Work Text:
Tim always sleeps better at Wayne Manor. He sleeps better because he knows that he won't have to wake up to the lonesome whistle of wind rattling windows to empty rooms.
Tim especially likes it when Dick stays over. When the two of them sit together on the couch, talking for hours and eating crap that Tim's parents would never permit him to eat. Dick pointed out that they are never around, so they shouldn't get to dictate the things he consumes. Tim had smiled a little at that.
Sometimes, Bruce sits on the chair across from them. Working as a movie plays in the background. He never looks up, sometimes smiling when Dick cracks a joke or somebody on the screen falls hilariously. Tim can't help but wonder if it's because of him. If maybe Bruce would interact more if Tim went home.
He spirals like this quite often. Doubting his place and his relationship with both Bruce and Dick. But, Dick always pulls Tim into his lap and braids the greasy parts of Tim's hair. Tim is horrible at taking care of himself.
Sometimes, Tim will end up falling asleep in Dick's lap and wake up with a stomach ache, terrified that Dick will reprimand him for falling asleep somewhere other than his bed. But Dick never does. He murmurs sleepily and turns over. Tim always pulls a blanket over Dick's shoulders and gets up, not wanting to overstay his welcome.
When Dick doesn't stay over, things can get uncomfortable. Bruce and Tim don't interact much outside of Batman and Robin. And as much as Tim would like this to change, he has no idea where to start or how to talk to the man. Ever since he was young, Tim has had issues with finding the right things to say, sometimes missing cues or being far too obvious. With Bruce, it's the same.
Tim might catch Bruce staring at Jason's photo in the cave. He'll see Bruce in his study, a bottle of scotch in one hand and a framed picture of Jason and Dick in the other, weeping like a small child and quickly brushing his tears away the minute Tim appears in the doorway.
Tim always does his best to comfort Bruce. But the man is so closed off that any solace he might take in the boy doesn't show on his face. Tim tries not to be hurt by this. He tries to brush off the harsh words of Bruce and goes back to his room. But, he always ends up crying into his pillow. Frustrated at his inability to help his mentor.
And Bruce has nightmares. Tim can hear the man late at night, stifling screams in his lonely, big room. Tim holds himself tightly, biting his lip so hard he tastes blood, willing himself to do something. To finally make a move to get up and comfort Bruce.
But he has no idea how. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what Bruce would need. He's never had anybody comfort him after a graphic nightmare. Usually, Tim will wake up with tears streaming down his cheeks and will himself not to go back to sleep.
But Bruce wouldn't want to do that. Bruce Wayne is a busy man, and he needs all the sleep he can get. Tim doubts that Bruce is getting very much sleep at all.
Alfred will help Bruce every so often, and eventually, Bruce's muffled screams stop. When Dick stays over, Bruce's nightmares are less, but Tim still strains his ears late at night, hoping he won't hear the tell-tale sound of sheets tangled in legs and muffled cries for help.
And, of course, it happens when Alfred goes on vacation. Dick is busy in Bludhaven, so Tim and Bruce are left by themselves in the manor.
Tim is on the couch, stressing over a book report due in two weeks. The project makes sense to him. But his mind keeps wandering, and he can't focus on the words on his paper.
Coffee cups are scattered all around the room. Plates of cold food that Alfred had prepared before leaving. He'd hoped it would encourage Tim to slow down.
Bruce had gone to his room a few hours ago. The minute Alfred left, he'd shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot and cleared his throat.
"I'll be upstairs," he had said hastily. Tim wasn't surprised when Bruce hurried to leave.
Tim tries not to be offended by the things Bruce says and does. He knows it isn't personal. Or, maybe it is. But even if it is, Tim doesn't blame Bruce.
Tim's eyes are burning from keeping them open, and his shoulders are stiff. Tim scrubs his face. He needs to finish it. If he finishes this, he won't have to work so hard.
But the words aren't making sense anymore. Each sentence Tim writes makes his hands shake, and the tell-tale pounding of a stress headache begins to surface in Tim's nose.
"Fuck," Tim mumbles. Tears of frustration bead on his lashes, and a horrible lump rise in Tim's throat. He wishes Dick were here. Dick always knows what to say. He's always patient and understanding. Something Tim's parents and tutors never were.
Tim hiccups and buries his face in a pillow on his lap. He needs to calm down. There's no use in getting worked up like this. Maybe Bruce is still awake. Maybe Bruce will be willing to help.
No.
No, it's an unbelievably stupid idea—one of Tim's worst. Bruce will be asleep by now, and goodness knows Bruce needs his sleep.
Tears and spit soak the pillow on Tim's lap as his shoulders shake, and he swallows down some of the louder cries.
It's horrible. It's all so horrible. Why can't Tim pull himself together? With every sob, the knot in Tim's chest pulls tighter. It twists and thrashes, and Tim thinks he might throw up.
Suddenly, a pained wail sounds from down the staircase, and Tim shoots up, wiping away remnants of snot and spit.
Bruce must be having another nightmare. Tim can feel sobs welling up from deep in his chest. He can't do this. He doesn't know what to do for Bruce.
