Work Text:
Mission Report:
Tim’s fingers stilled, the clicking of the keyboard no longer able to hide the sound of clutter where Alfred moved with practiced efficiency around the med bay. Even with the broader figures of his brothers hiding the view from the cot, shadows on the wall gave imagery of Damian struggling against the Fear Toxin in his system.
He drifted for a moment, the post-adrenaline crash creeping up on him and threatening to yank him into a deep slumber.
“Tim”
He didn’t have to turn around, the low growl enough to startle him back into motion.
Mission Report: Failure
Cause: Deviation from plan, Stakeout points compromised, Fear Toxin
Description:
“I expect a full report by tomorrow.” Bruce said sternly, reaching for the case files he’d left on the desktop.
It was no use. Tim had skimmed through all of them after they’d returned to the Batcave, desperate to know what could have gone wrong from a simple drug bust. He’d been so meticulous, worked so hard to make sure the mission went well while Bruce recovered from almost having his back snapped into two and his ribs shattered, again.
As Bruce strode towards the cot, Tim bowed his head with a carefully schooled expression. He could distantly feel Barbara’s gaze on him, sympathetic. He began typing, beginning with the bullet points before he could properly flesh out the description.
Perfect, a small voice in his head insisted. You need to make sure it’s perfect.
“Hey, Dami.”
He typed faster, instinctively trying to drown out the sound. It grated his ears, made his heart clench with… with…
“It’s gonna be okay, Damian. You’re right here, with me. It’s Bruce. You’re at the manor. You’re safe.”
He pressed the backspace repeatedly despite no typo’s being present in the document. It was a skill he’d tried his best to perfect, touch typing so he wouldn’t waste Bruce’s time. So he could get multiple files done. So he could turn physical copies into digital ones within a strict timeframe without risking using any bugged machines.
“F-Father.”
“I’m here, Damian. I’m right here.”
He began typing again.
Reports were condensed, straight to the point, professional, and emotionless.
There was no bias in reports, nothing but accurate descriptions on what had occurred. With his impeccable memory and mastery over concise formatted language, there was no one better than Tim to carry out the task. Tim did not allow emotion to bleed into his work.
He did not allow his own envy and self-loathing to show when he typed out sequence of events from what he’d observe from their bodycams.
“Stop!”
“Look, Drake. Your task is to disarm that bomb. You and your stupid immune system will crash if you inhale any more of these mould spores. Now take the rebreather!”
Reports for failed missions required detail.
Bruce demanded as such and Tim could understand why he was so stern with it. Most injuries occurred from either a) failure to predict number of attackers, or b) deviation from plans. Tim was not always someone who’d work by the book. He’d rebelled more than once, talked over Bruce, and even questioned his choices on rarer occasions.
But when it came to working with his siblings without Bruce’s supervision, he might as well have taken up the Batman mantle from how controlling he could be. Bruce knew he was capable of following through with his plans, able to place blind trust in his mentor and follow his orders to the T.
It was what secured him his role as Robin, after all.
Tim was good at following. It avoided unnecessary issues like civilian causalities or being benched for the week or ruining your family’s pristine reputation at Gala’s or being targeted by corporate snakes at the age of nine.
After the clock ticked past the 12th hour and his family had returned to their respective rooms to rest, Tim remained in the Batcave to finish.It was easier to think when he wasn’t surrounded by noise. The fact made him cringe internally. Look like he was growing up. He’d never used to feel so… guilt-ridden discomforted, being around his family.
Injuries and Causalities:
- Due to Red Robin’s compromised rebreather, Robin’s equipment was repurposed to ensure the completion of the mission.
- Bomb was disarmed within ten minutes.
- Several henchmen were neutralized. No questioning occurred.
- Robin sustained exposure to the Fear Toxin due to delay in evacuation. Effects subsided after medical intervention.
- No civilian casualties.
- Main objective was achieved.
He skimmed it one last time, then minimized the window. The report was perfect. Precise timestamps. No embellishments. No excuses.
The silence of the cave pressed in, heavy and familiar.
Main objective was achieved.
He should feel satisfied. Relief, even. But the words felt hollow no matter how many times he reread it. His reflection on the monitor flickered back at him, taunting him with his own haggard eyes and pale complexion. The sound of Damian’s screams echoed in his ears.
He swallowed heavily, reopening the window.
Robin’s actions were well within mission directives and was the best course of action. Further punishment is unnecessary.
A pause, his breath catching in his throat.
Red Robin failed to lead |
Red Robin had not |
Red Robin was not good enough |
Tim stared at the cursor blinking at the end of his last sentence. He deleted it before hitting send.
Tim headed to Bruce’s bedroom that very morning, not out of consideration for Bruce’s injuries but because of Bruce’s lack of consideration for them. It’s 7am, two hours before the meeting with the board and Tim had prepacked his belongings to settle at his apartment afterwards. As long as the verbal report ended well, best-case scenario he’d be out of the manor in one piece both physically and emotionally.
Alas, he should have known.
“If Richard was still my Batman, he’d never have made that failsafe, and you know it!” Damian’s voice, although muffled, rang through the hallway from the very room Tim was about to enter. “You can’t keep treating me like an outlier. How many Robins are you going to go through before you understand –”
The doors burst open, Damian marching outside only to halt in his steps at the sight of a well-dressed Tim looking impassive despite clearly overhearing the argument. Furrowing his brows, he opened his mouth to say something, only to shake away his thoughts and barge past Tim with an almost childish fury.
Something akin to resignation passed over Tim – a feeling he was familiar with and was deep down instinctive at that point. He should have known, a benched Bruce was never a good thing. A benched Batman was even worse.
With a casual stride, he pushed open the door once more and allowed himself a second to assess the situation. Bruce had his shirt off; the bandages Alfred had wound around his torso partially hanging loose by the edges. He was in a mood, brooding near his study and attempting to self-sooth by staring at the picture frames. A level nine if Tim could put it on a scale. No broken items, no bloody knuckles. That reduced the level by two.
A level seven, then. Agitated, angry, more likely to impose rather than implode.
“You know, Bruce, I’m pretty sure the bed part of bedbound involves you actually being in the bed.” He began, keeping his tone casual as he dropped off a physical copy of the mission report onto the table. “You probably ripped a few stitches going down to the Batcave last night.”
Bruce tensed, his breaths coming in heavy huffs before he turned to meet his eyes. Tim could read the anger in the tightness of his mouth, the way his eyes fixated on his own in a show of intimidation. There was no glaze from meds, which meant he was lucid.
“Get back to bed, Bruce.” Tim said as firmly as he could. “You need rest.”
