Northern Attitude (I Was Raised on Little Light) - theskeptileptic - Batman (2025)

Chapter 1: You're Gettin' Lost

Chapter Text

“To the rich,” Tim giggled to himself, clinking his glass against the bottle of Don Julio he stole from behind the bar during the New Year’s countdown. “Bottom’s up .” He tossed it back, grimacing at its sour taste. He poured himself another as he sauntered behind the obscene $10,000 wall decoration Bristol’s elite had commissioned for the night—and plopped down on the ballroom’s surprisingly plush carpet, thoroughly out of sight from any grown-up who might feel obligated to feign concern. Not that this crowd would even care much about the underage drinking, but Tim wasn’t about to risk a potential conversation with whatever rich fucker felt it their “good deed” for the night when they realized shy little Timmy Drake was getting sloshed at the Annual New Year’s Party for Rich Idiots (as Tim so lovingly christened it several years ago). He burped a little as he leaned against the partition and closed his eyes briefly.

“You’re too young for that.” An imperious voice startled him out of his reverie.

Tim snorted.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, Dennis the Menace?” Tim took another swig out of the bottle he was holding, forgoing the glass altogether, and looked up at his ten-year-old stalker. Damian had joined the Wayne family a couple years ago and made a splash with his debut as Brucie’s “new biological child”. Tim remembered watching in amusement when the brat threatened to cut off Rhea Barlow’s left ear for calling him an “uncultured barbarian” last June at the Children’s Hospital charity banquet. The papers got a scrapbook worthy photo of Richie and Jason Wayne hauling him back, smirking and offering very insincere apologies.

What the papers missed was Tim’s subsequent dressing down of the Barlow heir—a veiled threat and pointed comment in front of her father which found Barlow sent to Europe on an “extended vacation” come the next gala. And while the papers missed it, Damian didn’t. If Tim had known his defense of the brat would earn him a lifelong shadow at these things, he would have just fucked off like usual and instead tried to score a joint from one of the catering staff.

Damian bristled. “Really, Timothy, it’s against the law.”

Tim snorted, and held back an impulse to mess up the kid’s gelled hair with a ruffle. “So are a lot of things, Lil’ Wayne. I wouldn’t be talking with the family you got. Logs in the eye, and all that.” Damian likely thought Tim was referring to Jason’s most recent headline: Wayne Scion Punches Father at Wayne’s Winter Wonderland Extravaganza instead of their family’s secret life as super-furries, protecting Gotham in the cringiest way known to man.

Damian scowled at the nickname, and to Tim’s eternal annoyance, sat down next to him.

“The Drakes were not here tonight.” Damian glared at Tim like he was a puzzle. Tim thought it made him look like an especially pissed-off kitten.

“Keep up with my parents, do you? You’re a little young still for networking, kiddo.” Tim smirked in his most obnoxious way—partly because he knew it annoyed the gremlin and partly because he was annoyed himself. Not only did Damian always find a way to bother him at these events, but he had taken to asking Tim questions like he was some sort of victim. Tim tried to nip that in the bud big time, but everything he said seemed to roll off of Damian’s back like water.

“You said they’d be here.” The kid pointed at him accusingly. Tim took another drink.

“Jack and Janet are busy people. Unlike Wayne Enterprises, our company is actually climbing in net worth and revolutionizing the medical field. I mean, I’m sure WE is making money for the tabloids constantly, but we both know that’s not the same thing.” Damian huffed at Tim’s speech and rolled his eyes.

“Tim-o-thy.” He whined, sounding every bit 10 years-old and not a bit befitting his last name.

“Da-mi-an.” Tim whined back, smirking. “Why are you so adamant about seeing them anyway, Baby Shark? I’m pretty sure the last time a Wayne wanted to do business with them, your father got slapped with a fifty-million dollar lawsuit and a pretty embarrassing press release.”

“I got a cow.”

Tim blinked. “Okaaay. And that has to do with my parents, how?”

“You need to come see it.” Tim shook his head and this time, didn’t hold back when ruffling the kid’s hair.

“Not a chance, pipsqueak. You know the rules.” Tim took another long sip at Damian’s glare and grinned. He lowered his voice mockingly and wagged his finger like Jack. “Step one foot in that house again, young man, and we’ll have Wayne arrested for kidnapping.” In reality, it was I will beat your ass next time you go over there and then pay one of those crazies in the city to kill him and display his flayed body in the halls of Arkham only after destroying his reputation and the reputation of his hellspawn for generations to come, Timothy, don’t think I won’t, and if you ever, ever bring him up to my face again, you’ll get much worse than my fist, but Tim didn’t think Damian needed the details.

“But you should come home.”

“Fuck, kid, shut up.” Tim slapped his hand over Damian’s mouth, looking around wildly. “Listen. I don’t know what you think is going on here, but you are very, very wrong, okay. Whatever Dick or Jason may have told you, you need to forget it. I don’t know what I did that made you think we were friends or something, but you need to leave me alone, stop talking to me, and don’t say shit like that again.”

“Damian?” A shadow fell between them.

“Br…Mr. Wayne.” Tim quickly slid the tequila bottle under the partition and scrambled to get up. He put out his hand and smiled. “Damian and I were just talking about you.”

“T...Tim.” Bruce Wayne shook his hand and smiled back thinly. “I was hoping we—”

“Anyway, got to scoot, my ride’s here. Stay lame, shortstack. Happy New Year, Mr. Wayne. Keep crushing the competition and all that shit.” Tim stumbled back without looking at either of them and emerged from behind the divider, practically running into the middle of the ballroom. Several balloons and pieces of confetti littered the floor, and multiple partygoers grunted in frustration as Tim sailed past them towards the kitchens.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” He whispered under his breath as he looked for a familiar face among the catering staff. There we go. “Max!” He snapped his fingers and instantly cringed, knowing it made him look like an asshole. “Do me a solid? Please?” Tim discretely passed a large wad of hundreds to a greasy-looking middle-aged man wearing an apron and a bomber jacket. “I’ll bring it back to you tomorrow. I promise.”

The tattooed server rolled his eyes but tossed him a key ring anyway. “Not a scratch, kid.”

Tim saluted and hurried out the back door, into the convention center’s service parking lot. Gotham’s night air smelled strongly of smog and gasoline, and lingering smoke from Canada’s most recent forest fire. He found the Harley parked next to the lot’s dumpsters, and jumped on.

Tim grabbed a couple of pieces of spearmint gum and chewed them vigorously as he started the engine and gingerly backed out of the spot. He was almost out of the parking lot when the metaphorical bullet he was attempting to dodge cut in front of him, in the form of Richard Grayson Wayne’s red Maserati and two identically scowling faces staring him down from the front seats.

Their windows were rolled down. Tim began to inch the bike around them but a warning honk from the driver and a sharp “Just fucking try it, kid,” from the passenger’s seat had him turning it off and looking at them warily. Jason hopped out of the car and grabbed Tim’s collar in one smooth motion. Dick was still idling the car, watching placidly as Tim was manhandled into the backseat, Jason scooting next to him, leaving his brother up front.

“Child locks on, Dickhead?” Jason growled, and Tim’s stomach dropped in sync with the clicking sound. Jason was practically vibrating in his seat as Dick pulled out of the parking lot and drove down the dark road. Their radio was off, and the silence was thick and awkward.

“What. The. Hell. Were. You. Thinking.” Jason’s voice was low but clear. Tim could feel the man staring at him but he refused to look and instead watched the passing streetlamps bend in the late night fog. A large thump startled him and he jumped as Jason hit the seat in front of him angrily. “Dami said you practically downed a whole fucking bottle of top shelf like it was a fucking water bottle in the middle of the fucking desert.”

“Jay,” Dick’s warning was low.

“I’m allowed to be fucking pissed about this, Dickie, the little idiot was about to drive away sloshed and without a helmet. You could have killed someone. You could have killed yourself.”

“Whomp whomp.” Tim rolled his eyes. “Leave the drama for the stage, Wayne, you are making way too big a deal out of this.”

“Tim!” Dick’s warning this time was a little louder. He pulled over on the side of the road. “Jay, breathe. We got him, he’s with us. Take a minute.” Jason let himself out and slammed the door behind him. Tim could see him walk a few meters in front of the car, lighting a cigarette. Dick turned to stare at Tim. When Tim looked down, he told himself it wasn’t because Dick’s disappointment was too much to bear. “This isn’t healthy, Timmy. We’re just worried about you.”

“What you are is kidnapping me. And I can think of several court orders you’re violating right now, Dickie, so if you don’t mind, let me out here and I’ll call a cab.”

“You said you’d be safe.” Dick’s voice was neutral, but the threat was clear in his words.

“I am safe. I don’t know why your crazy family believes otherwise, but I am perfectly fine.”

“Tim,” and with this, Dick unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed deftly in the back. Tim barely flinched when Dick’s hand rested tentatively on his knee. “You promised us. You said you’d stay in touch at least once a week. You’ve been avoiding us for months. We only see you at galas and Dami is the only one you actually let talk to you. Jay called me absolutely pissed because he heard Jack screaming the other night from our back porch.” Tim smiled at that memory and let himself lean his head on Dick’s shoulder.

“He actually turned purple.” Tim snorted.

Dick didn’t.

“You need out, you say the word.”

Shit. He was really serious. Tim turned and looked at Dick. He patted him on the cheek, “You’re a good not-brother, you know.”

Dick smiled sadly. “Yeah, yeah, kiddo. Why don’t you sleep it off, huh? Jason will drive you to Bernard’s.”

“The manor.” Tim yawned. “Supreme Lord and Dragon Lady are in Monaco this week.”

The driver’s door opened, and Tim watched through heavy eyelids as Jason adjusted the seat. Dick guided his head to his shoulder again and ran his hands through his hair. Tim drifted off to the smell of cigarettes and Dickie’s cologne, and Jay’s heavy sighs the whole way back.

Chapter 2: You Settle in to Routine

Chapter Text

“Everyone please remember bets are to be placed 5 minutes before the next match starts. We will begin in 10 minutes. Roster is posted by both exit doors.”

The announcement reverberated through the cramped space as people rushed to take care of last minute business. Tim finished tugging on his mask and bounced on the balls of his feet. He took a sip of water and looked around the room, cataloging attendees. The small warehouse/storage space they were all meeting in tonight was in an abandoned business park that straddled the border between Bristol and Gotham. Paper boxes were pushed against the walls, and several hanging lamps filled the room with a harsh yellow light. The place smelled like a mix of sweat and socks and mildew, and the door was propped open with a brick, in a bad attempt to get the air circulating. A casual violence hung in the air thickly—Tim had already watched two competitors get dragged off the makeshift stage, their friends in a whispered debate over taking them to the hospital or putting them in an Uber and hoping for the best. If someone had told Tim a year ago he would be a semi-regular participant in some frat boys’ illegal fight club, he would have laughed in their faces.

As Tim got ready for his turn, he tried not to think about how hung-over he felt. He tried not to think about Jason carrying him up his porch stairs, and then, the manor stairs or Dick leaving a glass of water and two pills on his nightstand, or the unsigned note slid under his front door, written in an unfortunately tidy and familiar scrawl asking Tim to meet him later that week. The note that was shredded and then burned later that morning because didn’t anyone understand what no-contact actually meant? The amount of phone numbers Tim had to block each week only served to confirm his theory that the Waynes were actual idiots and Batman must be some weird, dissociative identity that held onto the only brain cell in the entire family.

Last night was a mistake he couldn’t afford to make again—he was usually pretty good at dodging the older Wayne men, and he tried to push back a burgeoning anger at the 10-year-old that seemed to throw everything he worked for into jeopardy. It wasn’t the kid’s fault the rest of his family were stubborn assholes with zero reading comprehension and no understanding of consequences .

A buzzed senior with a clipboard and a sharpie grabbed Tim by the shirt and yanked him over. “You’re up, fun size.” Tim rolled his eyes at the nickname, and hopped on the makeshift platform. Several drunk coeds booed as Tim cracked his knuckles and fiddled with the wraps around his hands. He flipped them off and the crowd jeered, but it just made Tim antsy to get started. He barely had time to evaluate his challenger before the whistle blew.

The wave of adrenaline that crashed over his body was addictive. It was better than pot, better than alcohol, closest to the feeling he chased back when he was younger—free climbing Gotham’s tallest structures, balancing at the edge of roofs, and looking down into the swirling darkness briefly before jerking himself back at the last minute. It was driving motorcycles without helmets, without a license, sneaking places he wasn’t wanted (never wanted), standing on bridges, in control of his own destiny, of his own worth. It was intoxicating and a breath of fresh air, and as he dodged the fist sloppily thrown by a poorly masked Chad Davies wearing a Green Lantern t-shirt, even his smile felt wild.

One time, in a rare show of father-son bonding, Jack brought Tim to the Bristol Pines Country Club for a round of golf. Tim was twelve and was given the honor of carrying Jack’s bags. Jack, who said it was a waste of hard-earned cash to rent a golf cart, hopped onto Roger Davies’ cart about six holes in. “See you back at the bar, champ.” yelled Jack, and left Tim by the lake with his clubs, about 2 miles from the parking lot. Chad Davies, sixteen at the time and in a second cart with his Gotham Academy friends, laughed and pushed Tim in the water, but not before swinging Jack’s putter against a nearby tree and bending it in half. He threw it at Tim’s head and laughed again when it made contact. By the time Tim fished himself and the clubs out of the lake and made the trek back to the Club’s restaurant, his father was three scotches deep. The bruise on Tim’s head paled in comparison to the ones he received later that night when Jack discovered the putter.

Tim jumped out of the way of another jab, and reared his own fist back, thumbs out like Jason had taught him all those years ago. He punched Davies in the face—one, two, three times—and grunted as the other boy swiped at his side angrily with his fists. Tim twisted and Chad lunged and eventually, both he and Chad were on the floor, rolling. Tim winced as Chad kicked him hard in the stomach, but used his momentum and his smaller build to roll the boy over and knee him in the groin. Chad yelled and crawled over to the edge of the ring, slapping two times. “Little fucker .” He spat, but it lacked menace because the guy was breathing so hard it was almost impossible to make out.

“...and that’s a forfeit. This match goes to Red Robin. Any other challengers?” Clipboard guy’s voice sounded bored.

Tim drank from his water bottle on the edge of the platform and ignored the bruises he could feel blooming around his stomach and back. The noises around Tim dulled to a roaring as he wiped the blood from his nose and readjusted his mask.

“I’ll challenge.” The mechanical voice made the hairs on Tim’s neck stand and he realized the rest of the room had gone silent. Several people were inching towards the exits until a bullet shattered one of the hanging lights and the Red Hood jumped in the ring. “C’mon boys, where are you going? This looks like fun.” Tim turned, and tried to relax his shoulders. As he looked up at the faceless helmet, two glowing eyes were staring into his soul. The adrenaline spiked again, and Tim’s lips quirked up. The imperceptible tilt of Jason’s helmet at Tim’s amusement almost came across as annoyed, but Tim disregarded that. If he wanted to scare him off, he should have tried another Bristol fuck-up. Tim was a special kind of fuck-up. Tim was the god-damned son of Janet Drake. Few things scared him, and in no universe would those include a Wayne.

“Bring it, bucket head.” Tim smirked. He blinked and found himself on the ground, Jason’s foot holding him down.

“I’ll give you three minutes to get your asses out of here. Time starts…two minutes ago.” The place cleared in thirty seconds. Tim slowly peeled himself off the mat, trying not to give Jason the satisfaction of groaning. He walked towards the edge of the platform, but found himself held in place by a firm grip.

“I thought you said everyone was free to go, Hood.”

“Not you.”

Tim scoffed. “Listen—”

Jason interrupted. “Who can I call? You’re obviously under age, you’re bleeding and carrying yourself like your ribs are at least sprained. It’s almost two in the morning. Who can I call?”

“Like I sai—”

The man grabbed Tim’s shoulder roughly and pushed him off the platform, against the wall. Tim was breathing heavily in the silence and his shoulder twinged. The Red Hood was looming over him, a dangerous anger seeping out of him. Tim could tell that Jason was furious, and so he did what he did best with dangerous things and poked him in the chest. “Gonna punch me, Hood?” Tim said arrogantly. “I thought you didn’t hurt kids.”

Jason pushed closer, his mechanical voice softer, more sinister. “You’re not acting like a kid, though, are you? Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Tell me, Red Robin, what kind of child wears a mask around a bunch of assholes just asking to get beat up? What’s going on at home?”

“Hmm, Hood. I just don’t know.” Tim tapped his chin in mock thought, “Too bad I’m not Batman’s son, huh? You’d all be fine with it then.” Tim said in a sickly sweet voice. Jason jerked back as Tim spat blood at his boots. “You’re a hypocrite, Red Hood. You and the rest of the Bats.”

“Fuck this. You’re coming with me.” Jason pressed his com. “C1560-Code BB. I got it. Don’t wait up.”

“What are you doing?” Tim squawked as Jason dragged him to his motorcycle and threw him on the front. He protested further when Jason pulled out a helmet, and plopped it on his head.

“C’mon, Red, if it’s a fight you want, it’s a fight you’ll get.” He almost sounded amused now, as if Tim’s anger snapped him out of his own.

“This is a kidnapping.”

“Be glad I’m not making you take that ridiculous mask off to identify you and then hauling your ass to the Bristol precinct, brat. Now shut up, and enjoy the ride.”

The wind whipped around Tim’s body as Jason flew down the empty streets. He allowed himself to lean slightly against Jason’s chest, chasing a comfort he knew he didn’t deserve. Dangerous indeed, Tim snorted to himself. While the Waynes had no idea that Tim knew their secret identities, he couldn’t help but wonder sometimes. On the nights when Red Hood would pop up randomly wherever Tim found himself, when Nightwing would be “patrolling” the exact same street Tim was lingering on, Tim had to wonder if they knew that he knew. Because they acted almost exactly the same. The same mother henning. The same annoying and aggravating nosiness. It was suspicious. He’d be reaming them out about it if he were stronger. If he did what he needed to do and cut them off completely and totally. But he was selfish. So he begrudgingly allowed the masks to do what the Waynes would never be allowed to do, and held his tongue.

But in the end, really, it wouldn’t matter. Tim knew he needed to stop before it got out of hand. Before his parents figured out his game.

Tim drifted as he let his brother neighbor take him to a second location.

Tim was four when he first heard the word bastard. He had woken up from a nightmare, and, already old enough to know not to get his parents, he crept downstairs quietly to grab a cup of water from the fridge. The cups were in the cabinet above the stove, so Tim carefully climbed on the counter and opened the door slowly. He grabbed a glass, but right as he was about to turn around and climb down, the kitchen light turned on.

Tim screamed and the glass went flying out of his hands. It landed on the ground below him, shattering into several pieces.

“What on earth are you doing?” His mother’s voice was soft and velvety, like a scarf or a necktie, but the kind in the storybooks that were cursed to choke unwitting victims until they died and their eyeballs popped out. Tim’s eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry, mama.”

“Don’t call me that. You’re not a baby.” She snapped. “Well, you made the mess. You can clean it up.” She promptly walked out of the kitchen, turning the light off on her way out.

Much later, as Tim was running water over his hands and wincing as a few smaller pieces of lingering glass dug further into his fingers, he heard his parents in the hallway.

“Did the little bastard go bed?” The slur of his father’s words was familiar, but the word itself was not. Tim tried to commit it to memory so he could ask Mrs. Mac what it meant in the morning.

Janet giggled, and said something Tim couldn’t make out. They retreated to their room, and Tim left the bathroom and headed back to bed. He tried to talk to Mrs. Mac about it the next day, but the woman just huffed at him and sent him in the backyard to play. In the end, it didn’t much matter. It became Jack’s favorite name for him, and by the time Tim figured out why, he was thoroughly concerned with several other things.

“Wake up, Red. We’re here.”

Tim blinked as the motorcycle drifted into a spot in front of a non-descript building. At some point, Jason had removed his Red Hood helmet, revealing a domino mask underneath. His mouth was clenched, like he was grinding his teeth, and he helped Tim off the bike.

“Where are we?”

Jason guided Tim over to the front door, which was reinforced steel with a keypad. He typed in 10 numbers quickly and pushed Tim in front of him.

Tim walked down a dark hallway with laminate tile, several other doors locked and closed. There was a door on the end with light spilling from under the crack, and it was this door that Jason gently pushed Tim to.

“Open it, tough guy.”

Tim didn’t hesitate, because he wasn’t a coward, but if his hands shook a bit, the door wasn’t telling. His eyes widened when he saw what Jason had in mind, and he instantly turned around.

“No fucking way.”

“Yes, fucking way. It’s this or the police, don’t think I won’t, kid.”

Tim sighed heavily and turned around again.

“So, Red Hood, who’d you bring me tonight? Another one of yours?”

“You could say that, Dr. T.” Jason said slyly. “This is a special kind of dumbass. Give him the full checkup.”

Jason had the audacity to bop Tim in the nose when he looked at him aghast. “Be good, and Leslie will probably give you a lollipop, Red Robin.”

Tim was pretty sure that Jason’s shit-eating grin would be listed as the cause of death on his obituary, but before Tim could make that happen, the man flipped him off and left him alone, closing the door behind him.

Dr. Thompkins stared at Tim for a long time before sighing heavily. “Mask on or off, Tim?”

“Same rules?” He asked softly.

“Same rules.” She agreed.

And after wrapping his ribs and bandaging his face, she did indeed give him her whole stash of root beer flavored Dum-Dums.

Chapter 3: Scared to Live

Chapter Text

Leslie was the one to drive him home this time. After several years of on-again, off-again nighttime triage, she and the Waynes both understood Tim’s lines-in-the-sand started to look like fortress walls when it came to medical care. Not that they didn’t press now and again, but they seemed to get the point after the first time Tim went underground for a month. Apparently, their all-encompassing need to know his whole fucking medical history took a backseat to actually knowing he was alive. So he and Leslie had a system. If they could actually get him there, he would allow Leslie to treat all his injuries and she wouldn’t ask where he got them. She wouldn’t tell the Bats anything other than his status, and he would say his safe word if things got too much for him. Which worked out in Tim’s favor, since things never got too much for him. He was pretty sure they’d write that on his headstone whenever he inevitably kicked the bucket:

Here lies the Bastard, Timothy,

Underwhelmed Til The End.

“Here’s your stop, kiddo.” Tim nodded his thanks and gingerly got out of the car. He turned back when she cleared her throat. She was leaning out the window, concern dancing along her face. “Listen, Tim. I know it’s been a minute since we’ve seen each other, but don’t forget you have people in your corner. You have my number, right?”

Tim rolled his eyes but smiled back. “Yes, Dr. Hen.” She laughed lightly and raised her eyebrows.

“Then use it, smart-ass. Hope to see you next time in one piece.” Tim gave her a thumbs-up and wink and she drove away smiling.

Slowly, he walked to the manor’s entrance and typed the code into the keypad. Barely paying attention, he slunk into the house, thoroughly ready for bed. A soft rustling under his shoes pulled his attention to his parents’ immaculately polished wood floors. He was standing on a cream envelope, rumpled from being stuffed under the crack of the front door. He kicked the offending item all the way to the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of milk. Stirring in chocolate syrup, he looked at the letter and allowed himself one (just one) groan of frustration. He then grabbed his chocolate milk, a box of matches, and picked up the envelope, walking to his room.

He fell asleep to the smell of burning paper and the feeling of a smoldering frustration burrowing under his skin.

School started back in a week. Winter break wasn’t very long for Gotham Academy, and Tim weighed whether going back for the Spring semester would be worth all the trouble. Most high schoolers wouldn’t have a choice, sure, but Tim was a sophomore with senior credit thanks to a slew AP classes and his mother “homeschooling” him through the second grade due to his “advanced academic mind” (which was really code for enrolling him in second grade when he was five instead of seven after a generous donation to Bristol Preparatory Academy). It wouldn’t be hard to make the case for graduating earlier than May, honestly—Tim had a good relationship with GA’s academic advisor (her husband worked for Drake Industries) and if Jack knew Tim was free to work on company shit earlier than this summer, it might make him happy. Well, happier than his Majesty typically was.

(It also couldn’t hurt his proposal to Jack and Janet to let him get his own apartment downtown, closer to Drake Industries’ office park. It was something he’d been painstakingly working up to for over a year now. Not because he’d wake up in the middle of the night and forget which manor he was actually in, or anything. Which year it actually was. Which hurt he was currently trying to suppress. Just because it seemed like the responsible and adult thing to do.)

Tim considered his options from bed that next morning. A light dusting of snow stretched over the backyard, and Tim watched the birds in his tree for an embarrassingly long time before making himself get up. He texted back and forth with Ives and Bernard, who were both on a ski trip in Denver, and scrolled Google for any relevant news. He checked both Jack and Janet’s location trackers, a holdover habit from his childhood, and around 2 PM, left his room.

He was watching a “What Would You Do?” with John Quiñones and eating a frozen burrito when the doorbell rang. (When Tim pulled up the camera, he swore. “What would you do?” He griped in a deep voice. “I would yeet the little weirdo to the moon and go join WITSEC just so his stupid brothers would leave me alone.”)

“Damian.” Tim’s voice was flat when he opened the door. “Absolutely not.”

“Who did this to you, Timothy?” Damian ignored Tim’s scoff and welcomed himself into the house. He gestured at the bandages on Tim’s face. “It’s entirely unacceptable.”

“Calm down, Honey Badger, you’ll pull a muscle.” Tim crossed his arms, barely wincing as they caused some discomfort in his sore ribs. “You cannot be here, Dames. I know you know this.”

“Tt.” Which was all the brat said as he followed Tim into the kitchen. Tim mixed up a chocolate soy milk and grabbed some bread and some vegan hazelnut spread. He waited the little monster out, choosing to make toast instead of small talk. When he slid Damian the plate and the milk, he raised an eyebrow. Damian blushed, and took it with a small thanks . He ate quietly and Tim let him gather his thoughts as he cleaned up the crumbs around the toaster.

“Father—”

Tim made a buzzing sound with his mouth. “Nope. Rule number one if you’re going to ambush me here, Little Prince, is we do not talk about your family.”

“But—”

Tim put his finger on Damian’s lips and shushed him exaggeratedly. “Shh, buddy, there you go. My house, my rules.”

Damian huffed but nodded. He glared at Tim, but the drop of chocolate hazelnut spread on his nose lessened the effect he was going for. Tim wasn’t going to tell him.

“Try again. Why are you here, Damian, when I know your family explained to you why you are not allowed to come here?”

“It is your birthday.”

Tim blinked at the non-sequitur. “And?”

Damian blinked at him. Then scrunched up his nose. “It was my understanding that Americans find this to be a particularly,” and the way he said particularly did not at all make Tim want to coo at him, “ important milestone celebration? Am…was I wrong?” He sounded unsure, and Tim was hit with a sharp feeling of panic. An unsure Damian was just weird. He couldn’t be responsible for that, not even at the chance to tease him a bit.

Tim smiled and knocked shoulders with him gently as he joined the kid at the breakfast bar. “Nah. You’re right. It can be a big deal. But I don’t really do birthdays.”

Damian continued to look confused and Tim took a napkin and dabbed it in a glass of water. He wiped Damian’s nose, and after much sputtering and a back-and-forth scuffle that landed them both breathing heavily on the kitchen floor, he tried to explain. He didn’t owe it to the baby, or anything, but since he was an adult now, he figured he’d might as well start acting like it.

“Sixteen isn’t all that different than fifteen, other than some arbitrary meaning society has assigned to it. And birthdays can be cultural, you know. Like, different families do different things. But I’ve never put much stock in them, you know. I mean, other than getting a coupon for a free salad with a 9.99 steak at Gotham Sam’s Steakhouse, or, I don’t know, getting my license, it’s just a day for Hallmark to scam people who feel guilty about forgetting it. You know what I mean?”

Tim felt like Damian didn’t really know what he meant, but in a rare show of restraint, was too polite to tell him so.

“Did you come all the way over here to talk about birthdays, Dami?”

Damian nodded. “Richard informed me it was polite to wish friends and family ‘Happy Birthday’ whenever I could.”

“Well, brat, I’m honored I’m included in that friend group, but you really, really can’t come over here and I’m a little pissed Richard didn’t make that clear to you.” Tim helped Damian to his feet and started herding him towards the door.

“He said he couldn’t answer that and I needed to ask you that question.”

Tim counted to 10 in Russian before responding, and then again to 20 in French. “Unfortunately, Sherlock, you’re going to have to be the mature one here. Your brothers are bonafide morons and your father isn’t any better.” Damian snorted.

Tim guided him to the front porch and leaned down to catch his eyes. “Go home to your family. Dami, I am very serious right now. This is the last time we can talk—even at galas. It has to stop.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“You’re 10, Damian. You don’t have to know everything.” Tim leaned forward for a second, and then pulled himself back. He drew up his shoulders and made himself do the thing he should have done six months ago after the Barlow heir debacle. Tim was sixteen now. Time to man up. “Besides, you are a baby. Did you really think I’d want to honestly spend time with you? It was fun while it lasted, but be real. You were only ever a distraction. I get bored at those things and you livened things up a bit. But it’s time for me to focus on important stuff. College. My future. I don’t have time to babysit some snot-nosed, socially awkward neighbor kid. Just, leave me alone, ok?”

And this?

This wasn’t the type of thrill Tim particularly liked seeking. It caused his body immeasurable pain, and it wasn’t even the good kind, the kind that came from bravery or autonomy or strength...it was the cowardly kind. Jack’s punches were butterfly kisses compared to the look Damian gave him as he nodded stiffly, and walked away quickly without turning back.

But needs must and all that.

"Needs must, Master Timothy, but you are a very smart young man, capable of finding many solutions to a whole array of needs. I don’t want you to ever forget that, my boy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Master Tim. Look at me, please.”

Tim looked at Alfred, who’s eyes were suspiciously shiny, even for the bright lights of the frozen foods section where Tim had run into him a few minutes ago.

“There are many solutions to problems, but sometimes they can’t happen until a problem has been identified. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Timothy?” Janet’s voice called from an aisle over.

“Alfie—I mean, Mr. Pennyworth—it was wonderful running into you. Have a wonderful holiday season, sir.”

Tim shoved whatever it was he was feeling far, far away and closed the door. Maybe Damian was right. Maybe 16 was worth a bit of celebration. Tim walked up to his room to change and scheduled an Uber to take him downtown.

When he left a few hours later, he missed the small box that had been left sitting on the kitchen counter, wrapped meticulously in homemade wrapping paper decorated with hand-drawn cows and adorned with a small, yellow bow.

Chapter 4: Lose Your Kids

Chapter Text

Sixteen years ago, Janet Drake gave birth to a six pound, relatively healthy (if not on the smaller side) baby boy. Jack Drake attended the birth, but nurses reported the new father to be surly, unpleasant, and, from the smell of him, most likely drunk. When it came time to fill out the birth certificate, the nurse on call overheard little Timothy’s mother say, “For God’s sake, Jack, do whatever you want, just get me out of here and get me a Valium.” The paperwork was filed five days later with an overworked and underpaid clerk, who didn’t pay attention to the name written in sloppy handwriting, or the fact that Timothy was spelled wrong.

The father actually responsible for Timothy’s birth was unaware of the Desperate Housewives-style plot emerging out of Gotham General, because he himself had just re-emerged among Gotham royalty—solidifying his own persona as a ditzy, billionaire himbo player, racking up stories and a reputation from the past ten months that would hopefully (thoroughly)mask his preferred coping mechanism of beating up criminals dressed as his deepest childhood phobia.

He was perfectly normal about all this, obviously, as well as all other things, and when Timothy was brought home and thrown at a nanny, Bruce Wayne was getting himself ready for yet another night painting the town the red, but this time, at a traveling circus.

It wasn’t until Timothy was a year old, and Jack had one too many drinks and ended up on Bruce Wayne’s front steps, facing Alfred Pennyworth with a pistol and wild look in his eyes, that he even remembered his quick night with a married, but terribly unhappy, Janet Drake. And if Bruce had been even a quarter of the man he became in the next fifteen years, he would have seen Janet’s following suggestion as what it was—a blatant attempt to blackmail him while appeasing an unhinged, dangerous, but incredibly wealthy husband at the expense of a very innocent, very special child.

Bruce was not that man, however, because at the time, he was spiraling as a newly adoptive dad to a deeply traumatized, vengeful, angry, compassionate, brilliant, extremely creative nine year-old with undiagnosed ADHD and a habit for sneaking out in homemade costumes and finding himself in dangerous situations. Bruce was not that man because fifteen years ago, Bruce had not gone to therapy, and was more prone to self-doubt and self-hate and, to be honest, self-destruction, and he had just put Dickie to bed after a screaming match in which he was told he was ruining his child’s life and should’ve died instead of Dick’s parents that night at the circus. Bruce was not that man and because he was not that man, he quickly signed the papers that Janet thrust in front of his face, terminating the parental rights that he was entitled to per the name Jack drunkenly wrote on Timothy’s birth certificate, and quickly spent the night beating up mobsters and criminals and stuffing any feelings he might have had about the whole thing way, way down. He told Alfred that it was a business dispute, and told Dick nothing.

And for a whopping eight years, Bruce Wayne didn’t let himself think about Timmy Drake at all. Not one iota. Not even a bit. Not when Dick’s and his relationship eased and deepened and healed. Not when he went to galas and watched the Drakes peacock and preen and primp. Not when he went to the same galas and watched a little boy (Too little. Why was he so little? Was it a normal little?) stand awkwardly in the corner, getting his cheeks squished. Not when he’d stare out his kitchen or library or study or bedroom or rec room or dining room or ballroom or bathroom windows for hours, seemingly at nothing but the manor’s wooded tree-line. Not when he met a strong, fiery, sweet, empathetic, loyal twelve-year old with wild black curls and kind, inquisitive eyes attempting to steal his tires. Not when he took that boy home and gave him shelter and care and purpose and love. Not when that boy and his eldest boy became thick as thieves, despite their four-year difference in age. Not at all. Not one iota. Not even a bit.

Which is why Bruce Wayne, retired playboy, professional dad, cool, calm, collected Defender of the Night, having not thought about Tim Drake in any way, shape or form for eight years, absolutely did not trip and fall into the pool on Jason’s 13th birthday party because he was startled to see the boy-who-he-never-thought-about standing by the punch table looking very uncomfortable and out of place and so, so nervous. (So, so beautiful, just like all his children, his miracles, his ducks, his sons.)

“Whoa, Dad! Are you alright?! That was WICKED! Hey! Have you met our neighbor? This is Timmy Drake, he lives right next door. I saw him peeking over our hedges this morning so I invited him to the party, that’s ok right? It’s ok, Timmy, he’s just weird, ignore him, here try a red velvet one, Alfie is like the best cook in the world.”

Alfred, who stared at nine-year old Tim Drake like he had seen a ghost, and then leveled Bruce with such a dry stare that it made all the hairs on his neck stand up.

And maybe if the story ended there, at that birthday party, Bruce would have been able to find some sort of salvation for his mistake fifteen years ago, but Bruce was destined for unhappy endings, shaped like warehouses and gunshots and falling outs and tentative falling-back-ins and lawsuits and court orders and threats and the kinds of things that didn’t matter, shouldn’t matter, couldn’t matter, but ultimately did matter.

Because one thing he came to realize about himself was that when the chips were on the table, when things really mattered, Bruce Wayne couldn’t stick the landing.

Whether it be protecting his children from crazed clowns, crazed assassins or crazed amateur archeologists/Bristol business assholes.

And when Tim Drake, having been thoroughly (albeit secretly) integrated into their family from age 9 through age 13, every weekday, weekend, morning, and night Jack and Janet were out of town (He was just a baby. Who would leave a baby? He couldn’t even reach the highest kitchen cabinet without standing on a stool.) looked shyly at Bruce and said, “Yes I think I would like that, please,” to his proposal of something more permanent, Bruce did the thing he should have known he never had any right to do in the first place:

Hope.

Because without understanding the consequences, Bruce picked Tim up (too small and too young and already too, too solemn) from ninth grade (seriously too young, why so young?) after a volleyball smacked him in the face in PE and he tripped and fell and banged his head on the bleachers. And in his panic (which only ever seemed to rear its head when his children were hurt), all sense of logic and strategy and decorum flew out the window. And Bruce, watching Tim throw up and display all the signs and symptoms of a moderate to a severe concussion (Had he hit his head before this? Why was he always bruised all the time? He didn’t seem clumsy.), flew to Gotham General like a new parent, instead of a detective that should have known it was the beginning of the end.

To Bruce’s eternal chagrin, Gotham General, for all of Gotham’s faults and sins, had hired a new, young, compassionate but naive social worker from Metropolis. So when the doctors realized the child (Bruce’s child, Bruce’s baby) had a history of head trauma (what?) and breaks previously set wrong (fucking what?) and two parents on paper who were out of the country, that social worker decided to dig. Inexpertly. And found a story of a kid who was staying with a bio-dad (a bio-dad who had previously signed away his parental rights) without the knowledge of his legal guardians. Jack and Janet, who answered their phone on the first ring (the DSM V describes the narcissist as someone engaging in a pervasive pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration, and lack of empathy, with interpersonal entitlement, exploitativeness, arrogance, and envy) flew back with a vengeance, a grudge, and penchant for bribery. The custody papers Bruce had ready for them to sign were instead exchanged for a highly publicized lawsuit accusing the billionaire of kidnapping, child abuse, and child endangerment.

And Bruce, who had never given up a fight in his life, who didn’t know how to stop fighting, who had two older sons and a father/butler by his side, ready to fight just as hard, continued to absolutely get slammed in court of public opinion (didn’t matter) and the actual courts (mattered a little bit, but there are countries that don’t extradite) until one night he almost fainted in fear after finding Tim standing on the top of Crown Point Bridge.

The boy (his boy) didn’t say much, just let Batman swing him down, but the next day, testified to a judge behind closed doors that he wished to live with his mother and wanted four no-contact orders against the Waynes and Alfred Pennyworth to be renewed each year through his 18th birthday.

So he and Dick and Jason and Alfred were served, and that night they all gathered around the Cave’s computer to watch surveillance tapes as Janet and Jack left for Peru, looking smug, self-satisfied, and way too alive for the darkest part of Bruce’s soul.

Tim was 14 years old.

Damian arrived a week later.

And for a whopping two years, night and day and week and weekend, Bruce couldn’t stop thinking about Tim Drake.

His son.

His boy.

His baby.

His fault.

Chapter 5: You Build a Boat

Chapter Text

Tim contemplated the sheer inconvenience of his existence as he stood in line outside Velocity.The whole street seemed to vibrate with the bass that was spilling out of the dark doorway to the club, and he shivered slightly in his thin, Ralph Lauren striped, purple shirt and wool trousers. He had a chunky knit gray scarf around his neck (and decided not to think about whose it was and how it got to him and what the owner would think about him wearing it into such a shady location), and blew in his hands to warm them up. His coat and gloves were at the house since he had left in kind of a rush. Not that he had any friends to meet or appointments to keep, but when you’re a piece-of-shit bully to a 10-year-old child that looks like a baby bunny, you need to keep up all the manic energy you can that will distract you from your piece-of-shit-iveness. Luckily, Tim had a lot of practice with that.

(And really, did he share all the blame for how he treated Damian? Shouldn’t at least some of that be on the kid’s family for not sticking with the rules? Both Dick and Jason acted as if it was Tim being unreasonable, as if Tim was the linchpin in this whole thing, as if Tim was the answer to them getting whatever happy ending they concocted in their heads. It’s why they kept bothering him, even at the risk of being arrested or…worse. Just let us know if you need out, kid. Just tell us what’s going on, sweetheart. Talk to us, Timmy. Quit ignoring us, bug. He didn’t know how to make it any clearer though—and there was no world in which he was ready to sacrifice them in order to seek out something as selfish as his own comfort.)

He had this conversation with himself at least once a week. It came with the territory of changing his number so often, burning those damned letters that kept showing up under his door, and saying unkind things to little kids who just couldn’t take a hint.

Tim knew the reason the Waynes couldn’t just let him go was their own fucked up sense of guilt. It was his fault for shoehorning himself in all those years ago—if he hadn’t forced Bruce’s hand, the man could have kept on ignoring him and would have been able to spend these past six years enjoying his real sons. The ones he wanted. The ones he asked for.

Now, he was stuck with the legacy of Tim and a bad reputation to boot.

But of course Bruce Wayne wasn’t going to turn away a kid in need—even if it was the mistake one—and ever since he forcibly landed on his radar, the guy obviously felt responsible to be kind to him. And sure, maybe at one point Tim thought he was sincere about wanting to be his dad, but anyone could talk a big game when they were pushed against the wall. Tim, who had been pushed against many walls, was the expert in this. Besides, sixteen year old Tim was already so much older and wiser than nine year old and ten year old and twelve year old and thirteen year old Tim.

Happy birthday, idiot, you finally got the point.

“Id?” asked a bored bouncer and Tim flashed his fake and tipped the guy $100. He slipped inside, past the crowds of sweaty bodies that smelled like alcohol, cheap cologne, and a shared desperation. Velocity was well known in the Bowery as being the go-to spot for Gotham U students and young out-of-towners looking for that special Gotham thrill. (That special Gotham thrill being an establishment that did the bare minimum to keep their liquor license and the barer of minimum to keep off GCPD’s radar. The Bats rarely messed with Velocity, despite its reputation for being an easy place to score drugs and alcohol because it was surrounded by other, more nefarious clubs, like Iceberg Lounge and Stacked Deck.)

“Timmy-boy! Good to see you, sugar.” Sunny snaked by Tim carrying a tray of empty beer bottles and kissed him on his cheek. “It’s been awhile. I thought you forgot all about us poor souls.”

Tim laughed and handed the older waitress a fifty dollar bill. “Never, Sun. My regular?” He nodded towards the back of the room and Sunny winked and nodded.

“It’s open, hon.” She leveled him a severe look. “I work til 3. You know Jimmy will say something if you stay past that.”

Tim put up his hands in a show of innocence. Mirth sparkled in his eyes. “I’ll be an angel, Sunny. You know me.”

She snorted and smacked the back of his head. “Go ahead and keep talking, Charmer. One of these days that mouth will get you in trouble. Don’t forget to lock the door behind you. I’ll bring you your usual.”

Tim nodded at her as he walked towards the back of the club and ducked under the staircase. A dark hallway, filled with glow paint and graffiti, hosted four doors. Two bathroom entrances, a staff entrance, and a utility closet. Looking around to make sure no one was following him, Tim entered the code to the utility closet and slipped in. The loud music that had been drilling into his head, dulled to a quiet, muffled roar and he leaned against the door for a moment, closing his eyes, and sighed heavily.

A cold, wet nose pushed against his hand. He smiled and looked down. A large Newfoundland, with inky black fur, tilted his head towards Tim and barked once. Tim scratched the animal behind his ears and walked towards the center of the small closet, where a bean bag chair was sitting next to a water and food bowl. There was a lamp on a small table next to an old-school antenna television with a VCR. Tim looked on the shelf and found what he was looking for. He popped in the tape and settled on the beanbag, the dog dropping heavily on top of his lap.

" Still , Petey.” Tim murmured. The dog huffed and nuzzled closer.

He was on Episode 2 of the second season of Dr. Who when a quick knock at the door announced Sunny’s arrival. “Ok, Nerd Boy, one Tim Special coming up. Hey Pete, you excited Timmy came back to see you?” The dog being addressed ignored his owner, and kept sleeping on Tim’s lap. Tim shrugged. “Eh, that’s a better reception than I get from most people.”

Sunny handed Tim a Shirley Temple and a bowl of pretzels. Tim rolled his eyes. “At least a whisky, Sun. It’s my birthday!”

“And like I said, baby boy, you’ll get that whisky when you can actually grow a beard. Until then, precious, it’s ginger ale. But look, I got you extra cherries.” Tim smiled as she handed him a plastic Solo cup filled with maraschino cherries.

“Just wanted to let you know that a couple of your rich assholes walked in about twenty-minutes ago. They asked if you had come in. I told them you hadn’t, and that if I heard them asking after you again, I’d call the police. Are they still bothering you, love?”

Tim snorted. “Careful, Sun. I’m a rich asshole, too, you know.”

She laughed. “Yeah, sweet pea, but you’re my rich asshole.”

“Nah, they aren’t bothering me. Don’t call the police on them, it would just make them feel more important than they actually are. Did they leave?” Tim pushed away a newly awakened Pete from the pretzel bowl.

“I think so. They’re not inside at the very least. I’m off in an hour, Timmy. Want me to drive you home?”

Tim hopped to his feet, at the protesting of his knees and the dog. “That’s ok, Sunny. I still have plans.”

“What in the world could you be doing at 2 in the morning?” She wrapped his scarf around his neck tightly and kissed him for the second time that night, but this time, on his forehead. “Take care of yourself, child. You worry me, you know.”

Tim gave her a peace sign and pointed at his head. “The smart one, remember. I’ll be fine. I grew up on these streets.”

He barely heard her exactly why I worry about you , over Pete’s barking. He gave Pete another head rub and allowed himself to think for one minute about another boy who would love this dog very much. “Bye Peter Pan, bye Sunny. See you later.”

He weaved himself around the bodies again (fewer than earlier in the night) and exited the club onto a much quieter street. Sirens blared in the distance and Tim started walking towards the harbor, lost in his thoughts.

Tim crept around the corner of the large conference room. The door was open, and he could hear the break in his dad’s Bruce’s voice.

“Janet, please."

“No.. I will only say this one time. You will honor this paperwork. You will stop asking questions. You will cease all contact with Timothy at once, or I will tell the world exactly what you get up to at night, so help me. My husband is serious about this, Wayne. No more. It makes him look like a fool, and Jack Drake despises looking the fool.”

“Damn it, Janet. Don’t you have any compassion? Think of your son.”

“No,” she hissed. “Think of your sons. And their continued safety. Jack will not stop, Bruce. It’s not worth it.”

Tim didn’t wait to hear Bruce’s response. He backed away from the open door and headed down to the lobby, passing the social worker, the police officers, and finally, Jason and Dick on his way. He ignored them calling his name and got into the backseat of Jack’s car, idling in the emergency lane.

“Dirty brats. Why Wayne continues to surround himself with filth, I can’t understand.” Jack sniffed from the driver’s seat. “Is your mother on her way?”

Tim nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“God, what a humongous waste of our time. You will make it up to me later, Timothy.”

Tim ignored the goosebumps rising all over his skin. “Yes, sir.” Tim tried not to think about what that particular punishment would entail, and instead stared out the tinted windows. His mother approached the car regally, not a hair out of place or any evidence of the heated discussion he overheard just a few moments ago. She opened the door and slid in.

“Jack, dear. I think I left my purse in the restroom downstairs. Retrieve it for me?”

Jack’s reddening ears were the only indicators of his annoyance. “Of course, darling.” He gritted, and left the car.

Tim blamed his overactive imagination for the way the air around him cooled when his mother turned to look at him. She put his hand on his knee and squeezed hard. Tim winced but returned the eye contact. “Despite what your father believes, you are not without a brain or useless, so heed well what I say now, Timothy. Your future is not with the Waynes. I will not stand for it. And as you know, I get what I want. If you have any…positive regard…for that man or his brats, you will speak to the judge tomorrow, Timothy. And after we leave in a few days, you will throw away everything you think I don’t know about hiding in the back of your closet, every trinket and piece of trash they,” she said it like a curse, “have given you these past few years, and you will behave in a manner befitting your given name. If I find that you went around my back on this, you will find out why Janet Drake is a name most people don’t dare speak. Do. You. Understand?”

Tim nodded and his mother turned back around. “Good boy,” she crooned, and Tim hated the pleased swoop his stomach made at the shape of her words, almost as much as the small drops of blood bleeding through his khakis in the shape of her fingernails.

Tim kicked a pebble down the abandoned sidewalk, keeping one ear out for trouble, but mainly falling into past memories with frightening ease. He rarely let himself think about all the ways he messed up, all the people he ruined—the Waynes, the Drakes, probably Gotham herself—by single handedly trashing all the goodwill Bruce had racked up throughout the years just because he couldn’t keep his nose out of people’s business. He wished he could build a time machine and kidnap or kill his 9 year-old self for peeking over those hedges in the first place. That’s where all this went to shit, honestly.

Tim was so lost in his thoughts that he totally missed the steps in sync behind him. He missed the way the lights dimmed, as if they had been turned off. He missed the eerie silence on the streets and the shadows lurking in the nearby alley. He missed all of this, so when a sharp prick in his neck sent him careening towards the concrete as his muscles seized up, he didn’t see it coming, and had no way to stop the soft fuck that came out of his mouth before everything faded to black.

Chapter 6: If You Get Too Close

Chapter Text

Tim came back to awareness slowly. It felt like his eyes were made of sandpaper and all his muscles were pulled taffy and weighed down with something incredibly heavy. Drugs like these rarely sat well with him and he cursed the loopy feeling he knew he’d be fighting for the next day or so. He was propped against a cinderblock wall, sitting on the ground, and the room around him (from what he could make out through the dusty, dim light) was completely empty, save some cardboard boxes and stacks of vinyl gloves and hairnets. He wasn’t restrained apart from his wrists being tightly zip tied in front of him. He slowly rolled his neck around his shoulders, working the crick out.

The familiar smell of warm blood, bleach, and sweat helped to orient him (Sheldon Industrial Park, Hensler Slaughterhouse),and a sick swooping in his stomach was quickly ignored as he worked to get his fear in check. Just as he was standing up, the heavy steel door opened.

“Drake.” A high, grating voice barked his name like a chihuahua. Tim smiled, stuffing the anxiety that was simmering in his body way, way down.

“Abigail, long time no see, dude.”

“‘S not my name, you tiny, fuckin’ country club, daddy’s boy prick,” Abner Hewitt growled, and Tim leaned into the weak punch the small-time criminal aimed at his gut. He tried not to groan as it jostled his bruised ribs from the other night, and instead tried for contrite.

“Aw, my bad, Abby.”

Like most things Tim tried, it didn’t work.

“Shaddup, Drake. Your daddy don’t pay us to put up with your lip.”

“But it’s such a pretty lip, isn’t Abner?” A new voice, silky and deep, joined them in the small room, and Tim was thankful his heartbeat wasn’t audible to either of them.

“Timothy, Timothy, Timothy. Slacking on your training, son?” Lester Buchinsky had always struck an intimidating figure to Tim—he was built like a house and half of his face was scarred with thick, red lines that looked like lightning bolts. When Tim was seven, he remembered running in the hallway of Drake manor and slamming straight into Lester coming out of Jack’s study. Even then, the man looked at him like a bug to be crushed, and every interaction since then had only cast the man as a recurring character in at least half of the nightmares Tim told no one about.

A buzzing sound brought Tim out of his daze as Lester tapped a cattle prod on the wall next to him. “Answer me, boy.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Busy? Hmm. I wonder what our illustrious employer would think about that.” Abner cackled behind Lester like some hyena and Tim rolled his eyes. Then his muscles seized and he tipped towards the ground. Lester caught him in his arms like some fucked up imitation of a hug and Tim belatedly recalled who he was dealing with. The cattle prod that had just been pressed against his stomach sat innocently on the ground.

“Watch your attitude.”

“Don’t damage the goods. I thought you had rules, Butt-face, or do those not count?” Tim spat back, his breathing heavy. He didn’t like the grin on Lester’s face and looked warily at the phone he brought out.

“Let’s see what daddy says about the rules then, hotshot.” Lester dialed a number and after an excruciating four rings, Jack’s tinny voice echoed in the room.

“What?”

“Mr. Drake, I have someone here who would like to talk to you.” Lester said in a sing-songy voice.

“Christ. God fucking damnit, Timothy.”

Tim cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir.”

"Not as sorry as you’re going to be. I don’t like to repeat myself. ‘The next time’, I said. Do you remember or is your brain filled with shit?”

The rule was clear: Don’t get caught. He was eight, listening to Jack drunkenly lecture him on investments and exactly how he expected his returns to look. “You may be a bastard, but to my eternal disappointment, you still carry the Drake name. You will be my legacy and you will not embarrass me.” He tied Tim up with jumper cables and put him in the closet. He called it “training” and refused to help him get out. “You can have dinner once you figure out how to get yourself untied. You won’t always have your mother to get you out of tough spots, son. And we don’t pay ransoms, do you understand me? It is your responsibility to keep yourself safe.”

As the years went on, the training intensified. Jack expected Tim to be able to fight off any Gotham bred goon or person looking to make a quick buck off the Drake Heir. Tim was pretty sure by the fifth time he had hired Lester, it was no longer about making sure he was on his game, and more about playing games with him. The hired man was too sadistic and enjoyed it too much to just be a job, and Jack seemed to always be hiding a smirk whenever Tim complained. So now, every few months, Tim would have to dodge the people (mostly Lester) Jack paid to “fake kidnap” him, and every few months, Tim would succeed. He hadn’t been caught since that disastrous time right after he left the Waynes for good, and that was not a time he was fond of thinking about.

His dad had been furious for several reasons, and Tim was warned that the next time he was caught, he’d make the lesson stick.

“Yes, sir, I remember.”

“Buchinsky, you know what to do. Timothy, I expect you to be better next time.”

The call disconnected abruptly, and Tim hated himself for how he flinched when Abner cut the zip ties off his wrists. He was pushed forward and Lester turned and walked into the other room. Tim followed. The floor was bleached, but sheep carcasses hung from the ceiling on iron hooks and Tim almost gagged at the smell of discarded animal parts and blood.

Tim drifted.

He came back throwing up and shaking.

He drifted again.

A sharp pain in his wrist screamed out. He didn’t know wrists could make noises like that. That was an interesting discovery. Maybe he could tell Jason. Jason seemed to like weird facts like that.

Someone was whimpering. A baby? A slaughterhouse was a weird place for a baby. Maybe he could tell Dick. Dick called him baby sometimes.

Someone was putting blood on his face and arms. It stank and Tim gagged. He heard laughing, but wasn’t interested in figuring out who it was. He was pretty tired and wondered if they’d shut up if he went to bed.

A sharp kick to his leg had him blinking back to awareness. Lester leaned down and whispered into Tim’s ear.

“Always a pleasure, you little shit. Can’t wait til your daddy finally decides he’s done with you.” At one last shock from the cattle prod, the two men left the slaughterhouse laughing and whistling.

Tim laid on the bleached floor next to a drain and breathed through the pain in his wrist, his leg, and his spasming muscles. His body felt hot, but from what he could tell, the cattle prod hadn’t been turned high enough to leave any burns or scarring. Maybe emotional scarring, but Tim was mature enough not to admit that. He groaned and lifted himself off the floor, slowly walking towards the emergency exit. He held his wrist (definitely broken) to his chest and walked out of the building. Pink and red streaks were visible in the dark blue sky, and Tim estimated it was probably four or four-thirty in the morning. He rubbed a hand through his hair and it came back sticky with pig’s blood and guts. His ribs still ached, but he didn’t think they were further displaced, and thanked whatever demon that had cursed his life that he wouldn’t need to track down Leslie for further help. She would definitely press him and this was not something he wanted any of the Waynes to find out—caped or not. Red Hood was already a hair’s breadth away from killing his parents, just because Tim was a stupid, whiny baby, and he knew the man only refrained because Tim threatened to disappear forever if Jason touched them.

He wandered the nearby docks and watched as several workers began their shifts loading and unloading pallets of shipments. No one noticed him hanging back in the dark shadows as he watched the waves lapping angrily at the wood below. He watched the swirling water, the deep water, and left himself think, for just one minute, about nothing at all. His head was fuzzy from the drugs and the electricity and the exhaustion licking his bones and he hung off the pier’s edge and just watched.

Hello, 16.

A sharp gasp had him sluggishly turn around to see what the commotion was. Nightwing and Red Hood were standing behind him, still and wary for a moment, before jumping into a flurry of exclamations and movement. Tim felt hands on him and flinched violently. The heroes paused and gentle hands with blue finger stripes guided his shoulders towards the road behind them. There was a bench by the pier that Red Hood kneeled by as Tim was guided down. Voices washed over him as he kept thinking about the swirling water.

“Wha–?”

“TIM. Oh my god.”

“What happened?”

“Do you have him?”

“Oh, baby.”

“Boys.” A sharp, deep voice (safe) rumbled through the sludge in Tim’s head. “Report.”

The voices from before overlapped. “...found him…” “...wandering…the docks…covered in blood.” “...smell him down the street…” “...been looking all night…Little D said…” “...on his birthday…” “...at Velocity and…Sunshine…” “...he flinched, B…” “...to DO, Old Man…I swear…” “...getting worse…”

“...Closest safe house, Hood?”

Voices drifted in and out, but Tim decided he’d take that nap he wanted earlier.

Tim closed his eyes as strong arms lifted him and carried him like an actual infant. He nuzzled against the leather chest plate and sighed contentedly. The individual walked gingerly and carefully, humming a familiar tune as the sounds of the dockworkers and water got quieter. The arms shifted and he was laid in the backseat of a car. Someone was stroking his hair, and if Tim could have spoken at the moment, he would have again lectured about identities, since it reminded him so strongly of New Year’s.

He didn’t register the car stopping or the arms lifting him up again. He didn’t register the opening of a door or the stripping of his clothes or the angry hiss of breath times three that happened when the bruising on his wrist and leg and stomach was visible under the bathroom light. And he certainly didn’t register the warm, gentle bath quickly given by warm, gentle hands, or the soft sweatpants and sweatshirt he was bundled in after.

Someone laid him in a comfortable bed, which he did register, and his sigh of contentment made his caretaker quirk their lips up in a brief smile.

“Do we need Leslie?” A voice at the door whispered.

“I don’t think so. I wrapped his wrist. We’ll wait til he wakes up and get a better idea then. Did Oracle find anything?”

“No. The cameras were out. Conveniently. She lost him after 2200 heading towards Brumley Ave.”

“Ok. Thank you, Robin.”

“Haven’t been Robin in awhile, B.”

“You’ve always been Robin to me. All of my boys.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to tell him.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“He’s already refusing to see us as civilians, B. At least he lets the Bats talk to him. What’s he going to do when he finds out the truth?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Another voice joined from the hallway. “You know my idea.”

“Hood.” The rebuke was more tired than angry.

“What. You know that would solve everything.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“It’s been two years, Old Man.” Oh. There was the anger.

“Hn.”

“Great, going nonverbal is obviously the answer here.”

“Go get Tim another blanket, Red. B. Stop. You’re spiraling.”

“Go help your brother.”

Tim felt a hand brush through his hair again and shakily rest on his forehead. One warm drop of water hit his forehead and it was wiped away quickly.

“...ok, B.” The voice at the door was fully of pity and sadness. Tim heard a door softly close and then nothing else. He finally drifted to sleep in a completely silent room, save for close, steady breaths, and the quiet movement of a large, calloused hand carding through his hair.

Chapter 7: How You Been? You Settled Down?

Chapter Text

Here’s an accounting of Tim’s time with the Waynes, not that Tim kept up with it or anything, not like he thought about it a lot, not like he kept those moments locked in his body like a secret that would ruin everything he constructed about himself and the world around him.

At six, Tim was more than certain his biological father was Bruce Wayne. This discovery came on the heels of a very unfortunate argument between his parents (Jack, now?) in which his dad (Jack, now) threw a 6th Century Greek vase at his mom’s head and screamed,“If you hadn’t fucked that rich idiot neighbor of ours, we wouldn’t have been saddled with the little bastard and you could have had your vacation house in Cabo, but no, you had to whore yourself out all because you were ‘sad’. Well thanks to your screwing, you ended up screwing both of us over with a burdensome brat. Congratulations, dear wife.” Tim was pretty sure he was the brat in question, but he wasn’t willing to come out of the closet he was hiding in to clarify.

He found the papers when he was nine, tucked away in a locked desk drawer in his father’s study. A copy of his birth certificate and the signature dated just a year later from the “rich, idiot neighbor” as incontrovertible truth of what Jack had said to him since that fateful night with the Greek vase (it had black figures depicting the story of Cronus and Zeus and Tim later gathered all the broken pieces he could find and kept them in a Ziploc bag in the back of his closet).“Your real father doesn’t want a good-for-nothing shit like you, so show some god-damned gratitude that I’m taking care of your ass out of the goodness of my heart.” Tim, having just started following Batman at night, knew of the goodness of his neighbor and was inclined to agree with his dad’s Jack’s assessment. There must be something incredibly broken inside him to not be wanted by the likes of Bruce Wayne. The man had adopted two kids already, so it obviously wasn’t an issue of hating kids. But Tim was pretty sure he wouldn’t have wanted himself if he were in that position, so he didn’t really hold it against the man.

Even at nine, Tim told himself he wouldn’t engage with Mr. Wayne. He had caught the man looking at him weirdly at past galas, and figured he was just as disturbed at being related to him as Jack was for having Tim as a legacy. But he couldn’t help himself that late and unseasonably warm Spring day when wandering his backyard and hearing music blasting over the speakers and the sounds of kids playing in the pool at his neighbor’s house. He disregarded his own rules and jumped over the fence. He crept through the hedges, and watched as Jason practiced his cannonballs as close as he possibly could get to Dick’s head without the butler rebuking him. Tim watched until a blow-up pool ball was caught by the wind and floated over to Tim’s feet. Tim watched as Jason found him, pulled him over to the party, and subsequently torpedoed all the delicate plans Tim had to remain undiscovered by and unbothersome to his bio-dad.

But Mr. Wayne, after falling in the pool, didn’t send him away like Tim thought he would. He fed him and smiled tentatively at him and when Jason invited him over the next night for a sleepover, Mr. Wayne picked him up in a golf cart and drove the boys around his property, looking for mud puddles and laughing when they all got splashed. It kept happening too. Jason would come over, take one look around his empty house, and invite him to stay. Then Dick. Mr. Pennyworth would start sending him home with meals and Mr. Wayne continued to very awkwardly skulk in the shadows while he hung out with Dick and Jason.

Tim turned 10 and became a fixture at the Wayne’s. He still followed them around at night, but Tim was good at evasion (thank you, Jack) and they never caught him. Every now and then, Jack and Janet would return, and they never found out about all the time Tim spent with the Waynes. Tim would let bruises heal for a week or so (“Sorry, I can’t come hang out this week. Mom and Dad are taking me to Disneyland/Italy/Chicago/Canada for Spring Break/birthday/St. Patrick’s/Christmas.”) and then he’d be right back over there.

And Tim was old enough and mature enough to understand the importance of discretion , so one night, when he was eleven, and Mr. Wayne sat him down and said, “Tim, I have something to tell you,” he pretended he had no previous clue that he was the son of Bruce Wayne. He oh’d and ok’d in all the right places and agreed to call Mr. Wayne Bruce and accepted the stilted apology his real father made about being absent when he was younger. The one of actually many that would come to him in the next two years.

“Tim, you have been such a joy to have around. I need you to understand that it was my failings, my insecurities, that kept me away. Not you. I want to share custody with your parents. I’m thinking of asking them when they return from their trip this week, but I wanted to run it by you. What do you say, bud?”

(Tim wouldn’t say, but his body definitely shivered at the reaction Jack would have if “that fucking asshole, idiot” Bruce Wayne went marching up there with custody papers.)

“Not yet, Mr….Bruce. Maybe next time?”

“Ok, kiddo. Just let me know when you’re ready. I’ll keep asking.”

And Bruce did. Even after Jason was almost beat to death when Tim was twelve (and Tim would never, ever, in a million years say this out loud, but that was honestly a really fortuitous distraction from his own injuries. He took almost a month to fully heal after Jack missed out on a business deal, and since Bruce and Dick and Alfie were in the hospital with Jason morning, noon, and night, they didn’t even think to look into his excuse of a three-month stint at Space Camp. He hated what had happened to his brother, but a part of him was grateful it worked out like that. Which was honestly just another reason Tim was a piece of shit who didn’t deserve their kindness.)—even after that, Bruce wrote him letters daily saying how much he missed him and hoped they’d be able to hang out soon.

He asked Tim every month if Tim would want him to seek custody, and finally, after a very frightening text message from his mother about their next trip to Gotham, Tim tentatively agreed. And then Tim had to be the dumbass who tripped and fell in gym and the whole thing became a shit show.

After his mother threatened to expose the Waynes for their nightlife (how she found out in the first place, Tim couldn’t say), he pulled his head out of his ass and realized he needed to be the bigger man. The Waynes weren’t thinking logically at all, and Tim was pretty sure that Bruce tanking his reputation, business, stocks, and the safety of Jason and Dick all over custody of Tim was a definite sign of CTE. He even contemplated sending Bruce an email connecting him with a good neurologist, but then thought better of it.