Tim has to try something. He has to. After everything, Bruce has done for him. How can he just sit by while the man writhes upstairs, crying out in despair and terror?
His feet fall heavily, and with each step, his stomach twists into tighter knots, bile rising in his throat as salvia floods his mouth.
Tim really doesn't want to throw up. He hates it so much. The way he loses control of his own body as vomit is forced back up his throat. He hates the way his body shakes afterward and the way the smell and taste linger for hours and sometimes days. Tim will do anything to prevent throwing up.
Tim's hands shake violently as he turns the handle to Bruce's bedroom. The soft cries and whimpers are louder now. They ring in Tim's ears, mocking him.
He can't fix anything. He's been here for years, and nothing has changed. His presence is damaging to Bruce. To Dick. To everyone. Why did Tim think he'd make a difference? Stupid little boy. Such a stupid, naive little boy.
Bruce's body is tangled in his blankets. His face is dripping with sweat and tears. His brows are turned downward, and his bottom lip is tucked under his teeth.
Tim has never seen Bruce like this. Never in such a vulnerable way. It's scary, and Tim feels completely out of place. He has no idea how to comfort someone physically or verbally. Comfort wasn't something that was given, always earned. And Tim was never good enough to earn it anyhow.
"Bruce?" Tim timidly approaches Bruce's bedside. "W-Wake up."
Bruce doesn't stir. His head tilts to one side, and he cries out again. Tim thinks he might cry.
"It's just a dream," Tim offers helplessly. "Bruce, please, please wake up."
Bruce's entire body jerks, and he goes flying up, eyes wide, gushing tears, chest heaving fast and hard.
Tim stills. He can hear his blood beating in his ears. His mouth is still gushing salvia. Tim can feel the vomit roiling in his stomach. It's only a matter of time before he'll be on his knees, retching sick everywhere.
"Jason?" Bruce gasps, eyes wild as he lunges towards Tim and captures the boy's cheeks in his hands. Tim feels his heart pound harder in his chest. He can't do this.
"N-No," Tim's stomach lurches as he pulls Bruce's hands off his face. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want Bruce's affection when he knows that all Bruce is seeing is Jason. "I'm Tim."
Bruce's face falls, and his body recoils. He's disgusted by Tim. Disgusted that Tim isn't Jason. Disgusted that Tim managed to worm his way into Bruce's life.
"You were having a dream," Tim says with a trembling voice. "Can- is there something I can do?"
Bruce is pushing himself against his headboard. His body is tangled in his sheets, and his blanket is on the ground. His eyebrows are drawn down in a frown, and tears stream down his cheeks. Tim doesn't know if he's fully awake.
"Let, let me help you. We should get you cleaned up and-" Tim rounds the bed and attempts to pull Bruce up. But Bruce scowls and shoves Tim backward. Tim goes crashing to the floor. He hisses when he lands on his left wrist. Something nasty churns in his stomach.
It's so familiar.
The pressure building behind his eyes is beginning to burst. He can feel it. A dam cracking, threatening to break free. Drown the valley below. Tim can hear running water. Everything is muffled, and he is being thrown around by waves. He can't do this. He doesn't know how.
Tim pulls himself away from the situation and, with shaking hands, pulls out his phone.
Who should he call? Not Alfred. He deserves a break. He's too far away. Dick? Would Dick even show up if Tim asked him?
Probably not. Tim knows what Dick thinks of him. More specifically, Tim knows that Dick thinks he's a poor excuse of a Robin. A poor excuse of a sidekick. A hasty placeholder for Dick's dead brother.
Tim swallows down the sour taste of vomit and mouthfuls of spit. He presses Dick's name.
It rings for what feels like forever. Tim stays where he is at the top of the stars. He can still hear Bruce's muffled sobs.
Dick sounds pissed when he answers. "What is it, Tim? Do you have any idea what time it is?"
Tim takes a breath. Tears are soaking his shirt, and his mouth keeps flooding with spit. He keeps his voice even as he talks. "Bruce had a really bad nightmare. He doesn't want me, Dick. You need to come here, okay? Just for a little bit. He needs you right now. He needs to see you."
Dick is quiet on the other end. Tim can hear the muffled sounds of cars, honking horns, and angry pedestrians. The sounds of Bludhaven.
"Tim, it's late-"
"I know!" Pressure behind his eyes. Ringing in his ears. "I know it's late. But I wouldn't be calling you if it wasn't important. Just see him, please? Please, Dick."
Silence again.
"Fine," Dick answers, voice terse. He's clearly pissed off. "I'll be there in twenty."
When Tim hangs up, he collapses at the top of the stairs and holds himself. He balls up the bottom of his t-shirt and shoves it in his mouth. He sobs, reedy and broken. Salvia pours out, soaking his shirt and pants. Tears fall so fast that Tim can't see. His stomach cramps, and Tim is rushing to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet.
The sour smell of vomit permeates the air. Tears fall into the toilet with small plopping noises. Tim keeps his head there for a little while.
The manor is dark, and Tim can't see as he makes his way down the stairs. He heard Dick's bike outside.
The man comes through the doors, hair tousled and messy. His face set in a stony expression. It reminds Tim of Bruce so much that it's scary.
