Chapter Text
Dick listened to Tim for an entire afternoon and night, all the way until two in the morning the next day. Tim hit, he screamed, and Dick took it, until the two ended up on the floor of the library, Dick holding Tim as sobs petered out, shaking limbs exhausted, Tim exhausted, and Dick wiping at his own eyes. A bigger body encasing a smaller, arms tightly wrapped around Tim as Tim clutched, clung to those arms. They woke up and the blankets they folded were draped over them with a butler's care.
It was cathartic, though, to get angry. Dick didn't get angry back. Tim tried, but all Dick got angry at was getting angry for. For Tim. Tim was sure the entire house could hear them, he could sure feel it in his throat after scream after scream had rampaged through it. Dick didn't care, and when he screamed back, he was sobbing. After a back and forth for a while, they ended up on the floor, Dick pressed into the bookshelves, holding Tim, and Tim holding back.
For his first ever official cuddle with the Wayne family, he thinks it was pretty nice. And when he woke up, when he was vulnerable, when he was so tired, down to his bones, so much he couldn't do so much as look up and blink blearily, wearily at Dick, Dick bent down, and he kissed Tim's forehead so tenderly Tim thought he was dreaming. So he did go back to sleep, under the guide of Dick's sweet nothings, and when he woke up, Dick was there, in an uncomfortable position with the books against his back, but there.
That was nice. It was also the first week.
The second week, Tim had a problem with his leg. Or his liver. Actually, it was both. The liver came first, the leg, actually his ankle, came when he tried to walk and fell, with his ankle still standing straight. So that was another week of observation, another week of the family being incessantly close. Close with their cuddles and their coddling and their forehead kisses and braiding Tim's hair as it grew.
And he did grow it out. It was nearing past his chin, and it had already been French-braided four times by three separate people. From that, he learned that Dick was good with hair. No wonder the man's hair shined so much. And it was so wavy. But Tim also had his nails painted, and his cast was decorated either very nicely and neatly, or Steph or Jason had a chance to do it. Dick was just tacky. Damian was a show-off, and a good one at that.
Actually, while Tim was bedridden, Damian was drawing in the corner, not allowing Tim to talk, apparently 'keeping close watch on Alfred the cat so that Tim didn't accidentally kill him or cough blood into his fur', which is the most affectionate act or words the kid has ever said.
And he was a kid, when he brought out his watercolors. The things he painted while Tim answered highly intrusive questions, well, he could've sold those for a lot if he ever showed everyone. Tim only caught glimpses, but what he saw? It was amazing. Tim had some art supplies he collected while searching for Bruce, a gift from Pru and the others when he drew a plan into the sand. It was a joke, a mockery of him, but he never threw it out.
Damian didn't say anything when Tim gave it to him, but he did show Tim the finished project. And let Tim pet Bat-cow. Two big steps, and Tim saw that. They're not hugging, though. Nope. Never. But Tim doesn't need that. He's good petting the, uh, cow. He's good.
He's good with Jason reading to him and them getting into debates about the characters and the ethics and workings of worldbuilding and development arcs, playfully punching his arm in a way that could never hurt. He's good with Dick ruffling his hair after taking out the braids Cass put in. He's good with putting the nails Steph painted onto the cow Damian lets him near unsupervised.
There's just a few more things.
Bruce won't come near him. Neither will Alfred. But Bruce teases him with head pats of stiff hands and hair ruffles of twitchy fingers, but he won't talk to Tim, not truly. He talks in fake promises and dangling carrots that Tim won't believe. He knows Dick is telling the truth, but Dick isn't Bruce.
No one knows Bruce like Tim does. Dick does, but he wasn't here for the nightmares, the screaming, the venting and, most prominently, the violence. The cold shoulders and the tantrums a grown man shouldn't be having, especially not at a teenager. Tim learned early on that the Robin relationship they were growing was unlike the rest. It was professional.
Tim has been fine with that.
Up until the fake promises. Honestly? Tim would rather be stabbed then have his wounds patched up with glue. He'd rather be shot in the front then stabbed in the back by the person who said they'd heal him. He'd rather wake up to no one then to the life he could never had.
But of course Tim didn't say that. He would never say something like that to Bruce.
Until.
