Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Nothing you confess, could make me love you less. I'll stand by you" 

Timothy Jason Drake isn't Timothy Jackson Drake anymore.

Or, well, he is and he isn't. 

He's never liked Timothy before, thank you very much. So that part is fine. He can go by Tim now without being told he is being improper. 

He's not sure how he feels about the Drake part. It's still, you know, legally, his surname, he guesses. Unless they went and changed that. Would they bother making the effort? But he had said it. 

Right there, while he slammed the door in his son's face, Jack had told him.

"You're not our son. You're not a Drake. Timothy Jackson Drake is dead to us."

And, after so many days on the streets of Gotham, Tim really could have been dead for all his parents know.

And that is fine. Tim is fine. Really. He doesn't need family. It's not really like he had much of it before. There are things he misses, of course. The way his mother would smile and talk about their trips, teaching Tim about different cultures and histories. How his father would ruffle his hair when Tim brought home straight A's, when Jack Drake had been home to see it. It hurts, but Tim honestly finds that he misses actual, physical, things more than his parents most of the time. A warm bed. Food in the fridge, even if he had to make it himself. Heating. Plumbing. Electricity. Sure, some of the shelters he lands at have those things, but they're never a guarantee now. 

He also sorely misses Batman. 

Tim had grabbed his camera when he was kicked out. Had grabbed his few personal or prized possessions. His laptop keeps him working, earning some money. He may not be enrolled in school anymore but there are still plenty of people who will pay a decent dollar amount for essays and homework. His phone had been disconnected the day after he had been booted. He had kept it for some of the photographs. Some of the texts from his parents. But soon sold it for money for food. He bought a cheap model with prepaid minutes, just to keep in better contact with his "clients". He is always so careful with his computer and phone. Having them out in the wrong place only brings trouble. The camera even more so. And it took up valuable backpack space. He needs to fit his entire life on his shoulders now and extra weight isn't worth it. It's not like he can even take pictures anymore. Batman's busy hours are late in the night and if Tim wants to get to the shelters before they are full, he can't risk it. There are a few nights, when the places are too packed anyway, that Tim resumes his rooftop romps, but they are too few and far between for the camera to be worth it. He keeps the SD card in a hidden hand-sewn pocket of the bag. He can't part with those. Not ever. 

Today is Thanksgiving, which means the shelters are about to have some of the best food of the year. Tim should know. He volunteered enough serving food and donating boxes upon boxes every holiday season. His parents were always either out of the country working or busy with holiday galas and charity events to concern themselves with Gotham's poor - even if some of those events were to raise money for them. An older boy Tim has seen at the nicer youth shelter off of 15th from time to time warned Tim of the mad rush today. The shelters are flooded during dinner time with those that are homeless and others that, while they have a roof over their heads, don't have food in their pantries. Some folks stay away from the shelters because they tend to crack down on crime or drugs or younger kids - Tim's thankful he hasn't been sent off into the system yet, despite a few social workers sniffing around. But they all come out of the woodwork today for the heapings of potatoes and turkey and pie. 

Tim is taking the advice and heading there early when it happens. 

"Hey! Tommy!" 

The guy is at the other end of the alley, but for some reason it sounds like he is addressing Tim. Tim doesn't stop walking though. You never stop walking.

"Jimbo! Jim?" A second voice spouts. 

"Hey, Andy - I think it's Tim!" A third man adds.

Tim's foot falters as he takes his next step. They might be a few yards away, but they definitely notice. 

"Yeah, Tim! That's right. Hey, Tim! Hold up!"

And it's not like he has a choice, now that a fourth guy has rounded the corner, blocking his exit. Tim turns, gripping his pack's straps and casually backing toward a wall so none of them are behind him. 

"Hey," he tries to sound calm but some part of the word squeaks, "what's up?"

"Ricky here," the first guy points to the third, "says he's seen you down at some coffee place on 9th."

"Yeah, so?" Tim swallows, straightening because there is only one reason he goes to the tiny little cafe with the free wi-fi.

"With a laptop," the stranger finishes with a sick sort of sneer. "Now, we figure, a kid who can afford a little caffeine, and a whole ass computer, must have some money."

"I can assure you -"

"Assure me?" He cackles. "Listen to this kid. Yeah, he's got money. No way you from around here Richie Rich."

"Please," Tim tries, "just leave me alone."

"Yeah, sure," he pats Tim's arm, his eyes shining just a little brighter at how it makes Tim flinch. "We'll leave you alone. Soon as you hand over the laptop and any other money you got on you."

"I don't -"

"Are you lying to us?" The pat on his arm turns to a push and Tim feels himself collide with the wall behind him. "Huh? You wouldn't lie to us, right?"

"I - I can give you some cash," Tim stammers, reaching into his pockets, "but I need the computer."

Not to mention the photos that are saved on there. The only identity-revealing shots are still securely stored on the SD card, but still. He isn't going to just give up the one thing keeping him fed out here. And anything, even a small thing, that could somehow, even a little bit, hurt Batman. Not to mention that these guys don't seem like they're just going to let Tim sort through his bag before they take it off of him. So that's goodbye to the SD card too. Not that these idiots could crack the encryption. But again, Tim won't risk Batman for anything. And he won't risk losing the only piece he has left from that part of his life. 

"I don't think this is a negotiation."

The first guy still has Tim pushed up against the wall but he clocks it when Ricky lifts an arm. Tim drops down, slipping out of Andy's hold and ducking Ricky's swing. He is idly wondering if all of their names end in "y" as he kicks out his leg, using Ricky's momentum against him. The guy goes down face first onto the concrete. Tim scrambles between legs and feet but is hauled up from behind by Number 4. Tim whirls wildly, the guy forced to come along for the ride as Number 4's side slams into the wall. Andy lunges for him and Tim drops again, ducking as Andy flails over Tim's bent back, falling onto the ground on Tim's other side. He's about to laugh when a knee connects with his nose and Tim feels something squish and his whole body bucks backward. A meaty set of knuckles knocks into his jaw and Tim topples over. His face is shoved into the gravel by several sets of hands. They're yanking off his backpack and Tim is too dazed to do anything about it as a foot kicks out against his stomach and he loses air for a moment. 

"Hey assholes!"

A new voice sounds from somewhere nearby and Tim's head uselessly echoes "A New Challenger Approaches" in a deep video game announcer voice. Thanks, random internal monologue. Super helpful.

Tim squints through a haze of pain just in time to see a blurry flash of something round and green go soaring down the alley, and straight into Andy's face.

"What the -"

The man's words are muffled by the sudden fist springing out of seemingly nowhere because there is another new person who apparently just apparated into the middle of the alley. There is a flurry of movement, a lot of grunting and groaning, and then the footfalls from four men running and stumbling their way out of there.

"Don't chase them!" The next new voice is firm, but not unkind -  and maybe a little exasperated, like he is used to saying things like this to the other person. 

"What? They deserve it!" This voice is younger, but older than Tim, and very angry. 

"I think he needs us more." Older voice is soft now.

Someone needs something? Needs help maybe? Tim should get up and help. Tim should - 

"Hey," Voice #2, soft but still strong, "are you okay?"

Hands find his shoulders and move to help Tim sit up but Tim isn't processing things great just yet, hold please, so he sort of scurries backward on his sore hands until he crashes up against the wall, nowhere left to go. 

"Kid, hey, we're not going to hurt you. We promise."

And, whoa, now that Tim's brain is buzzing a little less, that Voice #2 sounds suspiciously familiar. His vision is still a little wonky though and there might be something sticky in his eyes. 