So the night before he told the judge he wanted an order of protection against his familyneighbors, he snuck out of the house and climbed up to his favorite spot on Crown Point Bridge and wondered if throwing himself off would further complicate Bruce’s legal troubles or make things better for him.

Batman swung by, and in an uncharacteristic stuttering that Tim had never seen from him before, shakily grappled him down.

“Timothy Drake. Are—are you alright?”

“Yeah. I like to take pictures sometimes.”

“You…you weren’t going to jump?”

“Nah, just enjoying the view. It helps me think if I have a big decision to make.”

“…Oh. Well, next time a safer spot would be a balcony. I hear Wayne Enterprises has a public viewing spot on their 65th floor.”

“Sounds good.”

“Do you need me to take you anywhere? I’m done for the night.”

“Isn’t that your signal in the sky?”

“I can be done for the night.”

“No thank you, sir. I need to get back home to my family.”

“Yes…I…um, I saw in the news…um…you’ve had a rough few weeks?”

“Nothing I’m not used to or anything. Listen, I know you need to go. I need to go too.”

“Did you figure out what you’re going to do? About the decision you’re contemplating?”

“…Yeah. It’s pretty clear.”

“Okay, then. Be safe.”

“Bye Batman.”

Tim treated it as saying goodbye to his father (saying goodbye to his stupid audacity to fucking hope something went right for once), and the next morning, his mother walked him in front of the judge, her fingers gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise, and he agreed that living with Bruce Wayne was detrimental to his emotional and physical state, and never, ever wanted to be around him or his family again.

Tim watched as Damian came into the family, as DCPP investigated whether or not to take Damian away in lieu of Tim’s trial, and tried to beat back the feeling that he was the reason for everyone’s misfortune.

After that, Tim worked so hard to stay away for two fucking years, so hard to reassure the men who used to maybe sort of like him that he was fine without them, so when he woke up to a room of concerned vigilantes on the night after his sixteenth birthday, Tim did the only thing he knew how to do since he was six years old:

Chapter 8: And I'm Not How You Hoped

Chapter Text

When Tim woke up this time, it wasn’t to grogginess of sedatives or the melancholy of finding himself ensconced in the mausoleum of Drake Manor, but to the sounds of Gotham’s morning radio show drifting from another room and the smell of breakfast potatoes frying on the stove. (“Bats Out of Hell” was hosted by two radio personalities who claimed to be the first cousins of Mr. Freeze and Calendar Man. No one could prove it, of course, but their dry humor, eclectic selections of music ranging from Bobby Darin to Beyonce, and the fact that The Riddler usually called in once in a blue moon to answer the morning’s riddle, made them Gotham’s favorite duo.) He was in a very comfortable Queen sized bed, in a small, sparsely decorated room. Most likely a safe-house then. Bits and pieces from the night before came back to him slowly. His wrist was wrapped tightly and braced, and he could smell IcyHot on his back and sides and bruise cream on his leg and face. The clock by the bed said it was around 11 in the morning, and Tim gingerly threw his legs over the side of the bed and moved to face whatever inquisition the Bats had for him.

He was used to this song and dance, though he didn’t let himself interact with them in masks often, and he definitely never interacted with them all together. It was usually just one-on-one, on bridges, or buildings, or the other day when Hood took him to Leslie’s. Of course, the one night Tim couldn’t have them catching him was the one night they all came to him like some Unholy Trinity. It was just his luck, really, that Dick and Jason had already been trying to track him down (probably to yell at him about how he treated Dami), and Tim wished he would have just told Sunshine to call the cops when she asked. (More bits and more pieces were coming back. Did BATMAN carry him like a baby to this safehouse? Jesus, how embarrassing.)

Tim inhaled and exhaled, tried to tame his racing heart, squared his shoulders back and walked into the living area like he owned the place.

“Well, this is awkward.”

Red Hood, Nightwing, and Batman were crowded in the kitchen, fully caped and cowled, plating breakfast potatoes and apple sausage. Batman was at the waffle iron and it was lightly smoking. The three men snapped their heads up as soon as Tim spoke.

“Timothy.” The Bat-growl, which had been affectionately dubbed such by Nightwing years ago, made Tim quirk a small smile.

“Batman.” He growled back. Hood’s laugh was deep, even coming from the helmet he was still wearing, and Nightwing smiled.

“How are you feeling?” Batman walked away from the waffle iron, and batter spilled over the edges. Hood cursed and grabbed a wet rag while mumbling about incompetence in the kitchen, old man, seriously.

Tim felt his father’s hand touch his eye lightly, still bruised from the fight a few days ago. He gestured to all of him and guided him towards the couch in the living room. Tim watched as Hood and Nightwing argued over how much to put on each plate and hummed.

“Peachy. Why am I here? What happened?” Tim made sure to sound like a scared rich kid, playing up his Bristol accent. He didn’t think the Bats would call him on it, especially if they wanted to keep their identities.

Nightwing looked at him sharply and set the breakfast plate on a TV tray in front of him. “Eat up kiddo. You don’t remember?” His voice seemed pleasant, but Tim had been around Dick Grayson enough times to know that he was about to walk into a landmine.

He let his voice shake a little. “N-no. I was walking home from a party and someone must have jumped me. I think I was mugged. I must have hit my head pretty badly, because I blacked out and don’t remember anything.”

Nightwing hummed and went back to the kitchen.

“What party?” Red Hood sounded nonchalant but Tim knew better.

“Just. A party. I was pretty drunk. I don’t remember.” Tim decided it was time to lay it on thick. “What?” He said sharply, arrogantly. “Is this an interrogation? Can you even do that with a minor? I was mugged. Shouldn’t you be doing your job and going to find them instead of bothering me. An underage victim.” Tim let as much disdain drip into his voice as he could stomach, which, to be honest, wasn’t a lot, but he was tired and frustrated and was really, really starved for a bit of kindness. Unfortunately, the Bats had it in spades and just because he needed it, didn’t mean it wouldn’t completely mess him up. The fact that it was coming from his old family was about to send him over the edge, he was so weak and pathetic, but he tried to push away the longing and ignore the panic that sat in his chest.

Batman sat in front of him, in an uncharacteristic display of casualty that, instead of putting Tim at ease as no doubt was his intention, sent alarm bells off in his head.

“Nightwing and Red Hood found you wandering near the Eastside docks around 4:45 this morning. There are no private residences around that area. When I joined them, you did not smell of alcohol and were covered in a substance that looked like and smelled like animal’s blood. You were limping and we found a large boot-shaped bruise on your leg. You were also trembling and your blood pressure and heart rate were elevated, which mimicked the same symptoms as if you had been electrocuted or shocked. This seems more sinister than a simple mugging, Timothy.”

Crapola. Time to sell it.

“How in the world do you know the difference between pig’s blood and human blood?”

Well, that’s not what he wanted to say. Damn his confused brain.

“He never said it was pig’s blood, kid.” Red Hood’s synthesized voice sounded a touch amused and a lot concerned from the kitchen.

Fuck Tim and his mouth eight times sideways, seriously.

Tim sat up straight. “And I think I said I don’t care for your interrogation. I’m not pressing charges. I didn’t ask for your help. And right now, I am requesting you let me return to my home. If you don’t, I’ll call the police and say Batman kidnapped me.”

“Is that your response to everything?” Red Hood turned around. He didn’t sound amused anymore. Nightwing put his hand on his shoulder for a moment and then walked towards Tim, sitting down next to Batman. Both of their gazes pierced Tim, and it took everything in him not to look down or shrink back.

“We just want to help. Red said he took you to Leslie’s the other day after finding you at an amateur fighting ring. We’ve seen you wandering the city lately. It concerns us when a kid is in danger.” Dick’s voice reminded Tim of the years he spent with him in the Waynes’ back property, any time Tim would get too overstimulated and need a second to himself. There was a treehouse that Dick and Jason built when Jason first came into the family, and Tim always found it was a good place to think. He thought better up high. Dick would give him an hour to brood, and then swing up there without any trouble. He’d bring SourPatch Kids and they’d sit in silence. Sometimes, Dick would tell him stories about the circus or the things that he’d get up to in college. He’d never press, he’d never made Tim talk, but he always listened. Tim was not in the mood to think about any of that right now.

“First, that wasn’t me. Second, I’m not a kid. Third, fuck off.” He practically spit the third thing and hoisted himself off the couch, as elegantly as he could manage while still feeling like a limp noodle.

He walked towards the door but came up short when Batman silently put himself in front of him. He was like a brick wall, and Tim despaired that his only exit was blocked by a man he was nothing but a huge inconvenience to.

Red Hood finally left the kitchen and leaned against the door next to Batman. “You are a little liar, you know that?” His tone was like he was putting pieces together, connecting things that Tim was desperate he not connect. “I mean, that was very smooth. It wasn’t me. No hesitation at all. I’d be impressed if it didn’t piss me off so much.”

“Hood.” Batman growled again.

“No, really. What the fuck? You were obviously lying about being mugged, which you did so without a thought, by the way. You are definitely lying about the other night. What. Else. Are. You. Lying. About. Tim.” He punctuated the last question by gently poking Tim in the chest. Tim backed up and Batman moved to give him more space.

He could feel his breaths coming quicker, furiously recalculating his strategy. The three of them together were like vultures, like lions stalking prey, like piranhas, like detectives, (like concerned family members) and Tim was not firing on enough cylinders to figure out how to push them away.

Honestly, he thought Jason and Dick would have at least backed off after he rebuffed Damian. They were the most protective mother hens he knew, and he had hurt their little brother’s feelings tremendously. It kind of made him mad that they were here with him instead of making Dami feel better. It kind of made him angry that Bruce was neglecting his son just to play protector for the dumb kid who ruined his life.

“God, you are all just idiots. Really. I was very clear. Leave. Me. Alone.” The bitterness burned in Tim’s mouth. Batman raised his arm towards Tim who was backing up and pressing his fingernails into his hands to keep himself grounded. And Tim.

Tim flinched.

Violently.

The room stilled. Tim bumped hard into the side table by the couch and oh, that’s what Batman had been trying to keep him from doing.

God fucking dammit shit.

Tim hadn’t made a mistake like this in a long, long time. He had never—never—flinched in their presence. Was proud of that fact, in fact, because it played into the narrative that everything was good at home, that he was a spoiled kid with an absent family, an asshole family, but definitely not an abusive one.

Even when DCPP was accusing Bruce of child abuse because of his fractures and MRIs, Jack and Janet were never implicated by the courts because Tim weaved such a good tale about being a risk-taking child who did a lot of stupid teen stunts while his parents were away.

The social worker and judge bought it. He figured Bruce did too. The papers still ran the story that Bruce was abusive and public opinion sided with them (and of course, the protection orders only fueled that fire), but in reality, Tim was incredibly proud of how “not abused” he appeared to outsiders. (And, is it really abuse when Tim is a difficult, unwanted child who argues and fights at every turn? It’s not like Jack ever hit him when he was unprovoked. And Tim was very good at provoking.)

“Kid.” Hood sounded wrecked.

“Listen.” Tim’s voice sounded shaky even to his ears, but he pressed on because that’s what he did. “Listen. I appreciate the concern. I do. I’m a little keyed up right now. You’re right. It wasn’t just a mugging. But it wasn’t anything sinister either, ok. I just got caught up with the wrong crowd. I didn’t do what they wanted me to. They wanted to teach me a lesson. That’s all.” Tim imbued enough truth that he hoped the Bats would come to a different conclusion. Underage betting maybe. Selling drugs? There were lots of options.

But instead of putting the room at ease, Tim could feel the tension creep up.

Batman moved slowly, telegraphing his next steps. He kneeled in front of Tim, who had sunk into the couch again. He brought his hands up to his cowl and a terrible wave of foreboding washed over Tim as he watched him lift it over his head.

What.

“Stop.” Tim’s voice was strangled. Batman did not stop.

Like a horror movie, where time slowed and Tim felt like everything was floating in molasses, Batman removed his cowl and the concerned, devastated face staring back at him was 100% his father’s. Bruce’s.

“What are you doing?” He hissed.

Nightwing—Dick now, for his mask was off—and Hood—Jason had removed his helmet—looked partly guilty and partly resolved.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Tim asked again.

“ARE YOU CRAZY?” Tim roared. Tim was on fire. Tim was exploding. He was no longer in the room, he was in space, he was up, he was raging.

“YOU HAD ONE JOB. One job. IT’S CALLED A SECRET IDENTITY FOR A REASON, DIPSHITS.” Tim didn’t notice the confused and startled looks his family shared with each other. He kept going.

“Jesus Christ, and I thought you could at least be smart about this. This one thing. You won’t leave me alone even though I am practically on my knees begging you to every gala, every “random” meeting, every day. You send Dami after me to bother me at home—AT HOME, BRUCE—when I know you know it’s against the orders YOU were given by the police. You all stalk me in your masks like some rabid animals, despite me telling you time and time again that I. Am. Not. Interested. And you—” He whipped towards his father, eyes wild and distant, unseeing the complicated emotions on everyone’s face, “—you keep pushing those stupid letters under my door every day for two fucking years like it’s supposed to make any difference at all. Well guess what, Bruce? I burn them. I set them on fire. I don’t even read that shit so you can all go back to your dumb lives with your dumb hero-ing and let me live in peace. I should have never, ever jumped over the fence that day, you are RUINING MY LIFE AND I HATE YOU.”

Tim’s breaths were hard and fast. He was sweating and red-faced, and Dick and Jason and Bruce just stared at him.

“I’m going, and I expect you will leave me alone now. If this happens again, I will go to the police and news and every person on this god-forsaken planet and tell them that Bruce fucking Wayne and his fucking annoying sons are Batman and Red Hood and Nightwing. And I won’t be sorry at all.” His voice was colder than ice. His former family was frozen by it.

Tim grabbed his phone that was plugged in and charging on the kitchen counter. He walked out and left—the three men still and staring off in space. The last thing he saw before he closed the door was his father, slumped on the ground, with his head in his hands.

Chapter 9: How Are Your Kids? Where Are They Now?

Chapter Text

Tim had a contingency for when he felt like he really fucked everything up. He didn’t employ it that often (predictability doesn’t always equal safety, which he solidly learned at twelve after Jack caught him sneaking to the pantry for a cereal bar late one night and proceeded to make him eat ten in one sitting and then lay down in his own vomit for twenty minutes before letting him clean it up), but whenever he really, really made a mess of things, it was his go-to out.

The last time he did this, it was the week after his parents left and Dick and Jason showed up at his doorstep, in a fit of what was obviously psychosis, to ask about the Orders of Protection. Bruce, from what Tim could tell from the headlines, was shockingly dealing with another biological child who showed up randomly on his doorstep one day and all the legalities that sprung from that, which was why his brothers came by themselves. He had assumed they’d give him a few weeks before prying, but it was 7 AM and they were ringing the bell and looking like they hadn’t slept in over 3 days.

“What are you doing here?” Tim hissed, and ushered them in, even though he knew giving an inch would get him into major trouble.

Dick looked Tim up and down as if cataloging him for injuries, his jaw clenched, and, surprisingly, let Jason take the lead.

“Hey Goobs, how you holding up?” Jason’s voice was soft. Since the Joker incident, Jason had been a little more quick to frustration and biting remarks, never really towards Tim, always Bruce, and Dick, and sometimes Alfie, but it had definitely been awhile since he heard him speak like that specifically. At the same time, he didn’t need to be babied. It was like they always forgot that about him.

“Fine.” Tim was stiff and wrapped his arms around himself. “Um. You really need to leave.”

“We’re just checking up on you, kiddo.” Dick sounded strained, like he was holding back a million other things he wanted to say. “It just concerned us. You know…” He trailed off helplessly. “It just seemed like a quick turn around from the last time we talked, before your parents came home and all, and what happened last week. Did. Did we do something?”

“No. Yes. Listen. I can’t—I don’t want to talk about this. It would be better if we just left it alone, okay. Go. Go our separate ways.” Tim looked at his hands.

“Like hell.” Jason grumbled under his breath.

“If you need time, we understand. Timmy, if you ever felt uncomfortable around us, I’m really sorry we didn’t see it before. I know Jack and Janet got really mad and everything, but they’re not here now. Can. Can we still talk this out? Try to figure something out?” Dick ended a bit desperately.

Tim shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea Dick. I. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, I really do, but if someone sees you here, they’ll call the cops and I really don’t want that to happen. I’m fine, okay. I’d tell you if I wasn’t. This is just best for everyone. Me. It’s best for me. You have to let me make my own decisions here. You can’t be all controlling about this.” ‘Like Bruce’ went unsaid, and Tim could tell it hit on one of Dick’s biggest insecurities. (Which, you know, was why he said it. Because seriously. He needed to set the precedent now, or they would never leave him alone. And if his mom found out…if Jack did? Tim shuddered at the possibilities.)

“I want you to promise me, Tim. I want you to promise me that you’ll be ok and you will let us know the minute you want to change your situation.” Dick bit out. “You let us know and we’ll come. And if there’s anything we can do to fix whatever it is we did wrong, please tell us. Write us a note. Call us. Text. Rent a banner over the City, I don’t care. Just. Just let us know. Can you promise that?”

Tim nodded and then stiffened as Dick leaned in to hug him. Jason ruffled his hair and they both walked out with a dejected slump to their shoulders. That night, the first letter from Bruce came.

The next day, Tim was gone for the rest of the summer.

Walking away from the safehouse, Tim dialed all the numbers he needed. He hailed a cab with a promise to pay once he arrived home and could grab his spare cash, since he left his wallet with the Waynes. After giving his destination, he used the forty-five minute drive to make calls and send emails.

One for Gotham Academy’s academic advisor. “My credits and record show I can graduate now. I’d like to be excused from this semester’s classes and walk with my class in May. I’ve consulted Handbook Sec. 5 on this, and sent an email to my parents letting them know. Please email me any forms that need their signature and I’ll make sure they’ll get it back to you. I hope you’re doing well. My dad said Mr. Pennington was responsible for a huge windfall last month. Send my congratulations to your husband for me. I really appreciate everything you’ve done. —Tim Drake, Student Id# G1230”

One for Jack. “Sir, thank you for the lesson I received yesterday. It was necessary and I apologize again for my insubordination and slacking. I was being lazy and disrespectful and I am sorry that reflected on you. I am graduating early due to my grades and credits, and wanted to let you know that I’m ready to work for the company as per your request a few months ago. I’ve attached a copy of my transcript, my five-year plan for integrating into Drake Industries, and a rental agreement for a loft that will be closer to the office. The downpayment and six months worth of rent are in my account, and if you allow it, please sign the attached forms. Thank you so much for your consideration. —Timothy”

One for Janet. “Mother, I hope your dig is going well. I did get your email that you will be returning on the 9th of March. The house will be ready to your specifications. I hired a new gardener and I have made sure to clean out the attic like you asked. The social worker we were assigned told me that my case was closed last month. I made sure to send your donation check to the Children’s Foundation of New Jersey. I attached the article they wrote in the paper about it. It is very flattering. I will be ready to greet you and Dad when you get into town. In the meantime, I will be attending a Future Leaders of America retreat in Star City. It is slated to be two weeks, and I will most likely stay in town to make connections that will benefit your work. I’ve attached information on this program and a list of contacts I hope to make to this email. The retreat does not allow phones, so I would be in contact until February in case you need something. Be safe and I will see you soon. —Timothy”

A voicemail for Jack and Janet’s lawyers. “Hello, Mr. Wright, this is Timothy Drake. I’m calling to make sure we are still pursuing legal action against the Daily Planet and the article run by Lois Lane on November 3rd suggesting that DI is engaging in insider trading. Her questions about the circumstances surrounding my parents’ involvement in the most recent lawsuit against Mr. Wayne was libel at best, and as a minor, I do not appreciate the speculation that I am being manipulated. My father sent me an email on December 25th requesting this be taken care of already, and I have not heard from you in two weeks. Please follow-up.”

A text to Bernard and Ives. “hey chat. parental units r sending me to maui for an early graduation gift. gonna be out of town til end of feb. service will be spotty. don’t watch the last season of ru paul without me.”

He finished right as the cab pulled into the manor’s drive, and he pocketed his phone after forwarding all calls to the house phone and answering machine (to be deleted before his parents returned on the 9th) and all emails to a to-be-read folder. He paid the driver and unlocked the front door, stepping into the empty space and allowing himself to lean against the wall before gathering his things.

Tim packed a carry-on bag and grabbed his passport. It was made more difficult with his wrist wrapped in a splint, but he was able to figure it out eventually. Before he left the house again (he got everything ready in 20 minutes, which was honestly a record for him), he spotted a small box on the kitchen counter.

He walked over to it and picked it up. Adorable depictions of cows wearing birthday hats were meticulously drawn in sharpie on light blue wrapping paper. A yellow bow sat on top, and Tim could tell it was tied by hand. He opened it gingerly with his good hand, and before looking in the box, he carefully folded the paper into a small square, which he put in the side pocket of his computer bag. The box contained another box, this time the size of a watch holder. An intricately woven bracelet with deep purples and yellows was resting inside. It was about two inches wide. There was one round, flat charm woven in, like a watch face, and it had a bird etched on it. On the back, the initials TW were also etched in calligraphy. Tim stood at the counter staring at it for a lot longer than he was willing to admit.

He carefully put it on—again, struggling with one hand—and made sure his wrist splint hid it completely.

An Uber picked him up and he sat in the backseat watching the trees and then the traffic rush by. It took about an hour to get to Archie Goodwin Int’l and Tim made his way to the ticketing counter.

Pulling out his passport and student ID, he handed the agent his items and popped on sunglasses, pulling the hood of his hoodie over his head.

“One way or round trip?” She typed and looked for the first-class seat he requested.

“Round-trip. Return around the last week of February. Whatever day is cheapest.” She nodded at him and finished up, handing him his boarding pass.

“Do you need an Unaccompanied Minor service?” She asked kindly.

Tim scrunched up his nose. “No. I’m fine.”

“Alright then, sir. Here’s your ticket. You can drop any luggage off at the carousel over there, or if you just have carry-ons, you can make your way towards International Departures. Security will check your passport and your status allows you to take the Priority lane. It looks like your flight leaves in about three hours, so you have time to check out the International Club inside. Thank you for flying with us and enjoy your trip.”

Tim thanked her and stood in the security line. Once through, he looked for his gate number. After a trip to the restroom to splash water on his face and reapply the concealer for his eye, he grabbed a large iced latte and a danish from the kiosk by his gate. He drifted off in the corner, and keeping himself small and unassuming (and as far away as he could from all the ceiling surveillance cameras he spotted), he boarded a couple hours later.

First class was nice, but since it was still a Gotham based airline, they weren’t the newly updated International pods he had seen on other flights. There were two large seats next to each other. He took the window. The aisle seat was empty, so he put his computer bag in the mesh holder provided, and stared out the small window, watching clouds form over the tarmac. He was tired and in pain and could feel his mind float away despite his need for vigilance—at least until he left the country.

He must have drifted off again, because he woke up to the plane taxiing and the flight attendant making the safety announcement. Someone was now in the seat next to him.

“Really, Timothy.” A familiar voice said quietly. “Scotland in this time of year is bound to be freezing. Did you even pack a coat? Lucky for you, I thought about that.”

Tim’s stomach plummeted as he slowly turned and saw the scowling face of Damian Wayne staring back expectantly at him. He had a bright blue sharpied “Unaccompanied Minor” hanging off a lanyard around his neck.

“I’ve never been, you know. Grandfather always thought the Highlands were for uncultured people, but he hasn’t left his palace in at least a hundred years, so I’m inclined to trust you. At any rate, I’ve always wanted to see the cattle there. I hear they are really fluffy.”

Tim just stared.

“Here. I packed you a couple of pain relievers. You’re clenching your jaw and obviously you are in pain.”

A voice came on the overhead speaker. “Thank you for flying Gotham Air. Sit back, relax, and enjoy your 10 hour flight to Aberdeen International Airport, Scotland.”

“Close your mouth, Timothy. Pennyworth says you can catch flies like that. I don’t think there are flies on an airplane though. They couldn’t survive the pressure, I don’t think. I’ll have to research that. Anyway, don’t worry about our father. I’ve left him a note. I also nabbed Richard’s Nintendo Switch. Now tell me, brother. What is Animal Crossing?”

Chapter 10: If I Get Too Close

Chapter Text

Ok then.

Tim was officially freaking out. Sign the papers, send in the authorities, lock him away, capital-F freaking out.

Tim was gone. He was floating. Tim was not there.

He blinked, just to make sure it wasn’t some sort of stress-induced hallucination. (Not that he had those before. Well, not that he had them this vivid before.)

“D..Damian?” He croaked out, the name getting caught in his throat.

Fu-uh-ck, get it together, man.

“Damian.” He whispered sternly. Better. “Damian, what are you doing here?”

Damian—the little shit—rolled his eyes as if Tim was being the irrational one. “Really, Timothy. I just explained it. I’m coming with you to Scotland.”

Tim blew air out of his nose and hoped it conveyed his frustration, and didn’t just make him sound like an angry bull. “NO. No. No you aren’t, you little gremlin. You can’t. Dami. You’re ten. How did you get on this plane without an adult?”

Damian picked lint off his jeans with all the pomp of a prince and sniffed. “Tt. Like it’s hard?”

Tim flicked Damian very gently on his forehead. “You know what I meant. And wait. Before you answer that— and you need to answer that, Carmen Sandiego —” Damian’s nose scrunched at the reference, “how did you even know I was here?"

Uncharacteristically, Damian shrugged. His eyes flicked to Tim’s wrist and then away again, a vaguely guilty look on his face. That was quite enough for Tim to put the pieces together. He touched the bracelet he was wearing. Then he put his head in his hands and groaned.

“Seriously. That’s stalker-level behavior, kiddo. You can’t just put trackers on people without their permission."

“I wouldn’t have to if you took care of yourself.” The literal baby child hissed. He seemed to be vibrating with energy. Or was that anger? “Timothy, you are more damaged than when I last left you. And it’s not like you were presentable then. What happened?”

“Nope. Mine first.”

Damian sighed like an old man, and not like a kid who probably still went to recess twice a day, drank chocolate milk, and had a bedtime. “Pennyworth drove me and checked me in. He bought the ticket. He sends his regards.”

Tim had no idea what to do with…that. He put it in a box in his brain, locked it up, and promised himself he’d revisit it when he felt better. Maybe. He shook his head and huffed.

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“Good, you don’t have to talk. You can take a nap to get rid of those gross looking dark circles under your eyes.” Tim scoffed. “Or you can help me with this game,” Damian waved Dick’s baby pink Switch in front of his face. “OR, you can tell me what happened to your wrist and why Father and Richard and Jason were out all night after leaving to search for you.”

Damian’s tone of voice was saturated in arrogance, like he just expected Tim to answer him immediately. Tim was definitely going to halt that thought process in its tracks.

“No dice. Here’s how it’s gonna go, Baby Brat. We have 10 hours on this plane. I am not going to put up with you interrogating me like some Batman junior intern this whole time. You will not talk to me unless it’s an emergency, and I am going to go to sleep. Then, when we get to Aberdeen, you are going to turn right back around and get on the next plane to Gotham. Understand?”

Damian looked smug for some reason unknown to Tim. “Perfectly, Timothy. But you must take these first, or I will tell the stewardess that I saw a knife sticking out of your bag when I boarded.” He held out a pill bottle and shook it at Tim like he was a cat.

"What the fu—fudge, Dami?” Tim whispered furiously. “You can’t say things like that on here. Do you want to get us arrested?”

Damian shook the bottle louder with the ghost of a shit eating grin. He resembled a younger Jason so much in that moment that Tim almost did a double take. The passenger across the aisle, a middle-aged lady with a short, blonde bob and a sharp nose, tossed Damian an annoyed look. Tim flipped her off. The flight attendant for First Class came over, smiling broadly. She bent down and cooed at Damian, who gave her a very innocent look after smirking at Tim.

“Hiya, buddy.” She was speaking in an exaggerated, baby talk, and Tim worried for her life. Damian, however, looked up at her and gave her a sweet smile. “Are you boys settling in okay over here? Do you need anything?”

Damian looked innocently at Tim. “I don’t know, missus. I’m with my brother and he was telling me about all the cool stuff he brought to keep me ent…enter…entertained.” Damian spoke in a sickly sweet way, and actually batted his eyes at her. She laughed and pinched his cheek.

“Timmy? Do you want to tell her what you brought me?” Damian didn’t even do him the favor of looking at him. Tim was glaring daggers at the back of his head, but stopped when the flight attendant frowned at him.

“No. That’s ok. We’re ok.” Tim mumbled.

Damian’s smile sparkled. He passed the medicine to Tim while still talking to the flight attendant. “Ok, Timmy! Hey! Do you have a Sprite? Can I go see the pilot? I’ve never been on a plane before.”

Tim tossed back three pills and dry swallowed them.

“Of course, hon. We can do that for you. I’ll get your Sprite right away.” The flight attendant turned to walk away, but Damian grabbed her hand.

“Aren’t you going to ask my brother what he wants?”

She gritted her teeth. “Sure, hon. And what would you like, sweetie?” The flight attendant asked begrudgingly.

Tim’s smile was biting and cold. “A Miller Lite.” He said dryly.

The flight attendant grimaced. Damian giggled. Tim shivered. “Don’t worry about him, missus. He’s just grumpy because the plane ride is soooooo long. Get him a Zesti, please."

She nodded and walked off. Tim turned to lay into Damian, but the kid’s smile was replaced with a small frown that made him pause.

He sighed. “What’s the matter, Dames?”

“Did you really mean it?” Damian asked softly, looking down at his hands. Tim had to lean over to hear him.

“Mean what, kiddo?”

“Do you think I’m a distraction? That I’m too much of a baby to hang out with?” Damian sounded small and unsure and Tim was abruptly confronted with the feeling of very much wanting to rip that unsurety right out of him and beat it to a pulp.

Tim slowly grabbed Damian’s hand with his unwrapped hand and squeezed it. They interlocked fingers and Tim looked out the plane window. He cleared his throat a few times

“No. Dami, I’ve never meant it at all.”

“Then why did you say it, Timothy?”

“You wouldn’t—”

“—understand.” Damian completed sullenly. “If I’m not an infant, then should I not be able to understand? I’m not an idiot, Timothy.”

“That’s not what I think about you, runt. I…it’s complicated. And. I guess I said it because I thought it would get you to go away.”

“Why?"

“Why what?”

“Why do you want me to go away? I asked Richard but he didn’t explain, he just gave me a hug. I asked Jason and he just swore and left the house. I asked Father, and he said he was ‘working on it.’ I asked Pennyworth.” Here Damian paused long enough for the stewardess to return with their drinks. Tim squeezed his hand again.

“What did Alfie say, kiddo?”

“He said that you were frightened. And when people are frightened or in danger, their brains do everything they can to protect themselves. He said that you weren’t going to come back without someone really brave going after you. Then he went back to polishing the silver in the hallway and wouldn’t answer anything else.”

Tim let go of Damian’s hand and put it under his chin as he stared at the puffy clouds.

“Are you scared of something Timothy? I will defeat it in your honor. That’s why I’m here. I am more courageous and honorable than those buffoons that call themselves our family.”

Tim tried to get control of his smile, but he was sure remnants of it were still visible when he turned back to face Damian.

“Thank you, Robin Hood. That’s very noble.”

“You’re making fun.” Damian huffed out.

Tim bit his lip and shook his head. “Nah. I’m not. I do appreciate it, Dames. But sometimes things just go wrong, you know. Sometimes they can’t be fixed or defeated. They just are. And we have to learn to live with it.”

“That’s a very pessa…pessimistic way of looking at things, Timothy.”

Tim shrugged. And then yawned. The medicine he took was dragging him under. He patted Damian’s leg. “You are good kid, okay? You don’t deserve to get tangled up in all this.” He gestured to all of himself and laid his head back. “I’m going to sleep now. Please don’t annoy the good people who are working on this plane. I didn’t pack any parachutes for us.”

Damian smiled weakly and turned on the Switch. “I’ll watch over us while you rest, Timothy.”

“Thanks, brat.” Much to his chagrin, Tim couldn’t keep the fondness out of his voice.

He drifted off.

Tim woke up slowly to raised voices.

“...I demand he be moved. That demon child had the audacity to insult me when I was minding my own business. Why they let riff-raff like him fly, I’ll never know. You can’t trust them, obviously.”

Tim looked over. Damian was hunched in his seat, scowling at his hands. The flight attendant from earlier had a vaguely constipated look on her face while the woman from across the aisle was red-faced. She had obviously had a few drinks and mascara was smudged against eyes like some sort of eldritch horror or bad imitation of Batman at his most emo of stages.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I just can’t move someone because you asked. If you’d like a complimentary dessert, we can get that to you right away.”

“What’s going on here?” Tim’s voice was sharp like knives.

“That monster—”

“No.” Tim bit out. “I’m clearly not talking to you.” He gestured to the stewardess. “Why are you letting this obviously inebriated adult harass my little brother?”

“Sir,” she hedged, “We are trying to resolve this in a peaceful manner. Your brother used the facilities a moment ago and tripped on a bag that was lying out. This passenger’s wine glass spilled all over her.”

“And that’s relevant how? My family owns majority stock in this airline and I can guarantee that if we are disturbed again, you,” he pointed at the drunk woman, “will never fly again. You will move her and my brother deserves an apology.”

The woman sputtered, but another flight attendant came over and whispered in the stewardess’s ear. She paled and nodded. Turning to the drunk woman, she said, “Ma’am, we have a seat up front that we would like to offer you. We’ll help you with your things.” They quickly maneuvered the lady to a new seat, ignoring her complaints. When she looked back angrily, Tim waved with a dry smile.

Damian was quiet next to him.

Tim decided not to press him, and instead grabbed the Switch that had been sitting on the tray in front of them.

“So Dickhead has obviously been slacking if you don’t know how to play Animal Crossing. What you do is…” Tim tried not to call attention to the way Damian’s shoulders slowly relaxed and how he leaned tentatively against him.

Some time later, Tim and Damian were eating dinner in a companionable silence. “Want to swap rolls? I don’t like rye bread as much as sourdough.”

Damian tossed his roll at Tim’s head and Tim caught it with his chin. “Very mature, Dami.”

Damian snickered.

“Timothy?”

“Yeah?”

“What is your mother like?”

Tim stiffened and tried to act casual. “Why do you want to know?”

“Richard and Jason tell me that my mother isn’t normal. That what she used to do to me wasn’t right. But their mothers aren’t alive. And our grandmother died when Father was younger than me. And he won’t talk about my mother. I don’t know anyone else to ask.”

Tim didn’t respond. Damian looked at him concernedly. “Your hand is shaking. Are you in pain?”

“What? No. Sorry. Got lost in thought. What.” Tim cleared his throat. “What did she used to do to you, Damian?”

Damian’s ears turned red, the only sign of his embarrassment. “Nothing I didn’t deserve. Where I come from, failure wasn’t tolerated. She made sure to teach me that lesson.”

Tim swallowed thickly. Inexplicably, he could feel heat behind his eyes. He tried to blink back whatever was happening and breathe normally.

“Oh. Did.” God, why was Tim having such a hard time breathing? “Did she hurt you?”

Damian stiffened. “I am not a baby. I can take a little pain. It was for my benefit.”

Tim was seven. He had just gotten home from school and his mother was outside in the rose garden. He ran up to her to tell her about the unit they were doing on oobleck and tripped and fell into a bush. Thorns stuck in his hands and arms.

“Timothy. Maybe next time you will learn to be more careful and not go running like some sort of zoo animal. Since you want to act uncivilized, you can stay out here until you’re ready to be a little boy and not a dog.”

Tim was locked in a closet, tied up.

Tim was on the ground, with a busted lip and bruised arms.

Tim was putting antiseptic on his legs where the buckle hit him.

Tim was lying in his throw-up.

Tim was locked in a shed.

Tim was doing push-ups at 2 in the morning.

Tim was being shocked with a cattle prod, dipped in pig guts, stomped on by a boot.

Tim was writing lines.

“It’s for your own good, boy. 1500 by the end of the day, or you will have wished your mother never fucked that idiot and you had never been born. One more punishment for every mistake, so pay attention, you lazy shit.”

Tim was painting the house. Tim was fainting from the fumes. Tim was put in time-out.

Tim was hungry.

“Timothy.” Damian looked alarmed. “Timothy! Are you alright?” He touched Tim’s face gently and to his horror, Tim realized he was crying. He grabbed a napkin and scrubbed his eyes furiously.

He cleared his throat. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I promise.” He turned and looked seriously at Damian.

“No. That’s not normal that your mother did that to you. It’s not okay, bud. You don’t deserve that. Good people don’t hurt children.”

Damian huffed. “I’m not a baby.”

Tim ruffled his hair. “No. But you are a child. And honestly, good people don’t hurt adults either. My mother.” Tim paused and Damian tilted his head. “Janet and Jack are not good people. Your father, though? He’s a good person. If you want an idea of what is supposed to be normal, he’s going to be the one to trust. I’m glad you got out, kiddo. I’m glad you’re with him.”

Damian’s eyes were piercing but he was quiet. The stewardess came to collect their trays and Tim suggested watching a movie on his laptop. He handed Damian the left earbud and he took the right. He thought he heard Damian whisper “he’s your father too,” but he ignored it and instead pressed play. “A Goofy Movie” started and Tim tried to turn off the chaos that was churning inside his body.

As Max sang “Stand Out,” Tim watched as Damian completely melted into his side and wondered how he let this get so out of hand.

Chapter 11: Breathin' In, Breathin' Out

Chapter Text

The plane touched down at 8 AM GMT at Aberdeen International Airport, and by this time, Damian had been sleeping on Tim’s shoulder for over 2 hours straight. He woke the gremlin up gently, and charitably didn’t call attention to the small wet spot on his shirt from the kid’s drool. Damian grabbed his bag from the overhead bin (Tim helped since the brat had to stand on the very tips of his toes to do it), and overcome with another bout of fondness (he needed to stop this before it became a problem), Tim also didn’t call attention to the B.T.W. that was embroidered on the side of the expensive leather carry-on. It wasn’t his business if Damian wanted to steal his family’s possessions. But with Bruce’s luggage and Dick’s Switch, Tim wondered what of Jason’s had been swiped. He couldn’t imagine the Red Hood being very forgiving of it, even if Damian was just 10.

“C’mon, Marilyn Hartman, let’s get you back to Gotham.” Damian rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and nodded docilely, which, honestly, should have been Tim’s first clue.

Tim was naive, however. He was a sucker. He was like a newborn baby, because instead of wondering what else the feral child had up his sleeve, he tucked Damian under his arm and walked off the plane to find an information desk. A part of him (a small part that would never admit it out loud) was disappointed they would have to part ways, but Tim knew that the longer they stuck together, the more dangerous it would be for everyone.

He wasn’t sure what to do about Damian’s clinginess or refusal to leave him alone, but he was pretty sure that after his own outburst at the safehouse, Bruce, Dick, and Jason would be a lot more willing to corral the kid and keep him away. There was no way after that shitshow that they would keep trying, and Tim embraced all the ambivalent feelings that washed over him when he realized he finally achieved what he had been trying to do since 14—pushing them away.

At the end of the day, however, it worked out for everyone, no matter how much the Waynes tried to convince him otherwise. Jack and Janet had his whole future planned out for him—he couldn’t risk going against them just in case his mother outed Batman. Heck, people were still calling for Bruce Wayne to go to prison just because of Tim. How much worse would it be if they all knew he was Batman?

Was it depressing to know that for the rest of his life he’d be tied to Gotham, tied to DI, tied to be whatever dancing monkey caricature Jack wanted him to be? Sure. But Tim figured living in Gotham wasn’t a guarantee of a long life expectancy anyway, so if worse came to worse, he’d hope for an early death. Not like that would be anything new.

“Excuse me, sir?” A gate agent with a faint Italian accent stopped Damian and Tim as they exited the gangway.

“Yeah?”

“This young man has an Unaccompanied Minor tag. I need to check him off and make sure his pick-up is confirmed.”

“Okay, but the thing is, I need to send him back to Gotham. We’re just getting another ticket and he’s going to be turning right around.”

“That’s fine sir,” the agent was the height of professionalism, “but part of our regulations means we must confirm that if you send him back, he will have someone picking him up.”

“Okay. I’ll give you a name.”

“I don’t need a name, sir, I need a phone confirmation.” Tim thought that was overkill and cursed Gotham’s ridiculous laws and statutes. It sounded exactly like something convoluted that the Gotham City Council would have come up with for their city based airlines.

Tim tried again. “That doesn’t make sense, sir . Did he have a phone confirmation coming here?”

“He didn’t need one, sir. ”

“Why not?” Tim bit out.

“Because according to my notes here, he was meeting his 16 year-old brother on the plane and you would be signing off on him when you arrived here.”

Tim, who never liked to call attention to his own status as a minor, was bewildered. “So you’re telling me that this airline is alright with him being watched by a teenager who is under 18 leaving Gotham, but must have guardian approval going to Gotham?”

“It is Gotham, sir. I hear you have a large, talking crocodile that stalks the sewers?”

Damian, who had been quiet this whole time, piped in chipperly. “We also have a woman who kills people with plants and a criminal made out of clay.”

Tim snapped. “Not helping, Dames.” He turned back to the gate agent. “Fine.” He gritted out. “If I have the kid call his dad, will you let us buy another ticket?”

“Very good, sir.”

Tim rolled his eyes and handed Damian his cell phone. “Time to pay the piper, shortstack. Call Bruce and tell him you’re coming home.”

“Yes, Timothy.” The lack of argument should have been Tim’s second clue. But Tim, despite his genes, was not a detective. He was just a very exhausted 16-year-old, ready to find a hotel room and sleep for 12 hours.

Damian put the phone on speaker. It rang three times and then a familiar voice answered.

“Wayne residence.”

Tim gestured to Damian.

“Pennyworth.”

“Good morning, Master Damian, it is a pleasure to hear from you my boy. And how was your trip? I take it your flight went well?”

“Yes, but Timothy wants me to return.”

“Ah. I see.”

Ah? I see? Tim felt a deep unease settle over him.

“They need your confirmation that someone will be meeting me back home.”

“Mmm. Well, I am afraid there might be a problem with that, young sir.”

Tin gestured towards Damian frantically. He pointed to his lips and tried to form the words he wanted him to say. Tell. Him. You. Have. To. The gate agent huffed and looked at his watch. Tim glared at him. And Damian? Damian pretended he didn’t understand Tim.

“Ok Pennyworth, I guess if that’s your answer, I—OOF.” Tim grabbed the phone from Damian and put him in a headlock. The kid squirmed but was surprisingly silent.

“Mr. Pennyworth. Alfred. This. Um. This is Tim. Tim Drake?”

“Ah, Master Tim, my precious boy, it’s been awhile.”

“Yeah, so, they need to have a guardian’s permission for Damian to fly back to Gotham. I’d put him on another airline, but, as I’m sure you know, no other airlines fly into Gotham except this one. Would you be able to pick him up?”

“Well, Master Timothy, I would have been delighted but unfortunately I am about to leave Gotham later today. The Royal Theater’s 65th Reunion is in London next week, and Master Bruce persuaded me into using my copious amount of vacation days to attend. As no doubt you can understand, I have not had a vacation in over 30 years.”

Tim cleared his throat awkwardly. “Oh. Of course. That. That makes sense? Um. Can you ask Mr. Wayne or Dick or Jason to call?”

“The young Masters are also unfortunately unavailable until at least next week as well, my boy. They left quite suddenly for a safari expedition in Kenya.”

That sounded fake, but ok. Tim sighed and noticed that the gate agent had already wandered away. More sharply than he wanted to, he snapped into the phone.

“Then what am I supposed to do, Alfie? I mean, Alfred. I can’t take Damian with me. He’s 10.”

“There’s no one I’d trust more, Master Timothy. Just for a couple weeks. I’ll be back in Gotham in a fortnight. Or, “ and Alfred paused like he was thinking, “You are more than welcome to drop him off with me in London after my engagement in a week. I’d be more than delighted to see you, dove.”

The familiar, but rarely used, nickname sent a very inconvenient wave of longing through Tim and he sighed in acquiescence.

Alfred seemed to pick up on it despite Tim’s silence. “Very good, Master Tim. Master Damian has been given an unlimited credit card and I sent two packages along with him, one for each of you. I will always answer this line, day and night, so ring me if you need anything. Your father and brothers will unfortunately be out of reach for the duration. I trust you both will be safe and look after your brother in a matter befitting your namesake, right my boys?”

“…yes, Alfred.”

“Of course, Pennyworth!” Damian, who had escaped Tim’s headlock early on, looked positively delighted, like the cat who caught the canary.

“Very good. And chin up, Master Timothy. Begin as you wish to finish, lad. Master Damian, keep me apprised of your location at all times and don’t give your brother any trouble. I must go now. My taxi is here. Goodbye.”

And with that, Alfred Pennyworth hung up.

Tim looked incredulously at the phone in his hand for a good five minutes at least. He was surprised Damian didn’t bother him during this internal freak out, but the kid had wandered over to the window and was watching the planes takeoff.

Ok, well, that was cute.

“Dami.”

“Yes, brother?” His eyes were filled with mirth but he spared Tim’s ego by not smiling.

Tim sighed. “Let’s get out of here and find a hotel.” He looked through his bag and found his sunglasses. “Wear these, kid, and pull up your hood.” Damian looked confused but complied.

“We shouldn’t be seen together.” He explained, “I don’t think there should be paparazzi here, but you never know who’s gonna take a picture and connect the dots.” Tim chuckled a little and said to himself, “God, Jack might actually kill me if that happened.” He pushed Damian forward and didn’t notice the apprising look his little brother gave him.

They went through customs and walked to the Welcome (Fàilte gu Alba)Kiosk set up at Arrivals. Tim spoke with the information desk (a bored college-aged guy who was dressed in a tartan coat and for the life of him, looked like he wanted to be anywhere else) and when he looked over, Damian was grabbing every tourist pamphlet on display and stuffing them in Tim’s computer bag.

“Thank you.” Tim said to the desk guy who had already turned back to his phone, and grabbed Damian’s shoulder. “Ok, Mr. Stalker, if this is going to work, you have to listen to me.” Damian nodded.

“I am a very good listener, Timothy.”

“Sure you are, Dames. First, you cannot argue with me. I came here expecting to be alone, so that means that you cannot complain or whine or debate about whatever it is I say we do.” Damian looked intrigued.

“And what is it you came here to do? Why Scotland?”

“Second, if I tell you to duck or hide or put on the sunglasses or step away from me, you will do it without pausing and asking me dumb questions.”

“My questions are never dumb.”

“And third, this is like, the most important rule about being brothers ever, so you have to listen, okay?”

Damian’s eyes gleamed.

Jason knocked on Tim’s front door early in the morning. Tim opened it up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Up and at ‘em, Timbuktu, get dressed, we’re going out today.”

“Jason? What? What are you doing here?”

“It’s been three weeks, Timmers. I missssssssed you. You’re coming over tonight right? Remember, Dad said you could come hang out with us any time your parents were out of town. You said they were going to leave last night, right?”

“Yeah. But I thought…” Tim trailed off and Jason’s eyes softened.

“I was not messing with you, Goobs. I always have so much fun with you. Dickhead, too! C’mon Timbourine. Daylight’s burning. You’re 10 now! And I missed it! We’re going to play laser tag, then gorge on pizza, then go down to the pier for ice skating and then spend all of B’s money on trying to win that huge Gorilla with the Superman cape. Alfie said he’s making your favorites and then you’re spending the night, ok?”

“Oh, ok.”

“Turn around bud, let’s march upstairs and get ready. Oh gosh! Tim! What happened to your elbow? It’s all black and blue!”

Tim looked down at his elbow and his eyes widened. “Whoa. That’s so cool.”

Jason snorted. “Yeah, but it also looks like it hurts. What? Were you trying to do stunts in the backyard again?”

Tim shook his head shyly. “Nah, you asked me not to anymore. Not without you or Dickie.” Jason smiled and flicked his ear.

“Ok, then Daredevil. What happened?”

“It’s embarrassing, Jay.”

“You’re 10, kiddo. Nothing should be embarrassing to you yet.”

“So, remember that step outside the Bat Burger on Chestnut? Mom and Dad took me there for my birthday before they left yesterday and I was showing Dad how I could jump over it, but I overcalculated and tripped forward. Luckily Dad caught me, or I would have broken my nose. Seriously! I’ve never had a broken nose before, but I bet it would have been cool.”

Jason snorted. “Only you, Timmers. Gosh, he must have been grabbing really hard to leave bruising like that, Goobs.”

Tim nodded solemnly, “He was sooooo scared. Seriously. He lectured me like, all night. That’s why my eyes are so tired.” Tim opened his eyes really wide and pretended to be a ghost. Jason laughed and chased Tim into his room, throwing him on top of his bed and tickling him.

“Jay! Jay stop!”

“You can never run from me, Timbo! First and most important rule of brotherhood: Brothers don’t run away. Brothers always stick together.”

Tim looked very seriously at Damian.

“We stay together. Do not run away from me, ok, shortstack? I can’t be worrying about you here.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Really, Timothy? I am not an infant—”

“As you’ve said many times, Baby Brat.”

Damian huffed. “I accept your terms. But you must accept mine.”

They walked to the bus and transportation hub and sat on the bench. Tim double checked the tickets he bought from the Welcome Booth and quirked an eyebrow at the 10 year-old next to him. “What are those, gremlin?”

Damian straightened his back and looked at Tim seriously in the eyes. “First, you must promise not to lie to me. If I get too nosy or something, just tell me. Don’t. Don’t tell me something that’s not true.” Tim paused, but Damian’s face was grave and he could tell this was really important to him.

“I’ll try my hardest, Dami. Anything else?”

“Second, can we please see the cows, Timothy? Pretty please with cherries and chocolate on top?”

Tim barked out a laugh. “WHO taught you that?”

Damian’s cheeks pinked. “Richard.”

The bus pulled up and Tim and Damian boarded with their tickets. They grabbed a bench in the back for two people and Tim pushed Damian towards the window.

“I promise we’ll see the cows, Jack Hanna. Now, take a nap. It’s a three hour drive.”

“Where are we going?”

Tim smiled. “Monster hunting.”

Chapter 12: You Feelin' Right?

Chapter Text

When Tim was six, he watched a documentary on world legends and the real-life locations of those myths.

When Tim was six, he became fascinated by monster hunting.

(When Tim was six, he didn’t understand why.)

When Tim was six, Jack broke his arm for the first time after he accidentally spilled milk on some important papers his father was working on at the kitchen table.

Monster hunting became sort of a game to Tim. He kept a folder on his laptop of sightings, and scoured Reddit threads and message boards for the best spots. When Tim was nine, he hopped his neighbor’s fence, partly because he wanted to see his biological father up close, partly because he was interested in the party, and mostly because he just found out Bruce Wayne dressed up like a bat and prowled the night just like all the cryptids he scrapbooked.

Tim tried, just once, to share the story about the legend of the Wendigo with his mother. He had done a project on it in school (a diorama that got him an A+ and was featured in the classroom display case in which Mrs. Worden liked to put all the excellent projects in over the school year). His mom wrinkled her nose and walked away, but not before giving him a thirty minute lecture about how being “such an awkward child” would make it difficult to make connections when he got older. “You have to think of the company, Timothy, and our image. Can you just imagine what would happen if you said this crap in front of intelligent people?” Jack was a lot clearer about what he thought of Tim’s interests. When that diorama came home, he was told to put it in the trash and quit being such a “fucking weird baby moron.”

Tim put it in his closet, along with his quickly growing pile of Wayne/Batman memorabilia, articles, and pictures.

When Tim was 12, he had a nightmare at the Waynes. It was three in the morning, and he woke up sweating and panting—his brain chasing away wisps of dark figures coming after him with whips and hammers and knives. He opened the door quietly, and tip-toed down the large staircase to the foyer, and finally, creeped into the library. The lights were always on, Jason once told him, because it was the older boy’s go-to spot whenever he couldn’t sleep. Tim perused the shelves, and in the West Corner (because the room was large enough to have a West and East section), four beautifully illustrated books of myths, fables, and monsters were laying out on a table. Two huge beanbags were set up beside the table, with fluffy blankets and pillows surrounding them.

Tim looked up and down and around all the nearest corners. When he was sure no one else was there, he sat and began reading voraciously. He read for an hour, soaking in everything he could. He was so distracted that he didn’t hear the sound of heavy footsteps or the first throat clearing from the figure above him. He did hear the second throat clearing.

“Tim?”

Tim slammed the book shut and jumped up, squaring back his shoulders.

“Mr. Wayne…I mean Bruce. Hi. Hi. I’m sorry.”

Bruce’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m sorry to scare you kiddo. I thought I heard someone and I just wanted to check. No harm done at all. Are you—” he cleared his throat, “are you alright?”

“Yes sir! I’m sorry. I had trouble sleeping and Jason said it was ok to come down here but I didn’t mean to disturb you, and I—”

Bruce put out his hands, and shook his head. “Tim. Tim. Stop. You didn’t disturb me at all. And Jason was absolutely right. This room is open at all times. You are more than welcome here. You’re welcome in any part of this house. I want you to think of it as your house too, remember? As much as you want to at least.”

Tim looked down, hiding his blush. “Oh. Ok.”

With a grunt, Bruce fell back into the beanbag across from Tim’s. “So, what are you reading?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid.”

Bruce picked up the book Tim had dropped and looked through it, eyes lighting up. “Oh my goodness. I remember this one. I used to follow Alfred around with this all the time when I was a kid. Have you read the section about Nessie? I always liked to think when I was younger I was going to be the one to prove she was real. I know I have the company and everything, but one of these days I’m gonna get back out there.”

Tim’s mouth was hanging open but caught himself before Bruce looked back up. “You don’t think it’s kind of childish?”

Bruce’s eyes were kind and full of fire. “I think it’s brilliant.”

Much later, whenever Tim needed to disappear for a bit, he’d scour message boards, find a map of real-life monster sightings, close his eyes, and pick. He had already been to Mexico, Canada, and Japan.

This time, because the universe liked to make him the butt of all its jokes, it was Scotland.

“Timothy.” Damian’s sounded incredibly unimpressed. “You cannot be serious.”

Tim grinned and wrapped his arm around Damian’s shoulder. “Aw, Dames. C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

“I am not wearing that.”

They were standing in front of a large brick castle with a black and white sign spelling out The Loch Ness Centre and Exhibition. Tim was wearing a bright green sweatshirt with the outline of a sea monster in white and had placed a hat on Damian that said, “Nessie Doesn’t Believe in You Either.” He had also pushed a small plush toy into Damian’s arms that he had bought from a vendor outside the building.

Damian scowled, but was holding onto it tightly.

“Please, kiddo. For science?” Tim held out the scarf with little Loch Ness monsters embroidered on it and stuck his lip out like he was pouting.

“What are you doing?” Damian hissed. “That’s weird. Stop being weird. Fine. I’ll wear it.” Tim smiled triumphantly and wrapped it around Damian’s neck several times.

“Great! We’re right on time, too, Mr. Sourpuss.”

“On time for what?” Damian yawned, and Tim knew the kid was exhausted from the jet lag, but he didn’t want them falling asleep until at least 7 PM. He wanted to give their bodies a chance of adjusting to the time change before going exploring the next day.

“For that.” Tim pointed at a sign for a deep scan cruise meeting point, and the few people gathering in line.

“Timothy. This is for tourists. ”

Tim pretended to look shocked. “Okay, William Wallace, didn’t realize you were a local. My bad, Dami.”

The kid glared at him.

“You are seriously grumpy when you’re sleepy.” Tim gave Damian a protein bar and a bottle of water. “Just enjoy it. Don’t complain. You sound like Dick right now.”

“Richard doesn’t complain.”

Tim snorted. “Oh, you haven’t watched The Greatest Showman with him yet, have you? That’s so inaccurate, they don’t even do that at real circuses, who MADE this movie? He’s insufferable.”

Damian smiled.

The line moved forward a little bit and an announcement let them know the tour would be leaving in 15 minutes.

“What happened to your wrist, Timothy?”

Tim was resting it on top of Damian’s head while he took a picture of their surroundings with the other hand.

“I broke it, nosy.”

“But how ?”

“None of your beeswax.” He stuck his finger in his mouth and then put it in Damian’s ear. The kid yelped and everyone in line shot them annoyed looks.

“Did you know Father came to Scotland once?” Damian asked. Tim hummed interestedly.

“Pennyworth told me about it. Apparently it was very exciting. You should ask him about it.”

“I’m probably not going to do that, but maybe you can tell me the story at dinner tonight?”

Damian looked at Tim, who pretended to ignore his sharp stare and instead took a picture of his face.

“When. When I first came to Father, I didn’t understand many things about this country. About the things Richard or Jason would do or say. Pennyworth was busy and Father was at work or out of the house most of the time. I. I thought maybe he didn’t want me. I. I thought he was going to send me back.” Damian’s voice sounded small.

“That’s awful, Dames.”

“I got angry one morning before school. And I threw one of the cinnamon rolls Pennyworth made at Father’s head.”

Tim smirked. "I hope you got him good." Damian smiled.

“What happened next?”

“I ran upstairs to hide, but instead of hiding in my room, where I knew Richard would come for me right away, I went into the room across the hall. Your room.”

“Not my room, Dami.” Tim said gently.

The kid stamped his foot annoyedly. “ Let me finish. It was your room because it had a Star Battles comforter—”

“Star Wars.”

“—and a poster about some sea creature called Spongebob—”

“God, Dick and Jason really have no excuse.”

“AND there were pictures in your closet.”

Tim carefully did not look at Damian. He took another picture of the landscape. The line began to move and they boarded passenger vans to take them down to the dock. A Canadian family of four sat in front of Damian and Tim, and a large man in sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt, despite the winter wind and snow on the ground, sat behind them.

“Mmm.”

“Timothy.” Damian actually snapped at him. “I hid in your closet and found a shoebox of all the photos you took with Father and Richard and Jason.”

“Is there a point to this or are you being an annoying shit on purpose, Damian?” Tim said sharply. He regretted it immediately when he saw a flash of hurt in his brother’s eyes before quickly hiding it.

Tim sighed. Softer, he said, “Listen shortstack. That was years ago. Things change. People grow. I’m not that person anymore. I don’t like thinking about it.”

“It was two years ago.” Damian said, like he wasn’t 10 and two years wasn’t a lifetime for 10 year olds.

“Yes. It was two years ago. Listen, I know you weren’t here when everything happened, but just know, there was a reason, ok? And I know they’re good brothers, but it’s not ok for Dick and Jason to keep telling you to come over when I said no. And it’s not ok for your father to let you do it either.”

“But how can they be good and be doing something wrong? Why do you still say they’re good brothers or a good father and say they are unsafe? Richard said we’re not supposed to speak to you because you told the police you felt like you were in danger. But you’re smiling in those pictures. And Father sometimes cries in the library when he thinks we’re all asleep. I find him in the corner sometimes at 4 AM and I’ve never told him but sometimes I see Jason standing in front of the door to your room staring at it for hours. And Richard says he misses you but you won’t come home. And Pennyworth has a picture of you he keeps in his pocket, I’ve seen him take it out before. I just don’t understand. Is it me? Did I ruin everything when my mother dropped me off? Are you mad at me? Do you hate me? I can leave. I can go back to grandfather if that will make you happier.” Damian said everything in such a flurry of words that by the time he was done, he was breathing hard and his face was red.

At that moment, the van stopped and everyone was asked to exit. Tim and Damian were jostled to the front of the line and stepped onto a small boat. Damian was quiet and seemed embarrassed, and Tim’s mind was going a million miles an hour.

The tour guide grabbed a portable microphone and speaker and started the engine.

He nodded to Tim and Damian who were standing by the railing and in a thick Scottish accent and some very theatrical gravitas, began his speech. “Good af’ernoon, lads, lasses, and other gentlefolk. I’m Captain Hamish McFadden and today we search for the elusive Nessie of the Loch. Like many before ya, we’re going to use our cutting edge technology to scan the deep and see what the radar says. Mebbe you’ll be lucky, and come back with answers none have ever got.” Damian snorted meanly and scrubbed his face. He ignored Tim, and looked out at the lake.

It was hard to hear anything over the sound of the boat, but eventually, they stopped in front of Urquhart Castle and Captain Hamish turned off the engine. He told everyone they’d stay for 15 minutes for any pictures people wanted to take. The man in the Hawaiian shirt looked to be sleeping in the corner. The family of four were jostling around Tim and Damian to find a good photo op and the Captain was helping them get situated.

Damian walked to the other railing, away from the castle and Tim followed.

They both looked out into the rolling water. The cold was biting, and Tim wanted more than anything to wrap the scarf tighter around Damian’s neck.

So he did.

Then he pulled Damian into a hug that wasn’t super well received at first, as noted by Damian’s tight shoulders, but after half a minute, the kid relaxed and leaned into it. Tim didn’t comment on his red eyes when he finally pulled away. Tim leaned over the rail and turned to look at Damian.

“It is not your fault. It will never be your fault. I stopped talking to them before I even knew about you, kiddo. You are amazing, ok? You deserve the world. You deserve Bruce and Dick and Jason and Alfie and all the craziness and fun that they are. You deserve their love and you deserve to have a home with them.” He paused.

“Did you know that one of the oldest legends of the Loch Ness monster was a sighting in the 7th Century by an Irish monk? He talked about a water beast that could be scared away by making the sign of the cross. It was a silly story to proselytize people back then, but something silly, became legend. To this day, people search for Nessie, even though there’s no proof, even though it started with a silly story.”

Damian sniffed. “Tt. What does that have to do with anything, Timothy?” He sounded sullen, but looked at him sideways with a spark of interest.

“Nothing. But one time, when I had a really bad cold, Bruce stayed in my room and told me hours of facts like that until I fell asleep. That’s your dad, kiddo. He’s not the dangerous one, okay. I am. You’re not the problem, Dames. I am. And I’m doing my best here, but you’ve got to understand that I can’t protect you if you don’t listen to me.”

“But what do you need to protect me from then? I am very formidable. I have a sword.”

Tim couldn’t stop his laugh at that. He pulled Damian in front of him and wrapped his large coat around them both.

“A sword might work. But let’s leave the sharp objects alone for now. Dami, you’re 10. You don’t need to worry about crap like this, ok? I just really messed up and I’m trying to make it right. I can’t tell your brothers, because they wouldn’t understand, and I can’t tell Bruce, because he’s too close to it to be smart, and I can’t tell Alfie because of the same reason. Just. Can we have a good week and then we’ll go to London and I can drop you off with Alfred?”

“I don’t want to go back if I can’t talk to you at home.” And damn it , Damian was tearing up.

At a loss, Tim pulled him into another hug.

“Okay, shortstack. Okay. We’ll work something out. As long as you don’t tell anyone else.”

Damian nodded.

Neither of them noticed the man in the Hawaiian shirt watching silently from behind his sunglasses.

Chapter 13: You Build a Life

Chapter Text

Damian Wayne (Wayne now, not al Ghul, not any more) was raised surrounded by sharp things. Sharp rebukes, sharp discipline, sharp swords, and sharp expectations. His grandfather told him once, “Better die in honor from a blade you deserved, than live in shame with the weakness of pity.” He taught him this lesson when he was four, six, and right before his mother abandoned left him to his father at eight. He had precise scarring on his back and legs in which that lesson was firmly embedded. His new family (his real family? his only family?) tried to teach him that gentleness was not pity, and children were not meant to be raised with sharpness, but with kindness, love, patience, and inexplicably, the thing that Jason called “hot cocoa.” (“Ok, peanut, this is whipped cream. No matter what Dickhead says, you are not supposed to eat it straight from the can. Swirl it like this, as high as it will go without toppling, and then stick your face in it to drink the cocoa.” “ Jason !” “C’mon, Dickie, you can’t tell me that’s not the cutest shit you’ve ever seen?”)

Damian Wayne (always a Wayne, forever and ever said his father, no matter who says otherwise, not even those imbeciles at those awful galas he was made to go to) never felt like a child although his family was insistent about giving him horribly childish nicknames.

Peanut, Gizmo, Sweetheart, Baby Bat (which, this one made little sense until he discovered the secret his father and brothers kept from him until he accidentally discovered it about six months ago), Scoot, Scooter, Scout, Sourpatch Kid, Little Prince, Love.

It was positively embarrassing (why did it make his stomach flutter like that, that had never happened before).

