Alternative summary: The Lance babies struggle, and Nyssa is a total mom
For anyone who hasn't read The Cat, the Canary, and the Dinosaur: Tim is Sara and Nyssa's biological son, conceived with help from "borrowed" CADMUS tech. They've also taken the last name Drake instead of keeping either Lance or al Ghul, since both of those surnames are pretty loaded.
The first time Tim comes home with a black eye, Sara's world bleeds red around the edges.
"I fell off my bike," he says.
There isn't a scratch on the bike. Or his palms. Or anything but his face, for that matter. He's ten, and he's already lying to her. But she doesn't say any of that to him. She knows it wouldn't be helpful. She needs to let him come to them.
That doesn't stop her from ranting to Nyssa.
"What, did he just faceplant into a fist-shaped piece of loose gravel?" Sara growls, pacing their bedroom like a caged animal. "Does he expect us to believe that?"
"Sara," Nyssa interrupts soothingly, "baby, he's safe now. The bruise will fade. That is what matters."
It sounds achingly familiar, and Sara wants so badly to know why their kids can't have it easy. At least with Sin, they didn't see her hurt until she was older and well past the point of being able to defend herself. That was the heartbreaking silver lining to their being so absent—they could pretend she was perfectly fine.
It's different now. This isn't the Glades; it's a nice neighborhood. They should never have to teach their son the skills they taught their adoptive daughter. Survival skills. At least until he makes that inevitable decision that seems to run in their veins. But then he'll be wearing a domino mask, and the training will more than likely be under Bruce.
She sits on their bed and buries her face in her hands. "I want to know why," she breathes, and the bed sinks as Nyssa comes up behind her. "I want to know why someone hurt my little boy."
"Not everything is malicious," Nyssa reminds her. "The way we see the world…Well, perhaps this was simply a case of boys roughhousing. Would that be so far-fetched?"
"No," Sara agrees, slumping back into her wife's embrace. "No, maybe you're right. I just don't—why did he lie?"
"Perhaps he's embarrassed. He may think we have certain expectations of him, given every adult in his life is a vigilante."
"I believe the politically correct term these days is hero."
A week later, it's a split lip, scraped knees, and a red mark over his ribs. Tim still refuses to come clean about what's going on. It's like he's worried the truth will upset them. Ten is far too young for him to be shielding his parents this way. Of course, that it's behavior he learned from them doesn't help.
Sara is livid.
Tim's in the living room with frozen peas and Neosporin and bandaids, and his mothers are in the kitchen trying to work on this parenting thing.
"We'll start teaching him self defense," Nyssa decides, breaching the tense silence carefully but firmly, as is her nature.
"Self defense?" Sara seethes, her voice overflowing with quiet rage. "Self defense? Someone is, is assaulting our baby and you want to talk about self defense?"
Nyssa doesn't shrink away. She and Sara are strongest together, and she won't let fear drive a wedge. "Yes." It's firm. More confident than either of them feels. "Yes, because that is what we can do, Beloved. Until he's willing to talk to us, that is what we can do."
"We can," Sara tries, "we can…" The pencil she'd picked up mindlessly snaps in her fingers.
Instead of saying anything, Nyssa pries the two halves of wood from her fingers, then uncurls her fist to check for splinters.
"I want them to hurt, Nyssa. I don't care if…I want to hurt whoever did this."
"I know."
"Why are you so calm?"
Gentle fingertips stroke Sara's cheek. "Because one of us needs to be," Nyssa replies. "Besides, it's better for you to let the anger out this way. That rarely ends well for me."
"I don't know if the bloodlust will ever really go away, Nys," Sara responds. Her voice is softer, now. Nyssa isn't the enemy. "I don't, don't want to be…that again."
"And you won't." Nyssa's jaw is set, like this is one thing she's certain of. "Think of all you went through to leave that behind." She doesn't say we. Sara needs to be reminded of her own accomplishments. "And that's what it is: behind us. You are whole, and you are mine, and I'm not letting you go, darling."
Normally, that sort of possessiveness would have Sara grinning, but tonight there's something like betrayal and fear in her eyes. "How do you know?" she asks. "This doesn't seem a little too familiar?"
"No. It doesn't. This reminds me of many of my early interactions with your father," Nyssa says solemnly. "It reminds me of your—our panic the first time Tim got sick. Only, this time, it's not only fear; there's also anger, because there's someone to blame. This time, there's a target, and we have always known how to handle targets."
"So why aren't you angry?!"
"I am angry, Sara. I'm beyond angry. But my father taught me much more than the art of war and destruction. He taught me how to control my emotions and prioritize rationality. We are not going to figure out what's going on with Tim if we let anger cloud our better judgement."
"You're right," Sara agrees with a sigh. "Why are you always right?"