A pause of silence, a silent standoff. Tim was easily one of the shortest among the boys in the family, his neck craning to look up at the man. Unfortunately, the stubbornness Bruce possessed could have been a reflection of his own.
“I know my limits.” Bruce said, finally. “I read your report on the mission.”
Tim raised an eyebrow. “Then you should know not to be so hard on the kid. He’s still learning how to work in the field.”
“He compromised your position, yes, I checked the cams.” Bruce stepped closer, effectively towering over Tim in a way that made him feel small. “My question is why you didn’t follow the failsafe we agreed upon. It was well within the parameters of our predictions.”
“You saw the cowl footage, I suggested it – “
“But you didn’t enforce it.” Bruce growled, and suddenly Tim felt his previous façade of confidence retreat. It was as if he was thirteen again, dancing around Bruce’s temper and trying to say the right things but failing miserably.
Tim swallowed heavily. “I cannot force the others to follow the failsafe, Bruce –”
“They don’t respect you on the field.” Bruce continued, his sharp gaze not straying the slightest. “You lack control of your comrades and that cost you the mission.”
“We managed to destroy the lab –”
“But you failed to retrieve an uncontaminated sample. Because of that we had to rely on Damian’s bloodwork for traces of the new dose. One more second and it would have become lethal with lasting effects.”
“I didn’t ask him to give me his rebreather!” Tim’s voice had taken a desperate edge, anger bubbling in his gut. “His intentions were acceptable at that time because – “
“You were supposed to fall back once your positions were compromised. You know how Jason feels about closed spaces.” Bruce’s voice grew louder, thundering and bouncing off the walls. “An underground lab would constrain and concentrate any airborne toxins. You know this, Tim! You were supposed to lead!”
“I tried!” Tim shot back, his words cracking, fraying at the edges. “We acted out of necessity because of the bomb – “
“And the failsafe meant you could have evacuate the civilians while keeping your team out of the contaminated area.” Bruce’s hand slammed against the desk, making Tim jump. His breathing had become heavy, his eyes rage-filled and fixated on him and him only. “You gambled with their safety for the sake of their mission –.”
“We agreed to not abandon the main mission – “
“And what?” Bruce stepped forward, voice softer now, dangerous in its restraint. “You think that’s what leadership means? Hyper focusing on the mission without considering your comrades”
“They are capable! It was a risk we agreed to –”
“You made the wrong call, and that cost you the mission.” Bruce thundered “I expected you to lead, to work with me while I’m recovering, not go against our preset plans. You should have kept in control.”
“Maybe I’m done being in control, Bruce!” Tim’s fingers twitched at his sides “Maybe I’m not fit to lead this… this team to perfection. Maybe managing your company and leading investigations and reopening cold cases isn’t enough for you to… to…”
Bruce faltered slightly, taking a step back. “Tim – “
“No!” The word tore from his throat, hoarse and raw. “You made me Robin because I was reliable, dependable to both follow orders and act independently within your parameters. I sought you out when you were lost twice. I met your expectations again and again no matter how high you set your standard for me. I manage your company, Bruce! But this?” His breath hitched, hands shaking. “I can’t do this! I’m tired and overwhelmed, and I never wanted you to need me this much.”
His words echoed across the room, dissipating into heavy silence. The fear, the anxiety buzzed underneath his skin, making him tremble involuntarily. He’d overstepped, let his emotions get the better of him.
Whatever anger had overtaken him dissipated as he watched as a complex array of emotions passed over Bruce’s face, his eyes scanning him, reading the fatigue in his slight frame, the way he clutched his sides to keep himself together.
“Tim,” Bruce said at last, voice rough and edged with fever, a faint sheen of sweat glinting under the light. The realization hit Tim like a sledgehammer, a distant feeling of guilt crawling up his throat. “I never asked you to do any of that. It was your choice.”
Something bitter and tired and cold twisted in Tim’s chest. He opened his mouth to retort but his throat constricted by its own violation, the words stuck in his throat. He tried again, but instead something in him shuddered and squeezed, forcing the words back down and amplifying the anxiety pulsing in his heart.
“Tim?” Bruce asked, frowning.
He did the only thing he could bear to do. Tim turned around and ran.
The argument lingered in his head, a mere afterthought if it wasn’t for the jitteriness that remained under his skin.
Playing the role of an exasperated young CEO taking care of his currently bedridden father wasn’t all that difficult, even earning him a few sympathetic glances from the board. Being Timothy Jackson Drake was an easier dance than previous masks he’d taken on, one he’d gotten used to with the help of a certain Fox.
Riding the momentum, Tim ended up staying to finish up some managerial work at the office, overseeing changes and amping up the company’s security. By the time the Sun had set and Babara had messaged him that he was excluded from that night’s patrol, he’d managed to reduce the workload of the week by half.
On the way to the train, his phone buzzed with a notification. His phone blinked open, the message on is lockscreen.
Alfred: Will you be over for dinner, Master Tim?
Alfred: Master Bruce will require dinner in bed.
The words blurred as that familiar tightness wound its way back into his chest, like a fist pressing against his lungs. He stared at the bright screen far too long for it to seem normal, his legs guiding him sit on the stone bench by the train station. Surely, Alfred had caught on that they’d had an argument, not like that wasn’t a norm.
It just wasn’t a norm for Tim.
He thought of Bruce, stubborn as he refused to remain in his bed. The awful claw marks on his back had probably reopened from the morning’s argument, the wounds festering because Bruce would prefer to bend over the files in his computer than tend to them like a responsible human being.
He opened the messaging app and typed his answer.
The journey didn’t take long, the buses in Gotham although not regular, stopping by most hotspots and reaching from one far end to the other. By the time he’s boarded off the train, it was a mere three minutes before a bus brought him close to enough to Drake Manor for him to follow the streets further North.
The first thing he did upon entering the manor was to deposit his duffel bag by the door, more of a reminder to himself that he was free to leave whenever he wanted to rather than being bound by his own sense of responsibility. The lounge room wafted with the scent of Alfred’s cooking, a mix of omelette and Asian spices.
“Master Tim,” Alfred greeted the moment he walked in to wash his hands at the sink. “I was worried you’d refuse.”
Tim shook his bowed head, waving a hand dismissively. At the action, Alfred merely raised an eyebrow before scooping up some of the sauce he’d boiled down onto a spoon. Wordlessly, Tim leaned forward to taste, the rich aroma and familiar concoction of soya and oyster sauce, onion and ground chilli lingering on his tongue.
His smile was caught on by Alfred whose gaze softened, hands reaching for a tray exclusive for Bruce’s room.
