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The three cookies felt like rocks weighing down the pocket of his uniform slacks. He could picture them knocking together. Crumbling powder and smearing partially melted chocolate into the bottom of the fabric that would stick to his fingers later.
It made his chest feel heavy when he thought about it. A deep-seated guilt ate at him when he thought about how pleased Alfred looked when he pretended to eat the cookies offered to him. Slipping them in his pocket when the man turned away to put the baking sheet in the dishwasher.
“I’m home,” Tim announced to the empty tomb of a house. The main hall is large, empty, and echoing. White tile with white walls leading to white grand stairs.
The kitchen was no better. A white family dining table that was too long with too many chairs for the family of three it was intended for. The mix of chrome and the absence of any human presence made the place feel sterile. Like a display room. The only color was the bright yellow sticky note stuck to the calendar.
“Lasagna is in the fridge. – Mrs. Mac.”
It was always lasagna or some other noodle dish in a wide glass casserole dish. Wrapped in saran wrap and placed low enough that Tim didn’t need to stand on his toes to reach. It has been that way since he was eight and his parents vaguely explained that he was too old for a nanny.
He should remember his nanny, but he couldn’t. Just a vague image of brown hair and a secret M&M stash.
The lasagna tastes like plastic when he quietly eats it. __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
“Tim?” Black gloved fingers snap inches from his nose, snapping him back into the present.
The corners of Bruce’s mouth were pulled down in a frown. His body was tense with frustration and disappointment.
“Sorry, I’m listening,” Tim cleared his throat as his voice came out squeakier than he would like. His shoulders stiffened into a better posture. The posture his parents trained him to take when they were speaking to him.
School had felt long today. Dragging on until his body felt weighed down by invisible chains. The walk from the bus stop to the Wayne manor felt twice its usual length. He had arrived late to training. The following lecture from Bruce cut into their normal scheduled time.
“You need to pay attention. Getting distracted out on the streets will get you killed,” Bruce growled in his deep voice. His expression below the cowl is thunderous. He seemed to stretch out over Tim, looming threateningly like the shadows he moves in. Tim had to crane his neck to keep eye contact. His shoulders hunched automatically at the uncomfortable position.
“I’m sorry,” Tim says. “It won’t happen again. I promise I’m paying attention,” he tightens his hands at his side, trying to convey his sincerity.
“Don’t promise, show me you’re capable. Show me I can trust you to be Robin without you becoming a liability,” Bruce rumbles, the severity of his figure never relaxing.
It has been a little over a month since Tim started training with Batman. A little over a month since he stumbled into the man’s office, Alfred hovering at his back, and threatening the man into making him his partner. A little over a month since Batman put a criminal in the ICU.
All things considered; Tim’s plan seemed to be working. Even if his muscles ached and his bruises had bruises and he was so tired he felt like he could fall over and never move again.
He had to be strong. Batman needed Robin and he was the only one able to step up to that impossible mantle.
They move on to training from there. Nothing Tim could say would plead his case. No explanation of a late crowded bus or his aching legs would ever be a good enough excuse for his slight tardiness. He needed to be on time. He needed to be better.
He always needed to be better.
His feet were swept up out from under him. His shoulder slammed into the hard training mat. It shook his whole frame, almost knocking the wind from him.
“Again,” Bruce grunted, barely giving him time to climb back to his feet before fists were flying at him. Knuckles dug into the tender flesh of his arms, stomach, and ribs. His cheek throbbed with an ill-timed duck that moved him into the path of an oncoming jab. His body screamed and begged for reprieve.
“Faster,” Bruce’s voice echoed around him. Distant but loud as he jerked back, barely avoiding a kick to the chest. His breath stuttered in silent wheezes that shook his skinny frame. His stomach and side burned. His throat hurt from sucking in too much air. He tried to be faster, but his movements became jerky. Uncoordinated in a way that had Batman’s body tensing in that familiar disgust.
A solid kick to his thigh toppled him over onto the mats again. His elbows ached where they dug into the barely forgiving surface. His spine curved with the pain and exhaustion shaking through him.
“Enough. Your progress is too slow. I expected more from you,” Bruce’s voice sounded seething as he turned away. Never sparing a glance at the pathetic panting mess Tim had become. It was better that way. Tim wanted to wither in shame without observation.
Sweat rolled down his temple as he heard the creak of Bruce sitting in the Batcomputer chair. The click of typing soon drowned out his pained gasps.
“We will continue tomorrow. I expect some improvement at your next training session.”
Tim barely mumbled an ignored response before managing to drag his aching legs to the shower. He barely let the water heat up before he ducked under the spray. His movements were methodical and efficient even though he wanted to turn the heat to scalding and let his muscles melt.
When he came out, dressed in his school uniform once again and hair dripping down his neck to soak into his collar, there was a protein bar sitting at the edge of the table near Bruce. It’s always there after training. An offering. Maybe even a symbol acknowledgment. Or maybe that is just wishful thinking.
He grabs it on his way out, like he does every day, as he bids the silent and brooding man goodbye. His fingers rub over the ridged edge of the plastic, letting it crinkle loudly before it’s shoved into his pocket once he’s out of sight.
“See you later Alfred,” Tim calls out to the man as he makes his way towards the manor’s front door. “Master Tim, would you be interested in staying for dinner,” Alfred interrupts his exit. Something that has become a ritual between the two.
