Work Text:
“What are you smiling about?”
Tim glances up from his phone, sees Tam watching him with an arched eyebrow and an amused smirk. She stands a few steps inside his office; tablet held in the crook of her left elbow and looks the picture perfect of a professional in her gray smart pants suit and heels.
“Cass is back stateside,” Tim replies, attention drawing back to his phone when it buzzes with another message.
Dinner. Now.
Tim huffs a laugh, types an ‘OK’ in reply and stands up from his desk. “I’m being summoned,” he says as he quickly closes out the files on his computer and powers it down. “Dinner,” he clarifies when he sees Tam’s furrowed brow.
The lines on her forehead smooth out and the smile returns to her face. “Good. That’s one less thing I have to do then.” She deliberately taps the face of her watch twice, which makes Tim check the time.
Five-thirty. Tim’s nose scrunches up involuntarily and a spike of irritation flares.
It was Tim’s fourth day back at WE after being abducted several weeks ago. It had taken a lot of needling to get Bruce to agree to let him return to the office but agree he did! Well, sort of.
Tim was restricted to working half days until Bruce agreed otherwise, which he felt was completely unreasonable. So what if he couldn’t get through an entire day without a nap or two? Or that his heart rate spiked whenever he was left alone in a closed room longer than five minutes? There were workarounds. Interim solutions because these…quirks…were temporary. For one, he could catch a few catnaps here and there in his office. Second, he could never attend a closed Board room meeting ever again. He knew the latter argument wouldn’t work in his favor, but the constipated look Bruce shot him was absolutely worth it.
In the end, Bruce would not budge. So, rather than being stuck behind the manor walls going out of his mind (given that he was not cleared for patrol yet either, which was an entirely separate conversation), Tim conceded to the compromise. He would (grudgingly) start his day at one o’clock in the afternoon and leave the office at five-thirty on the dot. It wasn’t ideal—he barely got anything done—but it was better than nothing.
Tim shoulders his messenger bag, takes one last sweep of his desk to see if he had forgotten anything before walking to his office door. Tam backs out and lets Tim lock up behind him. Pocketing his keys, he turns until he’s facing Tam to give her a two-finger salute in goodbye.
Tam shakes her head, mutters a soft ‘dork’ before shoving his shoulder in the direction of the exit. “See you tomorrow,” she says. Tim is halfway to the elevator when he hears her call after him.
He pauses in step to glance over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in question.
Tam hesitates for a moment before straightening and saying, “Use the back exit.”
Tim bodily turns around, his face settling into a frown. “Really? Still?”
Tam nods with a slight grimace. “Yes.”
Tim sighs, hand rubbing the side of his head.
The paparazzi were relentless ever since he was rescued from his kidnappers. Their Public Relations team was working triple time to redirect the attention away from him, and he couldn’t be more grateful. To help, Tim made one official statement while he was recovering in the manor, despite Bruce telling him it was not necessary, and he would handle it. Tim knew, however, the media wouldn’t leave him and his family alone otherwise. He kept it simple: he was recovering and was happy to be back with his family and would like to put this incident behind him. After that, he didn’t pay much attention to what the media said about him.
Unfortunately, a resurgence of attention appeared when he returned to work.
How are you feeling, Mr. Drake-Wayne?
I feel great. Ready to get back into the thick of things.
How does it feel to be back, Mr. Drake-Wayne?
Wonderful.
Tim navigates through it, used to such attention being in the role he is...
Is it true your absence wasn’t noted until a week into your abduction? How did that make you feel, Mr. Drake-Wayne?
I’m eternally grateful for those who rescued me when they did. I was very, very lucky.
...but he didn’t have to like it.
Tim thought his kidnapping would be old news by now. Apparently, it must have been a slow news week.
Tim pivots and uses a maintenance elevator that takes him to one of the lower levels of the building. He smiles politely to several of the janitorial and maintenance staff he crosses path with; stops to chat briefly with Maria who cleans the executive floor personally.