“The recipe was a favour from A-Ling from Chinatown. He needed a trusted supplier of pandan leaves for his new mango sticky rice.” Alfred explained, gesturing towards the eggs sizzling in the dark sauce. “Said it wasn’t much, merely a meal for the poor folk where he came from, but filling nonetheless.”
Tim knew the recipe by heart. It was one of the few ones where he could eyeball the measurements and could grab whatever was left in the cabinet of assorted oriental sauces to make. It also lasted way longer than any other meal prep he’d tried. At one point, when the snow was too thick for him to do groceries and patrol had frozen his weary bones to the core, he’d eaten it five times a week save for some instant ramen in between.
“Alas, it serves as a great meal for a grumpy adult.” Alfred caught his gaze, pausing knowingly. “If you must know, he has yet to leave his room ever since.”
A pattering of feet appeared behind them, both heads turning to watch as Damian dragged out a chair to sit by the kitchen counter, Alfred the cat perched on his lap. He looked between Tim and the empty bowl he was now holding, scowling as he recognized the tray.
“Father shouldn’t be treated like a child.” Damian stated, clearly dissatisfied with the arrangement. “He should be able to take care of himself and act like an adult.”
An exasperated sigh fell from Tim’s lips as he retrieved the ladle. Words lingered at the back of his tongue, the urge to say explain himself and Bruce’s actions, but as he’d found before, words had become harder to vocalize.
“Yet, none of us have been able to get through to your Father, have we?” Alfred was saying once Tim snapped out of his daze. “Master Tim is more than adept at the job, far more than the rest of you”
Damian quirked an eyebrow, unbelieving as Tim grabbed the tray and made his way to the stairs, ignoring the conversation. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“My boy,” Alfred’s voice grew fainter with lost proximity, “I truly wish it wasn’t.”
It felt like one of Ivy’s vines had wrapped itself around his oesophagus and rested its head at his pulse, hissing against the dull thump of his heartbeat. Anxiety thrummed beneath his skin, his mouth dry as he attempted to regulate his rapidly quickening breathing. It was easier if he imagined himself back when he was thirteen, that the rage and self-destructive tendencies were catalysed by grief rather than anger directed towards him.
He counted exactly five seconds after knocking on the door in three loud consecutive bursts. When Bruce didn’t answer, he pushed the door open and shut it without looking back, striding immediately to Bruce’s bedside, and placing the tray delicately on the desk.
“I’m going to make you eat.” Thirteen-year-old Tim declared, hands on his hips as Bruce shifted beneath the blankets, further cocooning himself inside his self-made darkness.
Bruce’s eyes tracked his movements, recognition flickering at the familiarity of the scene. Tim remained silent as he snatched the laptop off Bruce’s bed, saving the document before closing it with a snap despite Bruce’s protests.
“That’s enough!” He spun on his heel, keeping the laptop out of range with his outstretched arms “If you type one more word I’m confiscating this until next week.”
The best way to handle someone who refused to be ordered around, he’d learned, was with calm, mechanical efficiency. It helped to think of himself as something unfeeling, something built for function.
The tray was set, the cutlery spread out. On a normal day, he would have chided him slightly and threatened him to finish. Tonight, however, Tim was as quiet as the pigeons that would perch by their windowsill in the evening. He met Bruce’s gaze for a split second before he stalked off to prepare the shower.
“Now you smell like you spent the day in Ivy’s compost. You better be done eating by the time I get back.”
Getting the right temperature and filling the bath usually took about half an hour, ample time for Bruce to finish. Even without being told, Bruce would have been able to piece together the pattern – not unlike the way a child would know exactly when their parents were upset. Tim’s had done it this way before, gone quiet after one too many times wrestling with the man’s insistence to wallow in self-pity. As… conflicted as that thought made him, Tim could only rely on that very dependency to get Bruce to function semi-well.
Satisfied with the temperature, he left the bath and waited at the doorframe.
Their eyes met, a silent battle before Bruce gave in, peeling off his bandages in a way that made Tim grit his teeth before he strode past him. He counted again, 15 to wash, 5 to rinse. When he was met with silence after the 20th minute, he kicked the door.
“Turn on the water, Bruce.” He threatened, keys to the bathroom jingling in his fist. “You want me to check or save your dignity?”
The shower turned on followed by a grunt as Bruce rinsed himself off. Tim waited for the door to unlock, steam wafting out with a now well showered Bruce sporting clearly inflamed back wounds stumbling out, looking a bit disoriented from the heat.
Tim headed to the bed, grabbing a new set of ointment and bandages from the tray on his way, a silent order. Thankfully, Bruce allowed him to tend to his injuries though their shared silence remained uncomfortable, prickling against their skin. Tim could see that Bruce was at the verge of breaking from the small hitches in his breathing. For someone whose second life revolved around giving nothing away, it was almost laughable how easily Tim could read him.
“You know you don’t have to do this, Tim.” Bruce stated drowsily, sinking into his pillow.
He turned sharply, perhaps grabbing the tray more harshly than he should’ve, the bowls clanking against each other and effectively making Bruce’s clamp his mouth shut. Belatedly, he realized he was the cruel one in their stalemate. He’d agitated Bruce during his feverish episode and now he was trying to convince himself he was the one hurt.
It wasn’t fair to Bruce. He wasn’t being fair.
“I’m doing this because Gotham needs you, Bruce.” Tim replied, clenching his jaw to keep the pained tremble from entering his voice. “Nothing more.”
He walked out without looking back.
“You did wonderfully, Master Tim.” Alfred said once he’d deposited the bowls into the sink, a sad smile grazing his lips. That was familiar as well, a look they’d shared one too many times during his early days. “I believe dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Why don’t you go rest?”
Tim nodded gratefully, passing by Damian who hadn’t stopped staring at him since he’d walked in. He hadn’t budged from where he’d previously sat, clearly interested in the outcome.
“Your relationship with Father irks me, Drake.” The boy said from behind him, hopping off his chair. He stalked out the kitchen without another word, Alfred the Cat perched comfortably over his shoulders.
Ignoring his antics, Tim decided to retreat to the best resting area in the manor. The longue where an ever-lit fireplace crackled mainly for Jason’s reading ambience and Steph’s occasional crafting sprees. Currently, no one occupied the space, the rest of his family probably doing a pre-patrol brief before dinner.
He settled onto the rattan rocking chair where Jason had dumped a comforter along with a collection of well-used pillows to for his reading pleasure. Suddenly feeling very tired, he tucked himself into a ball, resting his head against pillows as the chair rocked him back and forth. The fire crackled and the grandfather’s clock ticked, lulling him into a warm slumber, the trembling under his skin calming, his mind quieting.
“Hey, baby bird.”
