Figure It Out

by openmindedcranberry

Summary:

Put on a “break” by Bruce so Tim stays out of the way while the Wayne’s get things sorted with Jason’s return, Tim finds that without Robin life generally sucks. Jack and Dana are fighting, his dad’s drinking… Tim’s still dealing with trauma from being attacked at Titan’s Tower…

But then a classmate, Bernard, makes things kind of not suck, and then Bernard admits to him that he might have feelings for Tim. As in, more than just friendship feelings, and Tim.exe stops working for a bit because he had never thought of that before. But, now that he is, Tim can see it, too. But he’s never - he doesn’t - He’s not sure what this means.

Things come to an explosive head when he comes home, finding his dad waiting up for him, drunk and angry because someone had called him about seeing Tim and Bernard holding hands.

((Going on hiatus as of 7.6.23. unsure of when I will be able to return to this fic.))

Notes:

Lotta warnings with this one, folks. Please pay attention to the tags and take care of yourselves, okay? There is no comfort in this first chapter. This is the hurt. Also please let me know if you think I need to add any trigger warnings to the tags. Thank you!!

 

Ps. There is GRAPHIC/EXPLICIT content in this fic. There is a scene dealing with graphic/explicit/violent non con and assault. Please tread carefully, and take care of yourselves.

Chapter 1

Summary:

Edits made 2/2/23.

Replacing word "cleaver" with "tenderizer" because, as a commenter pointed out, a cleaver is the big knife thingy and a tenderizer is the big block thingy I was talking about.

2/4 edits made for spelling, grammar, punctuation, etc

Tim shut the door gently behind him, locking it and engaging the security system with quick, silent hands. He stepped lightly through the front entry hall, not wanting to wake his dad up. Jack Drake had a bit of a temper, and Tim had never known his dad well enough to be able to determine if this was a new thing caused by the traumatic accident and death of his wife. Even on the best of days, Tim didn’t really know how to talk to him without setting him off over something. 

 

It seemed the only time his dad was happy was when Dana was around. But lately Dana had been putting her foot down about Jack’s drinking. She was concerned he was drinking too much. Tim had never heard them fight like he used to listen to Jack and Janet as a kid, but harsh whispers behind closed doors were often followed by Dana rapidly packing a bag or a suitcase and leaving for a few days. Whenever she left, Jack would restock the liquor cabinet and work his way through it before he’d finally call her up and make promises he didn’t intend to keep and buy her apology gifts in an attempt to appease her and distract her from the problem.

 

Jack and Dana were currently on the outs, right now. Tim had watched Dana pack her suitcase a couple days ago, sniffing and wiping at her smudged, tear-stained makeup. When he’d grabbed the door for her, he was surprised when she put her hand on his shoulder and told him that if it ever got to be too much for Tim, she’d come get him if he needed her to.

 

Tim had been touched by her concern, but he had politely declined. Leaving wouldn’t sit right with him. 

 

When his dad had woken up from his accident, Tim had been there while his dad learned about his mom’s death for the first time. It was the longest conversation Tim could remember ever having with his dad one on one. They’d cried together and his dad had patted Tim’s back while telling stories about Janet that Tim had never heard before.

 

Stories about their life before they’d had Tim, and Tim had had a hard time connecting the person his dad described as Janet Drake to the person Tim had known as his mother. 

 

It felt like they were grieving two different women. The mother who’d never had time for him, and the woman he would now never get to know.

 

As Tim visited his dad more and more in the hospital, Jack started to realize just how little he knew about his son. He talked about how short he realized life was. How there were only a few years left for him to be Tim’s father, and he wanted to make the best of them. He said when he got better and things were sorted, he wanted to do things with Tim, take him to a Gotham Knights game, and show him how to golf. 

 

Spending time together sounded good to Tim. He wondered what his dad would say if he didn’t get better, though. Because listening to the doctors, it seemed like there was a pretty big chance Jack wouldn’t be able to walk again.

 

But Tim tried not to think about that.

 

When his dad was ready to come home from the hospital, Tim moved back in with him.

 

Tim was still benched from Robin at the time, thanks to almost getting murdered by his undead childhood hero, whom he’d idolized for only most of his childhood. He was doing physical therapy for his ankle and his wrist, so he really wasn’t much help to Bruce and Dick.

 

His dad, though... Jack needed to do a lot of physical therapy after he came home from the hospital if he ever wanted to walk again, so Tim thought it could be something they would do together.

 

And they had for a bit. The cover was that Tim’s injuries were from a mugging. Dana worked with his dad and Tim worked alongside the both of them, encouraging his dad and enjoying chatting with Dana. But when it became apparent that Tim was becoming more and more of a third wheel, Tim made excuses so he could get out of the house more. 

 

It had taken some convincing, but Bruce eventually allowed him to work cases in the cave while Batman and Nightwing scoured the city for the Red Hood, under the condition that Alfred would make sure he didn’t strain his injuries when he used the cave’s equipment to do his physiotherapy. Maybe a little too excited to get away from Drake Manor, he’d told his dad he’d decided to continue his Wayne Internship.

 

His dad initially hadn’t had a problem with it. But as time went on and his dad’s new hobby seemed to be drinking expensive liquor, he seemed to form something against the internship almost overnight.

 

He always acted jealous or annoyed whenever Tim brought it up. His new attitude about the internship only got worse when Dana wasn’t around. And when Dana wasn’t around, the drinking was worse.

 

It was a rough cycle.

 

Tim tried his best to not bring the internship up around his dad anymore. He would slip out if his dad and Dana were spending time together, or he’d leave a note saying he’d gone out to see a friend.

 

He figured after everything his dad had been through, Tim could afford to be a little sensitive to things that might upset his dad. 

 

On late nights, instead of coming back home and risking his dad’s ire, especially if he and Dana were on the outs, Tim would spend the night at Wayne Manor if his work with cases ran particularly late. He would text his dad that he was at a sleepover, and his dad would send back a thumbs up if he was in a good mood. 

 

Staying away from Drake Manor on those later nights was convenient for everyone because Tim could be useful to Bruce and Dick without worrying about missing a curfew, and he was still out of the house so he could give Jack and Dana plenty of time alone. It was also convenient for Tim on nights when Dana wasn’t home because Tim didn’t interact with his dad as much when he’d been drinking.

 

But then Bruce and Dick brought Jason home.

 

Apparently, Tim being out of commission and unable to fly as Robin was what everyone needed for Bruce and Dick to work through their own stuff to work together and get through to Jason during Jason’s grand showdown.

 

Tim wasn’t exactly clear on the details, but suddenly Jason was recovering upstairs in the manor from apparently having brought a building down on top of himself, and the reports Tim had glimpsed over Bruce’s shoulder mentioned the Joker was recovering from a nonlethal gunshot wound. 

 

No one had tried to talk to Tim about it, and when he’d tried to snoop himself, Oracle stopped him. She told him that it was between Jason, Bruce, and Dick, and that someone would fill him in. But that was almost two weeks ago.

 

Being benched as Robin and unable to escape to Wayne Manor or hide out in the cave had Tim talking to classmates at school and volunteering for after school projects. More so on the nights Dana wasn’t staying over. His dad still wasn’t the nicest drunk, even when Tim told Dana he'd taken 'a break' from the internship due to Mr. Wayne having a family emergency when she'd asked him over an awkward dinner with just the three of them. 

 

"That's too bad," she'd hummed. "I've seen how much you seem to enjoy it, Tim. I hope for your sake whatever Mr. Wayne is dealing with gets resolved quickly."

 

His dad didn't say anything and Tim pretended he didn't see Dana nudge Jack. Jack grunted before offering a lackluster, "Yeah, that's too bad."

 

Tim had always known that him being Robin was just a temporary gig. He had suspected that Bruce would get tired of him, like how his mom and dad had when Tim was younger. He didn't expect it to come to a close so abruptly.

 

He wasn’t expecting how much it all hurt.

 

He had yet to be officially fired. Maybe Bruce appreciated all the cases Tim had been working on in the cave? Maybe he was just waiting for Jason to recover from his injuries before breaking the news to Tim? Either way, once Tim was cleared, he took to the streets as Robin with a new fervor.

 

Knowing that the time he had with his heroes, the time he had in Gotham’s skies, the time where he finally felt like a part of something, was coming to an end, Tim had been determined to make the best of his numbered patrols. 

 

Maybe if he could prove he could continue to be useful, maybe then they’d let him stick around and work cases in the cave.

 

Losing Robin would be devastating, sure, but Tim could still be useful, right? 

 

The guardianship thing with Bruce was only ever meant to be temporary, anyways. Just until his dad woke up. So, he didn't need to come up to the manor anymore. It was fine!

 

But those hopes were dashed when Tim had received the text from Bruce, suggesting Tim take time off as Robin to focus on his end of semester finals. Tim asked if Bruce wanted him to go over any cold cases at the cave, and Bruce told him that he’d rather Tim take the break.

 

A week was a long time for a “break” but Tim got the hint. It was probably better for Jason’s recovery that he knew Tim wasn’t lurking anywhere near the manor, anyways. 

 

Once he was fired, officially, at least there wouldn’t be any more awkward tension between him and his dad over his internship. So. That’s good, right? 

 

Currently, he was coming back from hanging out with one of his classmates he’d befriended since taking his “break” from the superhero community.

 

Bernard, who made Tim laugh and could help take his mind off of how everything was falling to pieces around him. Bernard was probably the best thing that’s happened to Tim in a long while. He was easy going, funny, and always had something to talk about. It was nice to have someone to talk to who Tim didn’t feel like he was walking on eggshells around. It was nice to spend time with someone who never seemed anything except honest and genuine with Tim. 

 

Before Tim could get out of Bernard's dad’s car, Bernard grabbed his hand, stroking a thumb over his knuckles, and told Tim he’d had a good time and that he really liked Tim. Like, maybe more than friends. 

 

Tim had been outwardly stunned and taken aback, and Bernard had backpedaled desperately, telling him it was okay if he didn’t feel the same way, that even just being friends was okay with him, and it was just a little crush that would go away. 

 

Tim hadn’t thought about what he was going to say in response. But he could see it, could see them in that moment together, maybe. Because Tim liked Bernard a lot. His mouth was moving before his brain could catch up. “Well, what if I don’t want it to go away?” he’d asked, and it was Bernard’s turn to be stunned and taken aback. 

 

They’d stared at one another before Bernard broke out into a slow grin, cheeks turning a rosy color. Tim’s face mirrored his, and Bernard pushed playfully at Tim’s shoulder.

 

“Shut up, you did not just say that?! That was so smooth, Tim, oh my god!” Bernard had said, laughing, and Tim could only grin, heart pounding, his own cheeks flushing up to the tips of his ears. “You’re serious?”

 

Tim’s brain caught up to the conversation and started making a fool of himself right away, “I’ve never - I know I like you a lot, Bern, and I don’t want to hurt your feelings or, like, lead you on. But I’ve never - I mean, I don’t know if I’m -”

 

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Bernard cut him off gently, still smiling, but it was softer now, understanding and Tim could melt at how wonderful Bernard was and how easy he made everything seem. Yeah, he could definitely see it. Tim could picture a lot of things, if Bernard kept looking at him like that.

 

“We can talk more about it later. No pressure, okay?” Bernard said fondly, “There’s plenty of time to figure things out. Text me whatever, whenever, okay? If you change your mind, no worries. But if you don’t, just so you know, I’m taking you out on an actual first date. A proper one. With me picking you up and there’ll be reservations and a whole plan and stuff. And flowers! Unless you’re allergic.”

 

“I’m not allergic,” Tim said, feeling a little giddy and dazed. He’d opened the car door, getting out before he could make even more of a fool of himself or ruin the good mood. “I’ll text you!”

 

Bernard rolled the window down after Tim closed the door, calling after him, “I’ll be looking forward to it! You’ll get a wooing like you’ve never been wooed before!”

 

Tim snorted, shaking his head at Bernard. He said honestly, “I’ve never been wooed before.” 

 

Bernard responded easily, “Well, it’s Gotham. Most people here are crazy. That’s probably why.” He waved at Tim, “Seriously, though, there’s no pressure. Take your time and think things over, and if you need someone to talk to about this stuff, you can message me.”

 

“You got it,” Tim promised, mind already half made up.

 

He felt like he was floating as he unlocked his front door and slipped inside. Once his back was against the door and he’d armed the security system, he took a moment to check in with himself, listening to Bernard’s car drive away down the long driveway, asking Do I really like boys, or do I just like Bernard? Because the more Tim thought about it, the more he liked the idea of going on a date with Bernard. 

 

Tim was still standing in the front entryway, smiling to himself like an idiot, and tapping nervously on his phone as he thought about what he was going to say to Bernard and how long he should wait until he said it when the light in the entryway flicked on above him. Tim jumped, making startled eye contact with his bleary eyed father.

 

“Where have you been?” His dad asks, filling up the doorway to the kitchen, face red and twisted, and it’s in a tone of voice Tim recognizes but hasn’t heard in a while. Hasn’t heard since Janet Drake was alive and Tim’s excitement at his parents being home soured and curdled in fear when their fighting began and things started breaking. Hearing it directed at him had dread creeping down Tim’s spine. This is more than his dad’s usual upset about his internship. “It’s late,” his dad says, face darkening. “Makes me question what exactly you were doing at that damned ‘internship.'"

 

Tim swallows reflexively, putting his phone away in his pocket so it doesn’t fall from his sweaty hands. “I was out. I thought we talked yesterday about how I was going to hang out with a friend tonight?”

 

Jack swirls his glass. In the hall light, his alcohol flushed face makes him look feverish. Tim wonders what’s happened. Wonders if Dana had come home and if they had fought again. He mentally goes through everything he did this morning before leaving for school, and can’t remember having done anything to warrant the third degree.

 

“Yeah, a friend ,” Jack says, mockingly, and Tim feels his breath stutter in his chest, dread solidifying like a solid weight in his stomach. Had his dad been watching them from the window? Had his dad been listening from the window? Jack, normally unobservant, must catch something in the expressions that twists alarmingly across Tim’s face before he’s able to get ahold of himself. It shouldn’t have been possible, but his dad just gets angrier, snarling, “Who was your 'friend,' Tim?”.

 

“Um, well, there were a few of us that were gonna go see the movie, dad,” Tim says, honestly, trying to keep calm despite his heart pounding in his chest. He needs to act normal, and show he has nothing to hide, otherwise his dad will just think he’s lying. His dad hardly reacts, still staring at Tim like he’s gum on the bottom of his shoe. Tim swallows nervously, “I-I’m sorry. Did you need me for something? Was there a curfew I missed?”

 

“Don’t act dumb,” his dad snaps, eyes hard, and Tim feels dread pooling sickly in his stomach. Once his dad’s started, it’s near impossible to calm him down. “I got a phone call today from some fuckin’ reporter asking if I had met my son’s boyfriend, and what I thought about your relationship. I said, ‘you must have the wrong kid, Miss Vale. My Tim is a good kid. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. He wouldn’t be running around with some boy.’ You know what she said, Tim?”

 

Tim could hardly breathe. He shook his head weakly.

 

“She said she was certain it was you. She even got a picture of you holding hands. A picture, Tim!” Jack yells, smacking the wall with the flat of his hand.

 

Tim jumps, breath hitching, he stammers, “I - we weren’t - he’s not my boyfriend, dad. I don’t-“

 

“Stop lying to me!” Jack roars, face flushed red with drink and rage, and Tim feels sick with anticipation. Just get it over with , he thinks. Just hit me and send me to my room, please. He’s tense, looking up at his dad with wide eyes, and his dad turns away from Tim with a noise of disgust, stalking into the kitchen with quick strides. Tim can hear him snapping things under his breath as he does so, but it’s nothing Tim can make out. 

 

In the kitchen, his dad tops his drink off, movements rigid. Tim has a fleeting thought about going upstairs while his dad’s back is turned, but he dismisses it as quickly as it came, knowing that doing so would only make things worse. 

 

Tim’s always been very careful not to make things worse. 

 

Jack whips around as Tim uneasily steps into the kitchen, knocking the liquor back and groaning at the burn. “I’m sick of the lying,” his dad says after a moment, voice low and trembling with an intensity that has the hairs on Tim’s neck standing on end. “Always back talking and asking fuckin’ questions, and I’m sick of hearing that I need to do better by you, for you. Sick of hearing Dana say you never got to be a kid, never got enough attention, boohoo poor little Timmy. Well, how the hell am I supposed to do that when you’re lying and running out the door every chance you get? And now you’re out there fucking boys! Is that - how could you do this? Do you have any idea what this will do to us? To the company? To me ?”

 

Tim ducks back quickly when his dad throws the empty glass across the room, and Tim watches it explode next to where he’d been standing in a shower of shards and whiskey. Here it comes, Tim thinks, and he puts his hands up defensively, backing up and widening his stance in preparation for the blow, but relaxes when he sees his dad hasn’t moved towards him. 

 

Jack Drake is standing close to the kitchen island, still glaring at Tim, chest heaving rapidly and fists clenching and unclenching. “Or is this a cry for attention? Because you have it, Tim,” his dad snaps. “Got something you wanna tell me? Or is this not the attention you were hoping for? Too. Fuckin’. Bad. You’ll certainly have everyone’s attention tomorrow with whatever Vicki fuckin’ Vale decides to put in the paper!”

 

Tim rushes to explain, “Dad, just listen to me, please. I don’t have a boyfriend, or a girlfriend! I’m not lying, dad! I was hanging out with my friend Bernard. We’re just - good friends, that’s all. She must’ve just seen us at the skatepark! I was trying to show him how to stay on the board.” Jack doesn’t say anything, just grabs the bottle off the kitchen island, eyes not leaving Tim as he takes a drink straight from it. Tim eyes the bottle warily, noting how low its contents are. Isn’t alcohol a depressant? Why couldn’t he have been asleep when I got home? He takes a quiet breath, taking his chances, and asks in a rush, “Can I be excused?” 

 

The bottle hits the table with a heavy hand and Tim tenses, apologies already on his tongue, but his dad gestures between the two of them before saying, “We’re having a conversation, Tim. Man to man. Father to son.” Tim nods, opens his mouth to apologize, but his dad bulldozes over him, saying, “I know your mom and I weren’t around much when you were younger, Tim. I’ve tried, now, to be more involved. Tried to kind of make up for lost time because life is short, and after your mom - well - I realized that I wanted to spend time with my son. I wanted to do the things we never got around to doing when you were younger. I wanted to find out who your favorite teams and players were, and wanted to cheer you on at some sporting event… I wanted to throw the football around in the yard, take you golfing with some friends of mine, take you to a ball game, spend time together, just me and you... But you don’t like hanging around with your old man much.”

 

Tim shook his head, feeling guilty, “No, dad, that’s not it. I like when we spend time together! I’ve just never really been into sports. It’s not really my thing. But I wouldn’t mind going to a ball game with you sometime? Just… maybe we can also do something I like to do, too?”

 

“Yeah? Like sucking face with your good friend ?” Jack snaps, and Tim inhales sharply at the whiplash and the reminder of why Jack was initially upset with him.

 

“No? I - I -” Tim stutters, and he stops trying to say anything when he sees the look on his dad’s face.

 

“What else do you like to do with your friends, Timmy?” His dad’s tone is so ugly. The disgust and contempt is evident in his voice. He looks disgusted with him, like he's the unexpected pile of dog poop he’s just stepped in. Tim feels his eyes prickling and his face burns in humiliation as he struggles to blink back tears, trying to look unaffected. Because his dad always seems to be able to get him to this point, like he wants Tim to cry. But Tim knows that crying just adds fuel to the fire.

 

Tim tries to speak. He opens his mouth, but the words push painfully against his constricted throat. He tries to force them out anyway, but all he can manage is a rasping breath. 

 

His dad just looks at him impassively, watching him open and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, before asking, “Well? Are you going to cry?”

 

Tim shakes his head, and his dad takes a step forward. He still tries to speak, but it feels like there’s something around his throat, like something is physically keeping him from speaking. He blinks tears back, focusing on keeping his breathing steady and smooth, but it hurts. It hurts and why can’t Tim just talk? Just one word. Just say something. 

 

“Oh,” his dad says, all fake sympathy. He gives Tim a mocking look of sympathy, lip stuck out, and it just reminds Tim of the classmates who used to pick on him because he was a couple years younger and so much smaller than them. “It’s okay, Timmy. Go ahead. Cry, Timmy. Cry .” His dad says, but he’s lying. He doesn't mean it. It’s not okay. It’s never okay. Because crying always makes things worse, and his dad's doing this on purpose. He's mocking him.

 

It takes a moment. A moment that is not helped along by the fact that his dad is now standing chest to chest with him, face inches from his, repeating other variations of the same mocking statements, crowding him. Tim takes a step back, feeling like he can hardly breath, and needing to smell something other than the alcohol on his dad’s breath. He blinks furiously, too scared to wipe at his eyes, to take his eyes off his father and swallows harshly. Words begin to scrape out his throat, “No, d-dad...We weren’t..... doing that. W-we went a-and saw a... m-movie... ate food... and went to th-the skatepark.”

 

“And this was all just you and this ‘friend?'” Jack sneers, and his tone makes it sounds like the idea itself is so vile and revolting, and Tim’s shoulders hunch defensively. What was so wrong about that? This wasn’t fair! Nothing about this was fair. There are kids out there getting into drugs, or skipping class all the time, or taking the car without telling anyone! If Tim had done any of that, maybe - maybe - this degree of scrutiny, and the anger and frustration his dad so clearly has for him would make sense. But, they’d just held hands. They'd just hung out. And Tim had told his dad he'd be gone, and it's not Tim's fault someone got a picture and got the wrong idea, and -

 

Tim wasn’t even sure if it meant anything at the time. Now, of course, after the last conversation he and Bernard had had, obviously it had meant something, but it’s not like Tim had known the reporter was there! Bernard was nice and funny, and Tim’s been so happy to have him as a friend, especially with everything that’s been going on. Tim doesn’t know what he would have done without Bernard these last couple of weeks. 

 

He’d been able to tell Bernard about how he felt guilty for initially not wanting to move back in with his dad, and Bernard had listened. He understood and said he didn’t think that made Tim a bad person. He agreed with Tim about giving Jack a chance. That, unfortunate as it was, maybe his mom’s death was a sort of wake up call for his dad. But even so, moving back in to help take care of his recovering and grieving father shouldn’t be any reason for Tim to stop going over and seeing Bruce, Dick, and Alfred if he wanted to.

 

Tim couldn’t exactly tell Bernard about Jason being alive, and trying to murder him , but he did tell Bernard that he didn’t feel as comfortable going over there as often anymore. But the only thing he could tell Bernard about it was that sometimes it seemed like it made his dad jealous, which Bernard thought was crap.

 

Tim tries to focus on breathing, and taking slow, even breaths. “I -I -” He stops, swallowing down a sob. He sniffs and his dad is looking impatient, irritated, and Tim spits out in a harsh whisper, “Ives was going t-to come with us b-but he got a call a-and had to go home. W-we weren’t even going to see it without him! But he said i-it was fine because i-it wasn’t really his thing a-anyways. So, y-yeah. After he left, it was just us.” 

 

“Us,” Jack scoffs, and Tim flushes with indignation because that’s not how he meant it, but it didn’t matter because his dad didn’t care. Not really. He wasn’t - wouldn’t - listen to Tim. Never has. “Dinner and a movie? You expect me to believe that that wasn’t a date? What’d you do at the skatepark afterwards, huh?” 

 

Tim frowned, body language subconsciously matching his dad’s, clenching and unclenching his fists. He’s hurt and angry, and so confused because it seems like no matter what he does, he’s either in the way or doing something wrong. His voice cracks embarrassingly, when he tries to talk, “I was just trying to show him some stuff on my ska-skateboard. We weren’t doing anything wrong!”

 

“Really? Nothing wrong with boys messing around together?” Jack asks coolly, faux casual, and Tim just wants this to be over with. Just get it out in the open. Stop dancing around the topic. His dad’s a homophobe, got it. Things just keep getting better and better, don’t they?  “What about when our shareholders see whatever pictures Miss Vale has in the paper tomorrow morning, huh?” Jack is yelling now, “Did you think about that, Tim? Because once something like that is out there, you can’t take it back!”

 

Tim snaps back, “It’s hardly like it’ll make front page news, dad! We held hands. So what? It’s the twenty-first century! The shareholders should mind their own business instead of worrying about a couple high schoolers! Other kids my age are running around doing so much worse, and doing way more than just holding hands!” 

 

“‘So what’?!” Jack throws his words back at him with a snarl, closing the distance between them. “It’s a matter of public opinion, Tim! Think about what an article like that could do to the company? Think about what it’ll do to you! To me!” Jack is back in his face, and Tim can smell the alcohol on his breath. He can see the bloodshot veins in his dad’s eyes, can see the way the anger moves through his dad’s shoulders, into his clenching fists.

 

Fear is something Tim is intimately familiar with. He’s known it ever since he was little. Fear of people leaving, fear of upsetting his parents, fear of being forgotten, lost, left behind, alone forever. Bruce says that it’s good to be afraid. Because fear protects you. ‘Fear is just your instincts telling you that something is wrong.’

 

He trusted his instincts the night of the attack at the tower. He’d known something was wrong and he’d done everything he could to call for help and to make sure he couldn’t be cornered, to fight back, and then to ultimately run, and because of that, he was alive today.

 

Looking at his dad, Tim is afraid. His heart is pounding and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. He feels the fear and adrenaline coursing through him, but Tim can’t... He can’t fight his dad. Because that’s just insane. This is his dad. Tim has been trained to go toe to toe with metahumans, to fight opponents much larger and stronger than himself, but this feels somehow bigger than that. 

 

This is not something he’s prepared for. All that training Bruce meticulously drilled into his head. Everything all of his instructors had taught him is shoved into a mental box and hurriedly snapped closed and chained down because he can’t. This is his dad. His dad’s a civilian. He can’t fight his dad. Jack is recovering from a traumatic accident, from a head injury and freakin’ coma, for chrissakes! 

 

Tim takes a hesitant step back, but his dad follows, face almost purple with anger, still yelling, “We’ll be what they’re whispering about at the next gala! There will be assumptions, rumors, scrutiny, Tim! Everything your mother and I have worked for could be ruined because you’re a fuckin’ faggot!” He flinches back when his dad throws his hands up, saying, “God! I can’t believe this. This is why you keep your hair so goddamn long, like a girl’s, isn’t it? You never picked up sports as a kid, not real ones, anyway! Just fuckin’ gymnastics. I told your mother it was strange.”

 

Tim hears more than feels that he’s breathing just as harshly as his dad is. His hands are shaking, and he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to do. His dad keeps yelling, bringing up one thing or another from when Tim was a child, or a particular habit or hobby of his, and crediting it to the fact that he’s a faggot. Tim can hardly breathe, backing up another step, but his back hits the wall. Something crunches painfully underfoot, and Tim glances down at his socked feet, seeing his dad’s glass from earlier, drops of booze mixed with blood smeared around it.

 

Something hits the wall abruptly right next to his ear and Tim jumps, letting out a startled sob, and he looks up, nearly knocking his forehead against his dad's arm. He's startled at how close his dad is, shocked at the sight of his dad's fist sinking into the plaster of the wall next to Tim's head. They’re inches apart, and their difference in size has never been more clear. His dad’s no Bruce, but he’s still a much larger man than Tim is. 

 

“Are you really okay, going through the rest of your life being known as ‘the gay one?’ How do you think your poor mother would feel, if she could see you now?! She’d be disappointed in you, Tim. Disgusted. She wouldn’t even be able to look at you. I can barely stand to look at you!”

 

“S-stop,” Tim stammers, words falling numbly from his mouth. “Please. Stop saying things, please.”

 

He’s just drunk, Tim tries to tell himself. He’s drunk and angry and he’s found out about this in the worst possible way. No one would have reacted well under those conditions.

 

Hands grab him by his upper arms with bruising force and Tim is shaken so roughly his head knocks against the wall a couple times, as Jack’s angry, “You don’t tell me what to do!” echoes in his ears.

 

The world stops shaking, and Tim leans against the wall shakily, taking a breath and blinking tears back as he looks up at his dad. His dad just glares at him, still disgusted. Looking betrayed. Disappointed. Tim feels sick, and when he speaks, it’s like the words are catching inside his throat. “‘M sorry.” He wants to go to his room, curl up on his bed, and not leave for hours. He wants to be alone, where it’s safe to do what he needs to get control of himself again, so he can finally just talk without feeling like his vocal chords have gone through a paper shredder.

 

Jack sneers, “At least your mother didn’t have to know you as this unnatural, disgusting, thing you are.”

 

Tim’s breath hitches and he tries to swallow the sob but he can’t. He can’t. This isn’t fair. None of this is. Would his mom really have-? It didn’t matter. His dad wasn’t supposed to find out like this. Tim wasn’t even sure if he was gay. 

 

“He’s just a friend, dad,” Tim says, tremulously, sniffing and wiping his eyes. “I promise. We held hands, yeah, but we don’t know what’s going on y-yet. I don’t even know if I like guys o-or if I just like him? I’m just - I’m still trying to f-figure things out.”

 

Jack slaps him, and Tim yelps, stumbling back into the wall and he’s reminded sharply of the glass underfoot again. The glass in his foot. He hadn’t seen the hit coming through his tears, and he doesn’t see the second, either, when another hand cracks across the other side of his face. Tim starts side stepping for the doorway, throwing his hands up to ward off another attack.

 

Jack Drake bears down on him, face almost purple with rage. 

 

“Dad, stop!” Tim cries. Jack lunges at him, and Tim dodges clumsily, ducking into the hall and making for the stairs. 

 

He takes them two at a time and his dad is hot on his heels. But Tim’s faster and Tim’s Robin, so he doesn’t need to recover his breath at the top of the stairs. He sprints down the hall to his room, getting the door open and slamming it shut. He locks it with shaking hands. What - what should he do?

 

Jack slams against the door, and it rattles in the frame. Tim inhales sharply, stepping back and stumbling as Jack hits the door again. 

 

“Open this door, Timothy!” Jack yells. 

 

Quickly looking around his room, he makes quick work of pushing his dresser part way in front of the door. 

 

“Dad, you’re drunk!” Tim yells through the door. “You- you hit me and you’ve been drinking, and I don’t think you-“

 

“Open this door!” Jack yells over him, and he slams into the door again. Tim watches as the frame begins to give. “You’re just making things harder on yourself, Tim.”

 

“Dad, seriously, you need to stop!” Tim yells, pleading, begging. He wipes his face, sniffing harshly. “You need to - to take a moment and cool down. Just go cool down, please.”

 

Jack stops slamming the door, but Tim can still hear him heaving on the other side of the door. A moment passes and Jack says, no longer yelling, but still terrifyingly angry, “Something you always seem to forget, Tim, is I am your father. I’m the adult here, you’re not. You don’t tell me what to do. It’s the other way around. You open this door, you hear me? You open this door right now!”

 

Tim chokes down a sob, trembling. “Okay! I will, just - calm down, okay? I-I’m going to open it. I will. Just give me a moment, please.”

 

He pushes the dresser back into place, straining his ears over the sounds of his beating heart to listen to his dad’s heavy breathing on the other side of the door. He hesitates at the lock, but he doesn’t want to somehow make this worse for himself. How can it get any worse? He’s never seen his dad like this. Never seen him this angry.

 

Besides, Tim is Robin. Robin talks himself out of all kinds of situations. Robin is able to use his opponents’ anger against them. He’s quick-witted and fast on his feet, able to take on opponents much bigger than he is. He’s fought people way scarier and far more dangerous than his dad and he’s won.

 

Tim unlocks the door and is forced to back up as his dad storms in, door slamming into the wall. His dad’s face suddenly a scant few inches from his as he yells, “This disrespect stops now, hear me?! This attitude or teenage rebellion fuckin’ bullshit stops today!” 

 

Tim stumbles over his fallen laundry basket in his haste to put any sort of distance between himself and his dad. He falls on his bed, mattress bouncing, and stares up at his dad, wide-eyed. His dad’s hand snaps out, and Tim flinches, but his dad just holds his hand out and says, coldly, “Phone.”

 

Tim’s reluctant to hand it over, but with his dad leaning over him the way he is, he’s not in a position to protest. He fumbles with it, getting it out of his pocket and handing it over with a trembling hand. 

 

His dad pockets it, snarling, “You’re grounded until I decide you’ve learned your lesson. No phone, no computer, no tv, no electronics.” As he says this, he turns and grabs Tim’s TV and he wrenches it off the wall before throwing it out into the hallway. 

 

It lands with a crash and Tim flinches. His dad spins back around, grabbing Tim’s closed laptop off his desk and raising it high before bringing it down on the footboard of Tim’s bed, right next to where Tim was sitting. The laptop explodes into plastic pieces, and Tim closes his eyes as a few splinter violently towards his face.

 

“No going anywhere after school. You come straight home. You will stop seeing that boy. You won’t talk to him at school. This nonsense is just that, nonsense. You’re not gay. You’re not. This was some prank or cry for attention. You will do these things and not question me because otherwise I will find a facility where I can have you committed so they can fix you, understand?”

 

Tim tries to respond, but his throat is too tight from tears. He coughs, instead, throat burning from the attempt to speak. He can’t get words out, so he nods, hoping his dad’s looking at him and sees it. That he knows Tim’s not ignoring him. He can't stop shaking, why can't he - 

 

There’s another crash and Tim looks up to see his dad pulling his cameras off his bookshelf, throwing them to the ground and stomping on them. He grabs individual lenses and slams them on the corner of Tim’s dresser, glass tinkling to the ground. He sweeps everything off the top of Tim’s dresser and pulls the bookshelf to the ground. He’s breathing hard when he’s done and Tim doesn’t dare say anything. 

 

“I said, ‘understand?’” Jack snaps, and Tim nods, but his dad’s still glaring with blood freezing intensity.

 

“I-I un-under-st-stand,” Tim manages, hardly able to speak with how tight his throat is. He has to hold his breath so he doesn’t sob. So he doesn’t shake. So he doesn't do anything. He’s afraid to blink, knowing that blinking will make the tears fall, which will bring about more anger, and he’s afraid to let his dad out of his sight or give him anything more to rage about.

 

Jack looks unsatisfied. “You’re fuckin’ pathetic, you know that?” He practically snarls, and Tim does nothing. He just sits like his strings have been cut, too afraid to move, too afraid to breathe. Jack sneers at him, looking around the room, and makes a wild gesture with a hand, making Tim tense up. “Clean this shit up,” his dad spits, before stalking out of the room, ripping photographs and posters off the wall by his bedroom door as he goes.

 

Tim moves off the bed, onto his knees. He leans over, arms folded around his head, forehead pressed into the debris-littered carpet, and he just breathes .

It’s maybe fifteen or twenty minutes before Tim sits back on his feet, looking around his room and feeling utterly empty. He can breathe somewhat normally. He doesn’t think he’d be able to talk without breaking down again, so he stubbornly ignores the tightness and pain in his throat. He goes to his bathroom, blows his nose, cleans his face up, and drinks from the faucet. 

 

Back in his room, he wavers, taking in the destruction. His cameras, his pictures… He takes a deep breath, slowly letting it out until he’s able to do so smoothly. 

 

He doesn’t have what he needs to clean this up, he realizes. Stepping carefully over the carnage on the floor, he makes it out into the hallway, looking up and down the hall warily before heading to the top of the stairs.

 

He hears the TV downstairs, and inwardly cringes. It’s not like he’d thought his dad would pass out. He’d just kind of hoped it would be one of those nights. 

 

Of course when Tim actually wanted his father to drink himself into oblivion, Jack wouldn’t provide. 

 

Tim really doesn’t want to go anywhere near his dad right now. But he also doesn’t want to risk the consequences of not cleaning up the mess in his room.

 

So he steadies himself at the top of the stairs, calming his breathing, waiting until his heart slowed down, before descending the steps on light feet. 

 

His dad sits in his recliner, a new glass in his fist, bottle set up on the table next to him, and Tim very carefully and very quietly moves past him. He doesn’t make eye contact, but he can tell his dad is looking at him. He makes his way into the kitchen, making as little noise as possible, hoping Jack would just forget about him or be pulled back into his TV show. 

 

He grabs a couple garbage bags, a broom and dust pan, some work gloves from underneath the sink, and then heads back towards the stairs. His dad pins him with a look in the living room, and Tim’s movements stutter to a stop. His dad looks at the cleaning supplies Tim’s holding, nods, and tucks himself back into his drink, turning tensely towards the TV.

 

Tim is just as tense as he makes his way past his dad, taking the stairs quietly once again, two at a time, and breathing a sigh of relief at the top. He was so sure his dad would have followed or at least said something but he’d take whatever victory he could get. 

 

When he gets to his room, he gets to work.

 

He fills the garbage bags quickly, trying not to think about how one of these cameras is the last thing his mom had ever given him. He puts the gloves on before picking up larger shards of glass or plastic. He picks through the shattered remains of the computer he and Ives had built together before just gathering it all and dumping it in the trash as well. 

 

It’s painful. It’s more painful than Tim could have imagined. Picking up the pieces of his broken things, putting it all in the trash. 

 

There’s a shattered coffee mug that Tim recognizes as having been from the Wayne house. Dick had started filling the cabinet up with ugly, obnoxious mugs, gifting them to Bruce, Alfred, and even Tim on occasion. Tim hadn’t had much to pack when he told Bruce he was moving back in with his dad. The mug wasn’t even really his, but it had been in the guest room when Tim was emptying it out. He took it on impulse because it was his favorite of the ones Dick had gotten for Bruce. A novelty mug with a cartoon depiction of Batman, Robin, and Nightwing.

 

It reminded him of how things were before everything got all screwed up. Before Tim was almost murdered by one of his childhood idols. Before his dad’s accident.  Before his dad woke up and decided he wouldn’t be jet-setting all over the world anymore, and that he wanted to try with Tim all over again.

 

The pieces of the mug were swept into the dustpan and dumped into the garbage bag as well. Tim tied the bags off, getting up. He grabbed them and made his way downstairs. Walking past the living room, into the kitchen, he took the trash out the back door. He slipped the work gloves off after the bags had gone in the bin. He wiped his face, under his eyes and turned to go back inside. 

 

His dad was standing in the kitchen doorway, a new glass of whiskey in hand. He pointed to where the night’s earlier whiskey glass lay in pieces. “You mind cleaning that up when you bring the broom back down?” He sounds gruff, impersonal, distracted. Tim hopes it means he’s getting tired.

 

Tim nodded unsteadily. “Yeah, I-I can do that, dad.”

 

He goes to pass his dad, but his dad makes no move to get out of the way. They gaze at one another, his dad looking him up and down, and Tim shifts in discomfort before pressing himself on the opposite side of the door, as far from his dad as he can, squeezing past.

 

He’s on the steps when he hears his dad snort and mutter to himself, and Tim’s ears burn because he’s never been good at these games. 

 

But he focuses on the task at hand, knowing the sooner he gets this over with, the sooner he can go to bed and the sooner this horrible day can be done.

 

He grabbed the broom and dustpan, bringing them downstairs and cleaned up the glass in the kitchen. His dad watches from the doorway and Tim tries to still the tremor in his hands. He shook the dustpan off into the kitchen garbage, painfully aware of his dad’s eyes on him. 

 

“I was thinking,” Jack said after Tim had put the broom and dustpan away, studying his whiskey, and Tim tenses. “You said you were trying to ‘figure things out ’. What does that even mean? You’re just going to stick your dick into things until you figure it out ?”

 

Tim was stiff, but the words still shook him at his core. Shame and humiliation had a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. His mouth stayed dry though and he couldn't bring himself to say anything. He wasn’t sure he even could say anything, with how tight and painful his throat was from the night’s nonstop emotional upheaval. But he didn’t have to. His dad had more to say, anyway. 

 

“How’d you get the idea of fucking other guys in your head, anyway?” Jack continued, “I mean, your mom and I weren’t even around, so it wasn’t us. Not our fault, I mean. Even if we were around, you’d have to have enough common sense between your ears to know that that kind of thing isn’t natural.”

 

“It is natural, dad,” Tim said, sounding much cooler and calmer than he really felt. “Some people are just born wired differently.”

 

“You mean ‘sick,’” his dad corrects him and Tim can’t stop himself from cringing away. “Some people are born sick. You’d always been such a quiet, well behaved kid. Always seemed to have a good head on your shoulders. Independent, responsible… Well, respect went out the window a while ago, but that’s most kids, isn’t it? We never saw anything that would have led us to think….” He trailed off, taking a long drink from his glass, eyes narrowed at Tim. 

 

Tim can only gaze back, hands clenching and unclenching. His skin feels alight with a kind of crackling static electric anger that can only be worked out against a punching bag. He’s never felt this angry before. Never felt this betrayed. Never been this humiliated. Never felt this ashamed and disgusted with himself.

 

“It wasn't until you started hanging around Wayne when you started acting up,” his dad finally said. 

 

“That - what?! Dad! !” Tim snaps finally, raising his voice, and what is he doing? Stop it. But it’s too much, and Tim refuses to let this fester, giving his dad more fuel for whatever pyre of disdain and jealousy he has built for the Wayne’s. “Listen to yourself, do you hear the things you’re saying?! The Wayne’s have nothing to do with it! I don’t even know what ‘it’ is! And ‘acting up’?! That’s not how it works!”

 

“Tell me how it works, then, Tim,” his dad snarls. “Because you seem to know an awful lot about ‘it’ while claiming to also not know what ‘it’ is. So which is it?!”

 

Tim blinks in shock, suddenly feeling unsteady and unsure. He’s not lying, he’s not! But also, this stuff is confusing and Tim is still trying to figure it out. Figure himself out. But… if he really tries to explain it to his dad, well… That’ll just be enough confirmation for Jack to believe he’s sick in the head and needs to be ‘fixed’.

