Chapter Text
Tim has never been so confused as to during his recovery time.
After the Waynes tried to talk to him, Leslie walked in. She greeted Tim, and Tim said hello, still attending to Alfred the cat. She rattled off his diagnosis, and that was when Dick's eyes were shining. Cass, by that point, was at the end of his bed, with Bruce behind him, Jason at the chair on his bedside, but even with Damian on the wall next to them, no one was touching Tim; he wasn't feeling anything.
He did feel, though, a pang of something, something tug at his heart when Leslie began to ask him questions. Not just any questions, victim questions. And not just victim questions, but questions that were hinting at something. A big something that made him feel so small, as if he wasn't there. When he wasn't there, and he was about to cross back over under the fuzzy haze of drugs, the cry, the guttural cry that came from Dick, that stopped him.
And Bruce was trembling. Jason's jaw was clenched, and he was furious. He is fury. But it wasn't at him. It was under Tim's feet but it wasn't burning. It was rising and lifting him. Cass was out of the shadows, and next to Tim, hands at her sides. Alfred was upstairs and busying himself so much he didn't have a moment to breathe too deeply.
His brain began to register their concern, but it's death, self-imposed, so it was emotional. But that didn't stop Dick from being the first one to cry. From those always wide, always hopeful, always searching blue eyes, big blue eyes, streamed torrents of tears that raced to get down off his chin. And he looked at Tim, and Tim ducked his head down.
A blush came over his cheeks.
Dick refrained from hugging him. Tim wanted to lean back, but Bruce was there. Leslie handed him a form to fill out.
Jason held his hand. Tim looked at him in surprise.
His hand was fine, not being crushed or snapped.
If anything his body tingled. Pleasantly. Warm.
The rest of them gave him privacy. They left with longing looks Tim saw out of the corner of his eye.
But Jason stayed. And while Tim took a shaking, a little-shaking hand to a pen, beginning to color in dots and circles and answer short questions, there was a deep, rumbling voice, with a colorful edge to it, and it filled the room, like paint to a blank canvas. Jason was reading, one of his favorites, starting from wherever he was when Tim woke up.
He didn't leave.
Not even when Tim went back to sleep.
He brought breakfast, three plates, two for Tim and one for Jason himself, and hot chocolate and coffee, the next morning when Tim woke back up.
That was the first few days. Visitors were quietly in and out, hesitant as to always, but Jason was always there. And each time Tim would say something to the likes of, "You have your route to take care of" Jason would reply with a comment about how Steph or Kate is taking it. When Tim would ask him if he was tired Jason pointed to a bed nearby, snarking, "I could also take the chair if the princess needs a double."
Tim didn't know. The past few years, he'd seen the Jason of old. The Jason with green eyes that flashed with anger every time he saw Tim. Less so more than lately, but the comments never stopped. When Jason was reborn, out of the trenches of the worst possible death, a death alone where he didn't even know if anyone came in the end to save him, he woke up to find that maybe, just maybe, no one cared to try. Because he was replaced. Because the family he waited for had seemingly never waited for him.
And so Tim's childhood hero, scorned, wrang his neck with finger-shaped bruises. Slit his throat. Beat him to a bloody pulp until he couldn't clearly see the pictures he took of Jason when he was a boy who smiled. And Tim was angry. He was hurt. But he understood. And it's forgiven. It's forgotten. Jason is doing better, and he makes an effort. That's understood.
It's just that right now, Tim has absolutely no way to understand what the Hell Jason is doing when he tells Tim that no other priority the older man has, takes precedence over Tim.
"Ain't nothing more important than you. Not to me, not to Dickie, not to any of us. Not even the demon-spawn and his flock of demon-pets. You're the thing we care about. Get over it."
Tim is quiet for the rest of that day. He's too tired to argue, he clarifies.
Jason doesn't mind. Never does.
Tim just knows it'll all go away soon. As soon as he gets better, it'll all be over.
Tim just has to remember that.
