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Tim Drake was not built for fatherhood.
Okay, that was a lie. He was. He had been since he knowingly mixed his own DNA in with Kon's while playing mad cloning scientist. Since he first saw the "attempt successful" banner light up his screen. Since he gave his little science experiment a name—Sophia. (He thought Kon would've liked it.) He was totally, one-hundred-percent built for fatherhood. Even more so that it was his and Kon's child.
But the crying. She wouldn't stop. They'd had seven lovely, wholesome months together chock-full of milestones, bonding, and new experiences. None of that seemed to matter now, though. Tim had a teething baby next to him screaming her quarter-Kryptonian lungs out. She wouldn't sleep, wouldn't eat, wouldn't play, wouldn't snuggle. She didn't want to do anything other than cry, and every attempt to aid her ailments was met with teething toys launched as projectiles and her little limbs thrashing around in Tim's hold. So, she had been sitting on the floor crying. For the past twenty-seven minutes.
Tim was close to doing the same. The psychological torture that was hearing your baby cry and not being able to help was teetering on the edge of unbearable.
"Soph, baby," he tries, leaning over on his knees to cup her little face in one of his hands. "I don't know how to help you if you don't want the teethers."
When she doesn't immediately begin wailing at the contact of his hand, he moves both his hands under her arms as though he was going to pick her up. Her crying stops for a split second, hitching her breath, before resuming. It's less enthusiastic than it started out, though, which seems like a good sign to Tim. The sharp shrieks have become softer, more drawn-out whines. He lifts her up to his eye level, crinkling his eyes in a smile he seems to give only to Sophia, these days. Those pitifully tearful eyes, the exact shade of blue that Kon's were, once, move around his face. She takes a shaky breath in, as though trying to regulate herself, and Tim is gone. Reduced to a mere shell of the disciplined fighter he claims to be.
He pushes her jet-black curls out of the way to place a small, soft kiss against Sophia's forehead and pulls her into his chest.
"Shh," he soothes, feeling her chin settle on top of his shoulder. She lets out a whimper. He rubs a hand up and down her back—a hand that has been used as a weapon, has bruised and bloodied, but a hand that's only real purpose, now, was to comfort. And wasn't that a thought. "Shh, honey."
As her newly-soft cries continue, Tim pushes himself off the floor to stand, still holding little Sophia. Gently giving her a bounce in his arms, he begins to walk around the apartment. He has one arm holding her tight, tucked under her chubby legs, and the other raised so he can gently pat her bottom. He read somewhere that it was soothing for infants, that it mimicked the feeling of their mother's heartbeat from when they were in utero. There should be no real reason, then, why it soothes Sophia, but the soft and mushy part of him (that seems all-consuming as the days continue to pass) likes to think that his constant presence in the lab while she was growing tuned her super-hearing ears to know his heartbeat. Her dad's heartbeat. Or, maybe, that knowledge was passed to her from Kon's DNA. Maybe a mixture of both. He didn't know which thought he liked better.
As he walked around with Sophia, he noticed the differences in his space—a space now meant for two.
The dining area he'd really only had for show, before, now adorned a well-loved high chair. His fridge, once bare—save for leftovers from family dinner, on occasion—now held fresh ingredients for healthy, well-balanced meals and homemade baby food (because he knew that Kon, with all his Kent values, would be appalled at the thought of serving their baby anything they wouldn't eat themselves). His kitchen counter had a designated area for him to make Sophia's bottles. The living room had a playmat. There were several baby books on his couch. At the entryway, where he took his shoes off and hung his jackets, the most adorable little baby shoes—white Mary Janes, courtesy of her Uncle Damian—sat in their place next to his. A Sophia-sized yellow raincoat was hung on a hook between his own light jacket and a baby carrier. His laundry room, only slightly bigger than a sizeable walk-in closet, had two hampers instead of one.
Seeing the considerably smaller clothing in Sophia's made something overwhelmingly tender wash over Tim, compelling him to pepper kisses across his baby's face. She let out a sweet sigh, and Tim continued. When her cries didn't resume, he blew a raspberry into the plump, baby-soft skin of her cheek. She giggled at him softly, still getting over her teething fit, and Tim laughs, too.