 

Oh, Tim suddenly realizes, and wishes desperately he could rewind the past few minutes and take back everything he’d said because it was a test, and one Tim had failed spectacularly. “I - I don’t -“

 

“I-I-I -‘“ his dad mocks him again. “You got the idea to start sucking cock from somewhere. So who was it? You were just a couple years behind that alley trash in school, weren’t you? The one Wayne 'saved.' Was it him? Practicing on you so he could be good for his daddy back at home?”

 

“No, dad! Stop it!” Tim said, the protest coming out louder than he’d anticipated, but he couldn’t stop it with the hurt and betrayal welling up inside like blood rushing to the surface of an open wound. It bubbled and spilled over. He almost wished his dad had just hit him again. That would’ve hurt less than this - this. His dad talking to him like this felt degrading. “Bruce isn’t like that! Jason never even noticed me when we went to school together! I - I haven’t even kissed a boy, never mind any of that other stuff! The Waynes were like family when I was staying with them.” Well, sort of. Things got kind of awkward when your undead son or brother tried killing the kid you’d replaced him with. “Look, you can be a homophobic piece of shit to me all you want, but the Wayne’s stepped in and did you and me a favor for not reporting you and mom to CPS years ago! This is between you and me, not them.”

 

Jack Drake closed the distance between them quickly and Tim saw the satisfaction beneath the rage on his dad’s face. With a sinking heart, Tim realized Jack had been goading him. And Tim had fallen for it. With the realization came the feeling of failure. He should’ve known better. Robin should’ve known better. But Tim couldn’t see through the emotions that had clouded his judgment, too exhausted to compartmentalize and separate himself from the conversation. Too exhausted to conceal the disgust and upset and anger he had over the things his dad was saying.

“Oh, I’m sure he did you many favors, Tim. I suppose with the alley brat kicking the bucket, Wayne would have needed another kid to warm his bed. If the rumors are true. A fag would have gone all too easily,” Jack spits down at him. Tim felt like the floor had dropped out from underneath him at the accusation, like he was falling. His stomach felt like it was dropping, like his first time grappling through the city.

 

“Or maybe it was the older one who had the idea to bring you into the fold. He’s always been a little strange, hasn’t he? A fuckin’ fairy if I’ve ever seen one.”

 

Just like that, the free fall is over.

 

Tim steps back and throws a dirty look at his dad, “You’re just mad that the image of your perfect family, the one you and mom worked so hard to maintain, has fallen apart and is still falling apart because even Dana can’t stand your bullshit anymore. Bruce was more of a dad to me during the few months I stayed with him than you’ve ever been to me my whole life!” Tim dodges the hand that comes towards him, quick to get out of his dad’s range. Mouth still moving, he feels like Robin. “Dana knows how much of a stranger I am to you, how much of a shit father you are! That’s not on Bruce or Dick, and it’s not on me!”

 

Jack sneers at him, opening his mouth to say something, but Tim bulldozes over him, much like he and mom had always done to him, much like his dad had done to him earlier. He moves out of his dad’s range as Jack keeps approaching, fists clenched.

 

“Don’t worry, dad!” Tim snapped, sarcastically. “Like you said, it has nothing to do with you or mom! Seeing as neither of you could stand being home with me more than a week or two at a time! And when you were, you and mom were so busy fighting and breaking things and pretending like I didn’t exist!”

 

“We were doing important work! It was groundbreaking research! We discovered lost civilizations! And then we would come home to this kid who cried at night about a trip to the circus we’d taken years ago. This hyperactive little bastard who never shut up because he always had to be the center of attention! This weird, pushy little kid who was always underfoot, never leaving us alone, shoving pictures in our faces, and showing off the girly shit he learned about in gymnastics!” His dad snarled. “Who could blame us? We just wanted a normal kid, but we got you instead.”

 

Jack might as well have sucker punched him in the gut. This was everything Tim had been afraid of. This was all his fears being proven correct. Tim took small, careful breaths, blinking tears out of his eyes. He tried to swallow the painful tightening of his throat, but knew it was a losing battle. 

 

“You know what?” He asked, and his voice cracked, but he kept going anyway. They were already this far, weren’t they? “ Normal parents would celebrate the fact that the boy their child likes is a nice boy. That he’s sweet. That he makes me laugh!” Tim sniffed, glaring at his dad. “He’s a really nice boy who wants to take me on a proper date. With flowers. Oh, I’m sorry, is that too gay for you? How about I could have probably kissed Bernard in the car outside earlier, if I’d wanted to? Oh, but I guess I wasn’t in the mood to act out in the privacy of his car!” He’d yelled - screamed - the last part, maybe.

 

He caught his reflection in the dark kitchen window, him and his dad squared off in the kitchen, Jack towering over him, and Tim matching his dad’s rigid, tense, angry body language. He suddenly felt sick. What was he doing? His dad was drunk . Tim should have just let him say his piece and then gone to bed. Locked the door and called it a night.

 

Instead, he was looking at a reflection of himself, looking eerily similar to the man next to him.

 

He caught the movement in the glass of the window, deflecting the punch that was coming for the left side of his face. It glanced off his forearm, and okay. Okay, this was fine. He’d done this plenty as Robin before. He could do this. He slipped under his dad’s arm, moving on a sort of autopilot. Took a glancing blow to the ribs, but Tim was still moving, until he wasn’t. 

 

Choking as his dad grabbed his hood and pulled him back, Tim scrambled to unzip the hoodie. But then Jack got a firm hold on the back of his neck, spinning Tim around and kicking him towards the kitchen island with an angry grunt.

 

Tim tried to catch himself, but his arms were in the process of shrugging the hoodie off and he was still stumbling around with glass in his foot. He met the kitchen island head on, forehead striking the stainless steel of a silver drawer knob. Pain exploded at the front of his head and his vision went black and fuzzy as he tried to regain his bearings. 

 

Somebody was yelling at him, but Tim couldn’t understand what was being said. He felt like he’d been dunked underwater. He gasped raggedly when his vision cleared and noise started to filter in through a wide mouth funnel. He tried to sit up, but was kicked one, two, three, four times until he was curled on his side, legs pulled up to his chest and arms around his head to protect himself. He blinked up at the fuzzy shadow that was looming over him. For a moment he was sure he was seeing the glint of the Tower’s emergency lights off of a red helmet.

 

The shadow leaned over him, striking him in the head, and Tim blinked and saw this wasn’t the Red Hood. It was Jack Drake, but the hatred and rage behind the force of these hits had certainly felt like Hood. Tim whimpered, struggling to keep his arms up to protect himself. Maybe Jason did something to his dad? No, that’s ridiculous. Has to be the concussion talking. Jason was at the manor, recovering from dropping a building on himself.

 

Sound cut back in, making the pain in his head spike, “- you won’t forget! Talking back to me, you ungrateful -” His dad, the shadow figure, was yelling, and Tim had finally managed to wiggle his arms out of his hoodie. He recognized the tile on the floor, recognized his kitchen. This was not the Tower. But nothing about this situation made him feel any safer.

 

He was grabbed by one of his arms and turned, kicked in the stomach, and moved until he was face down on his stomach, trying to breathe around the pain. “- good for nothing faggot! If your mom was here, she’d know exactly what to do with you -” His arm was twisted, and Tim telegraphed the motions before they happened, but it was like his brain and body had some sort of disconnect and he was several seconds behind, and suddenly his arm was pushed up and Tim panicked, trying to pull himself forward to slacken the grip and ease the pain in his wrist and shoulder. But he had nowhere else to go, other than head first into a blood-stained cabinet and the person behind him wasn’t stopping -

 

He felt the fracture first. Felt the bones in his wrist give out, felt the pain surge through his veins, up his arm and down his hand. He cried out, caught off guard, and sobbed at the brutal grip, feeling panic and nausea welling up in him when he felt broken pieces in his wrist grind against one another.

 

He yelped, as his arm was forced up his back, inhaling sharply, - nonononono - and Tim heard the pop of his shoulder and the numbing pain startled him, quieting his cries as everything in his arm went numb and cold and his vision wavered and blurred. Movement on his arm, still, and everything was thrown into sharp relief.

 

Tim’s eyes watered at the instant fire at his shoulder, and he begged, pleaded, “Let me go, please, it hurts! Let me go, le’ me go, lemmego please ! It hurts! It hurts!”

 

The man at his back - his dad, this is his dad doing this to him - switched arms, pulling Tim to his feet by his good arm and Tim hardly had a moment to catch his breath before he was slammed face first down on the kitchen island. There was a hand at the center of his back, pressing him down in a hold Robin could get out of one handed on a normal day, but nothing about this situation was normal. 

 

His dad grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head back, and Tim gasped, cringing as his bad arm was jostled, causing pain to spider web outward from his shoulder. Jack glared down at him and there was nothing in those eyes except for anger and disgust, all directed at Tim. “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be here,” Jack snapped. “Everything you have, Tim, everything that’s yours is because of me. You owe everything to me.” He shoves Tim down again and his head bounces off the granite countertop. Tim feels himself go boneless, and his dad lets him go as he topples down onto the floor.

 

He might’ve hit his head again. Everything’s spinning, and Tim closes his eyes, trying to focus on breathing through his nose and choking down the bile that stings the back of his throat. Fuck, this isn’t good.

 

His dad must walk away because there’s the sound of drawers opening and closing on the other side of the kitchen. Tim should get up. He should get up and get out. Call for help. Tim’s also trying not to throw up, and all he can manage is blindly fumbling for the kitchen island, taking a breath and bracing himself, and pulling himself up with his good arm. 

 

Even that sends his stomach rolling.

 

A drawer slams shut again and it’s like Tim can feel it in his head , ouch. “I paid your school tuition,” his dad is saying. “Birthday and Christmas presents? Came out of my pocket.” He’s getting closer, and every bang and slam is like a physical strike to his head. Tim counted his breaths, and slowly eased his eyes open.

 

“Self defense classes, I paid for! Same with whatever silly hobby you picked up growing up!” Jack says, like he hadn't just complained earlier about how Tim had tried showing his parents his photos every time they came home. Tim sees Jack about an arm’s length away, and he’s carrying something in his hands. Tim tenses, widening his stance, and when Jack gets closer, he tries to get him with a left hook. 

 

The hit lands, but Tim must be worse off than he thought because his dad had seen it coming and ducked enough that a hit that should’ve landed him on his ass instead merely glances off his cheekbone, making his dad stumble drunkenly to the side before righting himself with a snarl on his face. Tim expects the hit to the stomach, but he wasn’t prepared for his dad to go in for a grapple. 

 

Tim struggles as best as he can, taken off guard with a concussion, while trying to protect his injured arm. He kicks and hits his dad wherever he can, but Jack Drake didn’t stop using the home gym when he regained use of his legs, and he easily has a hundred pounds on Tim. 

 

His dad is still berating him. “The least you could do is show some respect and goddamn gratitude. That’s all your mom and I have ever wanted from you, Tim.” In no time, Tim’s chest meets the granite countertop again, and Tim’s cry of pain is cut off as the wind is knocked out of him. He gasps desperately for air, panicking as he just can’t seem to catch his breath. He tries to calm himself, focusing on the bruise he can feel forming on his sternum, but it doesn’t stop there.

 

“I suppose we were too soft on you, though,” his dad says quietly. Tim tries to orient himself, focus. But before he can take stock of the situation, his dad grabs him by his bad arm, and Tim makes a noise that doesn’t even sound human to his own ears as both arms are forced above his head. His dad lets go out of surprise and then scoffs at him, muttering something Tim can’t make out. He’s grabbed again, this time harder, and Tim lets out a strangled scream and flinches back, but is unable to get far, and movement only brings more pain to both his shoulder and wrist. He’s near dizzy with it, vision getting soft and fuzzy around the edges before he feels the bones in his broken wrist move, and then things get sharp and bright. He cries out, unable to even struggle lest it hurt anymore. 

 

His face is wet and there’s nothing Tim can do but sob, trembling in his dad’s grasp as his limp wrists are manipulated, so his dad can twist cheese wire around them, leashing them together, and attaching the rest to a drawer handle or cabinet door knob - whatever is on the other side of the island. Jack pulls the makeshift bonds tight by the two wooden handles on each end and Tim tries to tense so he can create slack in the bindings so they’re easier to slip, but Tim isn’t sure if he managed or not because he can’t even move his right arm with the shoulder dislocated. He thinks, logically, even if he did provide himself with the slack needed, his right wrist would swell so much around the irritated break to be of any use, anyway.

 

As soon as his dad lets go and steps back, Tim can feel the strain of his own weight pulling on his shoulders and the blunt pressure of the marble countertop on his sternum. His sock covered toes barely brush the floor beneath him as he tries to get his feet underneath him so he can take some of the pressure off of his injuries. He hears his heart pounding in his ears, his breath coming fast and shallow as he tests the bonds with his good wrist, finding himself wholly and completely bound and stuck. 

 

He looks up, eyes wide and tear-filled, and he can see the blurry outline of his dad looking down at him from the other side of the island. He says, “You’re a privileged kid, Tim. Growing up in a house like this with a silver spoon in your mouth since birth... You’re part of the top one percent, and you didn’t have to work for any of it! I never meant to spoil you the way I have. I should’ve been around more as you were growing up, at least so I could have enforced enough discipline so you didn’t turn into such a rotten little brat.” 

 

His dad turns, examining the knife block and Tim, panics, voice cracking, and yells, “Dad? What are you doing, dad?! Dad!” He’s struggling, despite all the pain in his body because his dad’s looking at knives. His dad’s been hurting him all night, and this isn’t right. This doesn’t make sense! Sure, Jack Drake has always had a temper, but Tim’s pretty sure he would’ve known his dad was this unhinged. Right? Right?!

 

“Dad, please,” Tim tries, desperately trying to lean so he can see around his dad. So he can see what he’s grabbing. What’s he going to do? Oh god, what is he doing?!  “Please, dad, this isn’t you. Something’s wrong. I think - maybe - I don't - dad, this isn’t you!” It can’t be. Tim couldn’t have messed up this badly, right? Surely he wasn’t that terrible of a Robin that he wouldn’t have picked up on if his dad was a sadist. Or maybe someone really did do something to his dad because wouldn't that be another way to torture him?! This will rip him apart. This is ripping him apart.

 

And there's the other thing. He's good at this, and - is he enjoying this? What's taking so long? One of the worst parts of torture is the suspense. Not knowing what your torturer is doing, having no clue what’s coming next. 

 

His dad grabs a steak knife and walks around the kitchen island, and Tim panics when he’s completely out of sight. He sobs, “Dad, don’t. Please, don’t.”

 

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Tim,” his dad scoffs, and there’s a hand on his back, patting him gently and Tim’s never been more horrified by what should be a kind gesture. “Be a good boy and stay still. Wouldn’t want to accidentally cut you.” His dad pulls his shirt up, and Tim whimpers as it pulls on his swollen shoulder. He can hardly comprehend what’s going on. He just tries to stay as still and quiet as he can be, hardly daring to breathe during the rough back-and-forth of his dad sawing at the bunched up material. 

 

“Dad?” Tim croaks, and his dad makes an acknowledging sound but otherwise doesn’t respond, hacking away. Tim presses himself to the countertop, making himself smaller so he doesn’t get nicked. “Dad, let’s just talk, please? Please don’t… Just let me get up. Please, dad.”

 

There has to be an explanation for this, right? This isn’t all over what Tim’s said, right? Because his dad said so much worse. This can’t be punishment for Tim’s behavior, and Bernard. 

 

Something else is going on, right?

 

There’s been a huge misunderstanding, and once Tim clears this up with his dad, his dad will see reason. Except... Except what kind of reasonable person accuses their son of all the things his dad has? And what kind of reasonable person leaves their kid home alone more often than not, and then gets mad at the kid for the fact that their father-son bond kind of doesn’t exist?

 

It’s got to be all the alcohol, then. It’s just the alcohol.

 

Or. Mind control? Maybe? But, where are the clues ? Jason was right, he’s such an awful Robin. Get your head in the game .

 

His dad finishes, parting the tattered remains of his T-shirt off of Tim’s back and Tim barely breathes until he hears the knife set down on the island. “Dad? Can we talk about this?” he tries again, not much louder than a whisper. 

 

Finally, finally , his dad comes around the kitchen island, looking at him with eyes so dark they’re practically black. 

 

“Yeah, let’s talk, Tim,” he says coldly, and Tim shivers, heart seizing in fear at a vitriol he’s only ever heard bad guys direct at Robin . Tim can hardly breathe with all the terror and dread settling so heavy in his chest. “Of course it’s not like I can believe anything that comes out of your mouth because - well - you’re a teenager . A disrespectful, spoiled, bratty teenager .” 

 

Tim’s eyes are still welling with tears that won’t seem to stop no matter how hard he tries, and a sob escapes before he forces it all back again. His dad - his dad really hates him now, doesn’t he? And Tim’s crying over it, crying over someone who’s hardly ever been around or even bothered to notice him.  

 

“You must think I’m stupid, like I don’t know what happens under the bleachers at the football games at school. I’m sure it’s the same thing that happens at the skatepark . I’m not stupid , Tim.” His dad turns from him, angrily pulling open drawers, pulling items out, before slamming them shut. Tim wets his lips nervously, unsure how to turn this around. If he were Robin right now, he’d have pushed the panic button, kept the villain talking, and waited for a rescue. But he wasn’t Robin. 

 

He was stupid Tim Drake, and stupid Tim Drake had left the Robin panic button with the suit at the cave. He’d left it there with the suit the night before Bruce had sent him that text, telling him to take a break. 

 

“Dad, please , I - this is too far - please -” Tim stammers, flinching when his dad moves suddenly. His head rocks to the side abruptly when he’s struck from behind and he yelps, swallowing harshly, and coughing as bile stings the back of his throat. His head hurts so much, too much, and his dad’s yelling again, asking Tim if he thinks he’s stupid, and slamming things, and Tim's head hurts so much . He just squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to vomit.

 

He yelps as glass smashes dangerously close to where his broken wrist is bound - another bottle - stretched over the counter’s edge. Glass shards and alcohol fly everywhere, and Tim tries to shield his face in his forearms when his dad brings what’s left of the bottle down again, more glass flying everywhere again. 

 

When he’s done, his dad grabs his hair, and wrenches his head up to look him in the eyes, and Tim’s eyes lock onto the meat tenderizer in Jack’s other hand, and - oh god - he panics, words tumbling from Tim’s mouth. “Please, no. Stop! I’m sorry. I - I’m really, really sorry, and I - I don’t think you’re stupid, dad! Dad, please, I don’t think you’re stupid! I - I think m-maybe there’s been a m-misunderstanding, but it’s o-okay. W-we can talk about-”

 

His dad’s face is almost purple with rage and the meat tenderizer comes down on his left hand, eliciting a piercing shriek from Tim. 

 

He had known his days as Robin had been numbered. He’d thought it would be easier for everyone if Tim started making the severance between him and Robin himself, no matter how painful it would be. However, Robin had become one of the only things that really kept him happy. So, knowing how hard it would be to let go, Tim had thought maybe if he let go of little things at first, like starting with keeping all of his gear at the cave, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. 

 

Except, past-Tim who’d made that decision was stupid , because leaving the panic button behind? Even if Bruce or Dick got upset that he’d used it outside of Robin and fired him for it tomorrow, then at least Tim wouldn’t be dead . 

 

The fridge door is opened and closed with enough force that glass bottles rattle inside. Cabinet doors are similarly slammed open and shut, drawers are rifled through, and the last time this happened, his dad had restrained him with cheese wire . The realization of how absolutely fucked the whole situation is sends him into a panic. Tim frantically pulls at his bindings, hoping they’re just hooked over a knob and he can unhook them and get out of here - but no, they’re looped through the handle of the drawer on the other side of the island. 

 

The insistent tugging just has the wire cutting into his wrists, so Tim stops, knowing that the only thing he’d be able to do with that is just cause more damage.

 

“-if you’d stop disrespecting me. It would have never come to this if you weren’t so dead set on being an embarrassment, on destroying everything I’ve worked for, taking everything I’ve given you and throwing it back in my face, none of this would have happened!” His dad’s saying, and he almost sounds sorry , like Jack isn’t the one with all the control over the situation, but he can stop! He can stop!

 

“But there’s something I still don’t understand,” his dad says, and Tim can only listen with horror. “See, you said this is natural, that some people are just ‘ wired differently .’ But you also said you needed to ‘figure things out.’ So which is it, Tim?” 

 

Tim makes no move to answer, and he yelps when his dad grabs him by the jaw, hard enough that it’ll leave bruises. “When I was your age, I was twice the man you are,” Jack spits down at him, and Tim just says nothing . “You can’t even look me in the eye,” his dad says, snappish. “How many times has your mom had to tell you? You look people in the eye when they’re talking to you!” Tim can’t stop crying, can’t stop shaking, but he manages to look him in the eye, and his dad smiles.

 

“Oh, enough of that. Things will be alright, Timmy. Your old man’s gonna help you figure it all out,” Jack says, and - Tim - Tim can’t - can’t comprehend. ‘Figure it out,’ he said he’s going to - oh god. This can’t be happening . He can’t. He won’t - doesn’t want to understand. Because that - there’s no way - that doesn’t make sense and Tim doesn’t - won’t - accept what’s happening. Because it sounds like his dad just - just insinuated - but no. No! No, that’s not- that can’t - no. 

 

But the countertop is cool against his chest and Tim is still lying over the kitchen island like a sacrificial lamb. Please, please , Tim just wants this to not be real. He wants to not be real. He wishes his dad had just killed him. Just - shot him or something. Not - none of this. Not this.

 

“Open up,” his dad says, squeezing his jaw so tightly again that Tim is sure he’ll have bruises on his face tomorrow. That is, if he lives through the night. 

 

If someone told him yesterday that Jack Drake would bind him with cheese wire and smash his finger’s with a meat tenderizer tonight, Tim wouldn’t have believed them. If someone told him that Jack Drake would be doing this with the handle of said meat tenderizer, Tim not only would not have believed them but he probably would have talked to the police, asked them to do a welfare check on that individual. Make sure they’re okay.

 

As far as Tim’s concerned, he needs to be prepared for anything if he wants to make it past tonight. He doesn’t know what this man is capable of. 

 

His dad’s still holding the meat tenderizer in the other hand, while trying to push a thumb into his mouth, between his teeth, but Tim clamps his jaw as tight as he can, grinding his teeth together. His dad brings the tenderizer up warningly to the side of his face, smacking Tim lightly in warning along the side of his face, and Tim just glares at him. 

 

His dad hits him in the face, cracks him on the meat of his cheek, and he’s sobbing, gasping, and his dad takes the opening. The meat tenderizer hits his mouth, clacking painfully against his teeth, splitting his lip, and Tim can’t breathe. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. His dad smacks the side of his face, irritated, saying, “C’mon, you can do better than that. Open up. You had a big mouth just a minute ago.” And Tim shakes his head, trying his best to pull away, to bite down on the thumb locked in his jaw, and then he gags.

 

“Enough of that. This is what faggots do , Tim,” his dad says, cajoling, his thumb pushing between his teeth to the back of his jaw. He can’t close his mouth, and Tim tries to snarl, tries his best to bite, except his dad’s pushed his jaw wide open, so wide open that Tim can’t do much of anything except struggle. He’s never felt so helpless. Even in the Tower, when Jason was beating him with his own bo staff, Tim had had a plan. 

 

There was always an alternate solution, a backup plan to his backup plan. It was one of the things Bruce had drilled into his head over and over again. 

 

Trust no one. Suspect everyone. 

 

Bruce had trained him to look over the contingencies in case there was any reason to go up against any member of the Justice League, whether it was mind control, an alternate universe, evil clones of them, etc. 

 

Robin made contingency plans without pause. Robin trusted no one, was suspicious of everyone, and had to be prepared for anything.

 

Tim didn’t do that, and look where that got him.

 

The hardest lessons to learn are most often the most valuable. Someone said that to him - maybe Shiva? - and Robin had listened, agreed, acknowledged it during his training, but Tim should have held onto that, utilized it as well. 

 

His dad tries to press the meat tenderizer in, but it's too big. It hits his teeth, clacking against his jaw roughly, and the sound rings his ears, hurting his pounding head. His lips hurt and Tim thinks he can taste blood, but he’s not sure. His dad tries several times before finally turning the tool around and forcing the thick rubber handle in instead.

 

His dad pushes it in and pulls it out, and Tim really does start gagging, then. Not that it hit the back of his throat, or his uvula, but just the action itself and what it’s supposed to represent and that this is his dad doing this. Because his dad hates him. His dad hits him. His dad’s looking at him with undisguised rage and disgust. All of that is directed at Tim. Because Tim held hands with a boy. But that was all Tim did! He didn’t - didn’t do what this was supposed to represent! Had never done this! But it doesn’t matter anymore because no matter what he says, his dad doesn’t believe him! 

 

And then his dad’s going too fast, and the thing in his mouth is too hard, too rigid, and it hurts and it sits heavy on his tongue, and Tim thinks he could die like this, if it damages his throat enough, or if his dad won’t let him get enough air .

 

His dad ignores his choking, resting the handle heavily on Tim’s tongue until his ragged gasping slows, and then he pushes it in and pulls it out again. Tim chokes again, gags, and his dad shakes his head at him and says, “ Really ? It’s not exactly like this is rocket science. Just pretend it’s your boyfriend.” Then shoves it in harder, deeper, angry because he thinks Tim’s faking it , he thinks Tim’s lying. 

 

Until Tim actively starts retching around it

 

His dad pulls the tool out when Tim’s throat convulses, bobbing, and it’s a full-body effort, throwing up while lying down the way he is. The strain on his aching, sore body leaves him gasping for breath. His dad makes a disgusted noise, as he steps back, before coming forward to slap Tim across the face, and Tim moans as his head rocks from side to side.

 

“I don’t think you’ve really taken into account what men fucking men means,” his dad says. “You’re not some pretty little girl, Tim. You’re supposed to be a man! Of course, right now you’re just doing it with boys-”

 

“Dad, please,” Tim gasps, sobbing, coming back to himself, and struggling to speak with how much his throat hurts. He sounds like he’s been gargling nails. His voice is a whispery rasp, and talking hurts . God, everything hurts. Tim thinks he can taste something metallic along with the burn of bile at the back of his throat. His dad pauses, and Tim latches on to the silence. He just needs to convince him. “I’m not. I haven’t. I swear. I only held his hand . I promise! And I won’t do it again! I promise! Please! ”

 

Something is pushed up to his mouth, and Tim flinches back, but his dad sets the meat tenderizer down and it’s just a cup. A cup, and there’s something in it. His dad is brushing the hair away from his forehead and shushing him. Tim looks up, locking eyes with his dad, who says, “It’s just water. Wash the taste out.”

 

Tim drinks slowly, taking small sips. It hurts to swallow, and he almost can’t, panicking with the water in his mouth, and it takes him several deep breaths through the nose before he unsteadily swallows. Washing away the burn of bile at the back of his throat does give him a small bit of relief. He struggles to not break out into a coughing fit, but the small sips of cooling water help. 

 

His dad takes the cup away and comes back, hand going back in his hair, pushing sweat-soaked bangs back. It feels nice. It feels really nice. Tim could’ve used more water. But this is okay, too. If they just stay like this, everything will be fine. Please. Let it be over. Let everything be fine.

 

There’s a hand at his jaw again, except it’s at his chin, lifting his head up, but he still flinches, inhaling sharply at the pain in his shoulder and wrists. He must look bad when he locks eyes with his dad because Jack looks almost sympathetic. 

 

It’s not enough to stop him from grabbing the meat tenderizer again, though, picking it up, and Tim jolts back, shaking his head in panic.

 

Tim’s breathing picks up and he can feel himself trembling all over. “Dad,” he begs, his voice cracking, still an awful ragged hiss. It hurts to talk but Tim is panicking, pleading, “Stop it, please, dad.”

 

His dad pushes the rubber handle to his lips, and says, “Just once more. I might’ve been too rough the first time around. It’ll be gentler this time.”

 

Tim whimpers. But it doesn’t matter what he wants. Because soon enough his jaw is gripped tight again, thumbs dig into his cheeks, prying his jaw apart, slipping in his mouth, pushing back, and wedging between his teeth again. The rubber handle is pushed into his mouth, and Tim shudders as it slides across the top of his tongue, still slicked up with his cold saliva from earlier, and it dips back even further, slowly . And he can’t breathe, can’t think , and he starts coughing, and his dad pulls the handle back, eyebrow raised, and says, angry and talking to him like he’s stupid, “Calm down. Maybe try breathing through your nose?”

 

And the horrible thing is, it helps. 

 

He breathes through his nose, and his dad seems satisfied to just sit and manipulate the meat tenderizer into a steady rhythm for a while, until. 

 

“You’re supposed to suck, Tim.”

 

Then,

 

“Don’t you know you’re supposed to watch the teeth?”

 

His jaw is sore from the bruising grip and how long he’s been forced to keep his mouth open wide and uncomfortable to accommodate what his dad’s doing to him. He can feel drool trailing down his chin, thick and sloppy. His eyes are swollen, and they hurt from how much he’s been crying, and the tears dry on his face, crusty and itching. There’s snot on his upper lip, and he can taste it whenever his dad pushes the tool back in. But still, Tim slowly and steadily breathes through his nose. 

 

He starts to panic slightly as his dad has the handle going into his mouth deeper and deeper, until it’s in his throat . It hurts. But he keeps his eyes closed, lashes tacky and sticking to his cheeks. Tim keeps breathing through his nose. 

 

He tries to imagine he’s somewhere else, tries to separate himself from the situation, but he can’t ignore the way his dad speeds up, moving more erratically. It’s disgusting, but Tim hopes once his dad reaches the ‘climax’, that it’ll be over. He struggles to keep breathing slow and steady. His throat burns and the tool keeps dipping down and catching, or pausing, completely blocking his airway just long enough that he starts seeing black spots.

 

It doesn’t stop long enough for Tim to get a good look at his forearms, but he’s been unable to stop pulling at the wire with the way his dad has been moving him, and his skin feels slick around his wrists.

 

It’s torture.

 

It seems to go on forever before that rubber handle comes to a stuttering stop before it’s slammed back further than ever before, causing Tim to gag and choke around it, and he’s wide-eyed, desperately trying to catch his dad’s eyes, fists clenching as he struggles to breathe. But his dad’s just got a hand intently gripping his lower jaw, eyes only on the act itself. Tim’s lips touch the metal head of the meat tenderizer, and he feels his heart skip a beat because all of that is down his throat right now. How is that possible?! And no wonder it hurts so much, and burns because it’s stretching and - his dad moves his hand to his throat, squeezing around the tool inside of him, thumb tracing his Adam's apple. Tim is wide-eyed and keening in panic the longer his airway is cut off. His dad’s palm rests over presses against his Adam's apple for a moment, where the handle of the tenderizer no doubt bulges out and Tim squeezes his eyes shut, feeling tears slip out and he can’t stay like this, he’s going to pass out - 

 

Abruptly, his dad pulls back, wrenching the tool out too fast, and Tim’s coughing and hacking violently as the rubber handle is ripped none too gently from his throat. “And that’s the happy ending,” his dad says slowly, quietly, facial expression carefully neutral  - almost too neutral. His Robin brain would be examining that if he weren’t coughing his lungs up. 

 

His dad drops the meat tenderizer into the puddle of vomit before putting his hands on his knees to stand up. 

 

Tim’s jaw is sore, even as he closes his mouth, and every wracking cough makes a rattling, wet noise in the back of his throat. Pink-tinged drool dribbles from his mouth in a sloppy string, getting on the counter and his arms, and Tim realizes distantly that somebody shoving something repeatedly into someone’s mouth of that size with that kind of force could probably cause some kind of throat injury. He’d never thought of that before. Granted, he’d never really thought about, well, any thing of this sort before. 

 

Sure, he’d been curious. But that curiosity had never progressed further than some extra time in the shower, or some general over the clothes groping when he’d been dating Stephanie. 

 

“Almost seems like you’ve never done that before,” his dad says, and Tim snorts derisively, and chokes, and then bites his lip because ouch, bad idea.

 

“What?” his dad asks, sounding put out. “What’s so funny?”

 

Tim shakes his head, “Nothing...” and oh wow, his voice is wrecked . “Just, that’s what I’ve been saying from the beginning, dad.” His dad looks at him, and Tim can see the doubt starting to form on his face.

 

It makes him feel... It makes him feel happy, almost. There’s a sharp satisfaction at the idea that his dad might finally realize that he was wrong all along. Tim usually isn’t one to say I told you so, but he feels especially vindictive right now. He wants to see the guilt on his dad’s face, see dawning horror. He wants to see his dad agonize over what he’s done. He needs it because then it means Tim didn’t deserve it, right? This was all a horrible drunken mistake. It won’t make anything better, it won’t fix any of this, but it’ll reinforce the fact that this was just a fluke and no one deserves this. Right? Not anyone. Not a disrespectful son. Not a faggot. Not Tim.

 

Right? Right?!

 

Nothing of the sort passes over his dad’s face, though. Instead, he just looks confused. Like he’s done the math so many times but he’s still not getting the answer he’s supposed to, and Tim hates him for it . He can’t stand his dad looking at him like that, so he sniffs, spits blood on the floor next to the pinkish vomit, and thinks I am not cleaning any of that up.  

 

“I wasn’t lying, dad. Only thing we have ever done is hold hands.” 

 

“You’re sixteen years old, and I’m supposed to believe you’ve never done more than hold hands ,” Jack says flatly, and he’s still giving Tim that look.

 

“Yes!” Tim cries, feeling more than a little hysteric. Why did it have to go so far for his dad to believe that Tim was telling the truth?! Why did it take so much for his dad to believe him?! Tim bites back the sob, shaking his head and forcing out incredulous laughter that sounds awful coming from his abused throat. “You finally get it and you still sound disappointed!”

 

His dad says nothing. He circles the island, out of sight, and Tim tenses, trying to turn to see where he’s going, but he isn’t able to move much. A hand rests on his lower back and Tim flinches, breath going shallow and quick. His hands clench, and he pulls at the wire but it’s still taut, still fixed in place, and Tim’s not going anywhere. His dad leans over him, and Tim swears his heart stops beating when he feels breath on the shell of his ear. “We’ll just have to rule the other thing out then, too, won’t we?”

 

His dad’s fingers hook onto his waist band and Tim’s breath stutters in his chest. 

 

The slightest amount of pressure on his hip sends Tim into a frenzy. He flails, kicking back as hard as he can. He feels his heel make contact with something soft, and his dad wheezes, and Tim kicks again as hard as can.

 

He’s gasping for breath, in a panic, and he should really calm down because he needs to keep aware of where his opponent is. But he’s running on adrenaline and desperation, and those are the only things that help him pull himself up onto the island, rolling and scrambling to get his legs up and under him. He pulls himself across the island, grunting through the pain screaming in his shoulder. He manages to make it to the other side of the island, stepping down so he’s stood in front of the drawer that he’s been bound to. 

 

He’s breathing hard, and he’s in a terrible amount of pain, but he’s in a much better position than he was before. 

 

Standing on his own two feet, he’s not as helpless as he was before. He takes as deep a breath he can manage - because shit that hurts - and thinks to himself, okay, Robin.  

 

He tries to take in the situation the way he would if he were in costume, except he’s never been in this situation before. Still, he tries, and he sees his dad’s recovering from having had the wind knocked from him, and is baring his teeth at him from the other side of the island. Tim’s arms are still bound, wire cutting painfully into his skin, breaking it in some places, and his swollen wrist and swollen fingers don’t look good. But Tim thinks he’s seen worse before? 

 

His dad snarls, coming around the island, and Tim panics, yanking furiously at the drawer. It slides open, and shuts again, gliding smoothly, and Tim yanks once more, backing up and trying to lift up and out so the drawer will come off the rolling rack.

 

It’s awkward because he can hardly feel his fingers unless they’re moving and when they are moving, it hurts . The ones hit with the meat tenderizer have gone a dark purple and are swollen. Definitely broken. His other fingers are still dark red, but they’re tingling, blood now able to flow to them since he’s stood up and not hanging over the island, cutting his own circulation off with a majority of his weight pressing into a cheese wire. But they’re still pretty useless, so Tim works with what he has. Which just isn’t working .

 

He’s unable to keep ahold of the drawer once his unbroken fingers aren’t tingling as much, and he’s panicking too much by the time his dad’s made it around the island. 

 

Tim cries out as he’s shoved back into the island, arms pinned between his body and the counter. His dad grabs the back of Tim’s head, trying to force him down so he’s lying on top of the counter again, but Tim fights back. He tries to kick again, but his dad’s watching for that already, leaning out of the way and hitting Tim in the ribs with his fists. 

 

Tim grunts, bucks, reeling his head back, and his head makes contact with something while his dad swears, hands releasing him. 

 

His victory doesn’t last long before there’s a kick to the back of his knee and Tim goes down, nearly clocking his chin on the counter. He’s on his knees, but he needs to move, and he’s pulling the drawer back with his wrists, fingers scrambling to grasp the face of the drawer. His dad has a hand on the back of his neck, another in his hair, and he’s pulling Tim up, but Tim struggles against him, until he’s just rasping snarls that sound like a wounded animal, all elbows and headbutts.

 

The drawer finally comes loose from the kitchen island at the same time his dad changes tactics, getting a hold of his ankles, pulling his legs out from under him, and it’s Tim’s turn to go down swearing.

 

He lands heavily on the drawer with his forearms and the cheese wire cuts fresh wounds into his wrists, but Tim is free , dammit. He just needs to get up , and get out of the house.

 

He’s grabbed by the hips, and then there’s a heavy weight settling astride the back of his thighs, and Tim bucks but he’s hit in the back of the head and his vision wavers when his forehead cracks the edge of the drawer.

 

When his surroundings blink into focus, his pants are being tugged down none too gently, and Tim let‘s a harsh, “No!” which ends up just sounding like a strangled gasp. He tries to slip out from underneath his dad, thrashing and kicking like a wild animal. He turns, trying to strike with his good elbow, trying to get a grip on the drawer so he can use that as a weapon. His dad jerks him back towards him, and the utensils still in the drawer slide around. And Tim desperately wishes he could do something - anything - with the rolling pin right there but he has to get his hands free first, and there’s really no plan. He’s just fighting blindly at this point. He’s terrified.

 

His dad’s weight lets up a little bit, and eagerly Tim does his best to army crawl forwards, realizing all too late that his dad had only allowed him to do so to help him out of his pants even further. “ No! ” Tim screams, trying to roll and turn, but Jack just leans forward, putting a hand on the middle of his back, and pinning Tim with his weight while his other hand works steadily at inching his briefs down. 

 

His cheeks are wet, and his breaths are coming too fast, and it’s humiliating as he feels himself becoming more and more exposed. Cool kitchen air hits his bottom, and he’s never felt more angry and ashamed. Ashamed he didn’t fight enough, and angry that he didn’t just get the hell out earlier. How could he be so stupid?! God damn it. He sobs in terror, kicking as best he can.

 

But his dad finishes pulling them down as far as he wanted them, and he takes the hand off of Tim’s back, and Tim is able to get his elbows underneath him, trying to raise himself onto his knees, hoping his dad will topple backwards.

 

His dad hits him in the back of the head again, and Tim goes down with a defeated sob. 

 

There’s hands on him then, grabbing him, and Tim wants to melt into the floor as his dad spreads him apart. His pants are tangled around his upper thighs, and his dad’s knees are on either side of his legs, trapping him and pinning him under him. Every movement has Tim jumping, tensing. Every noise. But so far it just seems like Jack is… inspecting.

 

Tim is mortified, humiliated. Why didn’t he just kill him? Except, he wasn’t wishing his dad had killed him. He was thinking back to that night at the tower. Because he’d give anything to go back in time, because this was so much worse and honestly, Tim would rather have been killed by Jason on a rampage. It would’ve been a mercy . 

 

“Hmm,” his dad says, “Maybe you haven’t been taking it up the ass.”

 

Tim sobs, wanting to hit him, scratch him, something , “That’s what I-“ but he’s cut off by his own strangled scream as something - two fingers - abruptly shove inside without warning, carving a stinging, burning path, and Tim squeals , breathing and crying raggedly around the forced intrusion. No, no, no! He thinks, and he tries to fight, tensing and trying to twist out his hips, get away , but he’s trapped, pinned, and speared. Mouth open in a silent scream that ends with a litany of hysteric, gasping sobs, as the intrusion goes deeper, deeper, deep -

 

“Oh yeah,” Jack says with a chuckle, and Tim can’t breathe . “ Definitely not taking it in the ass.”

 

Those fingers push harder and twist and Tim keens , going still, head falling on his forearms in defeat. He’s unable to do anything. He’s completely helpless . He can’t get away.

 

Then, Jack pulls his fingers out, and Tim sobs in relief, nearly going boneless with it and he’s able to breathe again, gasping for air like a drowning man  -

 

“If a couple fingers gets you that upset, Tim, what do you think a whole dick’ll do?”

 

Something blunt settles against him and Tim freezes, breath hitching, and he shakes his head vigorously, screeching, “No, no, no, please! Don’t -!” He can only scream as it pushes in abruptly, but Tim’s so tense, it stops just after the initial breach. 

 

It burns , and it’s probably the worst pain he’s ever felt because it’s so intimate and sensitive and Tim’s being forced to just take it . But then his dad’s hand is on his lower back, pushing him down, and his weight presses down, and the penetration continues, albeit slower, rougher, and Tim’s hyperventilating because when did he - how - Tim didn’t even hear the belt buckle, and - 

 

It’s too hard, too rigid, and it’s dry and burns . “Hmm. This would’ve been the right length, I think, for most average men. But it’s too thin.” The intrusion is removed, and Jack tosses it to the side, and Tim yelps at the motion, inhaling in sharp horror at the sight of the large wooden serving fork that lands near him. He doesn’t know what to think . Should he be relieved? What - 

 

His dad shuffles, pawing through the utensils that litter the ground, the ones that fell out of the drawer once Tim had gotten it off the track. With his dad distracted and not actively holding him down with anything more than his lower body weight, Tim does his best to turn on his side - grimacing because it still burns - bringing the drawer down abruptly into his dad’s knee as hard as he can.