He stayed down in the cave, but it wasn't quiet and cold. It was quiet, but more serene. The door to the medbay was continuously ajar, halfway open, halfway closed, opening occasionally a little to refit whoever was coming in. And people did come in.
Tim was buried under blankets. He was a little chilly, but ever time he so much as began to shiver, there was Cass, dropping another blanket onto his lap. His bandages were wrapped and rewrapped. He touched the soft fluff, ran his hand up and down the wrinkles with his hand under his shirt.
He was given a hoodie. One of his favorite, the one thing he owns that goes through the washer on a steady schedule. They went to his apartment. Alfred said he and the others cleaned out the smell, and it didn't smell like bleach, but like raspberries, fresh and lovely. The plants he forgot existed were watered, and the antibiotics he thought he was taking were retrieved. The glass that somehow broke was swept up and disposed in the garbage. They did his dishes. They cleaned his window. They prepared it for when they forced him to leave. Gently, of course, they won't throw him out on his ass. But they're making arrangements for when he leaves.
Except.
Tim knows they aren't his parents. Bruce could never be Janet or Jack Drake. Bruce has his faults. But the way he was with Dick, with Jason, and now with Cass and Damian? He's not Janet. He's a good dad to his children.
Tim remembers one time, after fear toxin, Dick sang to Bruce, said he did it to Dick whenever Dick got sick. Tim was confused. Bruce learned it from Alfred and from his parents. Tim's parents never saw him sick, because they'd rather scold him for choking on his own vomit then pat his back while he coughs. And they'd never sing to him. Bruce would never sing to him.
He'd sing to his real kids. His real family. Hell, he'd even comfort Steph. Because each one of them was chosen. Each one of them got the stamp of approval before training ever started. Not Tim. Tim put Bruce in an uncomfortable position. He forced his way into this man's life, his home, even his cave.
Except.
And now that Tim's a little more broken on the outside, his façade cracking under pressure, Bruce and his family are preparing Tim's apartment, so that when they patch him up and send him on his way, he's at least comfortable back by himself, again. That's what they're doing.
Except.
Except they haven't done so. Tim has had less recovery time for worse injuries. And he knows that for an overdose, it's several days to several weeks. For Tim, it would've been until he wakes up.
Tim woke up. He woke up the first day to Bruce being there. He woke up the second, third, and fourth to Jason reading to him. Each time Jason used the bathroom, Cass came in and braided his hair. The first time that happened, Tim stopped breathing, before he relaxed, laying back into her lap, and rolled his ankle onto Steph's thighs as she painted his nails.
They were just readying him to send him off.
But they could've done that days ago.
Tim was lost. There was a hand in his hair and one holding his foot tightly but tenderly still, and it was grounding and someone was actually touching him but he was lost. He stared up at a popcorn ceiling, and for some reason, he began to cry. He wasn't in pain, and he wasn't drugged out of his mind to his Hell and back.
He began to cry, just for a moment, the tears boiling over and they were hot, racing down his temples with his head laid out in Cass's lap. It's not like he hasn't fallen before. And he knows he would've been caught. He wasn't terrified and it was actually the opposite. It was so the opposite because he was ready and that, that realization as his toenails were cooled with paint, and the tangles in his hair, his head were weaved out and handled with so much care he melted, he realized that he was ready and his head was clear and it sucked.
Because he was ready.
His nose twisted and his eye scrunched because as soon as he realized how ready he was he realized that there were people in the room. Three, if you count Jason lurking outside of the door, eyeing the needles and Tim's chart he was religiously looking through. Tim wasn't alone and he hated how his nose twitched and his eyes scrunched.
His chest was tight. It was tight and his thighs hurt and his sternum hurt. It hurt, compressing and his heart and head were compressing. He looked from side to side as if he could visibly see what was wrong. His eyebrows furrowed. His fingers and toes curled, almost violently, and he swallowed and he rolled his jaw but his eyes still burned. No matter how many times he blinked, his eyes burned and nothing felt right.
