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Tim’s leg won’t stop bouncing.
He kept calm when he found out the school had gone through their backpacks while the students were at lunch. He kept calm when the principal stopped him before he could go back into his classroom, a grim expression on her face as she led him to the office.
But now? Seated on the hard office chair while he waits?
The anxious motion is the only thing keeping him grounded.
He doesn’t meet the receptionist’s eyes, though he can feel them darting to him every few minutes.
The principal steps out of her office a few minutes later, mouth set in a tight line. “We weren’t able to reach your parents, but your emergency contact is on his way,” she says, like she thinks it’s his fault somehow.
He swallows, biting back the urge to beg her to call him back and tell him he doesn’t need to come.
If this is about what he’s confident it’s about, she wouldn’t listen anyway.
She goes back into her office, and leaves him alone to count down the minutes.
Where is Bruce coming from? The Manor or WE? The manor is a little closer, especially factoring in downtown traffic. He could probably be here in about sixteen minutes, assuming he leaves the Manor immediately.
He doesn’t have his phone, the device still in the backpack he can see resting on a chair in the principal's office, but he’s got his watch. Not that the panic button embedded on its side feels like any sort of reassurance at the moment.
He watches the minutes tick by in tense, vibrating silence.
At twenty one minutes, the bell rings for the next class. Tim’s anxiety ticks up at the knowledge that Bruce must be leaving work for this.
At twenty seven minutes, the door to the front office opens, and Bruce strides through.
Tim can see at a glance that he’s not Bruce Wayne, Tim’s foster father right now - he’s got his boardroom persona draped around him like a cape, in the set of his shoulders and the length of his stride.
His eyes seek out Tim immediately, expression tight, but the door to the principal’s office swings open before he can approach.
“Mr. Wayne,” she addresses him, to her credit not appearing at all intimidated by his presence. “Let’s step into my office.”
Casting a last, inscrutable look at Tim, he follows her through, closing the door behind him.
Tim releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding in a rush. His fingernails dig into his palm so sharply he knows he’ll have crescent-shaped bruises when he opens them.
His leg tap tap taps.
***
It’s both an eternity and hardly any time at all before the door opens again, and Bruce steps out, Tim’s backpack in hand. Try as he might, he can’t read his expression, only that the gaze that falls on him and then away again is a heavy one.
He gives the secretary a polite, tight smile. “I’ll be taking Tim home for the rest of the day,” he tells her. He doesn’t look at him again as he signs him out, and Tim runs through breathing exercises as he waits by the door.
Bruce finally turns to him. His face is a mask as he gestures for Tim to walk out in front of him, making no move to give him back his bag.
Tim obeys without a word. He wonders if Bruce thinks he’s going to bolt.
The walk out to the car is just as silent, no one else in the parking lot in the middle of the school day. It occurs to him wildly that he probably could bolt. Bruce probably wouldn’t chase him down, not in public. He could scale the fence.
Instead, he climbs in the passenger seat of the expensive car that he recognizes as one of the ones Bruce keeps at WE in case he needs to make a quick exit, as Bruce drops his backpack in the backseat before getting into the driver’s seat.
The sound of the driver’s side door is too loud in the enclosed space.
Bruce’s hands rest on the steering wheel. He stares straight ahead through the windshield, a furrow on his brow. His thumb taps lightly against the leather.
Tim doesn’t dare speak first.
Finally, his mentor takes a deep breath, and Tim tenses.
“How do you feel about ice cream?”
Tim chokes on his next breath. “I - okay,” he says after a moment, thoughts a confused swirl.
Bruce nods slowly without looking at him. “Okay,” he echoes. “Let’s go get ice cream.”
They drive to the drive-through a couple miles away, not the more charming and traditional walk-in shop that Dick likes to take him to when he picks him up from school. Two minutes later, they’re parked at the back of the lot, Tim twisting the plastic spoon in his cup of uneaten cookie dough ice cream, wondering if he could even swallow it past the lump in his throat.
Bruce hasn’t touched his sherbet either, just holds it in his lap. There’s a drop on the rim of his cup, lazily making its way toward his expensive slacks.
He moves before Tim can make up his mind whether to break the silence and warn him, reaching into his jacket pocket with his free hand and pulling out a familiar white pill bottle.
He sets the Prozac on the dash.
“Your principal was willing to accept that you simply forgot to give the nurse your prescription and medication during the school day,” he says in a measured voice. “You’re suspended for three days for breaking school policy, but the police won’t be contacted. You are… extremely fortunate that you’re not facing significant consequences.”
The lump in Tim’s throat feels like a noose. He swallows. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “I - I know you coming in really helped.”
Bruce lets out a short sigh through his nose. “Yes,” he agrees. For the first time since they got into the car, he meet’s Tim’s eyes. “The first thing I need to know is where you got the pills.”
Tim’s considered, sitting in that hard chair in the front office, what lies he could tell, how he might spin this.
But ultimately, there’s nothing he can say that won’t be worse than the truth.
“My parents got them for me,” he admits quietly.
Bruce frowns sharply. “There’s nothing about you being on any antidepressants in your medical history.”
He trails his spoon through the melting edges of his ice cream. “Yeah, I, um. I don’t know if they were exactly, you know, legal. I mean, I never saw a doctor or anything. I didn’t really ask.”
He doesn’t look up to see his reaction, but his voice as he responds sounds deeply disturbed. “Your parents have had you on illegal, unprescribed psychiatric medication? For how long?”
Tim gives him a half shrug. “Since I was… eleven, I think?”
“Eleven,” he repeats, and clears his throat. “Approximately three years, then?”
