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"Try harder, next time."
Sound leached away slowly like a volume knob turning, static buzzing faintly up in its place.
Tim stared at Bruce's back, uncomprehending. "Me?" he wanted to say. "Me? Try harder?" But all that came out was a strangled puff of air, mouth framing the disbelief he couldn't seem to voice.
Did Bruce. Did Bruce just…?
Try harder.
But…wasn't that what Tim did?
Every day.
Every night.
He tried his hardest. Pushed himself to (past) his limits, fought to maintain (improve) his overall performance (on the field, at the Manor, with Damian), stressed and pressed and practiced and fought tooth and nail to keep his head above water to the point where he could barely convince himself he wouldn't rather drown.
And now.
Bruce was saying…
Try.
Harder?
It wasn't good enough?
Tim wanted to curse himself. Of course it wasn't good enough. More importantly, Tim wasn't good enough. He'd known this from the start. It had only been a matter of time before Batman rejected him completely.
He knew this.
He KNEW this.
But…
Try harder.
The one thing Tim (thought he) was good at was trying.
And apparently.
That still wasn't enough.
The edges of his vision had become viscous and watery; distorted. His chest ached, heartbeat loud and pounding over the static. With a detached sort of clarity, he realized he was furious.
All this time.
All this effort.
And yet…he still didn't make the cut.
Why wouldn't someone have just told him sooner? Before he grew attached, before he drove himself half insane, before he cared enough that he didn't want to leave.
He thought someone was talking in his ear. A blur of black and blue pressed in front of his face, mouth framing something that may have been his name. Tim couldn't tell. Tim couldn't care.
Tim wanted to scream.
Tim wanted to cry.
But most of all, Tim wanted to—
(die)
This was it.
This was all he had in him, all he could scrape himself together to do.
And if he couldn't do this right. If he couldn't do more.
He had nothing.
Nothing left to give.
He was…
Useless.
He was…
Worthless.
(Bruce told him) he was…
As good as dead.
Tim knew this. He knew this. So why did it still hurt?
He hadn't noticed the room tunneling from the outside-in until the darkness had encroached across his entire vision, his existence fading to nothing but a black, static-filled soup.
A shout, muffled almost distant, broke through at the last moment: "Bruce, what the hell?!"
.
.
.
Reality checked back in in fragments.
Voices. One angry. One gruff. One soft. Indistinguishable.
Sensation. Cold stone, warm fabric. Something(one) gripping his arms, gentle. Grounding.
Light. Colors filtered in amongst the white and grey tones: A distant red-brown blur planted in front of a black-grey one, a larger (closer) blue and black blur hovering in the center of his eye line.
Tim blinked. Once. Twice.
Like flipping a switch, everything crashed back together in a cacophony of noise, color, noise.
"—cking blind?" Jason (when did he get here?) shouted. "Or maybe deaf? Seriously, what alien hijacked your brain to tell Tim to try harder?"
Bruce raised his hands, placating, but Jason raised his own finger back and barreled right on: "Uh-uh, no. Don't care. I thought you were better than this, Bruce, damn it all. Are you really this dense? World's Greatest Detective, my ass. The kid has been working on this case non-stop for 72 hours for fuck's sake!"
Tim blinked again. Harder. Unable to make the connection between the last thing he remembered and Jason being here. And angry.
"Hey," a quiet(er) voice said suddenly, causing Tim to jump. His wavering attention refocused on the slightly less overwhelming features of Dick Grayson in full costume sans mask crouched in front of him, steadying Tim under one of the thick wool blankets Alfred stored in the medbay.
Dick smiled at him, small. The worried flicker in his eyes, tension creasing his brows, gave him away. "Hey," he repeated softly. "You okay?"
Tim blinked a third time. Unable to do anything else, apparently.
Realized, detached, belated, that at some point he'd (been?) moved from where Jason was now standing (raging) onto one of the infirmary's cushioned waiting chairs. In the actual infirmary. How…?
Click.
Oh. Oh damn. He'd just…he'd just had a panic attack. Dissociated? Both?
Shame bubbled up fast and fierce, face burning. Mortified.
Oh gods. Oh gods, Bruce was right. Bruce was so right, Tim couldn't even take the truth without breaking down; what right did he have to say he was good enough? Not that he'd intended to argue the point directly, but how could he now when the evidence he'd just added to the case was so damning?