"Is that what you needed, baby?" he muses, kissing her temple before pulling her in close once again. "A little walk?"
She hums, content. Tim starts walking them to her room.
That's another thing. Sophia's room, once a soulless part of his space designated for the times his brothers decided to sleep somewhere other than their own places or the Manor, was now something lively, distinct to her. The sad, gray walls had been painted cream. A pastel blue rug, embellished with a variety of colorful flowers, covered the hardwood floor. A mobile of brightly-colored birds hung above her crib, a testament to her father and uncles. Bruce had gotten it for her, handmade for a price Tim wouldn't want to know, before Tim had even bought a crib. He smiled at the thought.
He moved to sit in the pale green rocking chair he'd placed in one corner of the room, next to her small (but ever-growing, thanks to her Uncle Jason) bookshelf and toy bin. Sophia made a sound like she was about to start crying again, but forgot all about it when Tim caressed her back, softly shushing her as he settled into the chair.
"I'm sorry I can't help more, baby," he murmurs into her hair. Lord, those curls. "But you know it's almost naptime, hm? Are you gonna lay down?"
Sophia jerkingly pulls her head back from its spot looking over Tim's shoulder, bracing her palms on his chest. On instinct, he brings a hand up to cradle the back of her head—nevermind the fact that she's got more than enough neck strength now.
"What?" he asks, amused. He strokes her cheek, gently rocking them in the chair.
"Da," she babbles, grabbing Tim's nose with one of her tiny hands.
"Yeah, it's Da-da," he smiles at his daughter, leaning into her touch. "Are you gonna sleep for Da-da?"
"Mm, da," she just repeats, giggling as Tim nuzzles his nose in her hand.
"I love you so much, baby girl," he breathes out, familiar lump forming in his throat. He wishes Kon were here right now. Here to see their little girl. Here to see this new development in his life, see him become a father. Be there to be a father with him. As soon as the thought comes, Sophia's pudgy little hand moves from gripping his nose to resting against his cheekbone. She lets out a small, happy sound. "Yeah, I know. Daddy shouldn't cry about it right now."
He swallows, trying to fend the sharp sting of tears off. "I just love you. And I know your other daddy would, too. So, so, so much, honey," he sniffs, smiling again. As he looks his baby in the eyes, he continues, though in a less broken voice than before. "He had so much love."
Tim sees her eyelids droop, before widening once again, fighting sleepiness in the way babies seem to love. He resumes rubbing her back and sees them droop again, this time more prolonged.
"You can sleep, baby, it's alright," he consoles, leaning back in near her face to kiss her button nose. She blinks, too slow to be anything but tired, at him. She draws back her hands from their spots on Tim's chest and face, respectively, letting them fall to her sides, before bending an elbow and resting her face, tilted toward his, against the soft part of muscle below his clavicle. She fists the fabric of Tim's shirt, flexing her hand a few times before clutching on, and sighs. He feels the puff of air blow against his neck and is so, so fond.
Tim continues rocking them, slowly reaching for the blanket resting atop the chair beneath his head. With one hand, he drapes the light pink, minky dot blanket over Sophia's little body, and she shifts a bit, getting herself more comfortable. In his arms. His heart swells inside his chest—the chest where his baby girl is currently drifting off to sleep. He looks to where one of her chubby cheeks is mushed against him and just can't help the smile that overtakes his face.
He beams into the soft skin of Sophia's cheek, pressing another three kisses there.
"Such a sweetheart," he whispers. "My little angel baby."
She hums, probably an unconscious effort, as her breaths continue to even out.
In this moment, surrounded by the smell of baby lotion and newness, Tim feels nothing but fulfilled. With his baby's soft breaths coming in and out against the skin of his neck, nothing was wrong in his world. Every doubt or qualm he could've possibly held was reassured by the precious bundle of warmth he felt pressed up against him. He could move Sophia to her crib for the rest of her afternoon nap, like usual, but then he wouldn't get to cuddle his precious girl. No, he was not going to be getting up from his spot on the rocker.
"Sweet dreams, baby," he says, and it's little more than a content hum. He gently rests his head atop Sophia's. "I love you."
Yeah, Tim Drake was definitely meant to be a father.