When Damian first came to the manor, it was different, weird, strange. It was…contra? Contra? Contra-dic-tory. Richard was doting, overly so, like Damian was some sort of baby or something. He’d always come to his bedroom and try to pull him out, even though Damian knew children were better kept away until they reached the age of usefulness. That was apparently a BadLesson, which his father was constantly bringing up like some kind of parrot, since he said it all the time.

Kneeling when he thought was in trouble? BadLesson.

Waiting to eat until everyone else has eaten? BadLesson.

Calling everyone “sir”? BadLesson.

Cutting himself with a knife when he messed up? BadLesson .

Calling his classmates names and threatening them with death? BadLesson.

Damian’s first year at the manor was interspersed with counteracting all the BadLessons he was taught and smothering him with an absolutely ridonkulous amount of affection (Richard’s word, not his).

But it was also tinged with an intense type of grief that Damian had never borne witness to before. So much so that Damian shivered whenever he walked past a certain closed door in their hallway, or when dinner would go unexplainably quiet after he said something. Haunted was the word he was looking for. Damian wondered what kind of ghost would cause the people around him, for the most part, overly attentive and overly affectionate, to retreat into mere skeletons of themselves, sometimes for days.

He didn’t want to admit it but it scared him. He wondered if they could turn on a dime like that, would they do it with him? Did they even want him there in the first place? They said they did, but then sometimes, Jason would grunt at him instead of reading to him and sometimes, Richard would avoid him instead of taking him to his art classes, and sometimes, father would…

Father would…

He’d lock himself in his study for days at a time and come out only when Pennyworth would get him, wild haired and red-eyed, desk overflowing with papers. He’d hear him yelling at mysterious people on the phone—lawyers and reporters, he later learned—and when Damian would ask him to go on a walk, he’d do it but would stand by their back fence staring for a full five minutes before shaking his head and saying they should go inside.

Sometimes, “Call me Uncle Clark, It’s Nice to Meet You Damian” would stop by with a pie and a huge law book under his arm. His hair was always rumpled and tangled, like it had been blown by hurricane force winds. He’d retreat for hours into Father’s study and they’d come out, his father with a tentative smile and Uncle (which, the man was not related to them, and Damian thought it was a ridiculous moniker) Clark would always look less stressed than when he first came.

Damian was confused and scared and didn’t understand what was haunting his new family (his nice family, hissafe family), but he wanted to defeat it and kill it and bury it, whatever it was.

Of course, he wasn’t lying when he told Timothy about the cinnamon roll incident. It was also the first time he discovered that the ghost wasn’t an it but a who , and looking at Timothy’s pictures, hidden away in that dusty closet, felt like he was unlocking a part of himself that was missing something but could never figure out what it was.

And though his training (BadLesson) told him that asking questions was rude, when it came to the mystery of Timothy Drake, Damian couldn’t help himself. Richard was kind but vague. Jason was crude, but kind. His father was a nonstarter, which Damian learned very early on, when his question of “Why doesn’t Drake come around anymore? ” was met with a harsh, “His name is Tim. Remember that. ” Of course, his father apologized profusely an hour later, after he found him hiding in a wardrobe in the attic, but Damian learned not to bring Timothy up around him ever again. Pennyworth was actually the gold mine for satisfying Damian’s curiosity, and he learned so much from the man as they drank Chai together (it tasted like home , like grandfather’s , like his old country).

He learned so much that when Richard and Jason and his father were at parties late into the night (Batmanning, apparently, they didn’t even tell him, he found out on his own and wasn’t that a mind-bender, but if they weren’t going to trust him enough, then he didn’t have to let them know he knew), he would sneak over their hedge with his binoculars and climb Drake’s Timothy’s largest tree and watch him in his large, empty house.

He’d follow him to and from the grocery store and that seedy bar he always went to even though he was only 15 years old and to bridges and on top of buildings, and because Damian was taught to be stealthy (BadLesson) his neighbor never caught him.

But something happened one night when he was looking through his binoculars, something that confused him.

Pennyworth told Damian all about the papers Timothy asked the police to deliver. How those papers meant that his family couldn’t talk to him. How those papers were the reason his family walked around haunted. How those papers told a story that Timothy thought the Waynes were harmful to his safety and “emotional health.”

And Damian was confused because Timothy looked so happy in the photos he found, and so very sad in the empty house next door.

And once.

Once.

While Damian was watching from the Drake’s tree, on a rare night when Jack and Janet Drake were in town, Damian witnessed Timothy kneel just like he did (BadLesson). And Jack brought out a belt and Timothy.

Timothy.

Damian didn’t remember what happened actually because the next thing he knew, he was back in that wardrobe in the attic and his father found him shaking the next day, and Damian didn’t talk (couldn’t talk) for a whole weekend. His father and brothers and Pennyworth were obviously worried, but the words just wouldn’t come, and his father talked about getting Damian in something called therapy , so Damian did something extremely cowardly.

He said he thought he saw one of his grandfather’s assassins.

And he kept the secret of what he really saw in his heart.

(If he were still an al Guhl, he would have been killed for that cowardice. He would have been gutted alive. He would have been skewered. But he was a Wayne now. And he was nine. And he was confused.)

A year and a half or so after arriving at the manor, Damian found himself being fitted for a suit and whisked away for a haircut. Richard and Jason were teasing him about looking like a mini-Bruce, and his father actually started crying and pulled him into a hug. Damian had never seen such an outrageous display of emotion and wanted to hide away, but his brothers linked arms with him and tossed him in their frankly audacious car.

The Children’s Charity Banquet wasn’t an unworthy cause, by any means, but it was Damian’s introduction to the press on a formal level (not including the way they tried to harass him at school or bombard his brothers and father at the ice cream shop). They were controlled, whether from his father’s legal threats or the fact that it was the Daily Planet, and not Gotham Times, but he was still nervous.

The ballroom was filled with strangers dressed in fancy jewels and dresses and suits and even though it was a Children’s Banquet, there was a dearth of actual children. In fact, it was Damian and one other girl, a five-year-old who was following Damian around with pudding on her hands much to his disgust. The next group after Damian was a group of five or six teenagers, two to three years younger than Jason’s 19, and staring at him and snickering. He dodged the child again.

“Flora, I think I see your mom over by the photobooth. Want me to take you there?” A young, but smooth voice interrupted them. Damian looked over his shoulder and Timothy Drake (Wayne) was standing behind them, his eyes curious, but his face in a neutral smile.

“Yes please, Timmy.”

“Okay, Miss Bug, here, let’s wipe your hands before you get them all over me.” He picked up the girl and stuck out his hand to Damian who was embarrassed to say in absolute awe.

“Hi, we haven’t met yet. I’m Timothy Drake. I heard you came here about a year ago? These things can be overwhelming, kid, so don’t worry if you need a breather.”

Damian stiffened. “Tt, I’m fine.”

Timothy smiled like he knew Damian was bluffing, but he didn’t call him out. He shrugged casually. “Ok. If you’re ever not fine, there’s an alcove by the Men’s room that no one ever looks in. Just in case you needed a break or anything. It was nice meeting you.”

And with that, his neighbor (is that what he should call him?) walked away.

He watched Timothy from across the ballroom for the rest of the night. He watched as Richard and Jason tried to get close to him and he deftly avoided their every move. He watched as he bumped into Father and then quickly excused himself. He watched his father’s face crumble for one second before smoothing into a pained smile as he talked with donors. He watched as Timothy charmed most of the older men and women without saying anything of substance.

Right before leaving, Damian accidentally spilled his punch on Rhea Barlow, heir to Barlow Bouffants, a wig empire that Batman and the GCPD actually had put on a watch list because of how often it supplied wigs to the Joker and Riddler and their goons.

The girl screeched and threw her glass of champagne (though Damian was pretty sure she was too young to have champagne) in his face. Richard and Jason rushed over at the ruckus, glaring daggers at her.

“You animal! You’re nothing but an uncultured barbarian with a father who everyone knows probably beats you.” She spat.

“Fucking hold me back, Dickie, I’m going to hit a child.”

But Richard didn’t move to stop Jason, his eyes flinty. He instead grabbed Damian and held him against his chest. Damian’s face was burning as more people came to watch. He heard rushing in his ears, and he bit out, “I may be a barbarian, but you are a bitch,” —he had heard that word from one of Richard’s reality shows nobody in the family knew he watched—”I’ll cut off your ear for speaking that way to me.”

The crowd murmured and Rhea’s father grabbed her arm and pulled her away, talking about Waynes and the way they were really tanking Thomas and Martha’s legacy. The crowd dispersed, giving the brothers a wide berth, and to his horror, Damian could feel his eyes welling up with tears. He couldn’t take the twin looks of pity both Jason and Richard had on their faces.

“Want me to help you clean up, sweetheart?” Richard asked, but Damian jerked away from his grip.

“No. I can do it myself.”

Both Richard and Jason looked concerned but nodded.

“We’re going to grab the Old Man and then we’ll meet you in the lobby, okay, peanut?” Jason said and pulled Richard away.

Damian found his way to the large, ornate bathrooms and washed his face and scrubbed his tie. He left and noticed the alcove Timothy had mentioned. Not yet wanting to face his family’s concern, he ducked behind the curtain and sat down in the window seat.

People came in and out of the hallway, getting ready to leave. Damian wasn’t listening until a familiar voice came closer.

“Mr. Barlow?”

“Ah. Timothy Drake, how are you, son? I am so sorry we didn’t get a chance to speak with you tonight. Please give your parents my best and let them know I sent a new proposal for our partnership.”

“Mm.” Timothy didn’t sound impressed. There was a pregnant pause, and then—”I wonder if I might be allowed to share a concern I had?”

“Of course, champ. Anything. I know how hard it’s been for you this past year and a half.” The Barlow patriarch’s voice was dripping in honey.

“Yes, well. It's Rhea, sir. See, I know she was drinking tonight. And while we all understand these parties are a little more permissive than what’s come to be expected in larger society, I’m not sure Yale would appreciate a student with multiple disorderly charges on her record.”

“Multiple?” Barlow sputtered.

Timothy was falsely sympathetic. “Oh excuse me, sir. I thought you knew? Rhea has been downtown on weekends with her friends, sometimes early into the morning. She gets so drunk, the football team had to pay professional dry cleaners for the stains she left on their uniforms after sneaking onto their team bus. It's common knowledge in school. I just wonder what’s going to happen if she keeps going down this path. I’m very concerned. As her friend.”

“Yes. Her friend.” Barlow sounded dazed.

“Well, I was just thinking. It would be awful if she lost her scholarship. Her being an addict and all.”

“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Drake. Unfortunately, I need to go now.”

“Of course, Mr. Barlow. I will tell my parents about all aboutyou.”

The hallway quieted. Timothy’s steps had him going into the Men’s restroom. Damian was about to leave but felt rooted to his spot. Just five minutes later, he was glad he stayed hidden.

“Drake.” Rhea Barlow’s voice sounded shrill and angry and Timothy’s opened the Men’s Room door.

“Hiya, Rei-Rei. What’s up?”

“You little loser. What did you say to my father?”

“Oh nothing that wasn’t true. Maybe embellished a bit, but everyone knows you’re a bitch, Rhea, you’re just angry an almost-10 year old called you out on it.”

“Why you little—”

Timothy’s voice sounded cold and calmly rageful, if that even was a thing. From behind the curtain, Damian shivered.

“Careful. I’d hate for Drake Industries to accidentally bankrupt the only fortune you’ll ever have access to. As it is, I can do immeasurable damage to your future. Next time, you’ll think twice before calling a child names, when it is obviously you who are an uncultured animal. Now step out of my space, turn around to daddy, and leave Damian Wayne alone. And if your lackeys are still here, tell them that the next time I see them staring him down, what my mother does to competitors will look like child’s play compared to what I can do to them.”

It was at that moment that Timothy went from neighbor to brother, and there was nothing Damian wouldn’t do to get him back home.

After Damian made an utter fool of himself on that ridiculous tour with that ridiculous boat and his ridiculous hat and the ridiculous scarf, Timothy held his hand like a ridiculous child and made puns about that ridiculous monster throughout their whole tour through the ridiculous museum. He couldn’t shake the sense that they were being followed, but Richard called that hyper-vigilance (BadLesson), so he tried to ignore the prickling of goosebumps at the base of his neck.

He squeezed the ridiculous stuffed Nessie closer to him, and Timothy didn’t point out that he had not dropped it once throughout the day.

This was why Damian liked Timothy.

“So, Dames. Let’s go back to our B&B and get an early dinner and go to bed. I have a surprise for you in the morning.” Damian, who was more wrung out than he had ever felt in his life, just nodded. They boarded the bus and it took them about a quarter of a mile down the road. The B&B was also ridiculous, patently so, because it was decorated in very crudely drawn outlines of sea monsters and run by a woman who immediately pinched Damian’s cheeks upon seeing him.

Why he couldn’t inspire fear into the people around him, he didn’t know. He couldn’t wait for his growth spurt.

The lobby was empty save a vaguely familiar looking man reading a newspaper in the corner. He was wearing a fedora and had a large mustache and was decked out in a Loch Ness t-shirt and pajama pants with, again, that ridiculous monster.

Timothy was a genius! He was so smart and amazing and so, so cool, so this fascination with imaginary creatures escaped Damian. He didn’t understand it. But it seemed like everyone in this location had fallen victim to the same particular brand of mental deficiency. Damian decided not to point it out, since it was a condition of whether or not he could stay with his brother.

No complaining or whining. Tt. Like Damian would ever be so childish to whine.

They walked up to their room and Damian fell onto the bed closest to the window. Timothy pulled him up.

“Nuh-uh, Mr. Pre-Teen. Shower first, then you can sleep.”

“Timothy.” No. Damian was not whining, not at all.

“Dames. Please. Puberty is not kind to any of us. Do yourself a favor and get into good habits now.”

Damian rolled his eyes, but secretly? Yes, secretly he was pleased.

Phase 3 of his 25 Phase Plan to Get Timothy Home was going incredibly well:

Convince Timothy to want to be my brother.

He wasn’t sure if it could actually be crossed off yet, but surely teasing about body odor and making him take a shower was a brotherly thing. He saw Richard do that with Jason just last week.

Thirty-minutes later, Damian’s head hit the pillow and he drifted off to sleep. He could have sworn that he felt a kiss on his forehead and the covers tucked around him, but he couldn’t say for sure, for he was already halfway dreaming, about cows, serpents, and family.

Chapter 14: If the Sun Don't Rise

Chapter Text

After tucking Damian in (and when did this become his life? Dangerous. His brain warned him. Dangerous. It hissed. You are poison. It preened.), Tim turned out the lights and slipped out of the room, locking the door behind him.

He couldn’t get the look that Dami gave him, back on that van, out of his head. I can go back to grandfather if that would make you happier. Like fuck would Tim allow something like that.

He knew vaguely about the kid’s grandfather. Rumors of a secret assassin cult found in the mountains of Nepal, run by a Demon, as violent and striking as the mountain range around them. He only found this out after a lot of digging, something he was ashamed to say he wasn’t even interested in doing until about six months after the kid came to Gotham.

He was a jealous jerk who didn’t deserve the sweet heart Dami seemed to give away so freely.

When Damian first arrived on Bruce’s porch, Tim read the papers announcing the news (read the outrage from keyboard warriors about what they thought about Bruce’s parenting skills) and decided to work out his feelings in a very healthy and mature way.

He picked the lock on Jack’s liquor cabinet, and grabbing the most expensive bottle of whatever alcohol was in there at the time (he couldn’t remember, it was a blur), he rode his bike to Whitecross Bridge, and chose a spot that hung right over the train tracks. He sat in front of the railing, hidden from view of cars and nosy vigilantes, and proceeded to take small sips of the alcohol, letting it burn away all the hurt feelings that were churning inside him, all the feelings that, honestly, he was very not entitled to have.

He was fourteen and he was alone again and he knew, just like he knew when he was six, that at the end of the day, he had forced himself on a father that didn’t want him—never wanted him—and only put up with him because, at his heart, Bruce was kind and generous. It really didn’t matter what Bruce’s letters probably said. Tim’s brain knew the truth. Bastard.

His brain sounded a lot like Jack.

So what if Bruce had another biological child? So what if that child was welcomed with open arms the minute Bruce found out about him? The Lesson Jack taught him all those years ago (and all the years since) was clear and burrowed deep in his bones: Tim was the issue. It wasn’t that a child was unwanted by Bruce Wayne. It was that the child in question was Tim.

And sure. Maybe some of that was the alcohol talking. After all, Tim had almost convinced himself by the end, before everything went down, that the Waynes were, at the very least, fond of him.

They had said they loved him, of course, they had said he was an important part of their lives, but once Tim watched Janet convince a whole Board of Directors that she didn’t have any power over what Jack decided to do with the company, and Tim knew that people said things they didn’t mean all the time. He certainly did. I’m fine. It’s ok. Tell Jay I hope he gets better soon, I’m sorry I’m not there, don’t worry, I’ll be so safe at Space Camp but I can’t write this summer. I’ll see you when school starts.

Tim ended up drinking the entire bottle after sitting on the bridge for several hours. He got up after dropping the glass onto the tracks and giggled when it broke into a million pieces.

“Oops.” His brain was finally still and empty and he liked that, he liked that a lot, but some part of him quietly said that wasn’t necessarily a good thing .

The quiet part sounded a lot like Bruce.

“Shut…up. Shut up, you. I mean, me. Me, shut up.” That quiet part could go to die, honestly, it was the same part that said things like, you don’t deserve what they do to you, and you should tell the truth, and Dad and Dickie and Jay and Alfie would make it all better, they really want to, just let them.

The quiet part was a little shit with a superiority complex. Maybe he should stay away from drinking so much if the quiet part was going to keep opening its gaping maw.

“Maw. Heh. That’s a funny word.” Tim spun on the bridge and then walked the edge, the railing looking more and more like a challenge, than a deterrent.

In fact, it sounded like a good idea.

They’d be sad.

Bastard.

They’d be devastated.

Little idiot moron who just causes trouble everywhere he goes.

They love you.

“SHUT UP.”

A strong gust of wind and the sound of footsteps landing behind him had him groaning.

“Are you? Ahem. Hello, son, are you alright?”

“Fuck my life.”

The hero behind him (because Tim refused to turn around and acknowledge his reality) cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. What are you doing here? This isn’t even your city.”

Superman maneuvered himself between Tim and the railing. He wrinkled his nose.

“Have you been drinking, kid?”

“HaVe yOu BeEn DrInKiNg, kid?” Tim mocked. “What. Are you going to give me a PSA on why drinking is bad?” Tim shouted off the bridge. “HEY. GOTHAM. WAKE UP! THE FUCKING METROPOLIS SUPER SNITCH IS HERE TO SHOW US HOW TO BE BETTER PEOPLE!”

“Whoa, bud. You’re swaying a bit. Let’s get you home, huh?”

Tim threw up on Superman’s boots.

Later, after he was flown back to his empty house (he threw up again, once in the air—he was pleased to see it most definitely landed on Superman’s suit— and once in his mother’s rose bushes), Superman set him on his porch and rubbed his back. Tim made his way back inside and passed out on the couch.

The next day, his splitting headache made it clear that there were much better ways to handle his daddy issues, he just had to figure them out.

He never wondered how Superman knew where he lived, too preoccupied with what personality he could cultivate that would repulse the Waynes thoroughly enough to keep them away from him.

Tim walked down the hallway and stepped into the lobby. It was cast in shadows from the reading lamps scattered around the room. The overhead lights were turned off for mood lighting, and a few people were reading books by the fire. The bar was open, and Tim slid onto a barstool at the furthest end and began eating nuts out of a bowl in front of him. He waved down the bartender and requested a sparkling water with lemon.

Then he surveyed the room. His eyes narrowed at a particularly dark corner, and when the man sitting there looked up, he winced at the glare Tim shot him.

Tim didn’t say anything, he just slid off his stool and walked outside, pulling his hoodie tight around him and blowing warm air into his hands.

Five minutes later, he heard the front door open and then close again. He didn’t look at who joined him. He instead looked up at the clear winter sky and cursed. After a moment, he turned around and stared in disbelief at the man. He was wearing a kilt that clashed horrifically with an ugly tan sweater vest and a pink peacoat.

“I should call the authorities right now. Get you arrested on a stalking charge.”

“Somehow, I don’t think you’ll do that.”

“What are you doing here, Mr. Kent?”

“Tim.” Clark sounded sad. “You can still call me Uncle Clark, you know.”

“That’s stupid. We’re not related. Listen, whatever. I doubt you are just coincidentally writing a puff piece on the Loch Ness monster for your stupid paper. I can’t believe you’d just…” Tim waved a hand in the air like he couldn’t find the words. “Do his bidding. I made it clear I wanted him to leave me alone.”

“He knows that, Timmy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Tim, then. He knows, ok. He just wanted to make sure.”

“Figures. So he doesn’t trust me with Damian and wanted to send you like some sort of—what?—guard dog to make sure his kid is safe from the big, bad fuckup?”

“No” The rebuke was sharp coming from the typically gentle man. “Not to see if his kid was safe. To make sure his kids were safe.”

“I am fine on my own.”

“Are you?” The man said under his breath.

“Yes.” Tim bit out. “I’m doing wonderfully, perfect, amazing, thank you. In fact, any problem I have in my life is currently coming from anyone with the last name Wayne, your wife, and now, apparently, you.” He felt his last words come out bitterly, angrily. Like poison, like usual.

Clark acted like he didn’t care. He smiled tentatively. “Lois sends her love, by the way. She wanted to give you this and thought it might not be safe to send in the mail because of…you know…the DI lawyers?” Clark sounded a bit apologetic. He handed Tim a tin with a picture of a cat with mittens on it. Clark cleared his throat. “Um. It’s fudge.”

“Fuck my life.”

“Timmy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I don’t want to get in your way, ok. Let me just. Hang back. I can be here for back up. I’m not going to intrude. And I don’t have to go with you to meet Alfred or anything.”

“They told you about that? You know what. Nevermind. Apparently that family has no concept of boundaries. I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

“Tim.” Clark’s voice was soft.

“No. No Clark. I told Bruce and I told Dick and I told Jason what I wanted and they can’t even give me this, not even two days after I gave them my ultimatum. I’m so sorry your life is horrible because Bruce Wayne can’t fucking follow fucking directions, but this is not my problem.”

“Tim.”

“It’s not my problem.” Tim sighed, feeling supremely exhausted all of a sudden. Poison. His brain sang. “Here’s what you’re going to do. I’m going to bed. When I wake up in the morning, you are going to take Damian—”

“—What?”

“—You are going to take Damian and the both of you are going to fly back to Gotham and leave me the hell alone. Ok? If Bruce wants to know if the gremlin is safe, he can have him. No skin off my back.”

“Timmy.”

“STOP fucking calling me that. It’s Tim. Tim Drake. Not Timmy. God, Clark. I’m not part of the Wayne family any more. Can’t you just leave me alone? Can’t you tell Lois to leave me alone? Can’t you tell Bruce to just leave me the hell alone?”

Tim’s breath was visible in the cold and he shivered. A heavy coat draped over him. He didn’t look at the man beside him. He felt embarrassed and small and so, so out of his depth. Moron.

Quietly, he asked. “You’ll take Damian? First thing in the morning.”

Clark sighed heavily. “If that’s what you’re asking me to do, kiddo.”

Tim fixed him a steely glare. “That’s what I’m asking you to do. You owe me. If Bruce wants him to have adult supervision, he can have it. And you’ll leave me alone.”

“There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

Tim scoffed. “This obsession you all have with me is psychotic. We’ll be in the lobby at 9. You can take him then.”

And Tim dropped the coat to the ground in front of him and went back inside.

“What are we doing today, Timothy?” Damian yawned loudly. “You said it was a surprise! What’s the surprise?”

Tim, who had been lying awake all night, was already getting ready in the attached bathroom. He ignored the twinge of something that sat like a small pebble in his stomach.

"Um. You’ll see, Dami.”

The kid nodded and Tim spared him a look as he was sitting up in bed. The back of the kid’s hair was sticking straight up from sleep and he had the Nessie plush Tim bought him yesterday tucked under his arm, almost thoughtlessly, like he didn’t even notice it was there.

The pebble became a stone.

“Oh.” Damian crawled out of bed. “Pennyworth sent this along with me. One for me and one for you.” He dug into Bruce’s leather bag and pulled out a letter and two small boxes. “I waited to open it until you got yours. The letter’s also for you.”

Tim reluctantly grabbed the familiar looking cream envelope with the small Timmy written on its front. He put it to the side and opened the box. A keychain with a miniature figurine of a dove and a small hot chocolate bomb sat in the bottom innocently, as if it wasn’t some sort of sophisticated torture Alfred had devised specifically for him. As if it wasn’t proof that he was going to fuck everything up and disappoint everyone. As if it wasn’t proof that they would never stop caring about him, no matter what, not at all. Sprawled on a strip of paper was Alfred’s loopy calligraphy: No matter where you find yourself, know you are loved. -–- A

“What did you get?” Damian’s face had chocolate on it, having already devoured the bar Alfred sent him. Tim tossed him a wet paper towel and shrugged.

“Just hot chocolate. Go get ready, sugar monster.”

Damian gently placed his plush in his bag and stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door. The cream envelope stared at him. Tim glared back.

Open it.

Seriously, that small voice could fuck itself.

The letter was in his hands.

Dangerous. His brain retorted. It was almost 9 and Clark would be waiting. Tim could hear Damian humming “Hit Me Baby One More Time” in the bathroom. A Dick-influence for sure.

The letter was open.

Tim faced the trash can in the room and considered his options.

“About the surprise, Timothy?” Damian called out. “Is it somewhere we’re going or something we’re eating? Can you show me how to take pictures today with your camera? I wanted to show Richard and Jason that hideous art in the lobby.”

The stone became a boulder.

Burn it.

Just once. Read it just once.

“Yeah, sure Dames.” Tim said distractedly. He opened the envelope and several handwritten pages fell out. It was a lot longer than most of the ones he had burned.

Day 822

Letter #815

From the desk of Bruce T. Wayne

I have a lot of regrets, Timmy, but my most recent one in a very long line of them is letting you walk out of that room this morning (the other morning depending on when you get this) without us telling you how much we love you. That is an immutable fact, kiddo. No matter what. No matter what you say or do or what you are going through or what you think, that is an immutable fact.

By now, you are abroad and I am heartbroken. I can't be with you. Telling you how sorry I am. How very sorry I am. For several mistakes, long before we even got to this point. I want to let you say all the things you need to say to me. To your brothers. Know that I want to be there with you. But right now, your brothers and I have a mission that can’t be ignored. I trust you will take brilliant care of Damian—he idolizes you. (You are whip smart, kiddo, and so, so observant. So by now you must have figured out who I sent to watch out for you both. Please don’t hold it against him, love. I trust you so much. I just need to know my boys are safe. Please be safe.)

I know you said you didn’t want another letter from me, Sunshine. Allow me to send you just one more. After this, I am going to respect your wishes. I won’t put these under your door anymore. I will stay away until you say so. I know I have been so bad about that these past two years. We all have.

You were right. I was pushing, and it wasn’t fair to you at all. I shouldn’t have put you in a position to feel unsafe. I hope you don’t feel that way with your little brother now, on your trip, but I will make sure, once you both get home, that you will never be in a position again where you feel cornered.

I’ll talk to Dami when he gets back and I will make sure Dickie and Jay understand how important it is to respect the boundaries you gave us. But I won’t stop writing. If you ever find yourself wanting to, whether it’s a month from now, or thirty years from now, you can find these in a secure lockbox. You know who I am, son. (And, if you will, allow me space to say again how brilliant and wonderful that is. You’ve known for a long time, haven’t you, kid? You must have felt so lonely keeping that secret.) Trust that the lockbox is extremely well protected and away from surveillance. (If that’s a concern you might have?) I’ve included instructions for accessing it below.

Be well, Timmy, my brave and brilliant boy. Please remember, night or day, if you need me for anything, I will be there. No matter what it is. No matter what you need. You only have to say the words.

All my love,

B

P.S. If you bully Clark, he will cry. I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve it for a lot of reasons, but not this one. I practically forced his hand. If he cries, at least take a picture of it for me, sweetheart. I need a new screensaver.

“Timothy!” Damian opened the door, and Tim quickly scrubbed his eyes. “Timothy, are we staying in this…hotel”, he said it like he was unsure it was worthy to call it such, “another night, or do I need to pack my things for wherever we’re going next?”

Tim sniffed and blew his nose in a tissue. At Damian’s questioning face, he shrugged. “Allergies.” He tucked the letter at the bottom of his duffle bag and stood up straight.

“Um. Go ahead and leave everything here, shortstack. Bring whatever you want for the day, but we’ll come back here tonight.”

The boulder disappeared.

Idiot.

Smart.

Tim closed the door and locked it, his camera and a few other things in a side satchel he had brought with him. He put his re-wrapped wrist (he had gotten up early that morning to do it) on Damian’s head and pushed the boy in front of him.

“March, kiddo.”

He pushed him through the lobby and while Damian was trying to dodge the woman running the B&B who went to pinch his cheeks again, he stuck his middle finger out at the figure sitting in the corner of the room.

“C’mon Dames. Let’s eat breakfast and then I’ll tell you what I’ve got planned.”

If Clark smiled in relief, Tim didn’t see it. He was busy eating bacon and keeping Damian from pouring the entire sugar bowl over his scones.

Chapter 15: You're Feeling Lost

Chapter Text

Tim got the call, not from Bruce, but from Dick.

“Tim.” His voice sounded stressed.

“Dickie?”

“Oh thank god. Tim, we’ve been trying to get in touch with you since last night. Are you ok?”

Okay was relative, really. Tim was only answering the phone because Jack and Janet had left that morning, and he was able to pick the lock and grab it out of the lockbox. Tim was actually laying on the floor next to it, since it had taken upwards of an hour to drag himself from the basement to the study where Jack kept it.

“Yeah! I’m good. I’m sorry, my phone died and I was with Mom and Dad all night. Are you alright? You sound weird.”

“Are you at home, Timmy? Have your parents left? Can I come get you?”

“Uh. Hold on Dickie, I got to check what the plan is for today.” Tim put the phone down for five minutes and tried to breathe through the pain. His side was killing him, and he was pretty sure his face was swelling. Maybe a broken nose? Craaaaaaaaaaaaap. Crap. Crapity crap crap.

“Are you there, Dick? Sorry.”

“I’m on my way to get you, bud. I need to tell you something.”

“NO. I mean, no. I’m so, so sorry, but my parents are bringing me to a final interview today. For Space Camp. The one in Houston? I. I didn’t tell you guys because I wasn’t sure I would get it and I wanted it to be a surprise. Can you tell me over the phone?”

Dick sighed, and it sounded watery. Tim’s stomach dropped.

“What happened?” Tim’s voice was small.

“It’s Jay, Timmy. He’s alright, baby, he’s going to be alright.” Dick paused and corrected himself, “He’s alive. But there was an…accident last night.”

Tim’s hands started shaking. Already, tears were welling up in his eyes. Dick’s voice sounded quiet over the rushing in his ears. Tim’s voice was strangled. “---what…what kind of accident?”

“Kiddo, breathe, okay? Like we practiced. In for 3, out for 5. Do it with me. There you go. Good job. Jason was downtown for a school project and. Well. There was an incident with the. The Joker,” Dick choked. “He. He took Jay, Timmy. He hurt him really badly. Batman heard about it and got there in time, thank fuc–frick, but he’s in bad shape, baby. He’s. They put him in an induced-coma until he’s more stable. They are saying it’s going to be months, if not at least a year of physical therapy, and possible brain trauma. They’re waiting for the swelling to go down to know for sure.”

Despite Dick's help, Tim still felt like he couldn’t breathe. (He wasn’t sure if it was his ribs or his panic or maybe he was in a very bad dream—maybe his life up to now had been a very bad dream.) He had some awareness of Dick calling his name, but he felt numb and tired.

He looked down. Oh. That was probably from all the bruising.

“I. I’m sorry, Dick. I need to go. My parents are here. I’ll text you?”

“Yes, please. We love you so much. We’re at Mercy right now, in a private room. Bruce or I will text you with the room number and the family code to get updates. They probably won’t wake him up for another few days. And please tell us about Space Camp? We still want to know everything. Maybe you can come see us in a few days? Alfie can pick you up or I can.”

“Yeah. I. I’ll see.”

“Love you, bug.”

“Love you too, Dickie.”

Tim hung up and burst into tears. Huge, heaving sobs which burned his throat and hurt his side. His ribs were definitely bruised, and he knew he had handprints on his neck. The back of his thighs were stinging, and he could feel a tiny bit of tacky blood staining his sweatpants.

A few hours later, Tim gingerly rolled to the side and worked on standing up. He slowly made his way to the kitchen, where there was a stash of Advil and Tylenol. He read the back of the labels and took two each. Then he laid his head against the cold stainless steel of the fridge.

He needed a plan.

He needed to see Jace.

He needed to make sure nothing was broken.

He needed an excuse.

Gosh, this would make him the worst person in the world. He couldn’t just abandon Jason after such an awful attack. But Tim knew that if the Waynes saw him like this—if Bruce saw him like this—they’d be horrified. All that care and attention for Jason’s injuries would be split for his. He couldn’t do that to Jason. He wasn’t going to just insert himself (anymore than he already had, at least) like a burr or thorn, begging for caretaking like he couldn’t handle himself. And what if they found out it was Jack who did this? Tim was already embarrassed that he wedged himself in his biological father’s life when he didn’t originally want him. They’d be stuck with him forever if they found out. And. And. It was embarrassing. (It was so embarrassing.) If it were Dick or Jason, they would have fought back. They would have told someone. A teacher. A police officer. They wouldn’t have let it go on so long. They wouldn’t have been a pathetic attention-seeking shrimp like him. They wouldn’t have cowarded or cried or begged the way Tim did.

They were so much better than him. Totally worthy of being Batman’s sons.

Tim sighed. He knew if he stayed in his house, someone would come check on him. And sure, maybe Batman had some secret ability to see the Space Camp roster, but he would only do that if he were suspicious. If he cared enough to look. And luckily—god, NO, not luckily, he’s such a monster, Jay doesn’t deserve having such a monster for a little brother—unluckily, Bruce would be too distracted caring for his profoundly hurt son to go digging. As long as Tim stayed in touch.

He texted Jack to thank him for the lesson. (Which was expected after every single punishment. A rule established since before Tim could ride a bike.)

He texted his mom and let her know that Ives invited him to go to summer camp with him. (“It’s more of an academic/boot camp. It looks very good on college applications, I attached information above.”)

He bought several bus tickets online and hacked into the Drakes’ business account to make reservations for a hotel in Nevada. Bernard was telling him about a magic show he saw there with his family. That could be cool. He’d have to hire someone to walk through the casinos with if he wanted to do a buffet or anything, but he was sure there were plenty down-on-his-luck guys who would jump at the cash he could offer them. He looked too young to get away with a fake id still. Heck, that’s why he was taking a bus instead of a plane. 12 was still young enough for those dorky Unaccompanied Minor tags. He shivered in embarrassment just thinking about it. He’d carry mace or something, but he was smart. He’d probably spend most of the three months binging Brooklyn Nine-Nine and eating room service, anyway. Whatever. He’d figure it all out once he got there.

Besides, wasn’t Area 51 in Nevada? Man, Tim could really try to get some answers there. Or at least fill a page in his scrapbook. Maybe they made t-shirts!

Feeling a bit better having a plan of action, he decided not to leave for a couple days to make a believable time between interviewing for Space Camp and going to Houston. He texted Dickie and Alfie and Bruce for updates every 45 minutes—they had included him in their family chat the minute Tim got his cell phone when he turned ten—and he began to fudge the truth.

Yes. I’m doing ok.

The interview went great.

Mom and dad are taking me for ice cream to celebrate.

I wish I could be there, I’m so tired.

Good morning! How is Jason?

I can’t. Dad woke me up early. We’re going camping for the weekend just in case I’m gone for 3 months.

I’m back! Guess what! I got accepted. I leave tomorrow.

I’m so sorry. I feel so bad. I really want to see him.

Oh no! My parents are leaving for their trip early so they’re going to drop me off in Houston before they head to Chile.

Love you. I promise I’ll keep in touch. Email me!

Three days passed, and Tim’s bruises were darker and uglier than when he got them. His side ached fiercely, and Tim debated if he should see Dr. Leslie or if he should go somewhere in Las Vegas. As much as Dr. Leslie had always promised to keep things confidential, he was probably a little too janky looking to pass this one off as a skateboarding injury. Maybe his hired Nevada guy could pretend to be his uncle or something and take him to an urgent care. One that didn’t ask questions or call CPS. Maybe a pay-under-the-table doctor. (Did they make those? He needed the doctor like that cheap one in the Simpsons.) His nose was definitely broken, and even though his throat was healing, he still talked in a raspy voice. (When Bruce called early, he told him he had spent the day with Ives down at the Bristol County fair, screaming on roller-coasters. Bruce sounded distracted—obviously—and oh’d and ah’d in all the right places, but Tim could tell he wasn’t really listening. Which was good. Tim didn’t want to be seen as such a crappy brother that he would refuse to go to the hospital but not the fair. Jay definitely didn’t deserve that.)

Tim’s bus left at 4 in the morning. Since the depot was next to Mercy General, Tim arrived several hours before and watched the entrance. Around 10 PM, Dick and Bruce walked out with Alfred trailing behind them. They all looked like ghosts, like they hadn’t slept in ages. They got in their car (Tim double-checked, Alfred drove) and left, heading down the road that would take them to their manor.

Tim walked into the visitor entrance, grabbed a tag that had been discarded in the trash outside, and pushed the button for the elevator that would take him to the PICU. He rode it up and when the doors opened, he hid behind a large artificial plant decorating the colorful waiting room. A very exhausted family with bags from Bat Burger exited the elevators a few minutes later, and Tim slipped behind them as the nurses buzzed them in. He looked for the room number Dickie had texted him. He had his hoodie pulled over his head, the strings pulled tightly so most of his bruises were covered. He was wearing long sleeves and long pants and everything was dark, not that that would make a difference in a brightly lit hospital, but he was hoping he could make it to Jason’s room without anyone stopping him.

Jason’s room was the furthest from the nurse’s station and the light was dimmed. He opened the door quietly and slipped in. It was spacious, which was not surprising given whose son was in the bed, and had an attached bathroom, a pull-out couch for sleeping, a huge reclining armchair, and a big flatscreen television. The bed Jason was in (Tim was resolutely not looking right now) looked larger than most hospital beds.

Tim was not looking, and he wondered if he’d ever be courageous enough to deserve the Waynes. Finally…

Finally, Tim lifted his eyes. The bed was surrounded by monitors and machines, IVs and IV poles, and Jason.

Jason.

Oh god. Jay.

He was intubated, his face barely recognizable through the swelling. His head was wrapped tightly. His arms and legs were suspended in casts, and his neck was in a brace. Tim could barely see his fingers, which were also swollen, poking out from the bandages. His chest was moving up and down which was the only thing currently keeping Tim from collapsing on the ground. The storm that was gathering behind Tim’s eyes felt like a betrayal. What right did he have to cry over this? Jason was in so much pain, it would take forever for him to recover from this, and here Tim was, just going to leave him, leave him because he couldn’t be a good son, ever, he couldn’t even do the simple thing and follow directions enough for Jack to leave him alone, he couldn’t figure out how to be a brother, he was just.

Useless.

Tim crept up to Jason, tears now streaming silently down his face. He lightly touched Jason’s fingers, so afraid of hurting him further, he touched him gently, like a china doll, like one of Jack and Janet’s artifacts.

He cleared his throat and with a raspy whisper, he began to confess.

“Hi Jace. Um. I really wanted to come see you sooner, but, but I couldn’t. I’m so sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I know.” He sniffed and tried to stop crying. “I know you probably can’t hear me right now. I hope the Joker dies for this. Fudge. I hope he dies, Jay. I really do. I know that makes me an awful person, but I. You don’t deserve this. You’re the best brother ever, ok? You and Dickie. You make things better. You make it so good and you can’t. You got to get better, ok? You got to come back and we can play Mario Kart and Zelda again and you can teach me how to do that punch like you told me you would and you were going to drive me to the beach when you got your license. You are so close, Jay. You were going to get it next week. You still can, right? They said you would get better. I’m sorry. You just. You just look so…scary. I’m so sorry. I wish it could have been me instead.” Tim must have imagined the movement in Jason’s fingers at that.

“I wish it could have, really. You are a good Robin, Jason. You are the best. Dickie was so, so good, but you are like magic. You saved me, you know. On your birthday. Inviting me and all that. You didn’t have to. I don’t know what I’d do without you, please be ok. Please please please be ok. I. It’s getting late and I need to leave before Dickie and B and Alfie come back. I. I’m going away for a while.” He definitely imagined a squeeze there. Gosh, he was going crazy.

“I have to go Jay, I can’t stay like this. My…Jack kind of went overboard this time. I’m fine. I really am, I promise, but I have to go so you can be ok. Ok? Please be ok. I love you so much. Wake up soon. Ok. I need to go. I love you, please get better.”

Tim kissed Jason’s fingers lightly, not wanting to hug him or move any of the millions of wires sticking out of him. He went into the bathroom, the automatic light briefly blinding him. He splashed water on his face, trying not to touch the bruising around his eyes since it still hurt so badly.

He listened out the door to make sure the nurses were away, and slipping out, he walked back to the elevators. Just as he was getting in, the elevator across from him dinged and Bruce walked out, carrying a stack of books and Wonder Woman blanket in a large, zipped, bed comforter bag. He quickly backed up into the corner and pretended to look down at his phone. Luckily the doors closed, and he traveled to the lobby and walked a mile and a half to the bus depot.

He got there just in time. He grabbed a window seat in the back and tried very, very hard not to think about anything.

He didn’t succeed.

“Are you serious? Timothy. Are. You. Serious?”

Tim tried not to grin at Damian’s frankly young and awed voice as the bus dropped them off.

“It’s one of only three animal sanctuaries in the country. And this is the only one that lets you tour all year round instead of only in the summer. Of course, it pays to be filthy rich for a little extra razzle-dazzle.” Tim wiggled his eyebrows and poked Damian playfully in the side.

The kid didn’t squeal but it was a close thing, and Tim tried to beat back the smugness that was bubbling up at making Damian smile like that.

They walked to the gated entrance and Tim rang the buzzer.

“Yes?”

“Alvin Draper and Theodore Draper, here for the 11 o’clock tour?” Damian scoffed at the aliases Tim came up for them, having told him yesterday they sounded ridiculous. Tim was never ever going to tell Damian the inspiration. But he desperately wished he could be there when Dick finally showed the kid the cartoon.

“Aye! Perfect. My da’ is on his way to pick you up in the tractor. We’re so excited to have you.” A young-ish voice said over the intercom. Damian was practically bouncing on his feet by the time the gate opened a tractor pulling a large wagon. An older man with a long braided red beard, sparkling eyes, and a straw hat waved at them from the wheel.

“Hop in lads. It’s nice to meet you. Are you the one who called us yesterday?” He gestured at Tim who nodded.

“Yes, sir. Thank you for getting us in on such short notice.”

“Nae bother. Thank you for your generous donation, lad. It will cover our costs for at least half a year.”

“Well, it’s definitely worth it from what I saw online.”

“Alvin.” Damian pulled on his shirt. “Let’s gooooooo.”

Tim laughed and hoisted Damian up in the large cart, ignoring his protest of I can do it myself, Alvin. He hopped in after him and they both scooted close together on the hay bales set up as seats. The man turned around. “Callum Baird, at your service. We’ll stop at the main barn, my daughter has a lunch set up for you boys, and then we’ll tour the property? It’s a little snowy in some parts and most of our animals are inside, but Frodo and Sam and Galadriel and Arwen and Gollum are in the field. I checked this morning.”

Tim laughed and Damian looked confused. “Are. Are those Scottish names?”

“No, Dr. Doolittle. Christ, what in the world have Dick and Jason been doing with you these past two years? It’s from a popular book series. A series of movies too. We’ll have to watch them some time.”

Tim, who didn’t even notice what he had offered, turned to watch the landscape rush by and missed the triumph in Damian’s eyes.

They rode up to a very large, bricked building and Callum turned off the tractor. He helped both Damian and Tim down (“Oh that’s alright, Mr. Baird, I can get it.” “No need, boy-o, I got ya.”) and walked them over to a large table right inside the barn. Portable heaters were going and the table was spread with a large smattering of food. A college-age girl with very curly red hair, glasses, and a shirt with tiny cows printed on it bounded up to them. Damian eyed the shirt with admiration and Tim had to hide yet another grin.

“Hiya! I’m Fiona, and I’ll be taking you around t’day after dinner, of course.” She turned kindly to Damian. “Your brother said you eat mostly vegan if you can, right?” Damian nodded. “Terrific. We’ve got several options.”

Tim was grateful that both Fiona and Callum treated Damian with the same respect and seriousness as they did with him. They were neither condescending or overly sweet despite the fact (to Tim’s eternal chagrin) both of them had baby faces.

Tim had to nudge Damian to eat several times, since they were sitting at the front of the barn and several cats were weaving in and out of his legs. At one point, he got up to follow a fluffy chicken (were all the animals in Scotland fluffy?) and Tim had to pull him down by the back of his shirt.

When they were done, Callum got up from the table and clapped his hands together. “Alright seedlings—” Damian scrunched his nose at the nickname, “—let’s show you around our home.”

And that’s what they did.

After a couple hours of petting sheep and holding chickens and chasing cats and dodging goats, Callum and Fiona invited Damian and Tim into the backseat of their pickup truck.

“Ready to see the coo’s?” Fiona asked.

Tim could have sworn there were tears in Damian’s eyes, but he just smiled and looked out the window.

“Timo—Alvin.” Damian asked after two more hours wandering the pasture and making sure he pet Frodo and Sam and Gladriel and Arwen and Gollum equally and at least four times each. (Gollum got six, actually because according to Damian, he was the one who needed the most rehabilitation. Tim didn’t know why he tossed him a sideways look when he said that.)

“Yeah, Theo?” They were riding back to the main barn in the truck. The sun was setting and Callum promised to get them to their bus stop on time to head back to their B&B.

“Can we live here forever?”

“I think your dad wouldn’t like that very much.”

“He could come live here too.”

“While that would be very cool, he’s got a lot of responsibilities back home, bud. He’s probably not going to drop everything, even if it is for the best son in the world.” Tim ruffled his hair and instead of leaning away, Damian yawned and laid on him.

He drifted off to sleep immediately.

“You’re a mighty fine brother, Alvin.” Tim’s cheeks pinked at Callum’s words.

“I don’t know about that.”

Callum looked at him in the rearview mirror speculatively. “Hmm. You know what they say about respecting your elders, son?”

“Yes sir.” Tim said automatically, unaware of his straightening shoulders.

“Well, that’s a load of hogwash, don’t fallow th’t advice if the elders donnae earn your respect, ya hear, but all that to say, I am pretty up there in years. I know a thing or too. And I know, like I know the sun will rise every day and we will get up to greet it no matter how hard the day before it was, that you. are. good. and that boy is damn lucky to have you.”

“...thank you.” Tim said quietly.

“Aye. You’re a fine lad. You’ll be alright.”

They stopped and Callum lifted Damian out of the truck and carried him to the bus stop. Tim woke him up and they both waved goodbye until they could no longer see the gate.

Chapter 16: Where Are You?

Chapter Text

When they entered the B&B that night, Damian was asleep again, this time clinging to Tim’s back. Tim waved at the bartender and the night staff, who cooed at the impromptu piggyback ride that happened from the bus station to the lobby. Other than the obligatory middle finger for the stalker in the corner, he resolutely ignored Kent, who was now wearing a polka dot silk shirt and purple corduroy pants.

He walked up the stairs to their room and tipped Damian into bed. He gently slipped off the kid’s shoes and socks, and changed him into the fleece Wonder Woman pajama pants that were lying inside Damian’s bag. (And there was the thing he stole from Red Hood.) Damian’s feet felt cold, so Tim grabbed some wool socks from his own bag and put them on. He then pushed his brother’s hair back and gave him a kiss on his forehead. Turning off the bedside lamp, he crept over quietly to his side of the room.

Tim’s eyes drifted to his luggage, and then away from it just as quickly. He didn’t know what to think about Bruce’s letter. He knew it was a fucking bad idea to keep it, but.

But.

There was an uncertainty settling in his heart. The kind of uncertainty that was familiar, but extremely, incredibly dangerous. Because the last time he felt like this, he made a horribly stupid mistake:

It was a year after his self-imposed exile from the Wayne family. A year of dodging his annoying family neighbors and changing his phone number and he finally—finally—found some sort of equilibrium. Sure, he was also engaging in some increasingly…concerning behaviors, but really, what’s a little pot and cliff diving in the grand scope of his life?

Six months before he met Damian at that gala, Jack had a layover in Gotham. He was going from a business meeting in London to a vacation in Honolulu with his mother. Tim had, because he was an idiot of the highest order, not been at home to welcome him. (Which, as far as Jack’s rules went, was equal to TalkingBack or ShowingSass or, BeingDisrespectful.) So when Tim got the text message that read Home. Now. Or Else., he panicked. He panicked like he was three and not fifteen. It could have been because he was in the Narrows and nowhere near Bristol. It could have been because the bus strike added an extra three hours to his journey home. It could have been because he was sleep deprived after four straight days of nightmares and a week of secondary insomnia. It could have been because he had just dodged another “lesson” from Butt-face and Abby for the third time that month. Whatever Tim’s problem was, however, did not matter, because at the end of the day, he did a phenomenally stupid, stupid, idiot, stupid thing.

He silenced his phone (now with sixty more messages, increasing in threats, tone, and expletives) and turned left instead of right. He walked up the familiar, winding path, lined with trees and up to the iron gate. And he stood by the intercom, and for an impossibly long two minutes, stared at the call button.

“Tim?”

A voice behind him made him jump. Dick was in workout clothes, sweaty as if he had just come from a run, and had his Airpods in his hand. He looked a little confused and a lot concerned. He reached out for a moment, but when Tim scooted back, he dropped his hand.

“Baby, are you alright?”

Tim hadn’t talked to Dick outside of Nightwing in three months, and the last time he rebuffed him was at the Bat Burger on Elm. He cussed him out and threatened to call the cops.

Tim twisted his hands, and his phone vibrating incessantly in his pocket sent shivers up his spine.

“I…” Tim stalled.

“Are you safe?”

Tell him.

“Um. I just.” His phone was vibrating incessantly. Tim felt it like an earthquake, like the destructive, destroying power of a natural disaster. “I.” Tears inexplicably welled up behind his eyes.

“Can I—shit, Timmy—can I give you a hug?”

Tim nodded, not trusting his voice. Dick moved quickly, quicker than he had ever seen him in the uniform, and wrapped his arms around Tim tightly. Tim’s head rested on his chest, and Dick rubbed his back. The hug was warm and constricting and safe and so, so familiar. So familiar, so home , that it made the tears threatening to spill over finally stream down his face.

“Baby, please tell me what’s going on. You’re scaring me, kiddo. You’ve been scaring me, so much.”

Tim sniffed. The phone stopped vibrating and he could feel his heartbeat try desperately to slow down. He thought about what he was going to do and instantly bile rose to the back of his throat.

He stopped hugging Dick and turned and vomited all over the Waynes’ lawn. Dick rubbed his back. He took his shirt off and handed it to him to wipe his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Dick. I shouldn’t have come here. I need to get back home.”

Dick looked pained. “Are you sick? Hurt? Come inside for a second and let Alfred get you some sparkling water at least? Please? B’s not here and Jason has classes all day.”

“No, I gotta go. I’m sorry. Please forget this. Please .” Tim begged.

“Tim—”

“Dickie, if you care about me at all, you will forget I was here and let. this. go. Please.” He was backing up, back down the drive, back towards his house. He was resolute. He didn’t know what had come over him. He was so close to spilling everything and why? Because he couldn’t handle a little punishment? Because he was a crybaby? His mother’s words rang in his ears, “Your future is not with the Waynes. I will not stand for it. And as you know, I get what I want.”

Dick grabbed Tim’s arm before he could leave. His voice was low and serious. “You can come to me any time, alright? Any time. I won’t be mad whatever it is. If you’re in trouble, you’ve got to tell me. I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me. Please be safe. Promise me, bug.”

“I promise. I’ll be safe.”

And later that night, locked in the basement, he winced and wondered if he would be a coward for the rest of his life.

The problem with the Waynes, Tim thought, was that they were too tenacious for their own good. Why they couldn’t let him go, he didn’t understand. It wasn’t like he added anything but trouble to their dynamic. Even when he was a kid, they were all the time trying to draw him out of his shell and handle him when he got all quiet and moody. He knew how much of an annoying shit he was on the good days, and they had seen plenty of his bad days. And then? And then . What the heck was going on with his brain that Bruce finally agreeing to respect his boundaries didn’t fill him with euphoria, but a deep sense of foreboding and disappointment. What did he even expect from the man? It was incredibly shitty, selfish, and egotistical of himself to ask for one thing and then, when he finally got it, be upset by it.

Tim shook his head, like he was trying to shake away all the unhelpful thoughts. He checked Jack and Janet’s location trackers, plugged in his phone, and turned off all the lights. As he slipped into bed, he stared up at the ceiling and wondered what to do with this very unfortunate fondness he was feeling towards Damian.

“Timothy.”

“I thought you were asleep, shortstack?”

“I woke up.”

Tim laughed. “Obviously.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Did you try counting sheep?”

“There are no sheep here, Timothy.”

“It’s an idiom, Dames. It just means calming your body down and thinking of something unimportant.”

“Sheep will never be unimportant,” the kid said seriously.

“Noted. Well. Do you want to talk about something?”

Damian sounded unsure. “Richard said that sometimes brothers share secrets. Do. Do you want to share secrets tonight?”

Tim looked up at the ceiling. The room was dark and it made it easier somehow to talk to this kid who had drilled deep into his heart. (His brother.)

“Sure, Dami.”

“I’ll go first.” Damian let out a big sigh. “This might be shocking, Timothy. Are you ready?”

Tim laughed a bit. “Yeah, kiddo. Lay it on me.”

“Our father and older brothers do not just go to parties every night.”

The room was silent. Tim could see where this was going. He stifled another laugh. “Oh yeah, Dames? What are they doing instead?”

“They are…” And he paused dramatically, a move that Tim could 100% hear Jason in, “vigilantes.” He whispered this. “Specifically Batman and Nightwing and the Red Hood.”

“Oh. Oh wow.”

Damian turned on the lamp on his bedside table. He looked indignant. “You already knew? How? Tell me right now, Timothy.”

“Calm down, Matlock. I’ve known since I was nine. At least. I followed them and took pictures of them.”

Damian sounded disappointed. “Did you know before you came over for Jason’s birthday?”

“They told you that story, huh?”

“Pennyworth tells me all the stories,” said Damian, pouting.

“Yeah. I knew before that. How did you find out?”

Damian looked over at Tim and scoffed. “Tt. They aren’t that subtle. Andimighthaveheardthemontheroof.” He said the last part very quietly. Tim started.

“What roof, Damian?”

“The roof of GC National.” There was no guilt to be had from the little baby child. Tim was shocked.

“What the hell were you doing on the roof of the bank?”

“Watching.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but why were you watching?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to see the sights. Back home I was allowed to explore if I had trouble sleeping. Sometimes I’d climb up high. It was better for thinking.” Tim felt like Damian might have been leaving something out, but he didn’t press.

“Ok. Dames. Listen. You can’t do that. It’s dangerous. Or, if you’re going, use your dad’s building, okay? There’s an observation deck there.”

“Tt. I’m not a child.”

“Sure thing, seedling .” He teased.

Damian crossed his arms and turned off the light again. “I was hoping it would be something you didn’t know.”

“I know everything.” Tim said in an exaggerated, spooky voice. Damian snorted. “I can hear you moping from here, gremlin. Fine, a secret.” Tim thought about what he could tell Damian.

“How did you break your wrist, Timothy?”

Tim drew a breath and tried to beat back his quickening pulse. “C’mon, Dami. It’s a boring story. You know, one time I told school I was out for mono, but I really hitched a ride to the Appalachians to look for Mothman.”

“Cool.” Damian’s voice was flat. Disappointed.

It frustrated Tim. “I don’t understand why you’re so obsessed with this, Dames. It happened, it’s healing. Why do you need to know how?”

“I used to follow you.”

“What?”

“After I got here. After I found out about you. I would follow you around Gotham and to your house and watch you from your oak tree on the border of our property and yours.”

Tim could feel himself tense. He’s ten. The reminder helped, but his body was not getting the message.

“Oh.” Tim could tell his voice came out weird. “That’s…creepy, Dami. And I’m sure pretty boring.”

“I was sitting in that tree one night. When. When the Drakes were home.”

Tim swallowed thickly. “We should probably go to bed, Damian. I thought we could go exploring tomorrow.”

“Father told me that the punishments I had with grandfather were wrong.”

“They were.” Tim bit out sharply, quickly.

“Then why—”

“Damian, stop . I don’t know what you think you saw, but whatever it was, it’s not the same as the horrible stuff those monsters did to you. You didn’t deserve it, bud. Not at all. Can we please go to sleep now?”

“...okay, Timothy. I…I love you...” And then he was silent.

After an incredibly long time, when he thought Damian had drifted off, Tim whispered, “I love you, too.”

He finally fell into a fitful sleep, thoughts full of past memories he usually kept under lock and key.

And, like always—like clockwork, like him—that’s when Tim fucked everything up.

It all ended with a dream.

A stupid fucking dream brought about by thinking stupid fucking thoughts about stupid fucking letters and stupid fucking wrists and little kids seeing stupid fucking things from stupid fucking trees.

He tossed and turned and moaned and cried.

And when Damian, very concerned and very scared, shook his shoulder to wake him up, Timothy was the stupid fucking idiot who jerked awake violently and punched his 10 year-old brother in the face.

Chapter 17: ...record scratch...

Chapter Text

Tim’s frequent nightmares rarely strayed from the same carousel of terror he had experienced nightly since he was eight. The cast stayed the same (Jack, Janet, Lester, repeat).The themes stayed the same (darkness, basements, cattle prods, handcuffs, belts, etc.).And the all encompassing panic he felt when he woke up stayed the same (one time, when he was fourteen, he stayed awake for over 80 hours to avoid this sensation, and if there had been anyone in his life at the time to share that fact with, he would have, because he was damn proud of it).

But Tim knew, as he heard the crunch of bone and Damian’s grunt of pain, as he quickly realized he was in Scotland and not that slaughterhouse, as he scrambled out of bed, tripping over the covers and falling on his wrapped wrist, as he watched Damian hold his nose, gushing with blood, he knew that there would be no nightmare that could ever compare to this.

“Sh–Crap. Oh my god, Damian. Oh god. Are you alright?”

Damian was on the floor, holding his nose. He was on the floor, small.

He was on the floor, tiny.

Tim was on the floor, at 7 years-old.

Tim Damian nodded. “I’m sorry, Timothy, you were having a bad dream and I—” Tim Damian sounded muffled because his hand was covering his face. Tim Damian was trying to look brave because he was trained not to cry. Tim’s Damian’s tears were still welling up, impervious to Rules, and extremely pervious to physical pain.

Tim reared back as Damian’s hand came away. His nose was clearly broken, maybe in multiple places. Tim could already see bruising forming under both eyes, evidence of the strength of the punch.

Tim was horrified. He backed up further.

Damian winced and looked up. Blood was dripping down his face but he didn’t reach for the tissues by the table. He reached for Tim instead.

Dangerous.

“Timody?” Damian’s voice was already sounding muffled and blocked, as if he had really bad sinuses, but instead of snot, his nose was filled with blood.

Tim backed up again. Damian looked confused.

A sharp knock at their door shocked both of them out of their silent staring contest. Tim struggled to get up, still tangled in the sheets. He had his eyes on Damian and ignored the fierce twinging in his wrist. He backed up, still watching Damian, and cracked the door open.

Deftly, the man at the door squeezed by, face filled with concern. He glanced down at Tim’s wrist for a moment and then moved to check out Damian. He knelt and gingerly felt the kid’s face. Damian hissed, and the man apologized softly. He grabbed some tissues to staunch the bleeding.

“Tim, Damian. What happened? Are you ok?”

Oh. The man was Clark.

Tim felt like his body was floating over the scene, observing without feeling.

“I.”

Tim fell silent.

“Timody, had a bad dream. I tied to wake himb up but he didn’t hear me. So I touched his shoulder and I tink it scared himb. Imb sorry, Timody, for scaring you.”

Tim’s stomach hurt at the apology.

I’m sorry, sir, for getting in your way. It won’t happen again.

“Shit. Shit. I gotta go.” Tim started throwing clothes back in his bag. He was hurrying. He was shaking. He was sweating.

“Tim.” Clark’s voice was deep and calm. “Kiddo, you need to sit. Breathe, please. I think you may have hurt your wrist further when you fell.”

Tim was half-listening. “Like you’d know that. I’m fine.” He snarked. He found his phone and charger and threw it in his satchel. He started lacing up his shoes. There was a rushing in his ears that made it hard to hear the hushed and frantic conversation between Damian and Kent.

“Tim. Sit down.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

“Timody.” Damian sounded small. Confused. “What’s happening?”

“Tim.”

Finally Tim looked up at Clark and was almost startled to see the man’s intense focus directed at him. Tim scoffed. “You said you’d take him a day ago. So you can take him now.”

Damian let out a sharp exhale at that. Tim ignored it.

“Timmy.”

“Clarky.” He felt like he was coming out of his skin.

“Tim, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Clark tried to placate.

A bit louder, a bit more hysterical, Tim finished tying his shoes and got up. He rolled his eyes and backed up. “Do you think I care the fuck what you think? Take Damian to the doctor, for god’s sake, and be useful for once in your damn life.”

“Timody,” said Damian again, and this time it sounded like Dim-o-dy, “Ungle Clak ‘s upaman.”

Tim could not.

He absolutely could not.

He’d deal with that later.

Meanly, he spat, “Then Superman, do your job. I expect you to take care of the hurt child in the room and let me go.” He jerked out of the grip Clark had on his shoulder and zipped up his suitcase, putting his satchel over his shoulder.

“Dimody, no. Puhleas. You can’t go. I’m fine. Look.”

Tim didn’t look, because he knew all he would see was a kid with a broken nose and rapidly darkening bruising under his eyes. All he would see was his brother, hurt because he couldn’t get his shit together. All he would see was himself at 5, at 7, at 10, at 14, at 15, six months ago, and the fact that he was now no better than Jack Drake sat heavier in his gut than anything ever had before.

He turned to leave. Damian was now crying, and Tim paused, shocked. Damian tried to lunge forward, but Clark had a gentle hand on his chest, holding him back. Damian’s crying then turned to huge heaving sobs and he was hitting Clark, trying to get through him.

“Bud, you’re going to hurt yourself further, you need to calm down.” Clark sounded like he was barely holding it together.

A fierce and ugly satisfaction shot through Tim. Immediately, he felt guilty.

“AKHI. YOU CAN’T.” Damian screamed wildly. Tim was frozen by it. “YOU CAN’T. DOH LEAVE ME. DOH LEAVE ME, AKHI, PLEASE.”

You’ll never be good enough. Tim shook himself out of his hesitation and opened the door—several people were out in the hall peering at them in question.

Clark had picked the panicking Damian up and walked towards Tim but paused when Tim held out his hand for him to stop.

“Do not come any closer, Clark. I swear you will not like what I do next if you don’t listen to me.”

“IMB SORRY. IMB SO SORRY. PLEASE DIMOTHY. YOU CAN’T. I DIBNT MEAN TO RUIN IT.” Damian’s tears were soaking Clark’s shirt and the blood mixed in was staining it pink.

Tim turned his back to the screaming boy and headed downstairs. He could hear Damian’s crying and pleading from the lobby, and Clark’s desperate shushing.

Though it was a 3 hour and fifteen minute drive from Drumnadrochit to Aberdeen International Airport, Tim’s $2000 ensured the man he flagged down right off the road to drive him got him there in a cool 2.5 hours.

For once in his life, luck was on his side. He bought a ticket for Gotham that was just about to depart. He ran through security and the hallway, barely making it before they closed the gangway. Keeping his head down, he walked to his seat at the very back of the plane and curled up against the window.

He turned off his phone and didn’t sleep once on the 10 hour flight back.