He jolted back to the present as Dick squeezed his biceps gently, open concern now leaking onto his features. "Tim…?" he prompted.
"I'm fine," Tim blurted—immediate, hoarse—grasping the chair arms and hauling himself to his feet. His knees buckled almost instantly, Dick's arm supporting him the only thing that kept him from pitching forward flat onto his face.
"Take it slow, little brother," Dick cautioned.
Something like guilt (longing) twisted knife-like in Tim's stomach. Little brother. As if he deserved it.
"I said, I'm fine," Tim stressed, cheeks flaming. "Let me go, Dick."
Over Dick's shoulder, he became aware that Jason had stopped yelling, two new sets of eyes now observing the scene with varying expressions. Jason still furious, but with something like concern…determination, protectiveness(?) flitting at the edges. And Bruce… Tim's eyes skittered to the Cave floor before he could determine what Bruce's expression read beyond regret.
(Regret that he'd slipped up in front of Tim. That he told him straight to his face what he thought of his pathetic attempts at adequacy. Certainly not regret from the words themselves.)
"Let me go," Tim hissed again.
"Tim—"
"Let. Me. Go."
Dick did.
Tim bolted. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought Bruce's arm made an aborted attempt to stop him. Decided he didn't care.
Across the Cave, up the stairs, down the hall. Habit guided his footsteps to his room, but he continued onwards at the last moment. They'd find him too quickly there. Besides, it was barely his anymore to begin with, right? What little was left in there wouldn't be for much longer.
Dimly, Tim wondered if he should have made a more dignified exit. Showed Bruce he could handle it, that he understood, that he accepted his fate and would move on on amicable terms.
But no. That was impossible now, wasn't it? Not after that display, not after Bruce ripped his heart out in the most clinical way possible. It hurt too much to think about.
It shouldn't be that surprising. Dick had fired him first, after all. It was only a matter of time before Bruce caught on to his utter inadequacy and carried out the final sentence. His stomach roiled, knees crashing onto unfamiliar tile, and before he could consciously put together where he was, what little he'd choked down for lunch made an abrupt reappearance.
Pathetic, a voice whispered as he heaved into the third floor, backwater bathroom toilet that likely hadn't seen an occupant in years.
If only Damian could see him now. The thought of his smug little sneer rolled another round of bile into the porcelain.
Try harder, right?
If Tim tried any harder he'd die. As dramatic and Jason Todd—though those were mostly synonymous—as that sounded, it was true. He was so tapped out. He…he had nothing left in him to give. He couldn't try harder if he…well…tried.
Better to stop now. Quit while he was ahead. If he was ahead at all…? Beat Bruce to the punch of the official pink slip, anyway. This—forcing Batman to take him as Robin, busting his way into a family that would never truly be his, thinking he belonged somewhere for once in his life—had been a terrible idea. Of course he wasn't good enough. He knew this. He KNEW this. He just wished he'd acted on it sooner before someone else flipped the switch and ended the charade on their terms.
Only…only until everyone was happy again, right? Till Bruce was settled and Batman assuaged, till the family had returned to some degree of normalcy. Those had been the terms of his contract.
He was done.
He was over.
Read and signed on the dotted line.
Tim sagged back against the wall, fingers curled in his lap.
Okay. He sucked in a breath. Held. Let it out, slow. Okay.
He…he. He needed a new plan. One that would somehow cover for his embarrassing overreaction to the point where it could be swept under the rug along with the rest of his screwups, leaving room for Tim to follow after the rest of the family assumed things had blown over.
He could pretend that much longer. Right?
Try harder. Fake it till he made it.
He could have a new identity set up within the month.
The faded wallpaper scratched against his skin as he shifted back, leaning his head back against the drywall.
He…he should move. Shouldn't stay in the bathroom where they might find him before he was ready to face them. He…had to go.
Just. Five more minutes. Make sure no one was looking for him.
Then. He could…could…
…
Tim stirred awake to the sound of a doorknob rattling.
He frowned, disoriented. Unwilling to open his eyes just yet.
An ache had worked its way up his spine, heaviest at his tail bone and the base of his neck. His fingertips were numb, his thighs tingled—a hairs breadth away from joining his fingers.