"N-Nightwing?" 

There's a sudden tension in the air. Tim, well, Tim still can't see, but he can definitely feel it. Maybe Tim is wrong. But he's heard that voice so many times before. As Nightwing. As Robin. As Dick Grayson. As the youngest Flying Grayson all the way back there at the circus, at the start of it all. He hears that voice most in his dreams. And nightmares. 

"Nightwing?" Tim tries again, because maybe he had been too quiet because his throat is pretty thick with something wet. "I can't see. I can't see."

He's trying really hard not to panic because it's not the coolest way to meet, or well, re-meet, your hero. 

"You're going to be okay," Nightwing says finally, his voice a little tight but still so very kind. 

"What can I do?" The first voice is quiet, controlled, and - 

Robin. It's Robin. 

Tim doesn't say that aloud this time because they didn't seem to like it when he said Nightwing's name before. Maybe because -

Shit.

Tim remembers. They had only been blurs. Shapes and colors as his vision went all wishy washy. But those shapes and colors weren't black and blue or green and red. They were just sort of blue and beige and white and - regular clothing colored. Not vigilante outfit colored. 

Dick Grayson is kneeling in front of him. And Tim called him Nightwing. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

"Who are you?" Tim goes with, letting them figure out how they want to play this.

He'll roll with whatever story they try to spin. It's his stupid fault he almost outed them anyway. 

"This is Jason," Nightwing answers smoothly, "he saw what was happening and came and got me."

Came and got Nightwing? In the middle of the day? That's a little thin even for them. Are they going to pretend he is concussed, which, Tim really thinks he might be anyway. Or - got it.

Tim reaches up, rubbing one eye, clearing the image just enough to confirm his suspicions, despite Nightwing's protests to "stop" and "be careful". Tim isn't sure whether he is stalling, wanting to keep Tim blind until he can disappear into the dark of the alley, or is actually concerned. Either way, it's done now and Dick Grayson is sat before him, all sympathetic eyes and furrowed brow. 

"Wait - you're not -" Tim lets the pain and confusion sell the lie. "I - I'm sorry. I thought - you sounded like - my head feels fuzzy."

"I bet," Dick gives a little grin, and maybe his shoulders relax just a bit. "Do you think you can stand?"

Tim wiggles his feet and legs a little, testing them. He hears Jason laugh lightly as he nods. 

"Can I help?" Dick extends his arms toward him, slower this time, and Tim reaches up, still a bit blindly, for the helping hands. 

Jason had apparently grabbed a crate from somewhere else in the alley and overturns it nearby as Dick helps Tim sit down on it. Dick's fingers are gentle on his face but it still makes pain shoot through his head and Tim yelps. 

"Sorry," Dick makes a sympathetic face, "yeah, that feels broken." 

Tim just hums because it's really all he can do right now. This is all way too much. 

"Can I clean up your face?" Jason's voice is closer now and it sounds a lot nicer than when he was wanting to chase after those guys. 

Tim nods and something wet and cold wipes at his eyes. There is blood and gravel and dirt and when it's all gone Tim can blink and finally really see the two faces in front of him without all the red or blurs. Tim glances down and watches as Jason uses a wet piece of fabric to clean up the rest of the blood from his nose. It's still giving a good sluggish flow, though, and Jason instructs Tim to hold the fabric there. Wait, not fabric. This is a sweatshirt. Tim looks over to where Jason is backing up now, sporting an open thin jacket over a white tank top.

"You - your shirt?" Tim mumbles against the sweatshirt, mortified.

Jason just shrugs.

"What's your name?" Dick asks, his smile now spreading across the lower half of his face and Tim just wants so badly to have that smile be for him. 

"Tim."

Dick cocks his head to one side and Tim wonders if he can guess what the oldest Wayne kid is thinking. Dick's smart. Nightwing is trained in remembering people, faces. But his eyes are calculating something, like they're trying to see if it's risky to ask Tim if they know each other after Tim has just accused him of being his alter ego. Tim decides to spare him the headache. Tim's already got one anyway.

"We've met."

Dick's eyes go a tiny bit wide and Tim hurries to finish. 

"When I was little," Tim finishes, frowning, "at the circus."

It's not a great memory to bring up, but it keeps Dick from trying to navigate a minefield so maybe it's worth it. When Dick frowns too, Tim worries it isn't. 

"You were there," Dick breathes, "that - that night."

Tim bows his head. In all of his fantasies about meeting Dick again, this wasn't anywhere near what he had in mind. 

"I'm sorry."

"It's," Dick starts, stops, swallows, "it's okay." And then he is smiling again, even if it doesn't light up as bright as before. "It's nice to meet you again, Tim."

"It's nice to meet you at all," Jason playfully shoves his brother against the shoulder to scoot in toward Tim but then turns serious. "Tim, do you have any parents - around?" He's uneasy, shuffling, like he knows the answer already. 

Tim shakes his head. This isn't a lie. Because he's not a Drake anymore. Jack had said so. 

"Is anyone," Jason bites his lip, "taking care of you?"

"I take care of myself," Tim straightens. 

"I know you do," Jason nods, "those guys were banged up good before we got here. I just mean, do you, you know, have anyone watching your back?"

Tim shakes his head, shrugging, because he's never needed anyone to before today. 

"Do you have somewhere you're living?" Dick asks next. 

Tim glances from his discarded backpack across the alley to the street, gesturing vaguely around them. 

"How old are you?" Dick's smile falters. 

Tim looks at his bag again, fidgeting. 

"Hey," Jason holds up his hands, "we're not going to turn you in or anything."

Dick raises an eyebrow as if to contradict.

"11." Tim says after a long moment. 

"Jay," Dick turns to his brother, "is Leslie in today?"

Jason nods. 

"Okay, Tim," Dick looks back at him, "how about we head over to visit a friend of ours. She's a doctor and can fix your nose and probably give you something to make it hurt less."

Tim stands suddenly, pulling the fabric away from his nose as the bleeding has all but stopped. The world gives a little whoosh as he starts to move. 

"I'll be late."

"Late for what?" Jason huffs. 

"It's Thanksgiving. This kid said that you have to get there early to get any of the good food."

"Nah," Jason shrugs, confident in his answer, "you'll be good for awhile. People suddenly remember there's poor people whenever there's a holiday so there's always tons. You just going to get a meal or were you going to the food bank too?"

Oh yeah. Jason Todd grew up on these streets. He knows them better than Tim.

"Both," Tim replies, "I mean, I don't have room, for much, from the food bank, but I figured a couple cans?"

"Well," Jason struts over to a box near the mouth of the alley that Tim hadn't noticed, "what do you like?"

Jason is grinning and waving his hands at the box like a magician. Tim shuffles toward it and suddenly the green flashing object that hit Andy in the face makes sense. The box is filled to the brim with canned goods, fresh fruits and vegetables, granola bars, snacks, and more. 

"We were taking some stuff down to the shelters when I saw those guys follow you down here." Jason explains. "Could've handled them myself, but I didn't want Dickie here to get scared I'd wandered off and went back to my glamorous life on the streets."

Dick rolls his eyes but doesn't stop smiling at his brother. 

"I also could've handled bringing all this stuff to the shelter myself." Jason continues. "I think Alfred just wanted you out of the house and far, far, away from the kitchen." Jason kicks the box. "How about a deal, Tim? You let us take you where you can get your nose fixed up so it stops making that little squishing sound every time you breath, and you can take whatever you want from the boxes we have filling up Dick's car."

"She won't - call - someone - on me?" Tim side-eyes the snacks. 

Jason makes a little cross motion above his heart and winks. 