"Because one of us has to be, Taer al Asfer," Nyssa smirks.
Sara's signature grin starts to spread across her face. "Of course, Your Demoness."
They let the subject go for the rest of the evening, and Nyssa pretends not to notice when Sara gets out of bed after midnight and disappears for half an hour.
Sara calls Laurel in the middle of the night. Her sister isn't thrilled, but she's a little more understanding once Sara explains what's been going on with Tim. Still, she's not quite as sympathetic as Sara would like. Laurel saw kids who'd dealt with much worse back when she'd been working in the Glades.
"Look, Sara," Laurel says, her voice thick with exhaustion, the sound of a spoon clinking against porcelain in the background. "I'm not trying to diminish what you're feeling or anything, but don't you think you might be overreacting?"
Sara's beginning to realize she should've called her dad.
"It's just," Laurel continues, "he's ten, right? Boys that age play rough. I mean, they play at what we do in real life. I'm kinda surprised this is the first time he's come home banged up."
For what feels like the hundredth time that day, Sara sighs. "If that's all it was, maybe I'd agree, but what's bothering me is that he lied about it."
"Maybe he's just embarrassed?"
"That's what Nyssa said."
On the other end of the line, Laurel's mug—of what Sara can only assume is tea—hits the counter audibly. "Sara, is something else wrong? Are you guys…okay?"
"What? Yeah, no, we're fine."
"I know," Laurel says carefully, "that you're worried about Tim, and maybe you two don't agree on how to deal with it, but don't let this strain your relationship."
Sara scoffs, "I don't think I need advice from you on functioning relationships."
"You know what? I'm gonna chalk that up to stress. Keep me posted about my nephew. And get some sleep, Sara."
Two beeps signal that Laurel ended the call.
Sara doesn't sleep. Not really.
The next morning, Nyssa pulls her aside and asks, "Do you think perhaps you are projecting your own experiences onto Tim?"
"No." Sara crosses her arms, firmly closing herself off. "No, don't even go there."
"Sara, I don't mean to—"
"I know you didn't do the whole public school or, like, normal childhood thing, so you can't really relate. But believe me when I say, the fact that I was bullied does not adversely affect my parenting. Can't you just trust my judgement, Nys?"
"Absolutely," Nyssa decides. "So should we call the school?"
The principal beats them to it. When they get to the elementary school, they find Tim sitting outside the Principal's Office. He doesn't appear any worse for the wear than when he left home this morning. His lip is still slightly swollen, but long pants hide the scraped knees. Sara wants to talk to him, but she and Nyssa are ushered into the office before she has a chance.
Principal Thorul is in his sixties, bald and thin. His (new) name is supposed to offer anonymity after distant relative Lex Luthor's staggering fall from grace. It's not quite as effective when one is on a first name basis with the only honest Luthor left standing. She's proved a valuable resource. Sara and Nyssa know who they're dealing with now. He looks up as the mothers enter the office, and one might think he'd just bitten into a lemon.
"Uh, Mrs. and…Mrs. Drake. Please, have a seat."
Etiquette is another one of those things Nyssa learned from her father, and she has it in spades. So she sits in one of the two hardback chairs facing his large oak desk. Sara doesn't. Instead, the blonde stands behind her wife, fingers curled, white-knuckled, over the back of Nyssa's chair.
"Well? Why are we here?"
Sara's impatience is too obvious. Nyssa reaches up and covers Sara's right hand with her own. If she won't sit, she could at least try to be calm.
"A member of the faculty," Principal Thorul says evasively, "expressed concerns about reoccurring injuries on your son, Timothy."
Before Sara has a chance to, Nyssa responds, "We are aware and have discussed the matter with him. We would welcome any further insight that you might be able to provide."
"The concern was actually about his home life," the principal explains coolly. "Since you are well-known and active members of the community, it seemed prudent to discuss the matter with you before proceeding."
Sara explodes. "I'm sorry, are you implying that we're hitting our son?" The unchecked anger is back. "This is a brilliant approach, isn't it? You suspect child abuse, so you call in the parents to touch base. Give them a heads up so they can sync up their stories or whatever? Do you want "compensation" in exchange for your silence, is that it?"
Principal Thorul seems only slightly surprised by Sara's outrage. "Is that a confession?" he asks, glancing between her and Nyssa.
"A confession?" Sara roars. "Are you serious?"
"Sara," Nyssa interjects calmly. "Sit down."
And Sara sits. Nyssa intertwines their fingers. Her eyes are hard.
"As you said, Mr. Thorul," Nyssa intones, "we are active members of the community. A great deal of the faculty and fellow parents can vouch for our character. What led you to this suspicion?"
He clears his throat before justifying, "Studies have shown that children of gay and…lesbian parents are more likely to be abused."