As he finally exited the plane back in Gotham, Tim was operating on automatic, completely unaware. He passed the projected arrival and departure times and was about to head towards Taxi Services when he overheard his name. He looked around and realized the sound was coming from the large flatscreen television projecting the 24-hour GNN broadcast by the luggage carousel.

He pulled down the hat he was wearing further and slipped on his sunglasses. He stood a few feet behind several others who were stopped to listen. The red-haired anchor looked straight at the camera and a blurry picture was projected behind her.

“This is Summer Gleason with all the national news, all night long. A shocking and sensational story is just breaking out of our very own Gotham: Grainy pictures have surfaced of Timothy Drake and Damian Wayne in Aberdeen, Scotland over the past few days. Just two hours ago, paparazzi caught a clearer picture of the youngest Wayne son with disturbing marks on his face, looking suspiciously like bruising. The 10 year old was being accompanied by an unknown man wearing a fur coat and aviators. Some have speculated that Drake and Wayne were running away from allegedly abusive, billionaire Bruce Wayne. As viewers may remember, scandal rocked Gotham two years ago when it was revealed that Timothy Drake’s biological father was Bruce Wayne. Though the courts and CPP cleared Wayne of wrongdoing, concerned citizens pointed to then 14 year-old Drake’s own restraining orders against the family as proof of Wayne’s guilt. Some wonder if Wayne got away with it due to his privilege and wealth. The question remains, if a 14 year-old child wasn’t safe with the Waynes, would a 10 year-old child really be better off? The people have a right to know. As it is, it’s not looking good for the Prince of Gotham. Bruce Wayne could not be reached for comment at this time.

Adding to the drama of this already dramatic story, The Daily Planet, America’s most trusted print source for hard-hitting journalism and award/winning exposes, also just broke the news that Drake Industries is now under federal investigation for corrupt business practices and criminal activities. The Drakes have been asked to return to Gotham for questioning. No word on whether or not their 16 year-old heir, Timothy Drake, was aware of these indiscretions. The Drakes could not be reached for comment, but CEO Jack Drake just posted a multi-post thread on X accusing Wayne Enterprises of sabotage, claiming that Wayne was “obsessed” with their “dear, naive son” and would do anything to get him in his clutches again. The 45 part tweet became increasingly difficult to understand and many Gothamites expressed concern for his mental state. No word on when the Drakes would arrive back in Gotham.

Now for a bright spot this hour, a baby panda named Bubbles was born at the Gotham Zoo yesterday and he…”

Tim rushed to the accesible bathroom next to the exit, locked the door, and just made it to the toilet before throwing up bile. His forehead felt sweaty and his face was clammy. He couldn’t stop the shaking in his hands. He sunk down to the sticky floor and held his head in his hands.

He turned on his phone, ignoring for a moment the influx of notifications rushing in after connecting with the network. He quickly opened his browser and typed in gotham news. A slew of search results turned up several new headlines displayed on the front page. A ticker tape list scrolling by on Google, turned Tim’s stomach for the second time.

drake heir and youngest wayne son spotted in scotland: running away from abusive billionaire?

bruce wayne strikes again? new shocking pictures of battered 10 year old at aberdeen intl airport

concerned public has questions for gotham prince: is cpp falling down on their job?

insider trading, bribes, and corruption at drake industries: live updates as drakes called back to new jersey for questioning

drake industries stock plummets: ceo tweets about sabotage by competitor wayne enterprises, claims wayne is ‘manipulative, abusive, and dangerous’

gotham pd and caped crusader, Batman, working together? commissioner gordon asking for the public's help to identify the whereabouts of this man known as lester buchinsky for reasons currently undisclosed.

Tim closed his eyes and softly banged his head against the tiled wall until he gave himself a headache. Knowing he couldn’t put it off any longer, Tim blankly checked his phone and saw six new voicemails. He recognized the most recent number as coming from Gotham PD, and numbly pressed play.

“Tim, this is Commissioner Gordon. Batman has been involved in an investigation against a local criminal and has reason to be concerned for your safety if you return to your house without a police escort. I would like to talk with you further about what our investigation has uncovered regarding a man named Lester Buchinsky who you might have encountered a week or so ago? Please return this call as soon as you get this, son.”

He deleted the four voicemails before that one without listening to them, already having an idea of who they could be and already knowing that hearing their angry and disappointed voices would absolutely break him.

Tim had to steel his courage to listen to the last voicemail. He wondered if numbness was a sign of cancer or something because his brain had never felt this foggy before. He found himself drifting, not caring at all about what he was about to hear. A hysterical giggle came out of his mouth but because he locked himself in a private bathroom, he didn’t do much to stop it.

A familiar voice, cold and biting as ever, snapped Tim back to reality.

“Your father and I are home. I expect your presence as soon as you are off that plane. Don’t think I didn’t see those headlines or pictures, Timothy. I continue to be incredibly disappointed in you and your inability to follow simple directions. We will address this when you return. Come straight home or you will not like the consequences.”

Robotically, Tim stood on shaky legs. He splashed his face with cold water, and exited the bathroom. A line had formed and the first man waiting said angrily, “Fucking finally.” Tim flipped him off lazily and walked to the taxis. He slipped in the back and showed the driver his address typed on his Notes app, electing to not speak at all, worried that all that would come out was choked sobbing.

He watched the trees and then the City fly by. Eventually (quickly, too fast, too fucking fast), the driver was pulling into his manor’s drive. He paid him and slipped out grabbing his luggage from the back.

Using a technique from his childhood, he stopped thinking and let his brain drift away. He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and opened his front door.

Chapter 18: I Was Raised Out in the Cold

Chapter Text

“Hey Tim.” Bruce climbed out of the attic window and sat next to Tim on the roof. They were high enough that the autumn breeze whipped around them, and Tim shivered. Bruce handed him a faded Gotham Med School sweatshirt, which dwarfed the 11 year-old, but allowed him to draw up his knees under it and cover his whole body. He stopped shivering and almost flinched when he felt something soft touching his head. Now that Tim was wearing the sweatshirt, Bruce had moved to putting a knit beanie on his head and over his ears. Tim smiled briefly, but didn’t look at him.

“Hey Mr. Wayne.”

“Please call me, Bruce, kiddo.”

“Right. Sorry. I forgot.”

“So, what brought you out here? I doubt it was the weather.” Bruce was looking out at the gloomy clouds instead of Tim, and Tim felt his body relax. He shrugged.

“Jason told me you may have had a rough day at school. Your parents are coming home tomorrow, right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Just Bruce, Tim.”

“Yes si—Bruce.”

“Want to talk about it?” No adult before Bruce had ever asked Tim if he “wanted to talk about it,” and Tim didn’t know what to say. Yes? I’d love to talk about how I’m really scared that my mom and dad Jack are coming back? Sure, Bruce. Let’s just have a good chat about the fact that I’m a horribly ungrateful son who can’t do anything right? Gosh, Tim was so embarrassed already that Mr. Wayne Bruce had to find him out here moping like some sort of selfish brat. He should have been helping Mr. Pennyworth Alfred in the kitchen instead of wasting time out here.

“I’m alright.”

Bruce hummed and brought out a fidget spinner. He twirled it a few times, and when he saw Tim looking at it, he handed it to him. He took another one out of his pocket and the two sat in silence for a while before Bruce spoke again.

“I wanted to check in about the conversation we had last night. I know it was a lot to process, bud, and I want to make sure you are ok. How are you feeling about it?”

I already knew, Tim wanted to say.

I’ve known since I was 4, Tim wanted to say.

Why wasn’t I good enough for you, Tim wanted to say.

What was so wrong with me that you had to be forced to spend time with me and not Dick or Jason, Tim wanted to say.

Do you even like me, Tim wanted to say.

Why am I never enough, Tim wanted to say.

My parents hit me and punish me and lock me in dark spaces and I think my dad might kill me one day, Tim wanted to say.

Sometimes I think it would be best if he did, Tim wanted to say.

It’s all Batman’s fault, Tim wanted to say.

It’s all your fault, Tim wanted to say.

I hate that I love you so much, Tim wanted to say.

I wish I were lovable too, Tim wanted to say.

“Good.”

“Yeah? It’s ok if it takes a little bit to be, you know, good. You can be ‘not good’ too.”

Tim nodded. Bruce sounded like he was searching for the right words. Like Tim had some sort of ‘Handle with Care’ sticker on his forehead.

“I know I said this last night, but I want to make it clear today: Dick, Jason, Alfie, and I love you so much. I am very happy that you came over to us that day, and I am very sorry I didn’t come for you sooner. Let me know when you’d like me to talk to your parents and we will be able to work out a way for you to live here, with us, ok? If that’s something you’d like?”

Tim thought about the last time someone brought up Bruce Wayne to Jack. He thought about what happened to him when he got home. He nodded.

“I’ll let you know.”

Bruce looked at him for a few minutes, searching his face for something. He didn’t seem to find it, but he nodded. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s get off this roof. You may not know this about me, but I’m scared of heights.” Tim smiled and Bruce helped him back through the attic window. They got hot chocolate and stayed up late with Jason and Dick watching old Twilight Zone episodes.

And the next day, Tim left waving and walked back to his house, and into another week with Jack and Janet.

Tim dodged the lazy punch to his temple, but barely resisted when strong hands pulled him inside and wrapped around the back of his neck, pushing him into the kitchen. Jack’s grip was so tight that Tim knew there would be bruises there in the morning. If Jack let him live that long.

“Where have you been?” Jack hissed in his ear. Tim did his best not to pull away from him, but his hot breath smelled like cheese and cheap liquor, as if it was oozing through his pores and about to drown him in patheticness.

“Be careful this time, dear. We’re in a bit of a time crunch.” His mother was sitting at the kitchen counter, typing furiously on her laptop. Her cell phone was out with several SIM cards surrounding it.

“Fuck that Janet, the bastard needs to be punished.” Jack’s eyes gleamed, even in the bright kitchen reminding Tim of a rabid raccoon.

Tim smiled cockily, not being able to help himself. “Oh do be careful, Sir, or they’ll start calling you unhinged online.” Tim braced himself, and Jack didn’t disappoint. Three punches to his stomach in quick succession had him doubling over in pain. He groaned softly.

“I’m serious, Jack. We need to focus. Timothy, that’s another infraction for talking back. Don’t try me. You are already in deep debt as it is. Stand up straight like a man and go load our bags into the gray Camry. Change the license plate and come back here when you’re done.”

“Where are you going?” Tim stood back up with a wince. Janet turned from her computer and looked down at him from her reading glasses.

“I don’t think asking questions was part of my instructions, was it, Timothy?” Jack smirked as he grabbed another beer out of the fridge. “If you want my full attention right now,” Janet said quietly, “I will give it to you. Or, you can do what I asked without complaining. Do you understand?”

They stared at each other for a second and then Tim looked down. “Yes, ma’am.”

There were six large pieces of luggage by the entrance to the garage. Tim put them in the trunk and then went to the cabinet where the spare license plates were. He quickly changed the plate on the car and stood in the corner his mother liked him to wait in while in the kitchen. He ignored the way he was shaking. His wrist was throbbing in pain and he thought, absently, that he should have rewrapped it after all that shit went down with Damian and the stupid, idiot nightmare.His mom was still typing, and Jack was lounging at the table looking at Tim like a tiger about to pounce.

“Get me a beer.”

Tim weighed the pros and cons of following his directions. He nodded and grabbed a beer out of the fridge. He poured it into a glass and handed it to Jack. Jack dropped the glass on the floor and glass shards and beer went everywhere.

“Oops.” He said smiling, “Clean it up and get me another one.”

Tim went to grab the towel by the sink and Jack grabbed his bad wrist and pulled him back. Tim held back a yelp. “I didn’t say you could use that. We don’t want to get it dirty. Use your shirt.”

Tim rolled his eyes and took off his shirt. He made sure to grab the larger pieces of glass and throw them away, and then used his shirt to mop up the rest of the beer. Little shards of glass stuck to the cotton of the t-shirt and his jeans when he had to wipe under the table. When he went to throw the shirt away, Jack tsk’d.

“I didn’t teach you to be wasteful, boy. Put it back on.”

The shirt was drenched in beer and sticky. He quietly put it on and went back to the fridge, getting Jack a new beer and glass. He handed it to him and went back to the corner to wait.

“Fix your attitude. If you glare at me one more time, you won’t like what I do next.” Jack barked and Tim nodded once, sharply. His mother turned around.

“Done. God, Jack, what did I say about messing with him before we leave? Timothy, change your shirt, I don’t want you getting beer all over the leather.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“No, never mind, don’t go to your room, we don’t have time. Here.” She tossed him a towel. “Dry it best you can. You can change before the plane.”

“...what?” Tim choked out. He cleared his throat. “What plane?”

“Keep up, Timothy, god, it’s like I’m talking to an idiot.” Jack laughed while Janet stalked closer. “Dear, because of your absolute incompetence, we have to go away for a bit for the news to die down. And some of the legal…complications as well.” She waved her hand like those were a second thought. “We’ve got someone to agree to charter a plane to Vietnam and we leave in an hour. We need to be quick because GPD still thinks we’re out of the country. If they find out we’re here, they’ll never let us leave. It would take at least a month to bribe the right people to let us go and honestly, we don’t have that time. There’s a dig in Croatia your father and I must get to by April.”

“Vietnam? Because they don’t extradite?” Tim asked.

Janet patted his cheek mockingly. “Finally using that expensive tuition, I see.”

Jack burped loudly and got up from the table. “It’s surprising that brain can hold any information since it’s so small.”

“Better than having no brain at all.” Tim muttered.

Jack’s eyes flashed, but Janet held up a hand.

“Boys. We can discuss it on the plane. Right now we need to go.”

Something within Tim knew for a fact that if he got on that plane with them, he would never come back. Not alive, at least. It was either the way Jack smiled or the casual speech of his mother or maybe it was the fact that so far, his punishment for Scotland and Damian was being delayed. Usually his parents had no problem teaching him a lesson as soon as he got home. Tim was feeling the effects of this—the anticipation of the punishment was practically making him melt internally in fear.

Stall them, said the voice that sounded like Bruce. (Would it really be that bad if he didn’t come back, though?)

Yes. The voice was loud. Stall them.

“No.”

“Timothy.”

“I’m not going. Yo...you…you can’t make me go. My friends are here…”

She scoffed. “What friends, dear? No one wants to be around you for more than two minutes, quit deceiving yourself. It’s unbecoming. Get in the car.”

“Dick, Jason, Alfie, and I love you so much. I am very happy that you came over to us that day, and I am very sorry I didn’t come for you sooner.”

“No.”

“What did you say, bastard? My ears must be broken because it sounded like you told your mother no.” Jack grabbed his arm and drew him up to his toes. He spat in his face and then smiled sinisterly.

“You can come to me any time, alright? Any time. I won’t be mad…if you’re in trouble, you’ve got to tell me. I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me.”

“No. I said no. I won’t tell anyone where you are but you can’t make me go with you. Gotham is my home.” Jack slapped him in the face and Tim stumbled back into the wall.

Janet looked unimpressed. “Your home, Timothy, is wherever we say it is.”

“You are more than welcome here. You’re welcome in any part of this house. I want you to think of it as your house too, remember?”

Tim pulled out of Jack’s grip and stepped back.

“No. I said no. I won’t tell them where you are but you can’t make me go with you.”

“You can never run from me, Timbo! First and most important rule of brotherhood: Brothers don’t run away. Brothers always stick together.”

“You’ve seemed to develop some sort of backbone while we’ve been away. I’m looking forward to breaking that spirit, boy.” Jack slurred his words.

“Are you scared of something, Timothy? I will defeat it in your honor. That’s why I’m here. I am more courageous and honorable than those buffoons that call themselves our family.”

Janet rolled her eyes and stalked over to Tim, cupping his cheek with her hands. “Timothy,” she said softly, her nails digging into his skin, “Do you remember our deal?”

“Needs must, Master Timothy, but you are a very smart young man, capable of finding many solutions to a whole array of needs. I don’t ever want you to forget that, my boy…and chin up, Master Timothy. Begin as you wish to finish, lad.”

Tim tried to jerk away but she had an iron grip. “No one will believe you. They’ll call you crazy.” He tried. It was a flimsy excuse. He knew she had proof. He knew she wouldn’t hesitate to show it to the world if it meant punishing him or the Waynes. He could feel tension wrapping around the room. Jack seemed confused.

Janet laughed lightly, actual mirth in her eyes. “It was your pictures, dear, that gave me all the proof I need. Remember those? Back of your closet? Oh, poor Timmy, just trying to connect with his biological father. I wonder what the press will think when it comes out that Batman is the one beating his kids. Where will that poor, young child go when they finally convict him of child abuse? Dear, I don’t need to ruin Wayne’s life. You’re doing fine all by yourself.”

“Jan, what are you talking about?” Jack stumbled closer and Tim was unable to back away any more. He pleaded with his eyes, begging his mother not to tell him. If Tim was honest, if Tim really drilled down deep, he would have realized that his fear wasn’t that the world would find out Bruce was Batman—it was that Jack would find out Bruce was Batman. It was why Tim believed his mother hadn’t yet played that card earlier. Even she knew how crazy her husband was—and how much chaos he could wield without even trying. And if there was anything Janet Drake hated was a situation she couldn’t control or manipulate.

Apparently, her frustration with Tim’s refusal outweighed that need for control.

“Bruce Wayne, dear. He’s Batman.” Janet didn’t look at Jack when she said this, but at Tim. She was smirking and Tim wanted nothing more at that moment than to punch her in the face.

“He’s what?” Jack swayed and Tim could watch confusion, then anger, play out on his face. He punched the drywall next to Tim, and the hole in the wall seemed to suck in all the courage Tim had mustered these past few minutes.

“Mom. Stop. Please.” He knew he sounded pathetic, but Jack was already moving. He grabbed Tim by the collar and threw him down on the floor.

“Is this why you’re kissing their asses all the time? You think it makes you something special,” Jack put a bitter emphasis on the last word, “to be the bastard child of Batman? All that makes you is more worthless, you fucking idiot. How does it feel to be the one kid that even Batman didn’t want?” Jack was ranting, his voice pitched to a scream by the end. Spittle flew out of his mouth and he kicked Tim viciously in the ribs. He stomped on Tim’s good hand and kicked him again. Tim was crying at this point, unable to stop himself.

“Get up you ugly shit. Show me how much better you think you are being the brat of Bruce Wayne and Batman.” He laughed manically and grabbed Tim’s collar, lifting him off the ground.

Janet put her hand on his shoulder, “Jack, dear, we don’t have time for this—” but Tim could already tell that Jack was out to lunch and it was gearing up to be one of the worst meltdowns he had ever witnessed from the man. His eyes were wild and he was running his hands through his hair making it stick up in parts. As Tim’s mother tried to calm him, Jack reared back around and slapped her hard against the face. She tilted backwards and tripped on the kitchen chair, falling on the ground. A dark red mark bloomed on her skin.

“Be quiet, bitch. We wouldn’t be in this mess if you didn’t whore around. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking kill him.” He grabbed the pistol that he always kept in a holder by his belt and cocked it. He started waving it around.

“JACK.” Tim had never heard his mother raise her voice like that. It seemed to surprise even Jack and he lowered his arm for a moment. “Jack, think about this. The police will be here shortly. We need to go.”

“He’s just next door, isn’t he? I’ll go over there and kill him and then put down those feral animals he calls sons. I’ll be right back and then we’ll go.” Jack’s eyes were wild and as quick as he pulled out the gun, he was gone, running across the yard.

The kitchen was quiet. Janet was breathing heavily as she picked herself off the ground. Tim was wide-eyed, body aching, standing frozen in the middle of the room.

“You can’t do anything right, can you?” She hissed at him. “I’m going after your father to clean up his mess. You will stay here. Understand?”

Tim blinked. His head was quiet.

“Understand , Timothy?” Tim wondered if insanity like his mother’s was genetic. If so, Tim was grateful he wasn’t related to Jack. He snorted at the thought.

“Timothy.” He could feel his mother shaking him. He was far away, but he could still feel it. It was interesting. He quirked his lips. “Timothy, I don’t have time for you to be a moron. I’m going. Stay here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said mechanically.

She rolled her eyes and stepped out of the room as well. She left through the front door. He wondered at her trust in him not leaving. He wondered if she saw him as so broken down that he’d never have the courage.

Tim looked around at the destroyed kitchen. His side was aching. His wrist was aching. His hand was aching. The bruises around his neck and stomach were aching.

He laughed again.

Slowly, he willed his legs to move.

“I have a lot of regrets, Timmy, but my most recent one in a very long line of them is letting you walk out…without us telling you how much we love you. That is an immutable fact, kiddo. No matter what. No matter what you say or do or what you are going through or what you think, that is an immutable fact.”

He walked up the stairs to his room and opened the window. He took out his cell phone, filled with more voicemails which he ignored, and several texts, which he also ignored. Except for one. He typed in an address and ETA and then pressed send. The thumbs up he got back calmed his racing heart.

He typed in a number and let it ring.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“Yes. I saw a man with a gun heading towards Bruce Wayne’s house a few minutes ago. He seemed dangerously deranged and was sounding nonsensical. I need to go now. Please send people to check it out.” Tim knew that no one was there, but better safe than sorry.

He hung up before the dispatcher could ask more.

He called another number.

“Yes? Tim? Is that you?”

“Hi, Dr. Thompkins. Can you call Commissioner Gordon and meet me in Metropolis in a few hours? I have an interview with Ms. Lane that I want you to attend. It’s very important.”

“Of course, Tim. Can I—”

“No. No. Please don’t tell Bruce.”

“Alright, Tim. We’ll be there.”

He hung up, trusting that Leslie would take care of it.

Then he took a breath. He wasn’t hurting anymore. He just felt numb. And tired. He wished Jack would have just shot him and saved him all this trouble. But he had a responsibility to make this shitshow right. He had a responsibility to Damian, to Bruce, to the rest of the family. And it was way past time to fulfill it.

He took one more breath and called out.

“Uncle Clark? I…I need your help.”

Chapter 19: You're Gettin' Stoned

Chapter Text

The bang and whoosh that came after Tim called for Clark didn’t elicit any reaction from his body other than a vague interest. He touched the comforter by his bed and traced the outlines of the design with his fingers. His good hand was swelling, and he wondered if he stuck it up in the air it would help him float away like a balloon.

“...Tim?” Clark (or was he Superman now? In this outfit?) floated by his open window, horror leaking into his voice.

Tim looked up and tilted his head. He thought he smiled, but wasn’t really aware of what his face was doing. “Uncle Clark. You came.” He wondered.

Clark climbed in through the window, hands outstretched but not touching him, looking up and down Tim’s body frantically. Tim had heard Superman had x-ray vision and wondered what he looked like. “Am I inside out?” Tim laughed again, loudly. “Are my insides on my outside?” Tim swayed and Clark, having decided something but Tim wasn’t sure what, gently grabbed him and set him on top of the bed.

“Tim,” he was serious and grave, “What happened?”

“Clark,” Tim mocked his grave tone of voice, “What didn’t?” Tim leaned back. “But. It doesn’t matter, does it? Because it’s done, right? We’re done. I’m done. It’s all done.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, buddy. Can you help me understand?” Clark sounded like he was disarming a bomb, delicate and soft and trying not to spook.

Tim turned and looked at him. “You need to bring me to Centennial Park. Like, pronto.” He giggled again.

“Tim, can you sit up for me? I’m worried about internal bleeding. Your stomach is very bruised.”

“Pronto, Superman. Your. Your wife promised she’d meet me. You probably need to be disguised. But not with those ugly shirts, ok. Just your normal one. Farm chic. That’s what Jay called it. Don’t dress like Dickie, ok, Uncle Clark? He’s the worst when it comes to fashion advice. Honestly, so is dad. Dad sucks at fashion advice. He’s,” Tim looked around and lowered his voice, “The Batman. So obviously he only wears black. Someone should tell him to lay off on the emo, look, you know. That was so…” Tim waved a hand, “Nineties. It’s the new century, Uncle Clark. Or is it? I don’t know. Math is hard. How’s Dami? Is he mad at me? He’s probably mad at me. Everyone is always mad at me. I don’t know how not to be, you know. How not to be…me? Does that make sense? I’m always the problem, never the solution.” Tim sat up and Clark startled, trying to help him. “Now I’m the solution.” Tim nodded. “The solution, I am. Yoda shit. Man. That sounded poetic. Like, like a poem. Jay would be proud I think.”

“Tim, I’m worried about blood loss, or a concussion. I can’t tell, kiddo. You’re panicking, and I need you to slow down and breathe.”

“And I need you,” Tim pointed at his chest, “To bring me to Centennial Park.” Clark’s phone dinged with a text which he read, nodded, and put away before Tim even realized what was going on.

“Lois says you already texted her? Bud, I can’t move you if I don’t know what injuries you have.”

Tim leaned in. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Clark nodded, concern dripping from his eyes like some sort of…concerned thing, and Tim thought it made him look like his dad. You know, his dad-dad, and not Jack-dad. His brain felt like soup. Or foam. Or foamy soup.

“I’ve had worse. Much worse. This.” Tim waved at all of himself. “Is nothing.” Tim laughed again. “Can you believe that? What a secret, huh. What a fucking secret.” To his absolute mortification, he felt tears on his face.

He sighed, and said seriously, looking at Clark who looked one second from coming apart himself. “I’m fine, Kent. I asked Dr. Thompkins and Commissioner Gordon to meet me there, and she can check me out. We need to go now before they come back. Please?”

It was the please that did it, or maybe the promise of medical care, but Clark seemed to shake himself out of his stupor, and gently grabbed Tim, cradling him in his arms like a baby.

“This is so fucking embarrassing.” Tim said.

Clark smirked. “Remind me to tell you the story of your dad and the time he broke his ankle in Siberia.”

And then he started to fly. Which, on any other day, Tim would have found absolutely, beyond cool, but on this day, his brain was practically empty. Or maybe too full. Whatever it was, it stole him of the joy of denying everything scientists knew about physics, and for that, he hated himself even more.

Clark’s voice rumbled against Tim’s chest, and he could barely hear him over the rushing sound of their flying. “Damian’s not mad, by the way.”

“Hmm.” Tim thought Clark felt warm and his arms around him were strong. He yawned and said quietly. “Sure.”

Clark said something else, but it was lost to the wind, and Tim let himself close his eyes.

He woke up right as Clark set him down. Lois apparently worked quickly. The main part of the park was cordoned off with two stages, one with a podium with several microphones, and one with a temporary news desk and two comfy armchairs. Several people with press passes were milling around and cameras were being set up. A curly-haired woman was being fitted with a microphone, and Lois, who already had one on, walked over quickly.

“Thanks Superman, I’ll take him now.” She said, eyes raking over Tim. Her voice stuttered a moment, before grounding Tim with her hand on his shoulder.

Superman nodded and flew away.

“Oh, Timmy.” Lois said, sadly. “Let’s get you backstage, ok?”

Tim followed her slowly behind a red curtain that hid the back of the temporary platform from the rest of the press. There were several foldable chairs set up, as well as a few mirrors and makeup stations.

Dr. Thompkins and Commissioner Gordon were already there, and Tim wondered how they arrived before Tim and the literal Superman. Both gasped when they saw Tim, Gordon as if he couldn’t stop himself, and Dr. Thompkins as if doing so would make her forget what she was seeing.

“Tim.” Dr. Tompkins breathed. “What happened?” She grabbed her bag and began looking over him, humming and sighing as more and more was uncovered. She gestured at the Commissioner to help her wrap his ribs as she took his temperature for some unknown reason.

“Son, who did this to you?” Gordon said.

Tim looked up with empty eyes. “My pare…Jack and Janet.”

Dr. Thompkins' fingers paused and then picked up again, gently pressing along the bruises on his neck. Lois stood in front of him and Gordon had a recorder and a notebook in his hands. Leslie held up a camera questioningly and Tim nodded. She started taking pictures.

“What’s the play here, Timmy? What can we do?” Lois asked softly.

“I. I want to sue them. Or press charges. Whatever I can do. Can I do that?” He looked at Gordon. The man nodded slowly.

“You can. You have to say it though. Why do you want to press charges against Jack and Janet, son?”

Tim sucked in a breath. His voice came out quietly and shakily. “They.” He stopped and Lois squeezed his shoulder gently.

“Yes, son?” Gordon matched the volume of his voice.

“They did this to me. They do this to me a lot.”

Gordon sighed, as if he knew what the answer was but it still pained him. “How long have they done this to you?”

“My whole life.” Tim said, looking down.

Lois sucked in a breath. Tim pressed on, looking up at Gordon. “Jack is working with Lester Buchinsky.” He looked at Lois. “They are suing you because you were right about their business dealings.” He looked down again, “Jack wants to kill Bruce. My mom doesn’t care if he kills me.”

Lois had her hand to her mouth. “Can—can I hug you, kiddo?” Tim nodded and Lois was impossibly gentle with him. Then she straightened her shoulders. “Let me write something up and talk to some people. You really want to do this? We can just report it, Tim. You don’t have to speak or appear on camera.”

“I have to.” Tim said sharply.

She looked at his face and nodded. She walked off and Dr. Thompkins continued to fuss with him. Gordon grabbed his cell phone and gestured to it. Gruffly he said, “I need to update my team on some things. I’ll get ready for the press conference.” As he walked away, Tim slumped down in one of the seats backstage.

Dr. Thompkins followed him. She hummed a bit of Billy Joel while getting his injuries taken care of.

“Dr. Thompkins—”

“Tim, you know you can call me Leslie.”

“Leslie, do you think you could make these a little worse than they look? For the cameras?”

She leveled him a severe look. “I don’t think you understand how bad they look now. And I’m a little worried about what ‘worse’ would mean to you.”

Tim shrugged.

She was quiet for a moment. “Are you going through with this interview because you have to or because you think you deserve it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Lois has it covered, and you know she does. What does it help to put yourself on camera?”

“It’s my responsibility.”

“That’s the answer I’m worried about, kiddo.” She looked like she was going to say more, but then Lois walked back over with the woman Tim saw earlier.

“Ok, Tim, this is my friend, Melba Manton. She is the anchor for the 6 PM slot at WGBS. She spoke with her news director and they can give us a 30-minute breaking news segment to also be streamed nationally, with the Commissioner coming on after with his press conference. We’ve called the conference after your interview, and several papers and stations will be showing up, but you don’t have to participate in that and I’d rather you didn’t. They’re going to let me interview you, alright, sweetie?”

Tim nodded, as Leslie fussed over him. Melba bent down to eye level. “Tim, this is a very brave thing you are doing. Lois told me a little bit about what’s going on. She’s going to take over the questioning, and I’ll just be here to fill out the intro and outro, ok? Have you done one of these before?”

Tim shook his head. “Be still, Tim.” Leslie said gently. “Let’s put some cream on your face to reduce the redness.”

“Do you want concealer on your neck, Tim?” Tim was appreciative that Lois didn’t ask in a pitying way.

He shook his head again. “No, the more they can stand out, the better. Can, can we put my arm in a sling, even though it’s just my wrist? And can you wrap this hand?”

Leslie snorted. “You bet I’ll be wrapping that hand, even if you didn’t want it for the cameras, you menace. And the sling needs to stay after as well. That’s multiple fractures in that wrist and I’m worried about its ability to heal on its own. It may need surgery, kiddo.” Tim rolled his eyes and Leslie gently flicked him on the nose. “Don’t give me that, trouble.” She looked a bit concerned as she looked him up and down.

‘What?” Tim was a bit uncomfortable with her piercing look.

She shook her head, a sort of grief overtaking her face. “I’m sorry I didn’t see this before. How often was I fixing what those fuckers did instead of the shenanigans you said you got up to?”

Tim snorted at her cursing and sidestepped the question. “Hey. Some of those were from my awesome shenanigans.”

“But not all?” She said seriously.

He bowed his head. “No. Not all.”

She tipped his chin up and looked him in the eyes. “None of that.” She said softly. “You don’t be embarrassed about this, Timothy Wayne. You understand? Never. You are the strongest, most courageous young man I know, and you know that I know a lot of courageous young men. You did what you needed to do yesterday, and now you’re doing what you need to do today. They can be different things at different times. And no one is going to hold it against you, kiddo. Do you understand?”

Tim nodded, averting his eyes. He was surprised when Leslie kissed him on the forehead.

“I’m proud of you.”

Lois, who was standing behind Tim talking quietly with Melba, put a gentle hand on his head and patted softly twice. “I am too. Clark!” She yelled out.

Clark, now in a smart tweed jacket and wearing dark rimmed glasses, ran up from behind the curtain. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and winked at Tim. “Yes, dear?” He said softly, his eyes twinkling.

“Handle the hordes, please, I can hear them lining up.”

“Perry is letting me cover the conference,” Clark said, “so I’ll round them up. Tim,” He looked down at him seriously, “Are you sure you don’t want me to call your dad? He’s blowing up my phone right now. All I’ve said is you’re safe, but nothing else.”

Tim shook his head and pretended not to see the hidden disappointment from the three adults around him. Eventually, Leslie put a hand on his shoulder and wished him luck. She slipped out in front of the curtain, and Tim could hear the crowd swell.

“I’ll be in the front row..” Clark gave him a soft smile and Lois a quick kiss. Then Tim was left alone sitting in his chair, Melba and Lois reviewing their script.

A heavy, comforting presence sat down next to him. He looked over and Commissioner Gordon had taken the seat next to him. He wasn’t looking at Tim, but flipping a coin back and forth between his knuckles. Tim was going to make a Two-Face joke, but didn’t know if it would be appreciated.

“I’m sorry, Tim.”

Tim was confused. “It’s not your fault, Mr. Gordon.”

“Jim, kiddo. We’re there, ok? I should have looked into all of this two years ago. I’m afraid I let myself get distracted.”

“I don’t blame you.”

Jim snorted derisively. “That’s the problem, son. I’m afraid of who you do blame.” He leveled a very serious stare at Tim, who straightened up unconsciously.

“What you are doing is something most people couldn’t do. I need you to remember this when things get rough.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably as if that amount of familiarity and support was out of his wheelhouse.

Tim, willing to completely stop this conversation, nodded. Jim must have felt that was enough because he nodded back and quickly left his chair to walk over and talk with one of the deputies that came with him.

Tim leaned back and closed his eyes.

About twenty minutes later, Lois touched his shoulder and whispered, “It’s go time, kiddo. Last chance to back out now.”

Tim stood up.

“Let’s do this.” He said.

I can’t. His brain said.

But luckily, his brain was not in control, his brain was checked out, his brain had left the building, so he found himself standing in front of the red stage curtain, trying desperately not to throw up.

Melba: This is Melba Manton with WGBS News at 6. I am live at Centennial Park in Metropolis with breaking news coming out of Gotham. Pulitzer Prize winner, friend, and fellow investigative journalist Lois Lane joins me this evening for a special report involving violent criminal activity. We want to warn viewers that in the following hour, we will be discussing many heavy topics that may be distressing to some viewers. We will start with an interview between Lane and a young man who has been the long-time victim of some of these crimes and we will end with a press conference from Commissioner Gordon who will be providing citizens with next steps and an update from police forces regarding current danger to the general populace. We ask for your patience and utmost compassion as we bring you this quickly developing story.

Lois, thank you for being here today.

Lois: Thank you for having me, Melba. When I was first contacted by this young man, I was surprised since I had not heard from him in two years. When he bravely told me his story, I offered him the opportunity to share it with the world. He agreed and is with us tonight. Please welcome, Timothy Drake.

(Tim walks out with a sling around his left arm and his right hand wrapped in gauze. He is limping and has visible bruises on his neck and a red welt on his face. His t-shirt is stained with beer and it is evident that his ribs underneath are wrapped in bandages. He smiles shyly and sits on the seat next to Lois who puts a hand on his knee briefly.)

(audible murmuring from the crowd of reporters gathered)

Lois: Timothy, thank you for being with us today.

Tim: Thank you for having me, Ms. Lane.

Lois: I’d like to go at your pace, Timothy. You contacted me earlier today to talk about something that happened to you. Does this have to do with the awful injuries that are visible today?

Tim: Yes ma’am. (He looks at the camera.) First, I’d like to correct a misunderstanding.

Lois: Sure, Timothy.

Tim: I have always gone by the last name Drake, but that was at the request of my mother, Janet Drake. As I have just brought a lawsuit against both her and her husband, Jack Drake, I would like to request that I no longer be referred to by that surname.

Lois (voice sounding soft): Of course, Timothy. What would you prefer?

Tim: Just Tim is fine for now. (Lois nods, making a note on a sheet of paper in front of her.) I am suing Janet and Jack Drake for causing severe emotional distress and physical violence against my person. (gasps in the crowd) For years, ever since I can remember, they have harmed me in multiple ways, often severely, causing long-lasting damage.

Lois: This is distressing and devastating news to hear, Tim. I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now. If it’s alright with you, can I ask you some questions?

Tim: Of course.

Lois: You say this has been going on for years? How long have the Drakes been committing these violent, criminal acts against you?

Tim: (pauses, the crowd is silent) Jack Drake broke my arm for the first time when I was four years-old. His verbal and emotional abuse started before that. Since the age of six, when I found out that Bruce Wayne was my biological father, he and my mother have perpetrated innumerable harms against me, including locking me in the basement, withholding food, whipping me, having me sleep outside, keeping me up all night, overexerting me to the point of fainting, verbally mocking me and calling me names, and, worst of all, threatening the safety of the Wayne family if I did not comply with all of their wishes. They hid several business indiscretions, blackmailed business associates, and hired known criminals for more nefarious business ventures. They told me that if I told anyone about this, they would kill Bruce Wayne and his sons. Jack Drake is deranged and unstable. He is dangerous and owns a gun and my mo—Janet has enabled him for years. (Tim takes a deep breath after his quick and quiet recounting of the above—his hands have an imperceptible tremor.)

Lois: This must be incredibly hard for you to speak about, Tim. I can imagine that it was a very hard decision to tell others about this. You lived with the Waynes for a while when you were younger. I know that a lot of people accused them of being abusive and pointed out your own restraining orders against them. Do you want to address that?

Tim: (looking straight into the camera) The Waynes took me in when they didn’t have to and were the only bright spots in my life. I am beyond grateful for their support and love from ages 9-14, and have nothing negative to say about them. It’s a shame that the press and public castigated them out of some misplaced sense of justice. The justice that should have happened—Jack and Janet going to jail for their crimes—didn’t happen because several judges and social workers were bribed. I was failed by the justice system and the public, but I was never failed by the Waynes. Yes. I took out restraining orders against them. But those were not for my safety. Those were for their safety. I could not be near them without risking the threats of my…of Jack and Janet.

Lois: Well said. You are sixteen years old, Tim, and have experienced something horrific that most adults never will. I know I can say for myself and the rest of the people here, that we are rooting for you as you look forward to the future. Do you have anything else to say before we sign off and let Commissioner Gordon speak on next steps regarding the Drakes and these heinous crimes.

Tim: Yes. I have seen people online, as well as tabloids and Gotham News, call for the removal of Damian Wayne from my biological father’s care. Damian and I spent time together recently in Scotland. He is a bright, incredible, kind boy and I had more fun with him than I have had in a long, long while. While there, his father made sure Damian was safe and protected, and I saw nothing but love between him and his family. There was an unfortunate accident that was 100% my fault and led to him getting hurt. If he is watching, I just want to say to him and his family that I am sorry I put him in danger and I’m sorry that doing so led to these horrible accusations against Mr. Wayne.

Lois: (pauses for a second, sending Tim a look that press cannot interpret, then she visibly resets and takes a breath) Thank you for sharing all that with us, Tim. Melba, back to you. (Lois puts a hand on Tim’s back and leads him behind the curtain.)

Melba: Again, this is Melba Manton with WGBS News. If you are just now joining us, we’ve just heard from Pulitzer Prize winner investigative journalist, Lois Lane as she interviewed sixteen year-old heir of Drake Industries, Timothy. Timothy is bringing a lawsuit against Jack and Janet Drake for severe emotional and physical abuse. Next up is a live press conference from Commissioner James Gordon of Gotham PD, who will be taking questions and updating us on the manhunt for criminal Lester Buchinsky. Commissioner Gordon will also be making new connections on the case regarding Buchinsky and the Drakes, who sources have reported having disappeared after landing in Gotham last night.

(fade to black)

Tim sat in a chair in the makeshift backstage as Gordon began. He could hear Lois trying to speak with him, but she sounded far away and he figured if it was important, he’d check back in again. If he needed to. He always did what he needed to. He fiddled with the bandages on his hands, wrapping and unwrapping them back and forth.

It wasn’t until he felt hands on his shoulders that he looked up, Lois’s face full of concern. She was moving her mouth but Tim just watched it absently. Eventually, she patted his face softly and kissed his forehead the same way Leslie did earlier.

He sat there.

And sat there.

And sat there.

There was a swell in the crowd, but Tim didn’t move.

There were some raised voices, but Tim didn’t move.

Jim walked by and said something, but Tim didn’t move.

Clark knelt down by his chair and put his hand on his knee, but Tim didn’t move.

Leslie took out her blood pressure cuff and stethoscope, using both on him, but Tim didn’t move.

It could have been hours or minutes, Tim didn’t know, but he didn’t move.

People were standing around him, people were speaking, people were rubbing his back and tapping lightly on his arm, but he didn’t move.

Tim didn’t move at all, not one bit, until strong arms picked him up, and a sharp voice stopped the protests around him. Tim did move then, to wrap his arms around the figure’s neck and lean his head in the crook of his shoulder.

Tim didn’t move until Jason Todd-Wayne, looking disheveled and devastated and like an avenging angel, carried him like a toddler (like something precious, like it wasn’t hard or a burden or an annoyance, just gentle and soft and secure) and brought him over to an empty park bench and rocked him back and forth as he sobbed.

Chapter 20: What Does it Mean?

Chapter Text

Jason often measured time in befores and afters. It was a trick he learned living with his mom (hismamá—his real one no matter what birth certificates or DNA said). There was BeforeCancer, AfterCancer. BeforeDrugs, AfterDrugs. When he found himself on the streets, the befores and afters were found in smaller increments—measured in instances, instead of events. How he was BeforeEating and AfterEating. How he felt BeforeSleeping and AfterSleeping. What happened BeforeFindingShelter and AfterFindingShelter.

They’d ebb and flow, and he felt, at times, like he was stuck in the Doldrums like Milo from A Phantom Tollbooth or in Wonderland like Alice. When he first came to Bruce and Dickhead and Alfie, via a mistimed tire heist and all the audacity, his befores and afters changed again—measured in feelings and memories and a shit ton of gratitude (and a shit ton of insecurity). They became BeforeBruce, AfterBruce. BeforeRobin, AfterRobin. BeforeBeingABrother, and AfterBeingABrother. And this was good and everything, but it also made Jason feel, in the words of the Bard himself, like a “giddy thing,” because by 11, he had lived what felt like a million lives and had a million feelings and processed a million traumas, and yet he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or, in the words of Alanis Morisette herself: “isn’t it ironic?” (Yeah, he really did think.)

Anyway, all that was neither here nor there nor worth exploring, because if Jason was anything, he was a survivor, and survivors don’t spend time thinking about things like where anxiety comes from or why they can never be fucking settled when things go well for them. So against that little voice in his heart, telling him it would all blow up spectacularly, eventually, Jason started to relax.

And when he was 12, Jason—who had been on his own for what felt like a long, long time—found himself measuring the befores and afters less and less, until he rarely thought about them at all. He felt, he guessed, as Dinah would say at least, safe, and in that safety, he was able to give up the stronghold that the befores and afters had on him. But he should have known better.

As John Updike would say, who was not Dinah at all,

Suspect each moment, for it is a thief, tiptoeing away with more than it brings.

Which was, like, the story of his life.

He should have fucking known better.

On his 13th birthday, Jason met a small boy hiding in their hedges. He was intrigued, charmed, and bemused (just grab a thesaurus, ok, he was all of those things) and because Jason (having only been with the Waynes for over a year at this point) was still feeling a bit out of place, a lot lonely, and, in the words of Alfred himself, a little “uninhibited', yanked the short, skinny, shy kid (who looked 6 instead of 9) and introduced him to his still somewhat newish family.

Timmy Drake was pale, nervous, and an absolutely hilarious little guy to have around. Jason would have first described him as skittish, but then, out of nowhere, he’d slap them with the driest, most brutal takedown Jason had ever heard, even as a kid growing up in the Narrows. He may have been four years younger than Jason, but Tim honestly became one of his closest friends, even before he started calling him brother. After just a month of spending time with him (after just a month of finding out his mostly absent parents sucked ass), Jason was ready to adopt him. Dickhead was close behind, and they both firmly slotted Tim in the Protect-At-All-Costs category.

Before Tim, After Tim. (Why did that work two times? Fuck his life that it worked two times.)

There was something about Tim that Jason couldn’t quite put a finger on, couldn’t quite grasp, and it annoyed him for the longest time. Because Tim was often brutally honest about his home life (“Gosh, Jay, they leave all the time. I mean, I’m grateful for y’all, but sometimes I’d just like them to pay attention to me,” and “Yeah, they really fight like cats and dogs sometimes, man, I’d just like them not to be so selfish for once, you know what I mean?” ) but he was also cagey about the weirdest things (“Oh. No, I don’t really like milk, no reason, it just feels and smells weird, you know?” and “Eh, the extra strength Advil is the same as Excedrin but Excedrin actually works for headaches better, if you take it with a Zesti …found that out…um…skateboarding once, anyway…”) It felt like the kind of stuff the kids Jason grew up around would pull—the distracting razzle dazzle before pickpocketing, except he couldn’t figure out what scheme Tim was trying to hide. Later, Dick once said—After Tim (the second After, the one where they no longer had him anymore, the one where they kept reaching for him and he was always out of their grasp)—that their brother was like a circus act, always with tricks up his sleeve but never revealing the actual truth. Dick said this drunk, and since Jason was tasked with cleaning up his vomit from his favorite safe house floor, he didn’t listen to Dick.

Tim was an enigma, but also a baby, and Jason had never been so anxious to be the right kind of person for someone before.

It was just…just…

See, Tim believed in him in a way that reminded him of his mom. Tim believed in him in a way that Dickie and Bruce didn’t, not that they weren’t supportive or loving or anything like that, but they treated him like family, whereas Tim treated him like his anchor. There was this poem by Sarah Kay that Jason always thought about when it came to him and Tim even though it was about a mom and daughter.

She said,

If I should have a daughter, instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.”

Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens,

at least she can always find her way to me.

And that was Tim and Jason for three years. For three fucking amazing years until the fucking Joker fucking ruined everything.

Dinah said that Jason’s memory from that time is shit because of trauma and not because of the moderate TBI he got as a parting gift (she didn’t say shit , but Jason knew that’s what she meant), but Jason didn’t really believe that. He was a survivor and survivors eat trauma for breakfast and then spit it out into funny quips and biting commentary, and that was not a poor coping mechanism, Dinah, thank you very much.

Jason thought about many things when he thought he was going to die, many weird and wonderful things, but in the end, when he went towards the light, he wasn’t scared and he wasn’t at peace. He was pissed. Pissed he was never going to learn to drive, pissed he would never see Walden Pond or Prince Edward Island, pissed he didn’t get to tell Dick about the pancake rat he saw down on 5th and incredibly, awfully, terribly pissed he didn’t get to take Timmers to the beach.

He didn’t remember much of his recovery, just wisps. He hallucinated Tim at one point, in a weird, distressing dream that he could barely grasp when he woke up. B, who had already been, in Jason’s opinion, a pretty good dad, was downright unbearable those first couple months (those first couple years). Instead of sixteen, Jason felt six, and something chafed on him at that. Dinah said it was trauma, but Dinah is a know-it-all who doesn’t know mind-your-own-business if it smacked her in the forehead and danced naked wearing Harley Quinn’s bows.

The Old Man said “no more Robin.” Dick-for-Brains said, “maybe that’s for the best.” Alfiie said “have another cup, Love, and tell me what’s going on.” And Tim? Well, Tim wasn’t there. And Jason couldn’t blame the kid, he was 12, Jason looked incredibly messed up (like run-for-the-hills-he’s-coming messed up) for at least six months, and the little genius got into Space Camp, so obviously, he couldn’t spare time to call. And Jason didn’t hold that against him, not at all, but something happened that summer that was different than a monster clown trying to beat his brains in.

After he returned to Gotham, Tim was cagier. Quicker to leave rooms that Jason was in, quicker to say “I’m fine, Jay, drop it” to Jason’s inquiries. Comments about his parents dwindled to nothing and Jason’s temper kindled and kindled and kindled.

It was that temper, that burgeoning, roiling, smoking anger that seemed to burn bridges. They were built again, over and over, because his family was nothing if not persistent little bastards, but they were shakier than they used to be, which honestly, set Jason off more.

He tried not to take it out on the kid, redirecting his confusion and concern into Dick and B and sometimes Alfie. He railed against losing Robin, railed against the restrictions and mother-henning, and inwardly railed against watching Tim retreat for a reason he couldn’t figure out.

When Jason was 18, two years after the shitshow with the Joker, he had found somewhat of an equilibrium. Enough to go to college at least, and enough to say to his dad and his older brother and his grandfather (because, yes, Dinah, that’s what they were, for God sakes…) that Gotham needed something different than Batman.

Mary Shelley wrote in Frankenstein, “If I cannot inspire love, I will inspire fear,” and as Jason looked at his City, his first home, and the children who would never have a Bruce Wayne to save them, he said, “Fuck yeah.”

The Red Hood was born one month before Tim got his concussion and sent everything he and his family ever knew into a chaos not even the Rogues could inspire. And Jason’s anger kindled. The 14 year-old little shit—his Timmers, his Goob—went from a sweet, adoring, whip-smart baby to a sarcastic, angry, danger-seeking teen in a matter of a month. And Jason and Dick and B and Alfie watched in horror and confusion as he legally and publicly distanced himself from them with all the ferocity of an animal backed into a corner. And he had no idea what happened.

Jason was sure it was the dumb-ass’s motherfucking parental figures, who, in Jason’s opinion, were worse than trash. They were neglectful and angry and Jack Drake was the kind of dangerous that sometimes sent shivers down his spine. Jason had ideas on what to do with trash, ideas that B and Dick shot down because, “Tim would tell us if it was something else, Jaybird” and “You can’t kill people just because you don’t like them, Little Wing.” He’d never say this to his family, but it wasn’t morality that kept Jason from tracking their sorry asses down, but the vision of a 9 year-old Tim softly saying to him, “You aren’t scary like other people are, Jay.”

And Jason’s anger kindled.

(For what it was worth, though, he thought it was completely unfair that B and Dickwad kept talking about his temper as if it was more of a problem than theirs.

Dick Grayson’s anger was volcanic, dormant until it wasn’t, leaking lava and magma, destroying cities—and Martha Wayne’s good china—without anything but time cooling it.

Bruce’s anger was like a snake in the grass, tightly coiled, vicious, deadly, popping out when you least expect it, coming back again and again for another round eternally.

They all said that Alfred didn’t get angry, but Jason drank tea in Alfred’s quarters every Sunday since he was 12. Alfred got angry but it was just as stalwart as he was. It was a low boil one, simmering on a pot, controllable unless the heat was turned higher and higher until he eventually spilled over, usually through a kind of passive aggressiveness that could even put B on edge.

Jason’s anger, though? Yeah, it could be loud and bright and visible and dangerous as a firework, or bonfire, or forest fire, or gunfire, and it kindled and built for hours and days, but it burned out just as quickly. All that was left was the lingering smell on a late July night, ash and smoke mixing with the stars and moon—a reminder imprinted in the sky for just a few moments before completely wafting away.)

So, Jason’s anger kindled:

• while he stayed in the manor
• while he helped acclimate Damian
• while attending Gotham University
• while majoring in Literature and minoring in Theatre
• and while Red Hooding, when he’d get his degree in remaking the world into a safer place for all the kids that he was able to save while thinking about the one kid he couldn’t.

That kindling, those fireworks, those forest fires led to more and more fights with Bruce and more and more arguments with Dick, and even though he knew it wasn’t fair to Dami, he couldn’t stop pressing against the wound that was losing Tim so spectacularly.

Jane Austen said, “One man’s way may be as good as another’s, but we all like our own best.” And as Red Hood established himself with guns and violence and power, in ways that grieved Bruce and concerned Dick, Jason kept kindling. My way is the best , he thought, as he broke up trafficking rings and intimidated drug dealers. My way is the best , he thought as he bought guns and threatened Rogues. My way is the best , as he wondered, late at night, why Bruce wouldn’t get rid of the monster in his dreams. But, “fuck you,” is what he said, and Jason wondered at the ability of the Joker to not only ruin him physically, emotionally, and mentally, but to also ruin his relationships.

Jason kindled. The Old Man and Dickie said it was chronic pain. Dinah said it was trauma.

But Pablo Neruda said,

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because

then the little drops of anguish will all run together,

the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift

into me, choking my lost heart.

Jason knew it was grief.

He knew it when he found Tim on top of buildings. He knew it when he found Tim drunk. He knew it when he found Tim in amateur fight clubs. He knew it when he found Tim wandering the docks with a black eye and covered in animal blood. But he especially knew it when Tim flinched as their dad gently reached out his hand.

Jason’s stomach sank in that moment, and he knew it was grief and foreboding and something familiar that sent him back to six, when he was cowering in the closet, as Willis screamed.

Jason kindled. And then he exploded.

“What the hell was that? You saw it, right? What are you going to do about that Old Man? I’m going to kill them if they ever laid a hand on him.”

B’s head was in his hands, looking pathetically small for such a striking figure, and in that moment, Jason had zero sympathy.

“What did I say? What did I say two years ago when he left us and we got those stupid papers. I told you there was something going on. I told you his parents were shit. WHO flinches like that if they aren’t getting hurt? I’m going to blow their brains out. I’m going to set their bodies on fire and use their burned out husks for decorating Arkham.”

Dick choked, standing there like a dumbass, looking lost and dazed as if he didn’t know what to do next.

It was only the call from Alfred that got them to move from their tableau—from Jason’s fire, Dick’s ice, and Bruce’s tears.

“Good morning, loves. I have taken the initiative to send the young master along on a trip overseas, as he had placed a tracker on Master Timothy’s person and found him moving to the airport. I would greatly appreciate if you would plan for their safety, Master Bruce, and as I have not heard from you. Since our boy is running like a bat out of hell, which I do say is accurate for this lot, I assume your discussion did not go well?”

This and only this seemed to shake B out of his stupor, and the next few days were filled with logistics and investigations, Bruce calling in a favor to Clark re: stalking his kids, and a distressing discovery about Lester Buchinsky.

“He used to be part of Two-Face’s gang, but it looks like he branched out,” Dick said blanching, “We found under-the-table payments from Jack Drake via an off-shore account for something named “training” every couple months. Babs found CCTV footage from last year of Buchinsky stalking Tim.”

Batman pulled in Gordon, and the two delved deeper. The fact that Tim and Damian were tucked away safely in Scotland was the only reason Jason hadn’t burned down the Gotham’s underworld to smoke out the bastard.

Of course, when Damian called Dick, practically in tears and they realized Tim was on a plane home, everything went to shit.

Clark had just dropped Damian off at their penthouse downtown. Dick, Jason, Bruce, and Alfred were working there due to the Buchinsky investigation, with the manor making access into Gotham thirty minutes longer than they could stand each night.

The Old Man was discussing something with Clark, and Damian, looking especially miserable with his bandaged nose and black eyes, sulked straight to his room and closed his door. Dick was beside himself with concern, and honestly, Jason was too, but their attention was divided with the 24/hour news program Alfred had started playing. Once Gordon announced his investigation into the Drakes and Buchinsky, they were anxious to see updates.

The paparazzi photos released that morning did not calm their nerves any, especially since Brucie was dodging calls from CPP with a “Oh haha, I’m in Bora Bora this week, how’s next week work for you?”

“Clark.” Bruce’s sharp rebuke had Jason and Dick turning from the television.

“He just called for me, I need to go, I’ll keep you updated.” Superman flew out the window.

“Shit. Fuck.” Bruce swore quietly. He got his phone out and started texting.

“What happened?” Jason was sure that Dick was going to have multiple ulcers and explode spectacularly with as tightly as he was wound.

“Hn.” Bruce replied and Jason wondered if ulcers were a good excuse for assault because Dick looked like he was going to punch him in the face.

Bruce looked up, and Jason thought the darkness under his eyes resembled Damian’s, though his was not from a punch to the face, but deep, deep sleep deprivation.

“I. Clark.” It was an uncharacteristic hesitation, one that had both Dick and Jason on edge. “Tim went home. I don’t know if he just didn’t get our voicemails or if he ignored them.”

Jason kindled.

“Clark said he just heard Tim call for help. He wouldn’t tell me what was going on.”

Jason kindled.

“Well, we should go over there, shouldn’t we?” Dick was already getting his shoes. Bruce hesitated again. He shook his head.

“No? Not yet. You heard what Clark said. He was so adamant about not seeing us. And I. I promised him in the letter I’d give him his space. We’ve talked about this. We can’t keep ignoring his boundaries just because we can’t manage our emotions.”

Dick scoffed. “What, B? Now you’re taking Dinah’s advice? We already found out he’s been lying about being stalked. We know his parents are doing shady shit with their company. He’s been entirely unreachable these past two years. He’s hurting. He seems scared. And now we’re just going to step aside?”

Bruce just stared at him. Dick huffed. “I’m going to talk to Dami. Which you should be doing. But what’s abandoning one son when you can abandon both?” He spit out viciously.

“Master Richard.” Alfred sharply admonished but Dickhead had already left the room.

Jason kindled.

He tried to busy his hands with making sandwiches. He found himself craving a cigarette instead. Dick had coaxed Damian out for lunch and they were sitting in the living room adjacent to the kitchen. Jason tried to eat, but found that he couldn’t. He decided to wash dishes instead.

He broke two cups.

Finally, he couldn’t take it any more. He went to the foyer and put on his coat.

“Jason.” Dick called from the living room, and Jason had fucking had it. He was going out to do something and he’d figure it out later.

“Jason.” It was more insistent. Jason stopped and turned around, annoyed and just done with it all. “Listen, Dick, I don't—”

“Jace.”

Dick’s voice came out strangled and came out like a supplication and came out like it never had before so Jason dropped his bag and walked back into the living room. Bruce was in front of the TV on his knees, as if someone had cut his strings, Alfred standing behind him with a hand over his mouth. Dick had a hand on Damian’s head, like he would disappear if he let up, and the kid’s face looked like glass, emotionless, smooth, and if not for the deep furrow he could see in his brow, Jason would have said unbothered.

“Wha—”

“…Timothy Drake…Timothy, thank you for being with us today.”

Jason kindled.

“ I am suing Janet and Jack Drake for causing severe emotional distress and physical violence against my person.For years, ever since I can remember, they have harmed me in multiple ways, often severely, causing long-lasting damage.”

Jason heard a ringing in his ears.

He would have accused Bruce of turning the sound down except Tim’s voice started to ooze into every crack and crevice of his brain, under his skin, and horror took shape in a way Jason had only known once before in his life, right before the Joker slammed that crowbar into his head for the first time.

And this hurt the same, and it hurt differently, but Jason, who now didn’t remember how to breathe, let alone what breath was, felt a deep kinship with Bruce, in a way he never had before.

Because they were mirror images of each other in that moment, except where Jason was still getting breath out somehow, Bruce had almost stopped altogether. He made a sound that Jason had never heard (and later Dick said he’d only heard once, when Bruce first found Jason broken in that warehouse).

For the first time in Jason’s memory, maybe for the first time in the history of the Wayne Family, Alfred was not at Bruce’s side, helping him through with that indomitable English spirit, but instead, he was sitting in the armchair in front of the television, head in his hands, taking stuttering breaths.

Jason whipped around robotically and saw Dick frozen, hand still in Damian’s hair, watching the screen with glazed eyes and a trembling body.

And Damian? Jason didn’t know what he was seeing from Damian, except a complicated expression and eyes darting as if he wanted to hide away the way he did those months when he first came to the manor.

Jason exploded.

“I’m leaving.” He walked out of the room. No one moved to stop him.

Trembling, he laced up his boots.

“Master Jason—“

“I swear to God, Alfie, I’m going, privacy or boundaries be damned, he…”

Alfred put a hand on his shoulder and shushed him, “Love, it’s ok. It’s going to be ok. Please bring our boy home.”

Jason nodded sharply, left the penthouse, and grabbed the fastest car Bruce had in the garage. But instead of the glee Jason usually felt whenever he stole B’s shit, he just felt numb.

Tim’s words echoed in his mind, phrases and sentences, that despite his love for poetry and literature, made absolute zero sense in the way they were constructed.

“Jack Drake broke my arm for the first time when I was four years-old.”

“...locking me in the basement, withholding food, whipping me, having me sleep outside, keeping me up all night, overexerting me to the point of fainting, verbally mocking me and calling me names.”

“Jack Drake is deranged and unstable. He is dangerous and owns a gun.”

The two-and-half hour drive to Metropolis was only an hour drive for Jason, and he thanked the gods that no cops stopped him on the way. The guns in his jacket felt heavy and judgmental, and all he could see in the passenger seat next to him was the ghost of 9 year-old Timmy looking at him placidly.

“It’s all your fault.” The phantom said.

“You should have known.” He accused.

“What kind of brother lets this happen?” He sang, a familiar lilt.

“Little birdie, thinks he’s special, thinks he’s better, but he’s just as bad as my abusers.” He laughed and Jason no longer saw Tim at 9, but the fucking Clown, mocking and self-satisfied in a way that made Jason want to slam the car into a tree just to get the vision to shut up.

Turning on the radio to drown out the voices in his head only served to send him into a worse spiral, for the talk radio B usually had on was broadcasting Gordon’s press conference.

“The Gotham Police Department is working with federal agents to place Jack and Janet Drake on America’s Most Wanted list. They have a no-fly classification, and this is a warning that anyone found aiding and abetting the couple will be charged with collusion, obstruction, and intent to harm. In my 40 years of service on the force, I have never before seen a case of child abuse so severe that was this long-lasting. If you see Jack or Janet Drake, we are asking civilians not to approach them as we have reason to believe they are armed and dangerous. I will now take a few questions from the press, but I need to return to Gotham as soon as possible to oversee this investigation.”

“Yes, this is Grant White with The Gotham Galaxy and I think I speak for the public when I ask how do you know for certain that Timothy Drake isn’t lying? We all know how fickle teenagers are and this particularly is a wealthy, entitled teenager whose parents were already facing inquiries into their corrupt business practices. Who’s to say that he’s not just making this up so he can come out smelling like roses?”

Jason turned the dial to off so quickly and violently he actually broke it. The radio sat silent and all Jason could hear was his own ragged breathing.

“Fuuuuuuuuck.”

He pulled into the parking lot at the top of the park and started running towards the stages he could see just a few meters away.

He easily jumped over the safety barriers and weaved through the press who were wrapping up after Gordon’s conference. He bumped into a reporter on his way backstage. Gotham Galaxy was printed on his pass.

“Watch where you’re going, asshole.” The stranger snarked.

“Grant White?” Jason asked, and the man nodded and smiled with the teeth of a shark.

“Wonderful.” Jason smiled serenely and punched him in the face, pleased to now see one of those teeth on the sidewalk. “Next time you talk about my brother like that, motherfucker, it will be your whole head on the sidewalk.”

“Jason.” Clark Kent had a firm hand wrapped around his arm and pulled him away from the sputtering idiot now holding his nose and whining like a baby.

“Jason, I can understand why you came, but Tim explicitly told us he didn’t want us to call anyone.”

“Anyone or Bruce?” Jason asked.

“Well, Bruce, but I assume he meant—”

Jason pulled out of Clark’s grip and kept moving, not even looking at him. “That’s the problem then, isn’t it? Everyone is always assuming. He wants me. He won’t say no to me.” The Clown appearing beside him laughed. Jason ignored him. Clark tried again, “Jason please, he’s upset. Distressed. He hasn’t even responded to us for over an hour.”

Jason pushed down the grief and kept moving until finally, finally he saw him.

Robert Frost once said,

“Then leaf subsides to leaf;

So Eden sank to grief.”

And Jason did not kindle. Or explode.

He broke.

“ Goob .” He breathed out. “Oh, cariño.”

Jason pushed through the crowd surrounding his brother and lifted him off of the folding chair he was dissociating on. Tim’s head laid on his shoulder and Jason looked around for a private space apart from curious eyes.