“Goodnight, Mr. Wayne.”
“Tim’s just fine, Maria,” Tim tells her for the hundredth time, but the woman merely smiles and pretends like she does not hear him. Tim sighs with a shake of his head and a knowing grin before he continues down the hall to one of the rear entrances of Wayne Enterprises. He pushes the door open slowly and peers through the gap. He looks left, then right and upon not seeing any loitering reporters, quickly makes his way out and down the side street that leads to the main road.
His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out, smiling at Cass’ text asking if he has left yet. He types a quick affirmative and asks her what she would like to eat.
Cass landed about an hour ago from Hong Kong and wanted to see him. Up until a few days ago, she was in deep cover working on a human trafficking ring case in Kowloon. When she resurfaced, she was met with a message from Stephanie. Apparently, the blonde had texted her to let her know what had happened, and Cass booked a flight back to Gotham the same day. Of course, this was after calling him to see if he was all right.
He was fine. He wasn’t sure how many times he would need to keep telling that to people (family, friends, the press) before they started to believe him. Going from hearing from his family once every few weeks to them hovering over his shoulder every two seconds to see how he was doing, Tim was beginning to feel...smothered.
He wasn’t ungrateful. He just...he just didn’t know what to do with all the attention. Even Damian had asked to play a game of chess with him the other day. It was bizarre and felt a bit…forced? He could count the number of times his family had visited him at his apartment within the last year on one hand, which begged the question: When he felt better enough to move back to his place, would they still make the effort to be around him? The thought—because his brain never let him stop thinking—left an unsettling churning in his gut and he drop kicked it to the back of his mind where Future!Tim could deal (or not deal) with it.
He was the picture-perfect example of good mental health. Honest.
Tim’s phone buzzes again to say that Cass wanted sushi. He texts her back a few restaurant choices and she’s quick to select one. They agree to meet at the restaurant.
That settled, he makes his way down the busy sidewalk, weaving in and out of the crowd as quickly as he can. It’s been ages since he’s seen Cass; chatting through WeChat just didn’t cut it. Despite the reasoning behind her visit, it doesn’t dampen his excitement for having this chance to catch up.
Tim deftly sidesteps a couple that stops suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk, distracted by something they see in a shop window. The female of the pair notices and nods her apology, which Tim just shrugs off with a grin and moves on.
The day is unusually sunny, and the good weather draws his fellow Gothamites out like a moth to a flame. Street vendors are energetically selling their goods and a small crowd is circling a group of street performers that were brave enough to put on a dance show that involved a couple of 55-gallon steel drums. It’s noisy, but in a good way. So, he doesn’t know how his ears pinpoint the rumbling of metal and a sharp click of a sliding door.
Tim’s next breath gets caught in his throat, and he whips his head immediately around to the sound, body automatically shifting to a defensive stance.
There’s a white delivery truck unloading some crates onto the sidewalk. The men are working rapidly since they’re parked in a No Standing zone in front of a mom & pop deli.
It’s nothing out of the ordinary and yet he finds himself rooted in place, his heart jack-hammering in his chest.
Tim consciously forces himself to relax and loosen the tight grip he has around his phone. His eyes, however, continue to track the workers’ progress. It’s only after they slam the door shut and pull away from the curb does Tim react.
He flinches at the noise and takes an involuntary step backwards. It’s at that moment when someone bumps into him, successfully jarring him back to the present and causing him to drop his phone.
“Sorry,” mutters the man who walked into him. Tim barely spares him any attention given that he was likely responsible for walking into the other. More pressing is the fact that Tim can’t seem to catch his breath. His heart feels as if it’s about to beat right out of his chest, his palms are suddenly cold and clammy, and his head feels as if it’s stuffed with cotton wool.
“Mommy, why is he standing there?”
“Chrissy, shush.”