“Sorry Alfred, not tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tim waves goodbye. The same response he gives every day.
He pretends not to notice the slight curving down of Alfred’s lips as he makes his escape. He knows Bruce would never approve of him staying past his scheduled time. Would never approve of his presence longer than necessary.
The protein bar weighs heavily in his pocket the whole way home. The stretch of property splitting the neighboring mansions just as long as ever. His bruising feels pulled tight with every step. The splash of purple slowly darkening his thigh throbs.
Once safe in his room from possible prying eyes or concerned butlers, he goes to his bed and kneels.
He takes out the protein bar, letting his finger trace the shiny package. It’s smooth and slightly warm from his body heat. The chocolate feels a bit melted and soft under his touch. He shoves the whole thing between his mattresses. Something tense and heavy relaxing in his chest once it’s hidden and safe.
Then he goes through his nightly routine. He starts at his dresser, opening each drawer and checking the rolls he pocketed from his school lunch. Some of them have hardened and are starting to flake. Some of them are still soft. Next, he goes to his desk. The bottom drawer is neatly organized with packets of chips stacked on top of each other. Then his closet. Each pocket of clothes he outgrew hiding hidden treasures he squirreled away from holiday candy to mini muffins and finally Alfred’s cookies.
He brushes his teeth mechanically, unable to look up at his reflection. He checks under the sink once he’s changed into his pajamas. The sandwich bags of crackers were undisturbed.
As he lets his body finally relax into bed and begs his brain to slow down enough to sleep, he feels that same knot of heavy tension relax in his chest at the knowledge that everything he needs is nearby and safe. ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The first time he hid food was when he was nine years old.
Mrs. Mac wasn’t scheduled for that week, and it would be another three before his parents were expected to be home. Little packets of pretzels had been handed out with his school lunch. They were learning about balanced diets and nutrition in science. He had eaten the last of the spaghetti Mrs. Mac had put in the fridge the night before.
He was so dizzy he barely understood what his teacher was saying.
His stomach ached like that time he couldn’t block a soccer ball in PE before it slammed into his gut and knocked the wind from his lungs. He wanted to curl up in a protective ball and rest his throbbing head against the cafeteria floor.
It would be a very un-Drake behavior. He could hear his mother’s sharp reprimand echoing in his head against the very idea of it.
One moment he had been standing in a line, listing to the side slightly, before the lunch lady was pressing the packet into his lax hand. He could only slowly blink down at it before he had to move on. The lunch tray of chicken fingers and salad was picked up shakily before he went to sit alone.
He didn’t let go of that packet of pretzels while he ate. He wanted to shovel the food into his mouth like a feral and starved stray. He ate faster than normal even as he tried to control himself.
He went to open the pretzels before he felt that tightness for the first time. The ball of something hot and painful in his chest made him want to cry and hide. The sudden clambering in his brain told him he was in danger and needed to run.
The pretzels went into his pocket.
The feel of them, safely hidden away, eased that tightness and silenced the loudness rattling around his brain. He stuck his hand in his pocket multiple times before school let out. Feeling the air-puffed plastic and the scratchy edges. He kept feeling it the whole bus ride home and the entire time he walked up the long driveway to his house. He felt it as he got to his room and when he stood frozen and unsure about his next move.
He hid the bag in his pillowcase and when he went to bed that night, he fell asleep with his fingers grasping it.
The next day it was an apple. The day after that, a rice crispy treat.
By the end of the week, he had two meals worth of snacks stored away in little hidden spots around his room. And when that Saturday rolled around and his stomach felt like it was trying to eat him from the inside out, he found himself sitting in the center of his room surrounded by empty packets and gripped with nausea.
He was barely able to sit with the satisfying glow of fullness before the panic gripped him again.
From then on, he made sure his hiding spots were never empty. Even when Mrs. Mac came back and dropped off her normal weekly dish. Even when the hunger stayed away. Even when his parents came home for a week before leaving on their next expedition or business trip.
His stash grew and grew until some of it became moldy and stale. The next time he found himself hungry and his fridge lacking that same casserole dish, he sat on his bedroom floor and ate and ate and ate until he thought he was going to burst out of his skin. ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
His downfall started when he stumbled on a dodge.
One moment he was watching as Batman’s shoulders tensed. His thigh muscles tightened. His body swayed with the power behind his kick.
He didn’t see the foot before it connected with the side of his face. Stars burst behind his eyes as he was flung back with the power behind it.
His vision blurred as he stared up at the Batcave ceiling. His pulse throbbed down the side of his face and behind his eye. The skin felt tight as it started to swell.
He blinked and when he next opened his eyes, Alfred was staring down at him with a tension that radiated through his body visibly.
He was on his back on the mat, then on one of the med beds as Alfred shined a light in his eyes. His ears were ringing as he slowly blinked away the bursts of yellow and purple blobs in his vision.
Once his bearings were back, embarrassment gripped him.
He was barely able to plead that he was fine. To apologize for his clumsy dodge and promise to do better next time. He hated the pleading sound of his voice, but he hated the way his words only caused the tension in Bruce’s figure to grow even more.
Alfred gave him a full check-up. His shoulders tightened the longer the exam took. Tim could only watch in open shock as Alfred kicked Bruce out of the medical area once Tim’s shirt was removed.
