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It had been a very, very long night. Batman and Robin had finally, finally taken down the last – and most crucial – members of a drug ring, the end of an operation that had taken months of countless sleepless nights working on. Well, it had for Tim. His sleep schedule had already been messed up, so staying up an extra few hours didn't mean much. Especially when laying in bed feeling anything other than completely exhausted just led to his mind spinning and spinning, keeping him up for hours more. So really, he was just making good use of that time instead.
Batman hadn’t verbally thanked him for all his work. That wasn’t how their relationship worked – there was an unspoken understanding between the two of them, a mutual satisfaction of a job well done. In fact, Tim would have been more surprised if Batman had thanked him. Batman needed a Robin, and Tim had stepped in after no one else would. He wasn’t Batman’s son, or even Batman’s friend - he was just Tim, the neighbours kid who happened to be good at detective work. A colleague, even.
Tim had overheard some of the teachers whispering about the takedown when he had stumbled into school, looking half dead and half asleep, clutching the largest keep-cup of coffee he owned. The brew was an expensive kind, with a rich bitterness that Tim had grown to enjoy. It was also the only thing that Tim enjoyed about coffee. He didn't understand the people who said coffee gave you energy – all it had ever done to him was make him more focused, and calm some of the anxious thoughts that raced through his brain. But drinking it made for a nice habit, so he had quickly gulped it down on the way to his first class.
He fell asleep in his first class. He awoke to a smattering of laughter from his classmates, and his maths teacher standing over him. His ears burned, and he sat himself upright. He liked doing maths, and he usually paid attention to Ms Mclaggan – more so than anyone else in the class, at least. "I'm sorry, Ma'am," he said, ducking his head.
Her face did not soften as she stared down at him. "I expect better from you, Mr Drake." She turned and glared at the rest of the class, who all quickly turned away, grabbing for pens and pencils. "And all of you! Get back to your books." Then she turned and marched back to her seat, overlooking the class with a steely gaze.
Tim stared down at his maths book, shame and dread and some other unknowable emotion twisting and coiling in his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to stop the tears from falling. Crying would do nothing other than make his classmates make fun of him more than they already did.
And that set the tone for the rest of the day. Class after class of Tim almost, or actually falling asleep, a chorus of giggles and whispering from his classmates around him, and his teachers sending him disappointed looks. The only saving grace was that this was a half day at school. There was some kind of teachers meeting going on, but Tim was too exhausted to care. He trudged out of school, walked his usual path to the bus stop, and heaved a deep sigh when he realised he had missed his bus and would need to wait another thirty minutes.
He sat and waited, staring at the ground. His phone had died right before his lunch break, and he hadn't bought a charger with him, nor had time to ask anyone (not that they would have given one to him) for one. It was stupid of him. He curled his hands into fists, letting his nails dig into his palms. Stupid stupid stupid .
The bus came, and he almost missed it, half asleep and staring at the ground like he was, desperately thinking through all the things he needed to do to try and get rid of the nagging feeling he had forgotten something. Was it his lunch? He had forgotten to bring lunch with him, which was fine, because he would be back at the mansion by about two thirty. That was probably it.
His bus took half an hour, so in an effort to not fall asleep, he pulled out his calculus homework (if f(x) = x^4 + 3x^2 − 17, then what is the gradient when x = 2?). It kept his mind busy until his stop, which was what he wanted; his mind was a machine that required constant computing in the form of tasks and activities, because if he didn’t give it something to do then it would make something to do that would require a lot of computing power and overheat his brain.
Ok, maybe that metaphor needed a little work, but the point still stood – if Tim did not find something to do, his brain would start running through all the possibilities of everything that could go wrong, and everything he could and couldn’t do to counteract it (not enough, he knew. Never enough, he would never be fast enough or smart enough or good enough for anyone to—)
With a start, Tim realised he had been biting his cheek again, and it had started to bleed. Only a little, so Tim just sighed and returned his focus to his homework.
He finished his last question just as his stop pulled up. After getting off, it was just a ten minute walk. He had considered getting a bike at one point, to turn the ten minute walk into a two minute ride, but with the state of the cycle lanes – what cycle lanes, Tim thought with a snort – and the rate of crime that did in fact include bike theft, he had decided against it.
He rounded the corner, looking up at his empty house with the empty driveway —
A car was parked outside.
Tim's blood turned cold as ice and he ran, ran to the mansion. His parents were home. His parents were home because they were coming back today and he had known this, he had made a plan, he had scheduled a taxi to pick him up so he would be home in time to welcome them like he promised and —
He threw open the door, heart racing in his ears. He almost didn't hear the tense, angry voices stop arguing, but he did hear his father raise his voice to yell "Tim?!"
Paling, he took off his bag, putting it down by the stairs leading up to the upper floor, and headed over to the living room, straightening his uniform. A million apologies and reasonings and excuses ran through his head, but as he turned the corner and saw Jack's face contorted into rage with Janet standing by the table, face set in stone, they all flew out of his head. "Where the fuck were you? And why weren’t you answering your fucking phone ?”
A jolt of rage rolled through Tim. He knew it was a bad idea, knew nothing good could come out of it, but he was just so tired, and nothing in his day had turned out right, and he just wanted to come home and not be yelled at, and maybe some recognition for dealing with Gotham’s worst drug ring in at least 20 years, so he opened his mouth and said heatedly “my phone died so I couldn’t answer and I was at school like I said—”
“I’m sick and tired of your fucking excuses!” Jack roared, spittle flying off his lips, advancing upon Tim who stepped backwards, his anger changing to fear, fear flooding his systems. His heart was pounding, knees beginning to shake, and it took all he had to maintain eye contact with his father.
“Timothy.” his mother’s voice was cold as she stared down at him, perched at the head of the table, expression icily blank. “We had arranged for your help in moving in some new artefacts from our most recent expedition. Your father twisted his back without your help to move things.”