 

His dad cries out, and Tim feels his dad’s weight shift to one side. So he thrashes, pushing himself back onto his good elbow, and kicks his legs free. His dad grunts, crawling after him, and Tim turns, bringing the drawer up and trying to slam it into his dad’s face. His dad catches it, though, and Tim sobs as he’s pulled up by his arms, standing on trembling legs. 

 

“You’ll learn, even if I have to beat it into you,” his dad thunders, and Tim is pushed back, tripping and stumbling over his own feet, stepping on glass shards from the whiskey bottle that had met its end on the edge of the kitchen island, but his dad keeps forcing him back. Tim keeps trying to swing the drawer at his dad, and his dad eventually gets a hold of it with a snarl on his face, loosening the cheese wire enough that he slips the wooden handles back through the handle, before tossing the drawer aside.

 

They end up in the living room, and Tim is just feet from the front door, but he doesn’t dare take his eyes off his dad. He stumbles, nearly tripping over a throw pillow that was on the floor, and that’s what makes him glance away.

 

He cries out as he’s grabbed by the face again, and his dad’s eyes are dark. Angry. Tim’s hands are still bound, but he brings them up to strike his dad but his dad seems wholly unfazed. “This is what happens to faggots in this house,” his dad says, and he shoves Tim back by the hand on his jaw, and Tim stumbles, can’t catch himself, and the glass coffee table shatters under him as he falls into it. 

 

Tim’s gasping, pulling in deep lungfuls of air, but he lies still and frozen, taking stock of his body, trying to differentiate new hurts from old ones. His dad’s kicking him over, and glass crunches beneath him, and Tim manages to get his arms beneath him and that’s probably what saved him from getting glass shards in his lower region.

 

On his front, there is definitely glass in his arms, but he can’t do anything about it. His throat itches so bad, and he’s coughing and coughing, and he can’t stop. He can’t. He can’t catch his breath and he can’t stop coughing, coughing, and then he’s sobbing, and he just - he just feels so bad . He’s so scared and he feels like he’s dying and he’s lying in glass and if his dad walked away now, he doesn’t think he’d be able to get up. But of course his dad won’t walk away now because it’s still not over. Please, please . He doesn’t want to die. Please. He’s sorry. He’s so sorry . Please .

 

Tim hears his dad’s belt buckle clink together and Tim tenses up all over again, fearing the worst, and he strains his voice again, begging, “Dad! I’m sorry! Please, dad, I’m so sorry. I-I-I’ve learned my lesson, please . I’m sorry!” He’s gasping sobs and he sees the shadow on the wall of his dad pulling his arm back, and he’s glad his dad isn’t settling down on top of him again, but I can’t take anything else, please. Please make it quick . “No! I’m sorry!” The leather whistles in the air and it’s like flames licking up his back. 

 

“You’re not sorry, Tim,” his dad says, and the leather whistles again, and Tim grunts, flinching, as it burns up his back once again. It’s a new pain, and he never would have guessed the source would be something as common as a belt . The shock of it steals his voice. He never would have guessed his father , despite the anger issues and the drinking, would be capable of inflicting any of this abuse on someone, let alone his child .

 

But maybe that was part of the problem. It’s not like he and Jack were very close. Sure, his dad had made somewhat of an effort to try and get to know him quite recently, but the attempt became a secondary concern when his dad had started dating Dana. He and Jack had never bonded, not even when Tim was small, and perhaps that made it easier for Jack to do this to him. Because they’d never had the kind of bond fathers and sons were supposed to have. So, to Jack, it didn’t matter if Tim was his son or not. Because Jack didn’t see Tim the way other dads saw their sons. 

 

Tim sobs, resting his head against broken glass out of frustrated exhaustion, “ I am! ” He’s too loud, voice high-pitched and strangled, and Tim doesn’t recognize himself. He sounds like a child having a tantrum, but he’s not . Please, he’s not . Someone help me!

 

“Not sorry enough,” is the impassive response he gets and the leather whistles again. “That’s three. Start counting them.” 

 

A blow lands again and Tim flinches, stuttering a tearful, “F-four.” 

 

As Robin, he was put in many situations where he ended up injured. Whether it was a beat down from an opponent much larger than him or a lucky hit by some nameless thug, Tim knew it was an occupational hazard. Something not quite expected but not unexpected, either. A risk he accepted every time he put the suit on. 

 

He’d been shot, beaten, stabbed, strangled, drugged and more. He’s broken numerous bones. Hell, he’d had his throat slit and been left for dead after being shot and beaten with his own bo staff just a few months ago. 

 

But this was worse than all of that. Because he wasn’t Robin. He wasn’t in the suit. 

 

He was Tim Drake. 

 

“Fi - ah - Five.”

 

Being Tim Drake wasn’t supposed to be an occupational hazard.

 

“S-six.”

 

Only a few months ago, he was attacked as Robin in a place that was supposed to be safe. Tim’s only been back there once since his recovery, and he knows logically that Jason doesn’t have access to the Tower anymore. He knows that B and O made sure his codes were taken out of the system. 

 

But Tim still finds himself watching his back there, wary of blind corners, and darkened hallways because the tower doesn’t feel safe anymore.

 

If the Tower , a place hardly ever empty, where other heroes lived, where people Tim could trust stayed, no longer felt safe, what did that mean for Drake Manor? 

 

“Se - heh - ven!” His throat hurt with his gasping cries. Breathing was hard when you were sore, still taking a beating, and couldn’t stop sobbing.

 

How was he going to live here, after something like this? 

 

“Eight!”

 

He can’t. He won’t. He’s not staying here after any of this. If he makes it through this. 

 

“Ni - aye - ne!”

 

Something’s wrong. Things are fuzzy. He’s looking at the glass under him, but it’s getting further and further away and it’s starting to look like Tim’s looking at it through a long, dark tunnel. 

 

It’s hard to hear when he’s this far away. But he can make out someone’s counting. 

 

“Ten!”

 

Wasn’t he supposed to be counting? There’s the noise of something being hit. 

 

That’s him, isn’t it?

 

He wonders if it’ll be over soon, or if his dad will torture him all night. He wonders if his dad’s getting tired, if his arm is sore. He wonders if Tim’s learned his lesson yet. 

 

Wait, he’s Tim, isn’t he?

 

No, Tim Drake isn’t supposed to be an occupational hazard. Maybe Jason’s trying to show him who the better Robin is again. 

 

But that doesn’t make sense either. This is Drake Manor, isn’t it? This is the living room? 

 

It’s faint, but there. If Tim focuses, the tunnel starts to shrink. But as the tunnel shrinks, his back smolders like coals in a dying fire. His chest hurts, hard edges slicing into his bruised parts. His throat is dry, sore from gasping for breath, pleading, begging, screaming. He feels his skin, wet and clammy. There’s a chill in the air. His face is swollen, his cheeks are wet. Someone’s crying.

 

He lets himself slide back into the safe place, letting the tunnel get longer. It doesn’t hurt as much, like this. It’s better. It’s better to not be in that horrible place. It’s better to not be an occupational hazard.

 

If only he weren’t such a disappointment. If only he hadn’t upset his dad.

 

He could’ve done so much so differently. He could’ve, but he didn’t. He should’ve. 

 

He wished he wasn’t such a failure. He wished he hadn’t come downstairs for the broom and dustpan. He wished he could have lied to protect himself from this. He wished he didn’t have these confusing feelings about Bernard. He wished he’d never gone to the skatepark. He wished he hadn’t come home when his dad woke up, or that he’d dumped the alcohol before he left for school this morning. He wished his dad had left him, jetting across the world again on a dig. He wished Dana hadn’t left. He wished he’d asked her to stay. He wished he asked if he could go with her. He wished he hadn’t left the Robin button at the cave.

 

He wished he had gotten emancipated after his dad’s accident.

 

He wished... He wished his dad hadn’t woken from his coma.

 

The world comes back to him a little bit and he feels leather spreading fire across his shoulder, and he sobs around, “El - ele - Elev -“

 

He wished he didn’t wake up that morning. He wished he had died back at Titans Tower.

 

Because of him, Robin will be out of commission again. Batman will be without a partner again . 

 

He regretted everything. He hoped it would be over soon. 

 

He was sorry . Please. He was sorry .

 

He doesn’t realize that the belt has stopped until his dad’s slippered feet come into view. He’s floating somewhere where the hurts don’t go away but they’re numbed. He hopes it’s over. 

 

Air shifts and someone’s crouching next to him. Please, let it be over. 

 

A voice in his ear, breath hot on the side of his face. He can smell the whiskey.

 

“This is because I love you, Tim,” Jack says. He’s holding a glass again. When did he get that? Must’ve been while Tim’s eyes were shut. “You needed some humbling. A lesson in respect. You will never talk to me in that way again.” 

 

Amber liquid drains from a glass. A throat swallows. His dad holds the glass out, and it goes out of sight, where Tim can’t see, and then something warm is poured onto his back and all of his aching, stinging wounds are lit on fire, and Tim screams, strangled and voice cracking.

 

The air is heavy in the darkness of the living room as Tim slowly comes back to himself. 

 

He’s in a lot of pain. He’s not sure if there’s a part of him that doesn’t hurt. His head is pounding. His face is swollen from crying and is a mess of tears and snot. Air scrapes his throat every time he inhales, and his chest and shoulder hurt with the movement of breathing. His wrists hurt terribly, too, Tim realizes. 

 

He rolls over and he sees his hands are slick with coagulating blood. He’s still cupping himself protectively, lying atop glass shards, and he can feel the sticky tackiness of drying blood transfer onto his genitals as he rolls fully onto his side before pulling himself up into a sitting position. 

 

Nausea rolls through his stomach again, and Tim whimpers, closing his eyes and trying to control himself.

 

Breathing through his nose is hard, but he can take steady, slow breaths without his throat itching too much. Jack walks around but it’s further away, maybe in the kitchen? But he’s away from Tim, finally, and the nausea settles as the dread in his stomach grows lighter. 

 

“Now,” Jack says from some distance away, and Tim’s heartbeat picks up at the foreboding tone, but otherwise he has no reaction until he opens his eyes and sees his dad looking at him from the doorway, hammer in hand. 

 

There’s no guilt, no sympathy, no satisfaction, just promise that this nightmare isn’t over yet. “I think you’ve earned a timeout to think things over. Figure things out,” his dad spits at him, and Jack’s moving, but he isn’t moving towards Tim. Tim continues to take stock of his injuries, slowly extracting himself from what is left of the coffee table. Jack is examining their coat closet in the hallway when Tim gets his feet under him. His dad’s back is turned. 

 

Next to him, most of the metal frame from the coffee table is still standing. There are some sharp shards of thick glass still surrounding the bolts where the top had been fixed to the table. Tim is able to cut the cheese wire on the glass, barely registering as the glass slices into his already shredded wrists.

 

His dad is bent over, halfway in the closet, tossing things out over his and he says, “There’s no lock on it but I can nail it shut until I get one.”

 

Tim takes a breath, drops his good shoulder low, and runs into his dad while he’s faced away, making him stumble inside the dark coat closet. He slams the door shut as he hears his dad crash into the back wall. 

 

He holds the door shut, looking around for anything he can put in front of it to buy extra time, and there really isn’t much in the front entrance, other than a decorative half table with delicately carved spindles for legs and everything that his dad’s thrown from the closet.

 

Tim’s breathing is wet and hurried, and he can’t stop the harsh cough when he dips down to move a nice pair of oxfords to wedge them beneath the door, using it as an improv doorstop. The coughing strains his aching body, and upon standing back up again, he nearly loses his balance as he’s hit with a wave of vertigo. 

 

He swallows a few times, feeling a thickness at the back of his throat, like he normally would have if he’d had a bloody nose recently.

 

His dad pounds on the other side of the door, making Tim jump, and he quickly disarms the security system before tearing back down the hall towards the kitchen. He’s grabbed a flashlight from the junk drawer by the time his dad’s started turning the handle from the inside the closet. 

 

He keeps his footsteps light as he comes back down the hall, giving the closet a wide berth. His dad’s yelling in there, pounding on the door, the walls. He sounds rabid and Tim wants nothing more than to leave, but he needs to be smart about this. Because the closest house is almost two miles away, and that’s a long way to walk when you aren’t at your best.

 

Especially while he has glass in his foot. Which, now that he’s thinking about it… shoes? Or no shoes? 

 

Shoes obviously, but how? Is what he’s thinking as he leans against the wall, bringing his foot up so he can examine the damage. He swallows thickly at the glass he sees in his foot. Unfortunately, there is nothing he can do about it now with his time constraint.

 

The door slides out of frame, startling Tim so hard he nearly drops the flashlight. He must’ve made some kind of noise, because Jack yells, “I know you’re still here! Open up this goddamn door, or so help me…! Tim! Timothy!”

 

Tim numbly shoves the closest pair of shoes on, which just so happen to be a slightly large pair of winter boots. They’re lined with a soft fur of some kind, and Tim hopes if he steps with his toes, he won’t make the damage on the heel with glass in it any worse.

 

The closet door slides out of the frame a few centimeters before stopping on those nice, leather oxfords. They’re his dad’s actually, Tim realized. One of the ones he’d wear to the office or to a press conference. Good quality, thick leather.  

 

The shoes seem to hold up against the door, but Tim knows he needs to move it. They won’t hold up long, and Tim’s already wasted enough time staggering around. 

 

He bends down again, a sharp wheeze squeezing out of him as he catches a sweatshirt with his fingers.

 

He pulls himself back to standing when the handle on the closet clangs. His dad’s blindly striking the door with the hammer now. It’s shuddering in the frame, catching on the oxfords, and his dad starts trying to kick the bottom of the door out. 

 

Tim quickly hobbles to the front door. He’s unlocked it and flung it open, glancing over his shoulder to at the moment his dad’s hand makes its way out of the closet, slapping against the wall. Jack’s upper arm and shoulder are trying to bully their way through the thin opening as well. 

 

Tim catches a glimpse of his dad’s beet red, livid face, and then he’s turning, stumbling down the front steps, and hurrying as quick as he can off the front driveway, into the shadows and out of sight.

 

Notes:

This author note is not necessary to the understanding of the chapter and is skippable.

Some of this stuff is both directly and very loosely based off of some pretty horrible stuff that happened to me before I was able to move out of my mom’s house. Ha…

Specifically, that first time Jack’s banging on Tim’s door to get into his room. I still kinda have nightmares and intrusive thoughts about the time when my mom came home drunk in the middle of her “date” to come and yell at me. I had one of those latch locks that is like a hook attached to the door frame that slips into a little ring that’s screwed into the door. It was a habit for me to use this all the time because if you’ve ever had a little sibling… it’s usually nice to have some forewarning before they just budge into your room with their bullshit, lol.

Anyway, I really didn’t expect her to want to come into my room. I didn’t even hear her come home because I was sleeping. So she tried to push my door open and when it didn’t, she started kicking it. And I scrambled out of bed and got the light on and she was yelling at me, telling me I was in so much trouble, I’d better open the door “little girl” etc etc. but I couldn’t open the door while she kept kicking it because it was a latch lock. Every time she’d kick it, it would swing a bit in the frame, and it kept pinching my fingers when I tried to get the lock. So I told her she had to stop. And the moment she went quiet and I started unlocking that door, is still really profound in my mind because I could hear her breathing heavily on the other side of the door and I just wanted nothing more than to put some frickin pants on first because I was just sleeping in an over sized t shirt… but I opened the door because I didn’t have a choice. And she came charging in so fast she nearly stepped on my feet. Face inches from mine, and all I could smell was some kind of clear liquor on her breath.

She was yelling at me because I had texted her a few times too many before I’d gone to bed. I don’t remember what I was texting, but I was asking permission for something, but hadn’t seen her all day that day or the day before. So I didn’t even know if she was in town. I was a teenager, irritated, pissy, angsty. It was normal for her to leave town for a few nights but she’d usually at least tell me about it. She’d say she was going for a night, but one night might turn into 4 or 5 consecutive nights. I’d at least get the heads up she wouldn’t be around. Except this time she hadn’t said anything, and I watched all kinds of true crime shows and cop shows at the time, so I didn’t know if she’d been killed or something. I checked the local jail roster to see if she’d been arrested because that’s how abnormal it was.

Anyway, she was just fine, obviously. Um, from a young age, we were taught that crying wasn’t okay. Crying made things worse or got you into more trouble. So we would try our best not to cry. It fucked me up. Let your kids express themselves, dammit. My older sister left to join the Navy and everyone was crying, except for me. I couldn’t. One of my grandparents passed away when I was a teenager, and I couldn’t.

So when she was yelling at me. Inches from my face, and I had a thing about loud noises/voices already. My little sister would respond by getting just as loud right back at her. Whereas I couldn’t make any noise. She kept yelling all these questions, specifically asking if I had a “hard on” for her because I wouldn’t leave her alone. I couldn’t say anything. And something about that last comment and the way she said it just made me feel so disgusted and worthless. I picked up a pair of pajama pants off my desk chair to put them on because I wanted some form of a safety net or like some dignity, idk, and she slapped them out of my hand. I tried to make some noise, but whatever noise I did make wasn’t words.

The “are you gonna cry, Tim? Go ahead, cry” and all the mock sympathy and mocking tones and words are directly inspired from my mom in that moment. She kept asking me that and I couldn’t say anything. I don’t know how to stress this enough. My throat was so tight it was physically impossible for me to make any noise. I simply could not. I don’t know what kind of trauma response that is. But it genuinely scared the shit out of me. Because not only was she right there being a threat, I also couldn’t try and talk her down or apologize or say anything in my defense. It was awful. It was so so so awful!

I am okay now though, more of less! I’m a grown ass woman and I don’t talk to her enough for her for anything even slightly resembling that event to happen to me again. And now I put it in words above so I can go on with my life and hopefully finally let that traumatic incident go. :) Sorry for the second book at the end of the chapter.

Chapter 2

Notes:

THIS ISN'T PERTINENT TO THE STORY, BUT HERE'S A LONG EXPLANATION AS TO HOW I CAME UP WITH THE PLOT SIZES OF BOTH THE DRAKE AND WAYNE PROPERTIES.

I made up the numbers for the acreage of the Wayne and Drake properties. Good ol’ Google could only tell me the square footage of Wayne Manor, but nothing about the mileage or acreage of the property it sat on. In Christian Bale’s Batman Begins, I think I recall seeing a little Bruce Wayne running around the Wayne property before falling into an old well, which ended up revealing what would be the location for the future Batcave... and also inspiring Bruce’s fear of bats.

Also, Damian will eventually bring home Batcow, and I’m sure they’re not keeping her in the Batcave... lol. A cow needs at least an acre for grazing, not to mention whatever housing Damian had built for said cow, which - I’m not saying he’s rolling out the red carpet for Batcow, but I headcanon he is very particular about his animals and makes sure they only have the best care - is probably more than bare minimum.

According to Google, again, Bruce Wayne's net worth is like 100 billion. I compared that to other billionaires sitting around similar net worths, and a website I found told me Warren Buffet has a networth of like 103-104 billion. Warren Buffet owns 3-4 farming properties averaging around 1500 acres. 1 mile is equivalent to 640 acres.

Considering 12,350 is roughly the square footage of the Wayne residence, including both 1st and 2nd floors (I found on the Wayne Manor wikia), I decided that the Wayne property couldn’t be any more than 2 miles wide.

Then, I looked at Drake Industries wikia for a little more context on the Drakes’ wealth. What I found only described Drake Industries as a “multi million dollar” company and I couldn’t figure out the Drakes’ networth. However, after Janet was killed and Jack was left in a coma, the CEO Phil Martin stole millions from the company. Later on, the company itself failed and Tim and his dad moved into a brownstone home. I just decided that maybe the Drakes’ networth isn’t nearly as high as Bruce, considering he’s in the billions. So even though the Drakes have like a bunch of million-dollar assets, I just took creative license and figured maybe their property would be a bit smaller than the Wayne Estate anyways.

Taking all of that into consideration, the acreage for the properties might still sound a little ridiculous, but Tim shouldn’t be walking much more than 1 mile from his home to Bruce’s house, even with the ridiculously large plots of land.

Yeah, I did a bunch of needless research and number crunching. But honestly if I just pulled the acreage out of my butt, Tim probably would’ve ended up somehow doing a mile long trek in between less than a mile of space

He’s unlocked the door and flung it open when his dad’s hand makes its way out of the closet, slapping against the wall, arm trying to bully its way through the thin opening as well. Tim catches a glimpse of his dad’s beet red, livid face, and then he’s turning, stumbling down the front steps, and hurrying as quick as he can off the front driveway, into the shadows and out of sight.

 

Decorative gravel crunches under staggered footsteps as he makes his way to the edge of the driveway. There’s a small embankment from the raised driveway to the grove of trees, and the ground is soft and damp, mud giving way under his feet as he’s forced to slow down and move cautiously.

 

Drake Manor sat atop 600 acres, which was still just a third of the size of the Wayne Estate. Usually, when Tim is traveling between the two of them, he will take his bike and take the road. It’s an easy ride, with just a couple points where Tim has to pedal uphill, but Tim can do it in about seven minutes. There have been times where Alfred had picked him up from school for one reason or another, and Tim had found himself at Wayne Manor without a ride home due to Batman needing Agent A in some capacity. The walk wasn’t his favorite way to end a night of patrol, but it made things easier for everyone if Tim would make the trek himself.

 

It really wasn’t a big deal. Bristol was fairly safe at night, aside from the occasional joyriding rich kid speeding down the road. But Tim had Robin reflexes, and last year he’d had no trouble avoiding getting swiped. The snowbank had broken his dive. Besides, if Tim hurried, he could make the walk in a little over twenty two minutes on a good day, and that was nothing compared to the hours he used to spend as a kid, running through the worst parts of Gotham’s concrete jungle.

 

Today was not a good day, though, and Tim wasn’t willing to take the road. He knew that route like the back of his hand, and he knew that there were very few places to hide on the open road. If he wasn’t terrified of being chased down by Jack and dragged back home by his hair, he wouldn’t be slipping and sliding down the embankment off the Drakes’ driveway with glass in his foot, hurrying to the grove of trees that lined both the Drake and Wayne properties. 

 

Before he saw Robin perform that fateful quadruple somersault that ended up changing his life, Tim used to spend whole summers playing in the woods, making up adventures, and hoping that maybe one day someone on the other side of the wall might be as lonely and bored as he was and come out to play in their wood, too, and then they might hear one another over the fence, and then Tim wouldn’t be as lonely and bored anymore.

 

Except, that never happened because Dick Grayson was quite a few years older than Tim, and he had probably far outgrown playing make believe and building forts and telling stories, and then Tim saw that video online and he knew that Dick Grayson could never be lonely and bored and out playing in the wood because he was too busy being Batman’s Robin.  

 

Once he’d figured that out, little Tim knocked his lonely fort down and then he climbed up and down and all around the wall that separated the Drake and Wayne properties, jumping from wall to tree with his camera strap turned around so his camera bounced harmlessly off his back. He climbed trees, and clambered out his bedroom window and climbed up onto his roof, snapping pictures, practicing in the rain, the snow, the cold, the heat. All because he wanted to be friends with Robin, because Robin was Dick Grayson , and Dick Grayson was hugs and smiles and sunshine and Dick Grayson had dedicated an entire performance for him when he was scared and given him a hug and then Tim had watched his parents fall -

 

But Dick Grayson was a hero. He was Robin , even after that night, and if he could do that then why should Tim still be afraid of heights? It wasn’t even his parents that died. 

 

So he practiced with climbing games, knees shaking, stomach churning, hands trembling, and practiced and practiced until he could do it all with no problem. Then he had decided he was ready to go into the city, and he could keep practicing because otherwise how else was he going to find Robin and ask him to teach him a handstand or for another hug or show him his new camera?

 

So it was because of that summer and ultimately because of Dick Grayson, who was Robin, so therefore also because of Robin that Tim knew practically every inch of that stone wall in the woods, and he knew exactly where there was a sizable gap in the wall that he should have no trouble slipping through, limp and all. 

 

He should totally close some cases for Dick, or, like, do something as a kind of thank you, because if this all works out, Dick’s probably unintentionally just saved his life. Except, Tim would rather not tell him that. Tim knew better than to upset Dick, and he’d much rather forget about the summer spent waiting around his fort for someone who didn’t even remember Tim existed at the time. 

 

If he let that slip, he would probably graduate from ‘little weirdo’ to full on creep status, and everyone would probably realize that there really was something wrong with him and has been from the start, that his awkward stalking phase that Dick insisted was “adorable” was actually a precursor to how messed up he really is. 

 

What the hell was he doing, standing here and feeling sorry for himself? He needed to get out of here! 

 

It was so hard to stay focused when his brain had been rattled around so much that it felt like it was leaking out his ears. He felt like his thoughts were just covering everything and everything it covered, it stuck to. Like the noises of the rocks and greenery underfoot and the hope that even as vulnerable as he was right now, he would still be able to hear if someone was coming after him. Just as soon as that thought crossed his mind, he stumbled, cursing years’ worth of overgrowth and underbrush. Somehow, he didn’t fall, but he continued more carefully, unsure of how many hidden tripping hazards there were.

 

Tiny glowing bugs flew in front of his face, making him stumble and go cross eyed.

 

This was quickly proving to be more challenging than Tim had expected.

 

Already, just stumbling through the wood, he’d nearly fallen on his face a handful of times. His heel was a persistent, throbbing pain that he was reminded of with every step. The falls he’d nearly taken had jarred his swollen, dislocated shoulder. He already felt out of breath, but deep breaths irritated a dry throat, whereas coughing did that as well as produce some sort of thickness in his airway, making it even harder to breathe. Not to mention the pain down - well, he didn’t really want to think about that right now.

 

He definitely had a concussion, though. Tim was sure of that. All he wanted to do was lie down and close his eyes and rest . But he could hardly see through his tears and there was an inkling thought teetering on the edge of the bowl of soup that his brain had turned into. Something about head injuries and not doing something, but Tim couldn’t remember because his head was a goddamn sieve after his dad had worked him over like mashed potatoes. 

 

He couldn’t concentrate or remember anything when his brain went on vacation without him. 

 

Everyone says goldfish have a terrible memory recall of about three seconds, but that was a myth . It was bees and a concussed Tim that had terrible memory recall.

 

He could hear Jack yelling behind him, and Tim had almost stopped reflexively because yelling meant something was wrong but of course something was wrong, his dad had - his dad - he - 

 

Tim leaned against a tree, bent at the waist as he dry heaved. Head injuries had always made him feel sick.

 

His dad was still yelling, and Tim wouldn’t look, just wiped his mouth and kept determinedly stumbling forward until he reached the edge of the wood. Still, he didn’t dare turn his flashlight on until he had stumbled several feet into the grove of trees and could hardly see the lights from Drake manor through the thickest parts of it. 

 

Thorns and burrs caught and snagged on his hair, skin, and clothes. The trees and brush felt alive, leaves and clustered branches shivering in the slight breeze and pushing against him as Tim pushed on. It felt like they were trying to get him to turn around, to go back. This is pointless , Tim thought, wiping his eyes and shining his flashlight ahead.

 

His dad started yelling louder as the flashlight’s beam caught the rough edges of the stone wall, and the words were hard to ignore. “Get back here, Tim! You come back here right now, Timothy Jackson Drake! Don’t make me come and get you!” Tim inhaled sharply, glancing over his shoulder, and searching the shadows behind him, but he couldn’t see anything. He kept walking, tripping over an exposed tree root while his head was turned, and gasping as he instinctively threw an arm out to catch himself. 

 

He bit his lip hard, trying to catch the strangled scream he let out when he landed on his bad arm. The world spun around him and he squeezed his eyes shut, sobbing softly as his stomach twisted viciously in protest. His head had never been so angry at him for letting it get smacked around so much. His dad hit him harder than common thugs did Robin . 

 

Pain throbbed and pulsed viciously behind his eyes, red and black and red and black, pushing and pulling like the effect the moon has on the ocean’s tide. He felt sea sick, like the world was rocking around him and he couldn’t quite make heads or tails or what was up and what was down. 

 

He squeezed his eyes shut tight and got ready to move. “C’mon, Robin,” he whispered to himself, after just a moment had passed, but what came out sounded like a breathless croak. He continued to repeat the mantra, though, as he slowly struggled to pull himself into a sitting position.

 

“C’mon, Robin, c’mon, Robin, c’mon Robin!” Not stopping until he managed to push himself from sitting back to standing, which was the hardest thing he’d done since - well, probably since he’d drug himself, shot and bleeding half to death around Titans Tower, hopelessly running from a man who only had to follow his clearly marked blood trail like Dorothy followed the yellow brick road. Ha. The Robin Jason Todd, who wasn’t an asshole that wanted him dead, probably would’ve liked that reference. 

 

Slowly, Tim eased his eyes open. Already unsteady, he was relieved to see the world wasn’t rocking, although the trees seemed to just be settling back into place. Still, he almost lost his feet as soon as he’d found them. Shit . 

 

He stood very still as he struggled to catch his breath, trying to keep his breaths calm and careful, but short and shallow enough that they wouldn’t irritate his throat, because he couldn’t afford the coughing fit. Hell, he couldn’t even afford to just stand here. Time was invaluable and Tim was certain he wouldn’t survive running out of it. Just as certain as he was that he would be spending a cold night in the woods if he took another fall like that.

 

“You’re just making things harder on yourself!” Jack roared, and it practically echoed all around him, bouncing off the trees and darkness, sending shivers vibrating down Tim’s spine. Tim remained still and silent, good arm hugging tight to his body as he trembled within shadow so dark it was almost pitch black. 

 

He wondered if they lived in the suburbs where neighbors were closer, would anyone come outside and help him? This was Gotham, but surely someone would make a noise complaint, right? If he was really lucky, maybe they’d file a report? Or even poke their head out of a window?

 

“What are you gonna do, Tim?! No one’s going to believe you when you tell them what happened! Not when it just as well could’ve been your fuckin’ boyfriend that kicked the shit out of you! You hear me? What are you gonna do?” Jack continued yelling abuse, and he could because no one was around to hear except for Tim. Because this wasn’t the suburbs. 

 

There was little to no foot traffic around here and the same went for prying eyes. This was Bristol, where people paid for a certain kind of privacy with ridiculously large plots of land, gated properties, and fancy security systems that allowed them to live in cushy ignorant bliss. 

 

They could easily ignore those in need and those less fortunate simply because out of sight, out of mind . At least, until Bruce Wayne started doing press conferences before his yearly charity ball and began sending out invites and sending the reminder of those less fortunate right to the upper crust’s front doors. 

 

Then the regular crowd would make an appearance and flash some cash or write checks for the flashing cameras, but once the moment was over, they’d turn their head and whisper about Brucie and his big ideas , and talk about how all that money was most likely lining the pocket of some addict, or paying for some ‘lazy’ mother’s groceries, and ‘what a shame.’ 

 

Then they’d go home to where they paid the gardener less than the legal wage under the table because he was here illegally and couldn’t do anything about it, where they drank and fought because they were both miserable even though they could have everything , and where they continually left their only child home alone for weeks, even months at a time because they just couldn’t be bothered. But they were so self assured that they were better than everyone else. 

 

Tim knew differently. 

 

They were selfish assholes that liked to flaunt their hoarded wealth around here by living in lonely old mansions the size of apartment complexes and driving cars worth someone’s entire college education. They liked tearing everyone around them down just as much as they liked building themselves up, including each other. It’s how these people work. It’s how they’ve always worked. 

 

It’s how his parents have always worked.

 

“Where are you going?! You think Wayne is going to take you in? You’re damaged goods now, Timmy! No one has ever wanted you! Ever!”

 

He should’ve known - should’ve seen - how could Tim be so stupid?! If he’d been a little smarter, paid a little more attention, or looked a little harder, then he wouldn’t have been so blindsided by everything. It didn’t matter that Jack was his dad. His dad had always been a hotheaded, narrow-minded asshole with various prejudices that he could go into in length when he’s been drinking too much, so why wouldn’t he be homophobic, too? 

 

If his dad had no problem belittling Tim and saying horrible things to him and smashing his stuff, what was stopping him from hitting him? From beating him? From - no, let’s not think about that yet.

 

Being their son didn’t change anything. It had never changed anything . 

 

The Drakes were always too wrapped up in appearances . It had been an obsession, sort of, for his mom and dad. They had to have the newest, the latest, the best of everything , and everything needed to be just so with not a hair out of place, or a wrinkle on their clothes, and absolutely no grass stains, Timothy, or you will be scrubbing the stain out yourself! 

 

If it wasn’t perfect, if it was unsightly, then it was discarded or done away with. 

 

He was just the latest thing his dad had decided to do away with, Tim thought numbly, cautiously moving ahead, determined to try and tune his dad out.

 

His parents would spend thousands of dollars a year on appearances. Be it Mrs. Mac, or the gardener, or new evening wear, or routine hair appointments, they’ve always paid to keep up appearances. But they could never be bothered to pay for an actual nanny or hire a babysitter for their fucking kid because nobody was ever around to see.

 

As long as Tim appeared fine, it didn’t matter how fucking alone he felt on his own. 

 

As long as Tim played the role of the perfect son, Jack would play the role perfectly of the father ‘ who was trying to be better’ or ‘getting a do over.’ And Tim had been ecstatic. 

 

“Get back here, dammit! Don’t you make me come get you myself!” . 

 

It was only when the charade was over, when the house of cards fell down, when his dad was faced with the stark, bitter reality that Tim wasn’t and would never fit his dad’s ideal mold of the ‘perfect son’ and that Tim didn’t care about appearances, it was then when his dad well and truly lost it.

 

Jack didn’t love Tim, his son. He loved the son he’d always imagined having. And that wasn’t him.

 

And now they both knew that.

 

“You’re bringing this on yourself!” his dad yelled. Don’t listen to him, don’t listen to him. With all the yelling Jack was doing, Tim was surprised his voice hadn’t gone hoarse yet. “Dear ol’ dad can help teach you this lesson, too, Tim! Help you figure it all out , Tim!” Tim flinched, but he grit his teeth, casting his gaze down to start sweeping around for the flashlight he’d dropped. 

 

“You’ll learn this lesson one way or another, and It’ll be the last thing you’ll ever do!” The last statement was punctuated by the slam of a car door, and his dad’s Bentley’s ignition turning. Tim could picture Jack Drake all too well in his mind’s eye. 

 

The man would be beet red in the face, perspiration thick on his forehead and upper lip, and his eyes would be dark and hard, cruel, and - wait, what did he say?

 

Tim’s mouth went slack in shock, emitting a gasping wheeze. He needed to get to the Waynes. He needed to use a phone, maybe even leave Gotham, because that sounded like - Tim wasn’t sure. But it sounded like his dad was going to kill him if they ever saw each other again . And even if it was a gross exaggeration, and Jack wanted to teach him another “lesson” again like he had earlier, Tim knew he wouldn’t survive it. He wouldn’t want to.  

 

Heart in his throat, he turned frantically, looking for the flashlight he’d had on him.

 

Thank god it was still on, making it easy to find within all the overgrown brush. Very cautiously, he crouched slowly down to grab the flashlight before standing up again just as slowly.

 

He had to catch his breath because not only was his brain still a useless pile of slop, his lungs didn’t seem to be working either. Every breath was strained and thin, pressing against a thick pressure in his throat. It was almost like he was sick, like he had phlegm in his throat, but coughing seemed to just make it worse . 

 

Not only that, but he couldn't stop shaking. Shivering , he realized when he finally noticed the frosty puffs of air from his breath.

 

Still worried about the unexplainable vice-like grip on his throat, he found himself lifting his good hand to his neck, thinking the collar of his t-shirt was too tight. But he jumped when he felt his own cold fingers and the chilling touch of the plastic flashlight against the base of his neck. Looking down, he caught sight of the tattered remains of his t-shirt still twisted around his upper arms. He could still faintly feel the phantom sensation of his dad leaning over him, roughly sawing at his shirt from behind, the cheese wire still cutting even as Tim did his best to lie still.

 

How did I forget I didn’t have a shirt on, he wondered, teeth chattering. He took in the tattered remains that were still on his other arm. They were now down around his elbow, pinned right to the side of his body in the same space he held the sweatshirt he’d grabbed from the hall. He should probably put that on, he realized slowly. Too slowly. 

 

His thoughts were muddled and his fingers stiff and slow from the cold. He dropped the sweatshirt on a tall bush, shrugging what remained of the ruined t-shirt off his elbow and down around his wrist. He flicked it off the end of his flashlight before picking the sweatshirt back up again. He steadied himself, looking around while he anxiously bit at his lower lip. 

 

He couldn’t trust himself to not lose his balance, but... there.

 

Whip thin tree branches pushed back against him as he limped to the property line, sweatshirt and flashlight in hand.

 

A couple minutes later, he was bracing himself against the wall of stone that marked the separation between the Drake and Wayne properties. Movements stiff but quick, he wasn’t prepared for the full bodied flinch his body gave when he caught the handle of the flashlight out of the corner of his eye. The dark shape was awfully similar to the rubber handle of the meat tenderizer, and Tim instinctively clenched his jaw shut, breath picking up and coming in stuttering little wheezes through his nose as he panicked. 

 

He tore his gaze away, turning his face up to the sky, blinking back tears as he struggled to steady his breathing. “You’re okay, Robin,” Tim croaked quietly, “You have to - It’s fine. It’ll be fine.” He wasn’t sure what he was doing, if he even believed what he was saying, but soon he could take calm breaths as he swallowed the worrying trickling wetness at the back of his throat.

 

This time, he didn’t dare pull his gaze away from the stars. Feeling the plastic end on his bottom lip was almost worse, but Tim blinked away tears of panic, quelled the sickening trembling as best he could, and distracted himself by tracing the constellations with his eyes. 

 

He bit the plastic handle with his front teeth so he could pull the sweatshirt up over his head, ignoring the sore twinge of his jaw muscles. He counted his breaths as he methodically worked the sweatshirt on with one hand. 

 

Pulling the sweatshirt down over his other arm, which just hung limply at his side, wrist a swollen purple and blessedly numb, he definitely wouldn’t have been able to do any of it if the flashlight had had a rubber handle. It would have reminded him too much of earlier. He knew better than to mess with his other arm, especially because he almost felt like he was floating somewhere near halfway normal right now. 

 

The only aches that were making themselves known were the wounds on his back and wrists, the glass in his foot, and his concussion. 

 

He finished adjusting the oversized fabric - looked like maybe he’d borrowed this from Dick? - before taking the flashlight back out of his mouth. He kind of hoped Dick was at the manor. Because Dick seemed to actually kind of like Tim. He asked after his dad and Dana and about school and stuff, and he would listen to Tim’s answers with what looked like genuine interest. 

 

Dick had also never faltered at the sight of him in the Robin suit or made Tim feel like he wasn’t working hard enough. Tim knows, now, that Bruce had had every reason to test him time and time again when he’d first become Robin. But some part of him was still wary, looking for the test, the trick, the trap, and feeling like he constantly needed to explain himself or prove himself and push himself even harder. 

 

Dick was always around with a kind word or a helpful observation, and he had even offered Tim a ride home after patrol, when he was in town. 

 

It’d been hard, not having that these last couple of weeks. Like, not only was Robin out of reach, but so were late night milkshakes with Dick, medical checks with Bruce, and Alfed’s occasional foisted package of homemade leftovers. Tim still didn’t know if he’d ever get any of that back again. 

 

Somehow, he was still able to cry, even after he took a deep breath and swallowed reflexively several times. But it would be okay , Tim tried to tell himself. Because Dick should still be in town. Dick has never left Gotham without seeing Tim again or making future plans, even when he and Bruce had been at their worst. 

 

Tim tried not to think about how maybe that will change now that Dick’s got his real little brother home now.

 

The crumbling stone wall that separated the properties was old, probably almost as old as Wayne Manor, and it was in disrepair. Rain had washed ground from beneath it in certain places, putting strain on the wall and causing sections to collapse. One such section had collapsed long ago and Tim had gathered the crumbling stones years ago, clearing them away to use for his fort. That section was the one Tim had headed to, thinking it was his best chance to get through without hurting himself even more. 

 

The gap wasn’t very large, but it was at the very least the width of Tim’s shoulders. 

 

Approaching it from the side, there was plenty of room for Tim to squeeze through. He stumbled on the scant remains of crumbled stone hidden beneath the underbrush, and Tim panicked, twisting sharply and throwing his arm out to catch himself against the stone with a sharp crack. 

 

Immediately, the light cut out and Tim was left leaning against the stone wall, panting harshly as he slowly stepped back, letting the flashlight’s splintered plastic shards trickle to the ground. At least they weren’t ricocheting towards his face , he thought, remembering the glass bottles and his poor laptop from earlier with a hitching breath.

 

Fortunately, the trees on the Wayne property weren’t as thick as the grove surrounding Drake Manor. Tim could see the second floor of the manor cresting above the horizon in the distance. 

 

He could even see a few lights on in some of the windows, and Tim felt hope flutter in his chest as he made his way out of the trees.

 

He didn’t fall again, though it was a close call a few times. Without the flashlight, Tim was stumbling in the dark. But his eyes had somewhat adjusted, and his head didn’t feel as terrible as it had when he’d been holding the flashlight. 

 

Getting closer to the manor, he started squinting again, staring down at his feet as he kept walking. The lights around the manor weren’t even that bright. The windows glowed a dusky orange, and as Tim got closer, he could make out the faint glitter of the solar lamps that  lined the garden paths and different stone walkways all around the manor.

 

There was a familiar rumble and Tim turned curiously towards it. 

 

Through the large metal gate that protected the front of the property, Tim saw the familiar shape of his dad’s Bentley slowly easing down the road. At this distance, there was no way Jack Drake could see him in the dark. Especially since now he’d lost the flashlight.

 

But the sight of the car creeping down the road still sent shivers down his spine. His dad was out looking for him. He watched, frozen in place, as the car slowly rumbled out of sight. He picked up the pace, limping across the grounds. 