He must have fallen asleep at some point. When he next awoke it was to a shouting match so passionate and incensed it had his ears ringing. He didn’t know Alfred could sound like that. He didn’t expect Bruce to remain silent.
He tried to reassure them both that he was fine and would be able to make his way home. Alfred put his foot down before Bruce could fully open his mouth to respond. Tim was bundled up in one of the scratchy white medical blankets and ushered up the stairs into Bruce’s study by the still tense butler. He was slowly lowered onto the large leather couch he had only ever seen when passing through.
“I’m going to give your parents a call,” were the words that sent terror through his chest and had him jerking up so fast his head was spinning again. His explanations on why that was unnecessary fell on deaf ears.
The silence in the office stretched and stretched as Bruce waited for his parents to pick up. He knew they wouldn’t. They never do.
After Bruce left a voicemail explaining that Tim had an accident and would be staying the night if they were unable to pick him up, he was marched like a jailer to his doom up the stairs he had never climbed before. The room he was ushered into was sparsely decorated but larger than his own.
He thought the anxiety would keep him up, but he fell asleep before he remembers the two men leaving the room. __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The next morning Alfred wakes him with a glass of water and some Tylenol. The bruises that stretch across his stomach and ribs and down his thigh are slathered with a sharp-smelling gel that makes his head spin.
Alfred leaves for a bit before returning with a tray of breakfast.
“I hope you like oatmeal and toast,” the man says in a lighter tone than he had the night before. The tray was sat across Tim’s lap delicately like he was afraid the boy would break under its weight.
Tim thanked him before slowly stirring his spoon through the meal in a random pattern. The specks of cinnamon swirl.
A thick silence hung between the two. Tim wasn’t sure what Alfred was thinking. The uncertainty of the situation made his chest and stomach heavy.
“Master Tim?” Alfred interrupted the building tension. His expression is just as heavy as the invisible weight pressing on Tim’s chest. “I want you to know that you can always come to me if you need to. No matter what is happening or who you are struggling with, I will always be willing to lend an ear to your troubles.”
Tim’s spoon paused in his patterned stirring. His heartbeat thudded in his ears.
“It shames me to know you were being hurt under my watch. Whether that hurt was intentional or not, I should have intervened against your treatment before it went this far,” Alfred trailed off, his expression pained.
“It’s not like that. It was just an accident. I shouldn’t have stumbled like that, I was trained better,” Tim denied, pleading for Alfred to understand. It wasn’t Bruce’s fault. This whole situation was a product of Tim’s lacking.
“No. Even though it was an accident, that’s no excuse. Master Bruce has been training for a long time. He should have the self-control to not allow his struggles to put you in a position to be hurt by his own hands. He shouldn’t have neglected your safety as he did,” Alfred denied vehemently, one hand raised as he shook his head in denial.
Tim opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, wanting to refute Alfred’s claims. His face throbbed.
“It was an accident,” he whispered, unable to sound surer of his conviction.
“I know, my boy. But it was an accident that shouldn’t have happened.”
That seemed to be all Alfred was willing to say on the topic before he excused himself with the promise of coming back for the tray once Tim was finished. Now left to himself in the large room, his thoughts began to spiral.
He wasn’t sure what the next step would be. Would they try calling his parents again? What would they do when the couple didn’t answer the call or call them in response to the voicemail already left? How would he explain that his parents were unreachable until they returned stateside five months from now?
It was too much to think about. That familiar choking tightness gripped his chest and made it hard to eat. He only got through half the oatmeal before he couldn’t continue. Then he was struck with a different panic.
His fingers rubbed over the edge of the toast. Crumbs broke free and scattered around the buttered bread in a sandy powder across the plate. It would be a waste not to eat it. He might need it later and regret not having it.
What if he was trapped here until his parents returned? What would he do without his stash of emergency food? Who was to say something wouldn’t happen where he was alone again, but this time in a house where the only food wasn’t his and he had no confidence in his right to take it? This toast was given to him, so for now it was the only food he had.
He scootched the tray off his lap until it was safely resting on the bed before he swung his legs over the side. Standing was hard. His head throbbed and his vision was swimming as he paused to find his equilibrium.
The two pieces of toast were shoved between the headboard and the wall. Not the best hiding spot, but the only place he trusted himself to reach while he was so unsteady on his feet. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A couple of days went by like this. A couple of days of food that was brought to him on a tray before he was left on his own to eat. A couple of days of him hiding away the food he couldn’t get himself to eat. The tension rolling through him never went away but it lessened with every safety net he hid around the room.
He didn’t see Bruce once in those couple of days.
On the day he did finally see Bruce again, he had a lunch of a ham sandwich with an apple already cut for him. He ate half the sandwich, and the other half was shoved into the bottom drawer of the nightstand.
Sometime after his tray was taken away, there was a tentative knock at the bedroom door.
He knew it couldn’t be Alfred. The butler usually knocks twice before pushing the door open. Unless Dick had stopped by, which was unlikely as Tim hadn’t seen the older boy since his unsuccessful trip to Bludhaven. That meant it had to be Bruce.
This left Tim with another problem. Would it be rude to call out that Bruce could come in? It was Bruce’s house and Tim had no right to act like he was allowing the man into the room. But at the same time, Bruce wasn’t coming in on his own. Would not saying anything be ruder?
He tentatively called out to Bruce, inviting him in.