Walking over to a park bench, Jason rocked Tim back and forth as his brother wept, and Jason, who hadn’t cried since begging for his life in that warehouse, let himself weep with him.

They were there for two hours.

Mary Oliver once said,

“You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.”

Jason agreed. This would take at least a hundred lifetimes.

Chapter 21: Then Kickin' Rocks

Chapter Text

It was the soft singing that brought Tim back to his body. Almost whispered, gruff and stuttering, as if the singer had been crying alongside Tim (which, Jesus, what an embarrassing display that was), a familiar tune pricked his brain. Take these broken wings and learn to fly, it crooned. Come back, it meant. All your life. You were only waiting for this moment to arise, it hummed. You’re safe, it meant.

Tim didn’t necessarily want to move. Not from the arms that were cradling him or the voice that was calming him or the moment that would surely be broken the minute he looked up and saw Jason and had to admit that he had been lying to him his whole life. He didn’t want to break the peace that had fallen over them with his stupid problems that he hid because he was a coward of the highest degree. You were protecting them, the voice in his heart said. You were a baby who couldn’t even take one punishment without crying about it, his brain said.

And hell, Tim just felt so tired and wrung out and over all of it. He barely remembered what he said the minute he stepped out on that stage. Was it the right choice? At the time he thought it was, but now that he was thinking about it more, it really seemed like a stupid thing to do.

A stupid thing by a stupid idiot who was a stupid freak.

“Breathe, kiddo.”

What a joke. There were so many other options. He should have called 911 and just left it at that. Calling Superman? Like he was a damsel in distress or something?

“Goob, you need to breathe for me, ok?”

So what if Jack tossed him around a little. Tim usually gave as good as he got. And what? He’s going to complain that a few words hurt his feelings? What were a few words to making sure his family was safe? To making sure they didn’t get hurt in the crossfire?

“Tim. Breathe.”

Tim sucked in a breath shakily and tried to wipe his eyes furiously. He scrambled out of Jason’s lap and stood up, swaying while trying to find his balance again. His face felt hot and swollen and sticky, so he rubbed at it again harder. He could feel his nails scratch his face a bit, but he was desperate to get himself under control.

“Stop.” Jason stood up too and grabbed Tim’s hands. “You’re hurting yourself, bud.”

“I’m sorry.” Tim stepped back. Jason was still holding on, gently but firmly, not letting him go very far. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” It was a litany. It was a confession.

It was.

Tim didn’t know what it was. But Jason was acting too nice, too calm, too kind, and Tim couldn’t understand.

“Sorry for what, kiddo? You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” Jason’s voice was soft, heartbroken.

Tim bobbed his head up and down vigorously, sniffing in an incredibly disgusting way, so worried that Jason would take one look at him and head back to his real family. He avoided the eye contact that Jason seemed desperate to meet, and looked at his feet instead.

“I’m sorry for lying and. And the protection o-orders and be-be-being mean and telling–telling you to leave me alone and swearing and the…the fight ring…and drinking and lea-leaving y.y.y.you alone after the…the warehouse thing.” Tim said so quickly and ended so pathetically, and he was so frustrated he couldn’t even get his crying under control to sound sincere or mature about it.

God, he was sixteen years old and sounded like he was nine. He hated himself.

“Don’t. Goob, don’t apologize for that, ok? Never.” Jason sat down on the park bench again and raked his hand through his hair. Streaks of pink and red peppered the sky, and Tim couldn’t muster any feeling other than a deep, abiding shame.

Jason sighed heavily. He looked up at Tim and Tim couldn’t find any censure in his eyes, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t hiding there, just waiting to spring forth at the right moment.

“I brought you boys some water and a couple of cold compresses.” Lois’s voice was soft as she walked over to them. “This park closes at sunset.” She said apologetically. She turned to Jason. “Clark and I have a loft next to the Planet that we keep on days we’re working late. You’re free to use it. We were going to go home, but if you need us to, we can stay?”

Jason shook his head. “Thanks, Lois. We’ll be ok.”

She nodded and handed him the key. Turning to Tim, she gave him a gentle hug and rubbed his back for a moment, whispering in his ear, “You did such a good job, kid. We are so proud of you.” She patted Jason on the shoulder, then ruffled his hair a bit until he gave her a small smile. “Love you guys. We’re a call away.”

Jason leaned back on the bench. Tim was still avoiding his eyes, so Jason kicked him gently with his foot. “Let’s get you in some different clothes, Goob. And.” He stopped for a second and looked like he was getting his temper under control, “We probably need to do some more triage, ok, Timantha? I know Leslie looked you over, but I’d like to as well. If that’s ok?”

Tim nodded, his brain wanting to say a million things but his tongue saying none. Jason stood up and pulled Tim under his arm as they walked to the parking lot. Some people were still milling around, but Jason’s glare had them backing off before they could approach them. When Tim saw the car, he whistled.

Jason laughed. “I always wanted to take this baby for a joyride, you know. He’s been hiding the keys from me since I was seventeen.” Jason waved them in front of Tim with a smirk. “Alfie gave ‘em to me on my way out if you can believe it. Found them in my pocket and everything.”

Tim smiled.

Jason opened the door for him and helped him slide in. Tim tried not to wince, but his bruises were still bothering him. Jason came around and started the car. It was quiet on the drive over to Lois’s loft, both Jason and Tim lost in thought.

“The…uh…radio doesn’t work,” Jason said when he saw Tim looking at it. “Old Man should probably get his money back for that or something.”

They pulled into the parking garage underneath the apartment complex and rode the elevator up. The silence was thick and suffocating. Jason put his chin on top of Tim’s head as they rode up and Tim shivered at the contact.

Finally, they arrived at the right floor and unlocked the door to the loft. It was fairly large, decorated in bright colors and a poster of Superman hung over the fireplace, most definitely an addition by Lois.

Jason put his hand on Tim’s back and ushered him into the bathroom. He paused, unsure. Then, almost like he was debating with himself, he nodded and then clicked his tongue.

Incredibly softly, he asked, “Can I help you clean up?” Tim, who felt floaty again, because apparently he couldn’t handle anything, just nodded.

“Alright, Goob.” Jason undid Tim’s sling and set it on the counter. He gently lifted the beer-stained shirt from his head and tossed it in the trash. Tim thought he did a very good job at not talking about the way his stomach and back looked—he knew he was ugly and it was very scarred and very bruised, but he thought he would’ve broken had Jason said anything about it. All he did, though, was suck in a large breath. Very, very gingerly, he helped Tim slide out of his jeans, and step into the shower.

Grabbing a cup from the side of the tub, he turned on the warm water. “Sit or stand, Timbo?” Tim stared blankly, and Jason hummed. “Ok, why don’t you stay standing and I’ll pour. Then we’ll get on clean clothes and you can lay back and I’ll do your hair in the sink?”

Tim let Jason maneuver him where he wanted him. Jason left the bathroom after wrapping him up in a fluffy towel and came back with soft sweatpants, a large long-sleeve shirt, and wool socks. He helped Tim step into them, and then grabbed a tall chair and had Tim sit with his back to the sink.

“Thank you.” Tim said softly.

He almost thought Jason didn’t hear him, but Jason scoffed. “You’re welcome, but this.” He cleared his throat. “This is nothing, Timbo. I like doing this. I want to take care of you.” Quietly, “I should have been taking care of you.”

Tim shook his head, but Jason held it still and poured some more warm water over it. “No ruining my beautiful work with whatever lies you’re telling yourself right now, hermanito.” He hummed a bit and grabbed a towel to dry his head.

“So, I was thinking,” Jason said as he plugged in the hair dryer. He ran his fingers through Tim’s long, messy hair. “What do you say about a road trip? We can leave for a few months. Maybe go to the coast?”

Tim looked up at him, confused. “You can’t do that. You have. You have responsibilities. In Gotham. Like Red Hood.”

“Fuck Red Hood.”

“What?”

“Fuck him. It doesn’t have to be the coast, kiddo. We can do whatever you want to do.”

“I’m not twelve, Jay.”

Jason frowned. “I know that. Why?”

Tim sputtered, “I don’t have to be treated with kid gloves. You don’t have to keep pretending to be nice just because you…I don’t know…think I’m going to break down or something?”

Jason’s forehead wrinkled and he scoffed. “I’m not.” He paused, “I don’t…God, Timmy. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. You’re so strong, alright? It’s not about treating you with kid gloves or like a baby or anything. Would you have said that after.” Jason swallowed, “After the Joker? That…dad and Dickie were pretending to be nice.” He sounded a little angry and Tim’s shoulders almost touched his ears.

“That’s different.”

Tim could tell that Jason was trying to find a response to that, but all that did was prove to Tim’s brain that he was being too careful with him. Like he saw him as fragile. Tim rolled his eyes.

Jason sighed and pushed him out of the bathroom. “Never mind. We’ll talk about it later, ok?” Clapping his hands together, he guided Tim onto the couch. “Alright. When was the last time you ate, Timmers?”

“On the plane. Um. I had a muffin.”

Jason winced. “Before that?”

Tim shrugged.

“Well goober, let’s start there. You’re probably starving.”

He really wasn’t but he didn’t think Jason would accept that answer. Jason looked through the fridge and cabinet, grabbing some ingredients. He stirred up some chocolate milk and handed a glass to Tim while he worked. Eventually, the loft started smelling of garlic and spices. Jason handed Tim a bowl of broth and noodles, and put a side of warm sourdough bread with a garlic butter spread next to it. “Eat at least half of that, and then we can eat all of Clark’s Rocky Road in the freezer.”

The soup was warm and Tim could feel his eyes drooping. Jason sat next to him, flipping through channels on the television. He stopped at a rerun of Brooklyn Nine-Nine and kept a hand on Tim’s knee. It felt more grounding than it should have.

Eventually—”We’ll probably need to rewrap the wrist before you go to bed. Leslie texted me.” Tim hadn’t even seen Jason on his phone and he felt like he was losing time.

“She said it might need surgery. I know it was hurt even before you and Dames went to Scotland. When we found you. That was Buchinsky, right?” He said the name like it was a piece of trash that had offended him.

Tim shrugged again. “I wasn’t quick enough.”

“What do you mean, Goob?”

Tim didn’t look at Jason. “He,” Tim cleared his throat, heart beating fast, “He was teaching me a lesson. I let myself get taken. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Tim shrunk at Jason’s piercing look. He put the TV on mute and Tim could see a burning anger in his eyes. It didn’t scare him, but he knew Jason would be mad at himself if he lost control.

“It’s not a big deal,” he mumbled. “I’m usually better at avoiding them.”

“Can. Can we come back to that later, bud? I need to go smoke. Why don’t you finish your soup and find a movie for us to watch?”

Jason left the couch, hands shaking, and Tim wondered if he would always fuck things up eternally, or if at some point, he’d figure out how to be an actual adult.

While Jason was out on the balcony, his phone started vibrating. It stopped, and immediately started vibrating again. Several text notifications in succession finally tempted Tim to pick it up. He checked to make sure Jason was still on the balcony before he grabbed it. Jay’s password was the same as two years ago, and Tim rolled his eyes. There were several messages from the past few hours, so Tim scrolled to the most recent ones in the last few minutes.

DICK (pejorative): Jay. Call me.

DICK (pejorative): I hope T is ok and you’re both safe. 911. I need you to call me.

DICK (pejorative): Jace, I hope you get this soon.

DICK (pejorative): Damian ran away.

DICK (pejorative): We can’t find him.

DICK (pejorative): Dad is having a breakdown.

DICK (pejorative): I’m so sorry.

DICK (pejorative): I need you. Can you call me?

The phone rang again and Tim put it back on the table.

He stuck his head out the sliding door. “Hey, Jay?” Jason turned around, and Tim could see his eyes were red. He tried to ignore that.

“Yeah, Goob?”

“I wanted to grab a candy bar from the vending machine in the lobby. Do you have a dollar?”

“Yeah, bud. My wallet’s on the table. Get me one too, ok?”

Tim nodded and closed the door again.

Quickly, he grabbed Jason’s wallet and keys, and scribbled a note on the pad by the fridge. He tore it off and put it next to Jason’s phone and then quietly closed the door. He took the stairs instead of the elevator, and ignored the twinging in his side as he ran down.

He was out of Metropolis before Jason even came back inside.

Chapter 22: You're Gettin' High

Chapter Text

Here’s the deal.

No, scratch that.

Here’s the…rub? The problem? The cognitive distortion, as Dinah would say. (Dick thought Dinah said a lot that really should have applied to the rest of his emotion-phobic family, instead of him.)

Richard Grayson, no matter how far he reached and how hard he tried, would never be able to save those he loved.

It was a problem, really. When he allowed himself to think about it.

Which, you know. He didn’t.

Dick had always, from a very young age, been most comfortable with routine. It stood to reason, he thought, because in the circus, despite whatever gross misconceptions the white, Bristol elite fuckers had of it, routine was vital to survival. If you missed a spot or slacked on practice or skimped on routine, you were dead. ( And sometimes, even then, you could be sticklers about routine and still end up dead, bloody, broken—like mamă and tati, may they rest, may they meet again, may they, may they, may they…)

Dick liked routine and liked to put things in boxes. Thoughts in boxes—box thoughts. So when he watched, horrified, at eight years-old, his parents fall and their necks snap and their blood gush out onto the mats and all the screams from the people around him which drowned out the screaming in his soul—when he watched this, he said, “okay,” and put it in a box.

He knew enough English to say “fuck you” when the authorities took him to the police station because they couldn’t find an open group home. He knew enough French to say “Je t'emmerde” when they put him in a detention center “for just a few nights, okay kid, so don’t act up or you’ll be here longer.” And he knew enough Russian to say “Khuy tebe” when some rich, white billionaire showed up to take him to his billionaire mansion and become his billionaire guardian.

“Richard, we’d like you to be comfortable here.”

“That’s not my name.”

“What would you like to be called?”

“Call me Dick you mother-fucking piece of shit on a cracker and the bottom of my bitch shoe, and then go to hell with all the jackasses you bitch piss cocksucker.”

“Well, that went well, Master Bruce.”

“Hn.”

Dick may have had a bit of a rough start, he’d be the first to admit it. That first year with Bruce and Alfred wasn’t…tame…by any means, and between the sneaking out, running away, melting down, possibly trying to commit murder, and screaming at B and Alfie, Dick could confidently say that creating new routines was not something that came easy to him. He found out B was Batman pretty quickly and after the fourth week in a row of being found on the streets, dressed as Robin, and picking fights with muggers just to see how fast he could dodge their knives, his foster father agreed that a supervised vigilante child was better than an unsupervised one.

Looking back, Dick wondered if this was due to B’s age or just unfamiliarity of what normal human behavior looked like. Bruce was 24 when Dick came to live with him, and though he used to call him old all the time, now that Dick was 24, he was beginning to realize just how young it really was.

Dick and Bruce.

Bruce and Dick.

( Mamă and Tati and Dick…gone, dead, may they rest, may they rest, may they rest… )

At times they were oil and water and at times they were scarily in sync. Dick didn’t remember much of his first years with Bruce and Alfie (Dinah said it was trauma, but Dick thought it was a sparkling personality trait), other than the fact that they were filled with explosive blow-ups and icy cool-downs and little-to-no emotional regulation (Dick) because that often took a backseat to ignoring-until-it-went-away (Bruce).

“You’re not my father, you’ll never be my father, I HATE you, go kill yourself and make us all happy, okay? Why are you here, huh? Why you? Why not my Tati? He was so much better than you, you SUCK and you ALWAYS will and I…I…I think they should NEVER let kids be around you EVER EVER EVER EVER.”

Dick was 9 and it wasn’t anger that made him such an asshole those early years, not if he dug down really deep, but Dick wasn’t old enough at that point to realize that grief was carved into his very bones the minute his parents crashed to the ground, nor was he old enough to realize that grief would never go away, or really fade—it would just become easier to hide.

And Dick was talented at a lot of things, but hiding was his speciality. (Dinah said it was “protective avoidance due to internal and external stressors,” but he called it “being a good son and brother.”)

Dick weathered those early years with all the grace of a pig on ice skates, and Bruce was right next to him, same ice, different skates. They finally found a sense of balance (mostly through Alfie’s guidance and helped along with a maturity that seemed to pervade Bruce once he was in his later twenties). Dick turned 10, then 11, then 12, and before he knew it, he was four years into his life with Bruce and Alfie, rocking Robin (pun absolutely intended), and finally—finally—not in freefall ( unlike his mamă and tati, falling, falling, falling, dead, dead, dead… ).

Then.

Then.

Two-Face happened. Dick was 15 and Dent’s newest obsession with Batman found Dick trying to attempt a rescue mission for the man who had fostered him for seven years, the man who had told him just a week before that he wanted to adopt him—if Dick was ready for that—the man who made him secret blanket forts in the west wing sitting room at 2 o’clock in the morning when he woke up in a cold sweat and the feeling of a horrified scream caught in his throat. He went to save Bruce after sneaking away from Alfie.

He went to save Bruce because if he couldn’t be good enough to save his first two parents, maybe he could be good enough to save his second-chance one, but like everything Dick tried to do in his life, it failed spectacularly. Because in the end, it was Bruce that saved Dick, but only after a severe, life-changing beating that put Dick in the hospital for three months and robbed him of the easy rapport he had built with B.

“I don’t want you out there again, Dick.” Bruce gently swiped his thumb over the severe bruising above Dick’s brow. “I don’t know what I was thinking. You need to stop being Robin.”

“Bullshit, Bruce. You stop being Batman if you’re going to freak the fuck out—”

“Language, Master Richard.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “Sorry, Alfie.” He turned back to Bruce, “You can’t take Robin from me. That’s not your choice. Robin is mine. It is my mother’s.”

“Chum, you’re lucky you’re walking right now.”

“And I am. I am walking right now, so get off of your high horse and just leave me alone. My head hurts. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Dick called Wally to come and get him the next day.

“I’m going to live with the Titans for a little bit. You can’t stop me. You’re not my real father.” Dick spit out.

Bruce just looked like a kicked puppy, which honestly set Dick’s temper off again.

“And don’t call me. I’ll call you.”

And that would have been it. If Bruce had let Dick walk out of that manor that day, Dick would have never come back. And six months later, Bruce would have found a shiny new boy to take Dick’s place and it would have just cemented every bad thing that Dick’s brain was telling him about himself—he was bad luck and bad news wrapped in the package of a bad son, and his parents were damn lucky to die before finding that out. ( may they rest, may they sleep, may they be peace and light and love )

But that’s not what happened.

Bruce took Dick’s trembling hands and pulled him into a hug and they stood in the foyer for a very long time while Bruce rubbed his back and Dick cried. And then Bruce said, “Ok, let’s figure this out,” and Dick kept being Robin, but only after agreeing to going to therapy with him.

“What.”

“Listen, chum, you were ready to walk out. I obviously wasn’t doing enough to make it clear that I…I love you. If she can help, why not?”

Six months later, Bruce did find another boy, but it was not as a replacement, but a very welcome addition. And once Jason came into his life, Dick found another equilibrium, one that he never realized he was missing before this—one as a brother.

Dick took to brotherhood like an Olympic figure skater on ice, and while Bruce and Alfie were like family, Jason was something else. Jason was Dick’s reason for being better, for being the best, for sticking to routine like never before. It became a mantra, almost obsessive and protective and so full of mission and meaning and determination (keep him safe, keep him here, keep him flying) . Dick passed the Robin mantle to Jason on the eve of Jason’s 13th birthday, in a silly ceremony where Bruce and Alfie held candles and Dick chanted Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” And Dick didn’t think life could get any fuller, any better (may they rest, may he join them, may he find them again whole and unbroken) until that next day, Jason walked back to the pool with their neighbor in tow. And if Dick’s big brother instincts were honed with Jason, they soared with Timmy.

Dick wanted Tim adopted ASAP and out of the clutches of the neglectful, often traveling Drakes, but every time he brought it, Bruce would get this constipated look on his face and retreat to his office for hours. Dick wasn’t able to clock it as guilt until two years later, when Bruce brought Jason and Dick into his study after putting a quieter-than-normal Timmy to bed.

Bruce gestured to the couch, but stayed standing, walking back and forth and, uncharacteristically wringing his hands. Dick shared a confused look with Jason, and Jason did something with his eyebrows meaning, “You’re the oldest, it’s your responsibility.” And Dick did something with his eyebrows meaning, “You can’t keep using that excuse, Little Wing, you’re getting taller than me.” And Jason pinched his leg hard which meant, “Quit being a little bitch.” So Dick took the plunge.

“Are you alright, B?”

Bruce stopped fidgeting and looked surprised to see them there as if he hadn’t invited them in the first place. He paused, which was also uncharacteristic UNLESS he was dealing with deep, complicated emotions, and Dick’s stomach dropped.

“I have something to tell you boys and…I’m concerned about…your reactions.”

Jason snorted. “Spit it out, Old Man. We can obviously tell it’s bothering you.”

“I’m sure it’ll be alright, B. Just tell us.” Dick placated.

Bruce pulled up a wingback chair and sat in front of Jason and Dick, his face filled with longing and sadness and self-recrimination. And then proceeded to tell them the story of a 1 year-old neighbor boy and finding out he was Tim’s biological father. He talked about signing papers thrust in front of him by their neighbors 10 years ago, and how he signed out of fear and, again, self-doubt and self-hate. Dick tried desperately not to think about what he was putting Bruce and Alfie through when he was 9, and quickly tossed it in the biggest box inside his head, aptly named, “All the Ways I Fucked Up and Made Things Worse for the People I Love.”

Jason was predictably angry, and with all the eloquence of a 15 year-old, he called Bruce multiple names, “You fucked up, Old Man. You understand that, right? We could have had Timmers with us this whole time? What, are you just adopting replacements out of guilt for the absolute shittiness of being a deadbeat dad? Is that all I was to you? And you just told him, tonight? How did he take it? You know what. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to talk to you right now. Just. Leave me alone for a while.” He stormed off and then it was Dick and Bruce. Bruce and Dick.

Dick pushed down the eruption he knew would come later. He looked at Bruce who was looking down at the ground.

“Chum—” he started.

Dick held up a hand. “I. I can’t talk about this right now, Bruce. I knew you back then.” Dick sighed. “I understand the best I can, but don’t expect Jay to, and definitely never expect Timbit to, okay? The best you can do right now is make up for it.”

And he left.

He walked up to Tim’s room and cracked open the door, watching his little brother sleep holding on to the stuffed, weighted dino Dick had bought him several months ago. He watched him for hours, until sunrise, and then gently closed the door and left for his dorm back at the university without telling Bruce goodbye.

Sweet Timmy, his baby, his Roo, his little menace, his chipmunk. The boy was full of contradictions, reticent and bold, secretive and trusting, twitchy and such a cuddler. Tim slotted into their strange life like he had always meant to be there. He had the sweetest disposition, the wittiest of comebacks, but sometimes his brow would furrow in a way that made Dick pause because he recognized the same furrow in the mirror on late, sleepless nights filled with sweat and tears and secrets. It planted an unnamed panic under Dick’s skin, and it wouldn’t be a very long time before Dick was able to name it as love.

Because Dick loved his Jaybird, his Little Wing, his Boo Radley with all his heart and he loved his Timmy, his baby, his Roo, with all his heart, and later on, he loved his sweetheart, his Scoot, his Baby Bat with all his heart, and a person would think, with all that love cushioning his heart, it would protect him from breaking into a million pieces, but all it did was make him shatter in ways he never thought possible.

Jason’s run-in with the Joker destroyed him, and it was the first time he ever felt such a kinship with Bruce—telling Jay he couldn’t be Robin definitely brought his dad and him closer together, but Jason began to slip through his fingers (don’t fall, don’t fall, stay safe, stay safe…). His anger was vicious but Dick took it with all the grace of a ballerina on stage because better him than Timmy. Smart Timmy, who got into Space Camp at 12. Thoughtful Timmy, who brought Dick Sour Patch Kids every Sunday. Kind Timmy who’d always seemed to know when it was a BadDay for Dick and sat next to him in silence while reading whatever new monster story Bruce had procured for him that week.

His Timmy, who was apparently also floundering but none of them saw it until it was too late, because Richard Grayson, no matter how far he reached and how hard he tried, would never be able to save those he loved.

Damian, sweet Dami, got the short end of the stick, arriving just as he and Alfie and B and Jay were left reeling from Tim’s very explosive and very abrupt exit from their lives.

Dick was 22, done with college, and feeling less and less like an adult with a reasonable amount of emotional intelligence, and more and more like that 9 year-old, screaming for attention and love and that someone—anyone—would stay.

He moved back in, with B and Alfie and Jaybird and Dami, juggling Nightwing and helping his family raise a little boy with an exceptional amount of trauma. All while grieving another little boy who waltzed out of their life with all the warning signs of a beach with rip currents and sharks.

Dick tried so hard to get Tim alone, to get him to a place where he could tell him what the fuck was going on, but his brother kept refusing and kept running and kept falling further and further away.

And then.

There were boxes that Dick locked up tight. A box for his parents. A box for Harvey Dent. A box for the Joker. A box for the Red Hood (Jace, Boo, Little Wing, may he rest, may he find peace, may he know how much we love him) . A box for Damian’s shitty-ass “family.”

And now?

Several boxes for Tim.

Because when Dick and Jason found him dissociating on the pier, when Tim screamed at them to leave him alone, when Dick and Bruce and Jason made connection after connection investigating Buchinsky and the Drakes, all Dick could think about was falling.

Tim was safe, though. Safe in Scotland, safe with Dames, safe with Uncle Clark, and Dick let himself find the silver lining for just a moment and breathe.

The phone rang and Dami’s scowling face, covered in whipped cream with Jason laughing behind him, flashed on the screen. Dick pressed answer.

“Hey sweetheart, how’s it going?”

“R…Richard?” Damian’s voice was shaky and Dick could barely understand him.

“Whoa, Dami, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“I. I. I.” He started crying in earnest, and Dick went from concerned to alarmed immediately.

“Sweetie, you need to calm down, ok? Big deep breaths, Dames. I can’t help if I can’t understand you. Remember how we practiced calming down? Do it with me.”

The exaggerated breathing was more for Dick’s benefit than Damian’s, as demonstrated by the frustrated huff from the younger.

“I have no time for your inane ‘methods’ Richard, Timothy has…Timothy was…I didn’t mean to, I swear…I made a mistake, I apologize, I…” Damian became increasingly hard to understand. Dick had put him on speaker as Bruce and Alfred and Jason listened in, their faces equally tense.

“Dick?”

“Uncle Clark! What happened? Is Dami alright? Is Timmy ok?”

“We had a bit of a setback here, unfortunately. It seems like Tim had a nightmare and when going to wake him up, Damian startled him. Tim accidentally hit him pretty good in the nose. I’ve iced it, but it cracked a bit. I reset it but our kiddo’s gonna have a couple of gnarly black eyes for a few weeks. The problem is Tim saw that and left. He’s on his way back to Gotham.”

“Fuck.” Jay swore. Bruce started tapping on his phone and Alfred let out a hushed “Dear Lord.”

“Ok, Clark,” Dick tried to pull from a well of calm that had been dry since he was 8 years old, staring down at his dead parents. “Can you put Damian back on, please?”

“Sure thing, Dickie.”

“Dami.” There was a vague hum from the other side of the phone. “Baby Bat, listen to me, ok? Your big brain is telling you something, but I need you not to listen to it. You are so good, sweetie. So, so good. You did a good job. Remember, we’ve known Timmy for a lot longer than you. He gets…spooked easily, Scoot. It wasn’t your fault. I promise. Stay with Clark and you’ll be back home soon.”

Dick asked Damian to give the phone back to Clark and Clark and Bruce finished the conversation around details and plans.

Dick walked outside to where Jason had gone to smoke. He held out his hand and Jason gave him a cigarette as well. He lit it for him and Dick took a long drag.

“I’m not letting him go back, Dickie. If I have to kidnap out of this city, he’s not going back. I don’t trust the Drakes as far as I can throw them.”

Dick nodded. “If it comes to that, Jay, I’ll help.”

So Dami and Clark came back and Damian went to his room immediately and Dick was pulled in so many directions, Jay was unraveling and B was unraveling and Alfie was hiding his unraveling and Dick just didn’t know how to hold them together when thick, viscous concern for Tim was clogging his heart and brain.

He tried. He tried to help Alfred with sandwiches and tried to pull Damian out of his room and tried to give Jay space and tried to get a verbal response from his dad but none of that worked the way he wanted it to, and all he could do was watch his family fall, fall, fall.

And when he watched Tim’s interview and Gordon’s press conference, he was no longer falling. He was on the ground. But instead of his parents’ bleeding out, all he saw was his baby brother.

Something cracked in Dick, something dangerous. Something erupted within him, and he was barely hanging on. He didn’t notice Jason leaving. He didn’t notice Dami leaving. He didn’t notice Bruce weeping. He didn’t notice Alfred pacing. He didn’t notice himself walking through the Penthouse and onto the balcony and sitting on the railing. He didn’t notice himself looking down, or the tears pouring off his face, or the way his arms reached out like trying to catch someone who had already been flattened.

It could have been a minute or an hour, but eventually, Alfred found him and pulled him down and into his arms and hugged him tightly, whispering soft words and kind words, calling him dear one and rubbing his back. He handed Dick a warm washcloth and helped him wipe his eyes. He told him that Jay went to Metropolis and Dick pushed down the jealousy and guilt ( may they be ok, may he succeed, may Tim receive it, may Dick be a better brother than he has been).

“Master Dick, I am remiss to pull you from the space you are in right now, but I need assistance. I am unable to locate Master Damian, and right now, I’m a little worried about your father. His blood pressure and heart rate are both incredibly high and he’s not responding to me right now.” Before Dick could head back into the living room, Alfred put a gentle hand on his chest, stopping him.

“Master Dick, you have taken care of this family consistently and in ways I fear have kept you from being cared for yourself. I’ll take care of my son, Dear One. Right now, I need you to help locate Master Damian. When we are all together, whole, safe, and sound, we are due for a long talk.” He kissed Dick on the head when Dick nodded, and squeezed his hand.

“Thank you, young sir.”

Dick tried not to look in the living room on his way to Damian’s room. He tried not to think about his father’s slumped form against the couch or the sound of Alfred calling Leslie for a house visit.

Damian’s room was empty. It wasn’t too concerning, since the kid’s first instinct in stressful situations was still to hide. Sometimes it would take Dick upwards of an hour to find him, usually in high spaces. While he searched, he text back and forth with Jason, asking for frequent updates. Both his younger brothers were together, and that somewhat settled the pounding in his heart. Another thirty minutes passed, and Dick was getting concerned. The penthouse didn’t have many high spaces or closets to hide. Dick looked in Damian’s room again and noticed his missing backpack and the cache of knives they let him keep for comfort. Alarm bells started ringing. There was a notepad on Damian’s desk that Dick overlooked at first. A short note read, “To my family, I am returning to grandfather and mother. Please tell Timothy I’m sorry. —Damian al Ghul.”

He ran back into the living room, dread overtaking him. “Alfie—I think Damian ran away.” Alfred and Leslie looked up from where they were treating Bruce. Bruce turned to him with empty eyes, shuddered once, and passed out.

“Alfred, get me my stethoscope and crash kit.” Leslie snapped.

Alfred shakily grabbed the bag. Dick, horrified, walked out of the room, walked out of the penthouse, and walked to the closest street corner. He did some breathing exercises, willed his hands to stop trembling, and began texting Jay.

Finally, 30 minutes later, Jason called him back.

“Dickie, he left.” Jason sounded close to tears.

“That’s why I was calling you, Jace.”

“No, not Dami. Tim.”

Dick’s heart plummeted. “What do you mean he left?”

“I mean he fucking must have seen your texts and fucking tricked me while I was on the fucking balcony and stole my fucking keys and got into the fucking car and fucking drove away while leaving me a fucking note telling me not to fucking worry because he’d go and get the gremlin and ‘ be back soon, Jay, I promise ’ like it was a fucking milk run and not stealing my shit and running back to the city where his fucking abusers still haven’t been found.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dick dropped to the sidewalk.

“Well he’s not going to help us here, is he?”

Dick snorted. “Little Wing, if you have a panic attack, then I’ll have a panic attack, and B is persona non grata here, I need you to be calm.”

“Dick. Not helping.” Jason gritted out.

“Alright, Jay. Call Clark. They said they’d be available for us until things settled. Come back to the penthouse, we’ll look for both of them together.” Dick could hear Jason breathing heavily, gathering up his things.

“Is the Old Man going to help or is he just going to sit on his ass and feel sorry for himself?” Jason asked bitterly.

“Jay…” Dick knew he sounded annoyed, which always put Jason on the defensive, but he couldn’t help it. Images of Tim and Damian lost and hurt filled his head.

“What? Am I wrong?” Jason bit out.

Dick sighed heavily. “I don’t know. It’s really bad. He was unresponsive. Then just. I don’t know. Passed out? Leslie’s here. She told Alf to bring her the crash bag. She’s checking over him now.”

Jason paused and his voice came out unsure and small. He attempted a scoff . “What a drama queen. God.”

“Well he’s not going to help us here, is he?”

“Quit being a dick, Dick.”

“You love me.”

Jason laughed, sounding calmer. “Eh. The jury’s out. Calling Big Blue now.”

“Wait. Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“You did a good job, Little Wing. Such a good job, ok? I’m really proud of you, Boo.”

“…”

“Jay?”

Jason sniffed. “Thanks. Whatever. I got to go.” He hung up.

He sat on the curb with his head in his hands and eyes closed. Opening them just meant seeing the broken bodies of all his loved ones cycling through his mind’s eye.

His phone buzzed again, just once.

Little Menace (affectionately): dickie? It’s tim

Little Menace (affectionately): i think i know where dami is

Little Menace (affectionately): give me time with him. pls

Little Menace (affectionately): tell j i’m srry. i just didn’t want to worry anybody.

Little Menace (affectionately): i love u

Dick: Tim.

Dick: Baby, call me.

Dick: No one’s mad.

Dick: Call me.

Dick: At least tell us where you are.

Dick: Please, chipmunk.

(This phone is in Do Not Disturb Mode.

The user may or may not get back to you until this mode is turned off.)

Dick sat and stared at the phone in his hand. He sat there, even after a truck sped by and splashed icy sludge from the gutter onto him. He sat there, even after Clark landed next to him with Jason in tow. He sat there, unaware of Jason calling his name. And when his brother sat next to him and laid his head on his shoulder, he watched the black screen and could only think of one thing:

Richard Grayson, no matter how far he reached and how hard he tried, would never be able to save those he loved.

Chapter 23: You Search Online

Chapter Text

Tim finished typing his text to Dick, and toggled his phone to silent. He ignored the several messages that came later, as well as the numerous calls from Jason. He drove the Bugatti carefully but quickly down the highway connecting Metropolis to Gotham and just. Thought.

And then stopped that pretty quickly. He wasn’t sure if it was a lingering dissociation, the unexpected kindness from Jay, or the voice in his head telling him how much trouble he was for all the people around him, but Tim realized that thinking would be counterproductive right now. Thinking was out. Doing was in. Tim was a man of action. Of logical, cool, calm, and collected action.

And sure, various body parts ached and okay, maybe it wasn’t the greatest plan to steal Bruce’s car and drive without a license and find Dami without any backup, but goddammit, this was his mess and he needed to clean it up.

And it wasn’t like his plan was bad. Before leaving Scotland, Tim had slipped his birthday tracker medallion in the sole of Dami’s shoe. He had waited until Damian was asleep and then used the kid’s phone to copy the coding into his own phone and voila!–he had a perfectly good, reversed-engineered tracker for his troublesome little brother. As long as Damian was wearing the same shoes, he’d be able to find him. It was a stretch, but when Tim checked last, the tracker was on the move, and Tim was fairly confident that he could at least outsmart a 10 year-old. RIP to his intelligence if he couldn’t, honestly.

When he saw where it was moving to (or moving to first), Tim smiled a little. He could’ve predicted it himself if he gave himself time to think it out, but it was good to have confirmation via Big Brother. (Pun not intended, but fuck it if Dickie wouldn’t have found it funny.)

It was already midnight by the time Tim pulled into the empty parking lot. It was bathed in artificial light casting an eerie glow over the space. No one was around, and the silence was abnormal in Gotham, even at the late hour. But, then again, maybe not for this space, since it was in the middle of Robinson Park, which even the bravest Gothamites stayed away from after dark. Tim locked the car door, and stood in front of the large brass arch with Gotham Zoo painted in white cursive.

Tim clocked the security cameras and moved underneath them silently. Instead of climbing the locked gate, he took a left by the Ticketing Booth and walked towards the staff entrance. It was a simple electronic code, and Tim typed the correct numbers quickly (and thank you, Ives, for your service as a Zoo summer youth intern last year, and your absolute inability to keep anything you do a secret) and slid through the unlocked door.

He ran down the hallway, and took the first door out into the zoo proper. A few minutes later, past the monkey exhibit and flamingo exhibit and reptile house and Poison Ivy’s Treehouse (most Gotham kids’ favorite playground),Tim stood in front of a door that read “Panda Exhibit: Climate Controlled, Please Close Door Upon Entry and Exit.” He walked in, the warm heat of the enclosure hitting him as he left the wintry air outside. In front of a large window, a small figure was sitting crossed-legged, his forehead resting on the glass. Damian barely twitched as Tim approached, keeping his eyes peeled on the sleeping pandas, including the new cub named Bubbles.

“How’s it going, Jane Goodall?” Tim asked softly, putting himself on the floor next to Damian. They both watched the sleeping animals in silence, and Tim wondered how many ways he’d keep messing up with this family, how many times he’d hurt them with his selfishness.

“Damian, can you look at me, bud?” Damian shrugged, and began tracing the glass randomly instead.

Tim sighed. “Why’d you leave, shortstack? Dickie and Jay and your dad are really worried about you.”

Damian’s face did something complicated and then smoothed over. He shrugged again. Quietly he asked, “How’d you hurt your wrist, Timothy?”

Tim scrunched his nose at the question. “Dami, I don’t think—”

Damian turned to look at him and Tim’s heart lurched at the sight of the bruising around his eyes. They were red-rimmed and looked incredibly tired. “Why did you leave?” He said angrily. “ You worried Richard and Jason and our father a lot. Why does it only matter when I do it?”

“Dames—”

“SHUT UP.” Damian’s shout startled Tim (and, by the look on his face, Damian as well). “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” He put his hands over his ears, properly crying at this point. “All you do is lie. Lie, lie, lie. You. You m--m-m-make me think that you–that you like me or want to b-b-b-be my. My brother, and then, then you just leave. Like everyone just leaves. And you don’t care, so I don’t care. Did you hear that, Timothy? I DON’T CARE. Just leave me alone.”

The room was silent save for Damian’s harsh breaths. He said quietly, almost too quiet for Tim to hear, “Just go away like you want to.”

Tim was silent for a moment. “No thank you.”

“What?”

“I said, no thank you. I won’t leave you alone and I won’t go away. I. I made a mistake doing so back in Scotland. I am sorry I hurt you—so sorry, kiddo—but I should never have left you. Not without an explanation at least.”

Damian hugged his knees to his chest and sniffed.

“What’s your plan, Dames? Did you give Dickie a heart attack just because you wanted to see a baby panda? You know any of them would have gladly taken you.”

Damian shook his head. “I just wanted to see him before I left. I’m going back to mother and grandfather in the morning.”

“Ah.” Tim said. “The ole’ better the devil you know than the angel you don’t.”

Damian looked confused. Tim smiled bitterly. “I understand, Dami. But you can’t go back. I know we haven’t talked about everything your mother and grandfather did, but it sounds to me like they treated you like crap there?” Tim waited as Damian gave a sharp nod. “Why would you go back to a place where you know you’ll be hurt?”

Damian shrugged again. Tim wanted to pull him into a hug but kept his hands to himself. He hummed in acknowledgment. “Unless you want them to hurt you?”

Damian was still.

“You think you deserve it?”

Damian shuddered.

“Bullshit.” Tim said loudly and it echoed in the large room.

“My mother.” Tim stopped and took a breath. “The first time I remember being punished was when I was 3. I saw my mother cutting out a newspaper article at the kitchen table and wanted to help. I grabbed the scissors.” Tim held out his hand to Damian and waited. Damian sniffed but then put his hand into Tim’s. Tim took the kid’s finger and traced it over the small scar on his thumb. “She was furious. She said to me, ‘Timothy, if it’s the last thing I do, you’ll learn consequences and won’t be an ill-behaved brat like all the vapid nobodies in this town.’ Then she took the scissors and sliced my thumb. ‘That’s your reminder,’ she said. And she walked away. I can’t remember how I stopped the bleeding. I think with the baby blanket in my room. I threw it away before I got in trouble for making it dirty.”

Damian was looking at Tim with bright eyes. “I don’t know, I don’t think, what a mother is supposed to be like. I don’t think I ever did. My fa—Jack was a lot easier to handle. He was predictable. If he was around, I would be hurt. But my mother was hot and cold. She’d pull me into a hug one minute, and smirk while Jack hit me the next.” Tim gently rubbed his thumb back and forth in Damian’s hand. He squeezed it lightly.

“I didn’t know what a family was until Jay and Dickie and Alf and…dad. I’m not good at this.” Tim sighed heavily. “Dami, you can’t run away from the people who love you. You deserve kindness. You deserve softness. You deserve to be in a place where people love you and show you that love. There’s nothing you could do that would make you less deserving of that.”

“It’s my fault.” Damian said miserably.

“What is your fault, kiddo?”

“I ne-never t-t-told. I saw you get hurt and I didn’t tell. If I told you we would have been brothers.”

Tim turned his body towards Damian’s and leaned in to make eye contact. Damian lifted his head as tears leaked out of his eyes. Gently, Tim rubbed a thumb under them, wiping the tears as carefully as he would if he were handling a delicate flower or fine china.

“That. Is. Not. Your. Fault. Damian, look at me. You were, what? Eight? Nine? I am very clever and a very good liar. Chances are I would have been very mean to you and about you and called you a liar had you told them. If I had wanted them to know, I would have told them myself. It’s not your fault, kiddo.” Tim pulled Damian against him in a side hug. “And another thing. What’s this about ‘would have been?’ We are brothers, Dames. I am sorry I’m such a shit one, but you’ll always be my little brother. You were the minute you stepped on Bruce’s porch and you will be forever.”

Damian gave a small smile. The bear cub yawned and readjusted himself. Tim tilted his head, “You know, from this angle, he kind of looks like you. When you fell asleep after the day with the Bairds. Maybe I should call you Bubbles.”

Damian scoffed. “Don’t Timothy. That’s a horrible name. I’d. I’d have to call you Gollum then.”

“After the Lord of the Rings character?” Tim laughed.

“No. After the ill-behaved cow.”

“Ok, Mr. Sassafras. Let’s leave the coos out of this.”

Damian rested his head on Tim’s shoulder. “You’re not a shit brother. You didn’t deserve it either.”

Tim was quiet. “Maybe not,” he said finally. “I’m sticking with you this time, Dami. If you go back to your mother and grandfather, I’m going with you.”

Damian looked up at Tim. “You’ll go anywhere with me?”

“Of course, shortstack.”

“Come home, Timothy. Please?”

Tim sat on the top of Wayne Enterprises and watched the traffic below. The lights blended together and Tim was high enough he couldn’t hear the normal sounds of Gotham’s finest—the honking and cursing and screeching of tires. The roof access door opened and the steps behind him were heavy with purpose, most likely intentional, as not to scare him, since he knew their owner was well-adept at keeping quiet if he wanted to.

“Can I sit here?”

Tim shrugged. He felt a heavy coat fall on his shoulders.

“It’s getting cold, bud. You want to come inside and grab a hot chocolate with me?”

Tim shook his head, still not looking at the man beside him.

“Have you been getting my letters?”

Tim shrugged again and pulled the coat tighter.

Bruce blew some breath into his hands and rubbed them together. Tim could feel his eyes on him. He hadn’t spoken to his dad since the day before he told the judge about wanting protection orders. That was six months ago, and Tim was great at avoiding his attempts to contact him. Tim didn’t really know what brought him to the building that night. Maybe just chasing a comfort he knew he wasn’t entitled to. Maybe just to pretend things were the same.

“Do you want to talk about it, sweetheart?” Bruce said quietly.

Tim shook his head. “Please. Leave me alone.”

Bruce paused, and Tim could tell he was conflicted. Finally, he nodded and stood up, groaning as he did. “My knees.” He said sheepishly, awkwardly. “Getting old, I guess. Bud, there’s always a place at home for you no matter what. Whenever you want to come back, we can figure it out.” Tim kept his eyes on the traffic and listened to Bruce walk back into his building. Next to Tim sat a small package. When he opened it, he found a quarter-size Wayne tech AirTag with a button. There was a short note with it that said, “Press this any time you need me and I’ll always find you. Love you so much, Timmy—Dad.”

Tim slipped it in his pocket and began his journey back to Bristol. The next time he spoke to Bruce was a year and half later at the New Year’s Eve gala with Damian.

Tim ruffled Damian’s hair and stood up. He pulled his brother off the ground, and then swung him onto his back. “Ok, squirt. Together. We’ll go home together.”

He felt the kid tighten his arms around him. “Well, you don’t have to be so smug about it, Dami.” He teased.

Damian giggled and Tim was happy to hear him acting like a kid for once. “You put my tracker in my shoe.”

Tim sighed dramatically. “You found it? I thought I was being so sneaky. I’m surprised you kept it there.”

Damian laid his chin on top of Tim’s head. “I wanted you to find me.”

“Worst game of hide-and-seek ever, Dames. You gotta let people know when you play next time.”

They walked through the zoo slowly, Damian commenting with all the animal facts he could think of as they passed each exhibit. When they got back to the staff entrance, Tim held up the keys to the car.

“Well, I stole this from Jay, who I have a feeling won’t be super happy with me, so what do you say we go for a bit of a ride before facing the music?”

Damian’s eyes widened when he saw the car. “TIMOTHY.” He said reverently. “Father doesn’t even let Jason look at this car.”

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, Dami. The radio doesn’t even work. Hop in Trouble, and I’ll text the mother hens and let them know we’re on our way.”

Tim: got him. srry. b home soon. srry jay. srry dickie

Biggest Brother: Thank god. Tim, are you guys ok?

Big Brother: TIMMMMMMMMBO

Big Brother: IF YOU THINK YOU ARE GETTING OUT OF A

LECTURE FOR ONE SECOND TIMANTHA

YOU HAVE ANOTHER THINK COMING TO YOU

Big Brother: KILLING ME WOULD HAVE BEEN KINDER

Big Brother: COME HOME RIGHT NOW YOUNG MAN

Biggest Brother: Don’t be a drama queen, Little Wing.

Biggest Brother: We’re on 4th, are you near there?

Meet back at the penthouse? We can meet you anywhere.

Is everyone alright?

Biggest Brother: Timmy.

Biggest Brother: Please respond.

Tim: were fine. dw. meet at penthouse? dami needs hugs.

Big Brother: YOU BOTH NEED HUGS AND

YOU ARE NOT GETTING OUT OF THEM

MISTER TWISTER YOU UNDERSTAND ME

YOU LITTLE MONSTER ALL THE HUGS!!!!!!!!!

Tim: lol

“Timothy…” Damian’s voice was quiet.

“Hold on Dames, I’m finishing up and then we’ll go.”

“Timothy.” It was a bit more insistent.

“One second, Dami. Jay’s being weird again..” Tim held up a finger and kept typing.

The air crackled with electricity, and the hairs on Tim’s head stood up. A sinking feeling in his gut had him almost vomiting on instinct.

“Timothy, Timothy, Timothy. It’s not nice to ignore your family like that, is it?”

Tim looked up and standing by the Bugatti, with one large hand around Damian’s neck, was Lester. But not how Lester usually dressed. He was wearing a red and black suit that looked like a mockery of Batman’s. Blue lightning sparked around his ankles, chest, and wrists. He had a black cowl covering his eyes and nose, leaving his huge, ugly teeth visible. He was bearing them like a Rottweiler.

Tim put up his hands placatingly, walking closer to them. “Butt-face, long time, no see. Like the outfit, very villian-y, very nice. Why don’t you let him go and we can talk about who your tailor is?”

Lester growled, like he was a monster instead of a man. He shook Damian like a rag doll, keeping his hand around his neck. “That’s not my name, you little shit.”

“Ah. Name change, then? Nice. I like it. Very Gotham. Let go of the kid and tell me all about it.” Tim tried to affect a cool and collected facade. He hid his shaking hands behind him.

“Fuck you, Drake. You’ve always been a little shithead. Well, look who’s got the last laugh now?” He lifted Damian off the ground and tossed him in front of Tim. Damian stumbled, landing on his knees. Tim quickly ran to him and tried to help him up, but a zap and sizzle shook his body so badly he didn’t know what direction he was walking. He could hear Damian screaming but he couldn’t stop shaking. He must have been on the ground just for a few seconds, but it felt like a few hours. He couldn’t stop gasping and his whole body felt burned..

“Fuuuuuuuck. God.” Tim groaned. Damian was kneeling over him, crying.

“Timothy—Ahki. Are you ok?”

“Like it? It’s new. My own design. Way better than those cattle prods, right Drakey? Don’t try me right now, brat, or I’ll set it to kill and use it on the kid. That was the lowest setting.”

“What do you want, Lester?”

“It’s Electrocutioner to you.” Tim almost scoffed but figured that annoying the large man with lightning literally in his hands wasn’t the wisest move.

“You’re coming with me. Your idiot father owes me money and he’s refusing to pay until I can produce you. I would normally just kill him, but I figure I’ll kill him after I get him to pay up and then I’ll get a double payoff from the other rich idiot in this town. For once, you’ve been a help, Drakey. Because now I’ve got two of you. Brucie will pay every cent of his billions to get you both back.” He knelt down next to Tim who was still shaking. He whispered in his ear. “Of course, neither of you need to be alive when you return to him. So you best do whatever you can to make me happy, huh? Or I’ll make the games we play look like Barbies compared to what I can do to this little guy.” He gestured towards Damian who was curled protectively against Tim.

“Please.” Tim breathed out. “Take me. Leave him here.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.” Lester stood up and pulled Tim to his feet by his collar.

“Unhand my brother, you…you…VILLIAN!” Damian’s small voice shook but Lester just laughed.

“Goodnight boys.” He pricked Damian’s neck with a needle from his pocket and the kid flopped back on the ground. Scooping him up in one arm, he pulled Tim off the ground, twisting his broken wrist as hard as he could. Tim couldn’t hold back a scream. Lester smiled. “Music to my ears, Drakey boy. Music to my ears.” Tim tried to wriggle out of his grip and grab Damian, but Lester slammed him against the car. The last thing he felt was a prick in his own neck and before his eyes could shut, he saw Lester putting an unconscious Damian in the backseat.

Biggest Brother: Tim, we’ll just meet you instead.

Biggest Brother: There’s some breaking news about a new villain downtown.

Biggest Brother: We’d like to make sure you’re safe.

Biggest Brother: Please respond.

Big Brother: Timmy. ETA?

Big Brother: Why did you stop texting, Goob?

Biggest Brother: Timmy.

Big Brother: Pick up. Now.

Tim:..hrplpppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp

ppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp

pppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp

Chapter 24: Scared to Die

Chapter Text

It was cold when Tim woke up next. He was haphazardly tied to a chair with jumper cables, the sweatpants and long-sleeved shirt Jason gave him earlier that night (or was it yesterday, now?) doing nothing to fight the chill. His side ached with new bruises over old bruises and his wrist? Well that was something to think about another time because if Leslie thought it needed surgery before, Tim wondered if it would need replacing now. Did they do wrist replacements? He’d heard of knee replacements, but not wrist replacements. If he said “wrist replacements” three times fast it would sound funny. Wrist replacements. Wrist replacements. Wrist replacements. What else? Tim tried to assess his body, but came up empty. He giggled.

Oh.

The drugs.

It was slightly possible they were making him loopy as well.

A possibility. Probability?

“Timothy.” A small voice hissed to his right. “Now is not the time to ramble like…like some buffoon. Wake up.”

It wasn’t the voice’s words that had Tim trying to float down to earth as much as its tone. Because the voice was young and sounded scared. And familiar.

“Tim-o-thy.” There it was again.

Tim’s head lolled to the side and he was staring directly into the face of a little kid, tied up next to his feet on the ground.

Oh.

Damian.

Tim smiled encouragingly, but by the way Damian’s eyes widened, he must have missed the mark somehow. “Whatcha doin’ down there, Dami?” He clumsily tugged against the bindings. “Don’t be sad. You look sad.”

“Akh.” Damian twisted and scooted closer to him, his back up against his legs now. Tim could feel him trembling and begged his brain to come online faster.

“Hold on…Dames. Just. Give me a second.”

Tim closed his eyes and breathed purposefully. He rolled his neck back and forth and wiggled his fingers and toes, ignoring the fact that just that small movement sent sharp pain through his wrist. Finally, he felt a bit more lucid. He looked Damian up and down, cataloging him for new injuries. “Are you alright, shortstack?”

Damian nodded.

“Ok. Good. Good.” The cables were looser than Butt-face typically tied him, and Tim wondered if it was a trap or if the guy’s new found electrical powers fried his brain. He moved his feet in front of Damian’s hands, which were tied behind the kid’s back. “Can you feel the cables around my feet? Put your hands through them, yeah, like that, and I’m going to try to wiggle out.” It was quick work getting his legs untied, and from there, Tim was able to stand bent forward with the chair tied to just his arms. He kneeled awkwardly as he guided Damian to do the same with his unbroken wrist. That hand was still bruised from Jack stepping on it but Tim could still move it without causing too much pain. After it got free, it was quick work to undo the other, and finally, untie Damian.

“That looks bad, Timothy.” Damian pointed to his wrist as Tim pulled him into a hug.

“Ah, it’s alright. We’ll take care of it at home, ok?”

Damian nodded, and Tim smoothed the worry line on his brother’s forehead with his thumb.

“Hey.” He said softly, looking into Damian’s eyes. “This is, like, a typical Thursday for me. I promise we’ll be fine.”

Damian’s teeth were chattering and Tim shivered. They were in a windowless room that looked like a cross between an abandoned meat locker and unfinished basement. A heavy steel door locked them in and Tim couldn’t find any cracks in the concrete or hear any sounds that would clue him in to where he was.

“What do you have with you, Dames? Anything?”

Damian nodded and bent down to roll his pants up. Two sheaved knives with ornately carved wood handles were strapped to each leg. “A gift from my tutor. Before…before I left.” Damian’s ears were red, and Tim whistled, impressed.

“Well, those will help. I don’t think I have anything on me. I’m sure they took my wallet.” Tim fished around his pockets, fingers brushing against the button Bruce gave him a while back. He paused, remembering Dick’s message to Jason, unable to get the words “Dad is having a breakdown” out of his head. Surely they could do this on their own. Tim was already causing so much stress, he had already been such a problem, he didn’t want to drag anyone else into this. Worst-case scenario, he told himself. I’ll press it in the worst-case scenario.

“Do you think Uncle Clark knows where we are?”

Tim shrugged. “Dickie and Jay probably know something’s wrong by now. Maybe they told him?” Both boys looked up as if the man would be crashing through at any second. The answering hum of the fluorescent lights was a poor substitute.

The steel door slammed open, causing Tim to flinch. Damian backed up, and Tim gently pushed him behind him. He tried to look unaffected by the figure standing in the doorway.

“How the fuck did you get out of that?” Buchinsky growled, motioning towards the cables left on the ground. Sparks flew off of his suit menacingly, and Tim squeezed Damian’s wrist in a warning when it looked like he was about to step forward.

“Installer error.” Tim said dryly.

Lester scrunched up his face like he was trying to work out what that meant. “Whatever. I don’t have time for your…you-ness, Drakey. Move.” He motioned for Tim and Damian to follow him out the door.

“Wait for it.” Tim whispered out the side of his mouth. “Wait for me.” Damian gave the barest of nods and walked beside Tim, brushing their hands together.

Tim groaned internally when he realized where Lester’s “secret hideout” was.

The Old Gotham Subway was a series of abandoned tunnels in the Burnley district. Once Penguin’s territory, the subways were cordoned off by GCPD after a combination Scarecrow attack, Killer Croc fight, and gang war caused several of the tunnels to cave-in. Over 100 bodies were recovered and authorities said that the mixture of lead walls, fear gas, and cracks in the foundation made it a Level 1 Threat. Even the most unstable of villains had the common sense to stay away these days, despite the fact that it was still connected to the power grid.

Except for The Electricutioner. Apparently.

The room they left fanned into a large underground subway station with a broken turnstile in the middle. An abandoned train car was to the left and three entrances to other tunnels were caved in with stone and granite. The space was well lit but drafty from the winter’s air, and Tim could see Lester had converted it to some sort of lab/bedroom/hideout, with cables running through it, sparking intermittently. An old 1998 computer sat in the corner, and several bricks of cocaine were stacked on a table beside a large safe, open and spilling over with bills. There was a water cooler, like the ones found in a business office, with several gallons of water sitting next to it, indicating that however long Lester had been hiding out here, it was obviously built for the long term.

The problem, as Tim could see it (the one problem, because Tim was a pro at ignoring all other problems), was the exit to the space was on a ledge, above a 20ft, narrow metal ladder propped against the wall. A large grate was padlocked closed. It looked to be the only way out and as Tim’s eyes scanned the area quickly, Lester chuckled.

“Looking for something, sweetheart?” He waved a small key in front of Tim’s face, then popped it in a zipped pocket on his uniform. He patted Tim’s cheek mockingly. Tim tried not to cringe, his stomach swooping with an emerging horror. “Don’t worry. We’ll unlock it when we’re ready. Even a sneaky bastard like you can’t leave until then. Keep marching.”

Damian raised his eyebrows at Tim and Tim shook his head. Not yet. Lester gestured to an old wooden electric chair that looked like it was right out of the history books. It was next to his computer desk, on a raised dias, and several wires were attached to it.

“I made this just for you, Drakey. Thought we could have some fun before daddy dearest comes to play.”

The goosebumps on Tim’s arms weren’t from the prospect of torture as much as seeing Jack again. Damian made a small noise behind him.

“Sit.” Lester growled, grabbing Tim’s hair and pulling him towards the chair. He roughly dragged Tim up the platform.

“Uh, I don’t think that has been safety tested.”

“Shut up.”

“C’mon Lester, Bruce won’t pay for us if you can’t show we’re unharmed.”

Lester pulled Tim up by his shirt and brought him close to his face. His grin was manic, spit flying from his mouth. “Didn’t work last time, and won’t work this time, idiot. He’ll pay for you as long as you’re breathing. You’re brainless anyway. Can’t imagine it would do much damage.” He threw him in the chair. Tim could feel bruises blooming on his back and his neck snapped to the side at the violent handling.

Lester began to strap Tim in, ignoring Damian behind him. Tim locked eyes with Damian and nodded. Slowly, as not to attract attention, Damian slid the hidden knives into his hands.

Lester buckled leather straps around Tim’s arms and legs and finally his head. The coarse leather bit into his skin, but he kept up a stream of insults as Damian crept closer, out of Lester’s line of sight.

“What’s your plan, Butt-face? Fry me a bit and then what? Do you even know? Even Condiment King has a better gimmick than you.”

The slap to his face most likely hurt more because he couldn’t move his head. Tim didn’t want to consider it was just because he was weak.

“You are such a little…SHIT!”

Damian’s aim was impeccable. The first knife hit the hand that had slapped Tim, sticking out of its back like a skewer on a bbq. When Lester turned, screaming, the second knife was thrown into his left leg, causing him to stumble off the platform, crashing into the computer set up. Sparks flew and a small fire broke out at the desk.

“QUICK. Dami, unbuckle me.” Tim shouted, but instead of climbing up to him, Damian turned towards Lester.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE.” Damian screamed and to Tim’s horror, jumped on Lester’s back. The two tumbled as Damian maneuvered closer to the fire, which had jumped from the desk to the cables above it.

Tim struggled against the bindings, which this time, were tighter than when he first woke up. Damian was saying something but it was lost to the grunts and yells from his opponent and the cracking and popping of the material around them.

Damian was still on Lester’s back, despite the man’s best efforts to throw him off. He put his arms around the man’s neck and squeezed. Lester’s face quickly turned red, then purple, as he coughed and sputtered. Blood was sluggishly dripping from his leg and his hand still had the knife sticking out of it. His suit sparked and hissed, and Tim could only watch as he reached his other hand around to grab at Damian. The lightning in the gauntlet he was wearing found its target and Tim shouted as Damian’s body dropped suddenly, seizing from the shock. Tim could see angry red streaks across his arms, and Damian was crumpled on the ground, frighteningly still and incredibly small.

Tim’s heart stuttered.

Damian didn’t move.

Lester was breathing heavily on the ground.

Dami didn’t move.

The leather straps around Tim’s arms tightened as he wildly rocked the chair back and forth. The area was quickly filling up with smoke as the fire jumped from smallish to concerningish.

His brother didn’t move.

Lester was inching his way back towards Tim, pale but determined. He was cursing up a storm, voice shaking and coughing. Tim barely spared him a glace, insteadchoosing to inch the chair closer and closer to the edge of the platform. Swearing fealty to whatever god existed and trading his soul to whatever demon wanted it, Tim used all his upper body strength to toss himself and the old ass torture chair off the edge. It was about 3ft down, a small drop but when partly immobilized and tied to an ancient wooden chair, it felt like 10. Tim crashed to the ground, the splinters from the wood digging into his neck and back. It was destroyed enough, though, to give him room to shimmy out of the leg restraints and then the arms. He tore the head strap off and rolled into the crouch, thinking of nothing, nothing, nothing, but the still figure in front of him.

“Fucking idiot.” Lester was sparking and moving towards Tim, still on the ground, but trying to find something to hold on to so he could stand. His suit, still working, though looking worse for the wear, seemed to bathe him in an eerie blue light that stood out against the orange flames behind him. Thick black smoke was rising to the rafters above them, and Tim flinched as the old subway car groaned from the heat that was getting closer to it.

Lester grabbed Tim’s ankle, intending to drag him down, but Tim spun and dug his heel into the man’s injured hand. Lester screamed, and rolled backwards towards the water cooler by the wall. He tried to stand, but it was clumsy, and Tim watched as he crashed into the water jugs, causing it to spill onto him.

He lit up, brighter than the fire around him, an inhuman scream escaping. Tim reached for him, but was unable to pull him out of the way of the ensuing shocks shaking his body. An acrid burning smell followed, and Tim swallowed as his stomach lurched at the sight.

Smoke was getting thicker, and Tim pulled his shirt off, wrapping it around his nose and mouth. He bent down and ran to Damian, sliding on his knees to make it to him quicker. The kid’s eyes were shut and it looked like he was sleeping, burns standing stark against the skin on his arms. Tim breathed a sigh of relief after checking for his pulse. It was slow but there. Tim took off Damian’s shirt and wrapped it loosely around his nose and mouth as well. Picking him up gently, Tim put him on his back in a fireman’s carry, searching for the ladder that would take them up.

It was no longer drafty or cold in the abandoned subway station, but filling with smoke and the warmth of the fire that seemed to be growing. Finding the ladder wasn’t difficult, but climbing it with Damian on his back was, and the heat had warmed the metal enough that Tim’s hands felt like they were burning as he made his way slowly up. And by slowly, it was incredibly slowly. Not only did Tim have to reposition Damian every second step, his wrist was screaming at him as he grabbed on to the sides. Tim was breathing heavily, and began coughing as he got higher. Because the station was still so large, the fire wasn’t climbing as much as spreading, and by the time Tim made it up to the top and dragged Damian away from the ledge, the only way to safety was through the grate.

The locked grate.

The fucking locked grate because Tim was a fucking idiot who forgot about the fucking key in Buchinsky’s fucking pocket.

Tim couldn’t help the tears that started falling, or the way he curled around Damian, breathing heavily and hopelessly.

Of course he forgot about the pocket. Because he was a fuck up, and not only would it kill him but it would kill the one of best people in his life, one of the best people in the universe, and Damian deserved so much better than to die by the hand of an idiot for a brother. A stupid, fucking idiot who couldn’t even think about something as simple as a pocket.

Wait.

A pocket.

Tim felt wildly around his own pocket and pulled out the button Bruce had given him, pressing it over and over and over again.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

Energized, he pulled Damian closer to the grate, the cool air from outside wafting in, combatting the rising smoke and heat from the building fire.

“Tim…Timothy?”