 

He was at the front door before he knew it, breathing harshly and trying to swallow past the thickness at the back of his throat. He rang the doorbell, gasping for breath. He looked around, straining his ears for the faintest of noises, looked back at the road, and rang the doorbell again when he thought he could hear the pur of an engine off in the distance.

 

There was a startled thump from just inside, and Tim bit his swollen lip, guilty, wondering if he’d startled Alfred into dropping something. 

 

But then he could hear footsteps inside, coming towards the door, and they were heavy , like Bruce, but slow and stilted, and very much not Alfred. 

 

Maybe Dick? But Dick had always been light-footed. The Titans had binge watched Avatar: The Last Airbender together, and Beast Boy and Cyborg still occasionally refer to him as ‘twinkle toes.’

 

Tim could definitely hear a car in the distance. He wasn’t sure if it was the Bentley, though. 

 

Cringing, he pressed the doorbell a final time, trying to stress the urgency of the situation to whoever was shuffling down the hall inside. Please, please hurry!

 

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” A low, irritated voice sounded from inside and Tim felt hope flutter in his chest. That definitely wasn’t Alfred or Dick, but someone had heard him. He just hoped they got to the door before Tim’s dad circled back looking for him. He could see headlights in the distance, coming back this way, and Tim turned back to the door, blinking furiously when the outside light came on. 

 

Shocked and blinded, he nearly stumbled into the front door. He caught himself on the frame, yelping when the door was wrenched open from the other side, and jerking his hand away like he’d been burned. Tim had his hand up, trying to block the light from his eyes, cheeks flushing from embarrassment, blinking tears out of his vision to see - oh shit.

 

Jason Todd’s narrowed Lazarus-green glare pinned him in place. Tim forgot how to breathe, eyes going wide, and his heart had already been all but leaping out of his chest. He felt faint, light headed and woozy, and he had been barely holding himself up to begin with. 

 

After everything he’d dealt with tonight, being faced with the first guy who’d attempted to murder him was devastating. His vision tunneled slightly, and Tim wobbled with it, swallowing back copper-flavored nausea, tuning in to the low rumble of someone talking to him.

 

“-the fuck down, and just breathe. Slow your breaths. You need to take deep, slow breaths. Shit. Hello? Replacement?” Fingers snapped in front of his face and Tim blinked slowly, tears dripping, and there was the sound of gasping and wheezing. “Fuckin’ hell, you scare the shit outta me bangin’ on the door and ringing the doorbell at almost two in the fuckin’ mornin’ and then you just fuckin’ shut down? The hell are you doing using the front door for?”

 

“ Please ,” Tim murmured softly, shoulders hitching as he forced himself to bring his hand down from blocking the front light, and instead holding it aloft, palm facing Jason. His hand shook as he held it up, but Tim was probably shaking all over at this point. He was so cold . “ Please , I’m sorry. I’m not here to f-fight, okay? I don’t want to fight you, Jason.” His head felt stuffed with cotton, too big and too light, and his tongue felt heavy and leaden. Words tasted like copper and iron, and they clung to his tongue, and he sounded - well he sounded kind of like Jack, actually. Drunk. And his head hurt so bad.

 

Jason’s eyebrows had crept up his forehead, nearly disappearing behind his bangs, after Tim had put the hand down. His narrowed gaze had softened somewhat, flicking all over Tim, looking at his face, taking in the sleeve of his sweatshirt hanging limply at his side, pausing on Tim’s trembling hand.

 

Jason took a step back, and that’s when Tim saw the boot encompassing Jason’s left leg, from just below the knee to covering his entire foot. 

 

That explained the slight drag in his footsteps. 

 

Jason was holstering a gun on his left side, too, probably having had it pointed at him from behind the door. The thigh holster looked a little silly, considering Jason was wearing some faded gray joggers with the pant leg bunched up on top of the boot, and one of Bruce’s faded old dad rock t-shirts. It wasn’t any less intimidating when Jason gestured at him stiffly, face blank, jaw clenched and hard with ill-concealed tension, “Come on in and sit down before you fall down.”

 

Tim was relieved and grateful, but still terrified. Jason was already moving down the hall when Tim stepped across the threshold into the manor. He quickly shut the front door, fumbling clumsily with the latches and locks with trembling, broken fingers. He peered out at the road and the empty front driveway one last time before hurrying after Jason, who was already halfway down the hall, headed towards the kitchen, flipping lights off as he went.

 

The dim light and shadows were like a cooling balm to his aching head. Tim could kind of squint his eyes open without them watering too badly. Tim wavered in the doorway to the kitchen. Jason had left the main light off, only turning the one on above the sink. He was bent over, most likely shuffling around for the first aid kit they kept under the sink. 

 

When he turned, he had it in hand, placing it down on the kitchen island, and motioning for Tim to come over.

 

Tim swallowed nervously, shaking his head. “No, um, that’s okay, actually. I just - Well, I was looking for Alfred? Or I-I thought maybe Dick was still here, but I guess he’s probably out on patrol…? Sorry, I can - I mean, can I just use the phone? I - I need to get a hold of my - of Dana, my d-dad’s - um.”

 

“Agent A’s taking care of Dickwing downstairs, and B is still running around with his underwear over his tights. He isn’t due back for another hour. You can use the phone once someone’s finished looking you over,” Jason said firmly. “Now, sit .”

 

Tim stiffened, nodding, and quickly limped over to have a seat. As he sat, he hissed in pain, keeping his back away from the back of the chair and letting most of his weight settle on his hip. 

 

Sitting wasn’t going to be comfortable, no matter what he did. Jason wasn’t looking at him, busy flipping the first aid kit open and perusing the supplies. It was far better stocked than the average household’s kit, but it didn’t hold a candle to the infirmary downstairs. 

 

Which was apparently occupied. Maybe Dick was hurt pretty bad. They shouldn’t interrupt Alfred, then. But that left Jason to look Tim over, and Tim - well, Tim would rather wait, actually. 

 

He was just about to say so, when Jason said, “You don’t have to tell me what happened. Hell, you all know I disobeyed orders back when I was in the tights, too. But that’s what got me killed , replacement. Would’ve thought that might’ve kept errant little birds in line, but I guess not. Bruce is going to want some explanation as to how you got this messed up when you were supposed to be taking a break . Give me an injury report, Robin.” He sounded frustrated, but unsurprised, almost resigned. It was a complete 180 from the last time they’d met.

 

“I - what?” Tim mumbled, dumbly, as Jason came around the island with the kit. He knelt down in front of Tim, and Tim, eyes wide, jerked his foot away when Jason’s fingers closed around his leg. “What are you -? You don’t have to do this,” Tim croaked, breaths suddenly coming too fast and, embarrassingly, tears springing to his eyes.

 

Jason’s hands were up, much like Tim’s had been on the front step. “ Hey , I’m just trying to help you, replacement. You got worked over pretty good, and you don’t look like you’re in any shape to help yourself.” His voice was soft, almost soothing, and familiar in a way that hurt . Because that didn’t sound like the “Jason Todd was here” kind of Jason. That sounded like the Jason that Tim used to follow around Gotham taking pictures of. The Jason that had been Robin . 

 

Tim almost started to relax. Almost because Tim knew better now. People were always capable of the worst when you least expected it. At least, that’s how it’s seemed in Tim’s experience. Shiva’s words echoed in his head, ‘Trust no one. Suspect everyone.’

 

Tim didn’t know if Jason was looking for a response, and he didn’t have the brain capacity to try and figure out Jason’s angle, but being Robin had taught Tim to keep them talking. “Why are you?” he mumbled, distrust and disbelief coating his words. Why would you help me? What do you want?

 

Jason looked uncomfortable, and there was an odd expression on his face - nervousness? anxiety? - that Tim had never seen there before. “Well, there isn’t anyone else right now. I know… with the Tower… if I were you, I wouldn’t want me helping you - me? - either. I’m sorry about - well, all of it, really. I wasn’t in a good place. The pit was doing things, and I didn’t even realize , and we - Bruce and I - still aren’t sure the full effects of it. But… I’m not going to hurt you, or try and fight you. I’m just gonna look you over, and right now - well, I was going to take your boots off, but maybe you want to do it yourself?”

 

“I can do it myself,” Tim said quickly. He didn’t think Jason was lying, but he wasn’t about to let himself be caught off guard again. He got the one on his uninjured foot off just fine. The other, though, proved a bit more challenging as the sole rubbed along his heel the wrong way, and Tim blanched. 

 

Jason sat up a little straighter, hesitantly reaching out, and Tim flinched back. “No, I’ve got it! It’s fine!” With a gasp, he forced the other shoe off, feeling glass dig and scrape, and he whimpered a little once the boot finally fell to the floor, beads of blood dropping around it sluggishly. 

 

“Shit, kid,” Jason said, gently grasping his ankle and frowning at the damage on the bottom of Tim’s foot. “This isn’t from patrol… Unless, did someone take your shoes? Then - what - they beat you half to death?” Jason’s eyes were glowing a bit too bright and there was a faint tremor in his hands that Tim could faintly feel in the hand gently holding him by the ankle. Jason slowly lifted and tipped the foot back so he could get better access to his heel and Tim just watched, wide-eyed. He was too nervous to take his eyes off Jason.

 

Then Jason sent him an expectant look and Tim jolted. “Nope, no patrol,” he croaked, stiff as he kept a cautious eye on Jason, who was frowning at the wound. “I, uh - Stepped on some glass. S’fine. You don’t need to do anything. Seriously, it can wait until - um - ‘til Alfred’s done.”

 

Tim couldn’t see Jason’s face when he turned back to the first aid kit, presumably rifling around for the tweezers. “Yeah, we could wait, but you’ll just keep bleeding on Alfie’s floors. Plus, he’s been up - what - twenty two hours already? Let’s give the guy a break, replacement. You can tell me to stop if it becomes too much, okay?” Jason gave him a steady look. 

 

“I - I don’t,” Tim’s throat felt thick. He swallowed and his breath shuddered as he let it out long and slow. He felt cornered, trapped, but also incredibly confused because Jason seemed so nice now. Jason, to his credit, didn’t point it out. “When’s Bruce coming back?” Tim asked, a little desperately. 

 

Jason checked his phone. “Depends on how the bust went. Can’t be more than an hour. Maybe forty five minutes? Can you put up with me for that long?”

 

Tim shrugged. It wasn’t really like he had a choice.

 

“ Hey ,” Jason said, insistent and serious, and Tim tensed, hunching in on himself protectively as he met Jason’s eyes. Jason took it in stride, though that same unrecognizable expression shuddered across his face as he regarded Tim. He swallowed and seemed to take a steadying breath before saying, carefully, “I mean it. If you need a break, ‘s fine, okay? I’ve hurt you enough, Timmy, I don’t want to hurt you anymore, alright? So you gotta tell me.” 

 

Tim was skeptical and unsure how to respond, but Jason’s movements were cautious and slow, easy for Tim to track and he kept his hands within line of sight. 

 

He was gently applying some sort of cool cream around the mess that was his heel and Tim sat, frozen and still, and still feeling a little unsure or confused. Jason’s eyes flickered up and caught his expression, and he said, “I’m numbing your foot.” As if that were what he had been confused about. 

 

“There’s a lot of glass in here and some pieces look kind of deep. It shouldn’t burn, though. It’s just topical numbing cream, so we will still have to disinfect the cuts later. Luckily, this also kinda helps with that, too. Makes things bearable. Not as good as local anesthetic but I used to give Bruce hell about needles as a kid. It should just feel kind of cold. It does smell weird, so sorry about that. But it’s good shit, and we get to skip the needle.” Jason got up and went to wash his hands at the kitchen sink, grabbing a small dish on his way back. 

 

“Y’could’a used a needle. ‘S fine.” Tim mumbled, when Jason settled back on his knees. “‘M not afraid.”

 

Jason didn’t look at him, seemingly intent on the task at hand and the more he kept talking, using that calm, soothing tone, the more Tim was starting to relax.. “I actually can’t use a needle. My hands would probably shake too much.” 

 

There was a faint tugging Tim could feel in his heel. No pain, but the feeling of things being pulled out was kind of sickening. Talking helped, though. Distracted him. “I wouldn’t be able to focus,” Jason continued. “I’d probably have a flashback or a panic attack.”

 

Tim blinked his eyes open, looking at Jason in askance. 

 

Without looking up, Jason said, nonchalantly, “My mom used needles all the time. Heroin addict. I developed a phobia.”

 

“Oh,” Tim said awkwardly, wondering why Jason was telling him, why he was talking to him like this. Why was he suddenly so nice? “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” Jason said, and there was a quiet plink, plink as glass hit the little dish Jason had brought over. “We all have our little things. Needles are just one of mine. I can’t handle dark, enclosed spaces anymore, either. So I won’t follow you into a crawl space or anything. My bare feet touching concrete is another one, and laughter. Even those laugh tracks that sitcoms use, with the fake audiences? Can’t do ‘em. You can download them onto your phone pretty easily, if you need.”

 

“Jason,” Tim frowned. He felt stiff, uncomfortable with the way he was having to hold himself, confusion moving into a wary unsettled feeling. “Why are you telling me this stuff? What are you doing?”

 

“Well, I’m disinfecting your foot now ‘cause I think I got all the glass out,” Jason said breezily, grabbing the disinfectant from the first aid kit but Tim pulled his foot back, waiting for an answer with expectation. 

 

Jason sighed, “I figured you might… I don’t know, feel better? If you knew mine? Make us even, sort of. I don’t know.”

 

Tim frowned, “What? Why?”

 

Jason gestured for Tim to lift his foot again and after a pensive moment, he did. The disinfectant was cold, too, and he could feel it bubbling and tingling but it didn’t hurt. Jason was right, that numbing cream was good shit. “Because you’re a kid, and even with how badly the pit was messing with my head, I don’t understand how I couldn’t see that back then. What happened never should’ve happened. I - I have nightmares about it, sometimes. Me, hurting you, and laughing, just like him .” 

 

Tim didn’t need to ask who ‘him’ was. He could tell from the rigidity of Jason’s shoulders, the bloodlessness of his knuckles and his trembling clenched fists. 

 

He looked young, Tim realized - Jason’s only a couple years older than me, isn’t he? - and when Jason looked up, eyes covered in a slight sheen, Tim felt the breath punch out of him as he finally discerned that unfamiliar look he’d been seeing.

 

Jason felt guilty , he realized. 

 

“Dick talks about you, you know. He showed me the picture you gave him from that night at the circus. He told me how you figured us out, how you’re smart as hell, and you’re a good kid, and that you went to him after I died. Tried to get him to come back and be Robin. He told me about your other pictures. How you have hundreds and how I - I was your favorite Robin.” 

 

Tim felt his cheeks flush slightly from embarrassment, shoulders hunching slightly in discomfort as he didn’t know how to react to the compliments. 

 

Jason cracked a soft smile, but continued somber and serious and quiet. “To hear all that, to listen to Dick talk about that kid - that little kid who just wanted to save Batman, who just wanted to save one of his heroes, to save my dad ? Who did save him, and I just - I repaid that by almost k-killing you.” Jason’s voice cracked and he wiped at his eyes, and Tim felt some of that ice cold fear and sharp caution that had been encasing him, making it hard to breathe properly around Jason, thaw, crack, and melt away a little. 

 

Tim felt relieved. He had always hoped that that night at the tower would turn out to be nothing more than an intense fear gas hallucination, a nightmare, or even an encounter with an evil Jason from an alternate universe. 

 

As time had gone on, he’d eventually had to just accept that it really was his hero who’d come back and hated him now. That it was his Robin who was trying to kill him, which had left him feeling as numb and sickened as he’d felt in the tower with his throat slit, bleeding out, and desperately trying to stay awake while watching a message being finger painted onto a wall in his blood.

 

‘Jason Todd was here.’

 

But now? This was the Robin Tim remembered. This person right here, who was talking to Tim as an ally, an equal, and not an obstacle, or a mistake, or the enemy. This was the brother Dick used to talk about in that fond, reserved tone of his. 

 

This was who Tim had hero worshiped as a child, and scrambled after night after night, memorizing patrol routes, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with his heart in his throat, trying not to fall behind, pushing himself to climb higher, get closer, taking risk after risk.

 

“’s okay,” Tim was saying before he knew it, leaning forward earnestly, but he couldn’t reach Jason without putting unbearable strain on his injuries. What was he going to do, anyway? Try and hug him? Pat him on the head? So instead, he tucked his arm against his side, hunching over on himself a little as he breathed through the pain, saying in as reassuring of a tone as he could manage, “‘s alright. You said it yourself earlier. The pit… was messing with your head.”

 

“That doesn’t make it okay. I should’ve been able to stop myself. We’re taught to recognize when we’ve been compromised, and-” 

 

“ Jason ,” Tim interrupted, voice sounding rough, and Jason looked up from where he’d been fumbling with a couple rolls of gauze. “I think you’re right. I don’t think that makes it okay, either. But I think you’re being too hard on yourself. I don’t know all the details, but what I do know is you died. You were tortured and then murdered - horribly - and I’m getting the hint that coming back from all that wasn’t a walk in the park, either. So I think you get a pass for being a little messed up from all that.”

 

Jason broke eye contact first, busying himself with the gauze and large bandages. “I,” he started before suddenly switching topics. “I’m going to pack this with gauze for now. Bruce can look it over when he gets back. He does neater stitches, anyway.”

 

Tim watched him pack and wrap the wound for a few moments before his eyes fell closed again. 

 

“ Thank you, ” he heard softly, and Tim just hummed a response. The adrenaline rush was starting to wear off, from Jack, from seeing Jason again, and Tim was exhausted. 

 

He tipped backwards without realizing, and his back touched the back of the chair, the pain jolting him back to stiff alertness with a pained hiss. Hands caught him around his upper arms before he could overbalance himself and he cried out at the pressure it unwittingly put on his shoulder. 

 

“Shit, fuck , sorry-“ Jason was saying, panicking, and he went to lean Tim back into the chair gently but that was a bad idea, and Tim flailed with another desperate cry. His back bumped the chair harder than before and he gasped raggedly, coughing wetly, and tasting iron. He coughed again, hacking harsh and wet, and then he couldn’t stop, and oh god it hurt.  

 

Jason was a dark blur at the edge of Tim’s vision. The sound of a cabinet door opening and slamming shut made Tim flinch, but Jason was only holding a glass and filling it at the sink. He hurried back over, offering it to Tim, and Tim tried to take it but his fingers were purple and aching, and he was trembling, and Jason pushed his hand down gently, saying softly, “Here, let me.”

 

Tim gasped between coughing, trying to quell the fit, having no other choice than to let Jason help. His mangled fingers were pulling at something soft. He flicked his gaze down when he managed to pull in a rattling, crackling breath, rubbing his finger and thumb against the slightly worn but still very soft material of a t-shirt.

 

“Hey, just calm down, okay? You’re okay, Timmy. You’re okay,” a calm, soothing voice was coaching him gently in his ear, sounding like Robin and Tim tried - he really did. 

 

It took an agonizing amount of time, but finally he had stopped coughing, and even managed to take a few small sips of water when the glass was held up for him again. He was sitting with his good shoulder leaning against the back of the chair, his head laying down on top of it, and Tim appreciated the quiet and the breaths he was able to take without coughing.

 

Someone patted the side of his face gently and Tim blearily opened his eyes.

 

“Hey, you with me, Tim?” There was a blur in front of him, coaxing him to awareness with a firm kindness, and Tim closed his eyes again, turning his face away with a wrinkle of his nose because everything hurt and he just wanted it all to stop. But he recognized that voice. He doesn’t remember ever hearing Robin so scared before. “No, no, eyes open, Timmy. No sleeping with head wounds, remember?” 

 

Tim whined, because whoever made that rule was stupid , but slowly eased his eyes open. 

 

Jason smiled at him encouragingly, and Tim picked his head up slowly, looking around the kitchen wearily. 

 

“Hey, there he is,” Jason said in his Robin voice, and Tim could hear the relieved tone. “‘kay, Timmy, I know I said you didn’t have to tell me what happened, but if you did I think that’d help me make sure you’re okay. That cough didn’t sound good. Have you been sick lately? Do you remember taking any hits to the ribs?”

 

Tim shifted slightly, feeling pain even with the minute movement as the raw broken skin on his back rubbed against the fuzzy textured inside of the hoodie. He couldn’t remember taking any hits to the ribs. But he thinks he was lying down when his dad was kicking him. “I feel kinda sick but I think that’s my head. Ribs are just bruised, I think. Not broken.” Was his dad still looking for him? Tim should leave. He should’ve called Dana by now. Bruce would be home from patrol soon. He’d give Tim a med check and then he would expect him to go back home, wouldn’t he? Tim couldn’t go, though. Wouldn’t. He needed to make a phone call before then. Everything hurts so bad, though, even talking .

 

Tim’s breath hitched slightly and it was like steel wool had scrubbed his esophagus raw. “Jason?”

 

“Yeah?” Jason asked, pulling his hand back from Tim’s forehead. Did he think he was sick?

 

“What’s wrong with me?” Tim asked, and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard himself sound like that before. Like a child. His mom would be scolding him if she were here, telling him that his behavior is a reflection of his parents. That he was embarrassing her. But he couldn’t stop tears that sprung to his eyes, and he just wanted the world to swallow him up when it reminded him of the echo of his dad’s mocking tone. 

 

Jason bit his lip, looking pained, “That’s what I’m trying to figure out, bud. But you gotta talk to me.”

 

Tim’s breath hitched, voice wavering, and he finally started to put words to the intrusive thoughts he’d been trying to keep at bay. The thoughts that were an amalgamation of both Tower-Jason and Jack’s anger and accusations. “What if.. What if it wasn’t just the pit? Maybe there’s something so wrong with me th-that others can pick up on it, like, subconsciously? Like you all know how unnatural I am, and how I’ve been lying about it. I don’t belong.”

 

Jason looked lost, confused, and taken aback. “What? No, baby bird, there’s nothing wrong with you, okay? Get that thought out of your head. You’re just concussed, confused, and you’re in a lot of pain right now.”

 

“B-but what if it was me? What if it’s my fault? Because I am a mistake, a-a terrible Robin, a terrible son. ”

 

“What? No. Kid ,” Jason said firmly, and Tim startled at the intensity of it, reflexively trying to lean away from Jason. Jason took a breath, closing his eyes, and when they opened again they weren’t as bright a green as they’d been before. “That's the concussion talking, Tim. There’s nothing wrong with you. Things are just kind of confusing right now. You didn’t - what - you didn’t ask for me to almost kill you, and all that stuff I said at the tower was bullshit . There’s nothing you would or could do to make any of what’s happened to you tonight - or that night at the tower - okay. Nothing. Ever. ”

 

Tim sniffed, coughing slightly, and Jason and he both tensed, but relaxed when it didn’t devolve into another fit. “I-I just wanna be good, and I don’t want it to h-hurt anymore.” Tim admitted shyly in that same tone because it’s Robin and Tim felt so small right now. So wrecked. Helpless. He just wanted someone else to take care of it, to help him. To make all of it stop .

 

“Hey, hey,” Jason’s Robin voice crooned, sounding strained and gentle. “You are good. You’re a fantastic Robin, and Bruce and I -  we’re going  to take care of it. We’ll take care of it, and I’m going to try to get it to stop hurting. What’s hurting, Tim?”

 

“My head ,” Tim gasped. “And don’t touch my back, please. The sweatshirt even kind of hurts as it is if I move wrong. My shoulder when I move or if I bump something and it’s hot . And my throat . Especially when I cough. Or talk. Or swallow.”

 

“Okay, think you can get the hoodie off, Tim? I’ll take a look at your back, and I kind of want to do a rib check, just in case.”

 

Tim shook his head and immediately regretted the action when his head protested the movement. He couldn’t take the hoodie off. It’d been such a chore to get on in the first place. 

 

“I’m sending a message to Bruce. He can pick Leslie up and they can be on their way soon. They’re going to want it off, Tim,” Jason said, phone in hand, quickly typing, and Tim didn’t think. He just acted, kicking the phone out of Jason’s hand. Jason whipped his head up to look at him, green eyes sparking dimly, caught off guard, looking startled, and a little angry. “Hey! What the hell?!”

 

Tim shook his head. “ Don’t get Leslie involved. Please. I’m sorry, but please don’t,” talking was worse than it was before. Leslie would file a report. Leslie would file a report and then the police would be involved and then they would come, and if the police came here then his dad would know that Tim was here. Tim couldn’t let his dad find out where he was.

 

“Fine,” Jason appeased curtly, but Tim could tell from Jason’s tone and expression that he was very much not ‘fine’ with it. He pointed a finger threateningly towards Tim and Tim leaned back, almost going cross eyed trying to look at it. “But I want an injury report, and if there’s anything I can’t handle myself, you’re going to have to follow Bruce or Alfie’s lead on it, and I swear to god if I find out you’re hiding something, I’ll - I’ll - FUCK, I can’t even threaten you properly because what if you take me too seriously? God damn it!”

 

Tim snorted and then immediately regretted it. Jason was already holding the tepid glass of water out to him. Without the coughing fit, Tim was able to help lead it to his mouth but he couldn’t curl a couple of his fingers around it, so Jason helped hold it.

 

“Well, I don’t feel like I’m dying,” Tim said plainly after he’d taken a sip. Jason’s jaw clenched and Tim flashed his purple, swollen fingers at him. “A few broken fingers. Dislocated shoulder, broken wrist, severe cuts and ligature wounds around my wrists and forearms. You already saw my foot… I think I’ve got bruising but, like, everywhere ? I dunno. Hit my head a few times. Hit my chest, like my sternum, a few times, too. My back - um, I think there’s open wounds, along with welts? I fell on a bunch of glass, too. Might have cut myself. I had to like roll in it and I didn’t have a shirt on and my -” Tim cut himself off, motioning for another drink of water, and feeling sick with what he’d been about to say. And my pants were pulled down and my dad’s not the kind of person I thought he was and I really don’t want to think about that right now.

 

Jason breathed harshly out his nose, sighing, and helping him drink before saying, “Alright, I need to see it myself. Sweatshirt needs to come off.”

 

“I’ll need help,” Tim hedged awkwardly. “I’m working with one arm right now, and I barely got it on as is.”

 

“Alright, no problem,” Jason agreed easily.

 

Tim cringed slightly, looking down at his feet. 

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Tim’s shoulders hunched up slightly, still looking at his bare and bandaged feet. “Well, uh, I’m still really cold, and do we have to - here - in the kitchen?”

 

Just the thought of being bare chested and vulnerable in the kitchen made his skin crawl and made him mentally more focused on certain aches and pains over others.

 

“Oh, well, no actually. We could go to that sitting room with the fireplace? I just figured there’d be better lighting in here. Plus the first aid kit is in here, so…” Jason said, and Tim cringed slightly. “But hey, moving to the sitting room is no problem.”

 

“Great, thanks,” Tim perked up, giving Jason a strained smile. He was eager to huddle up next to a roaring fire. 

 

Jason returned the look, saying softly, “Yeah, whatever makes things less shitty for you, babybird.” He stood slowly, asking, “Do you want some help?”

 

“No, I think I’ve got it. I can - there.” Tim hopped off the chair now that he had enough room to move. He hobbled slightly across the tile, heading towards the hall, careful to stay off his bandaged heel. Jason watched warily, seeming ready to move if Tim faltered or fell, but once in the hall, Tim used the wall to help keep his balance.

 

Reaching the sitting room, Tim could tell this was probably where he’d startled Jason when he’d first rang the doorbell. 

 

The overhead light wasn’t on, thank god , but the end table lamp was, casting a warm dim glow over the room. There was a fleece blanket bunched up on the opposite end of the couch, and an open book face down on the coffee table. Coals glowed orange in the fireplace. 

 

Jason came in shortly right behind Tim, arms full of the kit, a pack of wet wipes, and the glass of water. He set it all on the coffee table, asking Tim, “What’ll be more comfortable for you? We could pull the arm chair closer to the fireplace, but I want to be able to see what I’m working with on your back and stuff. Can you twist your hips? Otherwise I can bring a kitchen chair in here?”

 

Tim eyed the soft cushion on the arm chair. “I want to try the armchair.”

 

“Alright, cool,” Jason said, easily, pulling the chair over to the fireplace. 

 

He watched as Tim hobbled up to it and then carefully sat as sideways as he could, still having most of his weight settled on one hip. It pulled at the injuries on his back, but it made things down further not hurt as much, letting Tim put that revolting vulnerability at the back of his mind.

 

As he settled and got comfortable, Tim was content to watch Jason slide the coffee table over and then add a couple more logs to the dying coals.

 

Too soon, Jason was standing at his side, ready to help him peel the sweatshirt off. 

“Maybe just put your arm up, and I’ll start pulling it up?” Jason suggested, and Tim nodded with a harsh exhale. 

 

He had to do this. There was no way around this. No one could treat his injuries if he kept the sweatshirt on. But he also just didn’t want to take it off . He could still feel phantom sensations all over him. 

 

He could still feel hands on him, tugging on his jeans, fingers holding his jaw in a bruising grip - could feel something hard forcing its way into his mouth, roughly knocking, clacking against his front teeth leaving a pain that ached  - a thumb inside his mouth, digging into the back of his jaw, pinching the soft meat on the inside of his cheek - a hand holding him down by the back of the neck, a hand pressing at the base of his lower back - and knees on each side of his legs - a weight of someone pressing, bearing down on top of him, and they’re so heavy - the cold kitchen air on his bare bottom as his dad grabs him and spreads - 

 

“-th me? Tim? TIM!” Jason was saying loudly, and Tim flinched, gasping.

 

“What?” he asked, looking up at Jason, who was standing next to the armchair, looking worriedly down at him.

 

“You have to put your arm up so I can get the sweatshirt off,” Jason reminded him. “Or I could get scissors and cut it off?” 

 

- the cold countertop solid and bruising beneath his breast bone - a hand pressing painfully on his lower back, the base of his spine, hot like a brand - the glint of a knife in the bright kitchen light - his heartbeat, loud and fast, beating to the tempo of a hummingbird’s wings - breaths short and quick, and shallow - twisting and cringing in ways that pulled at his shoulder, trying to avoid the glinting edge of a blade he couldn’t see - 

 

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Tim.” His dad, leaning over him from behind, voice heavy in his ear and Tim can smell the sting of liquor on his breath. Restraining him. Words caustic and filled with vitriol. “Be a good boy and stay still. Wouldn’t want to accidentally cut you.” -

“No, don’t cut it off! ” Tim exclaimed, blinking hard, his voice cracking. He put his arm up, gesturing with his chin for Jason to start pulling at the sweatshirt. “This is fine.” Jason looked disbelieving, and swallowed harshly. 

 

He seemed uncertain, shaken. Nervous and over cautious, treating Tim like he’s a wild animal, and Tim wonders what Jason must see, to treat him so gently, to be so careful around him? “Do you want a moment? We can take a break if you’re uncomfortable or if things are going too fast.” 

 

“No, really, it’s fine,” Tim repeated in earnest, trying to bite back his irritation. Dropping his head, he asked quietly, nervously, “Could you - maybe just - talk? Please? ”

 

Jason relaxed a little, nodding, “Sure thing, babybird. But seriously, just tell me if you need space.”

 

“Okay,” Tim agreed. Finally , he thought, relieved that Jason had regained whatever emotional or mental footing he’d lost before. Jason still seemed a little unsure for another moment, and Tim closed his eyes, trying to ease his breathing, tired of seeing Jason looking at him like that . 

 

Before too long, Jason started talking. “So you might get a kick out of this, but Bruce suggested I go to therapy.” Jason chuckled at Tim’s surprised face. “I know, right? Bruce ‘I am the dark knight’ Wayne suggested - No, wait, Bruce ‘I work alone’ Wayne! Or Bruce ‘I punch bad guys while dressed in a fursuit and I refuse to listen to anyone who uses my name and ‘therapy’ in the same sentence’ Batman Wayne-”

 

“Boo, too long,” Tim said, twitching his good hand into an awkward thumbs down, unable to curl his broken fingers, but Jason seemed to understand what he’d attempted, judging by the startled laughter. 

 

“Rude, but fair. You get the point. So I guess he found his limit. Being murdered and then coming back to life is where he begins to seriously contemplate the dreaded therapy . He set me up with Dinah.”

 

Tim startled slightly when he felt the sweatshirt lifting off his midriff, goosebumps rising on his stomach at the feeling. He had heard Jason get close, but he hadn’t felt him grab the bottom of the sweatshirt. His fist clenched, and he held himself very still as he tried hard to calm himself, but Jason was so close and Tim was having a hard time breathing

 

“You good?” Jason asked, right next to his ear.

 

Tim gave a startled cry, flinching and lashing out in a sloppy, panicked, uncoordinated attack, “Stop! Back off! Don’t touch me! ” His uncoordinated palm strike glanced off of something soft and fluffy - Jason’s hair? 

 

He opened his eyes, flicking his gaze all over the room, surprised to see Jason had backed up several steps from him, hands up. 

 

Jason’s eyes were just as wide as Tim’s, and Tim looked him up and down, looking for a weapon, for the threat - but it was just Jason, in his boot cast, Bruce’s Papa Roach t-shirt, and a pair of worn sweatpants. His socks were Wonder Woman themed. He’d had a gun, though, hadn’t he? Tim’s eyes snapped to Jason’s thigh, where the gun was still holstered.

 

“Tim?”

 

Tim looked away. “Sorry, I-I thought if I closed my eyes, I could just focus on your voice and ignore… just ignore what was happening, but then I-I wasn’t ready, I-I hadn’t heard you move and - I’m sorry , I’m so sorry!” Tim gasped, hand trembling as he brought it up to his face, which was hot under his hand and wet, twisting and crumpling slowly as he turned from Jason, trying to hide the panicked cries in his swollen shoulder. 

 

“Shit, kid, you don’t have to apologize,” Jason’s voice was quiet, soft. “You didn’t hurt me or anything. I was the one that startled you. I’m sorry.”

 

Tim shook his head in disbelief, feeling his shoulders hitch as he tried to pull in a steady breath, but he’d already lost what little composure he’d managed to scavenge since walking through the door here at Wayne Manor. He pressed his hand to his mouth, trying to muffle the sobs as best he could, but it just reminded him of the aches and pains in his face and jaw from - from - Why couldn’t he just stop thinking about what had happened? Why was this still messing with him this badly?! It wasn’t even happening anymore! I-It had hardly even happened in the first place! His dad hadn’t - his dad didn’t actually -

 

Jason swallowed nervously, still having not moved, and said, “Tim? Do you want me to stay over here, or can I come back over to you?”

 

Tim tried to respond, opening his mouth, but all that came out was a strangled sob that made him just want to disappear. He needed to get ahold of himself, why was he falling apart like this?   

 

“Less than half an hour, Tim,” Jason said, tone encouraging, like that was supposed to mean something to him. “Bruce will be home soon, and then you can talk to him, okay?” Jason reminded him gently, and Tim nodded to show he’d heard. 

 

Bolstered by this reaction, Jason continued softly reassuring him from halfway across the room, sounding shaken. “Twenty-six minutes, Tim, and then I can go. I-I’m so sorry , kid.” His voice cracked, and he sounded close to tears himself.

 

“‘S not your fault, Jason,” Tim rasped, and Jason gave a wet, incredulous, laugh that had Tim glaring over at him. 

 

When Jason spoke, his tone was rife with self loathing, and he was glaring at his own hands, “You don’t have to spare my feelings, or whatever this is that you’re trying to do, Timmy. It’s okay if you don’t feel safe around me. It’s understandable, even, considering everything I did that night. You don’t have to lie -”

 

“Shut up! Just shut up!” Tim snapped, startling the both of them, and he was breathing too hard, too fast, and there were tears on his face, and snot clogging his nose, and his throat hurt terribly, and he was being loud, causing a scene, being a nuisance, an embarrassment, but he didn’t care because he was just so angry and so tired and frustrated and done. He wasn’t lying! Why does everyone think that?! What was wrong with him that made everyone think he was?!

 

“I’m not lying! I’m not! Not everything is about you, Jason! I understand you feel guilty, and I’m sorry that you have to deal with that, but that’s a good thing ! It means you’re not an absolute monster! We talked about it, and it wasn’t your fault ! Try and accept that!”

 

Jason looked like he wanted to say something, but Tim shook his head, white knuckling the soft armrest, “There’s people who do things that are so messed up and they don’t even care ! Some people don’t feel guilty because they’re a frickin’ psycho and they’re not who you thought they were! Though, I don’t even know how I could’ve thought I ever knew him in the first place when he only ever bothered to be my dad when it suited him.”

 

He closed his eyes again, focusing on just breathing, and when he looked over next, Jason was looking at Tim with wide, glowing eyes. “What’d your dad do, Tim?”

 

Tim shook his head, giving a sob that rattled in his chest, sticky and stuck in his throat like phlegm. Maybe he was sick. “What didn’t he do? H-he broke my fingers with-with a frickin’ meat tenderizer a-and he-he-” He can’t even say it. He doesn’t want to say it, so he says, “He hit me with-with his fists, and a belt , and the meat tenderizer and he-he-” He can’t say it.  

 

He can’t get the words to scrape out of his aching throat. He tries, but he chokes, and coughs, and he can’t breathe . Before he knows it, he’s coughing until he’s vomiting and it sits thick and heavy and warm on the front of his sweatshirt. He wipes his mouth on the too long sleeve with a shaking hand, and fuck, his chest and throat hurt so bad . He just wishes this nightmare were over.

 

Jason’s making his way to him, talking in a low, calming tone, and Tim can’t hear what he’s saying over the noise of his own violent dry heaving. When he thinks he’s done, Tim blinks blearily over at Jason. 

 

“Sorry,” Tim rasped. “Sorry, I’m sorry. You can - You can go. It’s gross. I’m gross. Sorry.”

 

Jason shakes his head, “It’s fine, Tim. I’m not just gonna leave you, and you’re not gross. The sweatshirt is pretty gross, though. Do you want to try getting it off again?”

 

Tim nods once before deciding that’s a bad idea. Instead, he says, “Yes. Yes, please. It’s fine. I’m fine. If you - if you don’t mind?”

 

As Jason neared Tim, he said. “Of course I don’t mind. I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise. Just try and remember that you’re in one of the sitting rooms at Wayne Manor. Focus on the sounds of the logs in the fire, or the smell - well, maybe skip smell for now. Focus on how warm it is. No one here wants to hurt you, and if anyone tries, they’ll have to go through me.”

 

Tim nodded, sniffling, finding he actually felt better hearing that last part. Even though Jason wasn’t outfitted in any type of body armor and he had the boot cast on his leg, he still cut an imposing figure, a far cry from the malnourished fifteen year old he’d been four years ago. “‘Kay. Okay. Thanks.” 

 

He kept his breathing steady as Jason got close to him. Tim asked, a little desperately, “Um, you were talking about therapy? Did you say Dinah? As in Black Canary?”

 

“Yeah,” Jason said, seeming a little relieved to have something else to focus on while taking a gentle, careful hold of the soiled fabric that settled in large folds around Tim’s waist. “I see her twice a week right now, and I have been for… Well, almost four months, I guess. Bruce was also reaching out to a few contacts about whatever magic is behind the Lazarus pit, hoping we can get a better idea for me to be able to handle things when… Pretty much when I get too green now. Which doesn’t happen too often.” He started easing the sweatshirt up over his head, rolling and folding the mess up inside the cloth in such a way that none of it escaped. “At least, not since Dick shot the Joker, anyway.”

 

Tim startled at the same time Jason’s hand bumped his nose and they both froze. “Shit, sorry! What’d I do? What happened?”

 

“You’re fine,” Tim said, reassuring him quickly and blinking away the urge to roll his eyes. “I just didn’t know about that. Dick shooting the Joker.” He held as still as possible as the fabric peeled off the open wounds on his back. It pulled and pinched slightly as it did so, and Tim grit his teeth, shutting his eyes and breathing through Jason’s quick apologies. “I was still recovering from… the tower, and I guess they didn’t want to stress me out. Plus Jack, my d-dad, had finally been able to come home from the hospital.”

 

“Well, it’s a story I can tell after we’re done checking you over,” Jason promised. “Alright, you’re going under, Timmy, but it’ll be quick, okay?” 

 

Tim’s eyebrows pulled together in confusion, and Jason quickly pulled the bunched up ring of cloth up over his face, completely over his head, and then finished pulling the sleeve off his arm. 

 

“There we go.”

 

Tim tried to keep his breaths slow and even, and tried to keep himself relaxed, but it was hard when Jason’s lips pursed, teeth clenching, and eyes flashing a brilliant Lazarus green in obvious anger. “I-I’m gonna go take care of this, Timmy.” Jason said quietly, and Tim glanced down at the sweatshirt Jason was gripping in trembling hands. “Be right back.”

 

Tim looked down at himself as Jason left the room. He inhaled sharply at the darkening bruise on his sternum. There were a few weeping cuts on his sides, most likely from when Tim had had to roll out of the shattered mess that had been the coffee table. His arms looked even worse, though. His wrists were shredded all the way around, and the damage continued up his arms, stopping a few inches from his elbows. Surrounding weeping cuts were angry welts from where the wire had rubbed but hadn’t broken skin. Blood stained skin above and below the wounds, having changed flow with the movement of his struggle and eventual escape. Some streaks were a dark maroon, almost black, dried and flaking, while others still trickled in a sticky, tacky red.

 

He was startled from his thoughts by two loud, consecutive, boom boom s. Tim looked up, eyebrows drawing together as he tried to figure what that could have been. 

 

It sounded like it’d come from the opposite direction Jason had gone. 

 

A chill settled over him as realization dawned on him. Jason had likely gone deeper into the Manor, looking for a laundry hamper, or maybe the washing machine altogether for Tim’s sweatshirt, meaning the noises had come from the Manor’s front door.

 

Bruce was supposed to be home soon , the scared, desperate part of Tim’s brain where he felt small and vulnerable and shaken pleaded. Bruce wouldn’t be using the front door , though, the calm, Robin part of his brain said. No one in this house would be using the front door at this time. 