Not the way that he hadn't been alone for a week. Not in the way they weren't watching him with guarded gazes. They were watching him and that unmasked look in their eyes? They were all vulnerable. They were all so vulnerable and it didn't feel right. Tim felt open. He felt exposed and he didn't feel right. Not the way he breathed. Not the way the lights were the right brightness, adjusted for him. It didn't feel right, the attention to his injuries and his wrists and the direction his lips twisted.
Nothing felt right.
Except.
Except the way Cass began to scratch at his scalp as soon as he began to get antsy. Not to warn him to shut up but it was — God it was the best thing he's felt in forever. Or the way Steph began to run her hand up and down his shin after he vaguely nodded when she asked if she could do so. Except Cass dropped down, surely an uncomfortable position, but she dropped down, forward, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. Except when Tim began to shake, and he tried, he really, really tried to be quiet, to slam the sobs into his bones, and his tear ducts kept his pride but he shook. And Cass and Steph held him until his eyes drooped.
They saw someone in need. They helped them. They would do it for anyone else. They're heroes. They help people. Tim is a person. People ignore Tim. Parents ignore Tim. Everyone ignores Tim. Tim is okay with that. Tim is okay, except he's a little upset. People don't like when Tim's upset. Tim gets hurt when he's upset. He's hurt. Heroes help hurt people. The Waynes say they want to help Tim. But it's because they're heroes. They're heroes and they help people and all Tim is is a person.
All Tim is is another person. That's it. He's just another person.
Except: "You're our person," said Steph when Tim closed his eyes to avoid her pity.
"Ours. Special," echoed Cass.
Tim didn't believe them.
Except maybe he did.
Again, poison carrot, he reminded himself when they left. Though this time, the vivid image wasn't so vivid.
That feels less wrong.
"Hey, Timmy, how ya feeling?" Tim looks up from his book to see Dick strolling into the library.
The library is a beautiful masterpiece of architecture. The tall, grand windows overlook the vibrant lawn, the trees and the whistling wind swaying the rest of nature to a whispered rhythm. Inside of the library, book cases stretch to the sky with old and new covers of gold and bronze and other-colored writing. The shelves are a polished oak. The carpet is padded and it goes nicely with the natural lighting coming through the tall, grand windows.
It's the eighth day of recovery. Bruce is going to his one meeting before he takes a little time off, something he didn't let Tim convince him out of. When Tim protested, Bruce smiled and awkwardly pat Tim on the head. Tim was still for a good fifteen minutes after that.
Alfred made one of Tim's favorite breakfasts, and before she went out to visit her mom, Steph talked with Tim through his morning check-up. While Leslie prodded him with needles and intrusive questions, Steph painted his nails. No one has said anything about his nails. Steph did them well. A neon purple and everything. Tim didn't speak, he didn't want to initiate, but even when he didn't reply, Steph kept talking.
Tim found that he liked her chatter. When they dated, and it ended rough, things drifted to Tim's normal — cold. Steph was always warm. Snarky, sassy, but at her core? Warm. In this cave, she's the rays of sun that drift in.
Tim tried to hate her. In moments, he did. Overall, the longest-term he mustered was indifference. He misses her — he also misses his spleen.
Steph sitting there, though, she felt more than a spleen. She was there. She talked. It felt warm. Tim felt a little warm. Then she went off to see her mom, and Tim went up to the library, his medical gear trailing behind. Along with him, Titus. The dog hasn't left his side. Loyal, those animals are.
Tim busied himself with different autobiographies, and even the sequel to the book Jason read him. The man had to go help Starfire and Arsenal, but was bringing back Roy and Lian. Maybe even Star, said Jason with a wink to Tim as Dick blushed. It was at their dinner last night. It was short, but they had dinner together.
