then he had found Bruce, blown up the League of Assassins’ base and returned to a not so warm welcome. Dick hadn’t even apologised for threatening to put him into Arkham. And Damian still wore his uniform .
Damian, with his dark monochrome feathers which looked green from one angle and teal from another. They were almost black, but reflected so vibrantly sometimes that they matched the green of his uniform. Tim hated how fucking jealous he had felt when he first saw them.
“The only Robin without wings,” Damian had sneered. “How pathetic.”
You’re wrong! Tim wanted to say. I do have wings!
But Timothy Drake was wingless, he had to remind himself.
Nothing really felt the same after Bruce’s supposed ‘death’.
Tim couldn’t trust his oldest brother anymore, he occasionally talked to Jason but their relationship was still a bit tense, and Damian was just never going to cooperate. Bruce hadn’t even really made an effort to keep him in the family, hadn’t really made a fuss when Tim pulled away from their movie nights and joined patrols.
The last time Tim remembered getting hugged by Bruce was when Tim had pulled him back from the time stream. Bruce had raised his grand, black wings before enveloping Tim in them. Tim had never felt so safe before.
But obviously all good things must come to an end, and Bruce had left him to greet his other sons. His winged sons. His better sons.