 

Boom boom, it came again, and now that Tim was listening for it, he could hear the heavy old door rattle a little in the frame.

 

Maybe Jason had gone outside with the sweatshirt? It was pretty gross. Maybe he’d dumped it in the outside garbage, and got locked out?

 

Tim pushed himself to his feet uneasily, hobbling to the entrance of the sitting room. He peeked around the doorway, looking towards the front entrance and made eye contact with Jason, who was already creeping down the hall on near-silent feet, despite the boot. Jason put a finger to his lips, and Tim nodded. 

 

They both tensed as the sounds came again. Boom boom boom.

 

“ C’mon, Wayne! ” a voice familiar to Tim snarled from the other side of the door, sending chills tingling down his spine. “He’s not yours, he’s my son! Mine. Tim! Timothy, are you in there?”

 

Hearing his name being snarled in that tone again struck his fight or flight instincts, and it took a lot to not duck back into the sitting room. He gripped the frame, trembling with the adrenaline that was starting to kick up in his body again. 

 

“Jason,” Tim hissed frantically. “Don’t answer it!”

 

Jason threw him an incredulous look, eyes still glowing that Lazarus green, and he pointedly lifted- oh god . Please no.

 

“Jason!” Tim whisper-yelled, taking half a step into the hallway, reaching out, “Jason, give me the gun! ”

 

Jason turned back towards him, putting his own hand out. He grabbed Tim’s hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles, he said, “ Hey , hey. Go back to the sitting room, alright? I’ve got this.” He gently turned Tim around, and Tim allowed it, clutching Jason’s hand as they made their way collectively back down the hall. 

 

Jason inhaled sharply once they both crossed the threshold into the dim lighting, uttering an emphatic, “Jesus fuck .” through clenched teeth behind Tim. Tim flinched, keeping a tight hold of Jason’s hand, and Jason squeezed his hand, “Sorry. Just looking at your back and - fuck! ”

 

“Give me the gun,” Tim repeated, reaching for it.

 

Jason took a step back, gun still in hand, drawn and held down at his side, saying almost defensively, “I’m not going to kill him.”

 

“Jason,” Tim pleaded. “I don’t care. I don’t want you to open the door at all! But if you have to, give me the gun! ”

 

“Tim-”

 

Boom boom boom.

 

“What is going on here?” a new voice asked, and both Tim and Jason spun around, Jason stepping in front of Tim.

 

Bruce just frowned at the gun being pointed at his face, putting a hand up very pointedly to push it down so the nozzle was pointed at the floor while he stepped carefully into the room. “Jason...”

 

“Look at what Tim’s dad did to him!” Jason cried, gesturing to all of Tim. “He beat him with a belt, and a meat tenderizer !”

 

“ Tim, ” Bruce looked like he was going to be sick, eyes flicking all over Tim’s exposed torso, and Tim felt himself shrink under the intensity of that gaze. He took a step back, arm coming up to cross protectively in front of him, attempting to cover himself a little. 

“Yeah, well Jason’s going to go and shoot my dad ,” Tim snapped defensively.

Notes:

Okay, so if you look at the chapter count, it's changed again.

What was supposed to be a one or two shot will hopefully only be three chapters? But who knows, the plot bunny might carry the torch into a fourth chapter :/ aghhhh

Thank you everyone, SO MUCH for all the comments, kudos, and bookmarks! I wasn't planning on updating until after the holidays but people seemed rather taken with what I had put up already, requesting some comfort to go with all of last chapter's hurt.

UM. This chapter was hard to write at some points because it was supposed to be just a bit of hurt/comfort between Jason and Tim but then there's like all this background info that kept making itself known, and then Jason needed some comfort, too, I guess.

Anyway, happy holidays, whatever you do or do not celebrate! This time of year can be especially hard for some, so I hope you take care of yourselves.

EDIT as of 2/5/23: chapter has officially been beta-read, cleaned up. I fixed some grammatical errors. Nothing relevant to plot has changed, but there was some continuity issues from last chapter that I noticed when rereading and fixing mistakes. Thanks!

Chapter 3

Notes:

oh my god, I am so sorry this is late. I was planning on this being out last week, but I tested positive for COVID on Monday and then COVID beat my ass for a week like I owed her money~!! Dx

Today's my first day back at work. I work in healthcare and I was symptomatic so I was mandated to be off work for some of my scheduled shifts. So I don't really know what I'm going to do about losing out on those days of pay, lol.

EDIT: 2/6/23 grammar, punctuation, cleaned up the redundancy of some words

I picked up this upcoming week so I've got 7 days of 12 hour shifts to look forward to and I just wanna cry lol.

“Look at what Tim’s dad did to him!” Jason cried, gesturing to all of Tim. “He beat him with a belt, and a meat tenderizer!”

 

“What?!” Bruce looked like he was going to be sick, eyes flicking all over Tim’s exposed torso, and Tim felt himself shrink under the intensity of that gaze. He took a step back, arm coming up to cross protectively in front of him, attempting to cover himself a little. 

 

“Yeah, well Jason’s going to go and shoot my dad,” Tim said urgently.

 

“Hey, I never said that!” Jason defended quickly as Bruce looked between him and Tim. When Bruce’s heavy gaze pulled away from Jason, Jason muttered a mutinous, “Though, an accidental discharge while defending myself and property-”

 

And Tim whirled around to say something - 

 

Something broke. Snapped. Shattered. 

 

He was suddenly aware of the panic and hysteria that had been constricting slowly but tightly around his throat and chest. Something that was only exacerbated by the physical pain he was in. 

 

He struggled to swallow it down, struggled to breathe around it and the boiling hot nausea that rushed in after. The thin veneer of calm - of Robin - that he’d been clinging to like a floatation device popped like a balloon - exploded - splintering like the cheap plastic flashlight he’d left between his house - like the glass bottle on edge of the kitchen island right next to his head - like his laptop on the footboard of his bed - and the lid he’d been struggling to keep on his panic and hysteria was launched into the air and Tim was stuck in a stomach flipping free fall.

 

He couldn’t keep a level head, couldn’t wrangle the rising emotions under control, couldn’t stop the onslaught that burst the thin, delicate layer of calm he’d been hiding under. Robin was out of reach and getting further away, going up - down? - and he couldn’t compartmentalize, couldn’t reason with himself logically. Couldn’t keep his head above the rising panic and hysteria that he hadn’t known had been looming just behind him, couldn’t avoid it as when it finally descended - rose? - upon him. 

 

“If you’re planning for an accident, then that’s premeditation!”

 

Someone yelled, high pitched, and the pain in his throat hurt with it, crackled with it. It felt like his vocal chords were stretching, straining, finally giving up under the strain of whatever was going on with his throat , and there was a pop and crackle of a strangled keening wail that he felt reverberating unsteadily in his throat - was that noise coming from him? - and up was down, down was up, right was both wrong and left - and left was - and Tim - he was - weightless - flying? - falling?

 

With nothing to grab hold of, nothing to slow the descent or soften the landing, he couldn’t even scream, couldn’t brace for it; and when he felt that cresting wave of panic and terror and hysteria hit - it hit hard , it hit like -

 

If it were a real, tangible, physical thing, Tim imagined it would have been like hitting the dirt and hay covered center ring with the same bone snapping crack he’s dreamt about since he was three years old and went to the circus for the first and last time.

 

There was nothing and no one around except for Timothy Drake, a scared and horribly injured teenager, and scared and horribly injured any-agers don’t always think rationally. Everything was moving fast, spiraling wildly out of control and Tim had to do something!

 

“You can’t just shoot him! Please, you can’t just - I already buried my mom! I planned her funeral and dad wasn’t even there! I did that. Alone .” His voice trembled and cracked with terror and frustration, and he’d never felt smaller - except for maybe on the kitchen floor with his dad’s weight pressing down on him, and his dad’s hands on him, pulling, tugging, squeezing, spreading - 

 

He just wanted things to make sense again. Please, can this all go back to how it was before? Please, can this night have never happened? Please, can his dad go back to ignoring him with his mom while they explored the world and left him behind? Left him alone? 

 

He was babbling and crying, words flowing from numb lips between great gasping breaths, and he was almost certain he was saying aloud far more than he should be. 

 

He was saying far more than he’s ever said before because he’s supposed to take care of himself. That’s what he does. He’s always taken care of himself. 

 

It’s one of the few things people like about him. It’s one of the things that makes him useful . 

 

But Jason had popped the stitches of an infected wound and no one was prepared for the onslaught of rot that was seeping out. Words were wet and tasted like iron. Talking hurt, but they needed to understand - Tim needed to tell them, needed to explain - 

 

“He said he wanted to start over, when he woke up. He said he wanted to be my dad, talked about - he talked about really trying, wanting to get to know me, a-and do things , but then he got busy and he hasn’t - he hasn’t been coping well and we’re still trying to figure each other out, learning how this is supposed to work, and he - he just needs to stop drinking, get some help - m-maybe anger management? - ”

 

It was cold and he was shaking, shivering from the cold sweat that broke out on his neck and down his lower back, making his stomach churn and bile sting at the back of his throat, and his throat burned, but he kept talking, kept going despite Bruce’s measured, even, “Tim.” 

 

Tim barreled on, kept going even though he was shivering and shaking, shaking so much he felt like he could shake apart. “I know it’s bad right now, but he’s still my dad! He’s never been good at it, but he was trying, and he can try again! He just needs time - I need time - to get over this - and then we can smooth things over and things will be better. I just have to say the right things! H-he doesn’t understand because he’s old school , old fashioned, and he’s just very stubborn and set in his ways, a-and he won’t listen to me. Not when he thinks I lied, which I didn’t! But from his point of view-”

 

“Tim,” Bruce said again, trying to gently cut him off, but Tim shook his head, gasping, sniffing, coughing, and the hairs on his arm and scalp stood upright, and seemed to prickle with an unrestrained energy. He felt weightless and light headed with how out of control everything was, how it was all spiraling, but if Bruce and Jason just listened - 

 

“He’s different now, since the accident, from the trauma, from losing mom. It all really messed with him.  At least, that’s the only thing that makes sense! He wasn’t around much before but I would’ve known if - I mean, he’s always had a little bit of a temper, but parenting is stressful . That, coupled with the drinking and his recovery, we were fighting but that’s normal because teenagers are hard! But I never thought - he’s never been good with this stuff in the first place and he’s probably not aware of things like parenting help books and forums - and I could probably have thrown him a bone or something, or did the things he wanted to do instead of hanging around and waiting for him to have the time and energy to do what I wanted, a-and I could be doing a lot better at school and with showing respect anyway- ”

 

“Tim!” Bruce says again, voice still a low rumble, but more insistent and Tim blinks, gasps, finally looking up from his bare and bandaged feet to meet Bruce’s weighted gaze. 

 

When he sees Bruce’s face, he’s unable to stop the flinch, his body reacting like he’s been struck by the belt again because there’s anger wrinkling Bruce’s brow, rage smoldering in that gaze, and a familiar serious downturn of the corners of his mouth and Tim’s fucked up again . Bruce’s arms and shoulders are hard lines of muscle, tensing with the effort of trying to hold back the disbelief and confusion of both Bruce and the Batman. Of trying to hold back the interrogation of both a father , a mentor, and a hero, and that’s - a lot -

 

The breath stutters in Tim’s chest, heart skipping a beat, and he wheezes slightly as he drags his gaze away from Bruce, looking at Jason and he doesn’t know why he didn’t expect what he found there . 

 

The same expression is mirrored on Jason’s face except it’s Lazarus green and even more threatening than Bruce “The Batman” Wayne because Lazarus means severed heads in a duffle bag, a night limping away from him in Titans Tower, and there’s a loaded gun on his hip, and oh god, no - please, don’t - 

 

There’s a buzzing that sounds like Jason, like the Jason Tim’s talked to tonight, like Robin Jason. 

 

“Hey, hey, Timmy! Calm down, kid. I hear you. I’m listening. I’m not going to shoot him-”  - still, it’s not forgotten that Jason Todd came back from the dead with an itchy trigger finger. Tim feels it like an ache, as if the broken bones and healed over wounds from that night at the Tower were reminding him of what could be. The phantom aches of old injuries, of what has happened, punches the air from his frozen lungs. He stands there, mouth gaping, gasping for air, for the breath that’s been stolen from him. The buzzing gets a little louder so it’s heard over the sounds of Tim’s panic. “-at me, Tim. It’s fine, okay. See the gun? Look, I’m-”

 

“Don’t wave it around, Jason ,” Bruce says, but that’s the Batman voice, and Tim tenses, shoulders halfway up to his ears and he waits for the cacophony of yelling or fighting or gunshots. But the glint of metal doesn’t move from where Jason’s holding it, even when Bruce says from somewhere Tim’s not looking, “Jus t put it away .”

 

Tim can hear the irritation in the response when Jason starts talking, but it’s nowhere near the explosive rage he’d expected, “ The safety is on. Don’t get your bat panties twisted, Bruce. I know what I’m doing! Tim? Tim, it’s okay. Timbo - look at the gun - this is the clip. I’m discharging the clip. See the bullets? I’m going to give the clip to Bruce. Bruce? Bruce, take the fuckin’ clip -”  

 

Tim watches as Bruce finally reaches out and takes it, cautiously holding it in the flat of his hands, away from himself. Almost, nervously , Tim notes, before Jason’s grabbing at his attention again. “Okay, so no clip. Let me show you the chamber. Here, look. Nothing in the chamber. See?”

 

Tim sees. But he can also easily imagine the bullet that could have taken his dad’s life in there. He thinks he understands what Jason’s trying to do, and he appreciates it, but the sight of any gun in Jason’s hands still isn’t exactly comforting. He can still remember the phantom pain of the bullet he’d taken that night at the tower. 

 

Still, Tim’s calmed down somewhat, and hopes that’s that. Hopes that’s the end of his little breakdown, hopes Jason will - Jason will do - something . Do whatever Jason does that doesn’t involve shooting people or threatening to shoot people.

 

But, no. Because Jason holds the empty gun out to Tim the same way someone might offer an item of comfort, like a blanket or jacket and Tim can only blink at the absurdity of the situation. 

 

Before he knows it, his arm moves and comes up before he’s even finished processing everything, and then he’s taking the gun from Jason. Even without the clip, it still feels heavy. It’s the first time he’s ever held a gun and it makes his heart pound. His broken fingers ache with the strain of holding it, and the longer he does, the heavier it feels.

 

Heavy the headsman’s ax. Heavy like the headstone of a grave, and now Tim understands why Bruce had looked so uncomfortable holding the clip. 

 

He turns and tosses it aside just as the pounding at the front door picks up again. Tim doesn’t jump this time. Somehow, he finds the strength to school his expression and attempt to steady his breathing. Trying to suck it in slowly, the steadying breath is anything but. It itches the back of his throat, causing him to start fighting the oncoming coughing fit. 

 

He tries looking to make eye contact with Bruce, with Batman, wanting him to wait, please before heading off to the front door because Tim just needs to explain. But Bruce is dropping the clip to the floor with a heavy thunk and turning away, fists clenched at his sides.

 

Tim panics, tries to speak, but he can’t get the words out. He takes a step after Bruce, but Jason intercepts him, saying, “Let him handle it, babybird. That was some panic attack you had there. How ‘bout you sit down?” Tim shakes his head, coughing, and pushes at Jason’s shoulder when he gets close to help him over to the chair. It’s futile, though, as Jason pays no mind to his protests, and is easily leading him over to the armchair with gentle hands. Tim can’t even bring himself to glare at Jason, can’t get the control over his body he needs to voice his opinion. 

 

He can’t do anything but watch as Batman stalks out of the sitting room, all sharp edges and hard lines of tension, anger clinging to him like a shroud.

 

Jason eases him down onto the chair, and Tim can’t help but sit stiffly. The pain worsens from - well - and he cringes in on himself, trying to center most of his weight on his hip but it’s difficult as he tries desperately to get ahold of the coughing fit. 

 

Jason has a hand on his shoulder and he’s using his Robin’s voice on Tim, but Tim’s not paying attention, desperately trying to strain his ears to find out what’s happening at the front door.

 

He gets a handle on himself again after practically coughing up a lung, tears dripping down his face, snot sticking to his upper lip, and breathing raggedly with a faint wheeze in the back of his throat. 

 

Jason’s still absent mindedly rubbing Tim’s good shoulder, but he’s gone quiet and turned towards the hall, head bowed slightly as he, too, is listening intently as the front door opens. 

 

“ Finally! ” They hear Jack snap, sounding irritated. He’s never been a patient person. That, at least, Tim has known almost all his life. 

 

“Don’t you have staff on hand, Wayne? Do you know how long I’ve been standing out here?” his dad asked, words still sounding thick and clumsy from the alcohol he’d drank earlier, and Tim tenses because his dad’s here and Tim - Tim still needs to make a phone call. He needs to get out of town. Get away from his dad so they can both calm down and he can come up with a plan on how to handle things.  

 

Bruce is going to have questions, and Tim’s not sure yet how he’s going to handle that because it won’t be like when other people ask. 

 

Tim pulls his knee away when Jason gently pokes him. He looks up, and sees Jason crouched next to him, tense, keeping a cautious, weary eye on the hallway. His eyes are dark and hard, face carefully blank but there’s a thousand words in the wrinkle on his brow and the hard corners of his mouth. 

 

When Jason speaks, he speaks with intensity, with conviction, with promise, and says, “ Nothing you did or didn’t do could justify any of this.” He gestured to all of Tim for the second time that night, and Tim is getting really tired of that. “For some reason, you seem to think you should’ve seen this coming. But, Tim, even Batman can’t predict the actions of unstable assholes. The only person who could do that  would have to be able to see into the future, or be an actual mind reader. What your dad did was fucked. Everything you were mentioning earlier was just excuses. There’s no excuse for this. It doesn’t matter what you said or did beforehand.”

 

Tim doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to talk about this right now. He doesn’t want to talk about anything right now. Besides, Jason still doesn’t have the full picture. Tim knows Jason’s history, knows a little bit about what Jason’s life was like before he’d met Bruce. But this isn’t like that. Right? Right?!

 

It’s just because of everything that’s been going on. If he hadn’t been drinking so much tonight, or if I’d have just gone upstairs right away. Or if he and Dana weren’t fighting, or if I’d never gone on out with Bernard to begin with... None of this would have happened!

 

Jason must sense his doubt because he blows out a frustrated breath. “Hell, you’ve seen all the shit I’ve done since I came back, right? Do you think Bruce should work me over like your old man did you?”

 

That - that was ridiculous - what the hell?! Bruce would never - Tim glared at Jason heatedly, unable to put his thoughts and what he was feeling into words. 

 

Jason just raised a challenging eyebrow at him, and Tim had to look away, gaze darting back to the hallway because Tim had seen that look before. He’d seen it through a camera lens on the nights he’d chase Batman and Robin around Gotham. Hell, he’d given people that look while offering to walk them home, or find them a safe shelter. Street kids, battered men, women, and children when they’re nervous to accept the help, to go to the Wayne Foundation shelter, to find an alternative to their current shitty situation. 

 

He never thought he’d be on the receiving end of it. 

 

“I’m serious, Tim,” Jason said insistently, and Tim can feel the look, and it sets his teeth on edge. “I’m pretty confident that whatever your dad was angry about can’t beat the absolute shitstorm I brought to Gotham when I came back. I was drunk with rage from the pit and half out of my mind, thanks to Talia’s machinations. Batman and Nightwing did what they had to, and no one would’ve faulted either of them for locking me up at the end of the day and walking away. But they didn’t do that. They were there, trying to talk to me, get me to see past all the green. Bruce was there, trying to figure out what happened, trying to bring me home and get me help. Even though I was,” his voice cracks, and Tim pulls his gaze from the hallway, looking at Jason, who’s looking down at his clenched fists. 

 

When he continues, he’s taken a deep breath, steadied himself, but his words are still thick with emotion,  “Even though I was saying awful things to both of them. Dick was trying, too. I didn’t even think he liked me when I was alive. But he’d missed me. Really missed me, and he wanted to help, and he wanted me to come home. I didn’t deserve any of that. They didn’t owe me anything, especially not after what I did to you. We all know I didn’t come back as the same kid that died while wearing the tights.”

 

Tim listened, and tried to pitch in, wanting to reassure Jason that of course he deserved the help he was being given. Jason had been Robin, he’d been a hero, and maybe even more importantly, he’d been Bruce’s son. His family. Bruce loved him, Alfred loved him, and of course Dick loved him, too. That they never stopped. Tim wasn’t sure Jason knew how much he’d been missed, about how much his death had hurt them. How greatly they’d all been affected by it. 

 

He wanted Jason to hear from him about how he’d seen first hand how Jason’s death almost killed Bruce, how it had almost destroyed Batman. He wanted to tell Jason about how much the guilt and regret had been - and most likely still was - eating Dick alive. 

 

There was so much he wanted to say at that moment, and he didn’t know where to start. 

 

Still, he opened his mouth and he wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but he wasn’t prepared for the crackling, rasping breath that had Jason’s brow furrowing with concern.

 

“I’ll get you more water,” Jason said softly, hands on his knees and standing smoothly. “You should probably have an ice pack for your hand, too. I’ll... grab a few.” He seemed reluctant to leave, but Tim’s relieved nod had him moving. Water sounded awesome. Jason said just before he left the room, “Any man can be a father, Tim. But not every man deserves to be.”

 

And that was - well, Tim could dissect what Jason was inadvertently revealing to Tim about where he and Bruce stood later. Right now, though, the words dug like burrs beneath his skin, catching and holding fast with a stinging, burning insistence that lanced his brain, taunting him. Any man can be a father. Not every man deserves to be. The words made Tim want to curl up and be left alone for a little while. They stung . 

 

He knew where Jack fell in that statement. Which was why Jason had said it. But it didn’t mean Tim couldn’t be upset about it. He watched Jason leave the room with furrowed eyebrows, hating the way the older boy had made him feel with just a few words. Hating how right he was.

 

Because Jack had done horrible, terrible things tonight. But - what? It’s not like he’s ever been much of a father in the first place. Not like other fathers, and not even like the father he told Tim he’d wanted to be. Because that was all talk and Jack had yet to actually do the things he’d said he would do - but there were extenuating circumstances, weren’t there? 

 

Grief does a number on a person. It’s not unheard of for someone to lose their mind over it! But what about before that? He’s never cared about me. Not in the way people are supposed to care about their family, anyway. He cares more about other people - strangers, even! -  and how they look at him - at us -  more than he cares about me. Tim sniffed, wiping roughly at his eyes and nose with his mangled hand. 

 

The pain from pressing too hard and disturbing his injuries helped him focus, and helped distract him from the pit of emotional turmoil he’d been helplessly treading water in. Nearly drowning in. He couldn’t do that again. He needed to stay focused. Stay alert. He could break down later . 

 

Waiting for Jason to come back, Tim returned his attention back to trying to decipher what was happening at the front door.

 

Bruce’s voice was a cool rumble, deeper with what most would assume to be sleep but Tim easily identified as Batman just beneath the surface. 

 

Not as familiar to Tim, he could also hear the disdain in Bruce’s voice. “It’s almost three in the morning, Jack. You’ll have to understand that no one here was expecting company. Is there a reason you’ve come by at this time?”

 

Oh, god, Tim thinks, hardly daring to breathe. He can’t remember ever hearing someone speak to Jack so frankly. It made him nervous, wondering if Bruce had any intentions of initiating a confrontation. Please don’t! What’s he thinking? Just get him out of here!

 

“I’m looking for my boy,” Jack said flatly in a cutting, unfamiliar tone that had Tim stiffening and inhaling sharply. Because that tone was new. He’d never heard his dad use it or those words when referring to him before. At galas and parties, it was always ‘my son’ or ‘kiddo.’ 

 

When he was younger, it had been ‘scamp’ on special occasions. But never ‘boy.’ And never in that tone. Like he was mentally distancing himself from Tim. There was nothing kind in the way he spat it out. Like he wasn’t talking about looking for a person , just a belonging or a thing - 

 

“You’re damaged goods now, Timmy!”   - 

 

“At least your mother didn’t have to know you as this unnatural, disgusting, thing you are.” - 

 

”No one has ever wanted you! Ever!” - 

 

“I think you’ve earned a timeout to think things over. Figure things out.” -  

 

“You’ll learn this lesson one way or another, and It’ll be the last thing you ever do!” - 

 

“-know he’s rather fond of coming over here,” his dad is saying when Tim comes back to himself, tuning into the world around him once more. He blinks, and he sees Jason’s paused in the hall just outside the room, water and ice packs in hand, staring down the hallway with an indiscernible look on his face thanks to the shadow of the hallway. “I thought I’d check here myself with you first before getting the police involved. I’ll have to report him as a runaway,” his dad is saying, talking loud enough that Jason probably wouldn’t have had any trouble hearing him all the way from the kitchen. 

 

He’s doing that for me, Tim realized. Jack knows I’m here.  

 

Having some more context, Tim could hear his dad talking with some sort of underlying intention or hidden motive, like a nasty promise or a thinly veiled threat, and Tim’s thoughts and heart raced as he tried to conjure what his dad was planning.

 

It didn’t take long for him to figure out. 

 

Running away in itself wasn’t a crime, but it would garner attention. A report would be filed and steps would be taken to follow up on the report, especially when concerning a minor. Especially concerning a wealthy minor. 

 

His dad wasn’t afraid to use money as a means to an end. Had never been afraid to do so. Hiring private investigators or tipping the paparazzi and media off in the right manner weren’t out of the realm of possibilities. Money makes waves. People would sit outside Wayne Manor. Tim’s school would be under scrutiny. People would be actively looking for him.

 

All it would take would be one picture of Tim with either Dick or Bruce. Even just proof Tim was on the Wayne property could be enough for his dad or the state to press charges.

 

Aiding in the concealment of a minor who had run away is a punishable offense. The thought of Bruce facing repercussions because of this whole situation made Tim feel ill. 

 

He didn’t feel comfortable asking Bruce to stick his neck out for him in such a way. Sure, if they were caught, Bruce would never sit jail time and at most he’d likely be fined, to which Tim would just pay him back. 

 

But there was so much more at risk than just a fine. A scandal could affect Bruce’s company, his livelihood, and by extension his family . Dick and Jason. Even Alfred wouldn’t be safe. Public opinion would take a hit. Share prices could go down. People might think twice about signing a contract with Bruce’s company over the scandal. Everything Jack was afraid of, he would make a reality in a heartbeat for the Waynes, and more. Because even Batman and Robin would be affected , Tim realized with horror, imagining strangers traipsing through the manor.. His heroes would be compromised.  

 

With their lives put under the microscope like that, it would affect how often the heroes were able to get out. Which would put lives at risk. Of course, his dad didn’t know all of that . But none of that was an acceptable risk. 

 

Bruce does a good job lying. He doesn’t take the bait, and he’s a good actor, easily rolling his annoyed tone into faux concern and surprise, saying, “Tim’s gone? Gosh, the last time he came around was for the internship, and that was over a week ago.” He sounds regretful, but he lies with such an easy confidence that even Tim might have believed it if he hadn’t been having a near panic attack in what was definitely Wayne Manor’s sitting room. 

 

Jason had had enough of spying by the doorway. He comes to Tim with water and ice packs, putting them on the mantle of the fireplace next to Tim’s knee. He mouths ‘stay here’ to Tim, and by the time Tim thinks to do anything, Jason has already crept back over to the doorway to the hall, peeking his head around.

 

Tim opens his mouth, but words fail him again, and all that comes out is a quiet, breathy squeak. 

 

Jason’s already gone and Tim’s frozen in place. Too afraid to try other methods of getting Jason’s attention, lest he attract the attention of his father. 

 

Too afraid to move after Jason because he’s not ready to face his dad.

 

“He’s a good kid, Jack. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. I’m sure he’s safe and staying away from trouble.” Jack just made an angry, frustrated noise, but Bruce just continued, giving nothing away,.“You know, if there’s anything I can do to help Tim, just let me know.” 

 

Tim heard his dad’s quiet, sullen acknowledgement, and he hoped that would mean the conversation would peter out and his dad would leave, but Bruce had other ideas, “I know Tim isn’t exactly an open book, Jack. But when he stayed with us, it was obvious how much he worried about you. He was constantly looking for updates from the hospital, trying to prepare for when you would wake up. He threw himself into learning about your condition, looking to make your transition home as easy as possible in any way he could. It was incredible, seeing someone so young take on all that responsibility. He didn’t even think to ask for help. Probably never crossed his mind, what with everything else he was thinking about at the time,” Bruce said. “Then again, he’s always been rather mature and independent for his age.”

 

Jack snorted derisively and Tim could hear the sneer on his face, “Mature and independent? If that’s what you want to call meeting expectations, then sure. Tim knew he needed to be on his best behavior over here because anything less would have been unacceptable. It was embarrassing enough, those stories they kept running about Tim being on his own, like he has some sort of mental or physical deficit making him incapable of feeding himself or shitting in the toilet. He’s fuckin’ fifteen for chrissakes!”

 

“He’d lost his mother,” Bruce rumbled pointedly after a beat of shocked silence. His words were thick with disbelief. “His father was in a coma . Jack, that was a horrible thing to happen to you. On top of losing your wife, I can’t imagine how hard and traumatic that was. But Tim’s a kid . No one should be alone after something like that.”

 

“He would’ve been better off,” Jack snapped stubbornly.

 

“In what way would that have been better?!” Jason suddenly exploded, evidently deciding to join the conversation, and Tim flinched at the sudden volume.

 

If his dad was surprised at the sudden appearance of a second person, he certainly didn’t sound it in his response. “Rescued another one off of some street corner, Wayne? You and your bleeding heart. Looks older than the ones you usually take in, although it’s kinda hard to tell in the dark. Definitely bigger than the others.” Politeness was paper thin and sodden with ugly implications, the weight of which tore effortlessly through Jack’s charade. 

 

The chortle Jack gave, as if he and Bruce were sharing an inside joke, was weak and lackluster at best. Tim could hear the smile in Jack’s voice, pictured it stretching unnaturally stretching across his father’s face, edges eerily sharp because of the rage poking through from underneath. “Always in the right place at the right time, ready to shove a silver spoon or something in any brat’s mouth as long as he’s willing to polish it with his tongue.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“At least, that’s what the tabloids say , anyway,” Jack said airily, like they were just catching up current events instead of whatever Jack was trying to accomplish. “You know how the press likes to take something out of context and run with it.” Jack used his gala laugh, the one that Tim knew meant he wasn’t laughing with you. 

 

“Anyway, you’re sure you don’t have an extra black-haired blue-eyed boy in there? I thought I saw him headed this way...” his dad said, tone deceptively light and doing a complete turnaround back to the friendly schmoozing his dad was known for. It didn’t make sense. Why was his dad dragging this out? Why was he wasting his time? Why was he still - oh .

 

- and Tim was stumbling to his feet, pushing himself up with the help of the arm on the armchair. His sweaty palm slid right off the decorative wood detailing, his slick skin squeaking across the expensive wood finish. He stumbled, his full weight going down on one knee that had certain injuries making themselves known once again. 

 

He bit his lip against and tried to strangle the pained keen at how sore things felt and how the movements had made them burn , made them feel like they were resisting that insistent, violating pressure all over again - of a hard wooden edge, unresisting, unrelenting, - and there was the phantom feeling of pressure at his lower back and a large weight straddling his waist and Tim ached with the effort of his struggle to just get away - the violation of those hands spreading him apart - the burn and sting that carved through him when his dad forced his way inside without warning  -  and tears sprung to his eyes reflexively and he leaned his good shoulder back against the armchair that was now at his back, clamping his hand over his mouth, trying to calm and quiet himself, but unable to stop the mantra in his head. 

 

He knows I’m here. He knows I’m here. How-? What gave it - oh. Oh no. The outside light. It was the outside light. It had to be. He knows. Jack knows. He knows.

 

It was off when his dad had passed by the manor while Tim was still struggling to make the trip between the two properties. 

 

When his dad had come back around with the car, he must’ve noticed at some point that it had turned on from when Jason had greeted Tim, and when Tim and Jason had gone to the kitchen, leaving it on . Tim should’ve known . He’d even double checked the road outside to see if his dad’s car was on the street before turning to follow Jason into the kitchen. How did I miss the light being on?!

 

There were footsteps headed this way, and Tim squeezed his eyes shut. He could hardly breathe and his chest and throat throbbed with every rasping breath that burned its way up and out. The floor creaked by the threshold of the open doorway into the sitting room, and then someone else entered the room and got real close all of a sudden. 

 

There’s a gentle hand on his knee, and a voice whispering, “Hey, hey, Timmy-”

 

“Oh, I’m sure,” Bruce responded coolly around the corner, and Tim zeroed in on that. Does Bruce realize that Jack knows ?! It wouldn’t be Bruce’s fault if he didn’t know because he didn’t know Jack like Tim did. 

 

He doesn’t recognize his tells, doesn’t know how to read in between the lines, the pauses of silence, the tension in his hands. He doesn’t know how to read his dad’s mood in his actions, how to gauge how much time his dad needs in between one thing and the next, doesn’t know how to wait for an appropriate opening to change the subject or ask for something. He doesn’t know that sometimes you have to wait days, even weeks for that opening. Doesn’t know his anger like Tim does, how it’s best to just nod his head, do what he’s told even if he’s wrong or if it doesn’t make sense . 

 

Tim’s not sure if anyone knows his dad the way he’s come to know him now.  

 

“Tim, breathe ,” Jason says quietly, right next to him.

 

Bruce is talking and his tone is firm. Final. “Nothing of yours is here, Jack. Now, if you’ll excuse me-”

 

“So you wouldn’t mind inviting your neighbor in to have a look around, would you? Help calm the mind of a worried father?” Jack interrupted, and Tim hated how reasonable Jack was trying to sound. 

 

He always did this. Both him and his mom, acting like everyone around them were the unreasonable ones.

 

Like it was Tim who was being unreasonable about how often he was alone. 

 

Why would we pay for a cook while we’re gone when you can work the stove just fine? You do know how to heat soup up on the stove, don’t you, Tim? 

 

You need to start learning how to be on your own now. You’re getting big, and soon you’ll have to do everything by yourself, Tim. When you make the money we do, you can hire all the staff you like. 

 

But you need to develop these skills first. What if you can’t keep a personal assistant, and they quit before they’ve collected the dry cleaning? It’s a parents’ job to prepare their child for the world, and that is what we’re doing. 

 

You won’t learn anything, having the nanny doddering around, holding your hand and doing everything for you so you don’t have to lift a finger. Nanny’s were never meant to stick around forever. 

 

You’re not lonely, dear. You’re just bored. There are plenty of kids in your grade who have parents who would be elated at a chance to close a deal with us. Talk to them . 

 

Jason was getting up, moving away quickly with a soft, heartfelt swear, and Tim was started enough that he opened his eyes just in time to see Jason grab the empty gun from the floor, ducking back out into the sparsely lit hallway. No, don’t!

 

The thick, frigid tension just around the corner was broken up by determined, heavy footfalls. Tim nearly choked at the urgency in Jason’s stride, nearly choked at how palpable the tension out there had become. 

 

The silence was heavy, crushing, and Tim found he couldn’t react when Jason broke it with the cli-click of the gun’s hammer being cocked back. He tries to control his breathing, tries to remind himself that the clip is still on the floor, in the room with him, and that the chamber is still empty. 

 

But it’s hard when he’s imagining what might come next, tensed and already bracing himself for  - totally, yes, definitely - okay, fine - maybe it kind of was the premeditated sort of accident, Mr.Gordon, but it wasn’t their fault! Please, I can explain! - a certain kind of accident. 

 

But it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a thickly drawled, unmistakably East side Gotham accent, “How ‘bout’chu come back with a fuckin’ warrant?”

 

Jack Drake laughs sardonically, and Tim wonders if his dad really is crazy or if he’s just stupid. “You just showed your hand, kid. Put the gun away. The adults are talking. Besides, I left mine in the glovebox because I was confident you people might be persuaded to see reason. Now, Mr. Wayne? Father to father? I’m just trying to take care of my kid.”

 

“No, I think you’ll have to come back with a warrant, Mr. Drake,” Bruce said.

 

Jack snorted derisively, saying, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You wouldn’t let me have a look for myself because he’s here .” The tension had come back with a vengeance, heavier than before, and when Bruce spoke, it was all Batman.

 

“You need to leave. It’s three in the morning, you clearly have been drinking. You’re drunk and disorderly and if you don’t get back in your car and drive away right now, you will also be trespassing.”

 

“Oh, so that’s how you want to play it? Fine . I’m leaving. But you can leave the light on because my friends with the badges will be back bright and early with that warrant. I went to school with Judge Faden, Bruce. I have his personal number on my phone. We like to golf together.” His dad openly threatened, and Tim just wanted him to go , please, just go!

 

“ Go , Mr. Drake,” Bruce said, echoing Tim’s thoughts with a firm, stern demeanor.

 

“I’m going!” his dad yelled. “But I’ll be back! You hear me, Tim? Tim! When you’re ready to talk about this like the level headed, intelligent young man I know you can be, I’ll be here!” 

 

The door slammed shut, and Tim could hear his dad, yelling outside still, voice growing fainter as he moved away from the front door. “I’m not giving up on you, Tim! You’re my son . My only son. You’re the only thing I have left of your mother! You really think I’d be willing to let you just walk out on this family that easily? You might not want to try and make this work, but I can try hard enough for the both of us!”

 

“Jesus fuck,” Jason cursed emphatically when they couldn’t hear Jack yelling anymore, and Tim heard Bruce make an acknowledging noise. There was the noise of his dad’s car starting up outside, and Jason said, “Come on, I’ll watch him leave, Bruce. Go check on Tim.”

 

Bruce’s footsteps were measured and a little louder than usual as he approached the front sitting room, like he was being careful not to startle Tim. 

 

Tim could feel the vibrations in the floor, the softness of the carpet under his hand, and next thing he knew, Bruce’s large frame was crouching down next to him out of the corner of his eye. But Tim didn’t jerk away because he could hear Bruce’s breathing, which was a little too fast, and he could smell his shower gel.

 

“He’s gone, Tim. Jason’s watching the front door. It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

 

That was good.

 

“Tim? Buddy? Do you think you can open your eyes for me? Tim?”

 

Oh. Tim hadn’t realized he’d closed them again. 

 

Bruce looked worried. Concerned. Wrong-footed. He was doing something weird, too. Something new and unfamiliar to Tim. His upper body was kind of leaning away from Tim, and his arms and shoulders were carefully relaxed, turning his usual sharp and imposing stature into something smaller, rounder, and somewhat soft looking. The strangest thing was the way Bruce had positioned his hands. His palms faced upwards and hands resting in plain view on top of his knees. 

 

Bruce’s eyes were wide and a little too bright with something awful and vulnerable that looked too much like grief and guilt. It was almost as if Bruce was trying to appear smaller, which was ridiculous because it didn’t change the fact that his upper arm was probably the same circumference as Tim’s head.

 

“Tim?” Bruce said again, so softly, as if he were afraid to startle him, and Tim blinked at him slowly.

 

Oh, Tim realized. His thoughts were thick and slow like molasses. This must be Bruce trying to look as non-threatening as possible. He didn’t have a lot of practice doing that outside of the airheaded Brucie act. No wonder it looked so awkward and sad. 

 

Tim should laugh. He probably would have had to smother a giggle into his hand if the situation were different because that hunchback position has to be killing Bruce’s back, and all Bruce had succeeded in doing is making himself look pathetic and exhausted. As the situation was, though, the giggle Tim tried to smother was actually a sob. 

 

His vision blurred, but he could still see Bruce’s expression shudder as Tim began to crumple. This wasn’t the long, terrible, and seemingly never ending free fall Tim had experienced earlier. 

 

No, this was the final plunge. 

 

His lashes hit his cheeks and that allowed the tears to fall.

 

“Oh, Tim, I’m so sorry,” Bruce said, and it was the nicest maybe anyone’s ever talked to Tim in a really really long time, and for some reason that just makes him cry harder.

 

He tried to say something, but there was just the sticky part of a too dry mouth trying to form words with a sticky tongue. No sound came out except for a shuddering gasp that nearly had him coughing again, and Bruce was gesturing encouragingly  to the glass of water Jason had brought him. It was still sitting on the fireplace mantle, the glass slick with condensation.

 

Tim reached out for it, and Bruce leaned forward, ready to catch it in case Tim dropped it or it slipped from his few working fingers. He took a small sip, and tears sprung to his eyes as he tried several times to swallow.

 

Finally, he set the glass roughly on the mantle again, managing to croak, “Why? You didn’t do anything.”

 

“Exactly,” Bruce agreed. “I didn’t know. I didn’t see it. This was going on right under my nose, right next door, and it’s gone on too long. This will not happen again.”

 

Tim gave a disbelieving snort. “He… likes to drink. It’s how he copes with… everything.”

 

Bruce looked staunchly determined and his words were firm but gentle. “You’re not not going back until it’s been proven your house can be a safe, nurturing environment for you. And even then, it’ll be on your terms. I can file for emergency placement. I can have a whole team of the very best lawyers, all personally vetted by Oracle, on my payroll in a few hours.” Bruce spoke briskly, but chose his words carefully. He was making direct eye contact with Tim, speaking with promise. “Tim, what your father did, there is nothing you could have done to warrant this treatment. Do you understand me?”

 

“I might be gay,” Tim blurted hoarsely.

 

Bruce blinked at him, taken aback, and Tim sniffed again, feeling his throat click harshly as he swallowed. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He knew it was disgusting, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He tasted iron at the back of his throat and occasionally felt the sting of bile there, too. His head hurt terribly and his eyes and nose were streaming. 

 

At some point, people were going to find out what had happened at the skate park, and Tim would rather it come from him than Jack or Vicki fuckin’ Vale.

 

“Or bi,” Tim said, words clumsy and oblong as they slipped out between lips numb and stiff with injury. His tongue prodded a cut on the inside of his mouth like a fire poker and it grounded him. “I dunno.”