The man hovered in the open doorway once he was allowed to enter. His body radiated with his lack of comfort with this situation. He wouldn’t look in Tim’s direction. his eyes trained on a corner of the large bed.
“I haven’t been able to reach your parents,” he finally broke the silence.
Tim knew he should have acted shocked at the news, but he expected it. It was a normality in the whirlwind of abnormality he was surrounded with. Safe, even as it was disappointing. He could only hum his understanding as he picked at the blanket across his lap.
Bruce didn’t let the lack of an answer to his unasked question sway him. “It made me think of a couple of things, put some behaviors into perspective. I have some questions I think we should go over,” Bruce grunted. Tim wanted to melt into the bed. Or better yet, out of existence. His mind was already running through the possible responses to unknown questions he knew he would have to answer. Bruce moved slowly into the room before approaching the bed like Tim was a spooked animal instead of the stoic calm he was portraying. Tim didn’t react as Bruce slowly lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed he had been staring down up to this point.
“We never talk about your family or what you do outside of training and Robin. That’s my fault, I know. I know I told you I was uninterested in your life outside of this,” he waved his hand in a vague motion, indicating the “this” he was mentioning.
“I admit I grew... concerned… when your parents didn’t seem to notice you hadn’t returned home.”
Tim was getting tired of the way Bruce was dancing around the question. His stomach had been twisting up in knots since the man knocked on his door and his behavior was only making it worse. He tried not to squirm in discomfort as he waited for Bruce to collect his thoughts.
“I looked into your parents and found their flight log,” Bruce finally dropped the bomb he had been harboring since entering the room.
“Tim… Your parents haven’t been home since school started. They don’t have a flight scheduled until months still.”
Tim was embarrassed to note a tension building behind his eyes. His throat felt scratchy with every swallow and he couldn’t stop from twitching in discomfort. He could only shrug when he felt Bruce’s eyes finally land on him, his own stuck on a random section of the wall.
The silence lingered for a couple of beats longer before Bruce let out a long and heavy sigh. “I think in this situation, it would be best if you stay with us until they come home. With your concussion, it wouldn’t be safe for you to be on your own like you have been,” Bruce said with a finality that felt like a nail in a coffin to Tim’s panicked mind.
The silence stretched once again. One person waiting for the other to speak, and the other unsure of what to say. All of Tim’s carefully crafted walls trembled under the shock of this unexpected turn of events.
Bruce let out another long and almost silent sigh before he stood and headed to the door. Once in the doorway, he paused before looking over his shoulder.
“Tim…” he seemed to reconsider what he was going to say, “I hope you feel better soon.” He ends the conversation. The door shuts softly and almost silently behind him. _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The days blend for a while. A set routine of meals in bed and food hidden around the room before finally, he was over his long stint of vertigo and was able to move around freely.
It was also around this time he finally allowed himself to look in the bathroom mirror.
His cheeks were gaunt. Dark smudges smeared under each sunken eye. A splatter of blue, purple, and pink reaches from ear to cheek to temple to eye. His eyelid and cheek are swollen.
If Alfred hadn’t done the exam after the accident, he would have been worried a broken cheekbone had been missed.
His image came off as more pathetic than he normally considered it. His eyes trailing away from his face and down to his body. Too small shoulders, long lanky arms, knobby elbows, and wrists that look too breakable. The clothes he wears, obviously something from when Dick was younger, hung from his frame like a tent. He looks misshapen and malformed. Too short and too sharp but also impossibly big. Perceivable.
He wants to crawl back in bed and not move for the rest of the day, but Alfred comes up to help him down the stairs to have lunch. His first meal not in bed, and he’s suddenly gripped with anxiety at the realization that he will be eating in front of people.
He hopes Bruce won’t be there.
It’s just his luck that the first thing he sees when he enters the kitchen is Bruce sitting at the head of the smaller table. His face was hidden behind a newspaper that displayed yesterday’s date.
Silence stretches between the two as they sit. Bruce doesn’t lower the paper until Alfred comes back with two plates of food. He clears his throat pointedly as he sits them down.
“I hope you like rice casserole, Master Tim. I’m sure you are tired of the blander diet you have been on,” the man says once his hands are free of the plates.
To be honest, Tim hadn’t noticed his food being bland. He had been enjoying how easy it was to hide the food he was offered.
He didn’t have that luxury now. He stared down at the glob of rice and chicken on his plate. Green peas and orange carrots seem to glow throughout the concoction. His hand trembled as he lifted his spoon. He didn’t want to eat this, but he could hear his mother’s voice rattling around in his brain.
“You’re too old to be picky Timothy. Pull yourself together.”
He had been five at the time. Big tears rolled down his face as he delicately nibbled on a crab canapé. His tongue instantly itching and burning. His stomach was jolting.
His parents later took away the little stuffed bear he kept hidden in his closet to sleep with when they weren’t home as punishment for throwing up in the gala bathroom.
“Are you feeling alright?” Bruce’s voice suddenly cut into the memory. When Tim looked up, the other man was a few bites into his meal. His eyebrows furrowed low over his eyes as he took in Tim’s untouched plate.
“Yes, I’m sorry. I just don’t think I’m that hungry,” Tim tried not to fold in on himself under Bruce’s suddenly intense gaze. He felt like a bug under a microscope.
“Are you sure you’re not feeling bad? It’s alright if you are, but we need to know,” Bruce pushed, his plate of food quickly forgotten.