Tim’s eyes follow the sound of the voices, and he sees a young mother hurrying her daughter along. Their eyes meet briefly before the woman purposely angles her body away. Tim blinks once and wakes up enough at this point to know that he needs to get out of here. Now.
He picks up his phone with shaky fingers, shoves it in his pocket and power walks the remaining distance to his car.
Tim knows what a panic attack is. He also knows he’s currently having one. What he does not know is why.
It was just a delivery truck. It wasn’t. It wasn’t...
Tim tries to push through—tries to put the key in the ignition but his hands are shaking too much. He gives up after a few attempts, drops the keys and just sits there trying to remember how to breathe.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there with his vision tunneling to the logo branded on his steering wheel; only that he startles violently when he feels a hand grip his shoulder. He twists his body around, arms raised in defense only to see Cass crouched down by the driver’s seat, the door to his car is open.
His breath comes out in a whoosh and his next inhale is unsteady. He can’t hear Cass on a good day, but to zone out completely as to not hear his car door opening...that’s. That’s unacceptable.
“S-Sorry,” he stutters and feels his chest getting tight again. He glances around to see that daylight has already started to fade and he wonders how long he’s been sitting here. How long had he made her worry? “I’m. Sorry,” he chokes out, ducking his head.
Cass tilts her head to the side, the edges of her lips tilt downward. She wordlessly places her right palm flat against his chest, and Tim immediately latches onto her wrist, watching her through his bangs.
They breathe together for a few minutes, stopping only when the tightness in Tim’s chest loosens and finally dissipates.
“Okay?” Cass asks and Tim bobs his head, letting her wrist go. His hand falls onto his lap as does his eyes.
“Yeah, I. Than—oh.”
Tim is pulled forward into a hug, and it takes only a split second for him to melt into it. “Missed you, little brother,” Cass says, and Tim raises his arms to hug her back.
“Me too. Sorr—“
“No,” Cass says, voice firm, pinching his side. “No sorries.”
Tim winces, tries to squirm away from the abuse. “Ow! Okay, okay I got it.”
Cass pulls back, smile wide and it’s too contagious for Tim not to return it.
“Are you both all right?”
Tim snaps his head to the left and sees Bruce standing a few steps away. He’s in a dark grey suit, but his jacket is unbuttoned as if he hadn’t had the time to bother doing them up. He’s projecting concern, concern, concern, and Tim has to look away.
He swings his attention back to Cass to share a questioningly look. Cass merely shrugs in response, and he feels heat rise to his cheeks when he realizes she called him.
Cass is unapologetic and readily slides over to make room for Bruce when the older man closes the remaining distance between them. Bruce leans down to peer into Tim’s car.
“Are you okay?” he asks again, and Tim can’t meet his eyes. This has never happened to him before, and the lack of not knowing why he’s reacting this way leaves his stomach tied in knots and feeling completely and utterly mortified.
“Yes,” Tim replies stiffly, glancing up briefly before adverting his eyes to seek out his car keys. “I’m good.” He reaches his hand down blindly to the floor and when that doesn’t work to locate them, he tilts his head down and nearly bangs it against the steering wheel.
“Tim.”
“I’m fine,” Tim says tightly, fingers scrabbling across the floor until he feels his keys. He grabs them and jams them into the ignition and starts the car, proving to himself that he can. That he’s fine. That everything is under control and he’s fine.
“I can drive us home,” Bruce offers and something in Tim snaps.
“I can drive myself home!”
The silence that follows his shout is pronounced. No one moves, other than Tim incrementally tightening his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles have turned white.
They couldn’t keep treating him like this. As if he’s something fragile. As if he can’t take care of himself. Tim’s been doing it his whole. Damn. Life.
‘Timothy, we’ll take you to the science museum another time. This meeting is important. Your father and I will need to leave right away.’
Tim trails after his mom. He doesn’t understand. His parents are home. Finally. They had plans to go to the science museum together, but something came up. Something always comes up.