 

“Tim,” Bruce started, voice soft and gentle, and it wasn’t unkind, but it had Tim tensing anyways. 

 

“So your dad’s a homophobic piece of shit,” Jason surmised from the doorway, startling them both with his sudden appearance and the bluster of his shock and outrage. “So he’s the special kind of asshole. Good to know.”

 

Tim just shrugged in response, finding the carpet suddenly very interesting in the face of all this attention.

 

“ Jason ,” Bruce cut in warningly, and Jason just rolled his eyes. 

 

“Hey, I’m not gonna kill him. I’m not even going to hurt him!” Jason promised, and messy dark curls bounced from side to side as he shook his head. His hands clenched into fists that shook and trembled at his sides. “ Physically ,” he amended, and Tim could see the minute tremors running up and down Jason’s frame. The same way a door might shudder in a frame when there’s an explosion in the distance. “I know I never really got the hang of all the hacking and tech stuff before I kicked it but I think I can figure out the guy’s phone number and his email address. I was thinking about signing him up for a bunch of gay porn sites.”

 

“ Jason ,” Bruce scolded, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. 

 

“Someone could reason it’s a type of exposure therapy,” Jason snarked, and he seemed to be relaxing. Slowly.

 

“Someone could reason it’s sexual harassment,” Bruce parroted before turning back to Tim. “ Tim. Thank you for telling me. I personally don’t have an opinion on who you choose to love. All that matters to me is that they’re kind and that they respect you.”

 

“Same,” Jason said, finally coming into the room and leaning against the arm of the couch. “Just as long as everyone’s of age and you’re being safe.”

 

Tim glanced up at them both dubiously. Bruce was leaning over to the coffee table, grabbing the first aid kit, but Jason was still fixated on Tim. He frowned at Tim, eyes looking all over him, reading his expression - or maybe whatever wasn’t there. Jason crossed his arms and said, “Hey, that’s the honest truth, Tim. We really don’t care and if we did, then fuck us, right? Fuck anyone who cares about that kind of shit. Love is love. ‘We are who we are,’ and ‘Born this Way’, right?”

 

Tim huffed an amused breath out his nose, cracking a shy smile. Whatever he’d expected, it certainly wasn’t that.

 

Bruce was nodding sagely as he turned back to Tim with wet wipes in hand. “Very true words. Although, because both of those songs have been overplayed to the point that even Alfred couldn’t take it anymore, you might be asked to listen to them through headphones or earbuds.”

 

Tim snorted and then shook his head, wondering if this was Bruce actually joking but Jason had put his hands up in mock surrender, earnestly saying, “Hey! No one can blame me for that one. That was all Dick!” Jason was given a flat look by Bruce that had him flushing, and passionately defending his innocence.

 

Tim was still blinking when Bruce turned to him, ignoring Jason for the moment and asked, “Do you think you can turn around so I can take a look at your back, Tim? Or do you need help?”

 

Tim felt himself tense again, briefly, but Bruce had made no movement towards him and seemed to genuinely want to leave the decision up to Tim.

 

“I can do it on my own,” Tim decided with a little uncertainty. He flashed Bruce a polite, appreciative smile before doing just that. 

 

It took longer than it would have normally, but he was working with one arm and twisting too far pulled harshly on his wounds. There was a moment where Bruce held out a steadying hand as Tim wobbled while trying to settle back on his folded legs. 

 

Bruce steadied him gently at the elbow, touch light and cautious, and he was quick to pull his hand back once he’d seen Tim was no longer in danger of face planting into the fireplace mantle. 

 

Faced away from them, Tim had no idea what expression crossed Bruce’s face when he saw the extent of the injuries on his back. But he did hear a sharp inhalation of breath cut short by grit teeth, followed by the sudden crinkle of the disinfectant wipes packaging being clenched into a tight fist. 

 

An awkward moment passed, Jason still talking in the background, making quips, and nagging Bruce, and finally Tim heard the slow crinkle of the clenched grip around the wipes’ packaging relaxing, followed by the slow, careful noise of the package being opened.

 

Tim found himself able to relax a little more, shoulders dropping slightly and muscles untensing. The wipes cooled the inflamed welts and Bruce seemed not to worry about using up the whole package on Tim’s back. The disinfectant stung on the lashes that had split the skin, but it wasn’t an unfamiliar kind of pain. 

 

This was a pain that reminded him of Robin. Of learning to use the grapple gun correctly and all the skinned palms, elbows, and knees in between. Of after patrol or after mission injuries. Of the time he’d split his knuckles on the side of Two Face’s exposed jaw. 

 

He’d ended up sleeping over that night because getting the open wound looked at by Alfred and then properly disinfected took until the very early hours of the morning. 

 

Med checks were one of Tim’s favorite parts of the gig.

 

There were other things Tim liked too. He liked being a part of something. He liked doing something good, and he liked doing something that helped . He liked being useful . He liked the feeling of accomplishment he got after a night out. 

 

He was witness to many terrible things as Robin, and most people he interacted with were almost always having one of the worst nights of their lives... but when the night was over, when Tim had ensured that victims were being seen by EMS, or someone had gotten home safe or gotten out of a situation alive , well... 

 

It wasn’t often he felt himself swell with the pride of a job well done. 

 

In fact, unless Tim asked, he hardly ever felt that. 

 

As Timothy Drake, he was always told about what he’d done wrong and what he had messed up: calling an investor by the wrong name, failing to recognize the grown up child of one of Gotham’s upper crust, getting crumbs on his suit jacket right before the press were going to take pictures, etc. etc...

 

As Robin, he knew he was out there doing a good job. He knew he was doing something worthwhile, something that mattered because each night he could see it . He saw it in the way family and loved ones reunited after a traumatic event. He saw it in the eyes of those who’d believed, moments before, they weren’t ever going to be able to go home again. 

 

He could see and feel the good he and Batman were doing, and it was euphoric . 

 

Tim had never felt so good about himself until he’d started going out as Robin. 

 

He’d never felt like he was good. 

 

Like he was worth something.

 

Every night ended in medical. 

 

Tim would be wired, adrenaline still pumping through his veins, and Bruce or Alfred would pull up in front of him, perched on a stool. The night would still be fresh in Tim’s mind. He would struggle to hold still, control himself, as their hands delicately, carefully did rib checks. The touches were quick, fleeting, clinical, but Tim could hardly relax, his body wound tight and coiled like a spring. 

 

Batman would ask for report and Robin would give it, mouth running a mile a minute, heartbeat thrumming in his chest, feeling like it was ready to vibrate through his skin and out of his body. 

 

Tim was so starved for attention, for affection, for any interaction, and then after a night of feeling on top of the world he was suddenly getting all of it , and it was a lot. 

 

Even if it was just the cold crawl of medical equipment across his skin, checking his vitals and leaving goosebumps in their wake. 

 

Even if it was just cleaning and dressing a wound. 

 

It was a lot, despite how quick and efficient and fleeting the med checks were. 

 

Because med checks were clinical in the end. They were always clinical. Never meant to be anything other than that. It was just part of the job, and Bruce and Alfred were efficient. 

 

They were fast, and terrible. Because it was over too soon. Then came the walk home, and the walk home was cold and lonely and terrible as well. 

 

Tim would find himself standing in front of a mirror. His pale reflection looking back at him, injuries reflecting Robin’s successes and failures. He’d study his reflection in the depths of his big empty house, examining the marks and recalling the events that had led up to that particular tally on his scorecard. 

 

He’d recall where he’d done his job, taken the hit, how he’d saved someone, - civilian, a friend, even Bruce - and he’d also look back at where he’d been clumsy, how he hadn’t hit hard enough, moved quick enough, made the wrong call -

 

It was always there. His body kept the score. 

 

It looked back at him.

 

He’d trace these wounds, mirroring the same path as Alfred or Bruce. Mimicking a med check. Hoping to find that warm feeling of goodness, of a job well done, of being important , of being someone who mattered , who was worth something . 

 

He tried to follow the invisible path left behind along his ribs, tried to imagine the sting of the disinfectant, recalling the way Alfred would slow down when wiping at broken skin, face twisting in concern, the tips of his fingers barely applying any pressure.

 

He remembered cold, diligent, and firm finger pads pressing into bruises, stiffly muttered apologies, as Bruce’s fingers poked and prodded.

 

‘Not broken, but I think there’s one - maybe two - cracked in here, Robin.’

 

‘You’re kidding! I almost completely dodged it, though. It was a graze, if anything!’

 

‘Just take it easy for a few days, alternate hot and cold compresses, and make sure you’re doing what you can to keep the swelling down. Maybe Alfred can look at them after then and we can get a second opinion.’

 

It was nice. To have that attention. To be talked to like that. Looked at. Cared for.

 

Tim’s own med checks were colder and lonelier than the ones done by Bruce or Alfred in the Batcave. 

 

Bruce and Jason were talking, giving Tim something to focus on while he breathed through the brisk, cold application of the disinfectant wipe on his back.

 

“Seriously, what was that look for?” Jason was saying, and it sounded like he’d been pressing Bruce for a while if his impatience was anything to go by. “I don’t remember Alfred ever telling me to stop playing anything?”

 

“He couldn’t,” Bruce responded, and he almost sounded teasing . “You were practicing, remember? For Little Shop of Horrors? ”

 

What? Tim thought, inner voice sounding flat with the shock of trying to imagine Jason Todd both as Robin and as he was today, white stripe in his hair and guns, practicing singing for a school musical . 

 

“ Oh shit, yeah! ” Jason gasped and Bruce gave a half-hearted, “Language.” 

 

Jason ignored him, continuing, “I was so mad my drama coach had me switch from Audrey to Audrey II!”

 

“You were recovering from bronchitis, Jason. You couldn’t sing.”

 

“But remember who they replaced me with?! Monty Evans! He couldn’t sing, either!”

 

“Monty Evans couldn’t hold a note, but he could produce noise. ”

 

“He forgot the lines so he just started making his own stuff up! Remember?”

 

Bruce chuckled, “How could I forget? You weren’t the only one upset about the show that night. Batman had to make an appearance due to a couple upset and uninvited guests.”

 

Tim threw a questioning look over his shoulder, and Jason caught it, brightening as he launched into an animated retelling of the night Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn had attended Gotham Academy’s performance of Little Shop of Horrors . Apparently both Jason and Ivy hadn’t appreciated Jason’s classmate’s butchering of the script.

 

Tim was sucked into the story while Bruce diligently cleaned welted and torn skin on his back.

 

“So on top of guns and knives… plants are also banned from Gotham Academy,” Jason finished. 

 

“I’d always wondered why the front doors said no plants alongside the pictures of guns and knives,” Tim said roughly, pieces slotting together. “That makes a lot of sense now.”

 

“Sorry to interrupt,” a familiar, welcome voice said from the doorway, and Tim jumped a little under Bruce’s hands, whipping around so fast the room spun dizzyingly around the pale appearance of a bandaged Dick Grayson. 

 

His right arm was in a sling and he was favoring his left leg. Alfred was hovering at his elbow, looking drawn and exhausted.

 

“Hey, Timmy!” Dick said, smiling, but it looked strained. His eyes flickered all over Tim’s bruised and blemished form. He looked askance at Bruce and Jason,  “I thought you were taking a break?”

 

“He was,” Bruce said, incredibly unhelpfully, and Tim’s stomach twisted anxiously as he and Jason waited a beat before Jason groaned dramatically, making room on the couch for the new arrivals. 

 

“Jack Drake is a very special asshole,” Jason said a little too glibly, and both Dick and Alfred seemed to stumble a little as they made their way into the room. Tim felt his stomach lurch, a cold sweat breaking out along his neck and scalp. 

 

Jason was half out of his seat, ready to steady either of them, but both Dick and Alfred made a quick recovery.

 

“Pardon?” Alfred asked, expression blank, and Jason shrugged.

 

“Not really my story to tell,” Jason said, and Tim could feel their eyes on him. “Hell, it’s one I haven’t even really heard yet.”

 

“Tim?” Dick asked, strangled. “Your dad... Your dad’s hurting you?”

 

Tim opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. There was a choked breath, and Tim wiped at his watering eyes, hating how he caught the way Dick’s face hardened, and Alfred’s brow drew tight from the corner of his eye.

 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said once Dick was comfortable on the couch. “Shall we be expecting any other visitors tonight? Commissioner Gordon, perhaps?”

 

“Not tonight,” Bruce said, and the movement at Tim’s back paused. “Although, I do have to make a few phone calls. I’ll be getting a hold of the Gordons, and then I’m calling our family court lawyer. I will have to notify the lawyer who’s overseeing the paperwork for Jason’s return, as well...”

 

“Of course, sir,” Alfred said, “I believe I can take over here with Master Tim, then.”

 

“Alfred, you’ve been up a while, you should get some rest while you can,” Jason suggested quietly.

 

“No one in this house is a stranger to pulling an all-nighter,” Alfred said amicably, already moving. “Besides, I think we ought to call Dr. Thompkins over in a few hours anyway so that Tim can be cleared by a practicing professional. An official medical report will be essential in ensuring Tim is removed from that home at once.”

 

“Tim?” Someone said, and it could’ve been Dick or it could’ve been Jason. Tim wasn’t sure. 

 

Because next thing he knew, he was throwing up filmy bile with bright bloody streaks onto the carpet next to Bruce’s knee.

 

Notes:

So I'm not SUPER happy with this chapter. Let me know what you thought? COVID brain fog is a thing I've really been trying to shake. I feel so dang fuzzy and confused all the time as of the last few days...

Um, but yeah the chapter number changed. I'm hoping this won't be too long. This was really supposed to be just like a quick drabble thing but now it's working up to be a proper chaptered fic and that wasn't my intention, lol. I do have an ending in sight, though. Hopefully the chapter count won't change again!

Thank you so much for all the wonderful comments, kudos, and all the bookmarks. Every time I get an email notification, my heart does a little happy dance. I'm glad there are people enjoying. :)

Chapter 4

Summary:

hospital. people talk. WHERE IS JACK DRAKE??

all mistakes are mine. tw for like hospital stuff, injuries, sickness, batfamily malfunction, lazarus pit stuff???

also, warning for probable medical inaccuracies as well as inaccurate depictions of like coming out of anesthesia and stuff

also, alfred is immortal

Notes:

sorry for the really late chapter.

writing's been really hard because life exploded and there's just a lot of things i need to deal with emotionally and this fic is kind of got some pretty heavy stuff in it that i couldn't plate at the time

“Tim?” Someone said, and it could’ve been Dick or it could’ve been Jason. Tim wasn’t sure. 

 

Because next thing he knew, he was throwing up filmy bile with bright bloody streaks onto the carpet next to Bruce’s knee.

 

There was an overwhelming burning pain in his throat and chest. He could still taste the bile and iron, sharp and hot in his mouth as it welled up inside him, and he stared wide-eyed at the mess he’d made on the carpet while trying to learn how to breathe around this new constricting fire in his chest that was seemingly leeching all the oxygen from him. 

 

Everything around him exploded into a crescendo of noise and movement that pulsed and clashed at odds with the churning magma inside of him. His vision tunneled on that pile of blood-streaked vomit, and he could no longer keep track of who was where and who said what.

 

He tried to take careful, thin breaths, and tried to not think about it so much so he wouldn’t start panicking; but it was impossible as the fight for air persisted. Tim wished he hadn’t come home when he had. He wished he hadn’t been so angry with his dad. He should’ve just kept his head down and his mouth shut.

 

He wished he’d avoided the altercation with his father because all he could think about was - the thud and squish of the meat tenderizer falling into the puddle of vomit - Tim’s jaw is sore, even as he closes his mouth, and every wracking cough makes a rattling, wet noise in the back of his throat - and how much he was panicking about the encroaching tickle at the back of his throat.

 

He tried to swallow it down, struggling to breathe around what felt like a congealed lump at the back of his throat without irritating it so much he’d dissolve into another painful coughing fit. 

 

What little control he felt he’d had was slipping, and Tim continued to desperately suck in quick, thin breaths, hoping this situation wouldn’t get any worse . But he could not swallow down the tacky wetness at the back of his throat and the tickle that Tim prayed would pass persisted and worsened, and his vision blurred with tears. Please just give me a break. Please make it stop. Please. An inky blackness started to swallow his view and Tim desperately pressed his broken fingers against his thigh, clinging to consciousness, trying to stay awake by using whatever means necessary.

 

Strong arms come around him from behind without warning - he’s grabbed by the hips, a heavy weight settling on top of him, pinning him down - and it’s like they’re caging him in - he’s shoved back into the island, arms pinned between his body and the counter. Abruptly he’s weightless, and the soiled carpet gets further and further away. He panics at the loss of control, thinking ‘no, no, not again, please no,’  - he bucks again, trying to get his dad off of him - thinking he would rather die than suffer - fingers tugging, pulling his pants down, grabbing him, and - that again. 

 

So he struggles, lashes out, with an elbow and fingernails, and someone swears, sharp and sudden - he’s hit in the back of the head. The wounds on his back and arms tug painfully and Tim must cry out - his vision wavers with the pain, whites out - and he grunts with the strain that the manhandling and pressure puts on his aching body. 

 

Someone’s in his ear - he can feel his dad’s breath along the side of his face, the shell of his ear feels hot and he can smell the alcohol on Jack’s breath - and they’re trying to soothe him - he needs to calm down because he needs to keep aware of where his opponent is.

 

“Calm down, lad. Hey, hey! Tim,” a deep voice croons, trying to sound calm but Tim can hear the sharp edge of panic and fear and it sounds a lot like - his dad’s upset. He’s angrier than Tim has even seen him and he screwed up. He screwed up so bad and now his dad’s going to kill him or - or - “No, no one’s angry, Tim. Sweetheart, calm - just breathe. Focus on breathing.”

 

‘Sweetheart,’ they said , ‘Did they mean him?’ His dad wouldn’t call him that. Not now, not ever. But then who - ? Tim’s not sure who would be speaking so gently to him. ‘ Sweetheart, calm - just breathe.’ That’s what he’s been trying to do. But something like breathing , something he usually doesn’t have to worry about, has never felt so challenging. 

 

It feels like he’s been running laps or something and he’s trying to catch his breath but it feels impossible, and the more he realizes how hard it is, the more he thinks about his dad and wonders how could he? How could Jack do this to him? His dad had beat him, and - “C’mon, you can do better than that. Open up. You had a big mouth just a minute ago.”  - well, he’s throwing up blood now. 

 

Jack had restrained him, had whipped him! He had - carved a stinging, burning path, and Tim could only squeal, and breathe and cry raggedly around the forced intrusion - done something vile and terrible. Tim sobs, gasping raggedly, and abruptly loses the battle against the coughing fit at the reminder and the phantom feeling of that violation all over again. Please  no, please no. Please, I can’t - not again. Dad, stop. No, dad, please!

 

“Shh, hey, hey . Tim? It’s Bruce. You’re going to be okay,” someone’s still in his ear, still speaking so softly and so nicely and Tim feels them hugging him, holding him, and he clings back as best as he’s able with his good arm with the mangled hand. He can’t breathe! Coughing is a full body effort. It’s exhausting, but the person holding him holds him upright and Tim is so thankful, despite the aching stretch of the open wounds on his back and the strain on his opposite shoulder, and they say, “I know it hurts, Tim. I’m so sorry, honey. We’re going to get you some help, okay?”

 

He clings back to the person - to Bruce - around him, holding him, and tries to nod his understanding, thinking, ‘ thank you, thank you, thank you ,’ before tilting his head back against a large shoulder. He calms slightly, letting his eyes fall halfway shut when he finds that it’s the perfect angle to keep his airway as open as possible.

 

“Can someone fill me in please? What happened?! Oh my god, Bruce, he-” 

 

Quick, clipped, and panicked. Someone asks questions that don’t sound like questions. Rapid firing urgent demands, voice serious and hard, almost unrecognizable; but despite the unfamiliar tone, Tim can still recognize that voice. He spent years as an unsupervised superfan, straining his ears to hang onto every word of this person while he snapped pictures from rooftops away. 

 

He’d been so young, his hands dwarfed by the professional grade camera. He’d spent many nights running around at odd hours, shivering against Gotham’s cutting rooftop chill, snapping blurred pictures with fingers that shook from nerves and inexperience. All because of a smile, and kind, encouraging words followed by a comforting hug he had wanted to cling to. 

 

A promise in the midst of the loud, scary, bright place. ‘Once you’re inside, keep looking up! When my parents and I come out, I’ll do a quadruple somersault, just for you!’ The first Robin. The acrobat.

 

A third person, “Bruce, I don’t-”

 

That deep voice again, louder, sharp and harsh, “I’ve got him, Jay! Just keep an eye out and let me know when Alfred’s brought the car around!” It’s startling, and Tim can’t help but jump and shudder, thin rasping breaths scraping and stuttering around the thickness at the back of his throat, and he coughs so hard he retches again, sobbing and whimpering at the pain that flares in his throat and chest.

 

His chest hurts and he tastes iron before his body is rebelling again, and someone says, “-shit , shit!”

 

It hurts and there’s not anything in his stomach to expel when he heaves. But his body is able to produce more pink streaked bile and it burns . Tim sobs, his wounds protesting at the violent retching and someone’s got a hand on his jaw, turning his head and helping direct where the vomit lands. Unfortunately, their fingers press on old aches that remind Tim of a bruising grip.

 

He flinches back from their hands, but there’s not much he can do because he’s hurting and he’s so much bigger than him .

 

Pink-tinged drool dribbles from his mouth in a sloppy string, getting on the counter and his arms, and Tim realizes distantly that somebody shoving something repeatedly into someone’s mouth of that size with that kind of force could probably cause some kind of throat injury. 

 

He’d never thought of that before.

 

Now, it’s all Tim can think about.

 

Dick speaks, voice cracking, shaking, panicked, “What’s wrong with him? He’s throwing up blood, Bruce, what-”

 

The deep voice rumbles over him, loud and on edge, but it’s Bruce - it must be - so it’s okay. Tim’s not sure he’s ever heard Bruce use that tone outside of the cowl. “I don’t know, chum, but there’s not a lot and it doesn’t-” 

 

Further away, the third person calls out, “ Dad , the car’s here!”

 

Tim is powerless and vulnerable. He’s completely helpless and totally unable to stop himself from being moved, and there's pressure on his shoulder and everything hurts. The open wounds and welts on his back ache and burn and he wants Bruce and the cool touch of the antiseptic wipes again. “Shh,” the deep voice tries to comfort him. “I’m right here, Tim.”

 

From behind them, “I’ve got a bucket and a blanket. Are you sure you-”

 

“Dick, it’s fine,” this reassurance seems to come more naturally, and this is Bruce, talking right above Tim, holding him. “Thank you. Can you get my phone?”

 

Further away, “Got it.”

 

“Jason, hold the door!” They’re moving, and Tim’s wheezing breaths rasp and rattle out from him. The movement is dizzying, and Tim squeezes his eyes shut, praying he won’t get sick again. There’s a cold breeze that makes him shiver, goosebumps prickling all over his skin, and bizarrely Bruce calls back, “Take a picture of the floor, Dick!”

 

“Of the -?”

 

“The vomit, yes!” is yelled, and they’re still moving, and even though Tim’s eyes aren’t open, he knows someone else is close by. They get closer to the cool outdoors and Bruce says quietly, gently, sounding concerned, “Jason?”

 

There’s a hitched breath, and soft, and wrong-sounding, Jason says, “ Dad , I didn’t know it was this bad! I swear, if I would’ve known-”

 

“Enough,” firm, a little bit of Batman comes through, and there’s a wet hiccup in response and Tim is so thankful Bruce stopped that train of thought because this especially wasn’t Jason’s fault. None of this was. It was Tim’s. He really should’ve said something earlier. Quieter, Bruce rumbles reassuringly, “We still don’t know the details of what happened. This isn’t your fault, Jason. Now, please, go help your brother.”

 

“‘kay,” sniffed quietly, footsteps hurrying away from them.

 

Then they’re outside. Tim can smell it. It’s cold and he can hear a car.

 

“Master Bruce!” a fourth person. Alfred . “Hurry up and get the boy in the back, please.”

 

He’s being maneuvered and Tim just lets it happen . There’s nothing else he can do. It’s taking everything to keep breathing right now, and he’s hardly successful with that, anyway. He knows he doesn’t sound good. Wheezing, rasping, wet and desperate gasps for air. He wonders if his dad’s killed him. 

 

Someone chokes, and this time it’s not Tim. He cracks his eyes open - when did he close them? - and the world is a dark and watery mess. His lashes stick to his cheeks and he really can’t see much, everything seems out of focus. 

 

So he closes his eyes shut again, unable to stop the strangled whimper because he’s so scared and it’s so hard to breathe and it doesn’t stop hurting , and he doesn’t want to die, please.

 

He’s crying but it sounds awful , like his vocal chords have gone through a meat grinder. 

 

Bruce tries to comfort him. Voice deep, quiet, and intense.“Tim, I’m so sorry. I’m right here, just breathe. You’re going to be okay. Please, you’re going to be okay ,” he’s panicking, whispering furiously, and Tim can feel fingers carding through his hair and he tenses a little because he can almost hear Jack snarling, “This is why you keep your hair so goddamn long, like a girl’s, isn’t it?”  

 

But it’s not Jack, it’s Bruce . 

 

There’s a little tug as a finger catches on a snarl, and Tim gasps, coughs, feeling - his dad grabbing him by the hair, yanking his head back, and Tim can only gasp, cringing as his bad arm is jostled, causing pain to spider web outward from his shoulder - his dad’s hand on the back of his neck, another in his hair, and he’s pulling Tim up, but Tim struggles against him, until he’s just rasping snarls that sound like a wounded animal, all elbows and headbutts -  Tim trying to shield his face in his arms, but his dad grabs his hair, wrenches his head back to look him in the eyes -  

 

“Boys!” Outside the car the fourth person, Alfred , yells and that’s not right. Tim’s never heard Alfred raise his voice like that before, something must be really wrong - 

 

“-sorry, Tim. I’m so sorry. I-It’s Bruce , remember? Jack’s not here. Your dad isn’t -” Is that Bruce crying and petting his hair?

 

“We’re here!” two voices answer Alfred in tandem, getting closer. 

 

Bruce inhales sharply, sniffles, and it makes Tim’s heart lurch, cold sweat prickling all over his neck and body because this is Bruce, right? Tim’s never seen Bruce like this - except for when Jason - but this isn’t - Bruce is crying ! Bruce ‘the Batman’ Wayne is crying on top of - over - him, and there’s nothing Tim can do or say or - and Tim doesn’t even know what he'd say but he wants to say something like, ‘This isn’t your fault. It’s mine.’ or ‘I messed up. You taught me better than this. You deserve better than this, but please - just hold me. I don’t want to be alone.’ 

 

The second person - Jason, thank god, fix this, please! - says, “Sorry, sorry, we’re here! Dick’s a little bit of a deadweight with the frickin’ bullet holes - what the shit, Dickie? But ‘s’alright, ‘cause the pit turned me into an absolute tank- ”

 

“ Blanket ,” the third person - Dick - interrupts with a desperate, fearful gasp, and something soft and warm is dropped on top of Tim and the arms around him quickly work to adjust it. There’s the sound of a car door slamming shut, and Tim jumps, the arms around him tightening, - please don’t let me go - and Dick’s voice cracks when he tries to swallow a panicked sob, “He’s still-?”

 

The noise of squealing tires overtakes whatever Dick was about to say, so Dick repeats himself, loudly exclaiming in shocked disbelief, “He’s still conscious! He’s-! Tim?! ” A warm hand with prominent callouses is holding his, and Tim doesn’t have to open his eyes to know it’s Dick. He sounds close to tears, “Tim, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to - Bruce , his fingertips are turning blue, and his - look at his lips -”

 

It’s the lack of oxygen, no doubt. Tim continues to make wheezing, rasping little gasps. He just can’t seem to get enough air, and his chest hurts so much. 

 

Tim squeezes the hand in his. 

 

Dick startles, squeezing back with a desperate sob, and Bruce asks, sharp and panicked, “What’s wrong? What is it?!”

 

“Nothing, he just squeezed my hand,” Dick reassures quickly, sounding close to tears but Tim can hear him almost smiling . 

 

He squeezes Dick’s hand again and Dick sniffs, and Tim can feel the movement of Dick leaning in close from the otherside of the backseat, and there’s a voice whispering desperately into his ear, “ We love you so much, Tim. You’re going to get through this. You’re gonna be okay. You’re strong, and we’re all here for you. Just hang in there, little brother. We’ve got you.”

 

The words are kind and his lips twitch, the ghost of a Robin smile hesitantly showing their shadow for just a moment as the lack of oxygen and the watery darkness finally overtakes and swallows his consciousness.

Time seemed to fracture somewhat after that, and Tim can only remember fragments. 

 

Something he is certain of, is that those arms had stayed around him, firmly but gently cradling him close like he was something precious.

 

He would learn, later on, that Bruce had bolted from the car before Alfred had even put it in park, nearly giving Alfred a heart attack. He’d somehow slipped Tim away from Dick faster than anyone could process, leaving the back door of the vehicle open as he’d run into Gotham General through the emergency room doors with Tim bundled up in his arms. 

 

Dick had shuffled, stiff and clumsy, across the leather seat in the back, hindered by his stiff leg and the sling around his arm because apparently he’d been shot three times. Once in the calf - through and through - and the second had grazed his upper bicep near his shoulder. The third bullet had burrowed deep into the meat on the back of his upper thigh, right under his buttocks, and had eluded them for quite a while. That’s what he and Alfred had been preoccupied with for so long down in the cave. That, and a blood transfusion.

 

He really should’ve been resting. In fact, he probably would have been resting in the sitting room if not for the scene Dick and Alfred had walked in on. 

 

Ever since The Rolling Chair Incident, where Alfred had caught fourteen year old Dick Grayson at the top of the steps leading down into the front foyer, about to attempt going down, Alfred was still skeptical of allowing Dick the privacy of his room while being on bed rest.

 

With that in mind, it was a miracle Dick didn’t faceplant as soon as he’d levered himself out of the vehicle. According to Jason, Alfred was cursing under his breath at that point. By the time Dick’s feet had hit the pavement, the car had been thrown into park and the automatic doors were closing just behind Bruce.

 

They had apparently made quite the scene, Bruce running in through the doors as he had with Tim in his arms. Tim had been limp and unresponsive at that point, fingertips and lips blue from the lack of oxygen. His breathing reduced to quick, shallow breaths interspersed with coughing and a wet wheezing that had Bruce’s hands shaking. 

 

Dick was walking in just as medical staff were getting Tim laid down and positioned onto his side to avoid putting pressure on the worst of his wounds, in hopes that it might help his breathing and prevent him from choking if he vomited yet again. Once laid on his side, someone shone a light into his mouth, revealing a red-streaked tongue. 

 

Tim was whisked away from Bruce and Dick, with a whole group of people and - as Dick told it later on - there’d been so much panic and confusion that neither were sure what they were meant to do, or if anyone had even said anything to them at all. They were left with the blanket they’d brought from Wayne Manor’s sitting room, Dick clutching it and holding onto Bruce trying not to cry in fearful panic for Tim and pain from the strain he was putting on his injured leg. 

 

Apparently this was also when the medicine and the local anesthetic Alfred had administered had started to wear off. Jason had jogged through the doors, several strides ahead of Alfred, calling out to Bruce just in time to see Dick’s leg give out. He was caught by both Bruce and Jason, the latter having broken out into a run. Thinking Dick had been overwhelmed by emotion, or he’d missed something with Tim, Jason had started panicking, asking questions rapid fire.

 

It was as Alfred strode in with keys jangling and a worried, pinched expression that the Wayne family was graciously led to a private room away from the general waiting room.

“This is Jack! If it rang, leave a message. If it went straight to voicemail, send an email. Otherwise you’ll want to reach out to Peggy at 212-xxx-xxxx.”

 

“Jack, it’s August Albrecht calling from Gotham General. Your neighbors - the Waynes - just brought a young man into our emergency room. They’re saying he’s your boy, Tim? Kid doesn’t have any form of ID on him and we need next of kin to formally ID him... He’s in rough shape, Jack. He’s been beaten badly and he’s being prepped for the OR. I really hope this isn’t your boy, Jack, but if there’s a chance he is, you’ll want to get down here as soon as you can.”

The next time Tim was aware, he just suddenly was. There’d been nothing but the distant movement of the car and the phantom feeling of him squeezing Dick’s hand and vice versa, and suddenly he was in another room. His eyes felt somehow both sticky and dry when he opened them, and someone was holding something to his face that had cool air pushing through it. 

 

It smelled sterile, and the room was crowded, full of strangers in scrubs and masks who talked quickly to one another and there was noise from all sorts of equipment and machines. Tim had blinked, just beginning to understand that he must have made it to the hospital when there was a sharp pinch at the crook of his elbow. 

 

A stranger muttered a kind apology, and he started to move, looking down and seeing a male nurse slipping scissors into the leg of his jeans, beginning to cut them off. Tim was tired and he felt weak just holding his head up, so he couldn’t do much more than choke on panic and fear as the scissors cut their path up his leg.

 

He was gently pushed back down, and there were many voices talking, people asking questions, saying his name, but Tim couldn’t discern what any one person was saying. Not while those scissors were removing his pants. Tim instinctively began to struggle and then someone began counting backwards. Another voice was shushing Tim, trying to calm him down, but he didn’t recognize anyone. Where did Jason go? Bruce? And Dick? Another hand held his leg still, and there was a nurse leaning over him who couldn’t be much older than his mom. 

 

She had big brown eyes with crow’s feet at the corners and she had one hand gently resting on the side of his face, her thumb going back and forth gently over his cheek bone. Her other gloved hand was held above his face, counting down, and Tim stilled and mentally counted with her, and then he was out again.

“This is Jack! If it rang, leave a message. If it went straight to voicemail, send an email. Otherwise you’ll want to reach out to Peggy at 212-xxx-xxxx.”

 

“This message is for Jack Drake. I’m Officer Blake with Gotham PD. We’re down at Gotham General, where I’m being told a young man was brought in after being attacked... Staff are under the impression this young man may be Timothy Drake. I’m not sure of all the details, but we do need a formal ID. If you could give me a call back at 212-xxx-xxxx, otherwise myself or another officer can meet you here, as well.”

According to Jason, time seemed to slow down once the door to the conference room was shut, sealing off the noise from Gotham General’s early morning ER buzz. Where everything prior to being left in the conference room had seemed to happen so quickly, things seemed to slow down exponentially as they waited for an update.

 

Bruce tried talking to medical staff twice but both times was gently directed back to the conference room, being told that really all they could do was ‘hurry up and wait.’

 

Jason was really starting to hate that phrase.

 

Still, they couldn’t just sit idly by doing nothing. So Bruce and Jason gave Alfred and Dick a full report, catching them up on everything they’d missed. 

 

It hadn’t taken very long, and once they’d put it in words, it didn’t seem like either he or Bruce knew enough . Alfred had listened quietly, expression grave and pained, whereas Dick had been visibly frustrated, peppering them with questions, hung up on going back and going over certain moments he’d deemed important, and had yet to shut up .

 

For someone who spent so much time griping about B’s isms and behaviors, he looked and sounded an awful lot like B as he tried to press them for more information.  

 

“But what did Tim say? And how did he look when he said it? Because he’s a lot like Bruce, where he thinks we can read between the lines. There’s a lot he won’t say. Some of it because his self esteem’s really taken a beating, and some of it because - like - he thinks he can handle it on his own, that he should handle it on his own, or that he needs to in order to prove himself,” Dick is saying, and every. word. is like a physical blow -  and Jason knows, he knows that Dick doesn’t mean it that way, but he can’t stop the hurt and the nauseating anger from welling up inside him. 

 

He can’t stop his body from tensing, his shoulders hiking up defensively until they’re nearly level with his ears. His hands are balled into tight fists beneath the table, and pressed harshly into his thighs, but it doesn’t quell the tremor that runs through him. He stares down at the table, eyes tracing the grain of the faux wood laminate of a cheap conference table, gritting his teeth.

 

“Tim is used to an unhealthy amount of independence,” Dick doesn’t quit. “Asking for help doesn’t come naturally to him, but I know he isn’t careless! He knows the importance of reaching out, of checking in. He knows we’d rather him be overly cautious than - and, he knows that if something were wrong - dangerously wrong - he can come to us, any of us -”

 

“Dick,” Bruce says, voice flat and emotionless, but strong and commanding - and that just serves to further piss Jason right the fuck off because that’s not Bruce, that’s not his dad speaking. 

 

Jason’s not sure if Bruce says much more than Dick’s name because when he turns his gaze up from the conference table, flicking his eyes up to Bruce’s face and sees - yep, expressionless - he has to turn away before he loses it . 

 

His stubby fingernails manage to pinch the palms of his hands, and only then does he realize that he’s been pushing his fists down onto his thighs with bruising pressure. 

 

Dick isn’t quite yelling, but he isn’t speaking quietly either. “B, my point is he knows it’s better to be safe than sorry, and that someone having your back is the difference between life and death . We made sure he’s well aware! I know that he’s seriously downplayed things in the past,” Dick continues as if Bruce hadn’t said anything, and maybe Dick didn’t hear him. 

 

Maybe Dick doesn’t even know he’s just babbling at this point. Maybe he doesn’t realize he’s still. fucking. talking. This is a lot, Jason thinks. By anyone’s standards. Even to the regularly chipper golden boy, it’s too much. “Like, sure, we haven’t gotten every single detail from his YJ missions, but he’s never alone! He knows who he can contact when there’s trouble. He checks in! He knows this doesn’t work any other way! He wouldn’t be out there if he didn’t trust us to have his back, and he knows he won’t leave the manor if we can’t trust him to call!”

 

The whole time Dick’s been talking, his gaze had been settled somewhere to the left of Jason’s head, above Bruce’s shoulder. Now, he focuses on Bruce, eyebrows drawn together tight with anxiety, pain, and panic creasing deeply on his forehead, making him look much older than he really is. 

 

“ No one goes alone anymore. That’s why we have all the teams, someone’s always on comms, and everyone carries a panic button. Even in civvies! He trusts us,” Dick says, and Jason sees from the corner of his eye that he isn’t the only one with trembling hands. 

 

Dick’s white knuckled grip on the conference table loosens, and he sounds desperate when he asks, “ Right?! Doesn’t he trust us?” Dick’s eyes are large and bright and he almost looks like he’s holding his breath.

 

There’s a pregnant pause, where Bruce could step in. Where Bruce should step in and say something, even if it’s just a generic platitude to get Dick to calm down . But Bruce doesn’t say anything , and Dick’s breath hitches and there’s a shuddery, wet exhale as Dick struggles to maintain composure. 

 

Jason feels himself tense even further, his back to the rest of the room, all of his muscles wound up impossibly tight, and he’s just waiting for - for -

 

He doesn’t know what it is he’s waiting for. But the stress and anxiety he feels is suffocating, and this needs to stop . Bruce should - Bruce needs to - his dad should be saying something right about now, and Jason turns stiffly - it’s so hard to breathe, he feels as if his insides have turned to stone - and Bruce is staring blankly at a spot on the conference table.

 

Jason clenches his jaw, biting back the hair trigger response that is him demanding action . He closes his eyes as his vision blurs, trying to push away thoughts like, ‘What now?! What contingency plan do you have prepared for this, old man?!’ and ‘Dad, c’mon, just say something, do something ! Anything, goddammit! ’

 

Their father has completely separated himself from the situation emotionally. In fact, this isn’t even their dad sitting in front of him. 

 

Bruce is wearing that look, like he’s peering through the lenses of the cowl, like this is a regular debriefing, like this is just another case.  

 

It makes Jason want to scream, or hit something. It makes him want to pull the trigger until the magazine is empty. He swallows harshly and blinks back tears of frustration, and anger, trying to take a slow, steadying breath in discreetly while turning to look over at Alfred. 

 

Alfred, who is also looking at Bruce expectantly with a somber but morose expression on his face.

 

That’s nice , but Jason’s not sure they have the time to wait for Bruce to come to whatever conclusion he’s struggling to get to.. 

 

“He wasn’t wearing his panic button when I was looking him over. He knows we don’t take chances. He has the training and the know-how, and he knows how to recognize when he’s in over his head,” Bruce says, voice flat, like he's reading a goddamn mission report . “He has months of training all-”

 

Jason stands up abruptly, cutting off whatever the hell that was going to be. He can’t do this. 

 

The chair he was in knocks loudly against the wall behind him, and they all jump and turn. Alfred and Dick look wrecked . Like they’re halfway to mourning the kid.

 

Guilt sits familiarly on his tongue, thick and acrid.

 

“Master Jason?” Alfred asks tentatively, looking tired and small.

 

But lately, nothing has festered inside him quite like this twisted anger he has.

 

“I can’t do this,” Jason snaps, not wanting to meet Bruce’s eyes while his own are burning with tears. “You’re not even - I can’t -” 

 

Dick says, pointedly, “Bruce.”

 

“Hn,” is as far as the man gets. 

 

“Fuck you ,” Jason gasps, the aching need for Bruce to fuckin’ fix it , the frustration at Bruce’s inaction, and Jason’s ashen disappointment shrinking as the flames of his rage get higher. He’s whirling on the fuckin’ Batman , jabbing his finger at him, at his chest, distantly surprised when the point of his finger encounters the soft give of flesh instead of the hard planes of body armor. 

 

“Fuck the training. Nothing is going to prepare your child soldier for their parent turning on them.” He would know best, after all. “Gonna get him a plaque like mine? One that says ‘Timothy Drake: A Good Soldier’?! You said it was just a ‘poor choice of words,’ you asshole! You said you didn’t mean it! Or are you gonna put his suit in a glass case, too?”

 

“Jay...” Fuckin’ Dickwing says from behind him, and Jason can’t look, doesn’t want to look at him. Doesn’t want to acknowledge that this is his mess too . That it’s all their mess. 