Tim envied her logical and emotional detachment sometimes, but that was an area where he by far took after his father. “I’m sorry,” he croaked out. “I didn’t mean to, I promise to be better.”
His father let out a yell and then—
He had tripped. Surely he had tripped. His father wouldn’t have pushed him, he had tripped, he had fallen onto Tim, and Tim had tripped backwards and—
Tim was lying on the floor. All the air had been removed from his lungs, and replaced with what must be hundreds of shards of glass, impaled into his back. His back was screaming at him, but he knew that moving now without permission would make things worse. Because he hadn’t just fallen onto an empty case, he had fallen onto an artefact; a once priceless woven tapestry, now covered with pieces of the broken glass that once protected it, and soaked with Tim’s blood. Maybe if he kept himself still, he thought, maybe if he didn’t move and laid there despite every inch of him begging to stop putting pressure on his back, maybe then his parents would lighten the punishment for ruining such a priceless artefact.
He looked up at both of his parents. His father was staring at the tapestry, frozen. His mother was rushing over, professional grade cleaning equipment in hand. “Go to your room and tidy yourself up, Timothy,” she said, stepping over him. “I think you’ve made enough mess for today.”
You’ve made enough mess for today .
Her words felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He had made enough mess, hadn’t he? All he did was make things worse. He was a failure of a son, and a failure of a person. He was the accessory, the sidekick, only ever replaceable and a replacement.
Slowly, he moved backwards, and stood up. His father was picking out shards of glass from the tapestry, with more care than Tim had ever seen on him before.
He picked up his bag and slowly walked up the stairs. He didn’t feel any of the pain from the wounds in his back. Truth be told, he didn’t feel much of anything at all.
- -
The first thing Tim felt again was the pain in his back. He had taken off his shirt, and had picked out the shards in his back, though he couldn’t have said how long ago that had been. Most of them weren’t too bad; they hadn’t even bled much when he had taken them out. A few he knew he would need to keep an eye on, but with some medical tape stitching them together and bandages wrapped on top he managed to tidy them up enough to close over. He put on a bulky t-shirt, popped a few painkillers, and sat on his bed, staring at the ground.
He was just so tired. He was so, so tired, and everything just felt so hard right now.
But that was no excuse for forgetting his parent’s return. Tim hadn’t seen them in months, and had known the exact date they would be back for a week. Being caught up in a case was no excuse – he had been stupid and careless and he had let his parents down. He had let them down and they were going to leave. They were going to leave because he was a failure who had proved once again why they were better off without him.
Round and round his thoughts went, like a tape rewinding and playing out the exact same path.
He grabbed his phone from where it was charging, and turned it on, then off again, then on again. He swiped through his apps, desperately looking for something to do. He opened his sudoku app, then closed it again. He closed all his open apps, then opened the phone app. Tim scrolled through his contacts mindlessly, then stopped at the end. W for Wayne residence was his last contact.
His finger hovered over the call button. It would be so easy, he thought. A phone call to the Wayne’s. A fantasy he had thought of innumerable times. Batman would swoop in - he wouldn’t have to deal with his parents again. Surely they would let him stay at the manor, as Tim this time, not Robin. Maybe they’d find a way to untangle the knot of pain and hurt that lay deep in his chest, and find out what was wrong with Tim, and maybe Batman, no, Bruce , would pull him into a hug and say how proud he was of him—
“Wayne residence, Alfred Pennyworth speaking.”
Tim froze. He didn’t mean to— how had he not noticed—
“Hello?” Alfred’s voice came again, this time with a touch more impatience in it.
Tim cleared his throat. “Uh, hi Mr Pennyworth. It’s um, me. Tim.”
“Tim.” Alfred sounded surprised. Not that Tim blamed him; he didn’t think he’d ever called the manor before on this number. “Is everything alright, young sir?”
Tim opened his mouth to speak. His brain was screaming abort abort abort , so what came out of his mouth instead of a long and probably tearful confession was: “is the offer to come up for dinner still available?”
Shit . That wasn’t what Tim wanted to say. He had only ever stayed at Wayne manor when he had been injured; like after the Red Hood attacked him at Titan tower (Tim shuddered at the memory. Learning it was Jason who had done it made everything so much worse; he could have dealt with a supervillain going after him, but Robin? The person he had looked up to for years, who he had shadowed taking pictures of for countless nights? That was what had caused something in Tim to break.). After that incident Tim had been healing in Wayne manor for two weeks. It was the longest he’d ever stayed there consecutively, and it had been… weird. Mr Wayne had been weirdly attentive, Dick had come over and sat with him for hours chattering away (ok, that was pretty normal for Dick). Coming back home after that had been almost a relief.
“Of course, Master Tim. The offer is always open.” oh. Tim blinked. He hadn’t expected that. There was a pause, before Alfred carefully asked, “are you not having dinner with your parents while they’re home?”
“No!” it burst out of Tim before he could think about what he was saying. He coughed. “I mean, they’re going out to dinner tonight. Without me.”
“... I see.” Alfred’s reply was very composed, if a touch too late for Tim not to notice something different in his voice, though he couldn’t tell what or why. “In which case, you’d be very welcome to come up, Master Tim. Do you require a lift here?”
“Thank you Alfred, but I’ll make my own way over. I’ll be up there at 5?”
“I’ll see you in an hour.” Then a beep sounded as Alfred ended the call.
Tim started, then stared at the time on his phone. It was four, even though it seemed like two-thirty was only a few minutes ago.
He was walking, that was for sure. He would probably need to pack some extra bandages, in case his wounds reopened from the walk over. And also probably from the climb down his window; he would not be leaving by the front door.
He steeled himself, and began to pack.