His eyes opened, then dropped closed, already anticipating the fuzzy warmth as Dick ruffled his hair. He smelled freshly bathed, post-patrol. The floorboards creaked as Dick made his way to the front, his hand steadying the rocking chair in a quite plead for him to engage in an unwilling conversation.
Regardless of his reluctance, Tim would pretty much do anything for Dick at that moment.
“Heard you got the old bat functioning,” Dick said, his eyes glistening with a thousand unsaid words. He knew, of course, why it was Tim who had to be called. Why he had so much authority over their guardian. “I’m sorry, Timbers. I didn’t want to have to call you after this morning.”
Tim nodded with understanding. So he knew.
“It’s the first time you’ve had a fallout, huh? A bit strange to watch after all these years of you being the observer and well…” Dick heaved a sigh, his gaze drifting slightly. “Perhaps the only one Bruce trusts to not go ballistic mid-mission. I always thought you two reflected each other more often than not.”
Tim’s breath hitched, the words pressing against something sore and fragile inside him. He refused to look up, didn’t trust himself to without absolutely shattering in his brothers’ presence.
Dick, catching onto his discomfort, shook his head, his hand resting gently over Tim’s own which had tightly curled on the edge of the blanket he’d yanked from the sofa’s armrest. “You must’ve been exhausted. I saw your bag at the front door and… it was Alfred who filled me in on some details. Didn’t think he had it in him to bug Bruce’s room, ya know? The more you know.” He paused, waiting for Tim’s response but received none. “I heard you’ve been quiet since then.”
Dick reached out to brush a strand of hair off his forehead, halting when Tim flinched ever so slightly. He watched as Tim’s throat bobbed with effort, how his lips parted slightly as if searching for words that wouldn’t come. The tremor in his fingers where they gripped the blanket.
“Tim,” he whispered brokenly, tears welling in his eyes. “Are… am I scaring you?”
Eyes widening, Tim shook his head violently, reaching forward to clasp Dick’s hand between both his own.
Dick squeezed back, guilt-ridden. “Okay,” he murmured softly. “Okay.” He rubbed his thumb across Tim’s knuckles, grounding them both. “Did… did Bruce hurt you? Threaten you?”
Tim shook his head, lips parting again, trembling. Dick watched helplessly as Tim’s chest stuttered on a breath before he shook his head, brows furrowing in frustration. Eventually, his hands slipped from Dick’s grasp, pressing hard against his knees as he curled back into himself.
“It’s okay, Tim” Dick whispered, pushing himself into the space beside Tim to embrace him, his weight making the chair resume rocking. “You don’t have to force it. You don’t have to talk.”
A low whine escaped his throat.
There’s something wrong with me, he realized, a vice wrapping around his ribcage. I could talk fine at the board meeting. What’s wrong with me?
Dick buried his nose in Tim’s hair, steadying him. “Breathe with me, baby bird. I’m right here.” He pressed a kiss to the back of Tim’s head “We’ll figure it out, alright. This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”
His breath stuttered, tears finally trailing down his face as he allowed Dick’s warmth to engulf him whole.
It seemed, his siblings had placed it upon themselves to get him to stay at the manor despite his clear reluctance. It began during breakfast the next morning, the familiar scent of kaya drawing him closer until he found Steph and Duke sharing a plate of precisely cut pieces of toast dipped into green sauce. Duke was in his Signal getup, ready for morning patrol.
“You’re up early” Duke greeted, eyes sparkling as Alfred set down another pyramid of mini toasts. Beside him, Steph poured him a mug of hot chocolate, gesturing for him to sit. Hesitantly, he headed to his seat, eyes scanning the counter tops and catching onto a suspiciously large jar of green and brown coco sachets tucked into the beverage cabinet.
“Alfred’s been getting a lot of free stuff from the oriental shop,” Steph explained, gesturing towards Alfred who was meticulously reorganizing the fridge. “I swear, Cass literally vibrated when she saw the packs of dim sum. No shrimps though, so you’re good to go.”
Tim snorted, waving away her worry with a flick of his wrist. No matter how many times he’d insisted the allergy was mild, getting hay fever from a shrimp buffet had apparently traumatized his family. Now if they found out the effects lobster tail had on him, Bruce might actually send him to the ER.
The thought of his parental figure made something akin to worry bubble up inside him, albeit annoyingly. Apparently, Duke had caught on to his expression seeing he was quick to respond.
“Damian’s put himself on Bruce duty so don’t bother with him.” He explained, reaching for a pau despite his other hand being occupied with three of the toast pieces. “Said something about wanting to prove himself as dependable, yada yada… can’t blame him for being rowdy since he’s practically benched till next week.”
Tim jutted out his lip, nodding thoughtfully before taking his first bite of the kaya toast. As expected from Alfred’s impeccable cooking, it was perfection. If it weren’t for Bruce’s abundance of wealth, he would’ve negotiated opening a coffee shop franchise as a second income.
“Speak of the devil.” Steph sighed as the familiar creak of the floorboards echoed above them.
Damian barrelled into the kitchen, his features twisted in fury as he plopped beside Tim, slamming his head against the tabletop. Taking deep breaths, he lifted his head. “Father infuriates me.”
“Doesn’t he always.” Jason slinked in leisurely from the corner, joining them at the table. “But even more so when he’s all sick and revolting.”
Steph raised her mug to his words, nodding in approval before turning towards the youngest. “Who’s on bat sitting duty anyway?”
“Cass. She probably has the highest probability of success save for Drake.” Damian spared the implied boy a withering glance. “I must admit, it is a commendable feat.”
Duke snorted “What is this, the Caretaking Olympics?”
“Might as well be,” Jason replied, sighing as he chomped on his toast. “Timbers is like… the Bat Whisperer. Master of the hidden art of making sure Bruce doesn’t self-implode.”
“You make it sound like an achievement”
“A Bat-chievement” Damian nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose there should be a subsequent Bat-awards.”
“I call dibs on The Most Dramatic Exit” Jason crowed, mimicking swinging a crowbar before sheepishly grinning at Alfed’s stern look.
Steph huffed in disbelief “No fair! You’re not the only dead Robin in this household”
“But I was the most dramatic.”
“Can we stop referencing dead Robins, please?” Duke asked, chuckling nervously. “I’m kinda on a streak here.”
Damian scoffed. “You’re running against Drake for The Longest Streak award. Fatal wounds apparently don’t equal fatality when it comes to him.”
“Actually,” Dick’s piped up as he emerged from the shadows of the corridor. “I’d say I wouldn’t count myself as a dead Robin.”
“I’d say having your heart wired to a bomb and being forcefully flatlined could be considered as a temporary, although well-meaning, homicide.”