Tim has to promise he’s okay a couple more times and dodge Alfred’s insistence on another checkup to get them to finally turn their attention away from him. His stomach growls once he’s back in bed.
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Dinner didn’t go much better. A pasta dish with some kind of light sauce that wouldn’t be too hard on the stomach. It smells great and Tim’s mouth waters as he sits before it. Unable to touch it.
He wants to eat it so bad, but every time he picks up his fork his heart starts to thud against his ribs and his stomach turns with nausea.
He pushes away this plate as well, much to the concern of the two men watching him.
He knows it doesn’t make sense. He begs his body to let him take even one bite. The hunger pain is just as anxiety-inducing as knowing he won’t be able to hide part of his meal for later. But the situation feels out of his control. A looming voice that points out that if he eats this, he will starve later. His stash will dwindle. His control will falter.
He wishes he could go home to his large stash. It didn’t matter as much if he had a meal he couldn’t hoard for later. He had the security of knowing his stashes were large enough to hold him over for weeks at a time.
The small stash he had been curating over the two weeks of his stay felt dangerously small in comparison.
A couple of days into the third week of his stay, he heard a commotion at the bottom of the stairs.
He had just left the room he was staying in and was headed to the stairs when he heard a raised voice. The words were muffled by the echo of the tall ceiling. He felt his stomach swoop unpleasantly as the deep rumble of Bruce’s voice rose to almost match the other.
He crouched behind the wall, as close as he dared to get. He could barely make out a pacing figure below.
“No, I should have known this would happen. It was my fault for thinking you could get your head out of your ass long enough not to fuck this up,” Dick waved his hands erratically as he yelled. His face was red, eyes shining with his anger.
“Dick,” Bruce tried to cut in. His shoulders slowly rose higher up to his ears. Tim was shocked to see him not disputing Dick’s angry ranting. He wondered what Bruce had done to incite the younger man’s ire.
“No Bruce, nothing you could say would make this okay. You who run around saving kids all the time and helping them with their abusive parents, end up being the abusive one!” Dick’s face becomes a darker red, his finger pointed accusingly into Bruce’s chest.
“I wasn’t going to try and make it okay,” Bruce’s voice suddenly dropped to a softer tone. The words were riddled with guilt and self-loathing. “I don’t know what I was thinking. No, I thought if I was harder on him, he would have a higher chance of being safe. But I was wrong.”
It suddenly struck Tim that the two were arguing over him. The swooping feeling in his stomach became a hard rock that sunk into the pit of his gut. He thought he was going to gag on the nauseating feeling.
This was wrong. It wasn’t Bruce’s fault. It was just an accident. If anything, Tim was more to blame for not being better.
His nails dug into his thighs as his breathing picked up speed.
This was all his fault, and he didn’t know how to fix it. None of this would have happened if he had only been better.
“We expected better of you. Falling asleep like a baby during such an important event.” Janet glared down at the shrunken form of a six-year-old Tim. Her eyes are cold and flinty.
“What will you do when our stakeholders start leaving the company because you embarrassed us like this, Timothy? We promised them you would be introduced and instead, they insisted we take you home. How will we explain to our employees that it’s your fault their pay will get cut?” Jack shook his head in disappointment.
“You need to do better.”
His vision swam as he was suddenly hurrying down the stairs, his breathing still fast and loud in his ears.
“Wait,” he called out, panting. His bare feet slapped down on each step as he stumbled at a fast pace.
His foot caught in his rush near the bottom of the steps. He only had a moment to feel his heart stutter in fear before two large hands caught him under his armpits and saved him from faceplanting into the hard floor.
“Please, it’s not his fault,” he gasped. Hanging like a limp fish in Bruce’s grasp, he rambled pleas for Dick to stop.
“It’s my fault. I stumbled. It was an accident. I’ll be better next time, I promise,” his words bled together. His voice was thick as unnoticed tears rolled down his cheeks.
He didn’t hear the way Bruce was shushing him, trying to calm him down as he was perched on the large man’s hip like a toddler. His hands clutched at Bruce’s shirt as he apologized again and again, begging them to forgive him for causing all these problems.
He didn’t notice as he was carried out of the room until he was being sat on top of the kitchen counter. Bruce’s concerned gaze boring into his tear-streaked and panicked one.
A glass of water was pushed into his hands by Dick as he tried to suck in loud gulping breaths. His shoulders shook uncontrollably. Bruce’s hands cradled his, so he didn’t spill the water into his lap.
“Breath,” Bruce instructed as Tim took a shaky sip. He was embarrassed by his inability to explain properly. He was desperate for the two men to understand that all that had happened was his fault alone.
“Timothy, stop these dramatics,” Janet’s fingers dug into his shoulders. He could barely see her face through his tears as he gasped in large choking breaths.
“If you had listened to your father when he told you to be quiet this wouldn’t have happened.” He knew she was right, but he still couldn’t bring himself to calm down or look at the pile of camera parts, broken and bent from the bottom of Jack’s shoes, that stuck out of the kitchen trash.
“Tim…” Dick’s hands hovered in front of him like he wanted to reach out and touch Tim, but he held himself back. Tim wasn’t sure if he appreciated it or felt dejected by the hesitance. “Even if you stumbled or tripped or anything else your mind is saying, Bruce shouldn’t have been training you so hard.”