‘But mom,’ he whines, ‘you promised.’
His mom stops so suddenly that Tim walks into her legs. He stumbles, but a hand steadies him before he can fall. He’s about to thank her when the hand tightens its grip around his arm. It hurts.
His mom stares him down, and Tim shrinks into himself. ‘Grow up, Timothy. You’re not a child anymore.’
His mother shakes his arm one last time before letting go. Tim stumbles back a step, head bowed, and forces himself not to rub his sore arm. His eyes burn, but he takes a breath. Then another and lifts his head to look directly at his mother’s eyes.
‘Yes, mother.’
His parents leave shortly thereafter. The exhibit he was excited to see comes and goes as he putters around the empty house. It’s another three months before he sees his parents again. He doesn’t ask them about the museum.
Tim was fine then. He’s fine now. He’s always fine.
Tim stares blankly at the pair of tickets in his hand. It’s to the planetarium show he mentioned to Bruce months ago. He mentioned it randomly on a patrol one night, but he didn’t think Bruce would remember. Tim talks about a lot of random shit.
Bruce shuffles his feet and clears his throat. ‘That’s the one, right?’ Bruce is hesitant in his speech, which is so unusual that it throws Tim for a loop. ‘I thought we could go together.’
Tim swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. He doesn’t know why he’s getting upset. Bruce must see something on his face because the man is suddenly closer, one hand resting on each of his shoulders. He bends down so they’re at eye level before he says, ‘Tim, sweetheart, what’s the matter?’
Tim chokes out a wet laugh and shakes his head. ‘Nothing, B. This is awesome.’ A genuine smile spreads across his lips, and he can’t hide the eagerness in his voice as he says, ‘I can’t wait to go!’ Bruce’s answering smile is striking and warms Tim from head to toe.
The two memories collide into one another, the force of his emotions behind each so distinct that it jolts Tim back to the present. His anger that was so quick to flare deflates like a sad balloon.
Because Tim wanted this, didn’t he? For someone to worry about him and question where he was. To pay him a little attention. But rather than being appreciative, he’s yelling at the people who are actually giving him what he wanted. What was wrong with him?
“I can drive myself home,” he repeats, softer now, but no less determined. Yet, he doesn’t fight it when Bruce reaches over him to turn off the engine. Tim’s shoulders slump as if he were a puppet with its strings cut. His forehead falls forward to rest against the steering wheel.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, too ashamed to face Bruce. He closes his eyes when he feels Bruce squeeze the base of his neck. The gesture is a comforting one.
“It’s fine, Tim.”
Tim bites back a bitter laugh.
No. No, I’m not.
oOo
Bruce does wind up driving them both home. Tim and Cass sit wordlessly in the back seat, hands clasped tightly around one another. Cass has her head resting on his shoulder, while he stares out the window.
Tim’s thoughts are in a whirlwind, cycling through what Bruce must be thinking—what he’ll do once he finds out what happened. How he’ll never let him out to patrol the city again because the sound of a freakin’ door closing puts Tim in a panic. He doesn’t understand why he reacted like this. Why now after years of nothing? Things were supposed to be getting better not worse. He just wanted things to return to normal.
An elbow digs into his side and Cass shoves her phone in front of his face. It’s the third or fourth time Cass has done this since they’ve gotten into the car. His sister would sense whenever his thoughts would start to spiral and would subsequently distract him with a random puppy video on YouTube. It makes him smile albeit temporarily, but then he would start worrying all over again.
“Here.”
Cass’ palm is suddenly on his chest and there’s a steady pressure behind it. He looks at her, really looks and hears what she’s not saying.
I’m here. With you. Always.
Tim is all at once reminded that out of his entire family and after everything that has happened, with Cass he never has to wonder where she stands with him. She’s got his back, always.