"He's upstairs," Tim points and watches Dick go hurrying up the stairs.
Tim's chest is in knots, and his stomach keeps cramping. His eyes fall to his schoolwork still sitting on the coffee table.
Tears fill Tim's eyes, and he buries his face in his hands. His temples pound, and he can feel his heartbeat behind his eyes. He needs to finish his project. He's slipping. His parents won't be proud of him if he doesn't work hard.
They won't be proud of him no matter what he does.
Bruce is fine in the morning. Tim ends up passing out on top of his worksheets sometime around sunrise. He knows this because he could see orange beginning to speckle the gray sky.
Dick comes tiptoeing down the stairs. His face is swollen, and he's wearing one of Bruce's shirts and pajama pants. Tim doesn't say anything.
Dick is pouring himself a cup of coffee when Dick speaks. "Listen, I'm glad you called last night. But um, next time just, just wake him up and stay with him for a little while. He'll be fine."
Tim clears his throat and wipes his mouth. There is still dried vomit and spit flaking around his mouth. His wrist is throbbing painfully, an aching reminder that he is unwelcome here.
"Yeah, uh, that doesn't really work for me. I, I mean, I totally would but, but I just don't think I'm the right person to be watching him or stuff like that."
Dick pauses and frowns. "What're you talking about?"
Tim feels uncomfortable now. That tight feeling in his chest is back. "I, I just don't really know how. I mean, Alfred is here most of the time, but I just don't know how to take care of him as you do. It's just better if I call you. I only make things worse."
Dick doesn't say anything for a while. Tim can feel him watching as he begins to pack up his things. "You don't make things worse, Tim."
Tim's head is pounding, and his eyes are itching. His headache is coming back. "I will. I don't know what to do in those types of situations, Dick. It's better for everyone if you and Alfred take care of Bruce. Seeing me when he's vulnerable like that will only make everything worse."
Dick stands still, coffee cup trembling in his hands.
"I have to get home," Tim stuffs papers in his backpack and does his best to smile at Dick. "I have to get ready."
Dick watches as the boy scurries for the door. He can see the dried tears staining Tim's cheeks and the overall smell of vomit lingering around the boy.
The main thing that catches Dick's eye is Tim's dark purple wrist that he is holding close to his chest.
"Tim, what happened?"
Tim's gaze falls to the floor. "I fell."
It flows of his tongue like water running over rocks. Effortless. It's an easily practiced saying that he's been preaching since he was five years old. A naive reassurance to anyone who might bother lingering just a few minutes. It's always been enough.
"You gotta be careful. That looks like a nasty sprain. I hope it isn't broken. Jesus, Tim. Did you fall down the stairs or something?"
No. If he fell down the stairs, there would've been more bruises. Maybe even a headwound. Tim has a cache of excuses he could use. But right now, his mind is swimming through sludge, and he's still not completely awake. He has to finish his project.
"Hey!" Tim's hand is on his shoulder. "Seriously, what happened? If it's broken, you gotta tell me. Maybe we should call Leslie. Just to be safe."
Tim's mouth is dry. His heartbeat drops to his stomach. He just wants to go to sleep. He shouldn't be here anymore.
"Don't do that. I know how to take care of it. It isn't a sprain, Dick. It'll go down in a few hours. I gotta go."
The boy's cagey answer has Dick suspicious. But Tim knows that he won't linger on it too long. Dick has more important things to think about. Other people to watch over. Tim isn't at the forefront of his mind.
Tim nearly collapses when he gets home. It's dark, and the air is stale. Tim can see the dust floating around the room.
Everything feels so surreal. His wrist is throbbing, and his headache has shifted to his nose, burning from the inside out.
Tim isn't sure if any of this is real or not. Maybe he'll wake up the next morning, and everything will be fine. His wrist won't be hurting so badly he can't see, and he won't feel this undeniable sense of hopelessness.
But as Tim stumbles to his room and collapses on his bed, eyes spilling tears, he knows this is real.
Jack and Janet end up stopping by the house. They're flying from Egypt to Siberia, and they needed their notes for the dig site. Tim feels foolish for thinking they were stopping by to see him.
Janet is irritable as she fumbles through her drawers for proper underwear, and Jack stares directly at Tim, possibly brooding over an unreasonable grade.
Tim tries to quell his parents' anger, but his attempts only add fuel to the fire like when he was younger.
"Timothy! Stop distracting us! Can't you see that we're in a hurry?" His mother snaps at him, slapping his hands away when he tries to give her the petticoat she was looking for. He bites his tongue when her fingers land directly on his injured wrist. Distantly, he wonders if she did it on purpose.
Jack just shoves Timothy around, moving the boy when he doesn't know where to be moved. He shoves Timothy by the head and slaps the boy across the face when his son doesn't present him with the right amount of brandy. It's always minor things with his parents. Always things that Tim has no idea how to fix.
But the storm of Jack and Janet pass, and soon they are out the door without so much as a wave to their son, who is watching from the window. Again, Tim is left with more red burning spots and a feeling of inadequacy settling in his gut.
Tim doesn't go back to the manor that night. He stays in his room, tears of frustration ruining his book report as the painful ache of his wrist becomes dizzying. He pops a few painkillers and passes out at his desk.