- -
The walk to Wayne Manor seemed to last an age, and pass in the blink of an eye. All he could remember was the heave of moving one foot in front of the other, and the sharp ache emanating from his back.
He blinked and the door to Wayne manor was in front of him, his hand raised. Had he knocked? He couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember, he was Robin , he was meant to be better than this—
The door opened beneath Tim’s trembling hand. “Right on time, young sir,” Alfred said with a gentle smile. “I’m afraid it’s just Master Bruce with us for dinner, as Master Dick is in Blüdhaven tonight.”
Tim smiled back, a practised, business-like smile. He didn’t think he could muster the energy for a regular one. “That’s okay, Alfred. I didn’t exactly give much notice.” He laughed a little awkwardly, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck and just managing to hide a wince as he did so. Right. Raising his arms was not a good idea right now. “Are you sure that — this is fine?”
Alfred peers down at him over his spectacles, with raised eyebrows. “Master Tim,” he said firmly. “I believe that I have stated before that you are always welcome here at Wayne manor. And at no point has that statement ever been retracted.” With that, Alfred stood to the side, ushering Tim inside and shutting the door behind him.
Tim walked slowly through the manor, barely hearing Alfred’s remark of “dinner will be ready at 6 o’clock precisely, Master Tim.”. He was too busy playing back what Alfred had just said to him in his head. That wasn’t what he meant, was it? Tim was an afterthought, to everyone. He wasn’t ever meant to be the centre of attention, the main guest. He was the Robin who would disappear, who would stay back and observe. He was not the one that was wanted, but the one who stayed because he was needed.
But Jason’s back now, isn’t he? A small voice in his head murmured. And Batman has made it very clear that he much preferred Jason to you.
This was true. So many times Tim had noticed Batman look at him, and wince and turn away. Or Mr Wayne would call out for Jason instead of Tim, and then freeze and leave. Jason was the golden child, the unattainable standard that Tim was forever striving towards. He would only ever be second best - but no, not even that, since Dick was filling that spot already.
He turned a corner and winced as the bandages rubbed against his back. He should probably change those. It wouldn’t do to have one of the Waynes notice blood staining his shirt and asking questions when it was just Tim being clumsy.
- -
It was 6pm exactly when Tim slipped into the dining room, which – was empty? He looked around, but there were no dishes on the table, no cutlery set out. He heard a cough and spun around, wide eyed, arms coming up into a defensive posture before settling when he saw Alfred standing there. “Master Bruce prefers to eat at the smaller table in the kitchen,” Alfred said with a small twinkle in his eye.
Tim blushed and ducked his head, following Alfred into the kitchen, where he saw Mr Wayne sitting at the table in front of one of three plates. He had bags under his eyes (when didn’t he?), and a tired set to his shoulders, but he looked up with a smile as Tim approached the table.
“Good to see you, Tim,” Mr Wayne said with an easy smile. “Please, take a seat while Alfred grabs the,” he paused, and looked over his shoulder at Alfred. “What are we having tonight, Alfred?”
“Roast beef, potatoes, and gravy, with some vegetables on the side,” Alfred called back from where he was leaning over the oven.
Tim slid into a seat carefully, suppressing a wince from the pain in his back.
“While Alfred grabs – that.” Mr Wayne said, smiling. He kept on smiling, somewhat awkwardly, and Tim realised with a start that they hadn’t ever done this. They hadn’t ever had a meal together ( like a family ). Tim had always been the one to slip away, and now, he realised, Mr Wayne had no idea how to react. Did Tim count as one of his kids? He wanted to he didn’t. He had his own family to return to. Tim wasn’t exactly an equal either. He was the extra, the sidekick, the replacement. Tim realised with a dawning horror that Mr Wayne had no idea how to act around him as Tim. Mr Wayne didn’t have a set routine of how to react and treat Tim. Tim was an unknown variable, and not even in a fun way that Batman could pick apart, just in an awkward and slightly sad way.
There was a clunk as Alfred set down the food on the serving plate, and Mr Wayne cleared his throat. “So,” he said. “How was your day at school?”
Dinner continued in that same vein. Nothing bad, per say, just. Confusing? Mr Wayne would ask some bland, pleasant yet generic question, and Tim would reply in a similar tone. At one point, Tim saw Mr Wayne turn to Alfred with a weird expression on his face, almost confusion, but Mr Wayne was Batman , the world famous detective who was never confused about anything—
Finally, Mr Wayne leaned back with a contented sigh, allowing himself a few moments of pause, before pushing his chair back and standing back. “Thank you for the meal Alfred, but I really need to finish this report for Lucius. If you’ll excuse me,” he nodded, and left the room.
Alfred began gathering the plates and cutlery, and Tim sat there, unsure of what to do. What should he do in this scenario? He hadn’t ever been to something like this before; a dinner with upper class people, but in such a low-key setting that his normal social script was left fluttering in the breeze. “Do you need any help cleaning up?” he blurted out, before cringing slightly at his slightly panicked tone.
Alfred turned to him with a smile. “That would be greatly appreciated, Master Tim. I need to walk Master Ace here, so if you would deal with the dishes that would be wonderful.” As he's leaving with Ace, he turned back around and said, “oh, and Master Tim, please don't put the knives in the dishwasher – that tends to blunt them.”
Tim nodded and sat there for a few moments in the empty kitchen, listening to the clacking of Ace's paws against the wooden floors as he and Alfred walked away.
And then, silence. Just the sound of his heart beating in his throat, the hum of the electronics. Normally that sound would soothe him, but right now it just reminded him how alone he was. He clapped his hands on the table and paused like that for a few moments, pressing down on the table harder and harder as if that would make him feel more – something. Tim didn’t know what.
“Alright,” he whispered to himself. “Time to get to work.”