Now, at two in the afternoon, Dick strolls into the library. A bright smile on his face. Wet hair. Cleaned off after a workout. Tim can crack the lock to the gym that Bruce put to keep Tim from exerting himself, but then Alfred wouldn't bring him his biscuits and gravy at three.
I finished three autobiographies and I went so far down as to begin a YA recommendation Jason recommended me. And why isn't it Jason in my head? Why Jason? You're all confusing and I'm smarter. That's saying something. The first part. Damn it. Damn me.
"I'm fine," Tim says, quietly, from his book and his preferable place on the loveseat.
He feels Dick perching himself on the top of the seat before his messy, dripping hair casts a shadow over his book. Tim scowls, not scornful, though. "Dick," he shuts his book, "You're dripping onto the book."
Dick smirks, and Tim has enough time to slam his eyes shut before Dick shakes his head quickly, showering Tim in water and the remnants of hair gel. "Dick! You dick!" Tim covers his eyes as Dick laughs loudly, the sound filling even a room of grandeur. Tim's heart aches.
"Oh come on, you love me!" coos Dick as Tim closes his book. Tim narrows his eyes, standing up and going to put the book back onto its shelf. On his heels is an overgrown golden retriever with too many muscles and darker hair. Tim shakes his head. "Gotta love your older brother, Timmy!"
Dick, towering over Tim, shakes his head again, drops of water spattering across Tim's face. Tim gags and wipes at his face, recoiling. "I — you're not — Dick! Stop getting me wet!" Dick pauses, then promptly bursts into laughter, doubling over.
Tim raises his eyebrows and looks heavenwards to ask why the Hell he lived that night. He looks back down and wags his finger at Dick like a scolding mother. "Oh shut up. Shut up!" Dick, in fact, continues to laugh. "You chose this life of uncomfortable wording when you chose to keep your name." He crosses his arms, storming back over to his loveseat, beginning to fold up his blanket.
Dick is sputtering. "It was my parents!" he cries, helping Tim fold up the five other blankets he was hogging. "They chose it. And, hey," Dick puts himself into Tim's field of vision, and his brows are drawn in, a coy smile on his face, as if he knows better, as if he's so much older than Tim. Tim prepares himself. "didn't you want to keep something of your parents?"
The smile is a lot less playful now.
At least Tim prepped himself.
"Yeah, their ashes." Wow, even he stopped, looking down. The words flooded right out, like his dad's lungs flooded with blood. Tim shakes his head. That isn't a nice line of thought to go back down. He shakes his head until his thoughts jumble. He thinks he looks stupid, but Dick seems to be in shock.
He blinks a few times, his hands oddly in focus. He bites the inside of his lip. The coil in his gut is back.
"Holy fuck, Tim." Tim winces, and Dick's face instantly twists with the same old pity. Tim turns away, his sweater hanging off his body and swaying with him. He can feel how far away the fabric is. It's a medium.
He hardens his eyes, glaring at the rug enough to catch it right on fire. "Well not all of us grew up in the circus," He spits, throwing the newly folded blanket back onto the loveseat. It lands with a thud. The sound after that is deafening; it's silence.
After a moment of toes and fingers curling into the blankets, of muscles so stiff that the two vigilantes in the library are statues, Dick closes his eyes, breathing in, and exhaling very, very slowly. Then he huffs, and lets a small smile grace the very corners of his lips. He picks up another blanket, beginning to fold it.
Dick's eyes fill with a fondness that couldn't come from folding a ratty old blanket. "I wish I grew up with you."
"No, you don't," curtly replies Tim, pressing the corners of his own blanket together.
He can imagine the idea. Him at Wayne Manor, all wide-eyes, clinging to pant-legs covering muscles of steel, and falling on his face in front of Batman and Robin and Alfred. If he was an embarrassment to his parents, he couldn't imagine what he'd be to the Waynes. Dick would coddle him. How spoiled he'd end up.
Or, or maybe Dick at Drake Manor, a little less cold. A little less alone. But it didn't happen. No use dwelling on the past, hisses a part of Tim's mind. Maybe we should take our own advice, he snorts.
