To say that Tim has adjusted to the bustling chaos of having so many siblings would be stretching the truth a little too far.

He’s never really made any significant strides in connecting with you—The sibling a bit older than him, biologically Bruce’s kid, and sharing more than enough similarities with Damian in terms of deadpan personality—if he were to tally the number of meaningful conversations the two of you have shared, he could easily count them on a single hand.

“…You have a nice clavicle,” You remark casually, the words almost slipping out as you refocus on organizing the latest shipment of sleek batarangs, each one gleaming in the dim light of the cave. “Father would deem it perfect for your proportions.”

“…I’m sorry?” Tim responds, his voice laced with surprise. He glances over at you, a hint of alarm flickering in his eyes as he shifts his attention from the Batcomputer, the array of screens and data momentarily forgotten. “Do you mind repeating that?”