He made short work of the dishes that were put in the dishwasher – there weren’t that many of them, and the Wayne’s had at multiple dishwashers in their kitchen, so there wasn’t any worry about Tim running out of space. Soon it was just the knives left, so Tim put in the plug and turned the tap on hot at full blast.
The steady rush of water as the sink slowly filled soothed Tim. A constant rush of white noise filled his mind as he leant his head against the countertop. It felt nice and cool against his forehead, and he stayed like that for a small while. Just the feeling of his head on the countertop, his eyes closed, the sound of the tap running, and the steady drip of the water onto the—
Tim shot up with a gasp, slamming the tap shut and stifling a cry as he slammed his fingers into the tap, before frantically grabbing a towel and chucking it onto the growing puddle of water on the floor. He raced to the cupboards, pulling one after the other after the other in a desperate attempt to find – more towels! He grabbed one, threw it on the puddle, then grabbed five more. He threw them all on the floor, and stomped on them, soaking up the water.
Alfred isn’t here, he repeated to himself again and again. Alfred and Mr Wayne aren’t here. They haven’t seen it; he can get it cleaned up and, and, find out where the towels go, and set them off, and then maybe they won’t yell at him for making a mess in the kitchen, and everything can go back to the way it was and—
There was blood on the towels.
Tim stared, unblinking at the blood. He reached around to his back and stared at his bloodsoaked hand. His pants were also wet with his blood. He could feel it. His pants were sticking to his legs, and oddly enough that was what made him start crying.
He gave himself five seconds to cry, before digging his nails into his palms, letting the pain shock him out of his tears. “You need to clean this mess up,” he hissed under his breath. “Now do it. ”
He picked up the bloody towels, grabbed his bag, and headed to the nearest bathroom. He didn’t think he’d gotten any blood on the floors as he went, and the bathroom was quite close by so it wouldn’t be much to clean up even if he did.
The door shut behind him and he launched into work. Stripping off his clothes, changing his bandages, cleaning the blood with the towels and toilet paper, popping a few ibuprofen, and getting changed into the spare clothes he brought with him. He flushed the bloody pieces of paper down the toilet, and after a few moments of deliberation put the towels in his bag. He could take them back to Drake Manor and deal with them there, and bring them back next time he was at the manor.
With that, he quickly walked back to the kitchen, and breathed a sigh of relief. Alfred wasn’t back yet, and there was a trivial amount of blood left to clean up – enough that after looking around warily, was cleaned up with the least bloody towel from his bag.
It was fine – everything was fine, including and especially Tim. Tim felt – well, not much at all right now. He felt detached, like he was logically dealing with the circumstances without any of those confusing and messy emotions messing everything up. He didn’t need emotions right now, so he had stepped back from them. See? He was being more like his mother already (his heart clenched at the thought of his mother, his breath catching in his throat and his hands becoming colder).
The sink was full of hot water, and there were just the knives left to clean. With a hand that seemed too far away from his head, he loosened the plug slightly, letting the water drain out enough that he could put things in without it overflowing. He put the dishwashing liquid in the sink, and slowly grabbed one of the knives and started to scrub.
He would start with the smallest knife and work his way up to the largest. Logical and methodical, like his mother. That was who he needed to be like – except every time he thought of her he flinched. Who was he fooling, trying to be like this? He was a replacement, a sum of parts trying to be like all of them at once, but instead being a worse copy of them all. He wanted to be a good Robin, a good son of his mother, of his father, but he was being pulled in different directions every time and coming up short. He would never be as good as any of them – he was the replacement, the failure, and that was all he’d ever be.
He was a waste of space, creating more messes for other people to clean up.
The knife lay in his hand, and he turned it over. What would happen, he thought, if he put it to his wrist? Would he bleed out in the kitchen? Would the bubbles in the sink turn pink with the colour of his blood? What would happen if instead it was his throat? He would be dead then, but there was someone else to be Robin – someone better than him. He would stop making messes, then. He would be dead; there would be no more messes to create. He would stop disappointing his mother, his father, Batman, his teachers, everyone he met. He wouldn’t have to deal with the confusing tangled web of society and where he belonged in it again – he would never have to deal with anything again.
That sounded… nice. He just wanted a chance to rest, damnit. Hadn’t he deserved that much?
He rested the knife on his wrist, contemplating. It would be so easy. Just a small push, a little cut. Or even to his throat. That would stop him from making any more messes for other people to clean up.
He made a small movement with the knife towards his throat, a stutter of a gesture.
Then he paused.
No, he thought. He wanted to create less mess, and it wouldn’t be fair for one of the Wayne’s to have to deal with this. No, if he was going to do this, he wouldn’t do this at Wayne Manor. With a nod, he changed the grip of the knife, and resumed scrubbing it in the sink.
A moment passed.
Tim threw the knife away from him and scrambled backwards, blood roaring in his ears, vision tunnelling and shifting. He was— he almost— he could have—
His breath was catching in his throat and he wheezed in and out, scrambling further back. He couldn’t— his hands almost—
He couldn’t trust himself right now. He could not - that was a foundational truth right now, and that was all he could cling to. And cling to it he was, he did, a drowning man clutching one last lifeline. He could not trust himself .
His legs were moving; he was going somewhere, and his breaths were getting calmer – he thought so, at least? Or were they getting faster? – and he kept blinking and stumbling forwards, setting one foot after the other. He needed to breathe, but he kept forgetting to do so. He had almost— he had almost —
Someone cleared their throat.
Tim flinched. He looked up to see Bru- Mr Wayne sitting in an armchair, paperwork strewn over the side table and a tablet resting on the arm of the chair. He was looking up at Tim with a bemused yet concerned look. Tim realised with a start that this was not the first thing that Mr Wayne had said to him. Had he asked – did he ask how Tim was? If Tim was ok?
Tim nodded. And sat down on the couch. His hands were trembling, and he quickly sat on them. He couldn't— he couldn’t cause a problem. He couldn’t make another mess. That was why he didn’t—
“—im. Tim.”