It was another sleepless night when it happened. Tim can't remember the dream, but he can remember the way even his heart was rushing to get out of his chest to just get away. He remembers the way he shot up as if he was leaping off of a building instead of being back in the building.
When he woke up, in a sheen of his own sweat that he was drowning in, he lurched forward, the gasping and the sobbing already started. He stumbled and stammered in his steps, shuddering when he retched into his toilet bowl. So, it being two in the morning, after slamming himself into the cold water of his shower, shivering when he got out to throw on a pair of clean clothes that he could swim it, and he decided, once the motion sensors he planted and Dick's previous comments told him that the manor was empty, he went down to the kitchen for some relaxing coffee.
He was about to pour his drink when he heard the quiet, almost inaudible woosh. And then, behind him, someone was blocking out the dim lighting of the kitchen.
"Tim."
See, Tim would normally reply, but he was not in the mood. See, he nearly woke up in his own vomit, and now he has to deal with trying to pretend. Pretend that Bruce isn't lying and that Tim can't see through those lies. Pretend that they both aren't waiting for everything to go to shit so Tim can be kicked to the curve. Pretend like Tim didn't just throw up the little food he can keep down and pretend like Tim isn't lying about his condition to avoid being thrown away again, but only one of them can pretend anymore that the charade can continue.
So Tim keeps his hands on the countertop, and he stays very still, because he doesn't know what he's going to throw first, or what he'll do if he turns around.
"Coffee? Oh, shit, wait, uh, I mean," And there's sheepish Bruce. Probably in his pajamas. Probably he's rubbing the back of his neck and his cheeks are turning red. But it's a lie. It is. It has to be because that's all that Tim knows right now. "Uh, I just, well, are you, uh, not able to sleep?"
Tim tightens his grip on the counter. This had better stop. Tim doesn't feel in control right now; in control of himself. He's going to snap.
"I can help you. I have this thing of melatonin? And it's chocolate, and uh, you prefer dark, right? You and Steph have that in common."
Bruce needs to shut up.
"If, uh, if not, then we can talk."
Shut up.
"But Leslie said that you need your sleep. I can prepare, I mean, the batch of coffee. For the morning. But right now?"
Shut up. Shut up. Shut upshutupshutup—
"I think maybe we can talk until you go to bed, but I just want to make sure—"
"A little late for parenting techniques, Bruce." Tim sounds insane, and his vision is a hazy red.
"Oh, yeah, it is pretty late. Two in the—"
"I'm seventeen." Tim is sharp. Bruce is oddly not. Tim turns around and his eyes are cold and as usual, he's guarded. He's always guarded. Whether his forearms are up and covering his face, or he's chilled by a cold shoulder, he's guarded.
But he feels different. Tim feels untamed. For once, for once in his life, there is an adult in front of him. And for once, he isn't the prey. He isn't the heir. He isn't the one they look down on with contempt and pure hatred, with disgust. They do not look down on him as if he's nothing, because Bruce is looking up at him like he's something more, like he's something to be feared. Bruce is scared.
And Tim loves that. With a rush through his lungs like fresh air or heavenly cold sips of water, coursing through his veins like a wildfire. With the tingling in his hands, the twirling of his fingers, he tilts his chin back. Not so that he looks to the sky for strength, but so that his chin is tilted up, and he's looking down at the man taller than him, with eyes of daggers and the presence of the one who's about to set the world on fire without a second thought.
"Oh."
Tim narrows his eyes, snorting and crossing his arms. He throws a hand out. "And you had your chance." His free hand goes to rub his arms.
"I did?" Bruce has his arms stiffly at his side, before he smooths the sweaty palms down his pants. He's peering at Tim, trying see the boy, trying to wonder why a good day has turned into a bad, or if this is just the start of another bad day. "Hey, are you feeling—"
"I was Robin for a long time, you know," says Tim, coolly cutting Bruce off. Never once do frosted-over eyes leave blue eyes. Tim shrugs, carelessly, with a sarcasm with wit but no semblance of humor in it. He bites the inside of his lip to steer his anger to the pit, shaking his head. "Never cared then. Why do you care now?"
Bruce comes close to gasping, pushing off the countertop so he can try and loom over Tim but he's the small one right now. He's the one raising his forearms, the mountain of the man with shaking foundations, learning what it is to be small. So he tries to glower and glare but Tim is stronger. And he's furious.