With a (literal, physical) jolt, the events of the past hour(s?) all came rushing back as the doorknob turned and the bathroom door was pushed inward to reveal—
Tim's foot shot out before he'd fully processed what he was doing, jamming against the door and preventing it from opening more than a quarter of the way.
The force on the other side paused, the pressure against the door faltering fractionally.
"Tim," Bruce(ohgodsBruce) rumbled; fingers wrapped around the edge, slippered foot lodged in the gap. "May I come in?"
No, Tim framed, throat working uselessly to get the sound out. No, not yet. I'm not presentable.
Why. Why why why why why, of all the people to find him, why did it have to be Bruce?
He wasn't ready yet. He needed a plan, he needed a script, he couldn't just jump in blind—
But Bruce was here. Here now. On the other side of the door. That wasn't just something one could just ignore.
Tim heaved in a silent breath. Two. Schooled his face to something carefully blank.
Almost of its own accord, his foot slid back from the singular panel of wood between him and the object of his terror.
The resistance lost, the door swung open a bit more. Slowly, carefully, it eased open completely.
Tim's heart did a hot, heavy ba-dump as his eyes tracked the appearance of a knee, then a hip—up, up, up to…
Bruce looked drained. Face drawn and pinched with worry and exhaustion, whole frame half crumbling inwards as if he could barely hold himself upright.
Tim's eyes skittered away. Pretended his heart wasn't about to beat a path out of his chest as the man stepped further into the small area—too close, too close—and crouched beside him.
This was weird. This was so weird. There was a toilet in front of him, barely an inch from his curled up knees. There was a toilet in front of him and a TP shelf to his right, brushing against his shoulder. There was a toilet in front of him, a TP shelf to his right, and a Bruce on his left, watching, waiting, expecting, something, Tim didn't know.
Trapped. He was trapped.
A large hand reached towards him.
Tim flinched. Accidental. Reflex.
Bruce froze. Lowered his hand.
"Tim," he said again. Slow. Deliberate. It was his "scared civilian child" voice. Which…should probably be offensive, but probably wasn't the most inaccurate method of approach. "May I sit down?"
Tim gulped past the thickening in his throat. "S'your floor." Your house. Your family. Your choice.
Bruce settled down next to him, silent but for the tell-tale creak of a knee and the dry shhhk of fabric against faded wallpaper. Tim dimly noted that the man had changed out of the Batsuit, was now wearing a black thermal and soft grey sweats that carried a dull brown stain from the time Bruce had spilled coffee on himself catching Dick who had been "testing out a meme."
There was a toilet in front of him, a TP shelf to his right, and a Bruce on his left, silent, waiting, not looking at Tim but at the ornate wooden cabinet below the sink.
The silence stretched on, coiling heavily around them like a snake ready to strike rather than settling into something more bearable. Tim shifted uncomfortably under the weight of it—realized the action brushed his shoulder impossibly close to Bruce's arm—and froze.
"Tim," Bruce began.
Tim flinched, bracing against a proverbial strike. "It's…it's fine, you don't have to"—make excuses—"explain or anything, I—overreacted, m'just tired, I'll do better, I'm sor—"
"Tim."
Tim's tongue stuck uselessly to the roof of his mouth as he pressed his forehead into his knees.
"Tim. Look at me?" Not a command.
Tim shook his head, cheeks burning. Gods, he was an embarrassment. Couldn't take the criticism, now couldn't take the consequences. Just try harder, Tim, why—
"I'm sorry."
Tim stilled. That. Couldn't be right. Bruce...sorry? What? "Why?" he blurted.
"I expect a great deal from you," Bruce admitted, low. "Probably too much."
Tim's breath barely had time to stutter before the man continued, "Not because you can't handle it. But because you shouldn't have to. You're seventeen, Tim. You may be emancipated and fully capable of handling most things on your own, but you're still my son. You're my responsibility."
Son. Tim's heart did a strange little pitter patter in his chest, almost unfelt against the guilty churning in his gut. "B-But…I don't…" He cut off as Bruce shook his head in the corner of his eye.
"You shouldn't have to," Bruce repeated. His lips quirked in the Bruce equivalent of a half smile. "Jay chewed me out for not stating out loud the obvi—what I believe to be obvious."
Tim swallowed thickly. Picked at a loose thread in the seam of the worn sweatpants he'd donned in the medbay moments between patrol and showering.