He jerked his head up from where it had been drooped into his lap. Mr Wayne was staring at him intently, leaning forward. His tablet was set to one side, and his eyes were alert and steady as they pierced his own. He was giving Tim his full attention (why?), in a way that felt almost Batman-esque. But… less aggressive, somehow. More familial, almost.
“Tim,” Mr Wayne continued. “Are you ok?”
On autopilot, Tim nodded. He was used to this routine. Opening his mouth, he choked out “I’m f—”
And then his words got stuck in his mouth. He tried, but something was stopping him. It felt like his mouth was stuck shut by some superhuman force and why couldn’t he tell Mr Wayne that he was fine, he wanted to but he couldn’t , couldn’t tell him the lie that stuck to the back of his throat and choked him, he couldn’t, he couldn’t why couldn’t he —
Tim, very minutely, shook his head.
He was trembling, he noticed distantly. Why wouldn’t he stop trembling? And why did he shake his head?
Mr Wayne was crouched in front of him. Tim — Tim hadn’t seen him move. Why hadn’t Tim seen him move?
“I’m going to sit down next to you,” Mr Wayne said slowly. Softly. Like Tim was a scared child that needed the Batman’s help. “Can you shake your head if you’d rather I stay here?”
Tim didn’t know what he wanted. He just knew that he didn’t want to have to choose anything.
A weight settled on the couch next to him, and Tim continued to stare at his lap. His hands were stuck under his legs and he was glad of it, glad that his hands that almost – did that – were out of his sight. He couldn’t trust them (even though his hands had no mind of their own. Even though he knew what controlled them, which was himself).
“—im.”
Tim jerked his head up and to the side, looking at Mr Wayne in the eyes. His eyes looked almost sad, now.
“I need you to do something for me, alright bud? Can you copy what I’m doing?”
Tim couldn’t bring himself to move in response, but Mr Wayne was moving regardless. He moved one hand onto his own chest, and the other onto his own stomach. “I’m going to close my eyes, and count to three minutes. You don’t have to close your eyes if you don’t want to.”
Then he just… sat there. Breathing in, and out. Tim stared at him for a few moments, then slowly, moved his hands to copy Mr Wayne.
His chest was moving in and out fast, Tim noticed absently. Mr Wayne wasn’t doing that, and Tim was trying to copy Mr Wayne, so he carefully slowed the expansion of his chest to match Mr Wayne’s. Mr Wayne’s shoulders seemed to relax slightly when Tim did that, he noted, though his eyes still remained shut.
The clock on the wall kept on ticking, Tim noticed, and in the back of his mind he started to time how long it had been as he looked around the room. There was a TV in the corner, and a group of precariously stacked DVDs lying on the floor next to it. Tim squinted at the titles, trying to make them out. He was pretty sure the top one was the Rescuers, that old Disney movie that Dick forced him to watch when Tim was recovering at the manor, but the others he wasn’t as sure of.
Mr Wayne moved slightly, and Tim flipped his gaze back to him. His eyes were open now – had it been three minutes already? – and he smiled when Tim looked back at him. “Hey bud, you feeling any better?”
Tim almost scoffed – how did he expect sitting and breathing to make him feel any better? – but then he paused, and took stock of himself. He still felt like a strong breeze would knock him over, and that he was moments away from bursting into tears, but to his surprise he felt more… grounded. Less spacey.
Tim nodded.
Mr Wayne’s smile eased a little, the creases around his eyes crinkling. “I’m glad to hear that, Tim.” his smile faded a little, a slight frown on his forehead as he continued “Can you tell me what it was that made you so upset?”
Tim froze. It had almost slipped to the back of his mind— how had it almost slipped to the back of his mind . He couldn’t tell Mr Wayne. He couldn’t. He also couldn’t – he couldn’t talk. He couldn’t deflect, he couldn’t say that he was fine, and that he didn’t know what had just happened (although that part was true. He didn’t know what had just happened to him, why he suddenly became less… cognizant. And that scared him). He couldn’t get his mouth to open.
Maybe the frantic look in his eyes conveyed this, because after a small eternity of those thoughts running through his brain, Mr Wayne said, “alright, let’s try something else.” He cleared his throat. “You don’t have to answer these out loud, just nod or shake your head.” he looked straight at Tim, and after a moment, Tim nodded in acknowledgement.
“Was it something from the case last night?”
Tim quickly shook his head.
“Was it something that happened at school?”
Another shake.
A pause, and then, “was it something that happened with your parents?”
Tim tensed.
A spasm of a dark shadow briefly passed over Mr Wayne’s face, before quickly being schooled back into the neutral expression it had been for most of the evening. “Tim,” he said evenly. “Did your parents hurt you?”
“No!” it bursted out of Tim’s mouth before he could think about it, and then he couldn't stop the words from pouring out. “They didn’t! That’s not what’s going on! I swear they didn’t do anything, it’s nothing that they did, everything is fine with them, I just needed some space and—” he gasped for breath, noting how Mr Wayne’s face was becoming more and more concerned. “— it’s really not them! Everything wrong that happened tonight is from me getting stuck in my own head and—”
Tim froze.
Carefully, Mr Wayne spoke. “We can stop talking about your parents,” (an unspoken ‘for now’ hung in the background). “But I would like to know what happened tonight.” His voice was gentle, but firm. There was a small undercurrent of the Bat in his voice.
Tim stared at the ground in front of him. Slowly, words clawed and dragged their way out of his throat and spilled out into the open air. “I was… Alfred told me that I needed to wash the knives separately, and I – I needed to stop and clean up, and when I went back to cleaning everything felt like it was too much and then I almost—” he stopped, hands gripping the sofa beneath him like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the couch. He was crying, he noticed. That was one of the reasons that he found himself no longer able to speak.