"I'll drop off this box at the shelter down the block and go get the car," Dick hefts the box into one arm, gives a little half-wave, half-salute, and then bounds down the alley and out of sight. 

Tim uses the time to retrieve his backpack, checking the contents. He has to go back to the crate to sit while he inspects it though because his head is feeling a little too heavy. He hears Jason whistle low as he plops back down. 

"No wonder they pegged you," he sighs. "What do you have a laptop out here for?"

"It's everything I have," Tim finishes pulling it out, a piece hanging loosely and then falling off, "had."

The screen is smashed and it's coming apart in pieces here and there and Tim thinks he might be breaking too. 

"My life," Tim blinks down at the device, "I kept it all, here, before. So they couldn't - and I use it, out here," he swallows, "I do homework and stuff for money. I don't want to steal or do, you know, other stuff. I know, it's stupid. It's not right either, but it feels less not right. Writing an essay doesn't take away from someone else. And maybe the kid really needs help. Maybe they're really busy or they're parents put a ton of pressure on them to get good grades so they buy them to make their mom and dad happy." He sighs and drops the pieces back in the back. "Guess it wouldn't've survived winter anyway being out the cold."

Jason doesn't say anything for awhile. He just sort of stands there and listens. Really listens. Like he is looking at Tim and paying attention and making these faces like he actually cares about what Tim is saying.  

"How long have you been out here, Timmy?" Jason leans against the wall. "Be honest, 'cause I was out here a long time and will know if you're lying."

Tim kicks at some loose gravel on the ground. There are little red flecks in it and Tim belatedly realizes that it's the spot where his face was smashed in. 

"Not long," he mutters, head still down. 

"Runaway?"

Tim turns away, shaking his head and scooting sideways on the makeshift box chair. Jason pushes off the wall and moves until he's back in front of the boy. When Tim twists again, Jason follows. It's like they're doing this little dance and Jason doesn't stop until Tim finally does. 

"This one's really important, okay?" Jason ducks down to look into Tim's lowered eyes. "Are you in any trouble, Tim? Not just 'living on the streets at 11 fucking years old' trouble, either. Besides those assholes - is someone trying to hurt you?"

Someone already did. 

Tim meets Jason's gaze. 

"No."

"I'm not going to ask you why you're out here, kid," Jason nods. "That's your business and you don't know me or Dick to trust us."

Not true. Tim trusts Jason Todd and Dick Grayson with his life. Just not with, the other stuff. 

"But," Jason continues, "if you want to tell me what got you here, or you just want to talk about anything, you can, with me. Dick too. He's an annoying ray of sunshine that won't ever shut up most of the time, but he is actually a good listener. I'd know."

Tim hums again. Robin wants to know about him. Wants to listen to him. 

"Uh, thanks."

The two share the silence for some time until Tim goes back to kicking bloody gravel and Jason starts stretching and pacing, most likely trying to shake off the leftover adrenaline from the brief brawl.

"I got one word for you, TimTam," Jason finally speaks again, "newspapers."

Tim pauses his pursuit to dig himself a hole deep enough to bury himself in long enough to squint at the older boy.

"Stuff it in your clothes to keep warm, use it for toilet paper, shelter, blankets, making a fire, bunch a few up for a pillow - easy. And they're always in trash cans. Less now than they used to be 'cause everyone has their phones for news, but, magazines and stuff can work too."

"I like Gotham Gazette," Tim risks a small smile. "It has a lot of ads."

"Better padding," Jason nods with an approving grin, "fast learner."

"I used to volunteer," Tim starts to explain, "at shelters and stuff a lot. We had a lot so I just figured," he shrugs and trails off. "I can't go to those places, though. I tried. I got recognized. They thought I still had - they wanted - but I got away that time. Ran. I stay over here now." 

"Smart," Jason compliments, but the grin is gone. "A couple of those shits from before were bleeding good before we got here. Where'd you learn to fight?"

"YouTube."

Jason snorts. 

"Well, when your nose isn't all fucked up, I'll show you some moves."

Robin is offering to teach him how to fight. This day keeps getting stranger and better. 

"Thanks, but uh, you have better things to do."

Fight crime. Bust supervillains. Save the day. Finish homework.

"And leave a kid like you out here only knowing some shit from a 10 minute tutorial?" Jason sounds offended. "Hell, no."

"Jay, language."

The pair turn at the return of Dick. Tim thinks that these guys should try to stop being so stealthy if they really want to fool anyone. 

"We're not at the house," Jason rolls his eyes, "you can stop trying to sound like B."

"And you can take the big fat stick out of your -"

"Jason!"

But Dick doesn't look angry and part of that might just be because Tim, well, Tim is laughing. He has watched Robin and Nightwing bicker before. He has watched them duke it out on a rooftop and scream at each other too. But this, this is brothers. This is just Dick and Jason and it makes Tim feel something inside. It's a warm sort of happiness that seems to evaporate the minute Tim realizes that it's not his to share. The laughter dies and Tim tries to look away from the two of them without being completely obvious. 

"Your chariot awaits," Dick makes a flourish, waving Tim down the alley. 

Tim stands - apparently too quickly, his head decides - and promptly topples forward. 

He is ready to kiss the pavement again but stops short, something both hard and soft catching him under the arms and chest. Tim blinks up as Jason holds Tim against his own body. Some of his nose blood gets on Jason's jacket and now that's two of Robin's items of clothing he has ruined. 

"Whoa, Timber," Jason steadies the kid. 

"I'm sorry," Tim gapes at the stain. "I'm sorry."

Jason follows the boy's line of sight, glancing down at the blotch of blood. 

"No big deal, really."

"You - your sweatshirt, and now -"

"It's okay, Tim," and now Jason is holding Tim's shoulders and speaking to him like it's the most important thing in the world to be saying, like he's trying to keep the kid from crying and - oh, crap. 

Tim feels the hot tears on his cold cheeks. 

"Wh - what?" Tim scrunches his fast. "I'm sorry, I don't why I'm -"

"Look at his pupils now, shit," Jason mumbles to his brother. 

"Tim," Dick brings a hand up to Tim's shoulder too, "you probably have a concussion. It's normal."

"Plus your nose is fucking broken," Jason huffed. "I think I'd cry too."

Tim doesn't know what to say. He's not sobbing or breaking down or anything. He knows how to keep all the little pieces of himself inside. But the tears are still there, silent and streaming. Worst first meeting of Robin and Nightwing. Ever. 

"Hm," Tim tries to focus on the right words but all that comes out is, "'m dizzy." 

"I think it's time for a ride on the Dickie Express," Jason suggests with a smirk at his brother. 

Dick rubs his hands together and spins around, squatting.

"Climb aboard."

Tim squints at Dick's back and then at Jason. 

"I'm 11." 

"And I'm 13 and I still made him give me one last week," Jason laughs. 

"You said your leg still hurt from falling off - on the stairs," Dick cranes his head to glare at his brother. 

"I was just tired."

Tim is so incredibly embarrassed. But it's also a piggyback ride, from Nightwing. A once in a lifetime opportunity for him. (Or, at least, that's what he thinks...) And if Robin did it, then maybe - 

"Okay."

Tim climbs on, hugging Dick's neck probably a little too tight but the older boy doesn't say anything. Jason picks up Tim's backpack, slinging it over one shoulder and Tim should be freaking out. You never let go of your stuff out here. Not to mention the very sensitive information inside. The very sensitive information about, well, the very kid carrying the bag. But his things feel safe with Jason. Just like he feels safe with Dick. Maybe safe enough that Tim leans his heavy head on Dick's shoulder. It's not much, and it won't last, but for now, Tim lets himself enjoy it. It's not smart, he knows that. Knows it will hurt more when they leave him back alone out here. But it's nice for now. They'll take him to this clinic, say goodbye, and Tim will go back to seeing them in flashes of fists and color against the night sky here and there on late nights when the shelters are full. And this will be enough. 