Bruce exclaims, "Excuse me?"
"Oh," Tim barks mirthlessly, throwing up a hand in annoyance, "great, get angry. Oh yeah, that’s awesome. Keep doing that. Wow."
Bruce blanches, and his broad shoulders curl as he recoils, flinching. The glare melts instantaneously and the mountain of a man crumbles, an entire façade gone. "No," he meekly, quietly says, "Tim, I’m not getting — I will get angry with you. I just—"
"No." Tim tosses the coffee mug aside, letting it slide across the countertop until it knocks against the microwave. He never stops glaring. He feels as if he grows taller as he steps up to Bruce. The veins on his forehead and neck feel like they're going to burst. He thinks he is. Good. He needs this. "Screw this. Get angry. Let's end this."
The realization hits Bruce and he takes a step back before Tim can get a solid hit. "Tim, I think you need to go back to sleep."
"And I think you need to stop lying to yourself."
"What am I lying to myself about?"
"Your relationship with me." Bruce has a hurt expression and a part of Tim that is firing his chest revels in it. Good. "Bruce, I think we need to do this. For both our sakes. Just stop pretending."
"Pretending what?"
"That you love me. You don't. You're just waiting until you can leave me alone again. You're just like them."
"Hey," Tim's eye twitches ever so dangerously at the way Bruce is calm. Fuck no. Bruce doesn't get to be calm about this. Not when everything in Tim feels as though he's on fire and he needs to hurt. He needs to break. And Bruce isn't going to put him out with water or some emotional talk. No. That's not how this is going to go. Tim won't let it.
"Tim," Bruce placates, Bruce fucking placates, "I know you're feeling angry right now, but—"
This isn't working. he's calm. That, well, that doesn't work for Tim. Not one bit.
"You sent me back!" Tim swings around and slams the coffee pot into the floor. Coffee splatters. Glass shatters and glass scatters. Tim turns back around and with the crushing weight of his fury he nearly doubles over. "Each time! If you hated my parents so much, why did you send me back?! Each time! Every night! Unless you hated me!"
"Tim," Bruce's hand near the smashed pot twitches but he's eyeing Tim, monitoring Tim, "I never hated you—"
"But you never loved me, right?" Tim runs a now bloody hand down his face.
"I have always loved you!" Bruce takes a step forward.
"Oh, oh, so leaving me on the training mats, that was just your way of showing love, right? Because you've always been so, so, so loving to me, Bruce! Wow, yeah, I could really feel the gushing love when you ignored me for our entire fucking relationship! Wow, yeah, you were so loving when you didn't speak to me after you came back!
"I—"
"Oh yeah, Bruce! A fucking side-hug and a pat on the back! Way to be a good father! Oh, and you thanked me, right?! Way to go above and beyond! Oh, you're doing fucking great! A-fucking-plus!"
"Tim, I'm sorry. I — I know I haven't been good to you—"
"You've been good to Dick, right? And to Jason? To Damian? Even Cass gets hugs! Why does she gets hugs, huh?! Is it because she's not me? What's wrong with me?"
"Nothing is wrong with you!"
"So what's wrong with you? Why do you hate me so much?! I get it, I'm not Dick and I'm not your first and I'm not Damian and I'm not Jason! Okay, is that it?" Tim exhales deeply on a shudder than racks his body. Bruce is frozen, like he's made of stone but only because he doesn't move, frozen with fear. He's close to crying and that's not fair because that's how Tim is feeling. "Because it was it when I first met you."
"What do you mean?"
"I wasn't Jason. I was the replacement you didn't even order. If you didn't want me then, why do you want me now?"
"I did want you! I obviously couldn't show it back then!"
"Yeah, you couldn't! And why?! No matter how many times you fight with all of the others, no matter how much, you're always there for them in the end! And the beginning! They at least have that thought, in the back of their mind, that you do, in fact, love them! I don't have that! And I don't have any memories to back it up, Bruce!"
"Tim, I . . . "
"You once told me I was the best detective you knew. And I'm telling you now that I don't have any evidence. And I'm lost. Because you're giving me all this now, but I can't believe it. Because all I can think of is my parents. And you're not my parents. At least not to the others. So it's a me thing, right? It's me? What's wrong with me?"
"Nothing's wrong with you,” Bruce insists with a desperation that leaves him rasping. He goes to cup Tim’s face but Tim pulls back, glaring. “Nothing has ever been wrong with you."