Mr Wayne stiffened, and then—
Tim was enveloped in a hug.
Bruce was giving Tim a hug. One hand was pressed around his back, gripping tightly like Bruce thought he might disappear, and the other cradling his head, pulling him gently into Bruce’s chest.
Tim was sobbing now, hands around Bruce and gripping on to the shirt on his back as tightly as he was gripping to the sofa just moments ago. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held him like this - the warm, comforting, protecting hug that an adult gives to a child. Tim wasn’t a child, but he so desperately needed this that he allowed himself to be selfish.
Bruce’s hand carded softly through Tim’s hair, and he spoke in a low rumble. “I’m proud of you, Tim. I’m so proud of you for telling me this.”
Tim sniffed, and said, muffled, into Bruce’s shirt, “But I almost—”
“But you didn't, ” Bruce firmly said. “You stopped yourself, and you managed to tell me this. That alone speaks of a far greater strength than you think, Tim.”
If Bruce’s goal was to make Tim stop crying, he thought somewhat hysterically, he was doing an awful job.
“I just,” Tim sobbed, “I just want to be able to trust myself.”
“I know, bud, I know,” Bruce started rubbing small circles on Tim’s shoulder, then stopped. “Tim,” he said carefully, with a hint of Batman slipping into his voice. “Why do you have bandages on your back?”
Tim flinched. Bruce stilled, and gently pushed Tim back until they were looking at each other eye to eye. His expression softened slightly at Tim's distressed look. “I know it's been a long evening, bud, but can I have a look at your back?”
Tim hesitated, breathing in and out gentle hiccups of sobs. Perhaps because of seeing this, Bruce added, “I know that back wounds are hard to bandage by yourself, and I don’t want you reopening wounds when you go out as Robin.”
Tim’s heart stuttered. Bruce… wasn’t taking Robin away from him? After what Tim had told him, he still trusted him? He nodded, and slowly turned around, taking off his hoodie and shirt with one pained, yet swift motion.
Bruce hissed out a curse, and Tim turned, confused. He had just re-wrapped it; sure, it was painful, but that was just how wounds felt when you didn’t baby yourself and kept on doing things while they healed. But Bruce was messaging someone on his phone – was that Alfred he was texting? – and rising to his feet. “Let’s head down and get this properly looked at, bud.”
His tone made it clear that this wasn’t something Tim could talk his way out of, so Tim surreptitiously tried to wipe the tears and snot off his face in his discarded hoodie, and stood up.
This proved to be a mistake, Tim quickly discovered. His vision turned black and he clutched the nearest thing to him, waiting for the wave of darkness to recede.
Gradually, it did so, and he snatched his arm back as he realised that he was clutching Bruce’s arm like a waifish victorian orphan.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, noticing Bruce’s panicked expression. “Just – stood up too fast.”
“Mhm.”
Nevertheless, Bruce did let Tim walk down to the cave on his own feet, though not without hovering one step behind Tim the entire way down. It felt a little condescending, but Tim mostly found it nice that he cared enough to do so.
Alfred was waiting in the cave for them, with strangely rumpled clothes and a more panicked expression than Tim was used to seeing on Alfred’s face that quickly smoothed out upon seeing them both enter the room. He raised an eyebrow behind Tim’s head, and Tim looked back to see Bruce look rather… chastised.
“Let’s get that wound of yours cleaned up, Master Tim,” Alfred called.
- -
Tim sat on the chair, back to Alfred as he pulled off the layers of bandages, and watched Bruce sitting on the chair against the wall. He was on his phone again, and looked up every so often to look at Tim. They made eye contact, and Bruce’s eyes crinkled.
Alfred pulled off what must have been the last bandage from Tim’s back, judging from the wet stickiness of it as it clung to Tim’s skin. Tim couldn’t see Alfred’s expression, but he could see Bruce’s response. He stood up and strode over to take a look, going behind Tim’s back. There were a few moments of silence, before Bruce squatted down in front of Tim and looked into his eyes.
“Alfred’s going to do what he can to get the remaining glass out of your back, but Tim, there’s no guarantee that we can get everything out ourselves. We’re going to have to take a trip to the hospital to get the rest—”
“No!” Tim burst out. “Not the hospital, they’re going to ask questions about how it happened and why you know me so well and— can’t we just go see Dr Thompkins?”
Bruce’s expression remained steady and calm, but Tim caught a flash of worry pass over his face. “We don’t need to go to Dr Thompkins for injuries gotten in our daytime hours, we are neighbours which would explain why we knew one another and – Tim, why would it be a problem for them to ask how it happened?”
Tim felt a hot flush of rage roil through him. “Because they would assume the worst!” he yelled. Tears were leaking from his eyes, and he angrily wiped them away with a fist, glaring at Bruce. “Just like you would! I did this myself, I tripped, and no one else has anything to do with it! No one needs to look into my home life because it’s fine !”
A flash of anger passed over Bruce’s face, and Tim felt equal parts vicious joy at having caused that and fear at seeing that in front of him. “Tim,” Bruce said, voice deepening almost into a Batman growl. “What did your parents do?”
“Nothing! My Dad didn’t— he didn’t do anything!” Tim shouted. “Just— stop it! Stop asking questions! Just leave me alone!”
And then Tim burst into tears.
Bruce crouched there, face settling from shock to an eerie calmness, and he stood up. He said something to Alfred that Tim couldn’t make out over the sobs heaving through his body and the blood rushing past his ears, and left.
And Tim was alone with Alfred, awful heaving sobs wracking his body and stretching the wounds that Alfred had just so carefully finished bandaging. Why did Tim have to keep doing this? Why did he always drive the only people who cared about him away?
There was a squeak of rubber on linoleum as Alfred pulled a chair over and sat next to Tim, heaving a great sigh as he did so. “I am truly very sorry, Master Tim.”