When he wakes up in the morning, his head is pounding fiercely, and his phone rings.
It's Dick. That's a first.
Dick has never called Tim before. Literally never. And Tim has never held this against him. But something bitter rises to his mouth. What would urge Dick to call Tim?
"Hello?" Tim's voice shakes. "Is everything okay? Are you alright?"
Dick is cheerful on the other end. "Hey, Timbo? I was wondering if you planned to stay over tonight. Alfred's planning a whole thing. Should I tell him to get a room ready?"
Tim's mouth is dry, and anxiety makes his heart thump painfully. What should he say? Would Bruce be okay with that? Would Dick be alright with that? He is the one calling, but that could just be a courtesy—a need to keep his distance from Bruce.
"I-I don't know, Dick. I still have schoolwork to do. A-And I really need to get this book report right. My English grade is tanking right now."
"Well, bring it with you!" Still so cheerful. Why does Dick sound so cheerful? "I'll help you out! Come on, Tim. Is it an issue with your parents? Bruce can give them a call and invite you over if-"
"No!" Shit. He shouldn't have answered so fast. "I mean, no. Please don't. I-I'll just ask them. Don't call them, okay? Please don't call them."
Tim hears silence on the other end. What will his parents do to him if Bruce interrupts their flight? What will Bruce do when he finds out Tim has been lying to him about their whereabouts? Oh god, what if Jack and Janet decide not to come back? They decide Tim isn't worth it. Maybe he isn't. Maybe he's a poor excuse for a son.
"Alright," Dick's voice is softer now. "I won't call them. You'll ask 'em for me?"
Tim breathes a sigh of relief. "Yeah, yeah, I'll ask them. I should be able to. B-But I don't know if I can stay the night."
Dick laughs a little. "That's fine, Tim. I'll tell Alfred to make up a room just in case."
Tim goes over around 4 with his backpack clenched tightly in his hand. He doesn't bring anything to stay over. He isn't planning on it. He won't.
But Dick is smiling so wide when he answers the door, and he's dragging Tim inside with a gentle hand. It's so different from Tim's home. He's always being shoved around. Moved to his proper place. But Dick doesn't pull him like that. His touch is a choice—a choice for Tim to leave and pull away or allow himself to trust Dick and calm down.
Bruce is sitting in the living room. He's wearing glasses that sit on the bridge of his nose as he reads over documents spread over the coffee table. Dick clears his throat, and Bruce looks up. Tim is stunned when Bruce smiles.
"Tim, I'm glad you could make it over. Did your parents give you any trouble?"
Tim blinks stupidly. His brain is still playing catch up. Oh, right. He's still pretending that his parents know about anything going on right now.
"Oh, no. No, they were fine with it. I think they're just happy I'm leaving the house."
Tim has no idea what he's saying. Is this how people normally talk about their parents? Is this the type of thing other people would be concerned about?
"I'm glad," Bruce sets his papers down. "Alfred prepared a bedroom for you just in case. Please, feel free to stay the night."
Dick puts a hand on Tim's shoulder, and Tim realizes a throbbing bruise he's harboring there. It must've been when Jack shoved him against the dresser. Tim ended up landing against the edge of it. He'd fallen to his knees purely out of shock. It hurts badly now. But Dick doesn't need to know that.
"How's that book report going?" Dick asks as Tim sits across from Bruce, and Dick settles beside him. Bruce raises an eyebrow.
"Book report? Is this the same one you were working on last night? You haven't finished that yet?"
It's so stupid—such a dumb little thing. But something about hearing Bruce say that to Tim makes his heart clench. His stomach cramps, and there's a lump swelling in the boy's throat.
Bruce is right. Why hasn't Tim finished it yet? It's only a stupid book report. But when Tim sits down and tries, the words all merge together, and his eyes blur with tears. Anxiety aches in his stomach. Every time he tries, all these things happen.
"I don't know," is all Tim can say. He has no answer. What else is he supposed to do?
"I can help you with it!" Dick offers quickly. His hand lands on Tim, and Tim goes still. It's a habit. A reflex. Call it a defense mechanism. "How about we get it done after dinner?"
Tim doesn't want to do it after dinner. Just thinking about doing it is making him ill.
"I would love to!" Stupid. He's so stupid. This is going to be a fucking nightmare.
Dinner is surprisingly pleasant. Tim engages in conversation (something he's never been able to do over dinner) and finds himself easing up a bit. There is still an overall pain in his body, but he tries to ignore it. It's easier to ignore when there are other people around him.
Alfred is clearing plates when Dicks stands up. "Ready to tackle that report now, Timmy?"
Fuck. Fucking shit. Tim was having such a good time. He'd forgotten about it. Oh, fuck. He really doesn't want to throw up this delicious food.
"Yeah. Yeah, it's just in my bag."
Dick smiles. "We can do it on the couch. I'll put a movie on so we have some background noise to work with."
Tim can feel his mind beginning to slip away. He does this sometimes. His body goes into autopilot. Sometimes Tim will come back to himself and have an entire assignment done with no memory of actually doing it. Sometimes he'll come back to himself on a rooftop, a few feet from the edge. Huh, Tim hasn't thought about that in a while.