Tim doesn't know, that this is just the beginning. 

Chapter Text

On the drive over to the clinic, Dick subjects Tim to a mild interrogation. Or, at least, that is what it feels like. He asks a checklist of questions in a very serious Nightwing-type tone about his symptoms. Jason is riding in the backseat with him. Dick didn't tell him to and Tim hadn't asked. Jason had just moved a bunch of the donation boxes to the front seat and then slid in next to Tim with a smile. He makes little faces at each of Dick's questions that make Tim silently chuckle, but there is a look in the teenager's eyes as he watches Tim, like he's running through his own internal checklist. 

The place is small and unassuming, a single rectangular sign hung against the bricks. Inside, it looks like a basement, all cement and brick. A row of cots lines one of the walls and there are small plants being fed only by the teeny windows that stretch out at the very top of the wall. It's chilly and full of ominous equipment and yet somehow it feels more welcoming than any hospital Tim has ever stepped foot in.

A woman with short white hair and half moon glasses greets them, eyeing Dick and Jason over like she is expecting one of them to be injured too. 

"And what happened here?" She bends over to shake Tim's hand after the boy's introduce him. 

"Well," Jason shoves his hands in his pockets, "Tiny Tim here was trying to take on four fully grown guys because he's a total badass."

Dick elbows Jason in the ribs. 

"He got jumped," the older boy explains with a long suffering sigh toward his brother, "and he fought back. Admirably, I might add," he winks at Tim. 

"Four men," the doctor clenches her jaw, "picking a fight with a child."

Tim bristles at being called a child. He's had to grow up plenty fast enough throughout his life, especially recently.

"And then we broke up the party," Jason finishes, grinning wide. 

"As in?" Leslie squints. 

"Scared ém off," Jason clarifies, "no big."

"As long as they're not going to be coming to me later with broken bones too," she shakes her head. 

"They'd deserve it," Jason huffs, crossing his arms. 

Dr. Thompkins shakes her head, but, surprisingly, no one argues.

Apparently, they have to wait for the swelling in Tim's nose to go down before the doctor can fix it so they fill the time with a brief physical exam and concussion assessment.

Dick has his report ready. 

"He didn't lose consciousness. He knows what day it is and what he was doing before it happened. No confusion. He was dizzy and stumbled a couple times. Headache, but no nausea. Also, no double or blurred vision, but you can see his pupils are dilating."

"Dick even had him recite the alphabet backwards on the way here," Jason chimes in.

"I was being thorough," Dick rolls his eyes.

Careful of his nose, the doctor moves her gloved hands along his cheeks and head. Satisfied, she moves on to his face, cleaning out the scrapes and scratches. Jason had done a pretty thorough job earlier but there are still a few small pieces of gravel set deeper into one of the cuts in his forehead. Dr. Thompkins has to use a tweezers to retrieve them and he shakes a bit as she works. Dick sort of hovers behind him, hands lifting up slightly as if to hold him if necessary. Once the pieces are out, Tim reaches over to pick up one of the bloodied stones.

"Face gravel," he whispers, "cool."

"You're one weird kid," Jason says, not unkindly and laughs. 

"People are always saying things like 'Gotham city is in my veins'," Tim does his best grown up impression, even sitting up a little straighter, "but who can say the city was actually, like, inside of them?" His laugh hurts his nose and he has to stop short. "Can I keep them?"

Leslie laughs too, grabbing him a small plastic bag and collecting the pieces of the pavement inside. 

The physical is pretty typical of what Tim remembers from his few doctor visits. His temperature is fairly average, but his blood pressure and heart rate are high. Not put-this-kid-on-medication-he's-going-to-have-a-coronary high. But still, it makes Dr. Thompkins hum. She checks him for lice and scabies, popular among those living on the streets. Thankfully, he is clean. Well, actually, Tim is pretty dirty and his hair is really greasy and he is so incredibly embarrassed to have this stranger touching him when he is like this. But no creepy crawlies, no that's a plus.

She wants to remove his clothing next, part of the routine physical but also to check for any further injuries from the fight. She promises that she will not force him. And he's shocked when she keeps her word when he refuses. Leslie still prods her fingers across his front and back over his shirt, after cajoling him out of his thin jacket. When she gets to his abdomen, he hisses involuntarily. She moves a finger and he whines, curling in a little on himself. 

"Tim, does it hurt when your breathe?"

He nods, head bowed. 

"Well, no broken ribs." She surmises after a few more painful prods that make Tim turn a little paler. "Definitely bruised. You'll want to ice that later. Only 10 to 20 minutes at a time, though."

Tim will get right on finding ice somewhere on the street. It's supposed to be pretty cold tonight. Maybe if he wets a rag or something and leaves it out, it will get cold enough to work. 

Dr. Leslie Thompkins is kinder than any doctor Tim has met before. Not that he's met a whole lot. He only went in for checkups a few times growing up, and once for a broken bone after a skateboarding accident ended with a broken collarbone, and a permanent ban from the sport by his parents. He had, however, met other doctors and surgeons and phD holders at various galas and functions with his family. They all were nice, just how everyone at those parties were always "nice". But nice was different than kind and Leslie is warmth and smiles and just - kind. 

She gives Jason a stern glare when the teenager starts poking around at some of her medical equipment that teases a different side to the woman. And the way she was speaking to that gangbanger she had been stitching up when they had first arrived left Tim with the impression that Dr. Thompkins was, with no better way to put it, kind of a badass. Dick had asked her a far too causal question about the tattooed man with the gunshot wound and she had shut him down with only a serious look then too. She shares none of that sternness or attitude with Tim, though. Her voice is only ever soft when addressing him, her touch slow and gentle. When he flinches, she waits for him to settle and then tries again without reprimand or even a comment. 

She gives him a local anesthetic before resetting his break. It consists of three injections around the nose from a needle that looks too long to be that close to his face. Dick offers to hold his hand and Tim has to stop himself from reaching out. He has seen Robin, both Robins, reset their own noses in the field and then continue fighting. Tim gets lidocaine. The least he can do is not be a baby about it. The injections make his eyes squint and water without his approval and he tries to somehow convey with the rest of his face that he isn't crying because crying once in front of his heroes was one time too many. After the shots, the doctor sprays the anesthesia up into his nostrils by sticking a tube too deep for Tim's liking. It's almost worse than the injections and he has to grip the edge of the cot to keep himself from pulling away. The last bit of preparation involves a regular nasal spray, Dr. Thompkins explaining that it helps control some of the bleeding. Tim can't object to that. He's bled enough for one day, thank you. He looks mournfully over at Jason's jacket. 

He has to sit for awhile so that his nose is fully numbed before continuing. Dr. Thompkins excuses herself, pulling Dick along with her into another room. Tim doesn't have time to start getting twitchy because Jason just plops down next to him on the makeshift bed and starts scrolling through some app with funny videos. There is some prank that both boys agree is totally staged. Some compilation of sports fails with athletes wiping out in ways that make Tim feel lucky about his nose. Three of the videos they see are about cats, one of a dog. They're in the middle of watching a Lego stop-motion parody of some movie Tim hasn't seen, but Jason apparently has with how much he is bent over cackling, when the doctor and Dick walk back in. 