Through the sobs, Tim quietly said, “why does everyone have to leave me, Alfred?”
For a moment, Alfred looked like he’d been punched in the gut, before his face settled back into his normal expression. “Master Bruce is not leaving you, Tim, however it may look and feel right now. He finds dealing with situations like yours where he is powerless to stop the harm from happening to be uniquely difficult, especially when it happens to someone he considers part of the family.”
Tim snapped his head up. Did Alfred just say..? That last sentence knocked the tears right out of him, and he sat there, staring at Alfred.
“He also does not want you to feel like the anger he is feeling is directed at you, Tim, so he is giving himself a chance to calm down.” the corners of Alfred’s mouth twisted down, and he added, “as any responsible parent should with their child.”
“Does— does he really think of me as—” the words got stuck in Tim’s throat, but Alfred’s expression softened with understanding nonetheless.
“Of course he does, Tim. I know Bruce isn’t the best at saying these things –” Alfred gave a wry smile, “– but you have been considered part of the family by me since the day you came here, and by Bruce not long after.”
Oh . Tim’s heart did a funny swoop in his chest, and he sat there, not knowing how to respond. But Alfred, once again, seemed to know what was needed far better than Tim did, and sat there silently waiting with Tim.
Eventually, Bruce returned, striding back in the room with a determined look on his face that softened when he saw Tim wince as he tried to sit up straight. “I’ve phoned Leslie,” he said. “She’s got a spot for you as soon as we get there.”
Tim bit his tongue, holding back the questions that he wanted to ask. Why had Bruce agreed with his wishes so easily? What was he going to have to do to repay this favour to Bruce? Was Bruce going to stop asking questions now?
Some of the questions must have shown in his face, because as Alfred helped Tim to his feet, Bruce added, “I do need to know more about this, Tim, but –” he sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, “– it’s been a long day, for all of us but you especially. You can stay at the manor overnight, and we can talk more tomorrow.”
Tim’s mouth unstuck from the roof of his mouth long enough for him to say, “you don’t have to put up with me overnight, I can go back home.”
Bruce and Alfred exchanged a look. “Tim,” Bruce said. “You are always welcome at Wayne manor, no matter the time, no matter the circumstances.”
Something in Tim’s chest loosened at that, and if he had been any less emotionally drained he would probably have started crying again.
“Also,” Bruce added. “I can’t send you home while I don’t know the full situation of what happened, and we’ve agreed to postpone that conversation for now.”
Tim opened his mouth to reflexively defend his parents, but nothing came out. He was just - so tired. Bruce was right - Tim did not have enough energy to have another difficult conversation right now.
Bruce’s expression softened. “Let’s go, bud.”
- -
Tim woke up slowly. The world felt fuzzy, but in the warm and comforting way of waking up late on a weekend with no responsibilities to deal with. His limbs felt so heavy, and for a moment he just wanted to heave a sigh into the pillow that he was facing and fall back asleep.
His brain had other ideas, and all too soon he was running his mind over the events of the previous day. There was the mission that had finished in the early hours of the morning, the scarce two hours of sleep that he had managed to snag, the awful day at school that mercifully finished early, his parents—
He propped himself on his elbows, breathing faster and faster as his mind dragged him along the rest of the day. His parents and the display case, him going to the Wayne’s – no, Bruce’s and Alfred’s – for dinner, and then the—
His brain shied away from the topic, like a wild horse charging at a river, almost jumping, then falling over and galloping to the next obstacle. His knuckles were white from gripping the bed, and his teeth were digging into his cheeks.
Then he talked with Bruce (he had almost—) and then Alfred got the larger shards of glass out (had he really almost—) and then they had gone to Dr Thompkins, who had carefully removed the tens of tiny shards of glass embedded in his back (what kind of person was he to almost—) and then Tim might have fallen asleep on the ride back? (What kind of Robin was he to almost—)
There was a whine, and a shuffling of weight from his legs, and Tim looked up to see Ace lying next to him, ears back and tail carefully wagging. Tim heaved himself into a sitting position, and smiled through the veil of tears (had he started crying again? Fuck he was useless, what kind of person was he crying all the time—)
Tim shrieked slightly, startling backwards as Ace licked his face, then flopped down onto his legs with a big sigh. Tim, well, if he gave himself a minute to cry with his face pressed onto Ace’s warm, non judgemental back, it wasn’t like Ace was going to say anything.
- -
It was half past ten when Tim arrived in the kitchen, Ace on his heels. Bruce was sitting at the table, a mug of a steaming drink in front of him and a frown on his face as he scrolled on his tablet, and Alfred was pottering over by the stove. They both looked up when he came in, and Tim saw them both relax slightly upon seeing him.
Alfred passed him a plate full of pancakes as he made his way through the kitchen. “They’re all for you, dear boy,” Alfred said when Tim tried to protest.
So Tim sat down, and slowly began to make his way through the stack of pancakes, signing a thank you to Alfred as he placed a mug of coffee in front of Tim (whose mouth was full of food) and continued out the door with Ace.
Leaving Tim alone in the kitchen with the hum of the electronics and Bruce.
Tim had almost finished his pancakes, and he was desperately trying to make his last mouthful last twenty. He could see Bruce looking at him every short while, and he knew that Bruce wanted to talk to him, but for some strange reason refused to have any difficult talks while anyone was eating a meal. But apparently Bruce could only watch Tim slide around the last few crumbs for so long, because he sighed and set his tablet down gently on the table.
Tim tensed.
“Tim.” Bruce spoke gently, but with an air of finality about him that was so reminiscent of Batman that all of Tim’s resolve to stubbornly avoid talking about it shrivelled away. “I need to know what happened before you came to the manor yesterday.”
