Chapter Text
Tim's first thought upon waking is, Who the hell is on top of me? His second is, God, am I about to die? Then, a rapid-fire of questions: How did they get past the gate? Why didn’t the alarms go off? Are my parents okay?
Wait—his parents. They’re home this week. Did the intruder already kill them? Are they still asleep? Maybe they’ll wake up and grab the shotgun his dad keeps in the office.
The weight on his backside shifts and he feels something hard rubbing against his thigh. What—is that what he thinks it is?
Warm lips press against the back of his neck, and he hears the man’s muffled panting in his ear. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he vaguely thinks that he should be fighting back. He is Robin afterall—he has the skills. Yet, he can’t seem to move. “Fuck,” the man groans.
Suddenly, the only thing Tim can hear is the frantic pounding of his own heart, because he knows that voice. It’s his dad. Which means the man on top of him, groaning in his ear, rubbing himself on Tim, is his dad .
A part of Tim feels vindicated—because he knew, didn’t he? The way his dad had been looking at him these past few years. The borderline creepy compliments about his body. The way his dad grabbed him when he had that strange scar on his inner thigh that wouldn’t go away, repeatedly asking to check it out. Tim had almost convinced himself he’d imagined it all, but no—this was proof. He was right.
A hand ghosts down his back, squeezing his hip. A moment later, he feels something wet on his thighs, and Tim doesn’t have to be a genius or a detective to figure out what it is.
He doesn’t move, not even when the weight is lifted off him. He doesn’t look up when the bedroom door quietly shuts. Tim remains frozen for the rest of the night, terrified that if he so much as shifts, his dad might come back and realize he was awake. He can't bear the thought of facing his father, knowing that they both know what happened.
Somehow, he manages to fall back asleep.
Tim wakes up the next morning, and for a fleeting second, everything feels normal. Then the memories of the previous night come crashing down on him—the weight, the hands, the rubbing, his dad’s voice.
Tim wants to cry. He wants to lock himself away in his room and never come out. But he knows that’s not practical. There’s work to do at the manor, and a gala he has to attend later this week. It’s a good thing it’s summer, because he doesn’t think he could handle going to school right now.
Tim stands up to go to the bathroom, but as soon as he feels something crusted on the back of his thighs, he collapses back onto the bed with a sob.
Does his dad want him to know? Or could he just not be bothered to clean up his mess? Tim wants to scream. He wants a hug. He wants someone to care about him.
He can’t go to his mom—she probably wouldn’t believe him. Bruce? Bruce would believe him, no doubt, and he’d have this handled in a heartbeat, but he’d also insist on filing a police report. And that’s something Tim absolutely won’t do. Not to mention, he might take away Robin. How can Tim be Robin if he can’t even fight off his half-drunk father? Dick would care; he’d hug Tim and be there for him, but he’d also want to tell Bruce.
Maybe Tim could tell Jason? Sure, they got off to a rocky start, but things have been better lately—they're practically brothers now. Jason even took him out for ice cream a couple of weeks ago. And besides, Red Hood hates pedophiles. He would protect Tim.
Tim unlocks his phone and sends a quick message to Jason before he can change his mind. The reply comes quicker than he anticipated.
T: Hey
J: What's up?
This is harder than he thought it’d be. What should he say? "I think my dad’s a pedophile"? "I might have been molested last night"?
Knowing Red Hood, he’d probably cut Jack’s balls off. God, what was Tim thinking? He can’t get his father killed. The man might be a creep, but he doesn’t deserve to die.
He sets the phone down and decides to just take a shower and pretend this never happened. What other choice does he have?