Tim had never heard a better sound. He wept in relief, big heaving sobs that would have really embarrassed him (Twice in a 72 hour period? WHAT kind of baby was he? Gosh, he better get it together before seeing Bruce again. No one wants a pathetic loser for a son.)but he couldn’t focus on that while also checking over Damian.

Damian was coughing, but sitting up as Tim ran his hands over his arms and torso and face, checking him for injuries.

“Oh my god, Dami. Oh my god. How are you feeling? I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry.” Tim was babbling, his voice hoarse and rough from the smoke. “Don’t worry, ok kiddo, Batman’s coming, I promise, he’s coming and we’re going to be alright. I swear. Ok? And Jay and Dickie will bring us home and we’ll watch stupid movies with them and Alfie will feed us and Dad will loom because he likes to loom and we’ll go back to the zoo and I can see your cow and we’ll be fine.”

“Akhi, I’m tired.”

“I know. I know. Hang on.” Tim had pulled Damian closer to the grate, and gathered him in his arms, his own back leaning against the opening. He was hugging him, as Damian’s head lolled back against his chest. “Hold on, Dames.”

A wave of exhaustion crashed over him as he coughed, smoke getting thicker and blacker. He tried to turn their faces towards the opening and away from the smoke, but unconsciousness lapped at Tim like the evening tide, threatening to drag him under.

His eyes were heavy. He heard Damian saying something to him, but it was lost to the roaring behind him. A clanging sound got his attention, and he looked to the side sleepily. A large figure was walking towards him. His eyes were blurry and his vision was tunneling, but he could make out a familiar black suit and cowl coming closer and closer.

Tim sighed in relief. He didn’t understand how the hero made it to them so quickly, but he wasn’t about to ask questions.

“Dad’s here,” he said in Damian’s ear. “Dad’s here to save us.”

Batman used a key to open the lock on the grate and began roughly dragging both Damian and Tim through the opening. Tim couldn’t stop coughing, and a warning kept floating through his mind, but it was hard to grasp.

Something about a key.

Like why would Batman have a key to the grate to Lester’s secret hideout.

But Tim’s brain lost that thought as he was pulled into the outside air. His lungs gulped the clean air greedily, but his eyes were having a hard time opening.

“Thank you, Batman.” Tim coughed.

“Oh, you’re very welcome, Bastard.”

Chapter 25: All Alone, Late in Life

Chapter Text

It all began with Batman.

“Bruce, come back to us, my sweet boy.”

Well, that’s not true. Dinah was always telling him to be clear in his communication. Precise. Exact. Explicit. “Vulnerable” was her word for it. She had many words for many things, none which fit comfortably, but that was Bruce all over, wasn’t it? Uncomfortable. Awkward. Stilted. There were many words for him as well. But he didn’t dare share them with Dinah.

It all began with a mistake.

Bruce’s eighth birthday was lonely. His father was working a thirty-hour shift at the hospital, pro bono for a young sex worker from the Narrows who needed emergency surgery after a car ran into her. The crash revealed an undiscovered brain tumor, which led to the head of Gotham General calling Thomas in as the lead, since he was the only surgeon who worked for free. This was after a marathon board meeting-turned retreat at Wayne Enterprises which had taken his father to Metropolis for three straight weeks. He had promised Bruce he’d be back for his party, but, like always, that promise was lost to the Mission that guided their family since Bruce could talk: People over profit. Gotham over Wayne. Bruce just wished that sometimes people could mean him.

He sat at an ornately decorated table, streamers and balloons filling the formal dining room, with Gray Ghost cutouts taped to the walls. His mother and Alfred were singing Happy Birthday to him, but unlike the last year, when he turned 7 and was enamored with the colorful frosting and the bounce house that they surprised him with in the backyard, this year, he could barely muster a smile. At 7, he hardly noticed his lack of friends or the way the kids in his class would avoid him, like he was something strange or smelly. But at 8, it was painfully obvious. Victor Kensington often called him a “freak of nature”, and all his classmates laughed at the hand-drawn invitations he passed out, calling them “babyish.” Bruce didn’t care, of course he didn’t care, he’d rather eat broccoli for a thousand years than care about what some stuck-up, Bristol raised stupid children thought about him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t realize that only losers spent their birthdays with their mom and the butler.

“B. It’s Clark. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But we need you right now, pal. I got you, okay?”

It began with a mistake.

“Blow out the candles, bumblebee.” His mother said softly, running her fingers through his hair in the way that made his brain happy. He caught the downward tilt of her mouth though, and the pity was the cherry on top of all his churning emotions.

He ignored the tears building up behind his eyes and blew, crossing his arms sullenly and leaning back in the chair.

“Master Bruce.” Alfred’s gentle censure did nothing to soothe the growing pit in his stomach.

“What.”

“Darling—“ his mother started but Alfred put a hand on her shoulder and she deferred.

Taking a knee, Alfred came eye level with Bruce. “Your mother and I have worked very hard on this delicious cake. Your father will be home tomorrow. Let’s not spend this day of celebration in sorrow, alright, lad?”

“Shut up.” Bruce muttered.

“Bruce.” His mother laid a hand on his shoulder but he shook it off, standing up from his seat. He glared at Alfred who stood with his arms crossed.

“SHUT UP.” Bruce yelled. He threw his cake plate across the table, against the wall. It shattered. Chocolate frosting dripped onto the hardwood floors.

“You’re not my father. You’re just the…the help.” He said venomously. He ran out of the room to his mother’s sharp rebuke and Alfred’s pained face.

Climbing the stairs to the attic, Bruce furiously wiped away the tears that finally fell, and didn’t know what to make with the ugly ball of fury that sat inside his chest. This fury belonged to him, and him alone, and that, in itself, made him angrier. His mother and father were the picture of peace and calm, Alfred never raised his voice, yet Bruce, lonely, stupid, awkward Bruce, couldn’t go a day without feeling like something in him was going to explode.

Once, Bruce read a story about a monster that was always hungry, always craving human flesh, but never being satisfied in his devouring. Sometimes Bruce felt like that wendigo—except for flesh, he craved attention, and when he got it, he still never felt full. He wondered if he would always be like this—the boy that didn’t fit, guided by anger and selfishness and drowning in loneliness. He knew he was being a brat, his father reminded him all the time of how privileged and blessed he was, but all he could feel was a bitter jealousy of the kids whose parents had time for him.

“Hey Champ.” It had been a few hours. Bruce had climbed out the window and was sitting on the roof, watching the sunset. His father shimmied out of the small opening and sat next to him, looking out to the horizon. He was still in his scrubs. Bruce ignored him.

After a heavy sigh, his father spoke again. “Look at me, Bruce.” Bruce put his chin on his knees and gave his father a wary side eye.

“There’s my big man.” He paused as if searching for the words to say. Bruce would have felt bad for him—Bruce himself seemed to be endlessly searching for words and they endlessly seemed to be out of reach—but he was mad, mad, mad at his dad and as far as he was concerned, he could go suck an egg.

“Ah. That’s how it is, then.” His father hummed. “Alfred’s a part of this family.” Bruce flinched slightly at the reprimand, though it was a calm and measured delivery. “At the very least, son, direct your anger to its source.” He felt a warm and heavy arm around him, and despite his annoyance, he leaned into it.

“I’m very sorry I was not here today. I promise, this is the last time, Bee. Your–your mother and Al spoke with me and I think it’s time to reprioritize. Do you know what that word means?”

Bruce nodded.

“Well, I haven’t done a very good job at prioritizing and my family has reminded me of that this afternoon. I owe you an apology, kiddo. Do you think you could have it in that big heart of yours to forgive me? What do you say, partner?”

Bruce nodded again, his words still stuck in his throat. His dad smiled, helping him back through the attic window.

“I took off all day tomorrow, ok? We can do anything you want. There’s a new Gray Ghost movie at the Monarch? What do you think?”

It all began with a mistake.

“Can we?” Bruce asked softly. “I. I have my cape. I could wear that. With my mask? And. And you could dress up as The Detective and Mom could, could dress up as The Lady with Pearls and could we get butter on our popcorn?”

“Sure, sport. I’ll have to raid our closets to see what we can get together.” He picked Bruce up and gave him a piggyback ride to his room. “Happy Birthday, kid. I love you so much.”

And Bruce hugged him and, later, hugged his mother, and went to sleep, not happy per se, but hopeful.

And then.

(One time, when Dickie was ten, he asked Bruce what he was most afraid of and he said, deadpan and with the straightest face he could muster, “Bats.” And Dickie laughed. And because it was the first time since fostering him that Bruce actually made Dick laugh, he played it up over and over again. Ducking in the cave whenever a bat would fly by. Having Alfie tell the story of him falling into an old well when he was 11. Leaving the room with a yelp whenever Dick would watch National Geographic. When Jason came into their family, he called it his lore . It’s fucking hilarious, Old Man, what a troll move . Bruce repeated it so often that he even trained himself to react to fear toxin as if he were being chased by bats. And yeah, if Dinah were to ever pry that story out of him, he could imagine her saying something like, “Let’s explore that Bruce. Could there be a connection between your inability to show your vulnerabilities to your children and how vulnerable you felt as a child,” and Bruce would say, “No,” and it would be a whole thing. But when it came down to it, there was no world in which Bruce would admit to Dinah, Alfred, or his beautiful, amazing, better-than-him children that his biggest fear was himself.)

The next night, Bruce donned his cape and mask, and encouraged his mom to wear her best pearls (“You’ll look just like the Lady, mom, you have to ”) and got his dad to wear his long trench coat, and the three walked hand in hand out of the manor.

“Have a good night, Master Bruce.” Alfred said.

Bruce said nothing, though, and went to the car.

(This was where time skipped, always skipped, because Bruce, no matter how hard he tried, only remembered four things about the day after his 8th birthday: making his mother wear pearls, refusing to speak to Alfred, riding into the theater on his father’s shoulders, and red.)

Red.

Sticky, thick red, pouring from the chest of The Detective and The Lady in Pearls, leaving The Gray Ghost kneeling on the pavement. Red, soaking into his jeans and cape and his mask, covering the deep hole in The Detective’s chest, trying to keep the red in because bodies need red to live so it needed to be in the body and not out of the body, and red, on his hands, dripping like the chocolate frosting on the wall.

“Hey, kid. What are you? Some kind of bat-man?”

“Lt. Smith, stop. Get out of here and help Lt. Umber with crowd control. Jesus, they are useless. Hi, Bruce. I’m Jim. I’m going to sit right here for a minute, ok bud. We called your—we called Mr. Pennyworth and he’s on his way. Can you. Can you give me your hands, kiddo? Let’s wipe those off, alright?”

“SIR please, this is an active crime scene—”

“Lt. Smith!”

“GET OUT OF MY WAY, DAMMIT. WHERE IS MY BOY?”

“Bruce, would you like to stand up? Maybe come over here and see your—?”

“My god. Oh ducky. Oh, my precious, beautiful boy.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Alfie, I’m so sorry, Alfie. I’m sorryi’msorryi’msorry. Please. I’m sorry, please.”

Those were the first words he spoke to Alfred after his day-and-a-half long silent treatment, and the last words he spoke for the next three months. Alfred brought in specialists, of course, but adverse childhood experiences were as foreign of a concept as the internet back then.

Later, on the days when he fought with Alfred or the nights when he’d contemplate finding the gun that shot his parents and using it to shoot himself in the head, he wondered if he was just destined for tragedy, if he was destined for brokenness.

Alfred said absolutely not, Master Bruce and I won’t hear of it again, dear heart, you are good, but Bruce knew the truth. He knew it when he left home at 18 and returned at 22.

He knew it when he sewed his first suit and stopped his first mugging and grappled his first roof.

He knew it when he stood at the gravemarkers of Martha and Thomas Wayne and vowed, “Gotham over Wayne. Always.”

He knew it when he got his first stabbing and first concussion and saved his first family.

He knew it when he partied and drank and had sex for the “secret identity” and definitely not because it was the only time he didn’t see his parents’ bodies when he closed his eyes.

He knew it when Jack Drake came over brandishing a gun that sent him into a flashback and when Janet came over brandishing paperwork that sent him into denial and when he chose fear and self-loathing and Batman over courage and wisdom and being a dad.

He knew the truth. He knew that his existence was a mistake. That was why he promised himself he’d save as many people as he could before Gotham righted the ship and fate came to collect.

“Ducky, please. Your boys need you right now, darling.”

His boys.

His boys who were not mistakes, not in the slightest, but still had the misfortune of being tied to him.

Dickie, who was his bright star, his sunshine, his compass, his anchor, who was so, so passionate and empathetic and just so good. Dickie, who came to him filled with an anger and grief that reflected so much of his own. Dickie, who fashioned Robin into Batman’s heart, who fashioned Nightwing into Batman’s better, who was his son, first and foremost, who he loved so much. (Harvey Dent picked up the baseball bat one, two, five times and hit and hit and hit and Dick’s face turned black and blue and his nose was bleeding red, red, red, red, dripping down his temple, his broken arms, his broken legs, and Batman was too slow, always too slow, and Robin and Batman were in the ambulance and The Detective and The Lady with Pearls were still dead.)

Jaybird, who was his whip-smart genius, his poet, his sweetheart, his precious son, who was so, so thoughtful and fierce and strong and just so good. Jaybird, who came to him filled with an anxiety and grief that reflected so much of his own. Jaybird, who fashioned Robin into Batman’s right hand, who fashioned Red Hood into Batman’s conscience, his reminder to not forget the vulnerable, who was his son, first and foremost, who he loved so much. (The Joker said, “Come and get him, Batsy, before he goes boom,” and the crowbar hit one, two, five times, and hit and hit and hit and hit, and Jason’s body was unrecognizable and his body was bleeding red, red, red, red, dripping down his temple, his broken arms, his broken legs, and Batman was just in time but still too slow, and the warehouse blew up behind them, and Robin and Batman were on the street and The Detective and The Lady with Pearls were still dead.)

Dami, who was his baby, his prince, his nugget, his wise, thoughtful, tender-hearted son, who was so, so gentle and courageous and just so good. Dami, who came to him filled with a wariness and grief that reflected so much of his own. Dami, who he put to bed before patrolling, who became Batman’s compass and the light to guide him home. Who was his son, first and foremost, who he loved so much. (The knife was in his eight year-old’s hands, blood dripping from the two cuts his dear child had just given himself. He knelt in front of them, beside the teacup he accidentally broke, saying, “Father, forgive me, I will take my punishment now.” Red, red, red dripping on the kitchen floor, his baby’s arms, his own arms as he swept Damian into a hug, and Dami and Bruce were on the linoleum, and The Detective and The Lady with Pearls were still dead.)

And.

Tim.

Timmy.

Timmy, who was his soul, his pumpkin, his little monster, his witty, considerate, determined, extraordinary son, who was so, so remarkable and capable, and just so good. Timmy, who came to him.

Who…

Who came to him because Bruce was a coward and a failure, who came to him filled with a caution and stubbornness that reflected so much of his own. Timmy, who Batman watched on roofs and through windows, who was Batman’s greatest fumble, who fashioned himself into a strong, beautiful, incredible young man despite Bruce’s “help”. Who was his son, first and foremost, who he loved so fucking much it felt like shards of glass were coating his throat every time he thought about him. (The camera zoomed in on the bruised face of his sweet boy and Bruce could see dried blood stuck in his hair. It was red, like the mark on his face. Red, like all Bruce could see until the the TV was just a blur and he just heard red and saw red and his hands were red, red with the blood of his child, on his hands because this was his fault. Because Batman was too slow. No, it was Bruce. Bruce was too slow and Bruce and Timmy were not together, not there, not ever, only in the past, just like the dead Detective and the dead Lady with Pearls. And so Bruce floated and drifted away, away, away, just like when he was eight, when he made his first mistake, because this apparently would be his legacy, his mission, his motto: Gotham before Wayne. He just never expected it would apply to his sons.)

“B, I know everything is hard right now, but you don’t have to do it alone.”

Alone, like Timmy, who apparently did everything alone. How did the greatest fucking detective in the world miss it? 815 letters and not one of them protecting his baby from the evils lurking in that house. Batman saved Gotham every night, and yet Bruce couldn’t even give his kid a crumb of that safety.

It was all right there in front of his face. Everything. Ever since Jack Drake stormed his house with a gun when Timmy was one, and what? Did Bruce just think, “Yeah, that’s a stable person for my baby to be raised by.” He was an idiot. Worse than, because he put his child in front of a train intent on destroying him and walked away.

Trauma, Dinah would say.

You didn’t know, Alfred would soothe.

You had reasons, you were there for him for five wonderful years, he knows you love him, you’re a good dad, you would’ve done something, I know you would have, Dickie would placate.

Baba, save him now, Damian would beg.

“Hey Old Man. Feel my hand on your leg?”

The DSM-V defines catatonia as the presence of three or more of the following: catalepsy, waxy flexibility, stupor, agitation, mutism, negativism, posturing, mannerisms, stereotypies, grimacing, echolalia, and echopraxia. It can come on suddenly in the face of immense stress, especially with patients who struggle with profound depression. It may last for several hours, days, or even years. Treatment for patients in catatonic states include taking anti-anxiety medication, like Lorazepam and, in some cases, ECT. Patients experiencing catatonia may be able to hear and remember the conversations of those around them, and research has proven that talking to the person in a catatonic state might ease their anxiety.

“I’m squeezing it. I know you’re there, so I need you to listen. Like you never have before, ok, Dad? Timmy and Dames need Batman right now. Snap out of it, asshole.”

Jason would challenge. Did challenge?

“Master Jason.”

“Sorry, Alf.”

Dear Timmy,

I am writing to you from my incredibly broken brain. I know I said I wouldn’t write any more but I have a feeling you won’t get this one. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Timmy, I’m so sorry, Timmy. I’m sorryi’msorryi’msorry. Please. I’m sorry, please.

Love forever,

Batman

“Dickhead, stop that fucking beeping. It’s driving me crazy. Where is it even coming from?”

“I don’t know, Jay. We can’t find it.”

“It sounds like it’s coming from B.”

“Don’t you have x-ray vision or something, Big Blue? Why are you so useless today?”

“ Master Jason. ”

“We were all thinking it, Alfie, be honest.”

“Jason, I am so sorry. I’m trying to find them. Something must be interfering.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“It’s sewn in B’s pocket. A round, vibrating…button? That’s weird.”

Awareness slammed into Bruce like the trainwreck he caused. Was causing? Didn’t matter because he came back to himself with a gasp and then leaned over the side of the bed he was laying on and vomited all over Jason’s boots.

“Why the fuck does this keep happening to me?” Jason grumbled, but he also put his hand on Bruce’s back and gently rubbed it, so Bruce wasn’t too concerned.

“Give it here.” Bruce said, his voice hoarse and gravelly.

Dick handed it over. His boys looked like they had been through hell, and Bruce wanted nothing more than to wrap them up in a blanket and comfort them like he did when they were kids, but he couldn’t yet. He wanted to apologize for being absent, for being useless, for being…him. He settled, though, for standing up shakily, despite Clark’s protest and Alfred’s reprimand and Leslie’s rebuke, to pull both Dick and Jason into a strong hug.

“I love you both and I’m proud of you both.” He said gruffly into their ears. When they pulled apart, Dick’s eyes were glossy. Jason looked embarrassed.

“Bruce.” Alfred touched his forehead to Bruce’s and whispered, “Dear boy, I am proud of you .”

Bruce gave himself a moment to collect himself, while Leslie fussed with a blood pressure cuff and portable heart monitor.

“Bruce Thomas, take it slow, the Lorazepam can cause dizziness sometimes.”

“I’m fine, Leslie.” Bruce waved her off and began walking to the elevator, Jason and Dick following behind.

“B.” Clark stood in front of him.

“Kal.” Bruce replied.

Clark gave a nod and they hugged tightly. “Thank you, Kent,” Bruce whispered.

“Any time, Wayne. Be careful. I’ll be listening.”

Bruce, Dick, and Jason changed into their suits quickly. The tracker’s location was at the Old Gotham Subway tunnels, and that alone evoked a terror shared by the three of them. They piled into the Batmobile and flew out of the hidden garage below the Penthouse at a speed Alfred would definitely lecture them all about later.

“What the hell are they doing there?” Jason bit out, fingers tapping on against the window. Dick’s face was pinched with concern, evident even with his domino mask obscuring his eyes, and Bruce grunted.

They arrived at the abandoned station in fifteen minutes, sliding across the trashed parking lot, stopping next to Bruce’s Bugatti, which was concerningly empty, keys in the ignition still, and doors and trunk open. Thick, black smoke was coming from the main entrance to the tunnels. Bruce motioned for Dick to put on his rebreather, confident that Jason’s helmet would filter whatever gas was mixed with the smoke. They stepped over old rubble, snow drifts, and police barriers to move closer to the smoke, and Bruce’s stomach dropped. The closer they got, the picture became clearer. A large fire must have been raging in the tunnels below them—Bruce could hear the flames and the smoke was so thick they could barely see.

There was no way his babies could have survived whatever had happened here. It would be a miracle. Bruce kept walking forward, desperate to find one shred of hope in a seemingly hopeless situation. (Bruce was on the pavement, next to The Detective and The Woman in Pearls, hands bloody and heart broken.)

Dick made a gutted noise behind him and Jason was still as a statue.

Bruce kept walking. He got closer to the entrance, bending down as the smoke rose above him, trying to find some sort of clue to what happened to his boys.

A small keening sound was to his left.

He turned, and over to the side, away from the entrance, curled on the ground, was his 10 year-old child, shirtless. Damian was lying on his side, his eyes glassy, coughing but alive. His shirt was wrapped around his face, and his small hand was curled around a familiar button. Bruce rushed over to him, shouting for Dick and Jason. He was appalled to see burn marks on his child’s arms, and he fought back the horror and rage that threatened to overtake him.

“Baba?” Damian coughed.

“Sweetheart, yes. Yes, I’m here, love. Don’t worry, I got you. Dad’s got you, alright, baby. Shh. Careful, there we go.” Bruce gently cradled his little boy in his arms.

“Baba, he took Timothy.” Damian croaked. They walked towards the parking lot, away from the smoke.

“I didn’t see him out there,” Jason whispered to Bruce.

“Who took him, baby?” Bruce braced himself for the worst. If Tim was still in the tunnels, he wasn’t alive anymore. If Tim was still in the tunnels, Bruce needed to get him out.

“B…Batman.”

“Honey, I don’t understand. I’m right here.”

“N-n-no, Baba. Batman saved us from the, the ‘lectric man and t-t-took Timothy and l-l-left me here.” Damian began coughing and Bruce wrapped him tighter in his cape.

Jason rubbed Damian’s back and exchanged a concerned look with Bruce. Bruce wondered which toxin his son might have also inhaled with the smoke. His trembling was getting worse. He was about to turn to call for Dick, but his son was already by his side. His phone was in his hands and he was watching a video.

“B. Look at this.” Dick’s voice was filled with an urgency and fury that sent shivers down his spine. Dick thrust his phone in front of Bruce’s face. Bruce repositioned Damian. His baby whimpered, and Bruce held him tighter.

It was a live-stream from Jack Drake’s Twitter. ("I have alerts on all his social media,” Dick explained to Jason.) They leaned in to watch.

Jack was dressed in a fairly expensive and elaborate Batman costume, ranting to the camera. Tim was standing next to him, pale, shaky, hurt, face as blank as Bruce had ever seen it. Jack’s hand was resting loosely around the back of Timmy’s neck, and Bruce’s stomach lurched at seeing it. Janet was nowhere to be seen, but someone had to be holding the camera and Bruce would bet anything it was her.

They watched as Jack moved, putting his arm around Tim, squeezing tightly. His voice came out of the speakers, loud and manic and frantic, slurring most of his words.

“That’s right, people of Gotham. My dear son was lying earlier, obviously in a misguided attempt to keep my secret. But I am here to set the record straight. Janet and I are not abusive, no matter what this guy says. Right, champ? Poor Timmy has struggled for a long time with psychosis, a fact that Jan and I have tried to keep out of the press. I admit, I was not the most present father, but I’ve loved this kid like he was my own. Unfortunately, we were both distracted from giving Timothy the attention any mentally unwell kid would need because, as you can see, I am Batman.

Yes, I am this city’s protector. Janet and I have been undercover, weeding out criminals and fighting the worst of the worst. Me as Batman, her as Robin. As you know, Robin retired a few years ago, because Jan wanted more time with our troubled son. Our business dealings were a cover to do the undercover work we needed to do to find out who was plotting against this city. And I, Batman, am only revealing my identity now because our brave son, Timmy, has told us that Bruce Wayne and his gaggle of children are blackmailing him to make us look bad. Imagine, Gotham, who will you believe, Batman or some asshole billionaire?

If you’re hearing this, Bruce Wayne, I urge you to turn yourself in. I will be at the Monarch Theater, waiting to bring you to justice. If you make me wait too long…” he looked at Tim and paused before looking back at the camera, “...you will regret it.”

The man’s smile was unhinged and he pulled Tim closer to him. Timmy controlled his flinch well, but Bruce could see it in the way his eyes tightened and his shoulders straightened. He opened his mouth to say something, but the stream ended suddenly. Comments were pouring in, and Bruce’s phone began ringing. Jason grabbed it from his pocket, since Bruce’s hands were full with Dami.

“It’s Gordon. Want me to answer it?”

It all began with Batman.

Bruce shook his head. “No. Jay, take Damian to the hospital. As Jason Wayne. Tell them to treat him for smoke inhalation, electrical burns, dehydration, and the beginnings of hypothermia. Take the car.” And his already unconditional love for his children soared as Jason nodded instead of arguing, and gently grabbed Damian from his arms, running to the car.

“What’s the play, Batman?” Nightwing asked gravely.

Bruce looked at his boys, his beautiful, courageous, traumatized boys and for the first time, didn’t think about The Detective or The Lady with Pearls or the mission or the mistake.

Because the promise he made to his dead parents meant nothing if it was his children who suffered. Batman was created to save children from losing their parents, not to be the cause of it.

It all began with Batman.

And it would end with him, as well.

Chapter 26: I Was Raised On Little Light

Chapter Text

Jack and Janet came home on a Saturday. Tim said goodbye to the Waynes on Friday, after spending two wonderful weeks with them. Jason taught him how to ride a bike (“It’s easy Timmers, I won’t let go, I promise.”) and Dick showed him a whole slew of Disney movies (“Now, this one’s my favorite, Timmy. Jason prefers ‘Meet the Robinsons,’ but ‘Robin Hood’ is a classic, I promise.”). Mr. Pennyworth taught him how to make overnight oats (“Master Tim, it’s an easy recipe and one you can make without using the stove or oven. But if you do need a meal, young sir, you are more than welcome to pop in anytime, I promise.”) and Mr. Wayne gave him a new Lego set even though it wasn’t his birthday (“Um. Tim. I, I had a lot of fun with you, bud. Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you over? I got this for you, it’s, uh, it’s the Titanic. We talked about it at dinner and, um, I thought you might enjoy doing this. If you need help, you could bring it over here and Jay and Dickie and I could work on it with you? We’d love to have you again, I promise.”)

Two days later, the Titanic lego set was broken on the kitchen floor. “Kneel, Timothy, and do not move. I swear. It’s like you want to be treated like an infant, sometimes.” His mother rolled her eyes and Tim tried not to wince as the lego pieces dug into his knees. Jack laughed meanly from the kitchen table. “Only a pussy plays with blocks like a little girl. Am I raising a pussy, bastard?” Tim stared at the floor. Jack’s chair squeaked across the floor and Tim flinched. He felt a strong grip on his chin as he was forced to look up. “I asked you a question, son.” Tim knew that voice meant nothing but trouble. “N..no sir.” “Nnnnnnn—nnnn–no, sir.” Jack mocked. Tim could feel tears threatening to fall, but he sniffed and willed them back. He knew it would only make it worse. His mother patted Jack on the shoulder. “The Greens are expecting us at 7, dear.” Jack squatted down to look the 10 year-old in the eye. “You will stay here and not move until we get back, you understand, boy?” Tim nodded. “And no funny business this time. In fact—” Tim heard the handcuffs before he felt them. His right wrist was cuffed to the chair leg, making it impossible for him to stand without moving the chair. Jack sprinkled baking powder around the perimeter of the chair and lego blocks. “I’ll be able to tell if you move, so you better be fucking still.”

“Dad?” Tim groaned.

“Dad?” Jack sharply tugged the seven year-old out of Old Pinecrest’s cigar room, a slurred apology waved off by his equally drunk business partners. “Such a scamp, it’s late for you, isn’t it, buddy? Give me a minute, gentlemen?” The slap to Tim’s cheek would have sent him tumbling into the oak doorway, but Jack’s grip was firm and unyielding. Jack leaned down and whispered in Tim’s ear. “Don’t you ever embarrass me like that again, you little shit. When I tell you to stay somewhere, you stay there.” Tim whimpered. “It got cold.” Jack rolled his eyes, dragging Tim through the snowy parking lot. The late hour cast shadows around the empty lot, and Tim didn’t know if he was shivering from the cold or the dark. Jack unlocked the trunk of his newest BMW and tossed Tim in the back, throwing his suit coat on top of him. “You are such a spoiled brat. If you can’t handle sitting in a car alone, maybe this will suit his majesty.” Tim flinched at the closing slam and ensuing darkness.

The darkness felt oppressive, and Tim shivered. It felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest and as he coughed, the ensuing rattle fell into his "Things to Maybe Worry About Later” list. It was a long list. His eyes were still closed but he reached out his hand, feeling around for Damian’s.

Nothing.

Tim forced his eyes open, which was a task that felt much greater than it should have. He was lying on a wooden floor. His pants were still covered in soot and dirt, wet in some parts from the snow, but he was wearing a new shirt. Inexplicably, it looked like one of the button up ones that Janet had always forced him to wear to their business dinners. His head was throbbing and every part of his body, from his toes to his fucked up wrist, felt like it was simultaneously on fire and frozen. Damian wasn’t next to him, even though he was pretty sure they were together before he passed out. Tim knew he was forgetting something, but his brain wasn’t loading fast enough, and he didn’t have time to put the pieces together before he felt his shoulder pop as he was violently pulled from the floor and set on his feet. He wobbled a bit but found his footing, and finally dialed into reality.

And quickly wished to dial back out.

“Christ, Bastard, that took forever.”

Jack’s sneer looked wrong under the fake cowl he was wearing, and Tim suppressed his flinch as the man stepped closer to him, still holding his arm in a bruising grip.

“C’mon. I’ll be damned if I let some pathetic, stupid, son of a bitch idiot like you ruin everything I worked so hard to build.”

“Where’s Damian?”

Jack rolled his eyes and dragged Tim towards a tripod set up with a ring light and cell phone. Tim planted his feet and Jack jerked back when he realized Tim wasn’t moving with him.

“Where is Damian?”

Jack stepped closer, as Tim tried to pull away, but the man, like he had always been, proved stronger than him. He pulled Tim to his chest and said viciously, “The only reason I did not put a bullet in your brain when I found you was because your mother was being sentimental. Do. Not. Test. My. Goodwill. I left the runt there. You’re lucky I didn’t have time to put him down like the animal he is. I won’t ask again. Move.”

Tim relaxed and let himself be manhandled towards the phone, confident that even though his father didn’t make it to him in time, he’d definitely make it to Dami. Damian was the most important anyway. A wave of euphoria and relaxation washed over him—he knew, somewhere in his head, he needed to be alert, but, at the end of the day, Tim always knew this is where he’d end up. He had made his peace with it, honestly. He got to see Jay one last time. He talked with Dickie. He spent an amazing few days with his baby brother, finally getting to know him on a real level. The only regret he had was not being able to tell Br…his dad how sorry he was. How grateful he truly was for the short years they had together. How he didn’t mean to be such a brat and cause so much trouble and he was hopeful his family would finally find peace now that he was out of the picture. And Alfie, of course, but he knew Alfred already knew all that. That man was magic.

“Tim? This looks painful, buddy. What happened?” Bruce gently touched his ankle, which was bruised and inexpertly wrapped. His parents left that morning, and he showed up at the Waynes’ front door that afternoon with his overnight bag. The thirteen year-old shrugged sheepishly. “You’re such a dork, B. It was so stupid. Mom and dad were running late for the airport and my mom left her cell phone on the kitchen counter. I tried to run after them, but tripped on the front porch. The cab had already left and I knew I was coming over here this afternoon, so I didn’t call them back. I didn’t want them to miss their flight.” Bruce frowned, but nodded. “Ouch. You know, you didn’t have to walk all the way over here, pumpkin. I would have been happy to pick you up. Or Alfred.” Tim blushed at the nickname, but smiled brightly. “Oh, I know that! It wasn’t a big deal. It didn’t even hurt until I got here.” Alfred walked in with the bandages, brace, and cream, and Bruce began rewrapping it. “I’m just afraid it may have made it worse. The swelling even makes it look like it’s been like that for a few days.” Tim rolled his eyes and shared a look with Alfred. “Don’t be paranoid, Bruce. I’m fine.” Alfred put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Master Bruce, I’m sorry to interrupt but Master Jason is having a difficult day this morning. I cannot get him to eat breakfast. Would you be so kind to check in on him?” The lines around Bruce’s eyes tightened and his forehead wrinkled a bit. He nodded and ruffled Tim’s hair on the way out. Alfred began tending to Tim’s ankle with an ease that captivated him. He whistled a bit and Tim steeled his courage. He cleared his throat. “H–How is Jason?” He asked quietly, unable to keep the stutter out of his speech. Alfred gave him a considering look. “He is getting better, slowly but surely. We finally seem to be having more good days than bad ones. It’s good to see you today, dove. It’s been awhile.” Tim swallowed, his throat becoming dry. “Ah. I, um, have been pretty busy with school.” Alfred hummed and put the brace on Tim’s ankle. “Is it just that, my boy? Ever since you’ve returned from camp last summer, it feels like you’ve been a bit distracted. You know you can share anything with me, love?” Tim breathed shakily and plastered on his most charming smile. “Of course, Alfie. It’s just school. I’m here today, aren’t I?” Alfred nodded and kissed him on the head. “That you are, Master Tim. Now, why don’t you come and try my ginger cookies. It’s a new recipe.”

A sharp pinch on the arm brought Tim back to the present. He was standing in front of the camera and Jack was holding him tightly against him. The stupid cowl was on the floor, but Jack was still wearing the well-made Batman suit. Tim didn’t see his mother anywhere. Looking around, he realized they were standing on a theater stage, the darkness swallowing up the chairs in front of it. Jack cocked his gun (which Tim had not even noticed him getting out) and pushed it against his back.

“Where’s Mom?” Tim felt like one of those dolls with pre-programmed sayings: Where’s Damian? Where’s Mom? What the fuck is your plan? His voice box must have been set to just asking inane questions or terrified silence. He couldn’t think of anything else. While he wasn’t particularly looking forward to seeing Janet after the hell he unleashed with his press conference, she had always been able to tame the more chaotic of the mania that ruled most of Jack’s decision making. Just because Tim was ready to die, didn’t mean he wanted to do so on a livestream. He’d like to spare his family that, at least.

“Shut up. If you say one word, I will make the last few hours you survived with that dunce seem like a walk in the park compared to what I can do to you. Have you ever known me to break a promise, boy?” Jack’s smile looked wilder than the Joker’s and Tim’s stomach felt like it was in his throat.

“No, sir.” He said quietly.

“That’s right, son. Don’t worry, Timothy. You’re still useful to me.” He patted his cheek mockingly, and then pressed the red record button on his screen.

“Hello, fellow Gothamites. Jack Drake here to reveal to you the real truth of what has been happening with my family. Unfortunately, there is an awful smear campaign going around right now—baseless accusations, a conspiracy of the highest order, and the truest miscarriage of justice I’ve ever seen.

First, I am the most honest person that ever was. Gotham has been run by corrupt people in corrupt positions. Jim “Grim” Gordon and Bruce “Bullshitter” Wayne are scourges to society, and I cannot believe they have corrupted my poor, sweet Timmy.

Now, before you blame my son, please understand that his earlier press conference was a conspiracy set up by the powers that be and that serial liar, Lois “Lying” Lane. Timothy agreed because he wanted to protect myself and my wife from anyone finding out who we really are.

That’s right, people of Gotham. My dear son was lying earlier, obviously in a misguided attempt to keep my secret. But I am here to set the record straight. Janet and I are not abusive, no matter what this guy says. Right, champ? Poor Timmy has struggled for a long time with psychosis, a fact that Jan and I have tried to keep out of the press. I admit, I was not the most present father, but I’ve loved this kid like he was my own. Unfortunately, we were both distracted from giving Timothy the attention any mentally unwell kid would need because, as you can see, I am Batman.

Yes, I am this city’s protector…

Tim looked around as Jack continued his rant. The theater was cast in shadows with several entrances and egresses for police to raid, and he wondered what Jack’s true plan was. He was deranged if he thought anyone would fall for his stupid speech, but Gotham was the birthplace of the deranged. At least he knew that Bruce would never fall for such an obvious trap.

This is Batman, signing off.”

Jack stopped the livestream and pulled Tim back by the shirt. Tim stumbled as he was pushed towards the center of the stage. Suddenly, a spotlight from above turned on, singling them out, and Tim shut his eyes when it temporarily blinded him. He could hear Jack laughing and saying something as he was shoved to the floor.

Ca-click. Ca-click, Ca-click.

The distinctive sound of high heels on wood (the familiarly distinctive sound of these particular high heels) gave Tim goosebumps, as much as he told himself he didn’t care, wouldn’t care, couldn’t care. He tried to scramble back as his mother walked towards them, but he was blocked by Jack’s legs.

“Timothy.” Her voice was smooth as butter, quiet and demanding as usual, and Tim looked up. She rested her shoe on his chest, the stiletto heel digging in uncomfortably and just a smidge painfully. She was obviously not using her full weight, but Tim was frozen by the threat. (He hated his body’s fear response. He was ready for this. He was . There was just something innately difficult about convincing his body to relax in the face of death, even when his brain was willing to accept it. Why he couldn’t avoid panicking now made no sense to him. Typically, he sought out adrenaline like an old friend, but this was different than contemplating throwing himself off a bridge or building. Maybe it was the promise of it being a painful, long death versus a quick one, or maybe it was getting one last taste of kindness and love that tricked his body into thinking he deserved life, but whatever it was, it was damn inconvenient.)

“M-mother.”

She tsked.

His mother beckoned him closer and he shut the door to her room. She was putting on mascara, already dressed for the gala. “Timothy, you do understand that you shouldn’t rile him up like that?” She ran her fingers over his black eye, pressing hard into the bruise and Tim held back a hiss. “I try and try and try to teach you appropriate behavior, yet you continue to disappoint me.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry, mother.” She tsked and rolled her eyes. “Like hell you are.” She said dryly. “Your father may be placated by that act, but I don’t believe it for one second. How can we expect you to take over this company if you can’t even control your behavior at home?” Tim held back his own eye roll and kept his eyes on his feet. “You know, I thought once you separated yourself from…that man and his idiot sons, you’d be better. I guess it will take a little longer to beat the bad habits out of you. Now, go to the basement and you can wait for us to get home.” Tim swallowed down his bile. “Yes, ma’am.” He walked out slowly. “And, Timothy?” She called back as he crossed the doorway. He stopped without looking back. “Be thankful for the lesson.” His whispered thank you was accepted with a sharp nod, and he closed the door behind him.

“You ruined it all.” His mother sounded furious—more undone than he had ever heard her before. Despite the bruise on her face, courtesy of Jack, she still looked put together. Her red lipstick reminded Tim of blood, and in that moment, Tim could only think of her as a predator.

“Everything we worked for, everything we worked to build for you, your future, our future, down the drain because you had to be selfish. As if the Waynes could ever love you. You have been nothing but a thorn in our side. You think it will be better with them? When the newness wears off, when they find out who you really are, how worthless and annoying and pathetic you are, you believe they’ll actually give you the time of day? You think,” she dug her shoe in harder and Tim let out a loud groan, “that they can what? Love you? They’ll be kicking you out in a week. No one can stand you, you have nothing to give them. And Bruce will figure that out, once he has to deal with you 24/7 instead of just hosting you for some inane sleepover. He'll toss you out with yesterday’s trash if you’re lucky. Or teach you your place if he has any brain cells at all left.”

She tilted her head to the side and removed her foot. Tim rubbed his chest as Jack pulled him up, wrenching his shoulder further. Everything burned, and between the injuries he sustained with Lester and the constant aching in his wrist and arm and legs and body, he felt dizzy and queasy.

Jack cocked his gun and held it to Tim’s head. Tim closed his eyes, but Janet only allowed it for a second, before slapping his face.

“I’m speaking with you, Timothy. Remember the rules, son.” She smiled pityingly. “You will not be the reason we go down. I promised your father that he could have his revenge and then we are leaving. I won’t lose my investment in you, no matter how worthless you’ve proven to be. We’ll spend however long we need to to teach you the lesson you should have learned years ago. When we return to Gotham, it will be as royalty. Not disgraced. Do you understand?”

“So your grand plan is to play dress up at Batman and just expect the police will let you walk out of here?” Tim didn’t know where all the bravery was coming from, but his skin felt like it was on fire and his head was hurting and he. just. wanted. to. be. done. He was angry, so angry, boiling with it, drowning in it, and the gun didn’t scare him, as much as the thought that she would try to drag it out over...what? Years? She was expecting him to fall back in line just like that? Stay with them forever?

He laughed wildly, mimicking Jack in all the wrong ways. His mother dropped her condescending smile and that alone would fuel Tim until his dying day. Which was hopefully soon, because he didn’t think he could take much more.

He shook off Jack’s arm and stepped forward towards his mother. The gun pressed against forehead, leaving an imprint, but Tim grinned. If he was going to die, he was going to die speaking the truth.

“You didn’t do shit for me, mom . Anything good about me, any success I have, any worth I have, came from my family. My real family. I may be stupid and dumb and a bastard,” he sneered the last word, “but the Waynes love me. My dad loves me. My real one. And thank god for that, because if I were actually related to Jack Drake, I would pull the trigger myself.”

Jack grabbed his throat, the gun falling to the ground. “You pathetic, little fuck.” Tim grabbed wildly at Jack’s hands, but his grip was strong, and as he choked him, he screamed. “BRUCE WAYNE IS NOTHING COMPARED TO ME. I AM BETTER. I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN BETTER. I WILL ALWAYS BE BETTER.”

“Jack, stop.” His mother reached for them, but Jack was stronger and tugged Tim back, letting go. Tim coughed and tried to suck in a breath, but Jack punched him in the stomach, sending him to the floor.

“YOU ARE A MISTAKE. JUST BECAUSE YOUR WHORE OF A MOTHER COULDN’T KEEP HER LEGS CLOSED. I TOOK YOU IN OUT OF THE KINDNESS,” he began kicking and Tim curled up to protect his stomach, “OF MY HEART AND YOU WERE SO UNGRATEFUL. EVERYONE LOOKS AT ME LIKE I’M A JOKE. LOOK WHO’S LAUGHING NOW.” A strong kick to the head disoriented him. Tim instantly threw up, coughing and sputtering. His vision was darkening and he tried hard to pay attention.

“You’re going to kill him. Stop, Jack.” Tim thought his mother might have been crying but didn’t understand the terror. He had had beatings like this in the past, surely, and she hadn’t cared before. He couldn’t grasp what made this one different. (He couldn’t grasp much, actually. The rushing in his ears blocked most of the sound and he threw up again. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the spotlight.)

“DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO.” Jack’s spit flew everywhere and Tim watched as he picked up the gun again. “DON’T FUCKING TELL ME WHAT TO DO. YOU ARE ALWAYS TELLING ME WHAT TO DO. YOU THINK I DON’T NOTICE THE LOOKS YOU GIVE ME, THE WAY YOU ARE TRYING TO RUN MY BUSINESS LIKE YOU ARE IN CHARGE. NEWSFLASH, SLUT, I’M THE ONE IN CHARGE. ME. MYSELF. AND I.”

It happened in slow motion. Tim could barely understand what happened, for one minute his mother was walking towards them and then next, she was falling.

Falling off the stage, eyes open, staring at him as she fell, her face frozen as blood dripped from the hole in her head. His ears were ringing but he didn’t understand. She didn’t get up and he didn’t understand. He noticed, as she fell, that she was wearing her favorite dress, complete with the pearl necklace Jack had bought her for their 20th anniversary and he could still smell the cloyingly awful perfume she always insisted on wearing. And, inexplicably, blood. Inexplicably, because Tim didn’t understand.

It was quiet in the theater, save for the heavy breaths coming from Jack.

And Tim didn’t really know what to feel because everything felt numb, until Jack turned the gun on him.

And it would have been ok.

It would have been fine.

Tim made his peace with it. With all of it. Because that was Tim’s lot in life. That was the way the cards always played out for him. Why fight it, yeah?

Jack’s eyes were bright and gleaming. He smiled.

“She had it coming, don’t you agree, Timothy? Now, stand up, real slowly, yes, just like that son. My boy. You and me, Bastard, until the end of time. Stand here, there you go, nice and easy. You are going to stay standing, right here, like a good boy, until the fucker comes and pays his respects like a man. And when he does…”

“When he does what?” The deep register of Batman reverberated in the theater. Jack looked around, agitated, unable to tell where the sound was coming from. Tim felt faint, but Jack’s grip on his shirt kept him from falling.

Something alarmed Tim but he couldn’t grasp what he was alarmed about.

“Y..y…you sh..sh..shouldn’t be..h..h..here.” Tim whispered.

Neither Batman or Jack responded. Jack shook Tim and his head flopped back and forth, sending a dull pain through his whole body.

“Come out, Brucie. Or are you too chickenshit to face me?” Jack mocked, waving the gun.

“Wait—” Tim said, but no one listened because no one ever listened.

“C’mon Bruce. Let’s talk about this like men. You fucked my wife, you stole my son, you should answer for your crimes.”

“Stopppp—” Tim thought he might have begged, but his voice sounded far away to his ears.

Batman didn’t stop. He dropped down in front of Jack.

Tim waited for him to kick the gun out of his hands, but neither man moved. Batman was silent and for a moment, both Batman and knock-off Batman stood across from each other in some sort of fucked-up Western-style showdown.

But Jack Drake, a man fueled by equal part ego and insanity, didn’t follow the rules of villainy or the laws of Batman. He didn’t pontificate or monologue.

He just shot.

And if his mother’s death confounded him, it was nothing compared to what Tim felt as Batman’s body hit the stage. He was frighteningly still.

He wasn’t getting up.

He wasn’t getting up, he was still, he was on the ground, his dad was dead. He was dead and he came for him and he was dead and why was he here, why didn’t he move, why did he even bother, what was the last thing Tim said to him, Jesus, did he yell at him? Why wasn’t he moving, what was the point of Batman, then, if he was dead. What was the point of Tim if he couldn’t keep his dad safe? His dad. His dad. His dad.

He wasn’t getting up.

He was still and Tim was still and Tim was alone, all alone, why was he there, why did he come, what would happen to Dickie and Jay and Dami and what would they say, would they hate him and why was he still. He wasn’t getting up.

Why did he come?

Jack laughed.

And Tim lunged.

Tim jumped on Jack’s back, sending him to the ground. Using all the strength he could muster, more than he had ever had in those stupid fight rings, more than he was shown by Jay that one summer, more than he had ever had in his entire life, he punched. He punched and he punched and he punched and he got up and kicked, and then he punched again. He didn’t even feel his wrist, he didn’t feel anything, he saw red and black and smoke and fire and nothing. The crunch of Jack’s nose was incredibly satisfying, and the crunch of his face and the way Jack’s blood mixed with the blood on Tim’s knuckles, and Jack was crying, or was that Tim, because water was pooling in his eyes and running down his face, and he punched and screamed and screamed and screamed, his voice turning hoarse.

He couldn’t hear anything, he was underwater.

Someone pulled him back, was yelling at him, for him, to him but Tim kept screaming. He was saying words, he thought, maybe, but he wasn’t sure. That was my dad, he thought. FUCKER, he screamed. I can’t live with this, he pleaded. I AM GOING TO KILL YOU, he shouted.

“Sweetheart , Timmy, honey, please . You are hurting yourself, pumpkin.” The voice sounded far away, wet, and familiar, and confusing. Strong arms were wrapped around him, protecting his head and his body, gentle but firm. Someone was shushing him and rocking him and he could feel tears on his face. “I’m ok, we’re ok, don’t worry.” The voice was insistent and Tim didn’t dare hope, couldn’t hope, but it felt so real.

His breath was fast and hard, but he dared to look up, because, at the end of the day, Tim would always choose the most dangerous thing.

Bruce was kneeling next to him, wearing a stupid Gotham Knights sweatshirt and slacks, looking wrecked and fond and concerned and angry and sad and a bunch of other things Tim couldn’t pinpoint. He gasped and looked back. Batman was still on the ground, but sitting up. The bullet had bounced off his armor. He was in the process of taking off the cowl, and Clark Kent winced, the suit moving strangely as he stood to walk closer to them. He kicked the writhing Jack Drake on his way over. The man moaned.

“Timmy, I’m gonna need you to breathe with your dad, bud.”

‘I. What?” Tim’s voice came out hoarse and quiet and confused.

“I got you” Bruce murmured.

His father murmured.

His dad murmured.

Nightwing swung down from the rafters. He rushed over to them, stopping abruptly when he got to Tim, obviously cataloging his injuries. He knelt down next to Bruce and Tim, gently wiping Tim’s sweaty hair away from his face.

“Oh, baby.” He breathed. “Oh Timmy. Thank god.” He touched Tim’s head softly and pulled back his hands when Tim hissed. He leaned in to Bruce, speaking quietly.

“Gordon is waiting for the go-ahead. You sure this is what you want to do? You won’t be able to change your mind. We can do something else.”

“It’s time. Past time.” Bruce spoked confidently, if softly. He pulled Dick closer and put his forehead to Dick’s. “Thank you, son. I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner. You deserved it to be sooner. You all did.” Dick sniffed, but clapped the back of Bruce’s neck and squeezed once. They separated, and Tim heard Dick whisper a thank you.Bruce cleared his throat.

“Clark?”

Clark nodded.

It was a strange exchange. Tim was officially out of commission, though, confused, concussed, and hurting more and more as the adrenaline began to fade.

Bruce swept Tim up in his arms, and Clark inexplicably laid back down. He made Jack look like a kid playing dress up compared to the real Batsuit. He winked and then donned the cowl, laying down all the way. He stilled his body once more.

Blue lights and sirens were noticeable now that the yelling stopped, and Tim closed his eyes as Bruce readjusted him in his arms.

“Keep those eyes open, Roo.” Dickie squeezed his hand. “You need to be looked at first, baby.”

He nodded, not sure what he was agreeing to, but nonetheless calmed by his brother’s tone of voice and his father’s tight hold. Nightwing squeezed his hand again. “I’ll meet you at the hospital, ok. Got to play my part here.” He smiled and kissed Tim on the head. Tim watched as he went back over to Clark-as-Batman and knelt down.

“THIS IS THE GCPD. JACK DRAKE, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.”

Bruce whispered to Tim, “We need to let them check us over, ok, sweetie. Hang in there and we’ll take a ride to the hospital.”

Tim began to relax, which should have been the first sign that things were about to go to shit. Or about to go to more shit?

Because Tim forgot the first rule of being him. He didn’t get lucky. He didn’t get happy endings.

It was unclear how it happened.

Maybe they were all too distracted by babying him or too nervous about whatever plan they had cooked up or too confident in Tim’s ability to beat up his crazy fake-father, but whatever it was, it didn’t matter, because while Bruce was fussing over Tim and Clark was playing dead and Dick was getting into character, Jack Drake was inching closer and closer to the gun that was laying haphazardly by his head.

As the GCPD stormed in with battle vests and guns drawn, Jim Gordon at the helm, Jack yelled, “I AM BATMAN,” and shot at Tim and Bruce. The gun went off, and before anyone could do anything else, Jack turned it on himself and fired one last time.

Tim should have felt relief.

But all he felt was hot, sticky blood dripping from his side, and the collective horror of his audience.

The last thing he heard before blacking out was his dad calling his name.

Breaking News: Gotham City

-

Caped Crusader No More? GCPD and Justice League confirms: Batman is dead, murdered by imposter.

-

Drakes, Batman die in bloody shootout. Billionaire and son left wounded and reeling.

-

Trouble in Paradise? Exclusive Photos of Drake Heir’s Battered Past.

-

Trapped in the Closet: When Secrets Haunt the Elite

-

Tim and Damian Wayne Hospitalized, Family and Friends Keep Bedside Vigil

-

Who are the Waynes? Timeline of Gotham’s Dynamic Family and the Drama Within

-

Gotham’s Own Soap Opera: A Tale of Murder and Intrigue

-

Who is responsible for public safety? An editorial on vigilante justice and policing in America, by Clark Kent.

-

Bruce Wayne confirms, ‘Kids are alright. Please respect our privacy.’ Press conference details on page 5.

-

The role of paparazzi, fame, and the responsibility of the press, a Lois Lane exclusive.

-

Who was the Electrocutioner? GCPD releases photos of burned and abandoned subway tunnel.

-

If leaders can be bought, who is protecting the children? How CPP and Gotham’s civil government fell to bribes, by Melba Manton.

-

$4 million raised for Child Abuse Hotline in just 4 hours. How Jason Wayne started a movement with one Tweet.

-

Richard Wayne swears at paparazzi, breaks camera, and gets arrested. Brother and Butler bail him out. Exclusive photos below!

-

Nightwing and Red Hood to speak at public funeral for Batman. Justice League to attend.

-

Wayne Watch: What’s the word on Tim Wayne? Well-wishers and public concerned about lack of news. “He’s been hospitalized for 10 days and we’ve received no word,” Twitter User P3N1SP@RTY1 says. “The people have a right to know.”

Chapter 27: Sick

Chapter Text

SOAP: Patient presented to hospital with GSW to spleen resulting in rupture, mild-to-moderate traumatic brain injury, ecchymosis of stomach, legs, contusions on neck, arms, abdomen, distal radius fracture and cardiac arrhythmia. He entered Gotham General ER accompanied by father and was promptly admitted for surgery. Pt life-flighted to Gotham Children’s for acute care after concerns presented by GG medical team. GC admitted patient into PICU for critical illness. Immediate concerns include neutropenia, sepsis, and dyspnea—medical team elected for ventilator, broad spectrum IV antibiotics, among other interventions. Pt is mostly unresponsive to RN, MD, and SW interactions, sleeping about 18 hours throughout the day, and demonstrating confusion when awake. Pt on feeding tube until able to self-feed. Visitors prohibited at this time, contact and droplet precautions required. Pt has strong support system, including father, three brothers, and a grandfather. Pt’s youngest brother is currently admitted downstairs in PAC for bronchial pneumonia with pyrexia. Pt has extensive history of abuse from bio-mother and husband (both deceased). Bio-father has full custody. Father demonstrates high levels of anxiety and concern for Pt and Pt’s brother resulting in conflict between doctors and family, intervention should include allowing father immediate, full-time access (with appropriate PPE) in Pt’s room, social services referral, and mental health referral. Immediately moving Pt to youngest brother’s room when level of care eases is encouraged. Increased counseling with medical staff on complex grief, trauma, and family systems. When Pt is lucid, social service intervention includes active listening and age-appropriate counseling/explanation for upcoming internal fixation for wrist. Pt’s prior history with social workers may be a challenge in earning trust. If this is the case, Social Services should find a trusted therapeutic contact to take over caseload as not to cause further anxiety. Referral to OT and PT pending. Possible animal, music therapy as Pt recovers, since youngest brother has also expressed interest. This note is considered HIPAA protected information—as Pt’s family is high profile, it is important to document that any staff member leaking this to the press will be persecutedprosecuted by both the hospital and the Pt’s family. (Don’t even try it, assholes.) — Leslie Thompkins, MD

The beeping would be the death of him, he was sure of it. It pervaded all his senses, a persistent and annoying reminder of how he couldn’t be trusted to handle anything in his life, even breathing.

Beep. You’re worthless

Beep. You’re dangerous.

Beep. You’re useless.

Tim wasn’t sure when he first figured out he was in the hospital. A few hours ago? Days ago? Weeks ago? It all blended together.

If he thought about it, he could recall some bits of recent sounds and sensations—Bruce whispering sternly at a doctor, Jason singing to him softly, Dick scratching his head. He might have heard Clark at one point, and he definitely heard the sounds of cameras clicking and flashing, along with another round of yelling, this time from unknown voices, and then one memorable string of creative swears from Alfred that had to have been a dream, because he didn’t even know Alfred knew those words.

But every time he wanted to open his eyes, the medication pulled him back under.

So when he finally woke up, it wasn’t a gentle or pleasant awakening, but a fucking embarrassing one. He knew he was in the hospital but his heart rate still spiked, setting off several alarms.

He knew he was in the hospital, but when he opened his eyes, and it was dark, his stupid, dumb brain thought he was back in his childhood basement.

And like some overwrought old episode of General Hospital, he started crying and ripping out cords and then he felt hands on him so he twisted and flopped and his arm was elevated for some reason, and he couldn’t get the scratchy feeling in his throat to disappear, and everything hurt but in a sort of distant way and he heard voices but couldn’t process everything they were saying.

And the beeping. The fucking beeping.

“...theart…down…ok…baby…”

“....get…anxious…urn down…edation.”

“...eslie…now…”

Finally, finally , his brain caught up with his body. He was shocked to see Bruce hovering as close as possible to his bed trying (and failing) not to crowd the nurses and doctors helping get him settled. Leslie was untangling and reattaching cords, and instead of using her typical snark, she spoke in soft, reassuring tones.

“Tim. It’s alright. Breathe with me. You just surprised us—always exceeding expectations, kiddo.” She patted down the soft blankets he was wrapped in (which smelled like the homemade fabric softener Alfred bought every Sunday from the Bristol Farmer’s Market). His mouth felt cottony and gross, and he could feel the tube from his nose scratch the back of his throat. His wrist was elevated on a large, foamy pillow thing. He looked helplessly at Leslie, his mind running through a thousand thoughts a second, and she took pity on him.

“Facts first, Tim. Just like always, okay?”

“Shouldn’t—” Bruce’s anxious interruption was stopped by a sharp look from Leslie.

Tim resolutely looked at his blanket. She must have reduced his medicine because his brain was rapidly clearing as some pain began to creep in. He was unsure how to calm his heart as a massive wave of shame threatened to drown him. He was starting to remember everything and he just wanted to hide away forever.

Leslie tapped his arm in a soft and repetitive pattern. “We’ll go slow, I promise. Do you want your dad here right now?”

And wasn’t that a fucking question. He swallowed thickly and it felt like 10 lb weights had replaced each of his eyes. He struggled to look up, knowing that if he made eye contact with the man standing anxiously behind Leslie, it would send him into a very mortifying breakdown. The details of their last interaction were becoming clearer and clearer, his heart rate picking up again.

Leslie must have sensed his panic, because she pulled up a chair and leaned forward, taking up his whole line of sight.

“If you tell me to send him out, I will, but he’ll be sitting over there for now, ok?” She gestured behind her and Tim heard the rustling of the paper gown Bruce was wearing as he sat on the hospital room’s couch.

“Do you remember what happened, Tim?” She was working on taking the tube out of his nose, asking him to take a deep breath. He winced as she swiftly pulled it out, gagging a little. “Good job.”

Tim nodded at her earlier question. “Sort of.” He rasped.

“Mmm.” She took his free hand gently. “You were shot. It was touch-and-go for a bit, kid. You already had some smoke inhalation, bruising, and the start of a few infections before everything in the theater. The surgeons had to remove your spleen. Your wrist has also taken a lot of damage over the past few weeks. We still need to do surgery on it once your blood count looks a bit better—I can send in someone to talk you through that and recovery. The missing spleen will mean some close management of your immune system—more antibiotics, possible hospital visits when you have a fever, that sort of thing. Very manageable though, okay kiddo? You are running a bit of a fever right now. We are taking precautions to make sure you don’t get sicker which is why you will see us wearing gowns and gloves and masks for a while.” She paused.

“That was going slow?” Tim said hoarsely. Leslie flicked him on the nose.

“There’s that snark I know and love.”

“Dami?”

“He’s fine,” Tim looked up and saw Bruce had left the couch and inched closer, his eyes bright and wet. “He’s fine, pumpkin. He’s recovering from pneumonia right now and is in a room downstairs. Leslie said we can move you in with him once your levels come up, sweetie. You did so good watching out for him. Thank you for being such a good big brother.”

Tim flinched slightly as rough, calloused fingers gently wiped away the tears he didn’t even realize were on his face. Bruce paused and then continued touching Tim as Leslie moved out of the way. He sat in the chair and ran his fingers through Tim’s greasy hair.

“Tim. Son . I am so, so thankful you are here. That you are safe. I promise you are safe.”

Tim blinked at his father, mind blanking as he took in the relief and pain in his eyes.

“...’m sorry.” It was a quiet confession, slurred by medication and exhaustion. A ripple of confusion passed Bruce’s face and then it smoothed out again. He put his hand on Tim’s forehead, swiping his thumb back and forth.

“For what? You have nothing to be sorry for, bud. Nothing at all.”

Tim couldn’t shrug but he looked away. The persistent beeping of the monitors filled the room, and eventually, when the two adults realized Tim was done talking and his eyes were slipping closed again, both stepped back. Tim heard them murmuring to each other, but he was unconcerned by the topic of conversation. He fell back asleep, which was so much more preferable to whatever thoughts and feelings were churning in the back of his head.

So, he didn’t mean to make it a thing.

It was just.

It was.

After the first time waking up, Tim found it easier and easier to stay awake. He also found it easier and easier to fake sleep whenever Bruce was in the room.

Hours passed. A few days. Tim ate when the nurses urged him, moved when the therapists asked him, breathed when the doctors examined him, cringed when the CNAs cleaned him, and slept when his dad visited him.

He listened to the soft reassurances and stories Bruce would offer, trying to draw him out, but Tim kept his breathing even and eyes closed and eventually, every time, Bruce would sigh, kiss his forehead, and quietly step out.

Heather, his day nurse, called him out on it when Tim immediately feigned sleep in the middle of her temperature check. When Bruce walked back out after a few minutes, claiming he was just checking in and going to see Damian. (‘But call me if he wakes up and needs me. I’ll can be back here in just a few minutes.’ )

“So, is it just me or was that awkward as fuck?” She drew his blood and gave him a look.

Tim snorted.

“You know, they’re talking about moving you down a level, especially if these numbers come back improved. It’ll be harder to avoid him if you’re in the same room as your brother. I hear the rest of your family are practically moved in down there.” She gave him a small smile, a little pitying.

Tim cleared his throat. “I’m not avoiding him…I’m just tired. I got shot, you know. It takes a lot out of a person.”

“Sure, Jan.” She booped him on the nose because apparently being in the hospital meant a person loses whatever dignity they were entitled to beforehand. He scrunched his nose.

“What do you want me to put on?” She thumbed through the suitcase of movies Bruce had dropped off a few days ago. Tim shrugged.

“Field of Dreams it is, then.” She winked.

Tim gave her a dry look, and she laughed on the way out.

It wasn’t until Ray was asking his father to play catch that Tim realized someone else was in the room with him.

“Goob.”

Jason was leaning against the closed door. He was holding a book in one hand, and his other hand was in the pocket of his paper gown. He looked absolutely ridiculous in the PPE they required people to wear before coming into Tim’s room, and Tim breathed out a quiet laugh.

Jason smiled and came closer, pausing the movie. “Look at that. Don’t know what B was talking about, kiddo. You don’t look sleepy at all.” He gave Tim a knowing look and sat down in the chair beside his bed.

Jason had dark circles around his eyes, and they looked slightly red-rimmed.

“How’s…How’s Damian?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Making himself an absolute nuisance. He’s driving everyone crazy. He will not stop asking about you. He threatened to stab his doctor yesterday when he said they couldn’t move you until your tests came back. Bruce had to make another donation to their general fund.”

Tim picked at his blanket with his free hand.

“Want some pudding?” Jason gestured at the mostly uneaten meal on Tim’s tray (which, to the consternation of Leslie, was becoming a pretty normal sight) and unwrapped the plastic spoon. He dipped it in the chocolate pudding and put it up to Tim’s mouth. “Don’t glare at me, Goob. Don’t think I won’t stay in here for each fucking meal and hand feed you like the baby bird you are. Now open up. You owe me for scaring me so badly.”

Tim knew Jason was mostly joking, but cringed anyway. He obediently opened his mouth, if only to give him a second to get his thoughts together. Jay, because Jay was the best, didn’t let the silence linger.