Dick's words become background noise as Tim's body moves on autopilot, and his brain is locked away somewhere Tim can't find. He responds with short, one-word answers, and after a while, Tim can't hear anything at all.
When Tim finally comes back to himself, he's in Dick's lap on the couch with a blanket over the two of them. His wrist is wrapped, and he's wearing a soft sweatshirt over his own. Tim blinks, confused.
"Hey, buddy," Dick lifts Tim's head. The look on Dick's face confuses Tim. "You feeling better?"
Tim blinks again. What the hell is going on? Did he end up falling asleep? Did he say something to make Dick worry? What the fuck happened?
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I feel fine. Sorry if I spaced a little there."
Dick sits up a bit, and Tim shifts. Dick runs his fingers through Tim's hair. "Tim, you were gone for a while. Like, three hours. I mean, I've seen people disassociate. But, but you were still responding and shit. I-I didn't even realize until we were halfway through. And your wrist, Tim. That's a gnarly sprain."
Tim is having a hard time catching up, yet again. Everything is overwhelming. He needs to get out. He doesn't want to have to explain himself. He doesn't want that dam to overflow.
"I told you, I fell."
Dick rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on. We've all taken a bad fall during patrol. It's nothing to be embarrassed about. But, you gotta tell someone. You risk really fucking up your wrist permanently."
Tim gnaws on his bottom lip. He shouldn't have to answer. It isn't a big deal. He doesn't want it to be a big deal. He's so tired. Why does Dick have to be so damn observant?
"Dick, where's Bruce?"
Dick shifts his head towards the stairs. "He went to bed hours ago. A while before, I noticed you weren't all here."
Tim nods. Fine. This is good. He'll tell Dick, and Dick won't freak out. Everything will work out.
Jesus, he's so fucking naive.
"Well, remember when I called you the other night?"
Dick nods.
"Well, before I did, I tried to wake up Bruce. And, and you gotta promise not to tell him, okay? Do you promise? I'm serious, Dick."
A hesitant nod.
"Okay, so I tried to help him clean up. B-But I guess he was still dreaming, or maybe he just didn't want to be touched. S-So he shoved me away. I- It was mostly my fault. I mean, I just had a bad footing, so when I landed wrong, it wasn't really surprising."
Dick straightens. "Bruce pushed you? Tim, you can't keep that from him. I know you're trying to protect him. But he needs to know that he's getting physical. Even if he wasn't completely lucid, doesn't mean he's faultless. You have a right to hold him accountable-"
"No!" Tim shoves himself backward and falls backward off Dick's lap. "That doesn't matter, okay? Okay? I just got too close when I should've kept my distance. I know that now, and I won't do it again. It's why I called you. Because I'm just not who he wants to see when he wakes up from something like that. I-I'm just some kid, Dick. I know, I know how much Jason meant to all of you, and I'm not trying to replace him. I just want to help Bruce. So there's no point in making him feel bad for something that wasn't even his fault!"
Dick's eyes are wide, and after a little while, he reaches to cup Tim's cheek. This time, Tim can't help flinching. The look on Dick's face is heartbreaking.
"Timmy, you aren't just some kid. We know you aren't trying to replace Jason. But you mean so much to all of us. The things you've managed to do are incredible. I know it can't be easy here by yourself. But you're doing an amazing job. I don't say that nearly enough."
Tim's stomach bursts into butterflies that flutter into his ribcage. His entire body is a live wire. "I-I'm doing good?"
Dick smiles widely, and his hands move slower towards Tim's face. Dick's hands are warm where they rest on Tim's cheeks. "So good. You're doing amazing. Which is why we need to tell Bruce about this."
But Tim can't stomach that. He won't allow his only mentor to take the blame for something that is entirely Tim's fault. What if Bruce gets worse? What if all Tim's hard work goes down the drain? No. No, he won't allow that.
"He doesn't need to know. I'll tell him eventually." Lie. "But now isn't the time. H-He just got you to come back. I don't want to ruin that."
Dick opens his mouth to say something else, but Tim is already standing up. "Don't tell him. I'm begging you. Nothing good will come of it."
Tim goes home that night, slipping away after Dick has gone back to his room. He doesn't deserve to stay in that house. Not after the things he's just put Dick through. No. He'll go home, and he'll stay there. He'll come when Bruce calls him, but he refuses to cause extra pain.
Dick wakes up with a stomachache and a dull pounding behind his eyes. He stayed up too late yesterday. But it was well worth it. The look on Tim's face as he began to fade away was heartbreaking. And then there was the horrible realization that Tim blames himself. Blames himself for his injuries as well as Bruce's mental state. How long had Tim been carrying that burden?
Dick understands why Tim doesn't want to tell Bruce about his wrist. He does understand. But Tim deserves better. And Dick is going to make sure he gets that.
Bruce is in his study when Dick knocks on the door. The man is hunched over his desk, typing on his computer. His face lights up when he catches sight of Dick.
"Hey, chum. What's going on?"
Dick's heart is pounding fast against his ribcage. He thinks about backing out. Will Tim be angry with him when he finds out Dick blabbed? But Tim's exhausted face and distant eyes flash across Dick's mind, and he composes himself.