 

He’s scared of the hand he’s had in this. That he was just another person to make Tim think he wasn’t good enough. He’d broken into the tower and beat the kid, telling him he would never be good enough, and - well, how much of that did Tim get from his bastard father on a daily basis?

 

Jason’s shoulders feel heavy with the weight of his guilt, and the disgust he feels towards himself settles in his stomach like expired milk. Regret makes him filthy and defensive. He feels stupid .

 

He lashes out, “One kid in the ground and you still haven’t learned your lesson, old man.” He spits words at Bruce venomously, teeth bared. “You keep treating us like soldiers with training and orders and fuckin’ protocols! None of that matters when you’re in the thick of it! None of that matters when you’re just some scared kid who’s starting to realize how alone you really are.”

 

“Jason,” Bruce says, and the emotionless expression cracks for a moment and something painful shines through. Something more Bruce and less Batman . Good. “Jason, I-”

 

Jason cuts him off, throwing the words at Bruce like they’re weapons, “No. Listen . You wanted me to come home and play happy fuckin’ family, right? You wanted me to go to therapy, talk about my trauma, and my feelings?! I’m pissed , goddammit!”

 

From what he can remember before the whole being dead thing, he’d always been a pretty angry kid. He’d been forced to grow up fast, learned that sometimes the people who were supposed to help would just as easily sell you or look the other way for the right price.

 

No one had cared, and nothing changed. Jason couldn’t trust anyone . 

 

At least, not until he’d tried to jack the tires off some fancy car and Batman stepped into the light and asked what he was doing and little Jason had stiffened his jaw and said, “The hell did you expect, parking in a place called ‘crime alley?’” 

 

He must’ve been in a real bad way to not notice that it had been the freakin’ batmobile. Batman should’ve beat the piss out of him or thrown him in juvie. Instead the part of his face not covered by the mask was doing this weird twitchy thing like he was trying not to smile, and he was asking Jason if he was hungry. 

 

That anger that he’d been holding onto for as long as he could remember didn’t go away with one act of kindness. It didn’t go away with a greasy cheeseburger or a cushy Manor with sixteen different bedrooms and a live-in butler. 

 

It didn’t leave even when Bruce had given him Robin, given him magic.

 

“You give us the cape and the boots and we play the part - the role - you expect us to, and you expect us to know what it all means when we’re just following your lead . Well, we’re not mind readers, Bruce! ”

 

Jason had still eaten well out of Batman’s reach, hunched over his food and wolfing it down before Batman could change his mind. 

 

But Batman didn’t try and take the food, only warned him to slow down before asking, “ What do you mean there are traffickers in the system?” and “Which shelters have kids run drugs in exchange for beds? ”

 

And that was supposed to be it. But the shit wasn’t written by fuckin’ Disney .

 

It wasn’t a happy ending because a few years after he’d crossed the threshold into what would be his home and after Jason had taken the name Jason Todd-Wayne, he would still be asked, “Jason, did Felipe Garzonas fall, or was he pushed?” And with those few words, Jason woke up because surely he must have been dreaming if he had really believed in this.

 

All that “Jaylad” and “son” and “lad” hadn’t meant shit , had it? Because it seemed that no matter what everyone would look at him and all they’d focus on would be the alley. All they’d see is that alley brat. Willis’ boy. 

 

Happy endings weren’t real. Not for people like him, anyway.

 

“We’re supposed to know you’ll help?!” Jason demands incredulously. He feels like an exposed nerve. A livewire. He’s shaking with this - this - calling it rage doesn’t do it justice. This is an ugly, aching, weeping wound of festering hurt and pain and betrayal. “We’re supposed to just know that we can come to you, even if you’re busy, or even if you’re mad at us and we’re fired because - even when you think we killed somebody?! How’re we supposed to know that we’re - that we can come to you - How are we supposed to know that shit if you don’t tell us?!”

 

He still ended up hurting and alone, waiting , praying , hoping that Batman - that Bruce - would make it in time. Was that - was that how Tim had ended up as well?  

 

“Do you think I knew that?! Do you think Tim knows that?!”

 

Bruce’s face is carefully blank, but Jason can see how his eyes look a little too bright, and normally that might have given him pause, but right now all Jason can think is good, finally . He wants Bruce to know this, wants him to hurt with it. Wants him to hurt like he did those last few weeks at the manor before he’d gone to Ethiopia.  

 

“He may be Robin, and Robin may have the protocol and the training... but so the fuck what?! He wasn’t Robin at the time, was he?! He was just a kid! A kid trapped in a fuckin’ nightmare with some monster. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

 

“Jason,” Bruce says, voice rough and strangled-sounding like he’s been gargling glass , and his breathing is slow and carefully measured, and he’s blinking quickly. “ Jay , I-” and everything about this looks, sounds, and feels wrong now. Bruce is - Bruce isn’t supposed to like that. He isn’t supposed to sound like this.

 

He’s upset , and he looks like he wants to stand up, like he wants to reach out and - what? Hug him? Beg for forgiveness?

 

And Jason - 

 

Jason needs to not be here. 

 

“I need some air,” he gasped, turning and grabbing for the door.

“This is Jack! If it rang, leave a message. If it went straight to voicemail, send an email. Otherwise you’ll want to reach out to Peggy at 212-xxx-xxxx.”

 

“This message is for Jack Drake. Jack, my name is Bridget. I’m the on-call social worker here at Gotham General. We believe we have your son, Timothy, here. He was brought in maybe half an hour ago as a trauma red. It looks like he may have been attacked? Or otherwise involved in some sort of accident. Again, my name is Bridget and I’m the on-call social worker calling from Gotham General. You can give me a call back at extension xxx.”

Dick had expected the door to slam shut behind Jason as he made his way out of the room, and maybe Jason had tried to slam it, but the door damper caught and slowed its closure, allowing it to drift shut with a soft ‘click’.  

 

Still, he and Bruce both drew back at the sound, leaning away from the doorway and meeting one another’s eyes.

 

There was a small furrow on Bruce’s brow, the only sign that Jason’s outburst had had any effect on his normally calm, rigid exterior. 

 

“I will go after Master Jason,” Alfred decided gently, and Bruce nodded miserably while Dick gave a sigh of relief.

 

“Thank you,” Bruce said, a little hoarse. He couldn’t imagine his presence would do much other than further push his second son away. His gaze flickered all over Alfred’s exhausted face, “Maybe you two should go-”

 

Alfred cut Bruce off with a reproving look, saying, “If you think Jason or myself could leave either of you at this time…”

 

Dick tried, “Alfred, Jason might need some distance from the whole situation here, and you’re going on - what? Hour twenty six or twenty seven without sleep? You should go home and get some rest.”

 

“What I should do is enjoy some fresh air with Jason before I ask him to help me find a tolerable cup of coffee,” Alfred said pointedly, face stern before gentling at whatever micro expression he’d seen on Bruce’s face. “I am fine. Remember that I am not some doddering old fool. I have gone longer without rest back when I served her majesty. I know my limits. I appreciate the concern, boys, but I assure you it would be best directed elsewhere.”

 

Bruce nodded, not pushing the matter further. 

 

“In the meantime,” Alfred said gently. “Is there anything I can get or do for either of you while you wait?”

 

Dick shook his head, “No thanks, Alfred.”

 

“Master Bruce?” Alfred prompts, and Dick turns to see Bruce has folded his arms onto the table, resting his forehead against his clasped hands. Almost as if he were praying. He shakes his head mutely, and Alfred frowns, “Master Bruce.”

 

“Tell me what to do, Al,” Bruce says helplessly, and Dick’s heart jumps when he sees how shiny Bruce’s eyes have gotten and the little bit of red spreading across his cheeks. “I failed Jason. I know that. I thought I was fixing it , and now Tim’s not okay -”

 

“This isn’t your fault, lad,” Alfred says, and he says it firmly, with a confidence that tries to leave no room for argument. But this is Bruce .

 

“No? As soon as each of my boys crossed the threshold into the manor, it was my responsibility to provide for them. You remember better than I what things were like when Tim first came to us. Even being as compromised as I was, I could see the signs. It was practically a textbook case of criminal neglect.”

 

Alfred sighed wearily, “I remember. I also remember you questioning the boy about his parents’ travel itinerary and the records of the staff they kept on hand to take care of things while they were away from home, and I remember how desperate the boy was to keep his secrets.”

 

Dick nodded slowly. He could imagine how that conversation must have gone. How pale and stricken Tim must’ve looked, how he’d deflect while he came up with something perfectly reasonable sounding about how this was ‘a one time thing, really. There was an issue with one of the overseas offices and of course they were only learning about it while they were booking a same day flight. They probably haven’t had the time to finish filing the paperwork to put the new nanny on their payroll, yet.’

 

Dick sighed, meeting Alfred’s bloodshot and bone tired gaze and nodding, as if to say ‘it’s okay, I’ve got this.’  

 

Alfred looked relieved as he said, “You both have a little while to think about your coffee orders. Text me whatever you’d like. Even while sitting and worrying, you’ll need fuel for the day.” The door shut slowly behind him, and Bruce sat up a little straighter, doing some quiet breathing exercises as he compartmentalized and tried to hide that honest, vulnerable part of himself again. 

 

Dick motioned to the box of tissues in the center of the conference table and the corners of Bruce’s mouth turned down as he shook his head, a familiar stony expression smoothing away the worry lines on his brow. 

 

Dick sighed, leaning back in the conference chair and looking at Bruce over crossed arms. “Alfred’s right. You know as well as I do how guarded Tim is about his life outside of us, outside the whole ‘family business.’ Realistically, if you had filed a report back when Tim first started showing up, you could have ended up doing more harm than good. The Drakes would’ve paid off whoever investigated them, and who knows how they might have reacted or treated Tim about the whole thing?”

 

Letting that sink in, Dick paused for breath before continuing, “Jason is in a lot of pain... His whole life was this lonely, awful struggle for survival. I can’t imagine… and then he died, and now... Now I think maybe he’s trying to figure out how to live again?” Dick shrugged when Bruce looked at him askance. “I mean, I’m not Jason, and I’m not a therapist, but I can’t imagine he’s doing well right now.”

 

Bruce breathed a quiet acknowledgement, and Dick took it as permission to continue. 

 

“I mean, a lot of that stuff he was talking about is probably stuff he’s going over with Dinah in therapy right now. I’m sure things are just raw and close to the surface, so it’d make sense that it would kind of bleed over where it doesn’t belong. Making things... messy.”

 

“Messy or not, Jason can tell me how he feels. I should be glad he’s telling me these things. I failed him. I hurt him terribly, and it pushed him away. It made him think I didn’t want him. That I didn’t want my son. ”

 

Dick shifted a little in the conference chair, trying to shake off that old, familiar jealousy that was creeping up on him, and feeling ashamed that it was happening in the first place. “I wasn’t there... around the time you went to Ethiopia. So I don’t know what happened, but I know you and I know Jason, and I’m sure something must have led you to believe that - that Jason had - with Garzonas.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Bruce said resolutely. “I didn’t listen to him. I benched him. Things were bad enough that he thought - well, when he found out about Sheila... He just didn’t want to be on his own again.”

 

“You think he was under the impression you would - what?” Dick asked. “ Get rid of him?!”

 

Bruce nodded grimly.

 

Dick shook his head in disbelief. “How - what - I don’t -” He took a breath, clearing his throat slightly, but the words still came out sounding strangled, and Dick was borderline pleading when he said, “You think maybe you and Jason could - I don’t know - do joint therapy or something?”

 

Bruce didn’t immediately react, but that didn’t really mean much so Dick gave him a moment to process while he himself thought holy shit what the fuck?!

 

Finally, Bruce sighed quietly, exhaling a long, steady breath before saying slowly, “It is something that has been brought to my attention.” His tone sounded like he was about to say more, but Dick looked over and had to raise an eyebrow at the fact that Bruce was working to wipe the slight grimace off his face. Because really?

 

It was almost comical. Dick fought the instinct to roll his eyes, and turned to cough into his arm in a poor attempt at hiding his huffed laughter.

 

Eventually, Bruce achieved his familiar flat expression and Dick quieted, sensing the fragility in this moment. Bruce was feeling things. Openly. And communicating. 

 

“I know that doing nothing is not an option.” Bruce said, again using that slow, careful tone. Like he was bracing for something, or trying to work something out aloud. Which. Dick has never heard Bruce do before. 

 

Bruce always seemed so sure of himself. It was a first, hearing him speak with this stilted caution.

 

“I’ve made the mistake of not listening before. I won’t do it again.” Bruce said with a sort of finality, and Dick nodded, feeling a little relieved and a lot disappointed because it sounded like Bruce maybe Bruce wasn’t going to extrapolate on any of that.

 

“That’s good. That’s some good stuff,” Dick encouraged, trying his best to sound positive and keep his body language relaxed and open. He and Bruce looked at each other, and Dick made an effort to consciously clear his mind, trying his best to project an aura of calm and safety , trying to will Bruce into believing this was a judgment free zone with ‘ good vibes only .’

 

Trustworthy, totally open vibes. The kind of vibes people could confess their darkest secrets to. But not too dark because there’s some things Dick doesn’t want to know. 

 

He picked at a loose thread on his sweatpants. Bruce grunted a familiar, “ Hn .”

 

Years of working alongside one another had taught Dick the difference of tone and in the inflections Bruce could put into “Hn.” It was a thoughtful sort of noise, but Bruce still seemed like he was trying to work himself up to something.

 

Dick gave his best impression of an unimpressed Alfred, but it was completely wasted because Bruce had closed his eyes and was taking a steadying breath.

 

“Another thing that has been brought to my attention, something that I’ve thought over for some time,” Bruce said slowly. “Is that... Is that perhaps I should get a League approved therapist.”

 

Dick ripped the thread loose from his sweatpants, forgetting that he’d been fiddling while waiting for Bruce to get to the point. 

 

Holy-self-aware-Batman?!

 

His jaw nearly dropped, but Dick composed himself in time. 

 

“Oh,” Dick heard himself say faintly, “You think?”

“This is Jack! If it rang, leave a message. If it went straight to voicemail, send an email. Otherwise you’ll want to reach out to Peggy at 212-xxx-xxxx.”

 

“This is Detective Bullock with GCPD. I’m trying to reach Jack Drake in regards to your son, Timothy. They’re taking him back for surgery. Hoping to answer some questions for you, Jack, and maybe you can answer some questions for us, too. Again, Detective Harvey Bullock with GCPD. You can reach me at 212-xxx-xxxx. Thanks, man.”

In his first life, Jason had greeted his anger like an old friend. Met it in the middle while working it out on some asshole’s face. But that was also a time when he’d believed being Jason Todd- Wayne had meant anything, that being Robin gave him magic, and that maybe - just maybe - happy endings were real and he was deserving of one.

 

Then, there’d been Sheila, a warehouse, and a desperation that had him crawling and pulling himself along a slickened concrete floor with enough blood around that his broken body didn’t slow him down much.

 

The door had been locked, his vision wavering, and he had thought maybe he was dying, and that’s when he saw the timer on the bomb and he knew for a fact he was and nothing mattered anymore because he didn’t even get to tell Bruce I didn’t push Garzonas but I did scare him and he fell , or ask what he did to make Bruce immediately think the worst of him, or say I’m sorry, this was stupid, and I just want to go home.

 

In this second life, Jason has begun to think twice about greeting his anger readily with such familiarity. Not when it’s so much more than what it was before.

 

Not when it feels overwhelmingly large. Not when it had him gripped tight like Willis used to jerk him around by the arm before he’d even started school. 

 

Not when he’d done things - things he’d like to think - hope - he wasn’t capable of doing normally. Not without having been beaten near to death by a mad man, killed , brought back and then shoved into a Lazarus pit.

 

Not without Talia telling him ‘you remain unavenged’ and showing him news article after article of all the pain and the destruction wrought by the clown, showing him Barbara’s medical report, planting the idea that he’d been replaced, making him wonder if Bruce had just used him. If he’d even cared . Showing him articles of Tim’s debut as Robin.

 

The anger, the all consuming rage that had followed... Surely it was a product of Talia’s machinations? Surely it was the product of the severe training regiment Talia had him endure in his time with the League. 

 

Surely it was born of sleep deprivation coupled with long hours training in an oppressive heat with just the most basic of facilities, and only the bare minimum of food and water to keep him alive.

 

That anger, that all consuming rage - that wasn’t really him. Jason wanted desperately to believe that.

 

So when faced with a trembling rage that had him clenching his teeth and struggling to breathe through it, he found himself counting with the flick of the old zippo he’d kept from one of his endeavors when he’d still been with the League. 

 

He found himself closing his eyes, as he brought a familiar-tasting filter to his lips, remembering someone who used to follow him so close they were very nearly underfoot, who called him ‘akhi’ when they were alone, and quoted proverbs and sayings in practiced english.

 

“If a man be under the influence of anger his conduct will not be correct.”

 

“Temper, ungoverned, governs the man.”

 

Flame caught and Jason pocketed his zippo, concentrating on the feeling of the smoke hitting his lungs. He wasn’t supposed to be smoking anymore. He’d promised to cut back , to substitute his habit with fuckin’ cloves...

 

But, honestly, agreeing to therapy, coming home and finding the mausoleum that was his old bedroom frozen in time, realizing he’d outgrown everything, including now being too tall for a dead boy’s twin sized mattress…

 

It was almost comforting having a pack so readily available. 

 

It reminded him of times when the worst thing in the world had been Batman’s disappointment at finding out his Robin had a designated smoking rooftop. 

 

It reminded him of when things were easier.

 

Granted, he’d still been angry back then. But apologies still went a long way and there’d been trust , and things had been good , and Robin gave him magic. 

 

Maybe it was hereditary. Maybe this was one more thing to liken to Willis when he saw his reflection in the mirror. Maybe he was always meant to end up like this. Angry, bitter. 

 

Or maybe it really was the result of all the trauma he’d been through with the whole dying and coming back thing.

 

Or maybe it was the goddamn pit. Maybe it had poisoned him, changed him. 

 

Or maybe it was Talia . 

 

Spinning a web of lies, constructing the vision of a world where Bruce had seemingly moved on like Jason hadn’t existed. Backed by pictures of Dick and Tim hanging out in ways Dick had never done with Jason. A world where everything - Alfred sticking essays and report cards to the fridge, being Jason Todd- Wayne , Bruce calling him “son” or “Jaylad,” and Dick telling him to “call anytime, really” - hadn’t meant any thing.

 

“Budge over, lad.”

 

Jason opened his eyes, already scooching over and moving to stub the smoke out on the stone planter beside him. 

 

Before he could do so, Alfred was reaching over, tapping the back of his hand, and Jason obediently turned the smoke over without protest. 

 

He did not expect to see his pseudo-grandfather bring it up to his mouth.

 

Jason watched dumbly as Alfred inhaled, face remaining stoic even as his mustache curled slightly in displeasure at the taste. “Back when I was fighting for queen and country, we were given four cigarettes per meal in our rations. Twelve a day. They thought cigarettes were part of the ‘daily maintenance needed to keep the fighting man fighting.’ Before toilet paper, even.”

 

Jason’s expression twisted in disgust and Alfred’s eyes crinkled with amusement at the sight.

 

“Our rations mostly contained tinned bully beef and hard tak. Better than our American counterparts - in my opinion - with their canned cheese. Then again, they received twenty-two sheets of toilet paper and we were only spared three a day.”

 

“Three sheets a day?!” Jason repeated, incredulous.

 

Alfred’s lips twitched and he huffed a laugh, “It was war. Supplies were limited. One thing that hasn’t changed, though...” He looked down at the cigarette in distaste, “Your American smokes are bloody awful.” He handed it back over to Jason, who, after watching the smoke curl up from the butt of the cigarette for a moment, decided to stub it out in the stone planter.

 

Alfred nodded his thanks, reaching over and squeezing Jason’s shoulder gently. “Now, would you like to stay here and enjoy actual fresh air while I go find us something hot and caffeinated to drink? Or would you want to take a walk down to the cafeteria with me?”

 

Jason didn’t think about it too long, and both men rose to their feet.

“This is Jack! If it rang, leave a message. If it went straight to voicemail, send an email. Otherwise you’ll want to reach out to Peggy at 212-xxx-xxxx.”

 

“Jack, it’s August again. Call me back. I’ve assessed the boy myself and it’s - it is Tim. They haven't officially ID’d him yet but they’re thinking maybe because Wayne was taking care of your boy for so long that maybe he can do it... unless you get here or the kid wakes up and is able to identify himself first... 

 

It’s looking like - well, the cops are here and they’ve been talking to the Waynes - same with our staff - and they’re saying that maybe you did this. I’m not saying that, but that’s what’s going around, and - 

 

Just get down here, Jack. This is Augustus Albrecht. I’m telling you as an old friend and as a medical professional that your boy needs someone who has his best interests at heart and who can make decisions for him. If that’s you, then get down here.”

The first person who came into the private room to talk to them was a social worker.

 

It wasn’t hard for Oracle to find information about her once she had a name. 

 

Bridget O’reilly. Twenty-six years old, third generation Irish immigrant, who had moved to Gotham from Metropolis after her parents had divorced when she was six. She had finished her bachelors at GCU the year before and had been working at Gotham General for a little over six months.

 

She worked the graveyard shift, often staying late and picking up when she could. Her hours were almost as bad as theirs, Barbara texted him. 

 

It looked like she was a hard working model employee. Maybe a little over eager, not unlike their little bird.

 

Alfred and Jason had just returned with coffee when she bustled in with a clipboard and a bunch of questions, many of which they didn’t have the answers to. They had questions for her, too, wanting to know what was going on with Tim, and she either didn’t have the answers or couldn’t tell them, and Dick thought about texting Barbara to see if Oracle would hack Gotham General’s database. 

 

Key word being ‘would’ because there was no doubt that she couldn't . She’d done it before for them. Helped follow leads, identify patterns, confirm alibis, etc. 

 

But he wouldn’t be asking as Nightwing, working a case. 

 

He’d be asking as Dick Grayson. 

 

It felt wrong - and it was! It was invasive and probably morally corrupt, not to mention illegal - and this wasn’t for anything involving their nightlife. He wasn’t double checking an alibi or getting information on a suspect. No, he’d be asking Babs to look into Tim’s medical file. 

 

Tim, his pseudo kid brother, who’d been unfortunate enough to be there the night Dick’s parents fell and witnessed everything , but - luckily for Dick - had managed to snap the only photo Dick has of him with his parents. 

 

Tim, a kid they all knew and cared about, who was so smart he’d cracked Batman and Robin’s identities, but so lonely that he’d only done so after hyper fixating on Dick that night they’d met long long ago. Because of a hug and a few kind words, and Dick himself promising Tim he’d do a quadruple somersault just for him. 

 

Also because apparently the Drakes were able to provide just about anything, so long as it didn’t involve them actually tending to their child. Which explained why a few kind words and a hug had had such an impact. 

 

It also explained a lot about Tim. 

 

Tim, the kid that idolized them so much he’d followed them nearly every night around the city, despite how dangerous and terrifying that must have been. 

 

A kid who didn’t have anyone at home waiting on him, other than a housekeeper who checked in twice a week, and whose parents had wealth and unlimited resources in all things that didn’t involve the heart.

 

A kid that, despite all this, was still smart and emotionally intelligent enough to know that after Jason’s -- that after what had happened to Jason , someone needed to do something to stop Batman. 

 

To stop Bruce from doing something he’d regret.

 

Who was brave enough to track Dick down to Bludhaven alone and then confront Bruce himself when Dick told him to get lost. Who was clever, determined, and desperate enough that he’d succeeded . Who had molded the unmalleable, moved the immovable. 

 

Somehow, he had managed to get Bruce to listen and see sense , and had performed a miracle despite the odds. Despite the years Dick had spent feeling like he was talking to a brick wall. 

 

Somehow, Tim looked at Bruce and had said something that had gotten through, and had succeeded where many had failed.

 

He had saved Bruce’s life, saved The Batman, protected the people of Gotham, and stopped a grieving father from slowly killing himself (how a twelve year old was able to talk a grown man down from the edge, Dick had no idea, and if he speculated he’d start crying again).

 

In doing so, he had wormed his way into their hearts, integrated himself into nearly every part of their lives over the past couple of years, slotting nice and neat into their family as if he’d always been there. 

 

Tim probably didn’t even realize it, didn’t even know how important he was to them, but that’s what had happened. 

 

They were family. Brothers .

 

Still. He had to be honest with himself. Twenty-four year old Dick Grayson, part-time tumble instructor and full-time beat cop in Bludhaven had no business in asking anyone to hack into Gotham General’s database. Not for Tim. Not for Bruce, Alfred, or Jason. 

 

He knew Bruce would have no problem making the call, or - hell - looking into Tim’s medical records himself. Because Bruce still struggles to understand the concept of privacy and boundaries . 

 

And yes Dick is aware (now) that the obsessive need to know damn near everything going on in their lives, whether it’s their public persona or their nightlife, ( including differing daily routines, patrol routes, locations they frequent, appointments, names, addresses, and contact information of friends and coworkers, and more) has (most likely) been born out of a fear of losing them and that it is Bruce’s own special “Batdad” way of saying ‘I love you’ and ‘I care.’ 

 

But it’s still completely unhealthy and extreme , and it had been the root problem of the years Dick had spent lashing out at and avoiding Bruce, thinking his mentor and father figure thought he was incompetent. He’d spent years feeling hurt and betrayed and frustrated because he didn’t think Bruce trusted him.

 

When - really - Bruce “The Batman” Wayne, feared caped crusader and supposedly the world’s greatest detective just couldn’t pick up the phone and say, “Hello, person I care about. My parental unit senses are tingling and I am doing the concern because I haven’t heard from you. I understand that you are upset with me and may have a valid reason behind your extended silence. However, my unaddressed and poorly managed trauma has hard-wired my brain into assuming the worst, so please text me back and tell me how you’re doing.”  

 

Instead, it’s all, grumbling, growling, and grump, saying, “Dick. You missed your daily check in. I checked with Alfred and Barbara, and neither have been in contact with you. Call me.” Because expressing one’s feelings healthily is akin to an alien language to Bruce. Which is why Dick very fittingly made his inner Bruce sound quite a lot like Kori.

 

And even though Tim is a lot like Bruce in many ways, Dick still sees that desperate, lonely kid in his little brother every day. Years of neglect and abuse doesn’t just go away. He still sees the kid that’s starved for attention and affection. He sees it in the way he starts when he’s talked to directly by Bruce or Alfred, sees it in the pleasant surprise he gets on his face every time Dick suggests they get after patrol milkshakes, sees it in how he treats their genuine interest in his life and their daily kindnesses like it’s a gift.

 

Tim is desperate for approval. 

 

Dick sees it in how quickly Tim had thrown himself into his Robin training, and how hard he works, and how he still takes on all the tasks, projects, and whatever additional training Bruce can throw his way.

 

He sees it still in how hard he works as Robin and how much of B’s crap he’s willing to put up with. Bruce’s moods, the back to back training, sending him overseas to train with actual assassins... The kid clearly has no idea how to set boundaries. 

 

He probably doesn’t even know what boundaries are . And this? Could be a boundary Tim might like to set. 

 

As someone the kid looks up to, (and claiming older brother status) Dick felt it was his responsibility to set this boundary for Tim , both as the big brother and as someone who knows Bruce. He knows Bruce’s micro expressions, has had full conversations with him with the man making unintelligible grunting noises back at him. 

 

He knows that Bruce has the emotional depth of a peanut. 

 

Plus, Dick hadn’t been there to protect Tim from what had happened tonight. But he’s here now and he can give him this .

 

So Dick doesn’t ask Oracle to hack Tim’s file and instead tells Barbara he’ll keep her updated. But she can’t just do nothing , so she asks him to keep sending her names of staff so Oracle can vet them herself in her effort to protect Tim’s privacy.

“This is the Drake Residence. For business, please contact Phil Marin, Drake Industries’ chief business operator, at 212-xxx-xxxx. 

 

Callers interested in partnering with or making a monetary donation to the Jack Drake Historical Preservation Effort can contact Marcus at 212-xxx-xxxx. 

 

For Janet Drake’s Curative Finds please contact project manager Sue at 212-xxx-xxxx. 

 

If this is an emergency, please dial our personal assistant, Peggy, at 212-xxx-xxxx.

 

For other calls, please leave a message after the tone.”

 

“This is Detective Montoya with Gotham City’s police department. I’m trying to reach Jack Drake or anyone who may have information on his whereabouts last night or of an incident involving his son, Tim Drake. My number is 212-xxx-xxxx.”

Eventually sleepy eyes slowly blink open to a fuzzy and bright world. Eyes close again, and there’s a fleeting concern of dust in the viewfinder, of over exposed film. Those thoughts drift away as he blinks sleep from his eyes, squinting up at fluorescent bulbs. There’s an electrical humming that sounds around him, which he first attributes to the lights above him, but after he’s had the chance to lay inside himself and slowly begin to take stock of his surroundings, he realizes that the humming is a quiet buzzing of several machines all around him.

 

He starts to take stock of himself, wiggling fingers and toes, and some look taped together which is kind of weird, but not as weird as the plastic gray hat on that covers one of his fingers.

 

He takes that off with a frown, feeling something tugging at the inside of his elbow as he moves, but it doesn’t hurt. It barely even bothers him, actually. He’s kind of surprised he even noticed it with how distant he feels from himself and the world around him. It’s like he’s receiving the feedback from his body secondhand.

 

He shuts his eyes, and he doesn’t even realize he’s done so until he’s opening them again to find out what that unhappy sounding beep is. Frowning and looking around, he spots a machine of some kind on the wall with a monitor that flashes red around the edges.

 

Someone comes to stand next to him, a blurry silhouette in the corner of his vision, and they’re speaking soft and kindly. “...we need to keep this on our finger, honey. It’s measuring your oxygen levels. It doesn’t hurt. It’s helping us help you...” They put the plastic hat back on his finger and the monitor stops being unhappy.

 

“...responding well...”

 

“...the anesthesia....wearing off....”

 

“...observation...”

 

Voices begin to overlap around him, but it’s all background to him at the moment. He finally looks away from the monitor, turning towards the soft and kindly person who’d been at the edge of his vision. 

 

She smiles at him, and he thinks maybe he recognizes her, remembers those brown eyes and those crow’s feet, and remembers counting with her. Her lips are moving, and he hears, “...tell us your name?” 

 

“...need confirmation...”

 

“...Drake...according to the Waynes...”

 

He recognizes some of the words the other people in the white clothes around the room are saying, and it’s distracting because he knows he’s being asked a question. He opens his mouth to answer, a rasping wheeze falls out and the room goes quiet, allowing him to remember, “ Tim . Tim Drake.”

 

The nurse smiles kindly at him, her hand brushing against the back of his in encouragement as she says, “That’s good, Tim. Now how about your birthday?”

Notes:

i really admire all the comments, kudos, and bookmarks i've been seeing. thank you so much for the support. and if you checked out the first chapter of the other fic i started, thank you so much for that as well! i hope to finish this fic before i really dive into the other one, but i'm unsure when next chapter will be posted.

my dad has heart failure and was in hospital with a pulmonary edema shortly after that. they removed 20 lbs of fluid from off his lungs and physically he has been doing as well as can be but mentally he is not dealing with this diagnosis well. we lost my grandpa a couple years ago, and shortly after he lost his dog, who was his best friend. this isn't the first health issue he's had, but it is the thing my grandpa ended up passing from.

because of all his hospital stays and having to miss work, he's been through quite a few jobs this year already. he was fired last week wednesday and he called a 'veterans' crisis' line because he decided he was going to unalive himself and wanted them to find his body. thankfully the lady alerted the correct authorities, who found him before he could find a secluded area to do the deed. his gun was confiscated by the veterans' hospital and he was transferred to the local hospital i work at and admitted into their behavioral health unit. he stayed there 6 days and was then discharged home. they do not have enough reason to keep him even longer, even though we don't really trust he's not going to hurt himself.

oof. big stuff. on the bright side, i brought home a couple kittens not too long ago. they're really funny to just watch play and they're so small and cute it makes me almost cry, lol

Chapter 5

Summary:

tim wakes up, little social worker talk, guilty jason, and set up for next chapter.

Notes:

hi. long time no chapter. i had a good reason. my dad unalived himself, so that's just kinda... well, it's really shit actually. it's complicated shit. but it's shit. it's not the only thing going on in my life. but i guess it's one of the most acceptable to kinda talk about//mention? i dunno. i've lost too many people in the last few years. i'm tired of going to funerals. i'm tired of grieving people. im tired of everything, really. work is.. hard. i actually cut my hours and got another job so i don't have to spend so much time at the hospital. that's where i work. and even when i wasn't working there as much, i was still there a lot because of my dad.

it's hard to stick to a regular schedule while writing something so heavy and terrible while life is also heavy and terrible. it's easier to work on other works because it feels more fun and light hearted and less real than this one. plus, this fic kind of became way more popular than i ever expected anything i wrote to? which, wow, thank you so much and thank you for all the kind words, comments, and kudos. ill be lying in bed and i dont want to get up or do anything and then my phone will buzz and it'll be like ''you have kudos!" and im like 'oh.. haaa, i could write?' but it's a very very slow process. especially for this fic.

i am working on the next chapter. mostly dialogue and legalese. how much are you guys even interested in court proceedings?? aaah.

i promise next chapter will have tim get love from the batfam!

He recognizes some of the words the other people in the white clothes around the room are saying, and it’s distracting because he knows he’s being asked a question. He opens his mouth to answer, a rasping wheeze falls out and the room goes quiet, allowing him to remember, “Tim. Tim Drake.”

 

The nurse smiles kindly at him, her hand brushing against the back of his in encouragement as she says, “That’s good, Tim. Now how about your birthday?”

 

 

Tim answers their questions with minimal difficulty, despite his tongue feeling thick and numb in his mouth and despite the now familiar pressure sitting in his throat and within his chest, leaving him a little breathless if he moves around too much. He notices that despite this, his breathing is easier now in comparison to what he could remember from before. The cool air being pushed into his nose by the nasal cannula seemed to be helping a lot. Plus, the gentle sensation was extremely welcome in light of all the aches and pains he’s endured throughout the night.

 

He’s still sore and aching, but it feels strange and distant. Disconnected, in a way. Like his body is in another room. Which doesn’t really make a ton of sense and that would normally alarm him in some way, but right now Tim finds he can’t be bothered.

 

Especially once he’s given some ice chips. He’s really happy when they do that. Content. The cool sensation on his tongue and in his mouth is a balm and it feels really, really nice. So nice, that his eyes, which were kind of dry and heavy feeling, are now really wet and heavy. Someone asks if he’s in any pain, and it takes a moment for him to check in with his body.

 

His body aches and when he moves there’s no shortage of the dull twinges of pain all over from his injuries. Now he knows certain parts should be moved more slowly, but it’s otherwise all so fuzzy and distant, making it easy to ignore. He says just as much and they ask him if he needs anything else and if he’s cold, and then Tim has a warm blanket on his lap and he’s blinking up at the bright lights, slowly stringing the words together to ask if someone can help him to the big squishy couch in the living room. If it’s not too much of a bother. He really doesn’t mean to be a bother. They can put him anywhere, really, but if he has a choice and only if Jason’s done with the squishy couch -- ‘cause he remembers thinking at some point that he must have interrupted Jason when he started knocking on the Waynes’ door -- then that’s where he’d prefer to be. Please and thank you.

 

Or they can leave him here, too. This warm blanket and these ice chips are more than enough, and Tim’s just glad he’s not hurting so sharply and struggling to breathe anymore and throwing up . God, that had hurt so bad . 

 

He’s glad he’s able to breathe easy and he isn’t so cold anymore. He’s tired in the way that means drugs , not in the way that means if I close my eyes, I might not wake up again. 

 

So when someone tells him it’s okay to just lie back and relax, that he’s safe and it’s all over now, and he will feel even better once he gets some rest, he is all too ready to take that chance and close his eyes, trusting the nameless people and their gentle hands.

---

 

“Unfortunately, I don’t have much when it comes to news, but I can tell you he’s out of surgery now,” Bridget said, “I’m not able to give any specifics regarding his condition. Are you familiar with HIPAA, Mr. Wayne?”

 

Bruce nodded, but gave a brief explanation once catching Jason’s questioning look.

 

“Yes, so unfortunately because you are no longer his legal guardian, I can’t give you much. But I can tell you that the staff here is doing everything we can to make sure Tim is safe. I can also tell you that because of the crime and the ongoing investigation, everything here on and out is dependent on what new information staff and investigators learn. Worst case scenario, law enforcement or staff could decide that it’s in the child’s best interests to restrict visitor access - for example, if they believe his safety to be in jeopardy - and you may be asked to leave.”

 

Dick and Alfred inhaled sharply at that, while Bruce’s fists clenched even harder beneath the table. “That’s bullshit,” Jason muttered, sounding defeated.

 

“Master Jason,” Alfred admonished with uncharacteristic lackluster, and Bruce put an arm up to awkwardly pat Jason’s shoulder sympathetically.

 

“It’s the worst case scenario,” Bridget repeated empathically, not looking surprised or taken aback in the slightest by Jason’s reaction. “It’s not likely to happen but it’s not impossible. The only reason I bring it up is because if I were in your situation I would want to be made aware of the possibility. What I hope happens is law enforcement and hospital staff won’t find any reason to restrict Tim’s access to visitors when he gets a room. Then, you will be given his room number and someone will show you the way.”

 

“Thank you for the heads up, miss,” Alfred said kindly when no one immediately responded. She seemed to understand they had a lot on their minds and in their hearts.

 

“Mr. Wayne, are you familiar with family services?” Bridget asked politely.

 

“Not in this context,” Bruce said, a little hoarsely. He cleared his throat, fists clenching and unclenching beneath the table and said, “I did what I had to to get my foster license and to go through with both Dick’s wardship and Jason’s adoption.”

 

Bridget nodded, and said, “I understand you acted as Tim’s guardian in the past. Can I ask what the circumstances surrounding that situation were?”

 

Jason stiffened, white knuckling the edge of the table, catching Bruce’s eye. Bruce shook his head, brow furrowing, and replied, “Nothing of this nature. His father was in a coma and Tim had no one else to care for him at the time.”

 

“Is that paperwork still in effect?” Dick asked, feeling his pulse spike at the thought. That would make things so much easier for them. 

 

“No, it’s not. We just have the old paperwork here. I thought you should be made aware that those legal documents expired once custody was returned to Mr. Drake. I know this is probably the last thing on your mind at this time, but staff will not be able to talk to you about Tim’s medical condition until those papers have been reinstated. I didn’t want this to come as a shock to any of you later on.”

 

“Of course, I understand,” Bruce said before assuring her and everyone else that he would be contacting his lawyers and hoped to file for emergency placement again. “Of course, I understand there would need to be a hearing, and that the judge may not make a decision until certain evidence has been submitted...”

 

“Unfortunately, I don’t know much about that process. I’ve only ever done social work from the inside of the hospital here and I haven’t been here very long, but I have a colleague who has worked with the county and could be available if you had any questions regarding getting that paperwork reinstated. I can find and leave their contact information up at the desk for you.”

 

“I appreciate that. Thank you,” Bruce said. 

 

“One last thing,” she said, looking at them intensely through her large glasses with rounded frames, while she subconsciously straightened the notes she’d taken on her clipboard. “This is an ongoing investigation and I understand that from what we’ve spoken about in this room that you all may have strong feelings towards Mr. Drake. Unless staff or law enforcement make a decision to keep him off the premises or an arrest is made, I am warning you that it is possible you may encounter him here at the hospital.”

 

“We will not be interacting with him, if we can help it,” Alfred decided, and Bruce nodded. Jason and Dick stayed silent. 

 

She nodded, “I just figured if I were in your position, it’s something I would like to be made aware of. Even responsible adults can act rashly and make mistakes in the heat of the moment. I’m leaving some information and resources with you all. It’s just standard information about our hospital’s guidelines and policies.” She paused, shuffling through some of the paperwork to point out a certain pamphlet that said ‘NO HIT ZONE’ in all capitals. “We do have security on site to ensure no harm comes to any of our staff, visitors, or patients. We also have policies in place warning against any verbal or physical abuse or harassment on the premises. If someone is found to be in violation, they can be escorted off the property and charged for trespassing.”

 

Jason looked skeptical, “But isn’t it public property? Couldn’t he just walk back in?”

 

“Nope!” Bridget said cheerily, making Dick smile a little. “They will not be allowed on the property unless they are receiving medical treatment. As soon as that treatment has been administered and they are cleared to leave, they must leave or they can choose to be removed with the help of law enforcement.”

 

At Dick and Jason’s raised brows, Bridget said, “We had so many nurses and staff being attacked by patients or visitors... We had to make an official policy for it.”

 

“Well, shit,” Jason said, and Bridget grinned, standing.

 

She pointed to another leaflet, “There’s an additional leaflet in here regarding community resources if any of you feel the need to reach out. Legal services, counseling, etc. My contact information is in there as well. I’ll be Tim’s case worker on this side of things while he’s with us. I will notify staff you’ll be using the room. If anyone needs a bottle of water, or some tissues, or if you have any questions, staff will be available at the front desk.”

 

And with that, she was gone, the door slowly clicking shut behind her. 

---

Noon finds them as morosely vigilant as they were eight hours prior. Well, most of them. At some point, long after the sun had come up and begun to creep across the sky, Dick began to make a game of seeing how far he could tip his chair back on two legs without it tipping over. Something Jason was entirely unsurprised by because for as long as he’s known him, Dick’s always acted like an oversized child who treated the idea of sitting still as if you’d asked him to recite any Shakespearean play from memory in any language. Spoiler: he can’t. 