“So, want to tell me why you’re avoiding B?”

Jay was the worst.

“I’m not.” Tim said unconvincingly.

“Ok.” Jason said easily. “You know, both Dickie and I served our time in here. I know where they keep all the best pillows. Want me to grab you one?”

Tim shook his head. Jason frowned. He felt his forehead with the back of his hand. Putting down the pudding, he scooted closer. “What’s on your mind, Timbit?”

Tim sniffed because he couldn’t—he just couldn’t—cry in front of Jay. Not after everything he put him through. Not after leaving him and putting Dami in danger and not dying, just to continue to cause him more problems. But as hard as he tried, his eyes still filled with tears.

“I’m sorry Jay.”

Jason reared back. “What the hell do you have to be sorry about now, Goob? I thought we talked about this earlier. You have nothing to apologize for.”

Tim laughed humorously. “I don’t know. Everything. Leaving you again. Stealing the car. Getting Dami hurt. All of…me.”

“When I was in the hospital,” Jason began, lightly scratching Tim’s head (and what was with everyone who kept touching him so gently? why did he like it so much? how did they know?), “I was so, so angry. At Bruce. At Dickie. Even at Alfie. It didn’t make sense, because B was there the whole time, being such an absolute sap I felt like I was a china doll at times. He was overbearing, which I desperately hated but also desperately wanted. And then I was mad at myself for being so mad. I think you remember, once you came back from Space Camp, how angry I always was? That time in the library? When I yelled at you for literally no reason at all, all because I was so selfish and irrationally mad that you never saw me in the hospital? After you left us, I thought it was all my fault. I still kind of do.”

Tim went to interrupt but Jason put his finger on his lips. “Shh. The older and wiser brother is talking. My point is sometimes our brains do weird things with trauma. Like thinking something is your fault when the reality is life can just be shitty. Am I upset that you left? Am I upset that you’ve been away from us for such a long time? Yeah, bud, I am. We love you. And no one wants to see the people they love hurting. But am I upset with you? Never.” Jason said vehemently. “Never. Because, Goob, you are my brother and you are my best friend and I love you so, so much.”

He wiped the tears from Tim’s eyes. Tim cleared his throat. “God, that was sappy, Jay.”

“Mkay, Timmers. Sure.” Jason smiled and ruffled his hair.

“I did, you know?”

“Did what?” Jason pushed another spoon of pudding into his mouth.

“See you in the hospital.”

Jason’s forehead scrunched up. “What do you mean? No you didn’t. You were at Space Camp.”

“...”

“You were at Space Camp. You were gone for three months. You were at Space Camp and that’s why you couldn’t see me, because you were surely in Space Camp because you were 12 and Bruce wrote you letters and you called Dickie every week with updates about how Space Camp was going.”

Tim looked down if only not to see the growing horror on Jason’s face.

“Tim. Look at me.”

“Jay, I…”

“Timothy Wayne. If you weren’t at Space Camp, where were you?”

“...Vegas?” Tim smiled guiltily.

“Vegas.” Jason massaged the bridge of his nose. “I’m texting Dickhead.”

Tim’s eyes widened. “Jace, you can’t.”

Jason leveled him a dry look while pulling out his phone. “Timmy. Timmers. Timantha. Timbo. Goob. My lovable gremlin of a brother. With all due respect, shut up.” His phone rang and he stepped out of the room to take the call.

Tim was faster. He hit his call button and pulled off his pulse oximeter. Heather rushed into the room, closing the door on Jason who glared at Tim while presumably talking to Dick.

“Do I need to put in The Goonies?” She smirked as she reset his alarms.

“Quit trying to social work me through multimedia.” He lifted his head as she rearranged his pillow.

“Then quit trying to avoid tough conversations with your family.”

“Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Yeah, and maybe I am Poison Ivy in disguise.”

Tim rolled his eyes as she cleared away his tray. She held up his empty pudding cup. “I don’t care how uncomfortable you get, I will let them in every time if this keeps happening.”

“Please, Heather?” He tried to make himself look pathetic enough that she’d take pity on him. She sighed deeply.

“I’ll give you til dinner. Then I’m opening your door back up and letting whoever wants to come come. Take a nap, kiddo. Don’t think I missed that yawn.” She laid his bed down and turned off the overhead lights. “Call me if you need me.” Holding up a hand, she shook her head. “No, call me if you really need me.”

She closed the door on her way out, speaking quietly to Jason who looked like he had been hovering.

Tim’s eyes closed and he fell asleep to the sound of Mikey getting trapped in the freezer, and he woke up to a dinner tray being set in front of him by one of the night nurses. Jeff tapped the Jello cup as Tim sat up. “Ok, Big T. I need to see all of this gone by your next check. Also, you’ve got a visitor who has been patiently waiting outside your door for almost an hour.”

“Don’t let him in?”

Jeff rolled his eyes. “I get my marching orders from Heather. Don’t think you can charm your way out of this.” He walked out, gesturing the visitor in. “If you disturb my patient, Wayne, you’re out.”

Dick flashed a brilliant, fake smile at the man and chuckled. “Never, Jimbo. Thanks for taking care of him.”

Dick’s paper gown was bright pink with ducks on it, and Tim wondered if he had picked it up from the NICU on the way to see him. Dick clucked his tongue and smiled, eyes crinkling at the edges, a sign that he had dropped his public persona.

“Hey Roo,” Dick said softly. He dropped down on the chair next to his bed and picked up the spoon. Tim glared at him but it lacked heat, and Dick pretended he didn’t notice.

“I can do it myself.”

Dick hummed. “Yeah. You have a lot of experience with that.”

Tim scoffed, his cheeks warming up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dick shrugged. “It means what it means. Now eat the nice Jello those nice nurses brought for you.”

Tim did, not because Dick asked, but because he knew Dick would be worse than Jason if he refused. Dick sang under his breath to fill the silence, and it took about ten minutes for him to finish the cup. Dick tossed it in the trash like a basketball and leaned back, staring at Tim.

“Dami told me to tell you that if you don’t get better soon, he’s not going to let you meet his cow. He said that would properly motivate you to improve because his cow has manners unlike Gollum. Whatever that means.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t shown him Lord of the Rings, yet.”

“We were waiting for you, Timmy.” Dick, like Jason, ran his fingers through his hair. Tim melted into the touch.

“For two years?”

“We’d wait forever for you, kiddo. I hope you understand that.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “That’s stupid.”

“No.” Dick made sure Tim was looking at him before continuing. “That’s family. And I am so glad to have my brother back.”

“I treated you horribly. I lied.”

“You survived. There is a difference. But I’m not here to beat you over the head with emotions, Tim-bird. Jay made me promise.” Dick ran his thumb back and forth on the back of Tim’s hand. “You know, Dad’s worried about you. I mean, more than usual. Want to talk about it?”

Tim shook his head.

“Ok, then. Want to talk about your stint in Vegas, Steve McQueen?”

“Jay is making it a bigger deal than it is.”

“He tends to do that. I mean, who in the world freaks out about their literal preteen baby of a brother spending three months in Vegas by themselves?”

“Ha. Ha.” Tim said, rolling his eyes.

“B is already combing the cameras and trying to piece together what happened. Do you know how hard it is to find footage from four years ago? Illegally? He’s tearing his hair out. And he didn’t have much to begin with, Timmy. Help a guy out?”

Tim shrugged.

Dick sighed. “Can I make some guesses? Yes or no answers?”

“Why does it even matter now? It happened literally forever ago. Jack and Janet are…not…here anymore. What’s the point?”

“I still get nightmares. About Harvey. Sometimes, I have headaches still. And my knees will twinge on rainy days. That happened almost 10 years ago. Would you tell me to get over it? Would you say it didn’t matter now?”

“That’s different.” Tim pulled his hand away from Dick’s.

“Why? Because it’s you? Let me tell you, kiddo, and listen real well because I need you to understand this—it matters more because it’s you. I love you so much, Timmy. The things that have happened to you were horrible and evil and you didn’t deserve any of it. But whatever you are telling yourself that is making you think otherwise is wrong .” Dick stood up and grabbed Tim by both cheeks. “I want to know whatever you are willing to tell me. I want to know what happened to you yesterday, an hour ago, and 10 years ago. Because you are my brother. And you are important. And you deserve to process it as much as I do.”

“You won’t get mad?”

Dick laughed a little. “Not at you, Roo. I can’t promise I won’t be mad at the situation or at B or myself for not knowing about it or the people who put you there in the first place. But what’s our family without a little bit of righteous fury, right?”

Tim gave him a small smile. “Did Jay make you come in here?”

“I’ve been chomping at the bit to get my turn. But for what it’s worth, he is chain smoking on the roof because B stress ate all of Alfie’s cookies after he told us what happened. Damian wants to fight this “Las Vegas” guy he keeps hearing about. I think he’s getting sick and tired of being cooped up. I figured once they hear the story, it won't be worse than what they are all imagining.”

Of course, this, for all of Dick’s optimism, wasn’t the case.

And by the time Tim finished telling the story, haltingly and with way less details than his brother seemed comfortable with, Jeff had to give Dick an Ativan.

Bruce knocked on the door a few hours later.

And Tim?

He closed his eyes and pretended to snore.

Chapter 28: You Settle Down

Chapter Text

“You need to eat more.”

Leslie loomed over Tim’s bed like some kind of nagging creature who tormented the young and vulnerable through nagging. And because Tim was not a child, he decided he wouldn’t whine about it.

“Ugh.”

“Tim.”

Tim gestured to his wrapped wrist, still slightly elevated until the surgeon could consult with him.

“Bring me a milkshake then.”

Leslie looked down at Tim, clucking her tongue. “Your care team told me you aren’t drinking the nutritional shakes either. Do you want to go back on a feeding tube?”

Tim scowled. “Don’t you have sicker patients to deal with? Why are you here? You don’t even work in the hospital.”

She sighed. “I’m going to chalk that up to you being hungry and frustrated and hurting. Your nurses also told me you don’t ask for pain medication until you let it get so bad you’re crying. I am close to asking them to call for a mental health consult.”

“I’m tired.”

“Yeah, I’m calling bullshit on that one, kiddo. Dick, Jason, and your father are now telling me you are “asleep” every time they’ve walked in today. Bruce asked me to check your blood for anemia or some latent cancer. Now, I don’t know what happened yesterday, because according to all your nurses Dick and Jason both stayed for a long time, but if you are avoiding all of them, I have concerns. Heather told me it had just been Bruce. This is what we, in the medical community, call backsliding.”

“Heather’s a snitch.”

“Heather is a damn good nurse. Tim, this is self-harm.”

Tim closed his eyes and started snoring. Leslie pinched his arm.

“Ow!”

“I’m giving you until tonight. If you don’t eat at least 50% of your meal, you aren’t moving down a level and I will bring in Psych.”

“Fine.”

“And I’ll tell Damian.”

Tim scowled. “I didn’t think doctors were supposed to threaten patients.”

“You’re not a typical patient, and I’m not a typical doctor. Remember? I don’t even work here.”

She smirked as she left, closing the door on her way out. Tim imagined she was going to write in his chart. “Patient refusing nasty-ass food. Send in the head doctors because I am an overreacting nag and hate him with my whole doctor heart.” Or something like that.

Tim was tired, no matter what his family or healthcare staff thought. And he wasn’t avoiding them, per se, because that would be a terrible coping mechanism on his part, he was just embracing what they all said they wanted him to: rest. Which is why he rested through Bruce’s after-dinner-visit, and Jason’s reappearance from his rooftop-nicotine-fix-visit, and Dick’s after-anxiety-meds-midnight-visit, and Bruce’s early morning “pop in”-visit.

(Everyone may have said he had nothing to apologize for, but if that was true, why did he feel so tied up in knots every time they said something nice to him? Why did his stomach hurt when he thought about everything that happened? Besides, he was pretty sure Bruce didn’t need to be spending all this time here, with him. Gotham needed him. Batman hadn’t been out in ages. People were going to think he was permanently dead or something.)

And, sure, there were things Tim was resolutely not thinking about, but he wasn’t a wallower. He wouldn’t wallow. Things happened, they sucked, and now they weren’t happening anymore. You know. Because his abusive mother was shot in the head by his more-abusive not-father who then committed suicide. After shooting Tim. Totally normal, sucky things that he would not wallow about.

Self-harm? Pft. He hardly knew her.

The wind whipped around Tim as he climbed up the fire escape, higher and higher. He knew that this time Batman or Superman or Red Hood or Nightwing wouldn’t stop him—the news was currently broadcasting their press conference from The Watchtower. Apparently the Justice League stopped another alien invasion. Tim wondered what Damian was doing, if maybe Alfred had been watching him, if he even knew that his family were secret vigilante heroes. Tim wondered what his newest brother was like, where he came from, how he was doing with everyone else. He wondered if he would have been as good to Damian as Jay and Dickie had been to him. He was glad none of his him-ness would ever infect the kid.

The building he chose was as close to Gotham’s border he could get. He didn’t want to traumatize his family by ending up a pancake in Park Row or by Wayne Enterprises or near that donut place Dickie used to take him to.

He finally reached the roof and sat down, taking a few calming breaths. He took out five lanterns from his backpack and a lighter. Jason had told him once that his mom, when she was in her later stages of cancer, had him light and send lanterns out for every person she loved that she would be leaving. “She just had one. For me. She said that I was her moon and stars and sun and that when she sent her love up to the sky, it would come back to me in the wind, rain, and air. It was corny, but on the night before she died, I made sure to take her up to the roof and we did it together.”

Tim lit the first. “For Alfie, who always knew what I needed before I did.” He lifted it up and it began to float away. He lit the second. “For Dickie, who loved me and fought for me and was the best brother ever.” It rose and drifted up. Tim stared at it for a while. He sighed and lit the third. “For…Jay. He was my best friend. He understood me better than I understood myself.” His hands were shaking as he lit the fourth. “For Damian, who probably is the coolest kid around. Stay safe, Dami and let your family take care of you.” The lantern’s yellow glow was stark across Gotham’s dark sky. The fifth sat on his lap for an hour before he lit it. The others were barely specks now. He clicked on the lighter. “F…for…Dad. Um. I understand why you. Why you didn’t want me earlier. I’m. I’m sorry for ruining your life. But. I love you. Yeah, I never said that to you before. But I love you.”

He let the last lantern go and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

His phone rang. Tim declined the call.

His phone rang again. And again. And again.

Tim was going to throw it off the side of the building, but he had wanted to keep it on him to make it easier to identify the body. (It was important because he had written a “Fuck you” letter to Jack and Janet on the Notes app.)

It was an unknown number. Tim inched closer to the edge and thought he hit decline again.

When he heard a muffled voice from his shirt pocket, he realized he had accidentally hit accept. Bringing the phone to his ear, he said, “Hello?” quietly. He wondered if whoever was on the other end would hear him over the wind that was picking up.

“Dove.”

“Alfie? I. Is something wrong? Do you need something?” Tim may have included him on the restraining order and hadn’t talked to him since their quick conversation in the supermarket, but all of that didn’t matter if Alfred was in trouble.

“Not at all, my boy. I was thinking about you tonight and thought I’d try to give you a call.”

“Oh. I have a different number. How…how did you know it?”

“Master Tim, really?” His voice was dripping with amusement.

“I guess that’s a stupid question. Well. You…called. So…um. Thank you?”

“Don’t tell me you’re trying to get rid of me that quickly, my boy. I wanted to wish you the happiest of birthdays today. 15 is a big one. What have you been doing to celebrate?”

Tim sat criss-cross on the rocky concrete and sighed, looking up at the lanterns floating away. “I, um, lit some candles.”

“Mmm. That’s nice. Well, I wanted to let you know that I left a cake in front of your door about an hour ago. I know you aren’t there right now, but I wanted to let you know in case you wanted to go to your house and get it before the raccoons. It’s a new recipe. I know we aren’t in frequent communication right now, Dove, but I would love your opinion. I am not sure about the filling.”

“...”

“My dear, are you alright? I can barely hear you.”

“...I am. Um. Thank you so much. I. I will, um, eat it and let you know.”

“Very good, Master Tim. You can just send me a message with your thoughts. I am looking forward to it. Anyway, I’m terribly sorry to disturb you tonight. Be safe. We love you no matter what.”

And before Tim could respond to that, Alfred hung up.

Later that night, as Tim ate three pieces of cake, he texted Alfred a thumbs-up.

Tim fell asleep (for real this time) and woke up to the sound of a tray being laid gently on his table. An aromatic smell wafted from the bowl next to him. He looked up, expecting to see Jeff, goading him again into eating again , but it wasn’t his nurse.

“I’m happy to see you resting, Master Tim.” Alfred’s hand found his, and the man squeezed it twice. “You don’t know how relieved I am to see your face, my boy. I have missed you incredibly much.”

Tim watched as he unfolded a napkin (one of the thick, creamy ones from Wayne Manor) and tucked it into Tim’s collar. He uncovered a thermos of baked potato soup and a plate of asiago cheese bread and a dish filled with warm chocolate cobbler. Picking up a plastic hospital spoon, Alfred gestured to the large meal in front of Tim.

“I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t had a meal since early this morning. May I dine with you, dove? When you cook all day, it’s easy to forget things like that.”

Tim cleared his throat. “Yes. Please.”

Alfred gave him a warm smile and handed him a spoon. He poured a small amount of soup into a bowl (was that Bruce’s fine china?) and a larger amount in another. Handing Tim the larger amount, he sat back and began eating. After a few minutes, Tim copied him, taking in the familiar flavors.

“I made this for you on your first overnight with us. Do you remember that?” Alfred handed Tim a piece of bread to dip.

Tim nodded and took another bite.

“You were so tiny, ducky. And looked just like Bruce did at that age. I remember thinking, ‘He’s one of mine now. Aren’t we lucky to have him?’”

Tim’s cheeks reddened so he slurped at his soup. Alfred smiled sadly.

“We’ve been missing a large piece of our heart since you’ve been kept from us. I’m so grateful you’ve come home.” He sniffed and patted his eyes with his napkin. “Now, if you are willing to do an old man a favor, I’d be in your debt, lad.”

“Yes. Of course!” Some of the soup splashed out of the bowl at Tim’s fast agreement. Alfred winked and helped mop it up.

“Tell me a story about these coos that Master Damian keeps going on and on about. You know I so hate to be out of the loop.”

Jeff unhooked all the cords that were attached to Tim while a PT intern looked on. The rolling bed they were using to transport him down a level was covered in Big Bird stickers, most likely the work of Dick.

“Ready, Big T?”

Tim took a deep breath and nodded as both Jeff and the PT intern helped him off his current bed and into the other one. Since his legs were still weak, he was unable to walk by himself. To his utter mortification, a red wristband circled his good wrist, indicating a fall risk. He tried to bribe Jeff to take it off, but the nurse apparently had scruples, and just chuckled.

“You’re making good progress, bud. Let’s not jinx it.” Bruce and Dick and Jason were conspicuously absent. After Alfred left ("thanks for the company, my boy”) and the dietician checked on his progress (“Dr. Thompkins will be pleased, young man.”), Jeff let him know he was cleared to transfer down a level.

“Are you excited to see your brother?” Jeff pushed his bed into the large elevator, pressing 6 .

Tim nodded, but his stomach churned nervously as the elevator took them down. He briefly considered if he could get away convincingly feigning sleep while being elevated in the bed. He did it once on a rollercoaster when he was 11—Bernard and Ives asked him about the dark bruise on his neck and he blanked. By the time the rollercoaster had finished, they were laughing at him and completely forgot to ask again.

The elevator doors opened and Jeff waved at the nurses gathered around the nursing station. A frazzled woman in her fifties came over to shake Tim’s hand. “Timothy Wayne?”

“Tim.”

“Yes, Tim. I’m Shelly. Welcome to the circus, kid. Am I right that you’ll be joining your brother for a while?” She looked at him with apprehension.

“Yeah.”

“Thank god. ” She whispered under her breath, “That’s wonderful. Your family stepped out for a minute, so it’s just Damian. He might be a little…hyped for your visit. He’s definitely been anxious to have you here. We got your chart earlier, so we should be able to get you settled. Obviously if you have any questions, you know how to use your call button?” Tim nodded.

Jeff ruffled Tim’s hair, passing the bed to the new nurse. “Big T?”

“Yeah?”

“Keep it up. You’re doing great.”

Shelly stopped in front of the hospital room door and Tim could hear Damian’s voice from the hallway.

“...and make sure he only has the softest pillows. Are you incompetent or just destined to annoy me tonight?”

Shelly let out a sigh that seemed deep from her soul and plastered on a smile. She opened the door. From the doorway, Tim could see Damian. He was sitting up in a wheelchair, his back to the door, an oxygen tank beside him, red faced and glaring at the nursing intern in the room. The poor girl ran as soon as she saw Shelly, and Tim watched amusedly as Shelly patted her shoulder in the same manner as a general going off to war.

“Now, mister, we talked about the best way to get help around here.”

Damian crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. In a quieter voice he muttered, “Yes, Ms. Shelly.”

The nurse hid her smile. “Thank you, Damian. Now I have someone here for you.” She rolled Tim’s bed in as Damian whipped his head around.

“Timothy.”

“Hey, shortstack.” He looked Dami up and down, cataloging any injuries he still had. His brother had dark circles under his eyes and had lost a little weight, but the black eye and other bruises had faded. Oxygen was running in a tube up his nose, making Tim shudder with sympathy. He was about to say something else, when Damian burst into tears, surprising everyone in the room.

“T-TIMOTHY.” He sobbed. The rest of his words were unintelligible—huge wracking sobs that turned into coughs. Shelly was at his side, rubbing his back and turning up the tank. She was shushing him gently, but Damian only had eyes for Tim. He tried to get out of the wheelchair but stumbled a bit.

“Jesus Christ, get him over here,” Tim snapped. His temper showed up out of nowhere, startling both Shelly and Damian into silence. Dami’s sniffing sounded pitiful. Shelly picked him up out of his wheelchair and set him gently in Tim’s hospital bed, making sure to avoid Tim’s wrist splint and the other cords. She didn’t seem offended at all by the outburst—if anything, she looked inexplicably proud. She brought a box of Kleenex over and readjusted everyone. She left with a quiet, “Be gentle with each other and use your call button if you need anything,” turning off the overhead lights on her way out. Soft light from the room’s bedside lamps allowed Tim to take a much closer look at his baby brother.

“Dames. Kiddo. It’s ok. I’m here. I’m ok. We’re ok.” Tim ran his fingers through Damian’s hair as his brother hiccuped and sniffed, tears still wet on his face. “Shhh, squirt. Shh. It’s alright.”

“I c-c-couldn’t see you and they did-did-didn’t tell me anything for the longest time and every b-b-b-body said you were having trouble eating and you were sleeping too much and you can’t heal without eating, because they kept telling me to do it and I was very angry with you, Akhi.” The kid spoke with the urgency of a speedster, but Tim continued scratching his head.

“Mmhm.”

Damian yawned and snuggled closer to Tim’s side. “The service here is abominable, Timothy. They talk to me like I am a child.” His voice was a mix of outrage and exhaustion.

“That’s just horrible, squirt.”

Damian was half-asleep, but still scoffed. “Tt. You’re making fun.”

“Just teasing, Frodo. You look exhausted. Go to sleep, Dames. I’m here now. I’m never going to leave, ok?”

“No, I gotta stay up for Father and Richard and Jason. They, they were getting you something. It was,” he let out a huge yawn, “a surprise.”

Tim kissed the top of his head. “I’ll get it from them, then, sleepyhead. I got you.”

“Alright, Timothy. Just,” Damian’s eyes were closed and he whispered the next part, “stay awake for it, please. I want you to see it right away.”

Tim sighed. “Anything for you, Dami.”

Tim raised his arm as Damian settled on his chest. Tim turned the television on low, and began to watch reruns of Community, completely missing the victorious smile of his little brother.

Chapter 29: You Bought Some Shit

Chapter Text

The bus trip from New Jersey to Las Vegas ended up being 75 hours, with 5 transfers. When Tim first had the idea, his only thought was avoiding the airport, but with as hurt as he was, he didn’t realize 75 hours, even in plush, reclining seats, would be so hard on his stomach or head. His face was throbbing, he was hungry (he had only packed cereal bars and water bottles), and his paranoia meant he was wearing sunglasses and covering his face as much as he could with Dickie’s old hoodie the whole way. Luckily, other than a few shady guys who tried to sit next to him, the ride was fairly unremarkable. (Tim was able to discourage them by discreetly flashing the mace he had packed, but there was one who sat behind him who was fairly insistent in talking to him. He lost him at the Las Vegas station by ducking in and out of the crowd and jumping in a taxi to his hotel.)

He texted Dick and Bruce when he finally checked in. (A la Kevin McAllister-style, but unlike the movie, the hotel couldn’t have cared less. It might have had something to do with the outrageously expensive suite he booked on Jack and Janet’s credit card. Capitalism lived for another day, but Tim was too tired to care. Jay would’ve, though. And since that thought made him tear up, he buried it deep.)

Dickie: Hi, Timmy! How is Space Camp?

Are the kids being nice? Do you need me to come beat them up?

Bruce: Dick!

Dickie: Sorry, B. Do you need me to come talk to them?

Tim: im ok. its great. i love it.

hows j?

Dickie: The doctor said he’s stable enough to wake him up.

We’ll tell him you asked. :)

Bruce: Be careful, sweetheart.

Remember to call us anytime you need us.

I can come get you very quickly.

Dickie: You’re such a mother hen, B. But seriously, Roo.

What he said.

Tim: k. gotta go.

And Tim, who was hurting more than when he left Gotham, fell asleep as soon as his head hit the fluffy, down pillow of his ridiculously huge hotel bed. He woke up with his side twinging. He thought he would have healed by this point, as it had been a week since the whole ‘incident’, but he had a contingency for this.

Pulling on Jason’s old hoodie, and some new jeans, red Converse, and Bruce’s old Gotham Knights cap, he grabbed a banana from the breakfast buffet, and left the hotel room in search of a doctor who wouldn’t ask questions.

He walked the strip, and then took a left and walked a while into what seemed like the Strip, but the Las Vegas Strip in the Upside-Down. The smell of urine was almost unbearable. It was morning, so not a lot of people were walking on the sidewalk, but it was dirtier and the shops and clubs looked shadier than what was near The Venetian.

Tim tried to look less…twelve and more adultier, but his baby face would always be a curse. When Jason first met him, he thought Tim was seven. Seven! Tim shook thoughts of Jason out of his head, and double checked his texts to make sure he hadn’t missed anything from Dickie or Bruce. He felt. He felt embarrassed. Ashamed. He had really messed up, goading Jack the way he did, especially after he was already angry from the failed deal. Of course he’d be punished for that. And because he messed up, he couldn’t be there for Jay, couldn’t be there for Dickie or Da…Bruce.

Tim was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the steps behind him. It wasn’t until he was pushed into an alley, tripping and falling into a puddle that he realized he probably underestimated the danger of his “hide-away-in-Vegas” plan.

“Hey Cutie. Where you going by yourself?” The man was twice Jack’s size but smelled the same as Jack on a bad day. Tim scrambled to get up. His back hit the dumpster as the stranger walked closer. “You look scared, honey. I won’t hurt you. Just wanted to see what you had in that fancy backpack of yours.” The man leaned forward to grab Tim’s shirt. He yelped. And then everything went black.

“Kid. Kid, are you alright? Bloody Christ, I’m not getting paid to babysit, lad, get up.” Tim woke up in a grungy room. He was lying on a surprisingly clean bed. His shirt was off, but he could tell his ribs had been re-wrapped with clean white bandages, larger than the ones he initially grabbed back in Gotham. He could smell the bruise cream on his face and torso. This was the first time since before Jack beat him and threw him in the basement that he was without any pain at all. He looked up and a tall man in a long coat looked back at him, consternated and annoyed. He was smoking a cigarette and vibrating in place, as if he wanted to be anywhere but there. Tim blinked. The man sighed.

“Oi, mate, let’s skip the introductions. I took care of the fuck…er, I mean the idiot in the alley, why you were there in the first place I don’t want to know, and I did as much as I could to fix you up. I’m not sure who left a toddler wandering around Vegas anyway, but from the looks of ya, I assume they aren’t the kind of bloke who would care.”

Tim tried to keep up, but the man was talking quickly, almost like he was on speed or had been awake for a really long time. Dickie once talked like that after a really long fight with Condiment King that lasted over 30 hours. He told Tim it was due to cramming for a final exam, which was a stupid cover story, since his hair still had flecks of mustard in it.

“I’m not a toddler. I’m twelve.”

The man pretended he didn’t hear Tim and tossed him his shirt and backpack. Tim sat up and put them on. The man waved him out of the room. “Listen, poppet, I’ve got a date with a demon that I unfortunately can’t miss, so you go back home and quit bloody wandering around by yourself.”

“It’s not nice to call women ‘demons’. My brother says we should drink respect women juice.”

The man paused at Tim’s interruption and then shook his head like he couldn’t take the time to parse out what he meant. “Where are you staying?”

“The Venetian.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course you are. Well c’mon, mate, I don’t have all day.” He snapped his fingers and Tim found himself back in the lobby, reeling from whatever hallucination he just had. The man was nowhere to be seen, but as Tim walked back to his room, his side no longer twinged. Whatever fever dream had happened, he didn’t think he’d need a doctor any time soon.

Dickie: Timmy!

(image of Dick, Bruce, and Jason in the hospital room.

Jason’s eyes are open but he is still covered head to toe in casts and bandages. Dick is smiling. Bruce looks constipated. )

Look who’s awake! We miss you. Hope you are having fun.

Call me whenever they let you.

.

.

.

Bruce: Hello chum. Thinking about you. Did you get my postcard?

.

.

.

Dickie: They must be working you hard out there.

What’s space camp like? Are there any aliens we don’t know about?

What secrets is NASA hiding from us?

.

.

.

Tim: hi. srry for texting late. tell jay hi.

Dickie: You’re back! Chipmunk, I was about to come out there to make you answer your phone!

Bruce: Superman is an alien.

Dickie: But we’ve never met him in person! It could be a conspiracy.

Bruce: Hm.

Tim: don’t know. they haven’t told us. maybe they hide in plain sight. and have magic. healing magic. and teleportation. and they smoke. and they stay close to area 51 so they can hide if anyone finds them.

(Dickie laughed at this message .

Bruce loved this message.)

Bruce: I always wanted to go to Area 51. Too bad Houston isn’t close.

I could fly out there and we could go together after space camp.

Tim: yeah. too bad.

Tim: good night.

Dickie: Night, bud. Love you.

Bruce: Good night, sweetheart.

“Fucking hell, what are you doing here, mate? No, don’t tell me. You’re a right troublemaker, you know that?”

“You’re covered in blood.”

“Bloody Christ, weren’t you in Vegas just last week?”

“I wanted to see if I could sneak in.”

“Pretty sure your government arrests people for that.”

“I’m fast.”

“Your bruises still look like Jackson Pollock painted your face, kid. Who’s responsible for you?”

“Are you an alien?”

“Go home.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Oi, are all sprogs this annoying?”

“What’s your name?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I’m Tim.”

“I don’t care.”

“I bet it’s something cool, like Magicman. Or Trenchcoat man. Way better than Superman. Do you know Superman? Are you from the same planet? Do you live here? Are they experimenting on you? Is that why you’re covered in blood?”

“This is madness. Why am I talking to an infant anyway? Go home.”

“WAIT! Don’t send me away! What’s your name?”

Tim found himself back in the hotel lobby with the alien’s last words ringing in his ears. He was pretty sure he lied, though. John was too normal of a name to be from outer space.

Damian was snoring quietly when a soft knock announced the presence of the rest of his family. And if Tim had known that his avoidance resting would make everything that much more awkward, he may have chosen a different route to distract them from whatever undeserved pity they all felt compelled to give him. As it was, Tim absolutely did not think through all the consequences of practicing the art of napping-instead-of-having-tough-conversations.

Consequences like having to awkwardly pretend he wasn’t ignoring Jay and Dickie and his dad even though all of them knew he was.

The problem was Tim was more of a fly by the seat of his pants type of planner. His most frequent mantra was “Future Tim can deal with it.” This was a detriment to Present Tim, of course, because Past Tim was an asshole and kept doing things that left Present Tim in a lurch. Case in point, now having to talk with the two mother hens coming into his room. Damian couldn’t even be the buffer because he was fast asleep—real sleep, as evidenced by the way his legs would involuntarily jerk and the hoarse way he breathed whenever the nasal cannula fell out of his nose. Tim gently put it back instead of calling for the nurses. Tim sensed they might appreciate the break.

Burrowed on Tim’s right side, Dami looked vulnerable. A baby. So of course Tim couldn’t pretend to fall asleep when Dami was like this. He had to watch for threats. Assassins. Rogues. Hospital food. Nothing was too small or large if it put Damian at risk.

The door opened, and Tim paused the television, trying on a cool and not-at-all-nervous mask.

“GOOB!” Jason whispered loudly, leaning over Damian and ruffling Tim’s hair. Dick pushed Jason out of the way and kissed Tim on the forehead. “Timmy!!”

Damian rolled over and put a pillow over his head. They could hear him mumble something about uncultured brutes, and the three brothers snickered. The silence that settled around them was a bit awkward, but after sharing a look with each other, both Dick and Jason nodded in agreement. What they were agreeing to was lost on Tim, but they both had easy-going smiles, and Tim could feel something settle when, instead of finishing their interrogation from yesterday, they pulled up the reclining chairs and turned up the TV.

“We convinced Alfie to drop off some snacks later. It’s the only way we can get the nurses to ignore visiting hours.”

Dick snorted at Jason. “No, B’s bribes are the only reason they ignore visiting hours.”

Jay winked at Tim, “The snacks help.”

Tim smiled shakily and tried to calm his anxious heart. Everything was always up and down with him, and he was getting sick of it. There was so much history sitting like a boulder between him and his family, and even though they seemed unbothered by it, Tim couldn’t imagine they really were. He hated the way his emotions seemed to come and go so quickly. He hated how much of a coward he was. He hated how they were spending all their time trying to make him feel better. He hated himself most of all.

As if summoned by Tim’s self-doubt, Damian woke, sitting up straight, startling both Jason and Dick. “Timothy.” He sounded commanding.

“Damian.” Tim snarked back.

Jason laughed and Damian shot him an annoyed look. “C’mon, peanut, you’ve got to relax." Dick stood up and adjusted Damian’s cannula. “Let’s make this more comfortable, Scoot.” Damian tried to bat Dick’s hand away, but Dick just kissed his head.

“Richard.”

“Damian.” Dick smiled.

“Ugh. You are both impossible,” He ignored Jason and Dick and looked at Tim, “Timothy, are you well?”

“Dami, you literally fell asleep an hour ago. I’m fine.”

“Tt. Forgive me if I don’t believe you yet.” Damian said formally, a sure sign of his own exhaustion and anxiety. He turned back to Jason and Dick. Sounding more like a 10 year-old he looked up with big eyes. “Did you get it? Is it here?”

Dick tapped his finger on his chin dramatically. “I don’t know what you could be talking about. Jace, do you know what he’s talking about?”

Jason shook his head slowly. “No, Dickie, not at all. Baby Bat, are you feeling ok? You’re talking nonsense again.”

Damian rolled his eyes, but Tim caught a small smile peeking out at the edge of his lips. “Richard. Jason. Stop this at once. You are teasing me.”

“But you’re so easy to tease, peanut.” Jason dodged the pillow Damian threw at him.

“You must tell us now or I will…I will kick you out of this room and Timothy and I will spend all our time together.” Dick raised his eyebrows. “And…AND…I’ll tell Pennyworth you’re being mean to me and he won’t let you have any cookies.” All three brothers gasped dramatically at Damian’s threat.

“Harsh,” Tim said, impressed. Jason pretended to faint, right on top of Damian. After a short exchange of curses (“Dami! Who taught you that word?” “Oooh, Jay, you’re in trouble.” “Shush, Goob.”), they all settled, limbs wrapped up in each other. Dick had ended up on Tim’s left side, careful to avoid his wrist, and Jason was on Damian’s right. The large hospital bed creaked as they all adjusted. Looking up, Tim noticed the bright paintings of cartoon zoo animals covering the ceiling. He wondered if they put Damian in this room specifically because of that.

It was quiet for a moment, but the silence was comfortable. Dick stroked Tim’s arm in a soothing rhythm.

“...I’m so sorry.” Tim tried again. The non-sequitur felt right to him. He needed them to understand, and every time he tried since waking up, they had stopped him.

The silence was no longer comfortable. Tim could feel Dick’s fingers stutter, but they continued after half-a-second. He hummed. Jason and Damian didn’t say anything. “Ok, baby.” Jason scoffed, but Dick kept going. “I’m also sorry.”

“For what?” Tim asked.

“A lot.” Dick sounded sad. “But the number one thing is not noticing you needed me to get you out of there a long, long time ago.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Jason said quietly. “I should have been a much better brother and made sure you weren’t getting hurt.”

“But…”

“I, too, apologize, Timothy,” but Damian couldn’t finish the sentence. He sniffed, and Jason tucked him under his arm.

“It wasn’t your fault. Any of you.” Tim sounded lost, even to his own ears.

Dick touched Tim’s cheek, gently turning his head so he could look him in the eyes. “I need you to understand something, kiddo. I have a feeling we will be having this conversation a lot. And that’s ok. I will have it every minute of every hour of every day if you need me to. I will have it joyfully, because you are not a burden. You, Tim Wayne, mean the world to us. Always have. And I know Jaybird and Dami feel the same way. From what I gather, you feel the same about us? Have, even when you were gone?”

Tim nodded, tears filling his eyes. Dick smiled. “I thought so. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Well, when he was 13, he ate all of the leftover cake that Alfie baked for me the night before my physical therapy appointment.” Jason complained. Tim laughed wetly. Dick rolled his eyes and continued. “If you believe that we did nothing wrong, then you doubly did nothing wrong.”

“That’s a weird way of putting that.”

“Shut up, Jason.”

“I just…” Tim tried to find his words. His brothers were patient. Jason was tracing figures on Damian’s arm. “I feel…dumb.”

“Hm.”

Tim closed his eyes, hoping that would give him even a speck of courage. “Like, I knew you guys were heroes and everything and I was with you for five years and I could have said something…” He took a breath. “I put you in danger. You all could have died . And I was just over here being stupid.”

“Goob. Tell me. Is B a detective?”

Tim nodded.

“Are Dickie and I adults?”

“I mean…”

Dick flicked Tim on the arm. “Don’t be a brat. Listen to Jay.”

“Are we adults, Goob?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“I don’t see how…”

“How old are you, Tim?”

“Sixteen.”

“Yeah. And only just. Practically still 15. Timbo, you were not responsible for letting us know what was going on with those fucking monsters. There is no mistake made on your end. And like Dickhead said, we will tell you that every day for the rest of your life. What happened to you,” Jason waved his hand around the hospital room, “What happened to Dami, what happened in the past, those things were neither of your faults. Yes, even you baby bat, don’t think I can’t hear you thinking.” Jason poked Damian in the side until he laughed.

“We don’t expect you to be magically fine. Take as long as you need. God knows Dickie and I still deal with anger and shitty thinking. We have ways we work around it. We talk to Dinah, we talk to each other, we prank the Old Man, we binge eat Alfred’s desserts. We aren’t perfect. We mess up. You will too. But one thing we won’t let you do is fall asleep just because you don’t want to talk to us or run away to Scotland because searching for Nessie is preferable to us telling you we love you. No more of that shit, Timbuktu. Okay?”

“...Okay.”

Jason snorted. “Convincing.”

“We’re not going to stop loving you, baby. Ever.” Dick’s phone pinged and he began texting with one hand while running the other through Tim’s hair.

“If you are all done with being gross and annoying, I want to know when the surprise is coming.” Damian sniffed but squeezed Tim’s hand.

“Keep your shirt on, kiddo, we’re getting to that.”

Jason rolled off the bed and Dick did some weird gymnastics bend to get himself off without bumping into Tim or Damian.

“So, Timbo, I know you have turned into a narcoleptic avoider of all things emotional lately, but we would like you to stay awake for this.” Jason did a drumroll on the bedside table as Dick finished texting. He gave a thumbs up.

“We, the Brothers Wayne—” Tim, Dick, and Damian all gave Jason a dry stare, “—have plotted together with the richest bitch in the world (also known as our father) to bring to Timmy the most wonderful, most amazing, most cutest,” ("That’s bad grammar, Little Wing”) "surprise this side of the galaxy. Dickhead, do the honors.”

Dick beatboxed to the door as Jason ramped up his drumming. When the door opened, Bruce was standing in the doorway, wearing sunglasses and a backwards ball cap. Jason burst out laughing. “I was kidding, B! God, you are such an easy target.”

Tim didn’t notice though, because in Bruce's arms was a large, black Newfoundland puppy, squirming and drooling, and trying to lick Bruce on the face.

Dick took the dog out of his arms and gently laid it in Tim’s lap. The dog, for it was a good puppy, instantly laid down, licking Tim and Damian’s hands, and settling between them. Tim was speechless.

Bruce took off his baseball cap and put it on Dick’s head, and put his sunglasses on Jason’s. He tentatively walked up to the bed. “Your friend Sunshine has been calling the hospital nonstop since the news reported you were here. I finally got a chance to call her back. She sends you her wishes. She also said that Peter Pan got into a bit of trouble a couple months ago, and unexpectedly became a teen father. She didn’t have a chance to tell you about it when you came to see them. She also said she couldn’t imagine anyone better to take care of one of his puppies. I picked him up today. He has all his shots and Sunshine said he doesn’t have a name yet. She thought she’d let you pick.”

Damian was beaming.

“B donated $1 million dollars to get permission to bring him in tonight.” Dick punched Jason in the arm. “Ouch. What did you do that for?”

“Well. What do you think, son?” Bruce sounded nervous.

Tim looked up at his dad and gave him a small smile. “I think he’s perfect.” Tim cleared his throat and kept eye contact. “Thank you so much.”

“What are you going to name him, Timothy?” Damian asked, looking thrilled with the circumstances he found himself in.

Tim thought for a minute and then smirked. “John. He looks like a John.”

Chapter 30: You Feelin' Proud?

Chapter Text

Tim cried as Jack yanked his arm, pulling him towards the wooden stairs of the basement. His back ached from the newly acquired welts, and he almost threw up when Jack pushed him forward at the bottom of the steps. “Move your ass, bastard, you brought this on yourself.”

“Yes, sir.” Tim croaked, swallowing down the hot acid that burned the back of his throat. The unfinished basement was musty and dark, like always. Jack pulled the cord to lightbulb hanging over their heads and a small wooden crate was illuminated. The cinder block walls absorbed the shadows, and Tim was eerily reminded of a catacomb, just like the ones his sixth grade teacher told them about last week. Jack dug around in the box and brought out a worn notebook and a large sharpie marker.

“You think you would learn by now, but there’s no accounting for idiot, is there? How do you expect to amount to anything if the only thing in between your ears is shit?” Jack shoved the notebook and marker into Tim’s trembling hands. “500 times by tomorrow morning, Timothy. Maybe this time it will sink in.”

Tim woke up to a racing heart and clammy skin. He breathed in and out slowly, struggling to get his bearings. He was in his hospital bed, not his basement, John softly snoring on top of his stomach. Since moving down with Dami, the days seemed to speed by, and for the most part, Tim felt like he was watching himself in a movie. He said the right things, made the right movements, ate the right foods, and followed the right directions. Honestly, he was winning at being “better” and he even had a couple of very natural, very normal, very well-adjusted conversations with Bruce.

(No, he didn’t notice when Dickie’s brow wrinkled in concern when he smiled or how Jay became super clingy whenever he said he was feeling “just fine” or how Dami berated the nurses right after Tim’s heart rate sped up for no reason at all. No, he didn’t notice that Bruce was handling him like he was made of glass or carefully avoiding any kind of emotional conversation by convincing him to play chess or watch a movie or read old cold case files with him. And he definitely didn’t notice when Alfie brought his favorite cookies and cakes and soups and sandwiches every single damn day like he couldn’t eat without conjoling, like he was some baby. He didn’t notice it at all, he was cool, he was calm, he was collected, he was just fine.)

“...join the PTA all you want, Old Man, but you’ll never get Darcy McFadden to give up her hold on the Arts committee. Maybe we should take Dami’s suggestion and let his sword do the talking?” Jay’s teasing broke through the haze of the nightmare, and Tim tried to breathe normally before anyone in the room caught on. He wasn’t sure how successful he was, since when he opened his eyes, his da–Bruce–no, his dad was looking right at him, frowning.

“Tim?”

Tim blinked, shaking off the tremors the best he could. Jason shouldered Bruce out of the way and hit the button to raise his bed.

“Hey Goob. I was just telling the Old Man here to quit being such a wuss and start using his white, male, billionaire privilege to oust Darcy McFadden from her throne on the PTA. What do you think?”

“Are you alright, son?”

“ANYWAY,” Jason glared at Bruce, “That absolute menace of a woman has been ruling things since I went to GA. Is she still causing trouble there? Damian starts high school in three years, but you know him, he’s already plotting.”

“Jason, what lies are you telling Timothy now?” Dick laughed at Damian's demanding tone as he wheeled him back into the room. They were returning from Dami’s last session with the pulmonary therapist before his discharge, which everyone had been skillfully avoiding mentioning. Jason ruffled his hair as he came closer. Damian scoffed, but was distracted by John who had just woken up and began sniffing Tim’s face without prejudice. Bruce picked the puppy up and plopped him in Dami’s lap, and like magic, the 10 year-old found himself unable to hide his delight. Tim smiled as well.

“Nothing, peanut. Just talking.” Jay winked at Tim and sat back down.

Damian nuzzled his face in John’s neck and giggled as the dog licked him on the cheek.

“How did therapy go, nugget?”

Damian pretended not to hear Bruce, and instead turned to TIm. “Did you eat your lunch today, Timothy? I will be very angry if you didn’t.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Yes, Dames.”

“Good, because everyone knows that healing works more ada–adequately with proper nutritional intake.”

Dick snorted and addressed Bruce. “She said his lungs are looking good and she suggested keeping up his breathing treatments at home for the next six weeks. His follow-up can be at their outpatient clinic. They already made the appointment.” He handed Bruce a yellow folder stuffed with papers. “We ran into the doctor in the hall and he gave us the discharge paperwork. Shelly said she’d be in for any questions you might have, but we can leave whenever.”

“Tt. That doctor is obviously a quack. I demand a second opinion, father. Dr. Thompkins is far and away the superior professional to make that assessment.”

“Thanks, Dick. Damian,” Bruce knelt down and put his hand on Damian’s knee which had been bouncing up and down quicker and quicker during the conversation. “I know it can be scary to think about leaving when some of the family is still staying, but you won’t be alone, alright? Two of us will be with you at all times. Alfred’s coming to pick you up and Jay or Dick or I can get you settled and sleep with you tonight. Whoever you want, chum.”

“I want to stay here. Why don’t you go home and I stay in your place? Timothy obviously doesn’t want you here.”

“Ok, and that’s enough of that, al'amir alsaghir.” Jason tapped Bruce on the shoulder and they switched places. “You need rest, kiddo. You understand that much, right? You can’t take care of Timmy when he comes home if you are too weak to walk.”

Tim wanted to protest that thought, but Dick shot him a silencing look over Jason’s head.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. You, me, and Alfie will get in the car and head back to the manor. We need to make sure Timbit’s room has the best pillows and blankets, you need to feed your menagerie because they keep trying to bite me, and you will stay home and rest so that when Timbo comes home after his wrist surgery, you are able to show him your cow.”

Dami huffed, but he didn’t protest. Jay leaned in to give him a hug and Tim watched as his younger brother clinged to Jason like a limpet. Jason wiped a tear off of Damian’s cheek and said something too softly for Tim to hear. He was distracted by Dick joining him on the hospital bed. He took out his pink Switch and handed Tim a blue one.

“So, Roo, I was going to invite you to my island, but for some strange reason the damn game reset and now my island has been completely replaced with a new one. It’s so weird.”

Tim and Damian very intentionally did not make eye contact, missing the mischievous look on Dick’s face.

They played back and forth, while Damian tried to teach John how to sit. Jason and Bruce packed up Dami’s blanket and other items and everyone ignored the growing tension in the room. Finally, Shelly knocked softly on the door.

“You folks need anything before shift change?” She looked down at Damian who was staring sullenly at his knees. “It was a pleasure having you with us, Damian. Remember your instructions, ok, hon. We don’t want to see you back here.”

“Whatever.”

She kneeled down to Damian’s eye level. “Damian.” She waited until he raised his head. She put her pinky out. “I promise, upon the honor of my ancestors and my ancestors’ ancestors, that I will take care of your brother very well. He will come back to you healthy and feeling better, and you will see him soon. He’s got one more surgery and then recovery for a few days. Two weeks at most, kid. I’ll guarantee it.”

Tim knew that couldn’t be guaranteed, but appreciated her attempt, especially as he watched Damian relax. Bruce spoke with her in the corner while Tim motioned for Damian to come closer.

“Hey, shortstack.”

Damian looked very seriously at him. Tim reached out to smooth the worry lines on his forehead.

“I need you to do something for me, Dami. Are you up for it?”

“I will not let you down, Timothy.”

Tim smiled. “I never doubted it. I need you to look after John. Introduce him to your cow and get him comfortable at home. I don’t want to get in trouble if he poops on Alfred’s hardwood floors.”

“I would think not, Master Tim.” Alfred walked into the room, with a stern look on his face. His mouth was quirked like he was hiding a smile. He winked when Damian turned away.

“Are you sure?” Damian’s eyes were wide as Jason picked John up off the floor and transferred him to Damian’s arms.

Tim nodded, “Very.”

With a combined effort from everyone in the room, no doubt aided by the puppy licking his face, Damian eventually left with Alfred and Jason. Dick and Bruce settled, and Tim, thoroughly exhausted, fell asleep.

Tim took the sharpie and the notebook, sitting down under the light. He opened it up with shaking hands to see the new sentence Jack had written for him since the last time he had been given this particular punishment: I am an idiot and bastard and I don’t deserve the generosity I am given. Tim sighed and buried his head in his knees. 500x would take forever, so he knew he couldn’t rest for long. After a few minutes, he got up and walked over to the back basement wall, where drywall had been installed. The area was painted white but covered in small, precise writing. He found a large blank spot between I am a stupid moron and No one loves me, and got to work painstakingly writing the new sentence.

The next two weeks flew by. He had surgery on his wrist two days after Damian left, and everyone (Leslie et al.) felt that his recovery was going better than expected, especially considering his newly acquired immune issues. Most of his time was spent sleeping and playing cards with Jay and visiting with Dickie and avoiding all of Bruce’s questions about his increasing number of nightmares. He asked after Damian, ate with Alfie, and avoided all of Bruce’s questions about his emotions. He texted Sunny and Ives and Bernard and laughed at Dami’s pictures of John and refused to search himself on the internet and avoided all of Bruce’s questions about how he was feeling.

He was fine.

“You’re being weird.”

Yeah, Jay? You’re being annoying. “I’m fine.”

Jason rolled his eyes and put down a Draw 4. Tim groaned.

“It’s ok to not be, you know.”

How many times are they going to say that? At a certain point, it just gets old. “Really? I didn’t realize that.”

Jason flicked him on the head. “Don’t be a brat. No one is expecting this to be easy for you, Goob. Just. Try to talk to us, ok?”

Jesus Fucking Christ. “I talk.”

“Mmm.”

I’m not a baby. “You know, you sound like B when you do that.”

“Shut up and play.”

I love you. “I thought you wanted me to talk.”

“Like I said—brat.”

The days marched on and finally—finally—he was discharged.

“So, it’s going to be really important for you to follow all my instructions, Tim. There’s a packet that I’ve given your dad, Dick, and Alfred. The antibiotics are taken every day for the next three years, so you cannot skip a day, kiddo. Wear a mask in crowds, no heavy lifting or exercise until that wrist heals. I want to see you going to all your physical therapy appointments, and please stick to the nutrition shakes your dietician gave you for each meal for the next few months.” Leslie talked as if Tim was a child, and he tried his best not to glare. He didn’t fool her, because she glared back.

“I’m serious. I am also recommending your father help you choose a therapist that I want to see you going to at least once a week.”

Tim scoffed, “What the hell?”

Her eyes softened and she brushed back his hair. “Honey, when have you ever known me to bullshit? We want you to be healthy and happy and live a long, long life.”

Yeah, since you did such a good job of it these last six years. Tim bit back the retort that even surprised him at its viciousness and tried to smile.

“I’ll try. Thank you.” She looked at him for an uncomfortable minute, and nodded.

“Ok. I’ll wheel you down. Your dad’s pulling the car around.”

The thirty minute ride back to Bristol was quiet, awkward, and only punctuated by the soft volume of some Classic Rock station in the background. Bruce cleared his throat a few times, but Tim put his head on the window and looked out at the large, gray clouds forming above them.

“...They’re, um, calling for another snow storm.”

No shit, Sherlock. “Mm.”

Bruce chuckled awkwardly. “I thought we’d be done with all the snow, but I guess even late February can be rough here. Um...not like you don’t know that. Obviously. You live here too.”

If I jump out of the car, how quickly would I die? “Yeah.”

The radio started to play Queen and the car fell into silence again.

They turned onto Mountain Drive and Tim blinked at the police tape blocking off the drive up to Drake Manor. Bruce sped up a bit and eventually, they turned into the gate for Wayne Manor. Tim tried to ignore the swell of complicated emotions as he saw the house for the first time in two-and-a-half years. Dickie was standing with Alfred at the front door. They waved as Bruce parked and walked around the car, helping Tim out.

“Watch your step, bud. Are you sure you don’t want me to carry you?” Bruce’s concern burned and Tim turned his head away from his dad’s intense gaze.

No, I’m not.

“I’m fine.” He smiled but Bruce looked worried, even as he nodded.

“Timmy!” Dick jumped off the stone stairs up to the front door and scooped him up despite his protests. He carried him through the door and plopped him on the oak wood floor of the foyer. A blur crashed into him, knocking him back a bit as Dick’s hand on his back kept him steady. Two small arms wrapped around him, squeezing tightly, and Tim could feel his shirt getting wet with tears.

“TIMOTHY!” Damian hiccupped. John was trailing after him, jumping up and down at Tim’s feet, barking happily.

“Dami! Hey, bud. You look so good.” Tim kept Damian at his side and reached down to pat John who was slobbering all over him. “You’re such a good boy, aren’t you? Yes, you are. Look at how big you got!”

“Tim-o-thy.”

Tim turned back to Damian and ruffled his hair. “You're such a good boy too, aren’t you? Yes, you are. Look at how big you got!”

Jason, who had just joined the group, laughed at Damian’s sputtered outrage. He hugged Tim and whispered, “It’ll be ok, Goob. Take a breath.”

Which made Tim irrationally angry at how Jason just seemed to automatically understand all his complicated emotions and how hard it might be for him walking into this house.

Streamers and a homemade banner saying “Welcome Home, Timmy” hung from the landing. It was beautifully painted—illustrations of the family including Tim and John and the rest of Damian’s pets stood out around the words. A cartoon drawing of a cow was looking through the “o” in the “home” part of the sign and to distract himself from the tears building behind his eyes, he looked down at Damian.

“Ok, shortstack, you finally got me here. Where is she?”

Damian lit up and started dragging him by the hand. Alfred, who had been hanging back, dropped a kiss on Tim’s head before he left.

“Welcome home, Dove. I’m going to finish up dinner. It’ll be ready at 6. Make sure you boys wash your hands.”

Bruce stepped towards Damian and Tim as they made their way to leave, but Alfred put his hand on his shoulder. “I need some assistance with the cake, Master Bruce. Come on.”

“Dickie and I have some things to do in the Cave, kiddos. See you at dinner?” Tim got the feeling that if he said no, both of them would drop everything and come along with him and Dami. It was a feeling that made him intensely uncomfortable for some reason.

Damian, keeping hold of his hand, pulled him out back, through the rose garden and past the tennis court and over to a small barn decorated with string lights. He opened the door and Tim stepped inside. It was pleasantly warm, filled with the smell of fresh hay. The barn was well maintained, with dark cherry wood paneling and flooring, and there was a couch and a table with a lamp across from the pen. Tim could see one of Jason’s books and Damian’s sketchbook stacked up.

Damian, almost shyly, walked over to the stall. He clicked his tongue and a head peered over the gate. She was brown and white, supremely fluffy, and obviously well loved. Damian reached into the pocket of his jeans and handed Tim three alfalfa cubes.

“Hold your palm flat.” Her tongue tickled his hand.

“What did you name her, Dames?” Tim rubbed her nose as she let out a soft moo. Damian looked proud, puffing out his chest while climbing the stool that would help him reach her mane.

“Bat Cow.”

Tim laughed. “And you’re telling me they never suspected you knew who they were?”

“I just told them I was a big fan of Batman. That’s their fault for thinking I’m so easily fooled.” Damian said imperiously. Tim poked him in the side and Dami’s bravado was replaced with a giggle. “Stopppppppp, Timothy.”

“Well, I think Bat Cow’s gorgeous, shortstack. She’s very lucky to have such an amazing owner who is obviously the superior caretaker.”

“You’re teasing.”

“Always, Dames.”

Damian and Tim sat on the couch and Damian showed Tim his sketchbook. (“This is my twentieth one since coming here. They show up in my room almost every month. I asked Pennyworth about them, but he said it wasn’t him.” Tim, remembering how Bruce used to leave memory cards for his camera under his pillow, was pretty sure he knew who it was.) Eventually, they left the couch and Bat Cow and walked through the garden again. The sky was spitting snow, and Tim put his coat over Damian, listening to his brother talking about the birds eating from the feeder.

They washed their hands and Tim followed Damian into the less formal dining room. An unwelcome wave of apprehension crashed over him, and Tim inexplicably found himself holding back from throwing up. It was fucking inconvenient, and he was sick and tired of all these yo-yoing emotions.

Stop it, idiot. Get a hold of yourself. It’s just dinner. You had dinner with them in this room for five years. Just because it’s been awhile doesn’t mean you get to be a weirdo.

“Hey.”

He sat down next to Jason who softly bumped his shoulder. Dick was texting someone and Damian was setting his cloth napkin on his lap. He could hear Bruce and Alfred in the kitchen. (“NO, Master Bruce. That’s not how we use the kitchen knives, you know better, son.” “Sorry, Alf.” )

Tim looked at Jason. “So, you actually have a cave?”

“Yeah, we’ll show you after dinner.”

“A bit too on theme, don’t you think? How far are you actually going with the bat motif? Does B sleep upside down, too?”

“After biting all his enemies.” Dick joked across the table.

Tim was calming down, barely noticing his leg which had been bouncing up and down underneath the table.

“So, I know we couldn’t talk about it in the hospital, obviously, but when did B even find time to patrol? It seemed like he was in our room constantly.”

Dick gave him a questioning look. “What do you mean, Timmy?”

“Batman? You know, that large bat-like dude who is the night? Is Uncle Clark still taking over for him before he goes back?”

The table was silent. Jason furrowed his brow. “I guess we haven’t talked too much about it, Timbo. Do. Do you remember what happened right before the hospital?” His voice was so soft, apprehensive. Tim hated it. He straightened his back.

I’m not stupid. “Yes?”

“Yeah?” Dick took over. “Remember Uncle Clark, before you got…hurt...was wearing the suit? He pretended he was shot when the police entered?”

Tim gave him a go on gesture, and hoped against all hope his hands didn’t look as shaky as they felt. “Ok. So what? Batman gets shot all the time. Is he just taking a break? He didn’t have to take such a long time. People are going to think he’s dead or something.”

“Goob.” Tim looked at Jason. He looked pitying. Tim hated that too.

“Bruce decided it would be best to stop, sweetheart.” Dick put his hand over Tim’s.

“Stop?” Tim croaked. “For a little bit? How long? I…I don’t understand.”

“There’s not going to be a Batman again, kiddo. He’s done. He wants to stay home. With you. And Dames. And us.”

“What?” Tim’s voice was strangled. He stood up from the table, unaware of his clumsy movements or the volume of his question. Damian was wide-eyed and Jason and Dick traded looks.

“Don’t do that.” Tim snapped.

“Don’t do what, Roo?” Dick used his careful voice—his always fucking careful voice—and Tim bristled.

“That. That thing where you both look at each other like I’m going to…to…break or something. I’m not a child. I’m not whoever you still fucking want me to be, ok? I’m not nine.”

Jay began to stand, hands outstretched, but that just made Tim angrier. “Stop.”

Jason did, because Jason always listened to him, but that also made Tim boil. He didn’t know what he wanted, and all he could hear, over and over again, were Dick’s words: There’s not going to be a Batman again, kiddo. He’s done.

He’s done. He’s done. He’s done.

It filled Tim’s head like static.

Which was why, when Bruce and Alfred came in right at that moment, carrying the dinner plates, Tim couldn’t even hear himself. He whirled around and glared at Bruce.

“WHAT DID YOU DO? HOW SELFISH CAN YOU BE?”

He couldn’t hear the crashing of the plates to the ground as he swung his arm out in anger. The way his voice shook as he yelled.

“Timothy.” He couldn’t hear Alfred’s soft rebuke.

He turned towards Bruce and stepped closer. Bruce stepped back in an attempt to give him space but all Tim saw was him stepping away—like always, like forever, like his whole life.

“AFTER EVERYTHING I DID FOR YOU? EVERYTHING I SACRIFICED? AND YOU’RE JUST GOING TO WALK AWAY? GIVE UP? LIKE A FUCKING COWARD?” He couldn’t hear Jay’s sharp intake of breath or Dickie’s soothing sounds in the background. He could, however, see Bruce’s flinch, and he felt a sick satisfaction. He pressed on.

What are you doing, moron?! What are you fucking doing right now?

“Of course,” Tim said poisonously, “that shouldn’t be surprising should it? You never had trouble walking away before. Abandoning responsibility seems to be what you’re best at. How quickly did you sign me away, Dad? Was it the minute after I was born? The second? Don’t know why you didn’t just leave me with Jack. He would’ve killed me eventually, and then you wouldn’t have had to pretend to worry. You could have had your perfect family without the fuck-up of some idiot, bastard, moron hanging over your head.”

“Timmy.” Jason sounded gutted, but Tim wasn’t done, because if Tim was good at anything, it was destroying everything he touched. He pointed at Bruce whose devastated face didn’t register any more than the rest of his family’s.

“I will never forgive you for this.You keep dropping the ball, don’t you? You don’t know how not to be an asshole. You are a shitty person and a shitty father and I will NEVER forgive you for this.”

The room was silent. Tim could hear Damian sniffing quietly, Dick and Jason were standing still, and Bruce.

Bruce was.

Something.

Tim couldn’t figure it out and he didn’t want to. So he walked out. Out of the room, out of the foyer, out of the manor, out of the gate.

He walked without a coat and without a scarf and without a plan. He slid on the downward slope of the hill, the snow coming down in big fluffy flakes.

He ducked under the police tape at the entrance to the drive next door and walked forward with his hands in his pockets. The door also had a sign on it, warning away trespassers and criminals. He grabbed the key hidden under the nearby garden rock. Breathing in, he opened the heavy door. The electricity and heating had been turned off, obviously, and Drake manor felt no warmer than outside. Tim shivered, and didn’t know if it was because of the weather or the growing sense of dread deep in his chest, but he pressed on. The lights were off, but Tim had grown up in this house. He could navigate it blindfolded. He did so enough with a concussion that He grabbed the pack of matches from the kitchen drawer and a large, three wick candle.

The door he was walking towards loomed larger than he remembered, even though he was just in this space a couple months ago. There was evidence of a police investigation that had been abandoned—a blood stain on the kitchen tile, several empty evidence bags as if someone had accidentally left spares when they left. He turned the knob to the basement door and ignored the quick beating of his heart as he stared down into the darkness.

Then he stepped forward.

“Are you finished now?”

“Yes sir.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard that before. Those last lines look extremely sloppy. Do you fuck-up like this in school or am I the only one who gets that privilege?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Tell that to your mother. And straighten your back when you talk to me. God, you smell. Go upstairs and take a shower and get out of my sight.”

“Can…can I…”

“Spit it out, idiot.”

“Can I grab something to eat?” Tim hissed at the stinging in his cheek as Jack slapped him.

“You know the rules, bastard.”

“Yes, sir.”