"B, I gotta tell you something. Tim called me the other day. When you were having a nightmare."
Bruce nods. "I assumed he had. I suspected."
"Well, he mentioned trying to wake you up before he did. A-And he said that when he tried, you pushed him off."
Bruce's face falls, and he backs up from his desk. He pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking. "Shit, I think he's right. Oh, fuck."
Dick swallows. "Uhm, h-he fell. Like when you pushed him off, he ended up falling. And he landed badly on his wrist. Sprained it pretty badly."
Bruce freezes, and his eyes go dark. "Shit. I had no idea. Is he okay? Did he get it taken care of?"
Dick nods again. "W-Well, I kinda wanted to talk to you about that. Bruce, he really didn't want you to know. I think he doesn't quite understand the nature of his relationship with all of us. He seems perfectly comfortable being a punching bag. I don't know. There's something going on with him, and I can't figure it out. We worked on that report yesterday, and I realized he wasn't even present. His mind just went off somewhere. Like, he still responded and shit, but he just wasn't there. It seemed so normal to him. I just think we should keep an eye on him. It's a little terrifying."
Bruce stands up abruptly. "I understand what you're saying. Alfred told me about some unhealthy habits Tim has been exhibiting lately. I've been trying to get in contact with Tim's parents for a couple of weeks. I don't know if they want privacy for their son or if they're just ignoring the situation. You know how rich parents are. Sometimes their children are only for show. I had hoped it wasn't that way for Tim."
Dick feels his stomach begin to tangle into knots. He should've seen the signs. All the obvious ones. All the little ones. He is trained to see things like that. So how was he so blind to the situation?
"Dick, it isn't your fault. Tim is trained to hide these things. Conditioned to think that everything is normal. You've had a lot on your mind. It isn't your fault."
But Dick shakes his head and turns away, breathing through his mouth in an attempt to hide his sob. "It was so obvious. It was right fucking there, and I-"
Bruce's hand lands on Dick's shoulder and spins him around. "You gotta stop. There's no point in spiraling like this. Tim doesn't blame you for any of this. It isn't your fault. I know how much you've had on your plate."
Dick feels a tear slip down his cheek before he can stop it. Bruce wipes it away. "Shhh, don't cry, alright? We're gonna be okay. We'll figure this out."
Dick can only nod and sink into Bruce's arms.
Tim doesn't come back the next day. Dick calls his phone incessantly. It's unusual for Tim to not answer his phone. Usually, he picks up after the first ring.
But now, there's no response on the other end. No, read messages on Tim's part. No sign of the boy on the streets of Gotham.
In a desperate attempt to find Tim, Bruce contacts the boy's school, hoping that the teachers might know something.
But to Bruce's horror, the teachers don't find this to be an odd occurrence. Apparently, Tim's attendance at school is spotty, however, his grades stay above average. A strange habit for a child like Tim.
Dick's anxiety rears its ugly head, and he spirals out of control, freaking out the same way he did when Jason went missing. It's a horribly familiar feeling that Bruce is becoming far too accustomed to.
With each passing day, the bags under Dick's eyes get darker, and the knot of guilt and anger coils deeper within Bruce's chest. Things between them become tenser than before, and Bruce finds it harder and harder to get Dick to stay over. There are times when the two of them can't even look at each other. Too engrossed in their own pity to acknowledge what the other might be feeling. It's all familiar.
So familiar.
Weeks pass, and soon comes an annual charity gala that always comes around December. A chance for the high society of Gotham to feel generous. Bruce has to spend nearly three weeks begging Dick to come with him. He had planned to go with Tim. But the boy seemed less enthusiastic, which was strange considering how the boy usually jumped at the chance for alone time with Bruce.
Dick eventually accepts, too exhausted to argue or refuse. And in situations like this, neither of them know how to put up a very good fight. So when the night finally arrives, both of them dress in the suits Alfred laid out for them and climb into the car, allowing a solemn silence to settle over them.
Bruce needs to focus. The head of Wayne Enterprises can't be seen in such a vulnerable state. He doesn't know if he can count on Dick to do the same. It isn't right of him to ask Dick to do the same.
It's beginning to snow as they step out of the car—the lights inside flicker warmly, and the sounds of laughter spill through the thick, wooden doors. Bruce can smell various aromas of foods and drinks that might make his mouth water in different circumstances. But now, he just wants to vomit.
Bruce's heart pounds heavily against his chest as he puts a hand on Dick's shoulder. "Thank you for coming with me. I know this isn't easy."
Dick stares at Bruce with those dead blue eyes before shrugging off the man's touch. "It's fine. I understand what's expected. Three hours. Then I leave."
Bruce nods and takes a shaking breath, digging his nails into his palms as he follows Dick inside.
The gala is being hosted by some widow, Mira Andes, who joined Gotham's high society after she inherited everything her husband left her. Quite the scandal among Gotham socialites. However, Bruce is lucky. Dick has always been fond of Mira and enjoyed her parties the most in his youth. At least Bruce has that going for him.
Mira welcomes both of them with open arms and a dazzling smile. She smells faintly of perfume, and her silver hair spreads over her shoulders and down her back. Dick greets her with an equally bright smile.