Bruce sighed, rubber-soled slippers squeaking against smooth tile as he shifted. "Tim," he said slowly. Deliberately. "I care about you"—Tim's breath froze—"quite a lot, actually. All of you boys. And…I know…I know I'm not always the best at showing it."
Tim didn't realize how hard his own gaze was boring into the corner of Bruce's until the man turned to meet it.
"I'm sorry it took until now for me to realize that."
Tim looked away, heart fluttering uncomfortably. Twice. Twice now Batm—Bruce had apologized to him. Tim could count the number of times he'd heard Bruce apologize on one hand, and not once was it directed towards him.
"I won't ask for you to forgive me," Bruce continued. "But moving forward, I will do my best to be better. Or. More specifically, more appreciative of your efforts and explicit about my own feelings."
In other circumstances, Tim might have laughed. The awkwardness was just so…Bruce. The man under the cowl, behind the playboy persona. The man so few were actually privy to outside his immediate family. Just. Bruce. As it was, Tim mustered the courage to glance at the man once more from under his fringe.
"S'okay," Tim mumbled. It wasn't, but…it could be. Maybe. Someday. Then, "Did Dick feed you that line?" because his mouth apparently wasn't feeling particularly obedient today.
Bruce had the presence of mind to look sheepish. "Maybe."
Tim snorted.
Bruce was staring openly now, something unreadable flickering behind the uncomfortable crease of his brow. Relief?
Cautiously, as if Tim might bolt, Bruce reached an arm up and over Tim's shoulders, resting his hand on Tim's bicep. When Tim didn't shy away from the touch, Bruce tugged closer—slow, gentle—to press Tim against his side.
And that…this was nice. The last time he'd gotten a Bruce hug was that glorious moment the world had tangible, physical proof that Batman—that Bruce was still alive. That Tim wasn't crazy, his da—mentor wasn't dead. That hug was equal parts reward and reassurance it was worth the months of hell it took to prove it.
This hug was different. Somehow…softer. More intentional, even if the reason it was occurring was likely still circumstantial.
The main difference, the moments stretched on and Bruce made no move to pull away.
Tension eased from Tim's limbs at the realization, fingers tangling loosely into Bruce's shirt, hardly daring to breathe. When Bruce still (still) somehow didn't recoil, Tim sank minutely further into the man's side, allowing his head to tuck against his (daddaddaddAD) Bruce's shoulder.
Bruce squeezed minutely tighter, looping his other arm around so Tim was tucked further against his chest like…like a child.
The salt breaching his lips would have been the tell if the horribly wet sniff didn't betray him first.
And Bruce—bless him and his emotional stuntedness, honestly—didn't say a word. Just let Tim fall apart half in, half out of his lap as if this was something normal, something acceptable. Something Tim knew, intuitively, he'd done for his sons before, behind mostly closed doors; something Tim didn't realize was a path open to him outside of extenuating circumstances (see: death/revival of a family member). Tim was the one who chose this family, after all—didn't always mean he was convinced they had chosen him back.
"I love you, Tim." A low rumble, hardly above a whisper. A statement. A promise.
And that. That.
The sob that escaped was so horribly gut wrenching Tim couldn't have bit it back if he tried.
A hand clutched the back of Tim's head, tugging him in so a grizzly chin pressed into the crown. And yet the hand stayed, calloused fingers combing awkwardly yet firmly through his hair as Tim went through his second mental breakdown in as many hours.
And still Bruce stayed. Offering comfort in the only (best) way he knew how, the way that was largely pressed into him to actually initiate by Dick's pestering then Jason's demands in equal measure, that Tim didn't know how to ask for and so rarely received.
Bruce…cared about him. Tim knew this to an extent, to the extent that Bruce didn't want him to die, singled out his opinion on particularly tricky cases, trusted him to run his company. Since Damian's arrival, Tim hadn't been entirely convinced those hadn't become the only reasons.
But care enough to redact a statement that Tim took to be fact? Enough to apologize for it not once, but twice? Enough to sit on a frigid, tiled bathroom floor comforting Tim above and beyond the clinical level needed to handle a freakout Bruce had inadvertently caused instead of throwing Dick at the problem as he so often did when emotional fallout was involved?
Maybe…maybe Tim wasn't so unwanted after all.