"I don't believe that,” Tim gasps, the breath knocked right out of him, “I don't believe you."
Bruce flinches. Tim is crying. He didn't notice until a tear dripped onto the floor. It dripped past his chin but what he didn't know, was that it was just one of many. Because with a shuddering exhale of which his soul was freed passed his pursed, sealed lips he had to pry apart, because with that exhale, he suddenly felt it.
The anger turned to a sadness as he registered the burning in his eyes. Next, he felt the ways his cheeks were soaked, his hands that he had out, flexing under the weight of his crushed spirit, were dripping with his tears. His chest felt like it was on fire and his lungs were so blocked that when he breathed, his knees turned to jelly, and he was shaking. He was shaking because he could feel in the way he started panting, trying to push down a rising tide of pain, he could feel he was losing to the way his face went limp, his guard brought down.
The whimper tore out of Tim relentlessly. He clasped a trembling hand over his mouth, but all it did was sent him spiraling backwards into the fridge. Years and years of grief. Suddenly, he remembered the way he felt when he woke up, alone, with blood on the bandages around his abdomen. He remembers the relief, the way he felt as if he could die right there and then when Bruce opened his eyes and the machines beeped.
His hands tingle with the way he grasped at the dirt at third funeral in a short time span. He can feel the way he swallowed his emotions, like a boulder on fire going through his throat. He remembers the way he couldn't breathe as he rocked back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth until he collapsed onto his side, slamming into the ground again and again and again and again because nothing felt right but the pain at least felt wrong.
Suddenly, he remembers the screaming of his parents and the slamming of doors, how each thud would take his breath away before he lurched up in bed because of a nightmare. The bite marks on his wrists feel like they're burning brand marks. He suddenly remembers what it's like, rocking back and forth, slamming onto his side, swallowing his tears, and doing it all alone.
He never thought about it. He never tried to. He knew it wouldn't end well so he put it all behind a wall, each wave of emotion was put behind the wall and he never stopped to think. If he stopped to think, he'd breathe, and he'd slow down long enough to gather his thoughts and put them to the loss. He didn't need to gather, he needed to keep going.
And now he feels as if he's sitting down, and the sun is setting, and the chill of darkness is hitting him like a train because the crickets are quieting and the voices are gone. All that is left is the wall and it's broken. All that is left is the fact that Tim can rest, he can scream, he can cry, because no one needs him to do anything, except that his brain needs him to think, and Tim needs to breathe.
Metaphorically, Tim can't breathe. He can't take that moment to gather himself because he'll just be gathering shards.
Literally, Tim is about to suffocate.
He's frozen until Bruce makes a wounded noise of his own, and Tim realizes he's near-sobbing. Bruce, Bruce, Bruce looks at Tim, and Tim can't move because he realizes he has to think. So Bruce steps forward, arms open, and Tim steps back, rambling a warning but Bruce?
Bruce hugs him anyways.
Tim can't. "I hate you! I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate—"
Bruce hugs him.
"Let me go! I hate you! I hate you! Let me go! Let me go! I hate you! Don't love me! I hate you!"
Tim's face, tear-streaked, blotchy, sobbing, devastated face is pressed into a broad chest.
Trying to stop from descending into sobs, he thinks he finally breathes when he sucks in the biggest breath—
And breaks on the exhale.
Tim doesn't know what happened next.
Honestly, he cried from two until six in the morning. By then, Bruce had them up against a cabinet, far away from the glass and the coffee. Bruce had them, holding Tim, rocking them back and forth. When Tim came to, with his breaths evening and the sobs petering out, there was a rumble, and Bruce was singing a lullaby.
Tim didn't have the strength to argue.
He could barely listen.
It didn't stop Bruce from talking for hours about Tim. The little quirks Tim had, even as a gangly teenager. He told Tim things Tim had forgotten about himself. He talked about the cases Tim solved, but not the actual cases, rather the way Tim's thought process worked. Said Bruce had a hard time figuring out the mechanics of Tim's brain.
Tim merely nodded, limp against Bruce's chest, holding the man weakly as occasionally, kisses would be pressed against his forehead. Tim was content. Bruce's chest was like the thunder of a dark, serene sky. It was grounding. It was also grounding to feel the hands around his shoulders or up and down his arms and neck.