Another small shrug. “Something like that.”
The drop of sherbet is now a bead of orange dotted against the black silk of Bruce’s pants. His fingers are gripping his cup too tightly, the paper denting inwards. Another drop makes its way over the edge, and Tim watches it, mesmerized. “Tim, that’s -” he cuts himself off, and his fingers loosen, the motion very controlled. “Why?” he asks instead.
“It would have been embarrassing,” he explains softly, even though he knows Bruce knows this. They both know this. “Diagnoses like that have a tendency to get out.”
A slow, measured breath. “Diagnoses like what?”
Does he really have to say it?
“Depression.”
The second drop falls, landing next to its twin.
“Do you think you have depression?”
That makes Tim bristle. “I did research, I know what the symptoms are,” he retorts, the edge of a snap to his voice. “I’m not just - I’m not just saying that for attention - ”
“I’m not saying you are,” Bruce cuts him off, abrupt but not harsh. “I would never say that.” He sighs through his nose. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
He falls silent, once again staring forward, brow creased in thought.
The palm of Tim’s hand aches from the cold where it’s wrapped around the cup. “You’re going to take the pills away, aren’t you?” he says quietly.
Bruce’s jaw tightens. “They’re illegally prescribed, Tim,” he answers. “You don’t have any medical oversight. Right now, I can’t even guarantee that these are actually Prozac. You know as well as anyone the risks involved in black market drugs. For all you know, these could be half baby powder and half one of scarecrow’s concoctions!” His voice never reaches a shout, but it’s raised by the end. “I mean, Jesus, Tim.” The loudness drops away, and in its place is something desperate. “You should have told me.”
Tim realizes his cheeks are wet when the first tear drops onto his hand. “I knew you would take them away,” he says, voice cracking. “I knew you’d make me stop taking them, because I’m Robin, and - and Robin shouldn’t need pills just to be able to get out of bed. But they - they help, they really do. I remember what it was like, before my mom gave them to me, and it - it was bad.”
“Tim…” he sounds lost.
He sniffs, scrubbing at his cheeks. “I don’t want to go back to feeling like that.”
“Tim hey.” Bruce’s hand suddenly wraps around his, carefully prying his fingernails out of the purple grooves on his palm that they’re digging into. “I don’t think I’m expressing myself very clearly,” he admits, frustration written across his face. “I’m not upset that you’re taking antidepressants.”
Tim blinks, allowing his hand to go slack in shock. “You’re - you’re not?”
“No, never,” he says vehemently, continuing carefully, “As far as Robin goes, I need to know what medications you’re taking, so I can be aware of any possible side effects or complications, especially if you get injured. But I have absolutely no issue with you taking any kind of psychiatric medication if it’s helping you.” He takes a deep breath. “But what your parents have done is not safe.”
The bottle on the dash feels mocking. “But what else am I supposed to do?” Tim whispers.
“Will you look at me?” Bruce says softly, and he obeys, even as his vision blurs with more tears. “We can get you a proper diagnosis.”
And that…that’s ridiculous.
But Bruce looks utterly serious.
“We can get you an actual doctor,” he continues. “And if they feel it’s appropriate, we’ll get you an actual prescription. I have no intention of forcing you to stop taking antidepressants. I just want to make sure you’re healthy and safe.”
Tim knows his eyes must be huge, desperately searching Bruce’s face for the slightest hint of deception, and not finding even a trace. “But… my parents…”
Bruce’s expression tightens. “Let me worry about talking to them,” he says grimly. “We’re not compromising your health, physical or mental, just because your parents - ” he cuts off sharply, grimacing, before the flash of anger smooths away again. “Your parents and I will have a conversation about their priorities,” he continues. “It is nothing that you need to feel any responsibility for.”
He sits back in his seat, eyes landing on the bottle of pills. He picks them up, turning them over in his hand.
Then, to Tim’s immense shock, he passes them over to him. He almost spills his melted ice cream in his lap as he fumbles to accept them.
Bruce gives them a reluctant, wary look before he releases them. “Do not take any of those until I have a chance to analyze them myself,” he warns, then lets out a sigh. “But assuming they’re what they’re supposed to be, it might not be safe for you to stop taking them cold turkey. We’ll get you an appointment as soon as possible, and proceed under a doctor’s advice. I’ll reach out to Leslie as well to see what she has to say.”
Tim, embarrassingly, feels like he might start crying all over again. He swallows thickly. “Thank you,” he whispers.
Bruce hums. There’s a beat that might be hesitation, and then he reaches out and clasps Tim on the shoulder, squeezing gently before he releases him. “Of course, Tim,” he replies softly. “Please don’t be afraid to tell me things like this.”
Tim just nods, unable to speak.
Bruce pulls one of the napkins that the drive through gave them out of the center console, dabbing at the sherbet on his pants, before quickly giving them up as a lost cause for the dry cleaners to deal with. “Now, what do you say we go back and get some ice cream that isn’t melted, and then go back to the manor and see if we can fool Alfred into thinking we haven’t spoiled our dinners?”
Tim lets out a startled, wet laugh. “You don’t have to do that,” he says. “Besides, we’re not going to get away with it.”
Bruce winks as he starts the car. “Trust me, I can afford it,” he says drily. “Besides,” he continues, “I think Alfred will just be happy you’re there.”
There’s a solemnity under the lightness, something weighted and genuine.
Tim leans his head back against the headrest, the bottle cradled in one hand and the paper cup in the other.
For the first time the whole afternoon, there’s no icy knot of anxiety in his chest.
He just feels warm.