“What” Duke squeaked. “That’s… that’s a thing?”
And so, their morning continued with light-hearted banter over topics better discussed away from the public. At one point, Tim caught himself chuckling to a few of Jason’s proclamations of betrayal over Dick’s infinite collection of blackmail. Over time, he’d realizes none of them had pushed any questions towards him. They certainly involved him in the discussion but made no move to force him to speak.
He glanced at Dick over the table who sent him a quick smile and a wink. Feeling grateful, Tim ended up following them to the living room for a quick game of Mario Cart which put Duke’s shift on hold for almost half an hour, much to his despair. When Cass appeared after her bat-sitting shift, she snuggled beside Tim, sharing a blanket.
When you’re ready. she signed, hiding her hands under the fabric so only he could see. I’ll be there
Warmth bled into his chest, and for a moment, he felt the vines around his throat loosening.
The days passed faster than Tim could catch up with holiday season around the corner and the lingering threat of seasonal rouges. Tim moved between Wayne Enterprises and vigilante investigations like clockwork, juggling his duties as well as he could while navigating his current predicament. His silence had settled in like background noise, going almost unnoticeable when he wanted it to be.
Of course, ever the mother hen, Dick had initially helped, going as far as tagging along to meetings to observe first-hand the way Tim’s voice remained steady and measured in front of the board. Yet the moment he stepped back into the manor, the words vanished again, almost like a mental block.
Eventually, Dick had convinced him to set an appointment with Dr. Leslie’s. Though no psychiatrist, she regarded him with a knowing sort of gentleness.
“My guess is that it’s a sort of mutism that branches from your pre-diagnosed anxiety” she explained, her tone soft but certain. “Think of it as a situational inability to speak. Like something is subconsciously driving you to stay silent as a better or safer alternative.”
Initially, the revelation brought an onslaught of action from his siblings, mainly positive exposure. He was pulled into movie nights and baking attempts, his vigilante duties put on hold to hopefully withdraw him from his anxiety-induced silence. This, however, did nothing but leave him guilt-ridden over his neglected duties.
Eventually, during patrol hours, Tim would end up drawn to Bruce’s side as if magnetized more often than not, dedicatedly heeding to his care with Damian perched by the door until the rest of his siblings came home and found him sound asleep.
It was only after Alfred had offered his two-cents after their night of patrol – “Perhaps, it may weigh heavily on Master Tim’s conscience that he is only ever valued when he is useful.” – did something click, echoing in the stillness long after Alfred had left the dining hall.
Dick had summarized the argument, zeroing in on the exact words that had triggered the silent spell.
“I never asked you to do any of that”
And perhaps that was it.
“Drake has told me this before. About him being an unchosen Robin. It was when we were sorting out our differences.” Damian had admitted afterwards, eyes downcast. “I never asked for him to elaborate on the circumstances. I just know it was after Todd’s initial demise.”
“And considering how Bruce is, I don’t even want to begin with what he had to do to get him back on his feet, let alone accept a new Robin.” Steph chimed in quietly. “You think he still feels responsible over Bruce’s wellbeing?”
Dick was flipping through the audio transcripts, his brows knitted in concern. “Regardless, it shouldn’t have happened. Tim already grew up independent with his parents frequently away. He shouldn’t have taken a caretaking role at thirteen, nor should he have had been held to a higher standard than the rest of us.”
“And with a dead Robin’s shoes to fill, you bet he tried” Jason leaned back against his chair, resting his arm over his eyes tiredly. “I don’t even think Bruce considered him a Robin until he could prove himself”
“Which explains why the argument affected him that badly. It triggered his previous fear… his anxiety of being unworthy of the mantle. Staying quiet is his subconscious way of regaining control over it, by limiting blame.”
Or confirming his fears, Cass signed. But keeping to himself is more detrimental than confiding
“Which is why we need to create a safe space for Drake without disrupting his routine and duties.” Damian said with a tone of finality. “And we need to give Father a stern talking to as well.”
The house moved differently after that – quieter, gentler. Check-ins after Tim’s bat-sitting shifts were brief, simple nods enough for them to ensure his safety and comfort. After a few days of getting used to communicating via handheld keyboard, they’d let him act as support, deciding to start off with him patrolling for minor criminal activity.
That was until they received an emergency alert from Barbara the morning of Tim’s planned first patrol. What should have been a test run ended up with the familiar scene of Tim bending over case files and a hologram of Gotham’s skyline view. Despite initial worry, the return of the almost maniacal glint in his eyes as he fitted the plan together didn’t go unseen. It was actually a bit endearing.
“He really is meant for this,” Jason sighed, dodging as another crumpled piece of paper flew overhead, landing neatly into a waste basket hot glued to the wall. “The detective thing.”
Dick shrugged, a fond smile spread on his face. “I mean, that was pretty much how he ended up as a bird, anyway.”
They watched as Tim let out a wordless cry of despair, slamming his fist against the desk before glaring challengingly at the information Barbara had displayed on the monitors. Fingers roughly raking through his hair, he returned to vigorously flipping through the case files.
Jason snickered. “I’m actually quite grateful I ended up as the pew pew Robin and not the smart Robin. If the Lazarus Pit hadn’t already driven me mad, all of that would have”
Dick jabbed him in the gut, relishing in the high-pitched yelp the younger boy let out.
“Oracle to Nightwing. Do you have sights on the truck?”
“Affirmative, heading towards The Bowery” Nightwing landed with a neat back tuck next to Tim, spreading his arms wide in a performative bow. “They’re coming to you, little wing”
Jason’s comms crackled as he leapt between rooftops, heading perpendicular to the runaway vehicle. “Da Da Da Da da da da da da BATMAAAAAAAN”
Dick snorted. “I swear if you lose sight of them because you’re busy singing that forsaken theme song – “
“3 o’clock, Hood. Black bat, ready to break in.”
“– da da da DA RED HOOOOOOD” Bright light illuminated the space as two glowing swords pierced the top of the van before they were yanked down, the roof bending upwards like a sardine can with a single tug. Cries of surprise and fear crackled from the speaker, dull thumps following suite as Cass and Jason took down the smugglers with ease.
Tim snorted where he perched nearby, overseeing the plan. The breeze felt colder up high, easier to breathe in as he typed the details to Oracle with his handheld keyboard. It was one of the easier missions, a bioweapon smuggled from the sewers and transferred to a large armed van sprayed with obnoxiously bright neon colours.
With Jason entering from above and Cass slipping in below, there was a high chance they could get it done with limited property damage. As predicted, the van ended up crashing into a heap of foam stuffed potato sacks he’d purposely planted that evening with Duke’s help.