Dick pouts. "No, to have you as a little brother? You'd be," Dick pauses, and his eyes burst. They light up like Christmas fell on his birthday at his favorite place in the entire world after his partner proposed to him. Tim feels fear. Dick gasps. "you'd be my Tiny Tim!"
Tim doubles over, burying his face into the blankets as Dick claps excitedly. God, the fully grown golden retriever man squeals. Kill Tim. Do it right now. Dick is cackling, he knows what he's done. Tim's cheeks are hot and he's groaning into his pillow with his entire soul, might, being. Just end it. End Tim right now.
Tim pries his face from the blanket, helplessly looking at Dick. The man is grinning. The size of it — it must hurt. It must.
Tim shakes his head, expelling the blush. He straightens, folding another blanket. "You wouldn't have wanted me around."
"I would've." There's a caution to Dick's tone, to his eyes. And a softness. Tim looks away.
"Arguing with you is useless." He pinches the bridge of his nose, a headache forming. His chest is tight again. He needs his chest to not be so tight. He grabs the blanket. He runs his fingers over the fluff. It's smooth. He smooths it down. He smooths the soft fluff down. Soft. Grounding.
Dick's smirk is coy. "But you know you love me."
Tim whips around. "Stop trying to force it, Dick!" He shouldn't have screamed.
Dick's mouth snaps shut. The sound echoes. It bounces off of the walls, off of the tall windows, the bookshelves. The wind stills. The sun quiets, just for a moment, while the sound reverberates. It smacks Tim in the face with his guilt, knocking the color right out of him. It sure does wipe the smile from Dick's face, the playfulness in his eyes.
See, the thing is, Dick is never quiet. The man, well, he's not meant to be quiet. And even when he's silent, it's his body that speaks. He was a miracle to the trapeze, to his performance. It's why he incorporates it into his fighting style. So he can tell everyone, 'Hey, I'm here.' So people can hear him, even in the quiet of night, when he flips, the way the wind ripples like clear water taps at people's faces to tell them 'Hey, Nightwing's here.'
Yet Dick was quiet when he stood by, letting the verbal and the physical abuse go on, with the only thumbs-up being Tim's sealed-tight lips. Dick was quiet when he didn't pick up his phone the other day. And Tim knows, he knows it wasn't the man's fault, but he was quiet when he let the silence be louder, when he didn't say shit to Tim.
And even now, all he can do is whisper. Dick Grayson shouldn't whisper, but Tim made it so. "I'm sorry, Timmy." Tim is screwing everything up.
But no one is leaving. No one is telling him off or giving a lecture while he licks his wounds. No one is making him clean up his own literal or metaphorical messes. No one is letting him sit in a cold, quiet cave or a dark, damp apartment that smells disgustingly strongly of bleach or a hazard with glass on the floor. And no one, absolutely no one, is following the script, but Tim still remembers his lines.
The blanket Tim was folding flies across the room. It knocks over a book. It lands with a loud thud. Tim reaches into his hair and he twists. Violently. His throat cries with each piercing shriek. "Stop being so understanding! You're not supposed to be understanding! Just shut up! Shut up! And I don't need your pity, either. I don't need it."
"It's not pity." Dick's face is calm, cool, collected. He's not angry. Or is he. Tim doesn't know.
Tim doesn't know. He doesn't know what he has to do to repay the Waynes. Maybe this is the repayment for all he's done. But then is he officially done? Is he done heroing for good? Or are they done with him? And if this isn't repayment, then what is it? What do they mean? What does any of this mean? Tim wants to know, because he doesn't know. Tim doesn't know.
Tim slams his foot into a table. It flies and then snaps. "Then what's the last week been, huh?!"
"It's been us caring." Dick throws down the blanket onto the loveseat and finally, finally someone is getting angry. Dick throws his arms out, scoffing. "Tim, what the Hell is wrong with you? Why can't you just, for once, let—" He cuts himself off. The anger simmers back down.