"What have I said?"

Leslie arches a single brow at Jason, who very quickly jumps up off the cot, head hanging. 

"Alright, Tim," she sits in front of him, "how does it feel?"

"It doesn't," he shrugs, his voice feeling funny when he talks. 

"That's good," Dr. Thompkins smiles, a small laugh on her lips. 

A small metal tube is inserted into his nostril, his whole body tensing even if he can't fully feel it. She talks to him soothingly through the whole thing, as she has the entire time. It's not a voice of pity or speaking down or patronizing. It's just, again, kind. And informative. Tim had been more than a little excited to see his x-rays, asking all sorts of questions. Leslie had even promised he could keep a copy. Noticing his interest and curiosity, and maybe his anxiety, the good doctor has talked Tim through every single step before she does it, explaining in detail with proper clinical terminology. He appreciates that she doesn't dumb things down like most grown ups did with kids. He memorizes all the words that he doesn't know - the ones he can't ask about while the tool is shoved up his nose, the rest he had asks for clarification. He will have a lot of things to look up later on - 

his computer. 

Tim deflates a little at the thought. Dr. Thompkins must think he is uncomfortable and asks if he feels okay. He gives a short "yeah" and she doesn't push him, though her eyes are now studying him a little closer and it sort of makes Tim squirm inside. 

Tim's nose had stopped bleeding sometime on the car ride, but the doctor places something under his nostrils and instructs Jason to hold it there. It's not long before he understands why. Tim distantly feels the bones move back into place. They make a sick cracking sound and he knows that it should hurt. There is a slight sensation and then he is tasting blood again. Jason holds the towel close, but some seeps through.

Tim's eyes go wide and he bats at Jason's hand frantically. 

Jason jumps back a little, his brow furrowed in confusion, but not anger and Tim wants to have his face smashed again. How could he be so stupid? He had been so distracted with the pain and the shock and you know, meeting his idols, that he hadn't even given it a thought in the alleyway. 

"He's not wearing gloves," Tim mumbles through the blood. 

"It's okay, Tim -" Leslie lifts her hands. 

"No!" Tim shouts and it hurts but he doesn't care. "The blood! My blood!"

Jason doesn't seem to be understanding the threat properly because he's still standing there, just holding the bloody cloth like it can't infect him. 

"Tim," Leslie moves her head until she meets her patient's wild eyes, "are you sick?"

Tim bobs his head up and down, tears pricking the corner of his eyes. He thought how he met his heroes in the alley was awful. This is so much worse. Jason looks confused and Dick just looks concerned, but definitely not concerned enough. 

"Sick how?" Dr. Thompkins presses, quiet. 

"He said," Tim wipes at his bloody lips with his forearm, "he said it. He told me. I looked it up after. People say it's a stereotype or whatever. But it's sometimes true. And he's smart, really smart. And he's my dad so he'd know if I was sick, right? I mean, was my dad," because he's not a Drake anymore, he said it, he said it, he - "he'd know."

"How did he know, Tim?" She is still too calm. "Did you go to the doctor?"

"No, not for - but - you can get sick easier with it and I used to get sick all the time when I was little. A lot. And I learned all about it online. It's in blood, and other stuff. But Jason - he - you have to help him - stop it before he -"

"Jason's fine," Leslie very carefully places a hand on Tim's shivering shoulder, "I'm betting you both are, actually. And for something like that to infect another person, Jason would need to have the blood get inside of him."

"But it got all over his sweater, and jacket, and hand - and he was fighting those guys, he could -"

"All clear," Jason raises his hands, rotating them, "not a scratch on me. Like I'd let them. I'm okay, Tim."

"Tim," Dr. Thompkins places her other hand on his knee, "why did your dad tell you that you're sick?"

Tim's entire body goes stiff. His shaking, the fumbling of his hands together, all of it just - stops. He thinks he might stop breathing for a second or two.

"Did he tell you what exactly you're sick with?" She changes course after he doesn't respond.

Tim glares at the bloody cloth in Jason's hands, hating it. Hating himself.  

"Did he tell you that you had HIV? Maybe AIDS?"

Tim's eyes dart to the side and then the door. 

"You know, I can do a test for you, right now. Results in 60 seconds. Do you want to give it a try?"

Tim doesn't need a test. He knows. 

"We'll all do it," Dick steps forward. "You'll know Jason is safe, and that you're safe."

"I'd be worried about you, Dick, with all of your -"

Leslie clears her throat.

"Extracurriculars," Jason amends with a sheepish smile but then turns to Tim and the silliness falls from his face. "I'll go first, okay?"

Dr. Thompkins stands and goes to a cabinet, returning and spreading out three separate needles and some other bottles and equipment. Jason holds out his hand before she even has to ask. She cleans the tip of his finger and then pricks it. His blood is added to some solution and Tim stares at it, leaning forward, not even knowing what he's looking for. Leslie glances at her watch every few seconds until finally announcing that Jason is indeed in the clear. He smiles at Tim with a warm, easy, smile but Tim can't help but scrutinize the teenager, like he can find some trace of the disease if he just squints hard enough. Dick bounds forward next, like a puppy excited for a treat, but there's something off and sad in the way he looks at Tim now. He sticks out his finger and then looks away, covering his eyes. With his other arm, he reaches out blindly for Jason, swatting him on the shoulder and face.

"Hold my hand, little brother."

Jason just bats the arm away.

"Tim will hold it, right?" 

Dick sticks his hand toward the kid, who forgets his fears for a split second to make a face at the vigilante. He has seen Nightwing take laser beams and punches and sonic blasts all in stride. 

"Come on, don't leave me hanging," Dick pleads. "It's not my fault you're so much braver around needles than I am." 

Tim still looks skeptical but apparently Dick isn't going to make them all wait until Tim complies. Checking the arm that hadn't been wiped across his face for any traces of blood, Tim finally takes Dick's hand. Dick is all smiles when he does and Tim thinks having that grin directed at him might just be worth the hand holding humiliation. The doctor proclaims him good to go soon after. She turns to Tim next and he hesitates before offering up a single finger from his free hand. He doesn't let go of Dick yet. He ins't aware that he is crushing his hero's hand the whole time they sit and wait for the results. 

"You're all good," Leslie grins, pushing away the tray, "you're not infected, Tim."

Tim gapes a little at his pricked finger. It can't be right. The test was too quick. Something went wrong. 

"Tim, are you okay?" Dick squeeze's Tim's fingers just a little and Tim blinks up at him and then at their hands, like he forgot how they got like that. 

He slides his hand out from Dick's. 

"It's perfectly okay for you to be feeling however you are feeling right now," Dr. Thompkins says and then sighs after a long moment of silence. "Is it alright with you if I finish your nose now, Tim?"

Tim shrugs, nodding halfway through the motion. Dick stands and hands the doctor something and it doesn't escape Tim's notice that he seems to know exactly where to find it. His nose is splinted, little short strips bandaged across the bridge of his nose.

"You might notice some swelling on and around your nose, as well as some bruising around your eyes. It's stopped for now, but don't be surprised if it starts bleeding again. That's nothing to worry about. It may be a little harder to breathe but you can take a hot shower to help with that. You'll want to ice it for 20 minutes every hour."

Where did she expect Tim to get all of this ice? 

"As for the concussion, it seems mild and there are no signs of a skull fracture. The next couple days are important, especially the first 24 hours. It's called the acute symptomatic phase." She smiles slightly when Tim's eyes light up at something new to learn. "It's defined as the time from injury, through maximum symptoms, to the beginning of when the symptoms resolve. I want you to come back and see me if you experience any of these, okay? I mean it. If you lose consciousness for more than a minute, if you get confused, can't stay awake, repeatedly vomit, have any sort of seizure, if you're headache becomes severe, prolonged double vision or any loss of vision, bad neck pain, or weird feelings in your arms or legs, like weakness or tingling."