“Hood and Black Bat report”
“Got em all knocked out. Bunch of paid thugs from the alley.” Tim heard the sound of humming. “Is the bioweapon supposed to glow?”
“Glow?” Dick repeated, “Like a glowstick?”
“Thrumming, kinda pulsating.” Jason replied, “Whatever it is, looks toxic. I’d tell Red to keep distance but I need help with detaching the container from these monitors. Looks like there’s a whole system keeping this thing alive.”
“It’s alive?”
“Yeah, there’s stuff for temperature, pressure, some kind of feeding agent too. Might be some sort of sea monkey mutant. Cass says they look environment sensitive, probably wouldn’t last long enough to grow in Gotham’s waters. Highly likely that it won’t survive the trip back if I just broke it open and took a sample.”
Not if we manage to keep it within its survival parameters until then, Tim thought to himself. He typed a message to Oracle.
“Are there any notes on its survival needs? Anything in the monitors or panels?”
“Too much tech and code. Whoever was behind this probably didn’t want anyone getting in or understanding the specifics.” Jason paused. “Yeah, the smugglers are fully covered. Might be radioactive.”
“Get out of there.” Dick ordered, “If that thing is toxic, we need to gain as much distance as possible.”
Tim shook his head, deep in thought. It wasn’t a normal bioweapon. If the creature wasn’t meant for Gotham, he had to obtain the specifics in order to narrow down the primary location for its release. Bruce would need it to relay the information to the Justice League and stop a larger threat from emerging.
“Going in” Tim spoke suddenly, startling himself.
He could feel the simultaneous pause from everyone connected to his comms, breaths held and sounds of movement growing quiet. Tim swallowed heavily.
“Red?” Oracle asked, clearing her throat. “Red, was that you?”
Tim exhaled slowly, forcing his throat to loosen. “Yes”
“Affirmative. Keep your skin covered”
“I’m going in with him.” Dick stated, attempting to maintain a still face though Tim could see his lips trembling from the effort to keep the edges from curling upward
“Negative, N. Sorry, you’re too exposed for it. And I spot some henchman approaching the area.”
“We’ll keep them entertained.” Jason said, leaping out of the van. “Red, get the data you need and keep your mask on. In and out”
In and out, Tim repeated in his head, deploying his grappling hook before launching himself off the rooftop. He swung in a wide arc, quickly tucking himself into a front roll once he slid cleanly through the van’s open doors.
He pushed up to a crouch, eyes sweeping the interior. At the centre stood a massive, glowing cylinder, welded firmly to the floor. Just like Jason had described, glass tubes snaked from panels at its base, branching into smaller containers and strange tech lining the walls. Monitors flickered in a rapid headache-inducing blur of encrypted symbols and shifting lights.
Cass had probably dragged the smugglers out and tied them together somewhere nearby.
Wasting no time, he located the main monitor and plugged in a USB carrying the necessary code to corrupt and download files from the program. He typed a quick report to Oracle, keeping an eye on the holes above and below where Hood and Black Bat had torn through.
“I need some input, Red. This file is heavy and I’m not making much sense out of what I have.”
Tim turned towards the monitors, squinting to make out the faint yellow patterns against the bright green background. To the normal eye, it looked like a mix of random lines and shapes merged together – but Bruce had prepared him for such, going as far as making him write essays. Code came in various shaped and forms, from internet references to galactic other-worldly language.
This, Tim realized, was familiar.
The Kryptonian Alphabet, he pressed his palm against the monitor in an attempt to block out the green light. Mixed with… Elder Futhark?
He filtered through the noise, isolating recurring strings as he mentally transcribed the lines of fractured commands into something coherent. His fingers tapped rapidly against his keyboard, jotting down the decoded fragments as quickly as the words flashed.
Bio synth... Comp… Composite… KRPT… Kryptonite? … In…fusion… forty-seven percent
Tim’s brows furrowed. He blinked hard, trying to chase away the bright dots dancing at the edges of his vision.
Objective… WT-SNK… whatever that was… LVTHN…Lev… then… Leav…then
His stomach dropped. The code twisted and reshaped itself again and again before his eyes, reassembling and rehashing, bits of data bleeding into coherence
“Leviathan” he muttered under his breath.
His comms crackled instantly.
“Excuse me?” Jason shouted over the sound of fighting. “Did you just say a leviathan? Like, nightmare-fuel sea serpent leviathan?”
“Positive.” He could hear Oracle typing rapidly, no doubt patching the information straight to Bruce. “Might be Kryptonite infused.”
“Hell nah!”
“Hell nah, indeed. Red, you got anything else?”
The pulsing lights made his vision swim. Forcing a deep breath, Tim steadied himself before turning to another monitor – one closest to the container. The data streams crawled across the display like veins of light at the top, the bottom half flickering but mostly stagnant save for only one of the letters.
Core... purge…failsafe… failsafe?
His throat went dry as his gaze slid to the lower half.
SECURITY BREACH DETECTED.
CONTAINMENT PURGE: ACTIVE.
COUNT: 00:27
“Oh…” he breathed, the realization hitting all at once. “Bomb.”
For a heartbeat, the comms went dead silent. Then –
“Bomb? Did he just say bomb?” Dick repeated, panic lacing his voice. “Red, get out of there!”
“Evacuate, I repeat, evacuate! We’re abandoning the sample!” Oracle ordered.
Tim’s mind raced, his gaze shifting from one monitor to another. The USB he’d planted was still blinking, the files not yet fully downloaded. Steeling himself, he pulled out his handheld keyboard and pressed a button to connect it to the USB.
“Red, get out of there!” Jason yelled, his voice cracking with fear. The bomb. Of course, all the more reason to not go out in an explosion. “Are you listening to us?”
“Override” Tim stated firmly.
He barely heard Oracle’s reply, his focus narrowing to lines of shifting code, the hum of energy beneath the floor, and the sickly green light flooding the van. He stripped back the encryption layer by layer, tracing the algorithm’s logic and outpacing the failsafe system.
Each keystroke rang in his ears like a ticking time bomb.
Come on, he repeated like a mantra, sweat beading down his forehead. Come on, come on, come ON!
“Get Red Robin out of there!”
“Spoiler enroute, ETA 2 minutes. Red, you need to abort the mission!”
Eleven, ten. He was close, so close.
“I going in there”
“RED!”
He slammed the Enter key.
The monitors glitched, freezing mid-scroll as the hum coming from the van’s internal tech system fell into deafening silence, the green glow dimming into darkness. For a second, there was only the sound of Tim’s own ragged breathing.
Then the timer blinked once. Twice.
FAILSAFE OVERRIDE: SUCCESSFUL.