Bruce talked more. Talked about his own grief with his parents and Jason, and then he talked about returning.
From the dead.
Via Tim's hand.
He explained his side. But, more importantly, he described the millions of things he couldn't bring himself to say. Not just then, but way back then. He described the hundreds of things he did wrong. He explained the thousands of lives he wants Tim to have, and there's a smile in each. Bruce wove the stories of every time he had to restrain himself from kidnapping Tim for himself, or breaking misunderstood boundaries to just hold Tim at least once more.
Tim nodded.
Tim sobbed.
Tim wailed.
Tim got kisses on his forehead.
Tim went to sleep in Bruce's arms, and woke up in his bed with a massive mass next to his bed, with a large hand still engulfing Tim's. Tim maneuvered his way to sleep on top of Bruce, still swaddled in blankets, because if the man is going to make him cry, he can have a load of blankets onto him. And Tim went back to sleep.
Tim woke up, with an entire family around him. Steph across his legs. Damian in the chair in the sun. Alfred attending to the freshly made tea. Cass against the headboard and against Bruce and Tim. Dick on the other side of Bruce and Tim. Jason across from the four, reading to the rest of the family. Titus in Damian's lap. Alfred the Cat in Tim's lap.
Tim was happy.
He could finally breathe.
And then, there's Alfred.
For the first week, Alfred was clinical. Alfred's a damn doctor, of course he's clinical, but he was clinical, not caring. Alfred is caring. He's always caring. He's the care-freaking-master. He's always loving. His heart is huge. It's overflowing. He sees a crack in a mask and he fixes it. Even if that mask is ugly on the outside or it's aggressive or it's stubborn, Alfred will be there, ready to repair, ready to love, ready to be Alfred.
Alfred is Alfred. No one can deny him. Bruce has gone up against omnipotent beings and he will bow down to Alfred's words like Alfred is the writer of reality. He might as well be. He damn well is. Alfred's signage of approval is given out seemingly easily, it's so important. It matters so much.
And apparently, Tim didn't get it.
He was waiting for Alfred to talk when he was changing Tim's bandages. But thin lips were sealed tight. God, he was so disgusted that Tim wasn't even spared a glance. Eyes cast downwards. Kind, warm, soft eyes didn't bother to look at Tim. Probably for the best. He shouldn't look at Tim.
But he used to. When Tim was Robin, being sent back to Drake Manor, slowly, he wasn't. First Alfred invited him for Sunday crepes, then he bandaged him up after patrol, then training, then to stay the night, because it was too cold or it was storming or Alfred had already made up the bed and how could Tim refuse?
One night turned into two, two into three, three into eight and eight into a month where Tim only went back to Drake Manor when he knew dust was surely collecting or his parents said they might return, which they never did. And there was hardly ever a reason to go back to Drake Manor, except for when Dick showed up more, and Bruce was less broody, but before Bruce could manage a snort, there was Alfred.
Unless he was pitying Tim. Tim's older now, and he doesn't need pity. And he has the others now. He doesn't need Alfred.
Except that's a big fucking lie, because everyone needs Alfred. And Tim doesn't have him. He wants him. He wants to be selfish to say that he really, really wants Alfred back. But if Alfred doesn't like him anymore, then he won't push it.
He put himself on a twelve-step program to help. Avoid, stress, distract. More of a three-step program, honestly, but with those three options, he only had to worry about seeing Alfred in the halls one third of the time.
Tim was doing a good job. Dick was on his case, because Tim was turning to shaking hands and coffee. As soon as Tim's lips tilted down, when Alfred left, quiet and frowning, Dick was hugging him, and Tim couldn't breathe in the grip, but Tim was more focused on the door, where there was no kind butler.
Tim was fine. He's not a seven-year-old, no matter how filed down his nails or his emotional abilities are, he's seventeen. Almost eighteen. He can handle losing one relationship. He's lost a ton of others. And he can cope. He might not be leaving the manor, but he can cope with empty rooms and cold shoulders and even colder eyes and the fact that his nails are so gone he's started bleeding. He's an adult. He can cope. He can avoid.
He was doing perfectly, perfectly fine. Sitting in the guest bedroom given to him — his bedroom, the others would hint at — and working through the firewall that Bruce and Barbara worked together to put up, with the sole purpose to stop him from working in his recovery, when there was a knock on the door. A courtesy, because no one can hear Alfred sneak up on them, not even Cass.