It helps. Not with all of it, but Tim feels his anxiety fade a bit. He picks up her phone and starts scrolling in search of another clip as Cass settles back beside him. Tim rests his cheek against the top of her head and let’s himself chuckle when he sees a Labrador trying to walk into the house with a stick that’s longer than the door’s width.
He misses how Bruce’s shoulders relax at the sound.
oOo
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
Tim lifts his eyes from where he’s been staring at his udon noodles. He’s eaten most of it but has left a lot of the soup in the bowl.
Sometime on the ride back, Bruce must have ordered them dinner. Tim must have zoned out at the time, but his favorite shrimp tempura udon and a sashimi platter for Cass arrives no more than ten minutes after they get back to the manor.
Bruce sits with them in the kitchen, would occasionally sneak a piece of tuna sashimi from Cass’ plate to eat (she let him of course), while Damian is having dinner with Alfred in the dining room.
Tim places his chopsticks on the table, using the moment to gather his thoughts to answer Bruce’s question. “I was walking to the garage when I heard a van door open. It uh. I guess it reminded me of when I was taken as a kid.” Tim fiddles with the chopstick wrapper, needing to do something with his hands. “I had a panic attack,” he admits, looks at Bruce for the first time to see his reaction, but the older man’s posture stays the same: open and attentive. The sight calms the butterflies in his stomach to a mild flutter. “I got to the garage, and you know the rest.”
Bruce nods. “Has this ever happened before?” he asks, and Tim shakes his head no.
“I guess with everything that’s happened recently...” he lets the words trail off, eyes falling back to his soup. He clenches his hands into fists on his lap. His worries about what restrictions Bruce will enforce returns twofold because it’s impossible for Bruce not to do something given that he’s compromised.
Tim’s fingernails begin to bite into his palms, and he only stops when Cass snakes her hand around his. She squeezes it once and Tim shoots her a small smile, turning his hand palm up to squeeze back.
When Bruce clears his throat, Tim turns his attention back to him.
“I want you to promise me something, Tim. No arguments,” Bruce says, and Tim braces himself for what the man has to say.
“I need you to call me if this happens again,” Bruce says, leaning forward in his seat. “Me. One of your brothers. Cass. It doesn’t matter who, but I need you to call us so we can help.”
Tim blinks, releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Oh...
“I don’t want you to think you have to deal with this by yourself,” Bruce continues. “Call me. Anytime.”
The tone of voice is an order, despite Bruce asking him earlier for a promise. And yet, it doesn’t feel like an order.
Tim swallows. Then hesitantly asks, “And patrol…you won’t…?”
Bruce’s gaze softens. “Tim, you’re my priority. Not Red Robin. You. But no, nothing needs to change. We’ll work through this like we always do. Together.”
Tim stares for several beats. Then ducks his head, unable to maintain eye contact any longer. His heart is pounding loudly in his ears and there’s a light fluttering in his stomach, but it’s different than before. His cheeks are inflamed as if he’s embarrassed, but he’s not. He feels.
He feels really, really happy.
A finger pokes his cheek, and he smacks it away.
“Tim?”
Tim covers his face with his hands, tries to hide the smile that’s breaking out across his face. They’ll think he’s crazy.
“Tim?” The voice is closer now. A hand falls on his right shoulder and Tim shoots up and out of his chair and throws his arms around Bruce’s waist who startles back in surprise.
“I promise,” he says in a rush, his voice is muffled in Bruce’s shirt.
“I, uh, good.” Bruce places a hand at the back of Tim’s head and rubs it awkwardly several times, which makes Tim smile even more. He outright laughs when Cass hugs them both from behind, almost toppling them, but Bruce is as unmoving as a tree and steadies them with a grunt.
Tim doesn’t know what will or will not trigger him in the future. If this will continue handicapping him in any way. But here, in his dad’s arms, his sister’s support—his family’s support—he knows he won’t be facing it alone.
And that’s all that really matters.
End