Tim was already shaking his head. Dick was wrong, Bruce was just trying to help Tim be better. He just wanted Tim to be well-trained. It was Tim’s fault for not meeting the other man’s expectations.
“I knew I was tired. I should have said something. If you should be yelling at someone, it should be me,” Tim’s face burned as his words stuttered. One hand rubbed against his wet cheeks until the skin felt raw.
“No,” Bruce cut in. His voice was strained. “I should have checked in on you and I shouldn’t have been pushing you like that, chum. It was cruel.”
All the tension that had been building in Tim’s chest seemed to swell painfully. The dread he had felt before every training session, the bruises that ached when he tried to sleep at night, and the loneliness when he walked the long distance alone after being trained to near exhaustion.
A strangled and sharp sob left him when he opened his mouth to respond. His tears rolled heavily down his cheeks and dripped onto the hand he pressed to his face like he was trying to catch them.
His parents would have been ashamed of his behavior.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The atmosphere was heavy that evening during dinner. Dick stuck around much to Tim’s surprise. Alfred seemed pleased but Bruce seemed to wilt every time Dick met his eyes.
A roast sat at the center of the table. Small potatoes and chunks of carrots nestled against it and coated in a steaming glaze. A basket of rolls accompanied it.
Tim was so happy to finally be able to eat.
Dick helped him scoop some roast onto his plate. His happy and bubbly chatter seemed a little strained as he offered Tim the basket of rolls. Tim took two and sat them as close to himself as he could on the plate.
“I hope your appetite has improved this evening, Master Tim,” Alfred sat a pitcher of water on the table.
“Yes, I am feeling a lot better,” Tim’s fork hovered over his plate as he planned what he would eat first. The carrots would need to be cut in half first. He would eat one, then a potato, and then follow that with a bit of the roast. It would make everything even and equal.
“The power of your magic roast,” Dick laughed as he shoveled a bite into his mouth. One elbow was propped on top of the table and his napkin wasn’t in his lap. Tim tried not to feel anxious at the display. His mother would have excused him from dinner if he pulled the same display.
“Thank you, Master Dick, I’ll keep your praise in mind for your next visit,” the words were pointed. A notice of not if but when Dick would be visiting next.
Tim’s first bite of food had him wanting to melt from his chair into a puddle on the floor. The warmth of it spread from his stomach to his chest. It was heavenly.
The conversation around him faded as his attention was focused on his meal. Each measured bite became faster. The carrot was barely swallowed before a potato was added, then the roast followed back. This cycle continues faster until his meal quickly disappears from his plate. He’s barely breathing between each bite.
“Whoa, slow down there buddy. You’ll choke,” Dick’s words suddenly sharpened into focus. His hand, heavy and warm, landed on Tim’s shoulder.
The words shocked him out of whatever dissociative state Tim had found himself in. The fog lifted from his mind and his attention was drawn to the nauseating twist of his stomach. His mouth was watering, not because of the delicious smell of food but because of the twisting in his bloated stomach.
Shame followed. That shame only intensified when he looked up from his almost empty plate to see the almost full plates in front of Dick and Bruce.
“Slow down Timothy,” Janet hissed in his ear. The dining room was quiet and stiff. Jack sat silently in the head seat, his fork and knife clinking against his plate.
“Have you forgotten your manners while we’ve been working so hard out of the country for your sake? Do we have to add worrying about you on top of our already full schedules?” Janet’s words were sharp and cold.
“No Mother,” Tim shrunk under the weight of her gaze. His fork slowly stabbed into the mashed potatoes that suddenly looked bland and gray.
“Behave or you’ll be excused.”
“Sorry,” Tim shrunk in his seat. His words slurred with his nausea.
“No need to apologize,” Dick waved, his eyebrows furrowed. “Are you okay?”
Tim opened his mouth to reassure the older boy, but his words were cut off as his stomach gave a threatening lurch.
His chair scraped before toppling over as he pushed himself frantically to his feet. He gagged; a hand pressed over his mouth as his eyes widened frantically.
The world blurred as he ran. His feet slid against the hardwood floor.
Distantly he heard two other chairs scrape as they were pushed back from the table. Bruce called out his name with concern before the two were chasing after him.
He barely made it to the toilet before he was bent over and gagging again. Long strands of drool ran from his lower lip into the bowl. His stomach lurched again before he was retching, losing the battle, and vomiting with great heaves.
His sobs echoed against the percaline. The relief of not being hungry quickly replaced with agony as his body rejected every bite of food. He felt someone rest their hand on his back and rub soothing circles there.
Bruce shushed him as he brushed Tim’s bangs off his sweaty forehead.
His eyes burned and throbbed with the pressure of his vomiting. By the time he heaved for the final time, exhaustion had turned his limbs to lead.
He was pulled away from the toilet before it was flushed. Bruce pressed his palm against his cheek and neck. His vision swam violently as he leaned against Bruce’s side.
“Call Dr. Leslie,” he distantly heard Bruce tell someone standing outside the bathroom. He assumes someone agreed even though he didn’t hear a response. He started to shake his head before he realized what a mistake that was. Everything tipped before an arm snaked around him to hold him up.
His eyes glanced towards the dining room as he was led towards the stairs. A groan of discontent was shushed with reassurances he didn’t pay attention to. His rolls were left abandoned on his plate. He needed those.