“He did it,” Oracle breathed, her voice small. “Red… Red, report.”
Tim opened his mouth to respond but could only release a stuttering breath, his words broken into garbled sounds as he slid down to his knees, relief washing over him. The van doors slammed open, Jason and Dick rushing in.
He could barely gather himself before their strong arms wrapped over him, clutching him close.
“Don’t scare me like that, baby bird.” Dick sobbed, fingers clawing at the back of Tim’s cowl. “God, Tim. Don’t do that again.”
Jason remained quiet, forehead burying into Tim’s shoulder as he took deep shaky breaths.
In the darkness of the van, the USB glowed green.
“What happened?” Damian demanded, bursting into the Batcave, his father hot on his heels. The Bat Cave was alive with movement, Alfred fussing over the settings of the decontamination chamber which held their suits while most of the rest huddled near the Bat-Showers, holding a change of clothing.
“Radiation.” Barbara said shortly from behind the Bat-Computer.
“Why wasn’t I informed earlier?” Bruce thundered, stalking past Damian. “Alfred?”
Alfred waved him off, not taking his eyes off the panel. “Open wounds put you at risk of contamination.”
Bruce glared at him. “I have a good reason to be upset.”
“I never claimed otherwise.” Alfred tilted his head towards the showers where Duke and Steph were now passing the towels and clothes over the doors. “I advise you assist in running the diagnostics.”
He massaged the bridge of his nose, heaving a sigh. “What are we looking for?”
Just as the words left his mouth, one of the cubicle doors slammed open, almost toppling Damian over. Tim stumbled out, a hand pressed firmly against his lips as he headed straight for the med cot, grabbing the bucket placed at the foot and promptly fell to his knees, vomiting.
“Radiation poisoning.” Bruce muttered, quickening his pace towards the Bat Computer.
Dick hauled up Tim up from the back by the armpits, carefully arranging his legs onto the cot while Cass kept her hand on Tim’s nape as he bent over the bucket. Damian had pushed a tray of testing equipment to the table, yelling for everyone unexposed to stand back for the time being.
“Barbara, what are his dosimeter readings?”
“3.0 mSv for Tim. The rest are in the safe-zone.” She reported, glancing over the monitor. “Bruce, it’s spliced kryptonite.”
“Contact Superman again and tell him I want the specifics of that kryptonite sent to me by midnight.” Bruce growled. “The rest of you, masks on and get the quarantine zone ready. We’re running diagnostics on everyone.”
Thankfully, he’d run everyone through the containment protocol during their joint training, citing the importance of containing any signs of contagious diseases. Although he didn’t say it out loud, everyone collectively new it was mainly for the benefit of his very spleen-less Robin whom also had first-hand experience with a plague-like virus.
By the time the curtains and Geiger counters were set up, he’d received message from Clark that he’d be having a personal meeting with his nemesis. Despite the side glances both Barbara and Alfred sent him, he remained fixed behind the monitor, scrolling through the files that Barbara had decrypted with the help of Tim’s algorithm.
“It’s a failed model, at most.” He noted, eyeing the lines of code related to the containment of the leviathan eggs. “A risky move, especially using kryptonite.”
“The explosion would’ve caused a chemical incident considering the density and nature of the fluid. Good thing he overrode the system before that could occur.” Barbara opened up Tim’s cowl footage.
Going in… Leviathan… Oh… Bomb…
The words echoed in Bruce’s head.
He’d heard word about Tim’s involuntary silence, mainly from Damian who’d burst into his room during one of his many attempts to escape to his office and dragged him into a verbal thrashing. That being said, he hadn’t realized Tim’s silence extended past himself considering he’d gotten frequent updates from Lucius on the board meetings at WE.
This was later followed by a pamphlet slid under his bowl of cereal, lovingly titled The Art of a Heartfelt Apology.
Dick had sent him a copy of the audio transcripts with Dr Leslie before he could even attempt to hack into her database, ensuring he understood the premise of Tim’s verbal shutdown and what they believed was the root cause of it.
Needless to say, he’d overlooked a lot of things in regards to his third Robin.
They had had this talk weeks before Tim’s first debut, courtesy of Alfred’s intervention, and had carefully reconstructed their initial co-dependency which relied heavily on Bruce depending on Tim to keep him afloat in exchange for Tim taking that need to feed his desire for approval.
It was clear to him now that they’d never really grown out of that mindset.
Bruce had given Tim his full support in handling his own projects and Tim had returned that favour on multiple occasions, going as far as scouring the earth for his existence when the world deemed him dead. No matter how far Red Robin went, he would return when called.
Somewhere along the way, that care had quietly twisted into control – a constant need to manage one another. In trying to be something more than Batman and Robin, they’d both forgotten how to simply exist without the constant pull to give or to be needed in return.
All it took was a single outburst to snap that fragile string tethering their frail strands together. And if Tim hadn’t made it out in time, hadn’t been so brilliantly skilled at the very thing Bruce expected of him, he’d have never gotten a second chance to make things right.
“How long?” he asked, under his breath.
“Almost a week.”
Right.
“You should prioritize the smuggling case first, Bruce.” Barbara continued, her voice softening. “The rest have him covered. It might not even be from the radiation from what we know about kryptonite.”
She was telling him to give Tim space. All things considered, it was probably the right course of action regardless of his personal bitter feelings towards it.
Jason was assigned night duty for the very reason he heard the BatCave door creak open then closed, albeit shamefully. Trust the Big Bat to try and have their heartfelt conversation time while Tim was still recovering from his previous hurling episode. Well, not if Jason could stop it. They had confirmed the absence of residue a few hours ago and had cleared Tim of the possibility of acute radiation poisoning.
Barbara had figured the mix of mild exposure and his nervous system acting up post-bomb defusing was probably why he was so nauseous. Regardless, the memory of the event still left him jittery and unable to sleep.
Suddenly feeling tired, he lowered the book he was reading and was met with a pair of blue eyes watching him from hooded eyelids. He paused for a split second before setting his book aside, loosening his tight shoulders as he leaned forward to push Tim’s hair back from where strands feel messily into his eyes.
“You were watching me, Timmers?” Jason’s voice was softer than usual, almost teasing. “Like the little stalker you are?”
Tim gave a small shrug, tugging the blanket higher until only his eyes showed. One hand slipped out just long enough to sign a quick yes before retreating again.
Jason huffed a quiet laugh. “Hit your word quota for the day, huh? That’s fine. I can handle the talking, though I can’t promise I’ll be entertaining.”
To that, Tim arched an eyebrow as if saying, give it your best shot.