Tim stiffened. He couldn't avoid, not if Alfred tried to talk. He could distract but he can't think. So he can stress. Not if he checks out. He can check out. No. He can't. It stresses them out. Or at least he thinks it stresses the others out when he checks out. He doesn't want to stress out Alfred. He can't.
Tim sat there, his muscles tense and his jaw locking, not that he'd be able to speak either way. Alfred walks in, carrying a tray of Tim's antibiotics and clean bandages and anti-septic, as is the past few weeks. The pills are accompanied by today's treat of peanut butter and apples. Tim's dry mouth almost waters. Almost.
Alfred sets down the tray, and Tim has already packed his computer to the side, holding out his arm and trying to stare off into a middle distance without checking out. He wants to and he can't. So he holds out his arm, sleeve rolled up, ready for the bandages to be changed. He doesn't look at Alfred, though. He can't.
Sitting on a bed, sinking into the mattress, fisting the comforters with his free hand so tightly that a ghost looks tan. And a neck so stiff he thinks he gives Cyborg a run for his money. The silence is deafening. Silence is louder than the words screamed at Dick. Silence is so loud that it's a blizzard, a white-out, and you can't see, because it's encompassing, encasing, and it's frozen you down to your brittle bones.
Tim wants to cry. But not just that, he wants to cry and he wants to do it into Alfred's uniform. He wants to cry and have a slender hand rub his back while an accented voice whispers soothing comforts into his red ears because Tim is freezing — and he just wants Alfred's warmth.
A minute passes, and when Alfred has settled the tray, Tim looks up and away, not seeing the cold eyes he knows are there. He just holds out his arm. He waits for it to be over so he can cry into his comforter. Or just brood. Either one. He just wants it to be over.
"Ahem." Tim blinks back to see Alfred reaching for the tape to peel off the old bandages. Tim doesn't meet cold eyes. "Master Tim," Tim flinches, subtly enough, bracing himself for an emotional blow to make a clown's joke of any physical blow. "I . . . " Alfred pauses, before breathing in and letting it out with a sigh. "I would like to apologize."
Tim's eyes burst open, and he looks at Alfred. Prying his lips apart, he opens his dried out mouth, before closing it, and opening it again as Alfred begins to slowly peel off the dirtied, ragged bandages. They don't do much anymore except remind him there's a wound under there.
Tim keeps his eyes downcast as he quietly asks, "What for? I don't think you've done anything wrong."
"Well I certainly haven't done anything right. I . . . Master Tim, when you showed up at our doorstep, you were so . . . small. I could tell you'd either been feeding yourself or someone hadn't been feeding you, and either one I was not particularly fond of. And I saw you, and I just, well, I wanted to bring you into this home and swaddle you in blankets. Most of all, I wanted to let you rest."
"I got enough sleep as a kid," rasps Tim, eyes burning as he desperately holds them back from the man. The bandage is coming off slowly, Alfred handling it with care, being sure not to expose too much of the healing wound at once.
"Ah, yes," Alfred nose twitches with fondness and Tim could just cry, "but you were a tired soul. Why, sometimes you seemed older than Master Bruce."
"Master Bruce can be a child," whispers Tim, his voice gone.
Alfred smiles so, so softly. "Yes. You could be, as well. You have always had this light in your eyes. It was more when you were just joining us. You looked at us as if we had hung the moon and placed the stars. And we looked at you, sometimes, with contempt."
And Alfred sniffles.
Alfred sniffled.
Tim's eyes snap up and he throws himself at Alfred, the bandages falling off to the side to expose the stitches. He clutches at the man's trembling hands. Alfred doesn't tremble. He moves mountains. He is one. He doesn't tremble — he doesn't.
"Alfred," Tim says, nearly cries, a soothing smile twisting at chapped lips as he looks into the man's eyes. And oh God, they're warm and they're perfect and they're all so loving for Tim. That makes Tim cry. "Alfred, Alfred, you didn't do anything wrong."
"But that doesn't mean I did anything right." Alfred shifts their hands so that he holds the top of Tim's forehands, exposing his wrists and the bandages to the ceiling, to whatever entity runs the universe as if Alfred is on his knees at the steps of the Heavens to confess to them as if it'll let them turn him away.