"Read him the whole manual, why don't you?" Jason chuckles. 

"I like it," Tim nods sagely, "it's good to be prepared, and I like learning something new." He purses his lips, a thought occurring. "Can I sleep? They always tell you not to sleep in movies and tv."

"That one's a little bit of a myth. As long as you're not losing consciousness while awake, and can hold a conversation - which, you're doing a lot better than most of my patients, it's completely fine. I do suggest that you have someone wake you up every couple hours, just to be safe."

Who does Tim trust enough to do that? He can't set his alarm to ping every few hours at a shelter, someone will surely beat him up even more for waking everyone. Between the constant need for ice of some sort and the staggered sleeping schedule, Tim is already making a plan for sleeping outside tonight. 

"I'm serious about this next part, Tim," Leslie rests her hands on either side of Tim on the cot, "and I need you to promise me something, okay? If any of what I just said happens, you need to get help. You can come here, of course. But if you can't get here, you need a doctor. Alright? Even if you have to call 911."

Tim lowers his eyes, finding an interesting stain pattern to study on the floor. 

"I see kids like you out here all the time," she continues, "and I get it. You don't want to go to a hospital and you have your reasons. I understand. And, really, I don't think any of that will happen. You seem fine. But, if something does happen, it could be dangerous, Tim. I'm talking life threatening. Now, I don't want to scare you and, like I said, I doubt you'll have to worry about it at all, but I just want to sincerely stress how important it is, okay?"

She pauses as he examines how the shade of the stain changes toward the edges. 

"Do you promise to do what I ask, Tim?"

Tim grips the edge of the cot and, after a long moment, nods. 

He realized a long time ago that it's just better to tell adults what they want to hear. 

"Okay, good," her shoulders sag a little, "thank you." The doctor reaches over into a drawer and pulls out a small pill, instructing Dick to fetch a glass of water. "Now, you're going to need to rest for the next few days. Not just for the concussion. Can you do that too?"

Again, Tim only nods. He swallows the pills when she hands them to him, sipping at the water. The visit is coming to and end, which means his time with Nightwing and Robin is almost over, too. That hurts worse than any of his injuries. They thank the doctor and she reminds Tim that he can come see her anytime, for anything. She also asks, or more so demands, that he return within at least two weeks for a checkup on his nose. He bobs his head, no longer saying much in comparison to the fountain of questions and requests. 

"Which shelter were you planning to pig out at, Timmy?" Jason asks as they exit the building. "I know the best ones with the most food."

Tim shuffles to a stop. He hadn't thought this through. A shelter isn't safe, not right now. The bandaging on his nose might as well be a bullseye. Neon sign shouting "easy target". Hitting the shelters is always risky anyway. You have to rotate which ones you use and get in and get out before anyone tries to ask your age or get your name and your suddenly disappearing into a government van and being put in the system that sometimes isn't any safer than the streets. Especially once the foster families and group homes find out why he got kicked out. Some of them won't want to take him in. Others, will want to take advantage. He's heard enough stories to keep him away. 

"Don't worry," Dick rests a hand on Tim's back, misinterpreting the boy's fear, "those guys won't be there."

"And if they are," Jason punches the air, "you can take ém."

"What he means," Dick huffs, motioning toward the car, "is that we'll make sure they're not there."

"W - What? No." Tim takes a step back. "You already gave me a ride here. 

"And lucky for us," Jason opens the back door, "this isn't a one-use vehicle. Come on."

Tim doesn't budge. 

"Look," Dick sticks his thumb toward the window, "we still have all those boxes to drop off anyway." 

"And we could use the help," Jason chimes in, "Dick's not as strong as he looks. He's really been skipping arm day lately."

Tim glances around them. 

"If you walk there, Dick is just gonna follow you in the car, he's a creep like that," Jason shrugs.

"And then it'll take longer for us to get all that food to those people who really need it." Dick finishes, frowning. 

Tim gives them points for persistence. 

He walks toward the backseat. 

"One condition though," Jason sidesteps in front of him, "you have to eat something out of one of the boxes on the way there."

Tim's scowl isn't nearly as threatening as he wishes it was. 

"Whatever you want. Fruit, vegetable, a little prepackaged cake that is literally nothing but sugar and corn syrup, anything. Just one thing."

"I'm going to eat at the shelter," Tim shakes his head, forehead wrinkling in annoyance and confusion. 

"Think of it like an appetizer," Dick grins as he slips into the driver's seat. 

"You just lost a lot of blood, and took pills on an empty stomach. You want that nose to grow big and strong, don't ya?"

Tim's eyes and lips are thin as they stare back at the boy, finally relenting and pushing past Jason to climb into the backseat. 

He does take a little cake shaped like a Christmas tree. He doesn't hide how much he actually enjoys it. 

Chapter Text

The car is warm and Tim has to stop himself from closing his eyes as he rests his head against the back of the seat. The medication is helping, but it's also sort of weighing him down. Making his limbs feel heavier. His brain slower. Jason is sitting next to him, sharing, in great detail, his opinions on a book he is currently reading for a class. Apparently, none of the other students care enough to understand the complexities of the characters, or something. Tim isn't sure. He's sort of tuning it out, letting the words just wash over him. The white noise of Jason's voice is nice, though. It feels like a blanket and Tim is ready to curl up and doze when the car rolls to a stop. 

"I'm sorry, Tim," Dick catches the kid's eyes in the rear view mirror, "we just have one more drop off before we get to the shelter you want. Can you grab one of the boxes from the back with Jason. I'll get the ones left up front. And Jay -"

"Make sure the kid doesn't try to carry anything too heavy," Jason rolls his eyes, "I know."

Tim sighs, pushing the door open and rolling his bruised body out the seat. He's blinking against the sun when he sees it. The house is tall and narrow with a pointed roof. It's sandwiched in a row of homes that all look about the same lining the sidewalk. There are chain link fences bordering each property.  There is a handmade daycare sign hanging from the chain link gate two buildings over. Farther down, there are some missing posters taped to the fence railing. But in front him, the fence is - pink. Bright pink, actually. The steps beyond are cement, each painted a different color of the rainbow. There are a bunch of boards leaning against the front of the house, a tanned older boy nailing them over the siding. He gives a little wave at them with his hammer. 

"Hey, Tiny Tim," Jason calls from the trunk, "a little help?"

Tim hurries toward the boy, fresh apologies on his lips that the teenager ignores. 

"Take this one."

Jason hands Tim a smaller canvas bag of lighter, prepackaged foods while he stacks two boxes of canned goods against his own chest. Jason tries to shut the trunk with his hip, and then his foot. Tim hesitates, and then steps forward, pushing the door down.

"I almost had it," Jason grunts. 

"This doesn't look the the normal shelters," Tim nods toward the house. 

"Yeah," Jason adjusts the boxes in his grip as he starts walking toward it, "there are a few smaller places like this, usually run by good people. They're not funded by, like, government money or companies or big charity groups. There used to be one right down the road over there," he gestures by swinging the boxes in a vague direction, "it was for homeless people dealing with drugs, addiction."

"Used to?"

"It was ran by some vet, nice guy. But he died and no one took over. Bank took the place and I guess they're going to demo it."

"That's - not good."

Jason drops the boxes at the top of the steps to the house. 