"I'm so happy the two of you were able to make it! Come in, come in! They're serving the most delicious appetizers!"
Dick allows Mira to loop her arm through his and pull him into the crowd of people swaying around the room.
Bruce takes a tall glass of champagne from a tray nearby and sips politely. He needs to keep up appearances. He repeats it over and over in his head, hoping it will start to mean something.
But, the night carries on, and Bruce still doesn't care about the nonsense conversations happening around him or the millions of dollars paraded around the room in the form of jewels and dresses.
DIck is laughing and chatting with those around him, but his smile never reaches his eyes, and Bruce can see by the sag of his shoulders that his patience is wearing thin. Dick wants to leave.
The alcohol begins to make Bruce's stomach feel fuzzy and warm, and his eyes begin to droop as his body sways. He shouldn't have drunk so much.
Bruce blames it on the alcohol when he begins to see Jason's eyes everywhere he looks. He blames it on the alcohol when he hears Tim's voice ringing in his ears.
Only, it is Tim's voice. It's all of Tim. Tim dressed in a glamorous tuxedo and surrounded by a small number of people, cooing and pinching his cheek. And behind him, Jack and Janet Drake, smiling proudly as their son is praised.
Bruce sobers up fast. He sets his jaw tight. Where the hell has Tim been? Bruce thought he was dead, and yet here the boy is, very much alive, smiling brightly and nodding to his parents as they speak. Tim is fine, perfectly happy with his perfect family. And Bruce was killing himself, trying to find the boy.
"Jack!" Bruce greets him with a large smile and a laugh, patting the man on the back like an old friend. It sickens him. "It's so good to see you. I was sure the two of you wouldn't make it tonight."
Bruce's eyes float to the man's hand, clasping Bruce's. His knuckles are red. And despite his dazzling society smile, there are faint scratch marks on his face.
Jack smiles back, and Janet smiles too. Tim's eyes stay forward. "Bruce, how wonderful to see you! We were able to make it home in time for Mira's party. We wouldn't have missed it for the world."
Bruce is waiting for Tim to say something. He's waiting for Tim to acknowledge his presence. But Tim doesn't seem to be aware that Bruce is talking. he doesn't seem to be aware of anything. Is this what Dick was talking about? How Tim 'goes away'?
"Timothy, say hello to Mr. Wayne!" Janet's hand lands on Tim's shoulder. She squeezes hard. If Bruce weren't Batman, he might not have caught it. But he can see by the way her nails flex, and her knuckles protrude that she is squeezing much tighter than she needs to be.
Tim's head turns slower than it should. His eyes are slanting down, and his mouth is open. Bruce notices concealer on his forehead going into his hairline.
"Hello, Mr. Wayne," Tim speaks slowly, as though the words are struggling to make their way off his tongue. "It's nice to see you."
Tim's eyes aren't on Bruce's. They aren't even on Bruce's face. The air is suddenly very tense.
"Is Richard here? I do so enjoy his company. Such a striking young man." Janet is smiling, and her hand never leaves Tim's shoulder. The boy is swaying. Bruce notices Jack's shoulders tense.
"Jack, why don't you take Tim to the bathroom while I catch up with Mr. Wayne? Clean up a bit before dinner begins."
Bruce wants to interject. He wants to grab Tim's hand and demand an explanation. But the boy's feet move as though on command as Jack's hand lands on the back of Tim's neck and guides him out of the room.
Janet talks to him. Asks him meaningless questions. But Bruce isn't interested. Tim doesn't come back. Jack still isn't back. Just what are those two doing that is taking too long. Maybe he should ask Dick for help. Would Dick be willing to help? It's for Tim. Surely the man wouldn't mind?
Luckily, Dick seems to understand. He catches Bruce's pleading gaze and joins the conversation with a dazzling smile.
Janet is distracted by a friend nearby when Bruce gets a word in. "Tim is here. He left for the bathroom with Jack about twenty minutes ago. Find them, please. He might have a concussion. Maybe something worse. I don't know what it is. But I don't like it."
Dick nods, and without another word, he leaves.
Bruce is grateful to have such an understanding son.
The laughter of the party dies away as Dick travels further down the hall. He can hear soft sounds coming from locked rooms. Those, he's not going to investigate any further. Rich people really don't have any shame.
But then he hears a loud shout from the room at the end of the hall, and his body moves on its own. His lungs burn as he turns the handle to the door. It's locked. But the lock is weak, and it doesn't take more than a few shoves to get it open.
The sight inside makes Dick's blood turn to ice in his veins, and his eyes burn. Tim is on the floor, eyes shut and shirt torn. The makeup Bruce mentioned is smeared away a ghastly bruise is on display. There are more bruises around his neck. It isn't like a hand. The skin is rubbed raw. And the bruising is severe. Dick wouldn't be surprised if Tim had trouble speaking for the next few days. It looks like the mark of a belt.
The next thing Dick notices is the bottle of pills in Jack's hand. Dick feels sick.
"Oh, you're Bruce's boy, aren't you? Listen, I know how this looks. But you know how children are. Tim just needed something to keep him docile. Too much energy this one."