Alfred looks at Tim, and the pillar of the family is weakened. But at the same time, it's not as if Tim is now holding up the sky with a bloodied heart and mind, because he doesn't feel as if he's supporting Alfred, he feels as if they're supporting each other. Alfred looks at Tim and the man is nearly in tears. Tim is weak in his knees.
Alfred purses his lips, gazing at Tim, memorizing the boy's features. "Just because I never outwardly harmed you does not mean I ever protected you."
"You did."
"And yet it feels as though we cannot say those words truly. Because I'm sure it feels as if I let it all happen, and that would be because I did. Oh," Alfred clicks his tongue, sighing sadly and sniffing, before he releases Tim's uninjured arm, still cradling the arm with the gash, but with his now-free hand he reaches up to take the side of Tim's face in a slender, caring hand. With the pad of a smooth thumb, Tim's hot tears are wiped away before they can fall off of his chin.
Tim can't speak, transfixed on the way Alfred is looking at him as if Tim was the one who gave the light to the moon and the shine to the stars. Alfred is looking at Tim as if he is everything and Tim, for once in his life, feels like he is.
His chest is slowly loosening. Like glass mending itself, Tim can feel the way that his toes uncurl. His jaw leans back, his shoulders slouch except to bounce with the shake of hitched sobs and breaths. His fingers tingle as they go limp. And his chest, tight chest, tight throat, burning eyes — everything seems to take a deep breath and shudder on the exhale. Tim sure does.
Alfred is smiling so sadly. "I know I never hurt you, but I never stopped it. And I never reached out, nor did I pay you the attention you needed. For years, I've watched as you step onto sidelines yourself, or make sacrifice after sacrifice. And each time that happens, each time you do, I just pray that afterwards, you'll have a piece of you left. That after you give and you give, that you'll have that little quirk of your lips, or that brain of yours, or you.
"Master Timothy, I never hurt you, but I know that I did, because each time you fell, at least recently, I watched. I simply watched. And, for that, I apologize, my boy. You are my boy. My dear, dear boy. No matter if you go crazy or how wayward you stray, I will be there. And this time, I won't be in the shadows. I will be in the light with you, my boy, holding your hand or with my arms, outstretched, if you were to fall. This time, I'll catch you."
Alfred pauses to wipe the tears streaming from Tim's eyes, before he turns back to continue to wrap the new set of bandages around Tim's arm. He looks back at Tim. Still fond, loving, perfect, soft, warm eyes — still directed at Tim.
"If you would like to move on, go off to get hitched in California or even on another planet in another galaxy, or go on some spectacular mission with your friends or your family, then may I extend a weekly or monthly invite you to come back to tea. Or send me a postcard, at least an address so I may write. I'd like to hear all about your life. And if, just if, you want to stay, I will be there, each sleepless night or slow morning. Master Timothy, you will never face anything alone again. Even if it's horrid, there will be someone, someone in your corner. You will never be alone again.
"That, my dear boy, is a promise."
Tim thinks he'll be okay.
It wouldn't be linear. There would be days when the sun shriveled, and there were days full of screaming and hours of breakdowns and meltdowns galore. There would be times when Tim couldn't look at anyone or even speak. There would be the moments when everything seemed hopeless.
There would be the times when Tim was on top of the world, riding out a high he couldn't even begin to describe. There would be the times when Tim was on top of someone's shoulders. When the colors were so vibrant he almost looked away, but he didn't, entranced by the view.
Eventually, though, it would all hollow out, even out, to the new normal. Bad days, good days, but mostly? Content. Satisfaction. Shoulders to lean on. Ears that would listen with hearts that would reply. Chests that took beatings and minds that let the anger sift out to reveal the hurt, and people saw the hurt, and they helped the hurt. They cared for it until it stitched into a quiet day of being stuck in bed with someone next to him.
There was always someone next to him.
Tim would never be rid of the feelings, the underlying distrust or sense of hopelessness. The way he would feel like throwing up when he wasn't included, or when a text was left on read for too long. He would never be able to get rid of that, no, but now, he talked to someone, or if they didn't talk, he had someone be there for him.
With all of that, Tim thinks he's going to be okay.
No, he knows he's going to be okay.
Tim is going to be okay.