 

Jason isn’t sure how Dick does it but considering his usual daily diet doesn’t consist of much more of sugary cereals and candy, nearly as much caffeine as Bruce drinks, and the spurned chaos and spite embedded within him from the experience of being Bruce’s honorary “firstborn,” Dick is always moving. Or talking. Or singing . The singing is the worst because it’s like he’s channeling the spirit of every late 90s, early 2000s boy band and Alfred loves it. Most might think that is because of Alfred’s background with the theater, but Jason would like to point out that Alfred is also very British, and unfortunately something doesn’t have to be good for the brits to like it. Their cuisine is largely bland for a country that colonized most of the world, having access to all that flavor only to start their morning with beans on toast . Maybe grab a “pork pie” for the road, which is just a cold, congealed chunk of meat wrapped in plastic wrap. Jason does have to give them credit, though. They do get creative with their meats and meat byproducts. Just look at black pudding. Although, maybe that’s less creativity and more to do with the fact they’re one of the oldest countries in the world and someone was crazy and desperate to try it eventually. Though, why anyone would put hard meat in a dessert pudding and call it “spotted dick” is like it’s some sort of genital herpes is beyond him.

 

Back to the matter at hand, literally no one discourages Dick from these odd performances. Jason probably wouldn’t mind them as much if Dick didn’t take his choice of politely ignoring him -- the healthier of the two options he’d presented to Dinah -- as a personal attack, and start singing and dancing even more aggressively but now it’s somehow aimed at Jason. Point is, Dick is Annoying and the Backstreet Boys’ “I want it that way” does terrible things to Jason’s mental state.

 

If Jason didn’t know any better, he’d think Dick’s childhood had been stunted by some organic-only, bubble-wrapping, overprotective helicopter parent. Not some twenty-something multi-millionaire bachelor who’s problem solving capabilities hadn’t extended beyond throwing money around or dressing up in armored pajamas to try punching the problems away. Hence why there’s a flying trapeze in the BatCave and a plethora of photos online of a masked ten year old running around Gotham at night in scaly green underwear.

 

Jason’s not even sure what surprised him the most when he’d first moved into the manor. The flying trapeze beneath the manor, or the fact no one had seen anything wrong with the earlier designs of the Robin costume. Scaled. Panties.

 

Even his current day Nightwing costume has far less armor than Jason is entirely comfortable with. But at least the skin tight bodysuit has something like pants. 

 

Jason cuts Bruce a dirty look, wondering why the hell the man ever considered pants as optional crime fighting attire. But the man isn’t even paying attention, too busy brooding and glaring heatedly at the conference table with such contempt, it might as well share a bloodline with Tim and call itself ‘Jack Drake.’

 

Jason turns away, trying to ignore Dick’s antics in the corner of his vision. The legs of the chair squeak every time Dick rocks back on it and Jason finds himself briefly entertaining the idea of kicking the chair out from beneath him. 

 

Waving the intrusive thought away, the expression on Dick’s face has Jason recalling vague memories of Nightwing doing casual handstands on rooftops. Hell, he’d taken Jason train surfing.  

 

Really, it’s no surprise that given the time and space, an idle Dick Grayson begins to act like some demented sugar glider.

 

And that’s why Alfred has a very strict rule of absolutely no aerial performances in the manor. 

 

Which, in normal households, could probably go without saying. But evidently that hadn’t been obvious to a ten year old Dick Grayson, and some fancy chandelier that was damn near original to the very expensive house - Bruce’s childhood home - had paid the price. Jason knows there’s a picture of the original grand entryway in the library that Dick still refuses to look at out of guilt. 

 

In his first life, Jason hadn’t been above moving the picture around whenever the golden boy or one of his friends felt the need to remind him that he wasn’t good enough, could never be good enough, and would never be Robin. 

 

He knows when Bruce had taken him in, his personality had been prickly at best, but at least he’d had the sense and wits to not break Daddy Warbucks’ shit... Though, now that he thinks of it, he did slide down the banister one time and promptly learned his lesson to never do so again because he’d nearly crushed his balls on the end. 

 

As if that weren’t humiliating enough, Alfred saw the whole thing from the second floor and asked if he’d needed ice or a warm compress with a carefully neutral expression. 

 

“Master Jason, you’re looking a little flushed,” Alfred of the present says, and Jason startles a little, the conference room coming into focus once more. Dick is paused where he’s pushed himself back, good leg extended, and he’s sprawled out in the chair with his arms folded under the back of his head like he hasn’t a care in the world. He smiles at Jason, giving him a curious look, but otherwise doesn’t do anything else, acting like he isn’t currently pulling gravity’s theoretical pigtails, daring gravity to decide when shit’s about to go down .

 

Jason feels wrong footed, like he’s the one leaning back in his chair like a dumbass and taunting the universe with the idea of cracking his head like an egg. There’s this restless anxiety buzzing beneath his skin which only worsens when he’s left with his own thoughts. He would much rather go shoot something instead of sitting here, waiting, and reminiscing on all this shit -- they’d almost been brothers and now he’s able to have it for real, and Jason had come this close to irreparably damaging that, throwing it all away alongside the life of a fifteen year old child, the same kid who’d shown up at their front door, looking like he’d been to hell and back and then some -- like he hasn’t been able to feel anything other than pain, rage, guilt, and regret in the last twelve hours.

 

“Are you alright, Master Jason?” Alfred pushes gently, and Jason wonders, hysterically, and only for a brief moment, if Alfred can hear his thoughts. 

 

No. I don’t know how to live with the fact that I planned the murder of the same kid fighting for his life on an operating table. I nearly succeeded, too. I shot, beat, and slit the throat of that kid, a fifteen year old child. How can you all stand to look at me? How was I ever Robin? I put heads in a goddamn duffle bag, dammit! I don’t belong here!

 

Alfred reaches out, knuckles brushing the exposed skin of his forearm, frowning, and looking worried and apologetic when Jason just about jumps out of his skin. 

 

“I’m fine! I just...” he looks past Alfred towards Bruce, who has yet to pull himself from his own brooding thoughts and acknowledge Jason’s dissociation and Dick’s childish behavior. His gaze never strays from where he’s been glowering at the wood grain on the fake plastic laminate of the conference table, like he’s trying to manifest Uncle Clark’s heat vision or something. 

 

He’d been like that ever since the social worker left, aside from when he took a couple calls out in the hall. It was kind of unsettling, seeing Bruce so still . Hell, he could be sleeping with his eyes open like that, dreaming of self martyrdom,self flagellation, and whatever else good little bat boys and bat girls dream of. 

 

Probably all the new protocols and contingencies he’ll be filing to prevent anything like this from happening again. 

 

Dick’s leaning back again, far enough that he’s encroaching on Jason’s personal space bubble, and the legs of the chair squeak obnoxiously, sounding as if they could give at any moment, and Jason once again entertains the idea of trying to kick the chair out from under Dick. 

 

“ Jason ,” Dick sighs, and Jason looks up from where he’d been glaring at the chair with indecision. “Come on, Little Wing. Check in with us. Five things you can see.”

 

Jason’s expression twists derisively at the familiar exercise but Alfred’s brushing his knuckles across his forearm gently to ground him, and he looks so concerned, so Jason just sighs wearily and says, “You, the stupid fuckin’ room, Al, the table, an’ your damned chair.”

 

Alfred doesn’t even comment on his language, and Bruce doesn’t make the usual futile ‘attempt’ at admonishing Jason in Alfred’s presence, either. Because Bruce is fuckin’ checked out. Maybe he’s dissociated too.

 

“Four things you can touch.”

 

Jason clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms, but he continues, “I can feel Alfred touching my arm, and this chair isn’t exactly comfortable . I think my ass is numb. Um, it’s kind of hot in here? I don’t...”

 

“That’s three. One more, Jay.”

 

“There isn’t anything else. ” Jason finds himself saying, the words ripping from him unbidden. “I already said I’m fine! I’m not the one lying on a goddamn operating table! Christ .” 

 

“Thank the heavens for that, Master Jason; but you do understand it would be perfectly reasonable if you weren’t fine?” Jason shoots Alfred a quick, incredulous look, already tensing as he prepares to rebuke the statement, but Alfred carries on before he can get a word in, “You were put in a rather challenging position last night. You cared for a severely beaten child, and I can’t begin to guess which traumas the incident has brought to the forefront of your mind. Nor how many times you’ve been reliving them since then.”

 

“I… I guess you’re right.” Jason says after a moment, wanting to argue but there’s no fault in Alfred’s observations, and Jason doesn’t have the energy to pretend there is either. “The whole situation… seeing the state the kid was in, talking to him while picking glass out of his foot and stopping the bleeding… I can’t help but think about the tower, a-and that makes me wonder… How am I any better than this kid’s dad? I want Jack Drake’s head because he’s a homophobic piece of shit and a child abuser, but not even a year ago I was leaving a message for Bruce in this kid’s blood . How messed up is that? I put that kid out of commission for months, and I shot him! Twice! How am I any better than that deranged piece of shit, o-or Willis, even?!”

 

“Jay…” Dick looked pained, easing the chair down so they would have a conversation with their feet on the ground. “What happened at the tower… You’re right, it was - and still is - pretty damn messed up. But you’re not being fair to yourself. You’d died , little wing. You were just a kid. A kid who was tortured, murdered, mysteriously brought back to life, and then found and taken by Talia... and I’m not trying to make excuses or say any of that justifies what you did, but it all played a role when you came back.”

 

“That… sounds like you’re making excuses, Dick.”

 

Dick sighed, but continued weakly arguing his point. “I’m not trying to, but you were vulnerable, Jason! You experienced a lot of trauma over a short amount of time. Who you were before you went to Ethiopia… anyone would come back changed after that. But Jack Drake… Jack Drake is an adult man who had a traumatic injury and as a result, he was put into a medically induced coma. He wasn’t exposed to a Lazarus pit and when he did wake up, he went home, and he had the best support money could buy. When you woke up, or became aware, whatever… You were a kid stuck on the other side of the world with the League and all you had was Talia…”

 

Hearing it in those words, Jason couldn’t ignore the change in his world view. If it hadn’t happened to him, if it had been Dick who’d died and come back like he had, and tried to kill him, would Jason judge Dick the same way he judged himself? 

 

It was subtle, this minuscule shift. He still couldn’t forgive himself for the horrible things he’d done and said, not with the memories of the tower burned into the back of his eyelids whenever he closed them. But Dick’s words did make him feel like he wasn’t such a monster. 

 

Oblivious to the impact his words had had on Jason, Dick struggled to continue, picking his words carefully as he broached his next point. “Even before the accident, before Jack lost his wife… The Drakes were…”

 

“For as long as we’ve known them, the Drakes’ ability to rear children has been absolutely dreadful,” Alfred surmised shortly. “Whereas, if circumstances had been more favorable for us, there is no doubt in my mind that your meeting Master Timothy would have gone swimmingly.”

 

“Exactly! Thank you, Alfred!” Dick said, relieved.

 

Jason raised a skeptical eyebrow at that and Alfred responded, “Do keep in mind the company you were forced to keep during the years between your awakening and your return to Gotham, dear boy. Indoctrinated so you could keep your life, you did what you had to to survive. All while being steadily manipulated and fed lies by the one person who would show you kindness. Bruce was once a guest with the League, remember? He had chosen to be trained by Ra’s. He knows much about the constant training, the sleep deprivation, the food restriction… all of the tactics they use to slowly whittle away your will, your personhood, and that’s how they treated someone who was there voluntarily. I cannot imagine what you must have endured, and then having Talia - that viper - awaiting your return at the end of such grueling days with a cool drink and scraps, feigned kindness, and all the lies she told you...” Both Jason’s eyebrows were raised by the time Alfred had stopped to catch his breath. Not out of skepticism but out of shock at how much the words rang true, as well as the grief and rage that twisted the face of the normally mild mannered older gentleman, words absolutely venomous while talking about Talia.

 

“Master manipulators. Talia did learn from the best,” Dick sighed. “And we still don’t understand what effect the pit may or may not have had on you, if there was any. Either way, I can’t imagine anyone going through all that and not experiencing at least a little homicidal rage. Too bad you didn’t run across Control Freak before you got to the Tower, though. Or Doctor Light! I know Kori and Rae wouldn’t mind not having to deal with those two anymore.”

 

Jason gave him an affronted look, crossing his arms in what he knew looked pretty menacing with his new jacked self (jacked thanks to the pit and though he tried to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal, it was in fact A Very Big Deal because seeing his reflection was like looking at a stranger), and Dick was quick to put his hands up, backpedaling “Sorry! Not trying to minimize what happened or invalidate your feelings about it. This is just really heavy stuff we’re talking about and a guy’s gotta cope somehow, okay?” 

 

Dick had to stop for a moment and take a breath before he continued talking. “As for you and Tim being friends, though. I mean, I’m not sure if you guys have the same interests, but I definitely see you both in one another,” he says thoughtfully. “Tim seems really quiet and polite but when you get to know him, he’s a little shi- um - turd. Not as much of a turd as you were, but enough to give Bruce and I gray hairs!” 

 

“Really?” Jason said skeptically, unprepared for the absolutely delighted look Dick gave him. He almost took his words back, claiming he didn’t want to know, but Alfred was already laughing. 

 

Even Bruce seemed to have snapped out of whatever staring contest he was having with the table and was now listening to the conversation, judging by the familiar exasperation on his face. 

 

Jason had seen that particular expression too much to be fooled anymore. That’s the same patented look Batman would give Robin if he were caught messing with Justice League tech, like Batman himself hadn’t set up the backdoor so Jason could get some practice in while Batman judged Green Arrow and Green Lantern’s response time to a cyber attack.

 

 

---

 

 

Tim’s never seen the appeal of being under the influence of anything. 

 

He got high. Once. 

 

It was an accident. It was awful. 

 

Bruce had had an actual business trip, which Dick knew about immediately because, despite Dick’s vehement declarations of newfound independence, near constant reminders of his adultness, and pointed conversations within Bruce’s earshot where he threw around phrases and buzzwords like ‘setting boundaries,’ he had still hacked Bruce’s socials and bank accounts to flag and forward any activity or correspondence that involved Bruce or any of his aliases leaving Gotham.

 

Dick Grayson: talented acrobat, loveable doofus, social goofball, and huge hypocrite.

 

So of course, he had decided that that weekend would be the one he would come visit. And of course, that meant Robin and Nightwing would patrol Gotham’s skies together that weekend.

 

It was a Saturday night, the night before Bruce’s inevitable return, and they were making the most of it. They got milkshakes on patrol and they even split up that second night while Alfred ran comms.

 

Robin was the one who’d stumbled on the grow operation. It looked like some amateurs were trying to get a foothold in Gotham’s drug trade, but the guys guarding the place were armed, which was kind of out of the norm for an amateur growing shed. So he’d called Nightwing in as backup. 

 

They suspected they might find hard drugs, maybe some deals going down. They hadn’t anticipated the literal underground gambling ring. 

 

Caught unawares, they were quickly wrapped up in a fire fight once the initial wave of goons had been taken out. In the second wave that spilled up from the cellar doors, a Firefly fanboy came up, armed with what looked like weed killer but actually turned out to be a homemade flamethrower. It exploded in the poor guys’ hands, spraying lit chemicals all over the product on the main floor of the small warehouse.

 

At the time, he hadn’t even thought about putting his rebreather on. There’d been so much going on at the time with the resulting fire fight quickly turning into an evacuation and rescue mission. An opportunistic ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ couple had run back down into the cellar, looking to snag the gamblers’ pot, only to get trapped when the power cut out.

 

Apparently Bonnie’s leggings didn’t have pockets and the two of them had spent too long arguing about her knockoff Lululemon’s when they could have just grabbed what they could carry and run for it. Robin was a little sorry he had to interrupt, but the building was falling down. Eventually everyone was evacuated and what remained of the warehouse was turning to soot and ash in the distance behind them and Dick was asking what was taking the couple so long in the cellar. Tim smiled, told him, and then they were both hacking up a lung and breaking out into breathless giggles, slowly moving to lean against one another on the rooftop.

 

“Oh shit,” Dick had said after a while. Then, with feeling, “Oh shit.”

 

Tim turned to him, but he knew before Dick even said it aloud.

 

One moment, he’s on a rooftop, laughing at the adrenaline rush with his sort of pseudo brother and the next he’s on top of the world where the air is thinner and the breeze pushes against him from all sides. He’s acutely aware of how heavy his body feels — like gravity works differently up here, like they’re in space — and Tim’s never been more interested in learning about constellations before.

 

They were high as fuck.

 

Tim’s never felt more useless. 

 

They could smell the weed in the air and they weren’t even downwind from the blaze. It might’ve been their gear that stunk but it had seemed too strong, too dense, to be just that. They laid on the rooftop for what felt like hours, looking up at the little bit of sky that poked through Gotham’s smog and enjoying the feel of the roof gravel beneath their backs. Tim pondered making roof gravel “snow angels” and Dick moved his arms and legs and then just laid there. They talked some before they finally managed to peel themselves off the roof, gravel clinging to their exposed skin, and feeling of the soft breeze that brushed across their hot, sticky skin.

 

Tim hasn’t a clue what they talked about, but apparently one of them had bumped their comms and Alfred heard the whole conversation and was able to deduce what had happened. They argued worked together to relearn how to call the self-driving batmobile to their location for pick up and then the entire ride home where they marveled at the technology in the Batmobile, though it was unchanged from earlier in the night. (He knows Barbara probably has a copy of the audio file saved somewhere to use as blackmail or leverage if need be.) 

 

When they arrived at the Cave, it took twice as long for them to take their suits off and shower. Most of their gear ended up in a pile in their lockers, barring the whole Nightwing bodysuit and Tim’s Robin tights. Both of which were found in the private showers, soaked through.

 

They used the stairs, despite the elevator being right there and Alfred met them in the kitchen, armed with snacks and drinks.

 

Tim felt hot, fuzzy, and heavy. Dick and Alfred were chatting back and forth, and sometimes Tim would laugh so hard it made him cough. His face hurt from smiling so much and Dick giggled, pointing out that Tim was on his third can of soda and that each time he’d gone up and grabbed one, he would open it and then forget about it, even though it was right next to him, and then go grab another one. 

 

Dick said they should watch movies in the living room and that Tim should stay over and Tim just went with it. Dick picked a dvd and put it in and then asked Tim to be quiet because he was trying to read. Tim hadn’t even realized he’d been talking. 

 

The whole time, Tim felt like he could be doing so much more. His time could be better utilized going over case files or wiping down gear. But Alfred refused to allow them back down in the cave. 

 

They both stared at the main menu screen, not realizing that the clips being played on screen were on a loop before Alfred prompted Dick to hit ‘play.’

 

Tim couldn’t even watch the movie, he was too occupied waiting for the come down and wishing he wasn’t high. 

 

Dick ate a family size bag of chips all by himself while Tim drank a 12 pack of Zesti. The next morning, it was harder to get out of bed than usual and even his coffee couldn’t wake him up properly, and make the weird numbing fatigue in his body go away. He decided then that he hadn’t cared much for the experience. It had been an epic waste of time.

 

He knows, logically , why other people might be initially drawn to drugs and alcohol . Altering your perception or clouding the senses can offer a buffer between you and reality, and it really isn’t hard for him to imagine why other people might want to do that. Actually, it’s all too easy for Tim to imagine why people might resort to something so harmful and potentially lethal as an escape.

 

Sometimes, things can be too… thingy. Life just keeps coming, and shit will keep hitting the fan, and the pain of it all can be so great, that any sort of distraction or reprieve becomes enticing.  

 

Consequences be damned.

 

Desperation does things to a person. There’s nothing worse than feeling backed into a corner by a hungry beast, or the idea of treading water and there being no land in sight. Desperate times call for desperate measures. It’s human nature. 

 

No one grows up thinking, I’m going to be an addict! Of course not. That would be asinine. Ridiculous. It doesn’t happen like that. Life happens. Something gets you down. It’s too much. You’re stressed or overwhelmed and you need something to cope. Desperate times.

 

But for some, that temporary balm becomes a vice. A habit, a need. You can feel it like your body feels hunger. Like you feel thirst. That’s what addiction is , and it’s deadly. It’s a disease surrounded by so much taboo that when people seek treatment, society still shames them. 

 

Jack never tried to get help. He’d been drinking for as long as Tim could remember. Even when Janet was alive, it had been a burgeoning problem that was staunchly ignored until the nightly ritual began to have an effect on their daily lives. Tim remembers the stiff tension that had hung in the air around the three of them as they sat at the dining table at home, mechanically going through the motions of a family dinner like they were automatons playing at “happy family.”

 

Tim had wanted to be anywhere else when he saw his mother carefully place a couple brochures on the table, smiling prettily but her gray blue eyes were like glaciers. She steeled herself for the conversation and when she took the plunge, she made sure not to pull any punches, painstakingly going over the events of the night before and that morning. She showed Jack an itemized list of all the money they’d lost the company because Jack had let his drinking get in the way of their work. 

 

Jack had tried to wave her off and assured her he would be making a deal at the next gala that would more than make up for it. Janet spat venom and fire before taking whatever fragile familial bonds they had between the three of them and wrapping them around her knuckles like a boxer would their hands before getting in the ring. She wasn’t above pulling Tim into the conversation, which had been horrible and exactly where he hadn’t wanted to be. Illegal object, illegal object!

 

Jack had tried to brush her off but when it became apparent that the bell had rung and Janet Drake would not forfeit, Tim watched the way his dad changed. His posture shifted and he held himself differently, sneering and snapping, sarcastic and mean . Hurtful things were said, accusations were made, and insults and names were traded back and forth. 

 

Tim didn’t need to be there for any of it but he was, so he paid attention to the way his dad treated the whole thing like it was some sort of business deal. He watched Jack make demands, bargain and haggle conditions, and then tell Janet he would only think about it if she would just shut up already. Then, dinner was over, people were excused from the table, and whatever remained of those spider silk delicate familial bonds loosened, fluttered, and twisted in the air like a feather on the wind. 

 

Tim would normally have been glad to take the opportunity to spend more time with his parents, but the rest of the night saw his dad acting as if his mom were the one who’d thrown a tantrum and was acting childish while his mom went to bed early, citing a “headache.” So Tim hid in his room, only coming out to go to the bathroom. When he did, he passed his parents’ room and heard the sound of a glacier breaking, soft and quiet like a secret.

 

That night was the first of many that would follow throughout the years in a similar fashion. Tim did his best to avoid his parents whenever those talks would come up but it seemed using him in her argument with his father was the only reason his mom would seek him out anymore.

 

He learned more than he wanted about his parents’ failing marriage, his dad’s dependency on alcohol, and just how far Janet Drake was willing to go. The sound of yelling and things breaking became normal for the Drake household. Tim almost dreads it when his parents come home, nearly preferring the lonely and depersonalizing experience of silent solitude.

 

He watches Janet smash bottles of liquor that cost more than his private school’s tuition. He listens to his dad searching the house high and low, slamming cabinets and cupboards open and shut while screaming at the both of them to tell me what you did with it, dammit! He locks his door and tries to ignore his dad rampaging outside his room, knowing that’s what his mother is doing and that’s what she expects him to do as well.

 

He learns that both of his parents are fantastic liars. His mom lies through her perfectly straight and bleached teeth, telling friends and associates that Jack was working late last night and needs the rest, or that he’s caught a stomach bug, or he had a prior engagement that he just could not cancel, and, really, everything is still being discussed and developed, so it’s far too early for her to say anything for sure, but Drake Industries is doing very well and is about to do even better. His dad lies, breath smelling thickly of spearmint, to everyone . He says It was just one or I grabbed the nonalcoholic option or No, officer, I have not been drinking. He promises things like Of course, I’ll really consider it , Jan, and No, I won’t drink tonight . He bargains Don’t tattle to your mommy and maybe we’ll be home for your birthday this year. They both lie like they breathe. 

 

They’re fantastic actors, too. Tim watches his mom become an expert on damage control, able to assess a situation and Jack’s condition in an instant, and then get the three of them out of a gala or public function with minimal interference and well placed deflection. Tim watches from the passenger seat as his dad smiles at and schmoozes the officer, handing over his license and the necessary paperwork while remarking casually on the Gotham Knights, sparking a conversation between him and the officer about the new coach which prompts his dad to remember those complimentary front row tickets with VIP service that he’d received at some social function, and oh, drat, they’ll actually be out of town for that game, and would the officer know of anyone who would be able to make use of them?

 

He follows his parents’ lead and he nods and smiles when and where he’s supposed to. He helps them maintain cover and he lies right alongside them. He imitates them, learns their tips and tricks, learns how to deflect and direct suspicion or blame elsewhere. It comes as naturally to him as it does them because Tim still wanted so very badly to be noticed, to be praised, and to be loved and the only way that works is if he’s useful to them. 

 

And then he’s Robin and he’s sitting in the cave with Batman and they’ve just finished sparring because Shiva said she’d taught him all she could and Bruce had to make sure because Gotham and Batman couldn’t lose another Robin. Tim’s carefully cycling through katas, and maybe he’s showing off just a little , when Bruce pulls up Tim’s file to be sure they had gone over everything together.

 

Reviewing family history, Bruce says, “I have it listed that your paternal grandfather was diabetic, unknown what type, and had COPD, and your maternal grandmother and your mother were chronically anemic. Do you have anything to add?”

 

The part of Tim that will always be desperately searching for love and approval, the same part of him that wonders what he’s doing wrong whenever he’s told that a dig has been extended, that part has him instinctively shaking his head, plastic smile in place. But this burgeoning new part of him, the part that still hero worships Batman and Robin, the same part that does a double take whenever he catches sight of his reflection when he’s wearing the Robin suit, that part pauses and considers the question. Bruce is taking a chance on him. He’s accepted Tim as his new Robin, his sidekick — for now — and Tim, well, Tim wants this to work. Of course, it would be fantastic if Dick would miraculously change his mind and decide to come back. Realize that Tim’s right and Gotham needs Batman like Batman needs Robin, but Tim knows better than to hold his breath. So he pauses, his plastic smile melting off his face, and sighs. He takes a subtle, deep, and steadying breath, and he takes a chance on Bruce, on Batman, on the mission, and says, “Actually, I do.”

 

They don’t talk about it much and Bruce doesn’t ask questions that aren’t geared towards completing Tim’s medical file because he’s still new and this isn’t anything more than a partnership, but when Bruce asks if Tim himself has had any history with substance abuse, Tim says no and determines that will never be me.

 

He knows the statistics. He’s seen the numbers. He understands fundamentally that addiction is an illness usually exacerbated by stress, trauma, and mental disorders. He knows that children of addicts have a higher chance of becoming addicts themselves. He learns that his dad’s dad, Tim’s grandfather, liked to drink too. Tim had never met the man, but it would come up once in a while when Jack would tell stories. This was usually followed by a statement about how lucky Tim was. Because having his things broken, being yelled at and called names, snapped at to quit crying, — quit making a scene, Timothy! — told that crying is a way for children to try and manipulate their parents into feeling guilty, and you’ll be in so much more trouble if you keep it up; that was Jack going easy on him. 

 

It’s because of Robin that Tim learned to accept that he would never get what he wants from his parents. That doesn’t stop it from hurting. It doesn’t make watching his dad choose the bottle over Tim and his mom, and then later Tim and Dana, any easier. It doesn’t make watching Jack lean more and more on that crutch feel any less like he’s throwing himself onto a blade. He doesn’t think his inner child, that part of him that remembers counting down the days to when his parents would come home, will ever stop finding ways to blame himself.

 

He still plays pretend and lies, smiling with stick thin women in fitted dresses with sharp, trilling laughter that rattle baby bird frail bones. He politely passes the manic businessmen crushing and snorting pills off of the bathroom counter, smiling at him with eyes hard and sharp as daggers. He remembers what they would say when he was smaller, “You didn’t see anything. Unless you want me to have a conversation with mommy and daddy. I know how much they hate hearing stories about you.” But he never stops watching and he wonders if he’s always had this inside of him, this hyper aware and hyper vigilant part that notes glazed and bloodshot eyes. This part of him that watches for mood swings and twitching hands and knows when it’s time to beat a hasty retreat. He listens to stilted speech and knows the slurring words aren’t an impediment or part of an accent. He watches and he sees it all, and it feels a lot like wearing the Robin mask when he notices the lack of appetite, the ever present tremors and shakes in their cold hands, and the sniffle from the phantom feeling of drainage at the back of their throat. 

 

It feels like he was in free fall and he’s just caught the updraft, riding the wind and coasting as Robin while he gets to track down suppliers. He and Batman hunt down leads and work with Gordon and his guys to get dirty drugs off the street. They help discover new chemical makeups to antidotes for street drugs laced with all kinds of nasty stuff: Joker venom or fear toxin. He finds and busts someone selling black market steroids with a copycat compound to Bane venom in it all on his own and Bruce looks at him from the corner of his eye and Tim thinks maybe he’s proud? Some manufacturers get their hands on Ivy’s pollen or something close enough to imitate it and Batman tracks that down while Robin synthesizes a neutralizing compound because Tim’s so much faster at it than Bruce. 

 

But they are still finding bodies, sitting with the needle still in their arm, and teenagers and college kids are reporting to emergency rooms for alterations in their mental status. He tries questioning a man on a bad trip for the first time and he uses skills he developed from years of dealing with an angry and unreasonable drunk for a father. He’s administering narcan to a kid younger than he is, hands shaking because he doesn’t know what he took and any one of the specialized antidotes in his belt could do more harm than good at this point, when he realizes his dad’s killing himself.

 

The realization isn’t startling. He was probably already aware of it, subconsciously; but the first time he thinks about it, Tim feels numb. The way he pictures it, it’s far off and slow, like liver cirrhosis. He thinks, at least after his dad goes, things will get better for his mom. But that’s not what happens. There’s an attack and Janet dies first. Jack’s in a coma, and even if he weren’t, Tim would probably still be taking care of everything on his own. There are complications because Jack’s body is so addicted that it can’t function without the glue, the duct tape, the rubber bands or whatever, desperately holding him together. The chances of him dying of withdrawal are just as high as the chances of him succumbing to his injuries and Tim just wants his mom.

 

But Janet’s dead, she drank the poison, and it’s a tragedy so people offer condolences and everyone’s so sorry but no one’s sorrier than Tim. He's alone, running damage control and there’s no cue for him to follow. No lead, no one to imitate, and he knows he’s inadequate.

 

He knows the only thing that separates a rich addict from a poor addict is the dollar sign. 

 

Rich people die loudly, with their headlines, and tell-all stories from an “inside source,” and the character limit on the obituary. Anyone else, and the obituary your family puts in for you is scrutinized because every letter and stamp of ink is money to the newspaper companies. 

 

He wonders what he’s supposed to write for his dad’s obituary and he has no idea where to start. Then, Jason comes back and Tim’s benched and the whole thing with the Tower happens, and Jack pulls through. His dad wakes up and he learns his wife is dead and he can’t walk. He looks at Tim, really looks at him for the first time in years, and he reaches out, squeezes his hand, and says ‘It’ll be different this time. You and I, together.’ Tim squashes the tentative hope down. Jack calls him ‘sonny’ and says he wants to be a better father, a better man and Tim’s not sure if he believes him, but he has years of practice and playing pretend.

 

Tim goes home because it’s easier to pretend everything is alright. It’s easier to pretend it’s his choice, that he’s excited for the opportunity to get to know his dad better, that he’s grateful for the silver lining that is this second chance at being father and son. He doesn’t wait for Bruce to kick him out and when Batman asks after Robin’s recovery regime, Tim tells Bruce that he and Jack will do their physical therapy together. Just an automaton playing at “happy family.”

 

Things take a nosedive and it’s not long before Dana’s waving brochures for rehab centers in his dad’s face, and Tim watches her plead and bargain and cry. He knows that if the dragon that was Janet Drake couldn’t get Jack to change, there is simply no way sweet Dana will, either. He sees the moment the resignation sets in, and if he squints and tilts his head to look at them sidewise, it’s like looking at Jack and Janet again. At least Tim can be useful once more because he’s the only one between the two of them who is familiar with how this goes.

 

Dana doesn’t play pretend, though. She doesn’t follow his lead because she wasn’t born and raised with Gotham’s elite upper crust. She doesn’t care about keeping up appearances. She packs her suitcase and leaves.

 

Tim wishes he could leave. But he knows he can’t. His dad drinks and mourns a woman Tim never really knew so Tim tries to escape in his own way. Through a “Wayne Internship.” Through Robin, even though he’s probably already been fired, he just hasn’t been told yet. Through a small group of friends at school. He wants to throw caution to the wind and check out of the world around him but he’s still that independent, lonely little kid so desperate for approval and validation from those around him. He’s still that same kid that chased after bats and birds on rooftops. The same kid that imitated his mom and lied and deflected the best he could. The same kid who measures his whole self worth off of how much he can help and be of use. Old habits die hard.

 

But the thought of having something to lean on, of letting go of his inhibitions and letting himself lose control… it’s not something Tim’s ever done and it terrifies him, but it’s never sounded so enticing before. He tells Bernard over dinner on their not-date, and Bernard, he’s sweet and everything Tim’s told him, he’s listened to and he’s looked at Tim like he’s something special and tells him its okay to take a break, it’s okay to not want to be alone, and he says, “Maybe you don’t need some thing , Tim. It sounds like you could use some one. Like a friend.”

 

So when the pharmaceutical cocktail in his system begins to wane, Tim’s relieved. It’s much easier to wake and stay awake, and he finally is able to take proper stock of himself and his surroundings. He still feels a little off. Fuzzy and displaced, like that day after Robin and Nightwing busted that grow shed with the gambling cellar. He knows he’s in the hospital. So the bed with its raised railings and the collection of cords and wires keeping Tim from moving too much doesn’t come as a shock. He moves around a little, trying to get a better look at his surroundings, but something pulls at the back of his gown and then there’s an alarm going off. 

 

A frazzled looking nurse with thick, curly hair straining against her surgical cap hurries her way into the room, smiling big when she sees him looking at her, startled and a little embarrassed. “Hey, you’re awake! It’s nice to see those baby blues of yours. Sounds like your clip alarm got pulled when you sat up! I’m your nurse, Eleanor, but you can call me Ellie or Elle if that’s easier.” She speaks easily over the alarm, coming up to the side of the bed, and she says, “I’m going to reach behind you and turn that off now. Can you lean forward, sweetie?”

 

He appreciates her telling him what she’s doing because as soon as she’s reaching behind him, most of her now out of view, the heart monitor kicks up and Tim feels a cold sweat break out across his neck. He tries to take a deep breath, but he’s leaning forward so she can fix the alarm. As soon as she’s done, she backs off and gives him some space, letting him know he can lay back.

 

“All done. I'm going to take care of this now that you’re more alert. Sorry about that, Tim. Do you like Tim or do you want me to call you something else?” She asks, standing on the other side of a tray table and wiping down a little green box. The alarm, presumably. She’s quick and efficient, clearly a seasoned nurse, and if Tim had to guess, he’d say she’s probably in her early to mid thirties.

 

“Tim is fine,” he tells her, voice hoarse and rasping. They both make a face at that and Elle stops what she’s doing to turn and grab a paper cup out of a dispenser on the wall, filling it at the sink and handing it over. “Thanks.” His hand only trembles slightly as he brings the cup to his mouth.

 

“Do you need anything else? I can put another pillow behind you if you want? Otherwise, I’m going to take care of this here and grab you some fresh water and some ice before I come back in, okay?”

 

He swallows. “Okay, sounds good.”

 

“Alright. Be right back, honey.”

 

Under different circumstances, it might’ve felt a little strange to be addressed as such but the way Elle talks, it sounds so natural coming from her. Like it’s normal for her to use little affectionate nicknames like that. Like she isn’t just doing it because he’s a kid or because he’s her patient. She’s kind of bright, with that dark red, nearly purple hair peeking out from beneath her rainbow colored surgical cap, and she’s kind in a way that reminds him of Dick.

 

Tim’s finished the water by the time she returns, carrying the aforementioned water and ice. She pours him some more and asks if he wants a straw. Then, she’s rolling a stool over to his bedside, pulling a floating desk with a monitor, keyboard, and mouse on it behind her. When she sits, Tim sees the whole set up is connected to the wall by a long metal arm. Elle shakes the mouse, waking the computer and then scans in with her badge.

 

“I’ve paged your attending team to let them know you’re awake. They’re going to want to talk to you about your injuries and they can answer any questions you might have about your surgery.” The screen is facing away from Tim, so he can’t see what she’s doing. “There are also a couple of social workers involved with your case. Our hospital social worker, Bridget, touched base with the people who brought you in but we don’t have anything for them documented in your chart. It looks like there’s a M. McIlvaine listed as a primary contact, and then your father?”

 

“Miss Mac doesn’t work for us anymore,” Tim adds, fiddling with the plastic straw. “Does my dad know I’m here?”

 

“Right now, we aren’t telling anyone you’re here,” his nurse says and her confidence assuages the building anxiety Tim had felt in his chest. “You’re a minor, Tim, and the injuries you have are consistent with a pretty brutal attack. A serious crime. For your protection, we haven’t even been able to update the people that brought you in.” It hits Tim, then, just how serious this whole situation is. 

 

Jack’s probably going to go to prison . He might even end up in gen pop at Blackgate. With some of the same people Batman and Robin help wrangle up. Unless he pulls some strings and gets sent somewhere else.

 

“Speaking of the people who brought you in, I know who Bruce Wayne is, Tim. But who is he to you? One of your dad’s friends? Just the neighbor?”

 

“Oh, no, um, I don’t think my dad and him like each other very much. Bruce is… Well, he took me in, actually, because there was an accident and my dad couldn’t take care of me? It was like a foster situation. He was my legal guardian. I lived with him… until my dad woke up.”

 

She nods, “That can be hard, being displaced like that. Especially after such a traumatic event. I think I remember hearing about your dad’s accident in the papers. You stayed with Bruce Wayne for a while, then?”

 

“Almost a year.”

 

“How would you describe your relationship with Bruce?” 

 

“I guess, just normal?” Tim shrugs. “He’s someone I look up to. I had an internship at Wayne Industries with him, so he was already kind of like a mentor to me. Plus, he was our neighbor. So moving wasn’t, like, hard?”

 

“Okay. Do you want us to pass any information along to the Waynes on how you’re doing?”

 

“Can you just let them know I’m okay?” Tim asked. “Like, they kind of already know what happened and they had an idea that it was bad. But no one really knew how bad because I didn’t really tell them much?”

 

“That’s alright. Yeah, we can definitely let them know you’re okay and that you’re awake. I know that they’ll be talking to a detective first, but would you like us to send them up when they’re done and we’re done here with the doctors? It’s okay if you’re not up for visitors.”

 

“No! No, I want to see them, please ,” Tim said, emphatically. He wasn’t prepared for the way his vision blurred and his eyes stung. He wiped the tears away quickly but Elle was already handing him a tissue box. “Sorry.”

 

“Nothing to apologize for, sweetie. You’ve been through hell. You deserve a good cry, and you deserve love and support. I want to make sure you have that.”

 

“ Thank you,” Tim sniffed, grabbing a tissue. They sat in silence for a few minutes while Elle typed away on the computer. When he was done blowing his nose, she wordlessly picked up the garbage can so he could throw his tissues away easier.

 

Elle explained quietly that she’d sent the go ahead along to the social worker to let Bruce and them know Tim was awake and he was “okay.” It wasn’t too long after that, during which Elle took his blood pressure and wanted to listen to his lungs and then gave him a small, modified menu of liquids and soft foods he could order from, that a knock came on the door and Elle was calling out a ‘come in!’

 

A man wearing a doctor’s coat lets himself in, alongside an unfamiliar woman, and they’re followed by two people Tim recognizes immediately. 

 

Detectives Bullock and Montoya look at him, and Tim’s not used to seeing them outside of the mask, working with them from this side of a case. They’re both good cops. Passionate in their own way. 

 

Montoya has a good head on her shoulders and she’s good with victims and witnesses. She gets perps to talk by lulling them into a false sense of security and cutting deals but she adheres to a strict moral code, and that’s why she’s one of Gordon’s best. Whereas Bullock’s on the other end of the spectrum. He’s a little hot headed, appearing gruff and unapproachable but no less a good man or a good cop. He plays the perfect counterpart to Montoya’s “good cop,” but it doesn’t come as naturally as he’s led graduates to believe. He and the commissioner are old friends with a lot of rich history together. They were partners when Jim first joined the force and if it weren’t for Bullock, Gordon would probably be dead a dozen times over. Gordon had been kind of a loose cannon back then. Young, angry, and vengeful. Bullock had seen the makings of a good cop in Jim, though, and didn’t hesitate to pull him back from the edge, playing the part of his moral compass, and talking him down if needed. Jim had probably given him many near heart attacks, with all the shit he pulled.

 

Now, Bullock gets back at Jim once in a while when he gets to play “bad cop.” He does so with relish and he enjoys playing the part of a loose cannon and can do so perfectly. It had taken Montoya a couple of nervous weeks to realize it was an act, and when she had, she’d asked Bullock curiously where he’d learned it from. Robin had had the pleasure of being present for that conversation and watching as Montoya’s mirth had slowly melded into startled shock and awe had been brilliant . Once he’d gotten over his own disbelief, of course.

 

He’s taken aback again by Bullock when he notices the expression being leveled at him. In all the interactions he’s had with the man, most of which he was dropping in while the man was unaware, he’d never seen Bullock look so soft . Robin hadn’t ever seen much more than a grizzled detective. But Tim Drake… Tim was looking at a man who empathized with him, who understood, someone willing to fight for him even though Tim hadn’t even said anything yet. Someone who looked at him, looked at Tim, and saw a part of themselves reflected back at them. Looks like, when Tim’s out of here, he’ll be having to update the psych profile he’d already started to put together on the man.

 

“Hi, Tim. I’m Dr. Elms. This is Bridget, one of our on-call social workers. With me, I have a couple detectives from the GCPD. I want to talk to you about your injuries. I can have the detectives step out if you’d like the privacy, but because of the nature of some of your injuries and with this being an open investigation, a copy of your records have already been handed over to the state and local authorities.”

Tim felt his mouth go dry at that and he struggled to swallow against the overwhelming urge to hurl again. Oh god. “Oh, um. No, the detectives can stay. That’s... alright.”

Notes:

sorry if the writing style or anything has changed. it's obvs been a while since the last update. not much i can do about it now. thanks for understanding