And so, Tim squared his jaw and his courage and spoke. “Well, I had school, which was—” he made a face, “—fine, I guess. It was only a half day, so at least it finished early?” Well, Tim had gathered some of his courage. Definitely not all of it. Luckily, Bruce seemed to have realised that if he interrupted Tim now then Tim wouldn’t be able to resume. He forged ahead. “I missed the first bus, so – yay functional public transport – it took like half an hour for the next to arrive, but I managed to get my calc homework done, and—” Tim sucked in a deep breath. “My parents were home.”
And oh , telling the truth felt like a bolt of lightning going through him. A mixture of terrifying and exhilarating that almost felt like Robin. So Tim pulled on the Robin mantle now. “They weren’t happy, that I had forgotten they were coming back, and missed the bus. My father has a sore back, you see, and he needs me to help unload and unpack when they get back. So I talked back, like an idiot, and then—”
Tim stopped. Partly because he could feel himself clamming up, his inability to talk about anything important coming back at the worst time, but also because he couldn’t remember. Had Jack Drake pushed him? Had his father deliberately pushed him into the cabinet? Would his father have done so if it meant risking the antique tapestry? And why did it feel so bad that that last question felt the easiest to answer?
“And then what happened, Tim?” Bruce’s voice was calm, and Tim latched onto it as the one safe port in a storm.
“ I can’t remember ,” Tim burst out, breath coming faster and faster. “I fell onto the glass case behind me - I must have fell, he wouldn’t have pushed me, Bruce, my Dad wouldn’t have pushed me please you have to believe me —”
“ Breathe , Tim.”
His hands were clenched into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms as he gasped in one breath after the other, trying to copy Bruce as he slowly and exaggeratedly breathed in and out. Bruce’s hand reached out for his, slowly, and despite himself Tim flinched. Bruce started to pull back, an apology on his lips, but Tim reached out and grabbed his hand with the same grip he had been clenching his fists with. Bruce’s expression eased, and he squeezed Tim’s hand back.
They stayed like that, sitting in silence, until Tim no longer felt like a drowning man who had just crawled his way back onto land.
“Setting aside whether your parents did or didn’t do it for now,” Bruce carefully started. “Even if we presume they didn’t – Tim, they should have taken you to a hospital.”
Tim opened his mouth to argue, felt the twinge of bandages (carefully put on him by Dr Thompkins), and closed his mouth again.
“The fact that they didn’t,” Bruce carried on as if Tim hadn’t tried to interrupt, “is neglect at best and abuse at worst. And I cannot – will not – send you back to live with them when there is no guarantee of this happening again.”
Tim’s heart dropped like a stone. If Bruce wouldn’t let him go back to his parent’s then - where did Tim have to go? He would have to sneak back for his clothes, and maybe he could grab the cash his parents had left in several places around the house. With that, and the credit card he had, he could probably afford rent. It wouldn’t be in a nice part of town. Tim briefly considered Crime Alley - it is the cheapest area in town, after all – but Jason – no, Hood was there, and Tim wouldn’t be able to sneak out as Robin, so maybe another area in East End?
Bruce put a stop to all of Tim’s plans. “So I’ve come up with a few ways for you to live here full time. Firstly, we can legally take your parents to court. This will probably be the longest and most drawn out process, and I understand if you don’t want to put your parents through this,” Bruce’s nostrils flared, “regardless of how much they deserve it. Secondly, we can handle this quietly with your parents and not involve the—”
“You really want me to stay?” Tim’s voice cracked.
Bruce’s expression fell, and Tim was strangely reminded of how Ace looked the one time Tim had accidentally stepped on one of his paws. “Well, if you don’t want to stay here, there’s always my suite at Wayne towers, or, or we could remodel one of the 17 safehouses—”
“I want to stay!” Tim bursted out. He coughed, and said in a smaller voice, “if you want me to, that is.”
Bruce looked at him with such an expression of fragile hope on his face that Tim almost didn’t dare to breathe lest it shatter. “Of course I want you to stay, Tim. I’m so sorry if I ever gave you an impression otherwise.”
Tim could feel his expression start to shatter. “You really mean it?” he choked out.
Bruce nodded.
And Tim launched himself into Bruce’s arms. He heard a muffled oomph , and then felt Bruce’s hand gently rest on his back.
If, when Alfred returned, he paused in the doorway and took a few moments to smile at the sight of his newest grandson embracing his son, well. Alfred was simply admiring the fruits of his hard earned labour.
- -
In the end, Tim decided to go for the easier option - Bruce having a long chat with his parents that ended with a viciously pleased smile on Bruce’s face and begrudging acceptance on his parents’.
Tim’s physical recovery took a few weeks, and in that time Dick came round to keep Tim company - just like the last time he was injured. Dick had pulled Tim into a crushing hug, and whispered, “welcome to the family, little bird.”
Tim’s mental recovery… was a work in progress. There were good days and bad days, but ever since Bruce had forced Tim to start seeing a therapist (Tim had agreed on the joking caveat that Bruce also go see a therapist, and much to everyone’s surprise Bruce had begrudgingly agreed. Dick had almost fallen out of his chair when Tim told him), his good days slowly crept up to outnumber his bad days.
Dick being around to help Tim recover had the added benefit of Dick and Bruce managing to begin the process of reconciliation. They had at least stopped their shouting matches after Tim had confessed to Dick one evening that Dick and Bruce shouting reminded him of his parents.
It was Tim’s therapist who suggested that Tim go on antidepressants. Tim had been resistant to the idea at first, and it was surprisingly enough Alfred who convinced him to change his mind, after he told Tim of the different times he had gone on antidepressants throughout his life. They weren’t a magic cure all, Alfred explained. But they did make things easy enough that facing them was no longer an insurmountable task.
So when struggle after struggle hit the bat family (Tim’s parent’s plane crash, Damian’s arrival, Bruce’s disappearance), it was a very different Tim Drake-Wayne that responded.