Tim throws himself in front of Dick's face. He looks the man in the eyes. He's not backing down. Fuck, not now. Not ever. He wants this to be over with. "No, finish that sentence. I dare you. Why can't I what?"
"I didn't mean it like that."
"Well it sure as Hell felt like you were going to say that," he spits. Dick flinches. Tim spat poison and he's not done yet. "It sure as Hell felt like you were about to ask me what fucked me up so badly that I can't . . . "
Tim chokes.
He slaps a hand over his mouth as soon as the whine tries leaves his throat. He was bombarded with the emotion. Like a rocket, the sorrow tries to escape. The tears well up as quickly as the sobs do. His shoulders hitch.
He throws himself around. He stumbles onto the loveseat. His legs feel like jelly. His arms do, too. And so does his façade. His head hurts. His head really, really hurts but the worst part is his heart. He feels like he was stabbed. His heart was torn out and someone is twisting in the open, bleeding cavity left behind in his chest.
He gasps.
There's a hand running his back.
Squeezing his eyes shuts, the tears don't fall but they sting. They burn. Tim burns.
The hand is there, though. It's running up and down his back. Up and down. Up and down. And even when his breaths, panted, shallow, start to hitch, and he tries not to sob so hard he shakes like the jelly he is, the hand is there. Up and down. His eyes still burn. Up and down.
The hand drifts to his neck, squeezing a little. Tim's eyes shoot open and he slaps his hand to the hand on the scruff of his neck. But before it moves, Tim relaxes, and tries to guide it back down, but he fails. It does it on it's own, and the hand is there, up and down, while he greedily sucks in deep breath after deep breath.
After a good few minutes, the burning in his cheeks is back. Tim feels so stupid, shoving off Dick's hand. "Sorry." He wraps his arms around himself.
"Don't apologize," soothes Dick, sitting on the couch next to Tim. Tim doesn't remember getting here, but it's soft. He sinks into it, hands in his lap as he sits cross-legged. Dick is there, pressing his knee against Tim. Dick gives a small smile. It's perfect. "This is a learning process."
Tim snorts, running his hands over each other. "What's the class?" He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, shoulders bouncing a little.
"I think," Dick sighs, running his hands down his dark blue jeans. "really, just being there for each other. Being there for you." Tim stiffens, but presses his knee against the older man. "I think it's, uh, well, I think I have an F."
Tim weakly smiles, glancing at Dick. "Give yourself credit. You're at least a C minus."
"Wow. Passing? You flatter me, Timbo."
"Hey, in this class, people used to pass in the negatives." Tim stops fiddling with his fingers, before he uncrosses his legs, stretching them out in front of him to sit up straight. It feels weaker than normal, though.
There's a moment, a shaky breath. "And now?" Dick says, shuffling closer.
Tim shrugs, looking away. "Now I don't know. I don't know."
"You know that's okay, right? To not know?"
"I don't think it is."
"You can't know everything," chuckles Dick. It's so fond. Tim doesn't get that normally.
"I should."
"Tim," sighs Dick, "don't try to."
"Why, because I can't handle it?" Tim leaps to his feet, glaring down at Dick.
"I never said that," argues Dick, standing up as well. "I just said you shouldn't try to do everything for yourself—"
"Who's going to do anything, then, huh?!" Tim roars. Dick snaps his mouth back shut. "If I stop to get sick, are you going to travel across Gotham, pick me up off of the floor of the apartment I bought at sixteen? Are you going to wipe my chin, hold my hair, sing me fucking lullabies?! Are you going to sing me lullabies and stay with me while I vomit my guts out like a fucking baby? While I cry like one, too? Are you going to take care of me?!"
Dick is smiling but he's crying. His voice is scratchy, hoarse. "If that's what you want, then—"
"Or am I going to mix up the meds again and almost die! Because at least then I'd get the rest of the fucking family here?! Oh yeah, nice family meet-up. It's — it's not one of your walks in the park or your fucking training sessions, but, hey, let's all come together to pity little unlovable Tim! And then leave him alone! Again!"
