Jason takes one look at her and he instantly knows whose daughter she is.
Bruce can't seem to decide whether he loves her or wants to ignore her. Damian stares sometimes when he thinks noone can catch him. Dick loves her fiercely but can't seem to grasp the ramifications of her existence. Maybe it's just too painful. He's far too busy with his own shit these days anyway.
Whenever anybody asks Tim about her other parent he just laughs and says she's his alone and that's what's important. People used to ask more questions but they don't anymore, knowing the answer won't change, knowing they won't know more as long as Tim doesn't want them to.
But Jason looks at her, little Edith Drake, with her twin pigtails, dressed in overalls splattered with paint; little Edith Drake, with her emerald eyes and chin the same shape as Damian's, Thalia's and–
Tim's reaching to sturdy a plastic cup of water Dee's trying to clean her brush in but Jason's faster and he stops the small catastrophe before it even begins. Dee's grinning up at him the same way Tim does over her head, the same muscles pulling their mouths in the same places, sparkles in their eyes the same shape.
They're sitting on the floor of Jason's flat, on a paper sheet as big as a moderate rug, so that Edith can give free rein to her imagination. And did she do just that, all the color and lines and splashes of water and snot on the canvas painting a rather impressive picture of their current life – three stick figures holding their spidery hands tight in seemingly neverending splots of scribble.
Jason looks at her, and looks at Tim, and in that moment he knows exactly whose daughter Edith is.