His shoes were slid off his feet before he was helped into bed. Bruce was rumbling something to him gently, but he couldn’t draw his mind away from the rolls left behind. The meal was made useless, not because he threw it up. The only reason he was allowed to eat was because he would have food he could store away for later. Now not only did he not have food to keep, but he was riddled with anxiety at the realization that his stash would be lacking once the hunger set in again. He wasn’t prepared.
Distantly he heard someone choking on a sob. He didn’t realize it was him making those noises.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Leslie checked his temperature and his heartbeat. Her hands were now pressing around his stomach and pelvis. He appreciated that she told him everything she was doing before she did it, but he couldn’t draw his mind out of its spiral of self-deprecating panic.
He was so stupid. Probably the stupidest person in the world. What kind of person eats so fast that they throw up?
“Did you feel sick before you ate?” Leslie asked, her hands moving away from his stomach.
Tim shifted uncomfortably. “No, I felt fine until I got sick,” he admitted with shame.
He knew what caused it. He ate too much too fast because he was greedy. He should have stopped well before he did. It was better to stay a little hungry, so it didn’t hurt as bad later. But it tasted so good, and he hadn’t been able to eat since he was able to move around again.
“Bruce told me that you hadn’t had much of an appetite before. I heard you had dinner almost a full 48 hours before tonight,” Tim shrunk as he felt shame spread through his chest. He felt bad about lying.
“I think I just ate too fast,” he admitted. A blush of shame spread across his cheeks.
Leslie jotted down something in her little notebook. The silence weighed heavy on Tim, but he didn’t know what to say. He kept opening his mouth to speak up before letting it shut awkwardly.
He felt like he was about to shake out of his skin when Leslie shifted. Her elbow bumped into the end table with a jarring clatter that startled them both. Tim’s body tensed to the point of pain when Leslie froze at the sight of the slightly ajar drawer.
He knew what was in that drawer. Half a ham sandwich, an apple, a fistful of potato chips, and a pile of saltines. He silently begged the universe for her not to have noticed his stash. His heart felt like it was about to pound out of his chest.
Leslie pulled on the drawer handle, opening it up fully. It was the first time Tim had seen that stash since he had run out of room and moved on to stocking up the dresser.
The apple was brown and dented with spots of age. The chips and crackers were crumbling and stale. The sandwich had blooms of blue mold across the bread. It was a sad, if familiar, sight. His stashes back home were better prepared since he was able to be pickier about the food he stored. Usually, stuff that was packaged and long-lasting or resistant to mold and decay.
Leslie cleared her throat before closing the drawer. It didn’t ease the sudden tension burning his abused stomach or the knot in his throat. His teeth dug painfully into his bottom lip as he waited for the damnation he could feel coming.
“I guess that answers my next question about the food you ate while you were still recovering from your concussion,” Leslie straightened and slid to the edge of her chair. The lines between her eyebrows and around her mouth were deep as her lips pulled down in a concerned frown.
Tim opened his mouth to assure her he was fine again. To tell her he just wasn’t that hungry. He just didn’t want to concern anyone or make Alfred think he didn’t appreciate his food. He didn’t care for those food items anyway.
Instead, a loud sob fell from his lips and his eyes burned. He was too tired and dehydrated to cry. His head throbbed.
“Oh, Tim,” Leslie’s voice was so pityingly soft. It made the itch in his throat grow sharper. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her anymore, his eyes resolutely trained on the wall over her head.
He vaguely heard her speaking to him over the roaring in his ears. He heard the door open and Leslie’s voice whispering in quick instructions. He heard the drawer open again and saw the vague outline of Leslie’s figure out of the corner of his eye.
His shame was all-encompassing.
He wasn’t ripped from his frozen state until he heard the slide of a dresser drawer and the rustle of a bag. He was sitting up in a panic before he could process what he was going to do.
“Don’t touch it,” he shrieked. His feet stumbled as he tripped over the fallen blanket twisted around his ankles. His hands slammed into the dresser before he tried to shove it shut on the invading hands.
“It’s mine and you can’t take it. I need it. I don’t want you in here anymore,” he rambled in sharp and angry words that twisted up his tongue and made his voice tremble. He pressed his back against the drawer to guard against the theft of the hoard he worked so hard to build.
“Tim, it’s okay.” Tim’s eyes swung wildly to Bruce who had spoken. The man was standing with his hands outstretched in a placating gesture. His expression was twisted in such a look of heartbreaking concern that Tim wanted to crumble to the floor. But he stood strong as if his life depended on it. To him, it did.
Leslie cut Bruce off as he opened his mouth to say something else. Her hands raised in a similar gesture to the man standing beside her. “We won’t touch it,” she promised firmly. “We aren’t taking your food. We just have a few questions if you are alright answering them,” she cut her eyes to Bruce as though silently demanding for him to agree.
Bruce opened his mouth a couple more times before he nodded. A pained but understanding expression twisting his face before he took another step away from the dresser.
It only calmed Tim a little. He refused to budge from his spot. His mind raced with ideas on how he could talk himself out of this situation. The only way he could think of was to erase the last few minutes. A feat he was unable to obtain.
“How about we sit on the bed, and you can stand wherever you feel comfortable,” Leslie said after a tense moment of silence. The two remained frozen where they stood until Tim nodded his assent.