That has Sara twitching, but Nyssa squeezes her hand, and they let the principal continue.
"It has been correlated with the fact that, in such family situations, one or both of the parents is not biologically related to the child."
Nyssa's fingers tighten a little too harshly, and Sara's acutely aware that her wife is fast approaching her own level of anger.
Sara clears her throat. "So you called us in to gage our reactions, help determine which of us might be at fault?"
He seems to feel a little too validated when he replies that, yes, that was more or less his intention.
"Which of us do you think is Tim's biological parent, then?" Out of his sightline, Sara smoothes her thumb along Nyssa's wrist. She's finally the calm one.
"Pardon?"
"You're so sure of your coverup—sorry, theory, so which of us is Tim's "real mother"?"
"I…" He's at a loss.
A cold smirk twists the corners of Sara's mouth. "He's got my eyes," she points out, "and the Lance bone structure. But…" She pauses and looks fondly at Nyssa. "He still looks an awful lot like his ima, doesn't he?"
The principal flounders, seemingly unsure of what to say. So Nyssa helps him out.
"We were part of a very small experimental study. Timothy is equally our son in every sense."
"Forgive me if that sounds impossible."
"Be that as it may, it's the truth. Surely you remember how far a good family name can go, Mr. Thorul. And ours happens to go quite a bit further than yours these days."
"I think we'll be going now," Sara decides, standing and opening the office door. "And we're taking Tim home. He deserves the afternoon off."
Tim hops up eagerly and squeezes between his mothers, the biggest smile on his face as he grabs their hands and they start walking. "I get to go home early?"
"Absolutely, buddy," Sara tells him, trying to overlook his swollen lip and the anger it incites. "Let's go melt our brains. As long as Ima's okay with it."
Nyssa rolls her eyes fondly. "Fine. What shall we watch? Marvel?"
"No!" Sara and Tim exclaim in unison.
"Indy!" Tim insists. "I want to watch Indiana Jones!"
A few days later, they're on the phone with Sin.
"Listen, guys, Tim asked me a kinda weird question the other night. I didn't think too much of it, 'cause he reads so much, I thought maybe that's where it was coming from. But then I talked to Laurel, and I'm not sure…"
Sin's voice is even but there's something off, and it brings that worry back to Sara, so she asks, "What was it?"
"He asked me what "dyke" means."
There's a pregnant pause. It's interrupted by call waiting.
"Shit, Sin, the school's calling. Thanks for telling us. Really. We'll call you back later, okay?"
"Yeah, sure, Sar," Sin agrees.
Then they're on with the secretary, who won't say much, except that there's been a fight.
The drive over is a blur. Nyssa grips the wheel hard enough that Sara would probably be worried about her breaking it if she wasn't terrified for her little boy.
And then they're in the hallway. And there's Tim. The left side of his jaw is reddened, but he grins at them, and it makes Sara's heart so light that she almost doesn't see the other boy. The other boy is huge. He looks like he should be at least two years older than Tim, and he's all brawn where Tim is lean. But the other boy is nursing a hell of a bloody nose.
And Tim is grinning.
All Sara can think to say is, "Playdates with cousin Damian are going to be at our house from now on."
They have another pointless conversation with a principal who pretty much refuses to acknowledge that there might be a bullying problem at his school, even given what Sin had told them. That just means they'll have to find another way.
Afterwards, Tim admits that a few of the other boys had been pushing him around and saying some not so nice things about his mothers. Mothers who should probably at least pretend not to be so proud that he held his own this time.
The whole situation calls for a tried-and-true method for dealing with bullying and intolerance. Turn to that good old-fashioned superhero wisdom.
On Monday, the kids are out at recess when a streak of lightning precedes the arrival of the Flash.
"Uncle—uh, Flash!" Tim correct quickly, running over to a masked Barry Allen.
"Hey, Timmy!" the Flash crows, scooping up the boy and giving him a hug.
Predictably, the kids—and the handful of teachers supervising recess—gather round the spectacle.
One awed boy asks, "You know the Flash?"
Tim grins. He looks a lot like Sara when he does that.
"Of course we know each other," the Flash confirms. "Tim's my pal! And, you know, his moms are the coolest."
A small blonde girl pipes up, "Yeah, Tim's mom makes the best cookies for the bake sale."
Other kids begin to murmur about the many things that make Tim's mothers awesome.
The Flash wrinkles his nose and whispers to Tim, "Sara bakes cookies?"
"Nah, she gets them from this bakery. But don't tell. Mom made Ima sleep on the couch for a week when she told Grandma that the apple pie wasn't homemade."
Barry laughs, and Tim grins, and it seems like maybe things are working out for the makeshift family that they've all become.