Jason chuckled lightly. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry, okay? You’re not gonna start losing hair or turning green or whatever doctor Google has to say about radiation.” His voice wavered slightly. He raked a hand through his hair, letting out a breathy laugh. “You were just a bit… shaken, from what happened And then your post-adrenaline crash kinda made the radiation stuff worse, and, uh… well – you don’t have a spleen, so…”
He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. The explanation sounded clumsy, even to him. “Basically, your body’s just working overtime. Nothing’s, you know… fatal.”
He glanced at Tim, half-expecting a smirk or an eyeroll, but the kid merely blinked up at him. Once again, he drew his hands out from the blanket. It reminded you of then.
Jason shook his head, burying his face in his hands. “I didn’t… it wasn’t…” He heaved a sigh. “I just kept thinking of the worse case scenario, you know? Another dead Robin.”
Tim tapped the comforter they’d laid on the med cot to catch his attention. I knew I could make the countdown
“It didn’t seem like it to us.” Jason dropped his hands, hanging his head low. “I don’t think I would have been able to do it. Drag Bruce out of whatever rampage he’d get himself into and then just… be there to deal with it during every waking moment.”
A frown. It wasn’t a full-time job
“Might as well be. He acts like a pre-pubescent toddler when he’s sick.”
All toddlers are –
“Besides the point.” Jason interrupted with a small laugh. His frowned, eyes suddenly growing distant. “You don’t have to forgive him, you know? I mean, sure that’s been more of a Red Hood thing and not a Red Robin thing because you and the bat are kinda – “He made a vague gesture, hands clasping together “– anyway… but I’m just telling you it’s an option.”
Tim’s gaze drifted toward the door, eyes narrowing slightly.
He’s waiting outside, isn’t he?
“Sure is,” Jason chuckled knowingly. “He’s probably planning my funeral for gatekeeping you until now. But if you don’t want to do it tonight, I can make him back off.”
No… we’re due for a conversation.
“Alright then.” He said softly, rising to his feet. “If you need anything, just holler. That includes if you want a dramatic exit.”
I know. Thanks for staying.
“Anytime, Tim. Let’s just hope the big bat can handle doing the talking.”
“You’re not radioactive”
Tim blinked, then offered a grunt. The words hung awkwardly between them and Bruce, eventually realizing it, dropped his gaze with a sigh. This was a familiar, in a strange way. He couldn’t count how many times Bruce ended up in this position, fumbling and wincing at his own choice of words.
To Tim, it was almost endearing to look at.
“Right, that’s not…” He rubbed the back of his neck, the movement uncertain. “I wanted to talk with you.”
Tim’s kept his face unreadable though his hand twitched involuntarily under the blankets. It was strange, how he suddenly couldn’t bear to even do sign in Bruce’s presence, as if his whole body was shutting down any means of communication.
Bruce inhaled slowly, seemingly forcing himself to continue to fill the silence that was steadily growing heavier. “The argument that day… I want to apologize for it. And… I want to apologize for not doing it sooner. Before this –” He stopped, the word catching like a splinter. He shook his head, backtracking. “I didn’t mean…”
Tim’s smiled despite himself, a small chuckle rising up his throat. Apparently, Bruce hadn’t realized, too caught up in his own frustration over his inability to express what he wanted.
“What I meant to say,” Bruce continued, after a while. “Was that I don’t expect you to forgive me. Whether it was the argument or… or what came before. I’m nothing but grateful that you found me when you did. That you decided that the pathetic man I was had been worth staying for.”
Tim’s throat worked as he swallowed, his heart clenching painfully in his chest.
“I… It might have not seemed that way, but I still chose you,” His words were gentle, but for some reason, it made Tim want to curl into himself. “You didn’t need to prove anything. Robin was yours the moment you came through our front door with your old camera and your brilliant mind.”
Bruce heaved a bone-deep sigh the kind that made his shoulders slump. “You were almost like a reflection of me, so much so that Alfred demanded I pull myself together before you left permanently. And it’s because of that I… I imposed my own shortcomings onto you. I expected of you what I believed I had failed in. And that wasn’t fair to you.”
He was going to cry, Tim realized. In the single light of the med bay, Bruce looked more like a silhouette, his sharp features blending with the shadows. But Tim could see the way he tensed with every breath, the slight tremor in his voice which he swallowed down before it could become apparent. He’d spent too much time catching onto the voiceless hints for him to miss the way Bruce hunched, guilt-ridden and shameful, in his guilt.
Tim’s lips parted – a small, shaky sound escaping before his voice finally broke through, hoarse and soft.
“Was I?” he whispered.
Bruce froze, his breath catching.
Tim’s eyes brimmed with tears he refused to let fall. His words came out slow, measured, barely over a whisper. “Was I chosen?”
The silence stretched, heavy and fragile. When Bruce looked at him, Tim could see a thousand unspoken words aching behind eyes. He’d looked at him like that before, when he he’d come back from the time stream and held him close. It made something raw claw at his chest cavity.
“Of course, Tim” he said finally, voice heavy with emotion. “Because I wanted you.”
And that was enough for him as he shifted forward, Bruce immediately catching him in his arms as tears sprung in his eyes. Wrangled sobs tore themselves from his throat, the weight leaving his chest. Bruce was brushing his fingers through his hair, his heartbeat steady where Tim’s ear pressed against his chest.
“The manor scares me,” he whispered brokenly. “After… after you lost Jason… then Hood happened… and Damian… but I thought I got better. But if you didn’t want me here I just… I couldn’t…” Bruce pressed him closer, tucking his head under his chin as he softly whispered soothing words into his hair.
“That’s not your fault.”
“I know,” Tim said quietly, clutching his chest, trying to hold himself together. “But sometimes, it suddenly feels like I can’t breathe and it’s… it’s stupid because its home. I shouldn’t be feeling like this. I swear I was getting better, but sometimes things happen to remind me... and it’s like my body can sense impending doom, like I'm being threatened.”
When he looked up at Bruce, the older man was glassy eyed, filled with regret. “When we argued, I scared you.”
He swallowed. “Bruce.”
“I… I reminded you of… Oh, Tim.” His breathing stuttered as he pulled Tim closer. “I’m so sorry.”
Tim pressed his forehead against Bruce’s shoulder, feeling it rise and fall with his breathing. The warmth, the weight of Bruce’s arms around him, felt grounding.
“I don’t want to be scared of you… of home anymore.” he whispered.
“You won’t be,” Bruce promised, his voice rough but certain.
A clock chimed softly in the distance, the med bay settling into its familiar hum. For the first time in weeks, Tim felt at home in the silence. The tendrils that had wrapped around his neck had loosened, almost as if they were never there.
He let himself breathe into the warm, comfortable silence.