They sat at the foot of the bed, as far away from the end table as they could be. It loosened the tension in Tim’s shoulders slightly but didn’t erase the panic any.
Leslie waited a moment to see if Tim would object to where they were sitting before she spoke again. “First, I would like to know if you’ve been eating the food you have here,” she asked. “The little we saw was molded and old and would explain you feeling sick if you had eaten any.”
Tim was already shaking his head. He would never eat his stash without reason. It defeated the point of having a stash to begin with. They were only for the times he needed it.
“That’s good,” Leslie relaxed a bit. Tim hadn’t noticed how tense she had been. “Are those the food you didn’t eat that Alfred brought you?”
Tim hesitated before nodding with shame. He opened his mouth quickly, rushing to explain. “It’s not because I don’t appreciate what he makes,” he gasps, his fingers tightening against the wood of the dresser behind him. “I loved the food he brought me, and I know he worked hard to make it.”
A strangled noise left Bruce’s throat and drew both Leslie and Tim’s attention. The large man coughed and shook his head before he spoke. “Sorry. It’s just, Alfred knows you appreciate the effort he puts into making everyone’s meals. You don’t need to worry about that.”
Tim relaxed slightly more. His hands moved from their protective brace against the dresser so he could anxiously wring them.
Leslie drew the two’s attention back to herself as she spoke. “Alright, I’m glad you enjoyed the food. I’m a bit concerned about the amount you didn’t eat though. I was told you had only eaten half the meals you were brought. But it seems you had been eating less than anyone knew.”
Tim could only shrug after a moment of consideration. “I ate enough,” he said almost petulantly.
The silence stretched for a beat longer before he felt the urge to break it with further explanation. He didn’t want them to misunderstand or think there was a bigger problem than there was.
“It’s just…” he hesitated as he tried to organize his thoughts. “I like to save the food I don’t eat,” he finished lamely.
He expected Leslie or Bruce to object or call him out on his explanation. Instead, Leslie nodded like his words made sense.
“There is nothing wrong with saving the food you don’t eat. My biggest concern is you saving it improperly. The food you have hidden is molding and rotting. It can make you sick if you eat it. But you haven’t eaten any of it you said. Is there another reason for you keeping it?”
That was a loaded question and Tim wasn’t sure how to answer it.
He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. He felt twitchy. “Sometimes I get anxious when I don’t have food saved,” he stuttered. When he next opened his mouth, it was like the floodgates had been released and he was stumbling over himself to get the words out.
“What if I get hungry later and don’t have anything saved? I need to keep it and hide it and keep it safe so I can have it when I need it. What if I can’t get food for days and I get sick and feel bad and my stomach hurts to the point that all I can do is curl up and hope it goes away but I know it won’t.” He knew he was rambling, and his words were stumbling over each other to leave him.
When he glanced up from his hands, it was to see a look of heartbreak on Bruce’s normally stoic face. He looked gutted, bent forward like the words had physically hurt him.
The starring contest between the two was broken by another question from Leslie.
“Have you been hungry like that before?”
Tim could only nod after a long moment of silence.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
After that things started to change. It started small. A trash bin was moved to his room without any expectations for him to fill it. Only to sit in the corner in case he ever needed to throw away expired or moldy food.
Then his meals changed. Each plate he received was portioned out and chosen similarly to when he first got his concussion. Foods that were easy to digest and not strongly flavored. He saw a return of his bowls of oatmeal and ham sandwiches. However, now each meal came with an addition of a packaged snack. Granola bars, crackers, fruit snacks, little boxes of cereal, and sticks of beef jerky.
A couple of days after Leslie and Bruce found his hoard, he was given a full panel of bloodwork and a physical.
After that, they added a little white bottle of protein, calorie, and nutrient-dense drinks with breakfast and between lunch and dinner.
Dick also started coming around regularly. He would stay for dinner and talk to distract Tim when his hands would shake and he struggled to convince himself to eat everything on his plate. Some days it worked and others it didn’t, but he never shamed or judged Tim for those bad days.
Bruce eventually got into contact with Tim’s parents and the fallout wasn’t as violent as Tim had assumed it would be. That day, Bruce spent hours in his office on the phone. When Tim next saw him, he silently joined the two younger boys as they watched a movie.
Unknown to Tim until months later, a full investigation had gone underway into the Drake’s parenting. It was easy for the police to find the obvious trail of child neglect once they started looking. The lack of medical history, the detailed flight log, the lack of preplanned childcare, and the absent grocery budget.
Mrs. Mac easily spilled the beans once she was asked about the empty pantry and fridge at Drake Manor.
Tim was sat down once the investigation was complete and told about the verdict and next steps. His parents had lost custody not long after the beginning of the investigation and Bruce was assigned as his temporary guardian until a trial could be completed.
It never went to trial. Tim’s parents canceled their flight back to Gotham and never showed up for their court date.
The investigators had quickly and sadly found the extensive hoard of food hidden around Tim’s old bedroom. Bruce never mentioned the images he saw from the police report to Tim, just sat silently with a protective hand against his shoulder that movie night.
Over time Tim was able to build up his food intake to a normal amount without getting sick. His need to hide food lessened with therapy and his stash slowly dwindled to a couple of granola bars.
Years later when he found himself sitting at a table surrounded by a family he never expected to be worthy of having, he smiled as he contemplated the magic of a concussion and Alfred’s roast.
-Fin