Dick's ears are ringing, and his hands are clenched so tightly that he can feel blood seeping under his fingernails.
"I don't think pills make bruises that big."
Jack chuckles, a low, hideous sound that makes Dick's skin crawl. "Well, he isn't the brightest child. Had to keep him on a tight leash these past few weeks. He seems to have forgotten his place. Uh, how about keeping this between us, hm? I wouldn't want Bruce's only son to be found alone in a room with an unconscious, underage boy. That would certainly smear the family name, now wouldn't it?"
Dick moves without thinking. His brain goes into overdrive, and his fist connects to Jack's cheekbone. Skin breaks, and bones shatter to pieces beneath Dick's fist. It feels right. It feels just.
Jack is sent flying over the bed and hits his head against the wall. He goes unconscious with a groan.
Tim doesn't stir throughout the entire debacle. His eyes move beneath his lids, but he doesn't wake up. Dick wonders what those pills were. The bottle is still safely clutched in Jack's hand.
Dick brings Tim into his lap and gently pats his cheek, attempting to wake up the boy. Tim's eyelids flutter, and his lips crack as he tries to open them.
"It's alright," Dick rocks him back and forth. "It's alright now. Oh, Timmy. I'm so sorry. It's gonna be alright. I'm just going to lift you up a little okay?"
Tim whimpers quietly, but his body is lax, and he doesn't fight back. Although, it might just be because he's too weak.
DIck manages to help Tim into a bathroom and helps him to the sink. The boy drinks greedy gulps of cool, running water and nearly collapses before Dick sits them down near the toilet. He's already locked the door to keep any unwanted company from coming in. Who knows what Jack will do once he wakes up.
A loud knocking startles Tim, and he feels Tim tense against him. Dick shushes him and pets the boy's hair back, swallowing thickly and preparing himself for whoever might be behind that door.
"Dick?" Oh. Oh, it's just Bruce. It's Bruce. Dick can breathe again. "Are you in there?"
Tim is still tense, and his hands are clenched tightly to Dick's suit jacket. His eyes are screwed tightly shut.
"It's Bruce," Dick whispers as he lifts Tim into his arms and holds the boy close to his chest as he unlocks the door. Light from the hallway spills into the bathroom, and Tim cringes, turning his face into Dick's chest.
"Come in," Dick ushers Bruce inside and locks the door behind them. "He's off his nut on some sort of sedative. There is extensive bruising on his neck and face. He probably has a concussion. I haven't been able to get him to speak yet, so he might not be fully awake."
Bruce's jaw is set tight, and he gently takes Tim in his arms.
The boy feels bony against him. Every part of him juts out and pokes Bruce in uncomfortable places. Almost as though Tim's skeleton is repelling the touch. However, Tim's muscles have a different reaction. Tim wraps his arms around Bruce's neck, and his head falls on Bruce's shoulder. Tim's breath comes in slow, warm puffs on Bruce's skin.
"Where is Jack now?" Bruce runs his fingers through Tim's hair. It's oily. He probably hasn't showered in a while.
Dick gestures towards the door. "He's passed out in the other room. I punched him in the face."
Normally, Bruce would penalize Dick for resorting to violence. But he can't bring himself to do it. He's too relieved to have Tim back in his arms.
The three of them leave together. Jack and Janet seemed to have sensed the trouble brewing and left as soon as possible. That suits Bruce just fine. He'll find a way to remove Tim from their care some other time. Right now, he just wants to get Tim somewhere safe.
Dick is asleep on his shoulder when they pull in the driveway, and Bruce takes a few minutes to savor the presence of his children. HIS children.
He and Dick treat Tim's bruises, and Alfred estimates the time it will take for the sedatives to wear off. Luckily, they were pretty weak and won't have any lasting effects. That news has Bruce breathing a sigh of relief.
Bruce has Tim in his arms with Dick at his side when Tim finally wakes up. He's been awake for a while. Or rather, his eyes were open. But now, he actually speaks.
"Who-What's goin' on?"
Bruce jumps a little. He had been drifting off to sleep, lulled by the rhythmic noises of Dick's snoring and the steady rise and fall of Tim's chest. Ocean waves crashing over sand and the chirping of crickets.
"We're back at the manor," Bruce explains, keeping his voice low, hoping he doesn't disturb Dick. "How do you feel?"
Tim stares for a minute, and his eyes travel around the room. His mouth is open, and his shoulders sag. Suddenly, his eyes fill with tears. Bruce panics.
"I'm sorry!" Tim gasps, burying his face in his hands and pulling back from Bruce. "I really wasn't- I mean, I was only trying to help! I wasn't trying to replace anyone. I-I only wanted to help. I only wanted to help."
Dick is awake now, startled from his slumber by Tim's wails. Bruce puts a hand on Tim's back. "I know that. And you've been an enormous help. So how about you let me take care of you? Let me return the favor."
Tim is a hiccuping mess, tears spilling down his cheeks and spit soaking into his clothes. Bruce pulls the boy against him and holds him tight.
'Let me help you."
For the first time since Jason's death, Bruce dreams. There are no bloody bodies on cold stone floors or panicked calls from Dick. For the first time, Bruce just sleeps.