Dick blanches. He flinches. And he stumbles back, as if he's been physically fit. He has to sit down onto the couch. He presses his hands to his chest, eyes wide and breath shallow, before he buries his hands into his hair. And he squeezes, and his knees lurch up, his entire body curling.
When he finally looks up at Tim, he looks completely, utterly haunted. "Is — is that what you think? That you're going to be left?"
Tim scoffs, crossing his arms and turning away. "Like you didn't do that when you kicked me out after you took Robin!"
And there it is. The wound never closed. It was never cleaned out. It was a rusty nail that cut open tender skin. A cut so deep it needed stitches. All that happened was a Band-Aid was slapped over, and never ripped off because the Band-Aid blended in so well it looked like the skin healed. It didn't. It really, really never healed.
No matter how much time Tim spent trying to see both sides, how far he pinched his vision to see the other side, how much time he spent after his line was cut, he couldn't heal it. He tried stitching himself up. He physically stitched himself up after Damian cut his line. And Dick never came. Damian went back to Dick, and Tim went back, alone.
He was alone until he had Robin. He was kept at a distance even then. He didn't have Jason, he had Dick once Dick got over himself. He had Dick when his dad died and his mom died and Bart died and Kon died. Then Bruce died. Then Tim left because he thought he had Dick, he thought he had another structure, but Tim was alone at that point, and he crumbled. As usual, he crumbled alone.
Dick wasn't there. Tim left; he was pushed. He wasn't kicked, except by Damian. Dick never pushed Tim, not intentionally. But it wasn't a tap, either. It was a slap to the face and Tim's head turned a full one-eighty. Tim picked himself up with slippery, bloody, mangled hands. He picked himself up piece by piece by piece. He stitched himself back together and he never looked at the work he did because no one ever looked at him long enough to judge it.
Until now. Until the threads have been pulled apart and Tim himself has fallen apart. Then Dick, who can see everything, decides to look at that one spot under that one Band-Aid. Never cleaned out, not with love, and time didn't do shit except make it rustier and dirtier and more scornful.
Except.
Dick lets out a noise like a wounded animal. He strides over to Tim and fuck boundaries because he grabs Tim by the arms, trying to meet the younger's eyes. "That wasn't like that and you have to know — oh." Dick lets go, and he steps back. Tim glances, and his eyes stay locked as his mouth drops. Dick looks at Tim as if he's seeing him, truly, for the first time.
Dick gasps, and he lowers himself back onto the couch, mouth opening and closing over and over again. "No," he whispers, "you don't." He looks at Tim, and then down at his own hands, shaking. Trembling. "Because you can't know everything. And you," Dick closes his eyes, and sighs. It's like the final piece of the puzzle that slid in shoved the weight off of his shoulders. "And you couldn't have known I wasn't kicking you out. Not when you were fucking sixteen. Jesus. I, Timmy. Timmy, I'm sorry."
Tim chokes on a sob, lowering to the ground but Dick continues, tears spilling over. His voice is cracking and Dick is cracking. "I never wanted you to leave, Tim. I wanted you to be my Nightwing—"
"No," Tim profusely shakes his head, almost unable to talk or breathe or do anything, "you didn't—"
"I did. I did," Dick stammers between Tim's agonized wails. "I wanted you to be my Nightwing. Because I wanted — I wanted you by my side. I wanted you, Timmy. I always wanted you. Even when I had Damian, I wanted you both, but I never wanted you to leave. I never wanted you to leave, or to be alone. I never hated you or anything like that. I wanted you, Tim. Because I love you."
And Tim?
Tim sobs.
But Dick is by his side, smashing him into a hug. Tim buries his face into Dick's chest. And he never leaves.
That was just the first week.
Tim is still unsure.
A little less, though. A little less.