The basement was drafty and as Tim walked towards the back of the wall with his candle in front of him, his stomach lurched as he saw a yellow evidence marker in front of the large, Sharpie covered wall. The thought that strangers probably took pictures of this made him feel a level of shame that he had never felt before. The fact that his dad and brothers probably saw this was the tipping point, and Tim vomited all over the floor.

He slid down on the ground and pulled his knees to his chest, rocking slightly back and forth. A sound he didn’t know he could make escaped from his throat, and his face felt hot with embarrassment.

It may have been a few minutes or a few hours later of Tim staring blankly at the wall in front of him, illuminated by the flickering candle. Despite the weariness in his bones and the exhaustion in his head, he found himself getting up. He grabbed a drop cloth in front of the water heater and a long forgotten gas can. Soaking the cloth in gasoline, he placed it in front of the wall. Pouring a trail from the cloth to the bottom of the stairs, Tim walked up to the entrance to the kitchen. Turning around, he took out the match in his pocket, lit it, and threw it down to the bottom step. The resulting fire lit up the kitchen as well. He stood above, watching it. Taking the gas can, he emptied it in the kitchen, through the dining room, to the the bottom of the foyer stairs.

He paused for a second. The last words he screamed at Bruce echoed in his head.

You are a shitty person and a shitty father and I will NEVER forgive you for this. He laughed humorously, looking at the large mirror hanging by the entrance.

“You are a shitty person.” His reflection stared back. “I will never forgive you for this.”

Turning away, disgusted and completely unable to face himself anymore, he walked out the door.

It took four tries to get the match lit.

The fire burned hot. He briefly wondered if he should step back further, but he didn’t care much. It was a different kind of fire than the one he and Damian had been caught in underground, with Lester. The flames almost made the house look warm and cozy. Snow was still falling heavily, and Tim didn’t move, even when the smoke drifted over to where he was standing.

He touched his face and was surprised it came back wet.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

He didn’t flinch.

The hand gently guided him further away from the house, down the drive, holding him upright as his knees buckled under him.

The hand became an arm. The arm became two. And Tim felt himself hoisted up, not like he was 16, but like he was six. The arms wrapped around him and his head was guided to a shoulder. There was a deep hushing sound coming from a chest and a fast, strong heartbeat under his ear.

You’re ok, you’re ok, it’s ok, we’re ok. It beat over and over again.

Hoses sprayed and firefighters yelled and yet the heart stayed strong.

“I didn’t mean it.” Tim whispered into an ear.

“I love you.” A mouth rumbled back. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Tim wasn’t sure how long they watched the fire blaze and the wood burn and the manor fall, but the man didn’t move or falter or put him down.

His dad stayed with him until he was ready to turn around and head back home.

Chapter 31: 'Til the Summertime

Chapter Text

Bundled in a wool coat and fleece blanket, Tim was gently helped into Bruce’s idling car, the heater on full blast. He felt numb. Heavy. And even though the drive back to Wayne Manor took less than 10 minutes, he was asleep before the car parked. Someone picked him up and he stirred a bit. He felt himself being carried into the house, their steps careful and quiet. He caught a few whispers but lost hold of them. He was laid carefully on a mattress and a couple people helped change his clothes. Soft, warm sweatpants, an oversized long sleeved shirt, fluffy socks. Someone else toweled off his hair, brushing their fingers through it slowly. These were just the few impressions he got before falling right back asleep. He could have sworn he felt a tongue on his face before a small weight settled by his feet. Tim slept all night—dreamless and surrounded in warmth.

Bright light filtered through the crack between his blackout curtains and Tim woke up slowly. He was in his old room. It was still decorated the way it had been when he was 14—posters covering the walls, two thick quilted blankets that smelled like fabric softener covering him, and a Justice League themed alarm clock next to his bed that let him know it was well past 1 PM. Strangely, his arms were wrapped around a stuffed animal, and looking down he realized it was the Nessie plush he had bought for Damian back in Scotland. Despite still feeling absolutely exhausted, he couldn’t help the wave of fondness that washed over him.

Getting up was a practice in patience because the only instinct he had was the one to burrow under his covers and sleep forever. The bed was safe. The bed was nice. The bed wouldn’t be ashamed of his breakdown. The bed wouldn’t lecture him about self-control. The bed wouldn’t look at him with sad eyes. The bed wouldn’t suggest therapy or institutionalization or whatever everyone would eventually decide his broken brain needed. The bed had no expectations. The bed wasn’t complicated. The bed didn’t make him feel sad or angry or bitter or depressed or hopeful. The bed was his best friend.

Eventually, though, he moved. It was embarrassing enough to think back on the day before—Tim couldn’t imagine how much more embarrassing it would have been if one of his family members had to get him out of bed like some misbehaving child.

He showered and dressed and felt helpless against the unwanted stone sitting in his stomach. And while he could admit gleaning a strong sense of catharsis from his actions yesterday (“10 out of 10, would arson again”), he still felt incredibly off-balanced.

The hall was quiet. His brothers’ doors were open, their rooms empty, beds made, and he stuffed down the nostalgia and grief he felt in equal parts as he walked by them. Quietly, he walked down the steps, but instead of checking the family room, dining room, kitchen, rec room, theater, bowling alley, office, cave (wherever that was), or ballroom, he walked towards the back of the manor. Sliding on a pair of snow boots sitting by the door and grabbing one of the coats hanging in the mud room, he walked outside and followed the path Damian led him along yesterday. Through the rose garden, past the pool, behind the barn, and into the two acre stretch of woods on the Wayne property. The ground beneath him crunched as he stepped on it. The trees and snow muffled any other sound, and for the first time, in a long time, Tim felt himself relaxing.

His shoulders dropped from his ears, his heart beat a bit slower, his hands (in his pockets for warmth) were no longer fidgeting, and he was able to breathe without the phantom feeling of smoke in his lungs—something that honestly had been with him since the subway tunnel.

He passed the Cursing Tree—a tradition Jay introduced him to when he was ten. A thickly carved shit had been his contribution. Now, sitting below it, was a newly placed expletive in Arabic. Tim was glad the practice kept going in his absence. (But for some reason, the glad felt a lot like mad. Tim was angry it kept going? Tim actually didn’t know what he was.)

Taking a right at the tree, the snow climbed up to his ankles, soaking the bottom of his jeans. He stopped to watch a fox run by. He wished he had his camera. He realized it was probably in ashes right now. He never grabbed it before all that mess with Clark and Metropolis and the press conference. Why that didn’t make him angry but the tree did was something that escaped Tim. He felt mostly apathetic about it.

Five more minutes of walking took him to his destination. The rope ladder hung down, swaying slightly in the winter’s air. He tugged at it, just to check, but it was still strong and sturdy. He wondered if this was another tradition that Jay and Dickie also shared with his younger brother. The ladder wasn’t difficult to climb, just tall (“I swear, one of these days you boys are going to break your necks and I wouldn’t even know and then who would I serve dinner to?” “We’ll be careful, Alfie, promise.”). Once he reached the top (for she was the mightiest of trees, then chosen by a twelve year-old Jason who still missed the skyscrapers that used to tower above him in the city), he climbed inside and looked out the window Dick had cut out one summer (“Richard Grayson Wayne! We do not use chainsaws in the sky or up in trees. They stay on the ground with adult supervision.” “I’m 18, B. Don’t have a cow.” “A cow would be more well-behaved than you.” “What did you say, dad?” “I said ‘I’m glad to have a well-behaved child such as you.’” “Are you laughing, Roo? Pro-tip. Don’t laugh at the guy with a chainsaw.”) The treehouse was well insulated, something they discovered one Christmas when Bruce walked them out to show them all the caulking he did with wood filler. (“So, Jaybird, I don’t want to see you trying to bring a portable heater out here again, ok? You almost burned your brother to a crisp.” “You are so dramatic, Old Man. Goob was fine. Weren’t you fine, Goob? See, he was fine.”)

Someone added a trunk full of blankets and snacks, and Tim was surprised to see that nothing was rotten or expired. There was also a portable radio, a few walkie-talkies, a pack of water balloons, five water bottles, three Jane Austen novels, an adult coloring book with a new pack of colored pencils, five fidget spinners, and the newest edition of “Monster Hunters Across America” which Tim stared at for a good ten minutes before shutting the lid.

He backed away from the window and sat in the far corner of the treehouse, fiddling with the radio. When he found “Bats Out of Hell”, he laid down on the rug that Alfred had added when he was 13, and closed his eyes, listening as the hosts debated with Riddler the correct answer to that week’s trivia question. He drifted away—awake but not, feeling but not, conflicted but not.

“Hey bug.”

His heart jumped as Dick pushed him over and laid down next to him. He handed Tim a large bag of SourPatch Kids.

“Been a while since we’ve done this.”

Tim nodded, trying to ignore the headache building behind his eyes.

“Alfie requests that the next time you go wandering in the snow like that beast from Empire Strikes Back, to take your scarf and gloves with you.”

“Wampa.”

“What?”

“It’s a Wampa.” Tim rolled over, putting his chin in his hand, and looked at Dick. “They have fur. They don't get cold.”

“You can tell that to Alf, baby bro. I’m staying out of it.” He grabbed a yellow candy from the bag and puckered his lips when he put it in his mouth.

“I don’t know why you keep trying them. You never like them.”

“I’m an optimist.” Dick licked the sugar off his finger and attempted to put it in Tim’s ear. Tim yelped.

“Grow up, Dick.”

“Mm, overrated.” They stayed side-by-side in silence for a bit, listening to the smaller tree limbs crack under the weight of the ice.

And while they sat there, Tim thought. He thought about the tightness in his chest and the low level annoyance simmering under his skin. He thought about his family, both of them, the one he wanted and the one he didn’t, the one he got and the one he wished he had, the one who loved him and the one who tortured him, the one his messed-up, broken self deserved and the one he would never be good enough for. And he didn’t feel sorry anymore. He didn’t feel like apologizing or explaining or seeking absolution (because what absolution did a bastard deserve anyway?). He just felt cold.

And it took a second to pinpoint what that meant. (It took longer to admit it, embarrassingly long, even, since he was less than 24 hours out of setting a mansion on literal fire.)

He.

He was angry.

Still.

He still wanted to say mean things. He still wanted to hurt Bruce. And kind of Dick. And maybe even Jay. And he didn’t understand it. He now had everything he had been dreaming about since he was that 4 year-old with a broken arm. For all intents and purposes, he should be thrilled. He was safe. He was with people who would not hurt him. He was with people he loved. He was with people who loved him back. (For now. Jury was out on whether Tim would eventually ruin that.)

He was angry. And that didn’t go away after yelling and burning down literal walls and he was terrified. What if this lasted forever? What if he became The Burning Bastard, a second-tier villain who threw matches at every building that offended him? And Batman wouldn’t even be around to stop him.

The worst part was it wasn’t even a hot anger. It was glacial. An iceberg or frozen river. Silent, stalwart, and with enough pressure, deadly. He felt like he had cracked and fallen through, drowning and no one was hearing him.

“Unclench your teeth, Timmy. That looks painful.”

“Here’s a tip. Don’t look.” Tim snapped.

Dick hummed and went back to staring at the roof of the treehouse. “Jay’s got the car running. We’re kidnapping you.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Too bad.” Dick hopped up and pulled Tim to his feet. He ruffled his hair and then plopped a knit hat (Alfred-special) on his head. “I’ll give you a piggy-back?” Dick cajoled as they descended the rope ladder.

“Fine.” He deserved the back ache, honestly. Tim was practically an adult now and if his stupid brother wanted to hurt himself carrying him, it wasn’t Tim’s problem. (Tim tried not to think about how easily Dick sprinted across the grounds to the idling BMW. Tim also tried not to smile as he was gently tossed in the backseat to Jason’s whoop of celebration.)

They drove away, the manor shrinking in the background, and a stirring of something that wasn’t motion sickness in his gut.

Jason helped Tim out of Bruce’s car and Dick walked around and plopped him on his shoulders. The two brothers turned towards the head of the trail, Dickie whistling and Jay walking backwards to talk to Tim. The 10 year-old was vibrating in excitement, hiding his wince as Dick held on tightly to his recently bruised legs.

“Where are we going, Jay?”

“It’s a surprise, Timmers. Hold your horses.”

“I don’t have any horses.”

“Yeah, Little Wing, he doesn’t have any horses.”

“Shut up, Dickhead.”

They climbed up and Jason and Dick pointed out different plants and trees and birds. Finally, eventually, the trail turned larger and they turned a corner. Tim gasped.

“Where are we?”

“Crystal Canyon.”

“You’re kidding.” Tim’s voice was filled with awe. “I’ve always wanted to come here. How did you know? It’s cooler than the Grand Canyon, Jay! You know, they say that aliens made this after crash landing to earth millions of years ago. And apparently, there’ve been a lot of sightings of Bigfoot around here.”

Dick laughed. “Really, Roo?”

“YES. This is where Superman fought Elysian. There’s supposed to be a plaque around here talking about how that fight changed the topography to make it even deeper.” Jason grabbed him off of Dick’s shoulders and walked him to the edge.

Tim looked up at him, wide eyed. “We’re so high.”

Jason looked pleased. Tim tried to get closer to the edge but Dick’s grip was firm on his shirt.

“This is awesome.”

“If you think this is awesome, watch this.” Jason leaned forward and cupped his mouth. “HELLO.”

The canyon echoed back and Tim laughed. Dick tickled his side.

“Try it, Timmy.”

“WHERE ARE YOU, BIGFOOT?”

“Yeah, you tell him, Goob.”

They stayed for over two hours.

“Well, was it a good day? Was it high enough for you, Mr. Daredevil?”

“The BEST. The only thing better would be going to The Watchtower. I saw a 60 Minutes about that once. You can see the EARTH from there. But this was acceptable, too.”

Dick and Jason swung him between their arms, teasing him the whole way back to the car. On the way home, they stopped at a gas station and bought out their stock of Hot Cheetos, Zestis, and Sour Patch Kids.

It was one of the best days of Tim’s life.

This was one of the worst days of Tim’s life.

Jason whistled happily.

“Keep up, Timbo. You’re recovering from wrist surgery, not leg surgery.”

“Asshole.”

“You got the spirit, bud.” Dick flicked Jason on the back of the head, but laughed.

Tim huffed and walked ahead of both of them, overtaking Jason and dodging the arm he tried to throw around him.

He blocked out the whispering of his dumb older brothers behind him and hiked up the once-familiar trail, crunching the snow with his boots hard and angry. Why they brought him here, he didn’t know. Why he was angry, he didn’t know. Why he couldn’t just be good and not a stupid, idiot brat, he didn’t know.

The trail fanned out and Tim walked over to the observation point, looking down into the icy, sparkling canyon. Unfortunately, it was still beautiful, and it still took his breath away, and Jason and Dick still knew what his fucked-up head needed.

He closed his eyes and breathed, the quiet settling around him. He felt Jason at his right side. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Dick walk back and forth on the ledge on his hands.

“Sometimes, after you were gone, Dickie and I would come out here and just scream for, like, hours until our voices were hoarse. I think we scared away half the wildlife for good. Someone wrote a blog post about possible werewolves in this area.”

“You’re not serious.”

“As a heart attack. It was a whole thing. Got picked up by the Gotham Gazette even.”

Tim huffed in annoyance, but his mouth twitched slightly.

“You could try it, you know? It helped. A little.”

“Are you seriously trying to Garden State me?” Tim deadpanned. Jason shrugged.

“Nurse Heather said you preferred your life lessons in multimedia.”

Tim tried to share a commiserating look with Dick, but his eldest brother was singing Such Great Heights under his breath and ignoring him, which, in the past, would have made him laugh, but he was getting pretty tired of being managed.

“Say it. Scream it. Goob, it’s like draining a pus-filled wound, ok? If the pus were those evil fuckers and the wound was caused by your real family’s negligence.”

“It’s not your—“

“Fault?” Jason finally turned to face Tim. His eyes were serious. Sad. “I wish that were the case.” He reached out and tugged the knit hat further down over Tim’s ears. “I’m looking back at everything, turning it all around and around in my head, and…” A sigh so deep escaped Jason, that it seemed to echo across the canyon. Dick hopped upright and bracketed Tim on the other side, essentially making him the center of some kind of overbearing brother sandwich.

Jay continued, “I think you need to say some things. To me. To Dickie.To Alfie. Especially The Old Man. I think if you don’t say those things they are just going to build and build and build and we.” Jason uncharacteristically paused, a look of devastation crossing his face. “We will lose you. Permanently. And honestly, Tim? I’m tired of losing you. I can’t. It’s unacceptable. I won’t let it happen ever again.”

Dick wrapped his arm around Tim, and grabbed Jason’s shoulder, squeezing it tight. Taking over, he looked Tim in the eyes, his own piercing and filled with emotion.

“We love you for who you are, bug. Not who you were at nine or eleven or fourteen. We loved you then too, obviously, but this you, the one standing here with us, even though everything you’ve been through is screaming at you to walk away—we love who you are now. Your strength. Your capacity for kindness. That you keep moving even though you don’t want to. How amazing of a big brother you are to Dami. How amazing of a little brother you are to us.” Dick rubbed his back and Tim leaned into it, just a little. “We aren’t sad because we feel sorry for you, we aren’t pitying you or trying to manipulate or condescend to you. We are in awe of you. And we are grieving that we weren’t there for you when you desperately needed us to be. We’re angry, bud. We’re terrified. None of that is on you. But don’t for one second think that means we will give you the space to disappear. Hate us, be mad at us, never forgive us, but we will always come for you. You are ours. You always have been and always will be.”

Tim looked over the canyon, stupid tears pricking his stupid eyes again.

“…I don’t hate you.”

Jason nodded. “But you are mad at us.”

Tim laughed humorously. “I don’t even know why. I never told you the truth. I didn’t want you to know. I hid it even though you asked if I was ok so many times. I lied every time. I shouldn’t be mad at you. I should be fucking grateful.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Tim’s eyes were wide as Jason took his head in between both hands and shook it gently. “That. Is. Bull. Shit. Don’t be grateful that we showed up too fucking late. That we didn’t push in the way we needed to. We are here now, but just because you’re safe now doesn’t discount the times you weren’t safe then.”

Tim looked down, unable to unpack any of that, and Jason took his hands away, giving him space. Tim sniffed. “Why are you letting him give up Batman?”

“That’s not our call, Roo.”

“Because he fucking should.”

“Jay.”

“No, Dickie, he fucking should. Hell, Tim, do you know how much sooner we could have had you without Batman clouding his fucking judgment?”

“Batman’s the only reason I’m alive, Jason.” Tim snapped.

Dick looked like he wanted to reach out and touch him but Tim jerked away. Jason was silent but his face was red and looked like he had a million things to say to that. A woodpecker drummed in the distance.

Tim sighed. “Look, just forget it, ok. It’s fine.”

They stood in an awkward silence. Jason huffed under his breath, “This is ridiculous.” He pulled Tim into a hug. When he finished (after what felt like a very long, but also a-not-long-enough time), Dick took his place. “We love you, Timmy.” He whispered, dropping a kiss into his hair.

“Yeah. Me too.” Tim’s cheeks pinked.

The three turned outward and faced the canyon.

Jason smiled. “HEY BIG FOOT!”

Tim groaned.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” Dick joined in.

“Shut up.” Tim punched him on the arm. Dick grabbed it and dramatically sank to the ground. “My arm! My poor arm! Avenge me, Jaybird. Tell my story.”

Jason’s smile turned mischievous as he raised his voice into a falsetto. “Oh noooo, Dickie! Whatever will we do? The great monster hunter, Timothy Wayne Jr. Esquire The Third, is annoyed with us.” He poked Tim in the side and Tim screeched.

“Jaaaaaaason.”

“It wasn’t me, Timmy. I think it was a ghost.”

The three of them tumbled in the snow and after a few minutes, laid on the ground, looking at the gray clouds above. Tim made snow angels with his arms while Dick and Jason caught their breath.

“We have another surprise for you, Goob.”

They hoisted him up and walked down the trail back to the car. Both Dick and Jason threw on their uniforms which were in the back of the trunk and refused to tell Tim where they were going despite his constant questions.

They stopped at a nondescript building on the outskirts of Gotham. Nightwing opened the door and the Red Hood ushered him through the back after inputting a complicated code and providing his fingerprint.

“You’re joking.”

“I wouldn’t. Not about this, Timmers.”

And as he stepped out of the Zeta tube onto the Watchtower, Tim couldn’t help but think how fucking good it felt to be seen so fully and completely.

Chapter 32: Forgive My Northern Attitude

Chapter Text

“Jay.”

“I know, Goob.”

“Jay.”

Jason put his hand on Tim’s back and pushed lightly, moving him from the platform they just wooshed onto (like Star Trek, like Star Wars, like some kind of magic, Tim was geeking, he was gagged, he was in awe) to the large, welcoming space in front of them. Dick flipped off behind them, a performance worthy of any circus act, and ruffled Tim’s hair when he landed next to him.

“Weclome, Nightwing. Welcome, Red Hood. Welcome, Guest.” A beam of green light flashed in front of each person, as if being scanned. The mechanical voice was familiar.

“Wait. I think I know that voice!”

Dick smirked. “Martian Manhunter caught a weird virus on one of the JL’s missions a few years ago. He was confined to his room for a week and Flash and Green Lantern hacked his television so all he could watch were late 90s made-for-tv Disney movies. He came out obsessed with Smart House and bribed Cyborg into changing the voice for the Watchtower’s AI to that overbearing, robot mom character’s voice. So this is PAT. B wanted to rename her BAT, but everyone made fun of him for that. Which was the correct thing to do. Say “hello” PAT.”

“Hello, PAT. ”

“We’re still working out the kinks.”

Tim wasn’t listening as much as vibrating in place. Jason bumped his shoulder. “Here’s your badge, Timbo, keep it on. Dickie and I are masked, obviously—most everyone knows us here, but we do get visitors time-to-time, so it’s probably best we stick to our aliases. Sounds good?”

Tim, who was examining the holo-map in front of him, nodded absently. It moved and zoomed according to his fingers and he was currently trying to figure out how a space station could not only host an aquatic level for Aquaman to train, a hydroponic level for growing plants, and a zero gravity chamber to practice space maneuvers, but still have room for three large gyms, two cafeterias, a state-of-the-art medical floor, and, apparently, an arcade, several hallways of dorm rooms, and a large Observation Deck that looked, according to the map, like a lounge complete with a bar, dance floor, and several fluffy couches facing floor to ceiling windows looking out towards space.

“Where to first?”

“The observation deck.” Tim said decisively. He wondered if this was how Damian felt about the cows in Scotland.

Jason snorted. “Figures, you nerd.”

The three brothers made their way slowly through the Watchtower, at times forcibly dragging Tim along as he stopped to watch staff and crew work. They passed several junior League members and Tim looked into a set of classrooms where different groups were meeting. Signs advertising workshops on “Inter-Dimensional Cultural Relations” and “Conflict Resolution with Metahumans and Magic Users” littered bulletin boards.

“Nightwing!” A voice shouted behind them.

Dick stopped and turned. Jason maneuvered Tim behind him which just made Tim huff in frustration, because honestly?! This was a hero’s base, Jason. Not a threat. (He ignored the warm feeling pooling in his gut, because while this really was an epic way to address Tim’s childish moping, he still chafed at their overprotectiveness.)

“Green Arrow. What’s up?”

The man scanned over the group, eyes widening at Tim. He focused back on Dick. “I know you both said you were on light duty for a while, but we are in the middle of a diplomatic crisis of the intergalactic type and PAT said you and Hood were here and we’re drowning because the Green “Don’t Worry Your Pretty Little Face Ol, I Know How to Do It” Lantern decided to offer the Changralynians a spot on the newly formed space council and the Khunds thought he was playing favorites.” That was said in the same breath. Visibly trying to calm himself down, he met Tim’s eyes. Softening his voice, in a way that felt entirely incongruous with either of the man’s personas, he greeted him. “Hello. I’m sorry for interrupting. Are you…” He cleared his throat awkwardly, “Are you on a tour, young man? How are they treating you?”

(Oliver Queen sent a bouquet of lilies to Tim’s hospital room as soon as he was moved to a level that allowed outside gifts. The note that accompanied them was short, but thoughtful, and Tim, who had often been privy to the fraught meetings between Drake Industries and Queen Industries, had secretly been grateful for the bombastic man who once threw Jack out of his office before sneaking three lollipops into an 8-year-old Tim’s jacket pocket. When Tim was fifteen, a year into his estrangement from his family, he ran into Ollie in front of the library in Old Gotham. The man didn’t ask about Bruce or Jack or anything. He just asked if Tim wanted to join him for coffee as they talked about the latest Dr. Who special.)

Those two things alone were enough to incline Tim to pretend he didn’t know the man’s identity. Those two things alone weren’t enough to keep Tim from trolling him.

He summoned his best attempt at puppy eyes and blinked owlishly at Oliver. “Please help me, sir. They kidnapped me and are going to lock me up in a containment cell and ship me off to another planet. Please!”

Jason smacked the back of his head while Tim snickered. Oliver’s smile was uncertain. “That was a joke, right?”

Dick rolled his eyes. “Sure, Arrow. Sorry, Timmy, I need to help with this. Hood’ll bring you up to Obs. and I’ll try to get away soon. If anything, we need to all be back at 8. Alfie’s doing a late dinner, since he took Dami to The Lion King matinee on Broadway.”

(Which Tim realized must have been the reason that Damian didn’t find some way to sneak onto The Watchtower and join them.)

He watched Dick pull Oliver away and followed Jason to the elevator and then onto the Observation Deck.

“Oh. My. God.”

The view was incredible. Low lighting cast the large space in cool blues and purples. There were lamps set up for reading, and quiet conversation at the bar as staff and visitors sipped their drinks. Some looked up as Jason and Tim entered, but they resumed what they were doing pretty quickly.

It wasn’t the room that caught Tim’s attention, though.

Stepping closer, as if in a trance, Tim walked until his nose was practically pressed against the window. Spreading out, taking up almost the whole view, was the top half of the earth. The atmosphere glowed, and the deep bright blue ocean contrasted with the snow white, fluffy clouds above it. Tim stared, and embarrassingly, felt his eyes get wet.

Jason cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “Something else, isn’t it? When. After the, um, Jo..ker, when I came home, The Old Man and Dickie brought me here. It helped. A bit. Puts things. Put things in perspective, you know.”

“...Yeah.” Tim knew he sounded awed, but he wasn’t embarrassed. He knew who he was. He was ok with it. Jason left Tim staring for a moment, walked over to the bar, and returned with two glasses of Zesti. “Here’s to new beginnings, right, Goob? Cheers.”

“Cheers.” The bubbles tickled his throat and for the first time in what felt like forever, Tim felt settled.

“...And I know you are out of the game, Batman, but even just consulting would be helpful. I don’t know why you’re being such a hardass about this.” The raised voice was heard before anyone even entered the room, and everyone had gone silent as the doors opened.

“You are treading on thin ice, Lantern.” Bruce’s growl sent shivers down Tim’s spine.

Green Lantern was following Bruce, who was dressed in khakis and a cable knit sweater. He had a tablet in his hand and was typing on it, unaware of his audience.

“I’m just saying. It’s just stupid to retire without any kind of transition plan. I know you have a lot going on at home, but aren’t you the one who is always preaching about being able to juggle responsibilities?”

“I swear, Jordan, you are tired, overwrought, and coming off of three back-to-back missions. I refuse to talk to you about this right now. I’m only here because Diana asked me to help transition my files to the mainframe ASAP since they are flying out in a few hours.”

“Really, Bruce, I just can’t believe you would…”

“Back off, dipshit. He said stop.” Jason stepped in front of Green Lantern, pushing him lightly on the chest. The man’s hand began to glow, but after a few seconds, he huffed in frustration, and turned around.

“I’m going to bed. I can’t handle two pissy bats today.”

There was a short silence as he turned around and left. Conversations in the room picked up again, and Bruce looked at Jason, surprised. “...Thank you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, Hood. I swear it was going to be in and out, but it took longer than I thought.” He glanced at Tim who was avoiding his eyes. “I don’t want to intrude.”

Jason scoffed. “What part of ‘give us space’ did you not understand?”

Bruce nodded but didn’t make any move to leave. Tim wandered over to the bar to give them his empty cup. He grabbed a napkin and started twisting it absently to have something to do with his hands.

There was some silent back-and-forth between son and father as Jason and Bruce stared at each other behind him. Pieces of shredded napkin were separated into small, equidistant piles, as Tim tried to ignore the increased somersaults in his stomach.

“Can we have the room?” Bruce’s low-pitched request saw the bartender and server out of the space, as well as the few people still spread out on the couches. Jason shrugged, unmoving.

“Jaybird. Please?”

Jason ignored him and walked over to Tim, who could feel his throat trying to close up. “Say the word, Goob. We’ll dip and grab Dames and Dickie and go to Hawaii for a bit.”

“It’s fine, Jay.”

“Tim.”

“It’s fine. Really. I…I’m fine. I…have things to say, right? So I don’t go off the deep end or something.”

Jason hugged him roughly and whispered in his ear. “That was not what I was saying, kiddo. You know that wasn’t what I was saying, right?”

Tim pulled back and smiled slyly. “It’ll probably take a few more trips here for me to really understand what you were saying.”

Jason laughed. “Ah. I see how it is. Ok, hermanito. Make him really work for it, alright?” He dropped a kiss in his hair. Voice low, he looked at Tim seriously. “I give him a hard time, but he really is trying. It’s ok if it’s not enough, though. We go at your pace. Your safety. Text me. I’ll kick his ass back to earth without a helmet if you need me to.” He said the last part louder, and Tim watched as Bruce’s ears turned a light red. He looked shame-faced.

Jason said something softly to Bruce on the way out. He watched as Bruce clasped him around the neck and put their foreheads together, whispering something just as serious as Jason. Jason paused, nodded, and they separated. Jason pointed at his phone and mouthed Text me, before closing the doors.

It was silent. Tim huffed, and then walked towards the window again. He scooted the closest couch over and sat on the floor, leaning his back against it.

Eventually, Bruce sat next to him, copying his position. Tim kept staring out the window, watching the glow of the earth reflect back on them.

They sat for a long time, neither of them speaking.

Tim put his forehead against the cool glass.

“Am I going to jail?”

Bruce coughed, startled. “Wh…What?”

“For the fire?” Tim’s voice was blunt, emotionless.

“No. No, sweetheart. Of course not. Gordon barely even investigated. He said it must have been a freak lightning storm.”

Tim looked over at him incredulously. “It was snowing.”

“There’s lightning in snowstorms. Thundersnow.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I hid a cat in my room when I was ten. I named it Thundersnow.”

Tim had a ghost of a smile. “I’m sure Alfie appreciated that.”

Bruce shrugged. “He may not have been so happy when Snowy peed in his slippers.”

“I’ll bet.”

They dipped into silence again. An alarm sounded somewhere, muffled in the background.

“Do you need to check that out or something?”

Bruce shook his head. “They’ve got people who do that stuff. I’m not on the roster anymore.”

“Right.” Tim sounded bitter. “Because apparently saving the world is called “stuff” now.”

Bruce side-eyed him for a moment and then turned back to the view. “You’re my world, Tim. You. Damian. Dick. Jason. And nothing—nothing—will get in the way of that again. And I will spend the rest of my life trying to prove that to you.”

“What if that’s not what I want?” Tim stood up and began pacing, heart beating fast and face feeling hot. “I didn’t ask for you to give up Batman. I don’t need you to do that. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why?” Tim stopped at Bruce’s question.

“Why?!” Tim scoffed. “Gotham needs Batman. The world needs Batman.”

“I’m not interested in what the world needs, son. They aren’t my concern. As long as you are safe, I’m doing what I need to do.”

“What a load of bullshit.” Tim stopped pacing and glared down at his dad. “You think you are doing, what? Something so brave or loving? Like this will just erase everything that happened?” He could feel himself winding up. “I haven’t been safe for sixteen years. And now that the “danger” is gone, you think you can swoop in like some avenging angel and just…pretend none of it happened?”

Bruce leaned back on his elbows, staring out the window. “I think…if I just acted like nothing happened, I’d be just as dangerous to you as the people who hurt you.”

“No. You don’t get to say that. Quit playing the martyr and acting all…all…all,” Tim struggled to find the word he was looking for, “repentant and everything.”

“Ok, kiddo.”

“NO. You don’t get to say that either. It’s not ok. It’s never been ok. Why? Why?! Maybe you should be the one to answer that, huh? Why? Why did you give Batman up? Why?”

Why did you give me up? went unsaid.

Bruce seemed to hear it anyway.

He stood up and went to sit on top of the bar. He leaned forward, body language open, and face concerned. Tim stared at the floor, making designs with his shoe.

“First, and let’s get this straight here and now, fifteen years ago, I did something unforgivable, son. I was scared and selfish and delusional. I was grieving and convinced I would ruin you. And finally, when Dickie started to adjust and then I met Jay, I thought I was too late. That I missed my chance. I didn’t want to come in and ruin for you what I thought was a stable life. Then I met you. And I knew. I knew that it was the worst mistake of my life—no, the worst decision of my life—to give you up.” He cleared his throat. “I can’t ask you to forgive me, Tim. You shouldn’t forgive me. But nothing will ever stop me from loving you. From wanting the world for you.”

Tim shook his head, but Bruce continued.

“After my mother and father died, I…I made a vow to put the City over myself. The City over my name. It was something your grandfather said all the time, Timmy, ‘Gotham over Wayne,’ and I thought. I thought that’s what I needed to do. To honor their memory. But it wasn’t heroic or altruistic. It was a misguided, misplaced mission, based on my guilt for not saving my parents. Based on trying to be something that would make my father proud. I created Batman out of trauma and used him, over and over again, to unknowingly traumatize my own children.” He breathed heavily here, and his voice cracked. “You need to understand this, Timmy. Gotham never needed Batman. I did. I thought I did. And since donning that cowl, I have been repeating a cycle I never wanted to repeat. That I never wanted my boys to repeat.”

Tim’s eyebrows went up. “What are you saying? I don’t understand.”

“Ducky, I could tell you over and over again how much I love you, how amazing and worthy and precious you are to us, and I will tell you those things every minute of every day, but I don’t think that’s the truth you need to hear right now.” His eyes were teary. “I don’t even know if you’d believe it right now.”

Bruce picked at his fingernails and avoided Tim’s eyes. “You sacrificed everything for Batman. You put yourself in danger for my mission. Over and over again, and Tim, sweetheart, I am so, so proud of you, awed by you, every day, but that wasn’t something you should have ever had to do. Just like I never should have let Dick or Jason follow in my footsteps. And I am so worried that you will keep sacrificing yourselves for me when that’s my job. That’s my job, Tim.”

Bruce hopped off the bar and slowly walked over towards Tim. He gently took Tim’s face in his hands. Tim could feel rough calluses swipe at the tears that started to fall.

“You are so important to me.”

Tim laughed humorously. “…I was nine and believed that there was something deeply wrong with me because you knew I was yours and you still didn’t want me. You had kids, but gave me up, and I just knew it was because I was messed up. I wasn’t the kind of kid you’d want.”

Bruce kept his hands on Tim’s face, watching him with a serious, yet devastated look in his eyes. Tim continued.

“You are supposed to be a detective. A hero. You were supposed to save me. I wished every night, every time I was in that fucking basement, every time Jack hurt me or mother yelled at me, I thought, “Maybe today my dad will come and take me away.”

“I know. I know .” Bruce sounded broken. “There’s not a second that goes by that I don’t regret that, that I don’t get on my knees and wish I could turn back time and just hold you as a baby and never let go. Chum, you were perfect. You are perfect. From the moment you were born to right this very minute, no matter who you were, who you are, or who you choose to become, you are better than I ever will be.”

Tim scoffed, but it sounded wet. He pulled away from Bruce’s hands and walked back towards the window. He watched Bruce warily in the reflection of the glass.

“You came to us at nine, and I’ve been playing catch up ever since. I should have scooped you up and taken Jay and Dickie and run far away the minute I found you on that roof the first time.”

Tim sniffed and rolled his eyes. “I like high places.”

“No.” Bruce was louder than he had been the whole conversation. “ No, son. You don’t need to lie to me. Not about this. That’s not what that was. What that is.” He gently turned Tim back towards him and made purposeful, intense eye contact. “I spent too many of my own nights on rooftops to accept that. Hell, what do you think I spent most of my early years as Batman hoping would happen?”

Tim sucked in a breath, rocked by the implication.

“I took my grief and I created a new personality that made self-harm acceptable. That made suicidal ideation easy to hide. And it took me a fucking long time to realize that, longer than it should have. And along the way, I hurt my children over and over again, busy blaming myself, hating myself, because I couldn’t save my parents. Just like my father unknowingly hurt me, again and again, blaming himself for not being able to save Gotham. That is not what I want for my family anymore. That’s not what I want for you.”

“You make it sound like Batman’s evil or something. Like you didn’t do anything good. Batman was the whole reason for my existence. Without Batman it was all for nothing. Why don’t you understand that? You can’t kill Batman just because you…you now think being…being a dad is more important.”

“Your worth is not tied to what you can do for Batman, son. The evil monsters who harmed my child, my baby, tried to convince you you are worthless. You aren’t. You aren’t , Tim. It’s Batman that’s worthless. Without you, he means nothing. And I can kill him and walk away because I have you now. I have you and you taught me that I don’t have to be defined by my trauma. Thank you for protecting Batman, Tim. But you can let him go now. I would rather he die a million times and have you alive, have Dickie and Jay and Dami alive, than some symbol that feeds the lie that you are less important than him.”

At this declaration, both Bruce and Tim were breathing heavily, the room thick with emotion and tension and grief. Tim wasn’t convinced he deserved everything his dad was saying, but also couldn’t get his words out of his mind. And it really wasn’t the revelation that Bruce struggled with suicidal thoughts like him or seemed just as messed up as him or just as self-hating as him, but more the feeling that his dad understood at the deepest level exactly how Tim was feeling. And thinking further, he was still angry, still confused, but also overwhelmed by the feeling of unconditional love that Bruce was projecting, that, looking back, had been projecting since Tim watched him trip into that swimming pool all those years ago. It didn’t seem fake.

He was clumsy and made mistakes, but so was Tim and so did Tim, and Tim was so, so tired of weighing whether or not he was better off dead or alive. He was so, so tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop, so, so tired of chasing monsters to escape the ones in his head, of running away from the people who showed up, who loved him, who were gentle and kind and so soft with him.

Jack said that Bruce gave Tim up because Tim was a fucking loser, shithead who was unlovable, but Bruce said he gave Tim up because it was Bruce who was the flawed, selfish person. Jack was untrustworthy. Bruce was broken. And Tim would much rather live with broken people aware of and working on their selfishness than untrustworthy people who do the breaking out of their arrogance. Out of their ugly, evil, abusive douchebaggedness, the Jason in his head snarled.

“I’m proud of you.” Bruce interrupted Tim’s musings.

I love you, Tim thought.

“I burned down a house,” Tim said dryly.

Bruce shrugged. “I killed Batman.”

As if that was the same thing.

Maybe it is, the Alfred in Tim’s head chided.

It wasn’t until that moment that Tim realized how alike they really were. And, surprisingly, that didn’t make him angry or uncomfortable or confused but extremely, extremely warm.

Tim’s mouth quirked up and Bruce looked at him fondly. Then he slowly moved closer and wrapped his arm around Tim. It was heavy and comforting and…safe. Tim relaxed into the hold, sighing out deeply.

They watched Earth for a long time, in companionable silence. Eventually, Bruce said quietly, “I want you to feel comfortable at home, bud. Is there something I can do to help?”

Tim shook his head and buried deeper. He coughed a little, courage getting stuck in his throat. “Um. Leslie. Said that I might need to see…um. Someone?”

Bruce nodded. “We’ve got an approved list. Whoever…um…whoever you feel comfortable with…Dinah. Um, we do family therapy with her every month. If. If you would also like to join. In addition to your. Your own. I know Jay and Dickie would be happy to have someone else to hold me accountable.” He was sheepish.

“I’ve been covering your ass this long. I guess I should probably keep it up, huh?” Tim looked sideways at Bruce who let out a startled laugh.

“Ok. Ok, kiddo. Fair.” He squeezed Tim’s shoulder and looked down at his phone. “Ready to head back? Jason is apparently going to string me up and use me for target practice if I don’t get you back in time for Alf’s carbonara.”

Tim nodded. “Yeah. I’m…I’m ready to go home. Thanks..um…thanks, Dad.”

It wasn’t forgiveness yet.

But it was close.

They walked through the automatic doors into the gleaming silver halls. Medical and engineering staff were walking around, and Tim was pretty sure he saw Martian Manhunter talking to Wonder Woman in one of the briefing rooms they passed. On their way back to the Zeta tube, Tim and Bruce were debating who would be the best in a diplomatic space mission: Spock or Clark, when a figure rushed past them. He bumped into Tim, who tripped and almost fell.

“Whoa, mate, there you go.”

Tim’s eyes widened with glee. “JOHN. I KNEW IT. Totally an alien.”

“Do you two know each other?” Bruce’s voice dipped into a lower register, proving that Batman may be dead, but his spirit was eternal. Tim rolled his eyes.

“B, don’t embarrass me.” He muttered.

“Fucking hell, where did you come from, sprog?”

“What is going on here?”

“Superman, did you let Constantine in here?”

“Sorry, B. It was an emergency.”

“I named my dog after you.”

“What the bloody…?”

“WHAT? Tim.”

“Hold on. I’m lost. Timmy, do you…know each other?”

“Keep up, Uncle Clark. John! Did you fly here? Did you spawn here? You never answered any of my questions and I couldn’t find you online at all.”

“Tim.”

“Calm down, Dad.”

“Oh, Timmy!”

“Are you crying, Superman?”

“It’s just so sweet, B. He’s calling you dad.”

“Wait, Bats, is this your child?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Goob, what’s taking you both so long? I came to get you!"

“You bloody wanker!”

“B!”

“Oh my god, this is the greatest day of my life.”

“Hood, he punched your dad.”

“C’mon Supes, you can’t say that wasn’t a beautiful sight to witness.”

“Hnnnnn.”

“He’s a Newfie. Want to come see him?”

“...Sure, kid.”

Chapter 33: Alexa, Play "You're Gonna Go Far" by Noah Kahan

Chapter Text

So, pack up your car, put a hand on your heart

Say whatever you feel, be wherever you are

We ain't angry at you, love

You're the greatest thing we've lost

The birds will still sing, your folks will still fight

The boards will still creak, the leaves will still die

We ain't angry at you, love

We'll be waitin' for you, love

And we'll all be here forever

–Noah Kahan

Damian Wayne (nothing-but-a-Wayne, happily a Wayne) was a prince (he was a squirt, a sweetheart, a scoot, a love, a shortstack) and he was dignified, he was still waters, he was currently being thrown into a pool while his arms and legs windmilled wildly like a baby giraffe.

“CEASE THIS…ssp.”

The laughing from above him was muted but Damian Wayne was, at his core, a brother, so when he crested the water he came out swinging, grabbing the ankles in front of him and pulling his attacker in after him.

Jason sputtered and lunged to dunk him under, but screamed as another body threw himself on Jason’s back. Damian swam towards Richard as he watched Timothy and Jason wrestle each other in the deep end.

“So, Baby Bat, have you figured out what we’re doing for your birthday?” Damian was now riding on Richard’s back, like the koala he saw at the zoo last week, as his eldest brother lazily swam the perimeter of the shallow end.

“Timothy said it was a surprise.” Damian felt himself flushing and ducked his head. Jason currently had Timothy on his shoulders and inexplicably, Timothy was making chicken sounds at their father who was standing far enough back from the edge of the pool so as not to be splashed. Damian thought it was an exercise in futility, from past experience being surrounded by the barbarians that called themselves family, but he wasn’t going to say anything.

Richard also bawked loudly and Damian yelped. “Richard! What the hell—”

A chorus of “language!” sounded around him, and Richard gasped loudly.

“Dami! For shame!” He said dramatically.

Timothy swam over and plucked Damian off of Richard’s back. Jason tried to replace Damian, but sent Richard flailing and Timothy swam them both out of the way as the two men tried to drown each other. Damian knew they weren’t being serious, but it didn’t help the initial hitch of anxiety caught in his throat as he watched. Timothy purposely ignored whatever Damian’s face had been doing before he could get it under control and pulled him to the other end of the pool. He then lifted himself out and pulled Damian up, throwing a towel around his shoulders. Guiding him to a lounge chair, Timothy wrapped him up like some sort of burrito, and scooted him over, lying down next to him.

The sun was pleasant and warm on Damian’s face and reminded him of the very few good memories he had of 'Eth Alth'eban. He closed his eyes and let the sounds of splashing and fighting fade to the background.

“B said that you asked to be homeschooled this next year.” Timothy murmured beside him. Damian shrugged, keeping his eyes closed and practicing his breathing.

“GA isn’t horrible,” Timothy lied like the liar he was. Damian snorted, copying a sound he heard Jason make whenever he was arguing with their father.

“You don’t go there.” Damian tried not to sound sullen, not to sound like a child, but he was afraid Timothy could hear the whine in it anyway.

“...No.” Timothy stretched out the word, “I don’t. But my example isn’t the best, shortstack. I graduated early. I had a plan.”

Damian turned towards his brother, who had a beach towel over his eyes. “But now you…you don’t…have the same plan?”

Tim smiled wryly. “Well, I can’t work for DI anymore, can I?” Damian furrowed his brow.

“No, but, Jason said…”

Tim turned towards him. “Jason said what, kiddo?”

“I heard Jason say he was taking you to college.”

“Oh, Dami.” Tim sat up and pulled his knees to his chest. His eyes were impossibly soft. “It’s just a road trip.”

“Of places you’ll go to get away from us.” The again was unsaid.

“Of places Jay just wants to show me.”

Damian felt something hot and angry coil inside him, and for the first time since he arrived at his father’s, he felt nothing but contempt for Jason Wayne.

“It’s not fair.” Timothy had only been with them, whole, healthy, alive, unharmed, for a few months. Less than six. He wasn’t supposed to just…leave…no matter what life goals Jason and Richard and his father were bound and determined to push him towards.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Damian burned in embarrassment at his outburst, but because he would do whatever Timothy asked as soon as Timothy asked it, he carefully maintained eye contact.

“Damian Wayne. I am not leaving you. Even if—and that’s a very BIG if—I decide to go to school, I will be back here for breaks. But I’m not planning on rushing anything. Remember how Alfie made you cookies last week after Titus had to go to the emergency vet? It’s like that. This road trip is Jay’s way of making cookies when he feels out of control. He can’t fix,” Timothy paused for a second, “...me…so this is what works for him.”

Damian was outraged on his brother’s behalf. “As if there’s anything wrong with you. Seriously, Timothy. Don’t be daft.”

Timothy snorted. “Daft? Daft?” He flicked Damian softly on the forehead. “Ok, Mr. Darcy.”

“Mr. Darcy?” A shadow blocked the sun and Damian squealed as water droplets rained down on them both. “How dare you talk about him without me!” Jason pulled over the other lawn chair and propped his feet on Damian’s side. Damian huffed and turned his back towards him, facing Timothy again, who gave him a knowing look.

To Damian’s consternation, Richard also joined the group, shaking his hair like Titus after a rainstorm directly onto Timothy’s head, who let out a matching squeal.

“What’s cracka-lacking, my broody bros?”

Both Timothy and Jason booed Richard for being weird but Damian still felt unsettled. He curled into himself and let the teasing wash over him.

“Dami.”

Richard’s concern cut through the group, quieting them. Damian shrugged off the hand on his shoulder. Timothy let out a small puff of breath and sat up, dragging Damian between his legs, like Damian was five and not a week out from eleven. He squeezed him twice and then put his chin on his head. Damian could hear the reverberation of Timothy’s voice against his back and the beating of his heart, and he felt himself calm down. Just a bit.

“This meeting of the Brotherhood is officially in session. First order of business is how I still think the name is shit.”

Jason let out an offended gasp. When he tried to interject, Timothy held up a finger.

“Nuh-uh. I have the floor seeing I have the baby.” He shook Damian gently. Damian didn’t protest like usual. He could feel the rest of them exchange concerned looks.

“Second order of business is something I like to call…communication.” Richard mouthed the word exaggeratedly after Timothy, like he had never heard the word before. Damian tried not to smile but it took effort. Richard winked at him.

“Jay. Tell Damian you aren’t kicking me out.”

“What the fu—? Peanut.” Jason sounded pained.

“I didn’t say that, Timothy.” Damian sounded whiny, even to himself.

“He thinks you are pushing me to leave the house and go to college and is mad that you left him out of the road trip.”

“I didn’t say that either.”

“You didn’t have to, kiddo.” Timothy’s voice was soft.

Damian let out a small oof as Jason picked him up, out of Timothy’s arms and set him in front of him. Damian was standing and Jason was sitting, but they were eye to eye. Damian had often seen Jason serious before, but rarely directed towards him. Especially whenever Timothy was around.

“Ok. Look at me. Is this why I found a dead mouse under my pillow this morning?” Damian swallowed down an apology and just glared at Jason, who pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wondered how that damn cat could have gotten in my locked room.” The snickers coming from the two brothers behind Damian didn’t cool his anger much.

“Dames.” Jason smoothed out a frown line on Damian’s forehead with his thumb. “It’s just a road trip. One Dickie took me on and Tim will eventually take you on. We’re just exploring options, bud. No one is asking anyone to leave. We don’t leave for good. Family rule, remember? Brothers stick together?”

“...He already left once.”

Jason tipped his forehead so it was touching Damian’s. He whispered, low enough just for Damian’s ears.

“And you brought him back. Thank you, Little Prince. Let us take care of him too, ok? Together?”

Damian sniffed. “Ok.”

“Promise, bud?”

“Pinky promise.”

Tim hoisted his backpack over his shoulders, and ignored the shouts of the people behind him as he pushed forward. He jogged a bit to catch up with the figure in front of him. He grabbed the collar of the boy’s jacket and yanked.

“Timothyyyyyyyy!”

Tim grinned. “Slow down, Turbo. You’re making Dickie nervous.”

A muffled scoff from several feet behind them made both brothers smile. Tim picked up Damian, who gave a yelp, and turned him upside down to shake him.

“Put me down , Timothy. This is so undignified.” Damian’s protest was interrupted with giggles, and Tim righted the newly turned 11 year-old, keeping a hand on his head as they began to walk again. They arrived at their destination, trading jokes (Tim) and nicknames (Tim) and huffs of feigned annoyance (Damian). Dami was rocking back and forth on his feet, anxiously looking back towards the straggling group.

Eventually (and Tim was convinced they slowed their walk on purpose, based on Jay’s smirk), the rest of their family caught up.

“You sure they’re ok with this group invading?” Bruce said “this” in a way that was both incredulous and dry, and Dick, with an insincerely offended gasp, jumped on his back. They could hear a soft groan though it was clear Bruce was working to hide it.

“I don’t know about the rest of these gremlins, but I’m a god-damned delight.”

Before Jason could jump on Dick’s back (something that once sent all three men careening into Gotham harbor a few months ago), Alfred cleared his throat.

“I trust all you boys will all act in a way that is befitting of our name?”

A chorus of “yes, sirs,” rang out. Alfred pursed his lips, “And you, chum?” Bruce smiled, and dropped Dick, unceremoniously, on the ground. “Of course, Al.” Alfred held back his smile and helped Dick stand. “Vey good, Master Bruce.”

Tim rang the buzzer at the gate in front of him, and a warm, familiar voice greeted him. “Is that you, boy-o?! Fi will be right out. The coos are a might excited to see you weans.”

Damian’s smile was blinding, and Tim ruffled his hair. “Happy Birthday, baby bro.”

(transcript from The Batman Memorial dedication at Gotham City Hall)

Nightwing: Thank you for coming today. When the mayor first approached us about erecting a potential memorial for Gotham’s most esteemed hero, we were actually…concerned. Batman trained both of us [Nightwing gestures to Red Hood, standing behind him with his arms crossed] and all we could hear was his deep, annoying voice saying, “There’s 10 different ways a statue like that can be used in a rogue plot, Nightwing. Be logical, not sentimental.”

[scattered laughter in audience]

But dressing up as a bat and dedicating your life to protecting a City and its people–especially a City like us, especially a people like us–isn’t a practice in logic. It is, at its core, sentimental. Batman was a stoic hero and a tough mentor. But he trained us to look at this City and find the reason to keep going in the face of great odds. Every person in Gotham, every person he saved, was his. At the end of the day, Batman died a hero’s death—not out of practicality, but out of love. Love for Gotham, love for justice, and, above all, love for his…citizens. [Nightwing pauses, swallows hard.] It’s this legacy we honor. May you find ways to be Batman for your neighbors and your children and your future children.

[Nightwing steps aside to cheering, Red Hood steps up. The microphone amplifies his distorted voice and the crowd becomes silent.]

Red Hood: There is no shortage of people Batman saved in his seventeen-almost eighteen years of service to Gotham. No shortage of people willing to take this stage and talk about his impact on their life. While many were willing, there was one who was most insistent and most entitled to it. Give your applause and utmost respect [Red Hood cracks his knuckles menacingly] to our next speaker. Timothy Wayne.

[polite applause, some murmurs]

Timothy Wayne: Um…hi! I. First, I want to thank Nightwing and Red Hood for letting me speak. And my…um…family for supporting me in volunteering for it. They were nervous about my first public appearance since I got out of the hospital. My dad especially didn’t think it was a good idea, but what is being a teen if not rebelling?

[laughter]

I know this is a dedication to Batman, but I would be remiss if I didn’t use this opportunity to thank the first responders and incredible nurses and doctors who took care of me and my brother after everything that happened. A lot of rumors have been swirling online about me, about Bruce, about the Drakes, but I am not here to answer any questions about that. I want to preemptively thank you for respecting my privacy, especially today, as we honor one of the greatest heroes of our time, and personally, one of the greatest heroes of my life.

Growing up, as you can imagine, trusting adults was hard. But Batman was different. I knew he would always be there. I knew he was good. He worked hard to save Gotham, night after night, and on the days I wanted to be saved, it was only the thought of Batman that kept me going. I am going to miss him. We all are. Well, maybe not Two-Face.

[laughter]

But one thing I’ve learned since coming back to my family, is that when things seem hopeless, there will always be people to fill in the gaps. If you know where to look and you find the bravery to ask for help. So even though Batman is no longer here, people who are willing to help are in abundance. If you are in a situation like I was, if you are looking for a hero and can’t find one, I want you to know you are not alone.

[Tim Wayne steps aside. The crowd gives a standing ovation. Nightwing steps back up.]

Nightwing: Along those lines, we agreed to this memorial as long as it came with one more commitment to this City. As of tonight, Gotham will be opening a new 24-hour child crisis line—an anonymous way to connect at-risk children and teens to professional and safe support. The number is on the flyers you see being distributed, Gotham City’s municipal website, as well as the plaque on the bottom of this memorial. May the legacy of Batman live on in all of us. Thank you.

[cheering.]

[End of broadcast.]

Tim: j.

Tim: Jay.

Tim: jayjayjayjayjayjayjayjayjayjayjayjayjayjayjayjay

Big Brother: The FUCK. Goob. Timbo. Light of my life, Timbourine. What did I say about texting at 3 AM.

Tim: Tim is typing.

Tim: …only in an emergency?

Big Brother: Which I know it's not because I just left you at the manor just five hours ago.

Big Brother: And I know even you wouldn’t get into trouble in just five hours.

Big Brother: Because you love me.

Big Brother: And my sanity

Tim: Hypothetically.

If one.

Were to maybe.

Steal a spaceship.

With some college friends they just met.

How mad do you think that person’s father would be?

Biggest Brother added to the chat.

Tim: JAY. NO.

Tim has left the chat.

Wayne Enterprises End of Year Charitable Giving Report

Presented by Jason Wayne, Senior Program Manager for WE Benevolence and Foundations and Timothy Wayne, WE Benevolence and Foundations student intern

Since Q2 of this year, the Give Back, Give More initiative has seen Wayne Enterprises’ employees donate a cumulative $15 million to vetted local charities. The Give Back, Give More initiative found traction after CEO and owner, Mr. Wayne, allocated 100% of his salary for the next 5 years to solely fund Benevolence and Foundations. Employees are encouraged to donate between 1-5% of their annual take-home pay to a charity of their choice, which WE will match on top of funding current and emerging initiatives.

Projected Balance for the past year (Y1): $100,000 million

Actual Expenditures: $300,000 million*

*After the acquisition of Drake Industries by Queen Industries, their CEO personally donated $150 million to WE’s Benevolence and Foundations for general operating costs. Mr. Queen asked to remain anonymous outside this board report.

This year, after an intense 6 month needs assessment, WE’s Benevolence and Foundations underwent a strategic planning process that established six new grants for Gotham-based nonprofits:

• Literacy and Learning Grant
• Housing Development Grant
• Survivor Fund
• Free Lunch Grant
• Health and Safety Grant
• Child Thrive Grant

Under these six grants, 12 non-profits, 25 schools, 2 hospitals, and 8 victim-service shelters were awarded significant funding for the next 3 years. Once awarded, organizations can apply for continuation funding indefinitely as long as they meet funding requirements.

Please see page 2 for next year's projected outcomes and a proposal for a new WE-developed program, Neon Knights.

Monster Hunters USA: Mega-Issue

February Vol. 14

(Image description: CEO of Wayne Enterprises Bruce Wayne and his son, Tim Wayne, pose in front of a Sequoia National Park sign. They are both dressed in dark, wool jackets, cargo pants, and Wayne senior is wearing a ballcap with an outline of a Yeti decorating it.)

Known worldwide as a shrewd businessman, technological innovator, generous philanthropist, and newly appointed Justice League consultant/spokesperson, the legacy of billionaire Bruce Wayne casts a frankly imposing shadow wherever he goes. In the past, some media outlets and fellow business competitors have called him elitist and “out-of-touch” (NY Post, Jan 2025, “Lex Luthor Tells All”). The public, however, loves him. Influencers and commenters are less critical, many “shipping” him with figures ranging from Superman to Oliver Queen to Vicki Vale (Gotham Daily, Dec 2026, “Vicki Vale Unveils All Wayne, All The Time”), calling him a “Baddy” (an amalgamation of “Bruce” and “Daddy” respectively, as found out recently by this editor), and praising his genuine, if not awkward, public displays of parental affection.

It’s one such display that has led us here, to Northern California, where Tim Wayne and his father continue their semi-annual tradition of “Cryptid Hunting.” When asked, the pair explained that their shared interest in the mysterious unknown has led them to places as far as East Asia and as close as the North American Appalachias.

We wish them luck in the hunt. As we always say in Monster Hunters USA, the only thing in the way of proof, is a lack of imagination.

“Fuuuuck.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Remember what Dinah said? It’s a setback, not a backslide. And you need to breathe Roo.”

“Dickie.”

“I know.”

“Will I feel like this forever?”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re not going anywhere, ok?”

“...w…wh…who..ugh… a…r…r..eee..you?”

“See mates, sometimes it helps to know people down below.”

“ People? ”

“Eh, in the loosest sense of the word. Now, I could only bring one of them back for the night, but trust the other ain’t having a good time. I’ll leave you both to it. I’ll be back in a few hours. Leave some for me.”

“Thanks, John.”

“...cos…tum’d…f.f.f.f.reak..s”

“Oh ho, Jackie-boy, I wouldn’t be so cavalier with the insults. You’re already looking kind of rough. Hell not treating you too kindly?”

“Now, Hood, what did A always teach us?”

“To shoot the groin first?”

“Not to play with our food. Then again, trash really isn’t edible, is it?”

“Mmm, Wing, you know it.”

“...w…w…w…wait…ttt…mph…mmp…”

To: [emailprotected]

From: [emailprotected]

Tim,

As I languish away, I am brought to mind of the time we spent together in Rome, and how absolutely, utterly terrible that artichoke pizza was. Never do that to me again. Hopefully, we will see each other again soon, as I miss you and your brothers dearly. Please keep me in mind and if I do not survive this, know how much I love you.

B

To: [emailprotected]

From: [emailprotected]

Dad,

It’s the annual board meeting. I’m sitting next to you. Stop.

T

P.S. You talk shit about my artichoke pizza again and I will wreck you.

Tim: Hey Alfie.

Alfred (BAMF): Master Tim, are you alright?

Tim: I think I messed up.

Alfred (BAMF): Then we fix it, dove. Where are you?

Tim: Tim is typing.

Tim: Atlanta.

Alfred (BAMF): I’ll be there in six hours.

Tim: It takes 13.

Alfred (BAMF): I said what I said, Master Tim.

Alfred (BAMF): Are you safe?

Tim: I am now.

Alfred (BAMF): Good. Have you eaten?

Tim: It’s been a bit.

Alfred (BAMF): Have you slept?

Tim:...It’s been a bit.

Alfred (BAMF): Nothing we can’t fix, dear one. We’ve been very worried about you.

Tim: Aren’t you mad?

Alfred (BAMF): I’m proud. Thank you for texting. Call me while I drive?

Tim: Tim is typing.

Alfred (BAMF): It would help me stay awake.

Incoming call (Tim).

“And the overall winner of the National Congressional Art Competition, for his impressive still-life series called “Cow Boys,” is New Jersey’s own, Damian Wayne. Damian is a senior at Gotham Academy, District 8. He was recently accepted into Princeton’s pre-med pathway on full scholarship. Unfortunately, Damian is unable to be here to accept his award due to a previous engagement.”

Tim leaned over the railing of the large balcony, wind whipping around him, holding a glass of wine in his hand. He closed his eyes briefly, the lights of the City pricking the inside of his eyelids like a disco ball. He didn’t flinch when a hand landed on his shoulder, but leaned in briefly to the squeeze.

“To the rich.” Tim tipped his glass, and took a small sip, a smile playing on his face.

“Boy, am I ever.” The warmth in Bruce’s eyes was almost too much to bear, and Tim ducked his head. They stood side-by-side in companionable silence.

“I didn’t think I’d make it.” Tim’s voice was almost lost to the sound of the party behind them. Bruce kept his eyes on Gotham’s skyline and cleared his throat before speaking.

“Yeah?”

“If Jack didn’t do it, it would have been me. I don’t know. Some accident on the bike or underground boxing or swan diving off a roof.”

Bruce made a small, punched out noise, and finally looked at him. He cupped Tim’s cheek and kissed him on the forehead once before pulling away.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you boys. I try to earn it every day, but I know I don’t come close. Sweetheart, I am so grateful you stuck around. You’re the bravest person I know...”

Tim, who, still, after seven years, found his family’s open displays of affection slightly embarrassing, ducked his head.

“Thank you.” It was loaded. Bruce smiled softly, understanding.

“Happy birthday, son. I’m proud of you.” He ruffled his hair. “I better get back inside. I heard Jay and Dickie say something about putting fireworks in your cake and I need to make sure the catering staff are still intact.”

Tim was still laughing under his breath when his little brother joined him.

“Hey shortstack.”

“Really?” Damian rolled his eyes. “I’ve been taller than you for at least two years now, Timothy. Don’t you think it’s time to retire that name. It’s embarrassing. For you. Obviously”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Mature comeback, Beavis.”

“Mature reference, Butt-head.”

Damian’s smile was lopsided and fond, a look that still threw Tim. He had come a long way from the arrogant, impatient, impossibly sweet-but-guarded kid he was at 10. Tim couldn’t be prouder.

“One more semester left, Einstein. Then you’re going to be leaving me all alone with these idiots.”

“You’ll manage. Batcow demands it.”

They slipped into a comfortable silence. A commotion could be heard from the ballroom behind them, but after years of practice, both of them knew not to look at whatever their older brothers had cooked up.

The unusually clear night sky sparkled with stars, no signs of the winter storm promised in the next few days. Damian handed Tim a small gift, wrapped in homemade paper. Tim carefully folded the small, repeating illustrations of Nessie, and pulled out a framed photo from their most recent trip to Callum’s. They were giving a thumbs-up to the camera, Damian was holding a baby calf and Gollum was trying to eat Tim’s hair. Carved on the wooden frame were three words: Brothers stick together.

Tim, whose greatest weakness would always be this kid and his thoughtfulness, cleared his throat a few times, ignoring the wetness in his eyes.

“Thanks, Dames. It’s perfect.”

Damian seemed pleased. After a moment, he bumped Tim’s shoulder.

“I love you, ahki.”

Tim smiled. “Back at you, kiddo.”

He turned away from the railing, and walked back into the building, towards his family, keeping a hand on Damian’s back.

“I can’t wait to see what you do next.”