"You know, if you're going to be a street kid, you got to learn to talk like one, Timmy. 'Not good'? You know, you can say it sucks. Or, it fucking sucks. That's crap. Dog shit. Fucked up."

Tim just blinks at him, gaping a little. 

The door swings open and a tall, broad woman stands to greet them in the threshold, a bright smile stretched across her face. 

"I thought I heard that mouth of yours, Jason Todd."

"Are you going go scold me, or help me with one of these?" He nudges the boxes with his sneaker. 

She grabs the one on top and Jason is bending over to pick the other back up when Tim's vision sort of goes sideways. He reaches for the railing as he stumbles backward, missing it. He knows there is nothing but cement steps behind him and braces for the pain. The impact never comes and Tim every so slowly opens his eyes to see Dick's upside down face above him. There are strong arms under his shoulders, a third along his lower back. He glances over to see Jason's body turned toward him. He had been ready to catch him if his brother hadn't. But Dick had been there. Tim lets them help him right himself as he finds the railing properly this time. He looks back at Dick and sees the overturned box on the bottom of the stairs, several feet away. Dick must have sprinted or dove or teleported to get to him in time. A strange sensation washes over him. Sure, they had already saved him back in that alley, but something about this, about them quite literally catching him as he fell, feels different. Dick's hands are still on his shoulders, even though he is standing now just fine and Jason's arm sort of hovers nearby. 

"You okay?"

Dick really needs to stop looking at Tim with those warm, concerned eyes. They are far too powerful to be trained on one person for too long. He thinks if he let himself look at them for too long that he would just break down and cry in the man's arms. And Dick would let him. Tim just knows somehow that he would. Jason, too. Though, Jason might be a little more awkward about it. Maybe try to pat Tim's back or crack a joke. 

"Yeah, sorry," Tim rubs the side of his skull, "I just got dizzy."

Dick's brow wrinkles. Was that the wrong thing to say? Because both boys look worried and serious now and Tim bows his head. 

"Are you still dizzy?" Dick ducks down to catch Tim's lowered gaze, inspecting him again. 

"No," Tim goes to shake his head, but that's a bad idea with his headache and winces a little.  "It just - happened - sort of, out of nowhere."

"That can happen with a concussion," Dick nods. 

"And hunger," Jason mumbles. 

"Why don't you boys come inside?" The woman leans on the door to keep it propped open. "I'll have Charlie grab that," she nods at the spilled food. 

Tim stares at it solemnly. 

"I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize, sweetie," she smiles. 

"It's all cans, so nothing is ruined, promise," Dick squeezes his shoulders and Tim realizes belated that Dick is still holding Tim. 

He doesn't pull away. Instead, Tim lets himself be led inside. Dick guides him to a small living room that is filled with mismatched couches and chairs and a few bean bags. A blonde girl with round glasses and a round face glances up at them from one of the stained sofas. 

"Lizzie," the woman balances her box on her hip as she passes through to the kitchen, "can you grab a glass of water for our friend?"

The girl on the couch closes her book and sets aside some papers, smiling at the boys as she stands. 

"I'm okay now," Tim flushes, sinking into the cushions. 

"I'm going to grab you one of the granola bars from the donations." Dick goes to stand.

"No, that's for them and I'm going to the shelter after, right?"

"Tim," Dick wipes a hand over his face, "be honest with me here. Have you eaten anything today?"

Tim cocks his head, biting his cheek. His eyes are moving with some sort of calculation behind them. 

"When was the last time you had something to eat?"

Tim's eyes go a little narrower. 

"Uh, yesterday - morning? I think."

"Then I think you'll have plenty of room for dinner after a snack." Dick sighs, patting Tim's shoulder.

"What's with the window?" Jason steps back out from the kitchen, pointing back into the room. 

"Just the usual," the woman follows him out and shrugs, sighing.

"That could actually mean a lot in this city," Jason huffs. 

"Someone tossed a brick with a friendly note for us to go to hell."

"Same people responsible for whatever happened out front?" Dick throws a glance over his shoulder toward the door. 

"Same people, different bricks," she rubs her temple, "put a few good holes in the siding."

Jason and Dick exchange a glance. 

"Need some help?" Dick offers kindly. 

"You've done enough," she shakes her head. "Some of the kids are working on it."

"Then it'll get done that much faster with us," Jason grins. 

"It's already freezing in here, Rachel," Dick adds, "you want to be still patching all this up when the sun goes down?"

The woman - Rachel - hangs her head and waves her hands in defeat.

"Are you okay to hang here a little bit?" Dick turns back to Tim.

"Was it a gang thing?" Tim rubs at his chin. "Why would they do that here?"

Dick looks over at Rachel and then back at the boy, something sad shadowing his expression. 

"No, not a gang, Tim." He clears his throat. "This shelter, is for kids who are a part of the LGBTQ community."

"Oh," Tim bites his cheek, not looking at Dick anymore. 

"Some people," Dick pauses, "some people don't understand or -"

"They're assholes," Jason grumbles. 

"They're scared or just mean," Dick continues, "so they do stuff like this. Out of fear. Or hate. But they're wrong."

"They're assholes," Jason repeats.

"There's nothing wrong with us," Rachel shakes her head, "or anyone who is different."

"Can I help?" Tim lifts his gaze. 

"No ladders or hammers for concussed children," Jason laughs. 

"Just hang here for a minute." Dick pats Tim's knee again. "It won't take long."

Dick keeps an eye on Tim as he makes his way to the kitchen, wary like the kid is going to bolt or faint or both. 

Tim folds his hands in his lap. After a second, he starts crisscrossing his thumbs, then the rest of his fingers, back and forth. Swinging his legs against the sofa, Tim glances around at the place. There is a rainbow flag draped behind a television. There are two different colors of duct tape on the screen, some of that duct tape also making appearances here and there on the furniture. There are some board and card games stacked under the coffee table next to a basket of stress balls and knitting supplies and few other odds and ends.

He sort of hates that Dick had been right to be watchful. He's been so much of a hassle for everyone already today and now here he was almost falling over and having to be taken care of, again. The deal was he would help Jason and Dick deliver the rest of the donations. Instead, he is slowing them down. 

Tim also doesn't want to say goodbye to them. This is the final stop and then they will get to the shelter and Tim will have to try very hard not to cry and cling to them because they don't know just how much they mean to Tim. Leaving now will be better. No more worrying for them. No more screwing up for Tim. He can just sneak away and backtrack to the last shelter they had made a drop off at. It seemed decent and there were plenty of low rooftops for him to camp out on nearby for the night. There was even a Big Belly Burger down the block and maybe if he asks nice enough, they will give him a cup of ice for his bruises. 

"- really wish I could help, Dick. If he was a few years older, maybe. But legally, I could lose this whole place if I took him in, even for one night." 

Tim stops in his tiptoeing-tracks. The woman's voice is muffled from behind the closed door opposite the kitchen. 

"Do you even know anything about his story?"

"He won't say much," and that's Dick, sad and quiet, "but the way he talks - I don't know. His parents are either - dead - or -"

"Runaway?"

"Maybe," Dick sighs, "but I'd guess more like kicked out, from how he acts."

There is a long pause.

"You brought him here," she hums, "for a reason, didn't you?"

"Just a hunch."

"Uh huh."

Another pause, some shuffling. 

"Just one night," Dick pleads, "he can't be left alone like this."

"I have 15 beds here, all full. It's not a lot but that's 15 kids that could lose beds if I got caught. I mean, maybe, I could take him to my apartment, just for tonight -"

"I know you're needed here."

"I could try Maggie, she never says no, but she'd lose her foster license if it ever got out."

"That's not fair to her." Dick huffs and it sounds like he is pacing. 

"There are tons of street kids in Gotham, Grayson, what's got you so worked up about this one?"

"He's not a street kid."

That's Jason. Tim tenses. 

"I mean, yeah, he is, but he isn't. He's stupid smart. It's a little scary. But he's not ready for it. Way he talks? Way he moves? No way he's from the City. That's gonna make him a target, again."

"I know some kids, Carlos used to camp with them," a chair pushes back and she must be standing up, "they're older, but they're good kids. It could take some time finding where they are now, though. Look, I know they suck, but he's 11, maybe child protective -"

"You know what will happen if we turn him over to them, especially on a holiday." Dick interrupts.

Tim is gripping the doorframe with whitened knuckles. He's dizzy again but it has nothing to do with the concussion. He knows what happens in group homes and in foster care. He's seen it enough on the news. His parents threatened him enough with it over the years. Most of the homeless kids he had met back when he was the one making the donations instead of depending upon them had been put through the system. Some ran away because they were being hurt. Others left to find their family or friends they had been ripped away from, even if those loved ones were also on the streets. 

He was right to want to leave. He needs to -

"He'll spend the night at the police station," Jason spits out, "or pawned off to some emergency placement home with a bunch of other kids so no one will notice if his brain starts bleeding or something!"

"A hospital might keep him overnight -"

Tim turns away. He can't listen to them decide his fate anymore. He's the reason they're arguing. He won't stick around to keep causing more problems, or to be carted off to social services. 

"Snooping, huh?"

Tim jumps, whirling around to face a glass of water outstretched in front of him. The girl with the glasses - Lizzie, Tim remembers, is smirking, so maybe she isn't as angry as her tone implied.

"Sorry," he squeaks, glancing around her toward the front door. 

"Don't worry about it." She shrugs. "Sucks having people decide what to do with your life." 

The water is still in her hand, sloshing a little in front of his face. She just stares at him, unmoving. Finally, pulling his longing gaze away from the exit, Tim takes the drink. She stays standing in front him, eyes boring into his own. The boy's brow furrows, sighing and starting to sip.

"I'm also supposed to give you this," she sticks a granola bar under his nose. 

He takes it after a measured moment. Seemingly satisfied, the stranger skips off, slumping back onto the couch. She doesn't return to her previous studies, though. Instead, Lizzie studies Tim. Looking from the door to the boy. 

"You should probably take some food from those boxes with you before you go." She leans back into the cushions. "If you go to the shelter, they'll find you. I mean, they'll probably find you anyway. Dick is - um, persistent. And now you're on their radar, kid. I was eavesdropping too - don't look at me like that, I actually live here so I'm a little entitled to it. You've gotten under their skin. I can tell just by the way Dick looks at you."

"You know him?"

"I mean, we don't spend our Saturday nights together," she laughs, "but he helped me out awhile back. My dad died and my mom was - not fun to be around. And then she caught me with Kelly Young in the basement. Fuck. Tried sending me to some church camp, just a nice way of saying conversion camp. I ran away. But those places are no joke. I was lucky to get out. I knew if my mom found me, she'd just send me right back. And would social services care? Not two shits. I was out there for awhile, got desperate. Joined a dumb gang. Day #2 on the job I got myself busted by Nightwing. Double fuck. He didn't turn me into the cops, or anyone, though. He said he was going to 'send someone' to help me? Next day, Dick shows up. And then he kept showing up. I bounced around shelters and then when this place opened, he got me in. Normally, this place is sort of like a way-station. Help older kids get approved for emancipation, stuff like that. I've stayed, and I help Rachel out running it when I can." She kicks at the pile of homework on the coffee table with her toe. "When I'm not getting murdered by math."

Tim has to take a second to process all of that. She's just told him more of her life story in thirty seconds than Tim has ever trusted another person with his own. It's - odd. She's so open and casual about these things that probably still hurt her. And he's a total stranger. 

There's also a fleeting thought about how ridiculous it is that no one else has figured out the big Bat-secret. Nightwing just happened to send Dick Grayson? Seriously? 

A pale boy shuffles through the front door with the spilled food from the steps. He is heading for the kitchen, right past Tim. He's lost his window. The girl is acting pretty indifferent about Tim trying to leave and maybe she wouldn't make a scene, but now there's a new witness. The others will probably hear the commotion in the kitchen and head in to help, walking right through the living room. 

There's also...the math.

On top of the table, sits the discarded papers the girl left behind. Something had twitched in Tim's brain as his eyes had just barely grazed over it before getting up. He's done nothing but cause trouble and get in the way today. Maybe he can at least help someone. 

"That's because you're using the wrong formula."

It's her turn to startle. She squints over at the boy, then at the sheet, snatching it up off the table. 

"Seriously?" She flips the page over. "Crap. Then this is all wrong." 

Sliding down off the couch and onto the floor, she bangs her head against the coffee table, and then just leaves it sitting there.

"Who needs math anyway?"

"A lot of people," Tim shrugs, shuffling over. "I - uh - I could help."

The girl's head slowly spins while still smooshed against the table until it is sideways and she can stare up at him, forehead scrunched. 

"This is calculus." She arches the eyebrow currently not pressed against the wood. "How old are you?"

"11," Tim plays with his hands again, "and I'm better at sciences and engineering, and they're more fun, but math is used in all of that so I had to figure it out."

She still looks skeptical but pushes the paper and a pencil across the table toward him nonetheless. Tim picks up both, pursing his lips.

"Oh, yeah," he scrubs the eraser across one section, "you just flipped those two formulas, see?" He finishes the problem and them turns the paper around to point at it, grinning. "But there's a really cool shortcut. Want to see?"

The stranger lifts her head slowly off the table as she reads over his writing, gaping from the sheet to the kid. 

"If it helps me finish this before Christmas," she sighs, smiling again. 

"In this one study, hundreds of criminal cases were looked at. An overwhelming majority of them had environmental factors, nature. Poverty, drug abuse, domestic violence, childhood abuse -"

"But what about people like that 18 year old girl on the news just yesterday who had none of that. A great life. Just totally randomly had a psychotic break and smothered those kids she was babysitting?"

Tim sits, cross-legged on the floor. The glasses girl, Lizzie, and himself have been joined by the pale ginger boy, Charlie, and two more teenagers, Eve and Darnell. He has a dissected DVD player in his lap, pieces scattered around him on the carpet. There is a pile of notecards and a notebook on the coffee table in front of him

"You know, when you go to the doctor -" Eve starts. 

"Like any of us can afford to go to a doctor -" Charlie rolls his eyes. 

"True, but seriously, when you go in, they ask you all those questions, right? Family history and stuff. Why don't they do that with criminals?"

"Why?" Lizzie asks, stretching out on the sofa so that her legs lay across Charlie's lap.

He bats them away.

"You could find patterns, make predictions." Tim interjects, cocking his head as he examines a loose wire. "If you have a family history of cancer, you're more likely to have it too. Why wouldn't the same logic apply to criminals?"

"Exactly!" Eve waves her arms. 

"I mean, 5% of families make up half of all crime, and 10% of families makeup two thirds of all crime." He shrugs, twisting the wire. 

"Anyone ever tell you that you are scary?" Darnell shakes his head. 

"Well, I think we can all agree that if it was all left up to nurture, none of us would have had a chance." Charlie snorts, shooing Lizzie's legs away when she tries again. 

The teenagers all laugh, but Tim fumbles the screwdriver in his hand. 

"Everyone has a chance."

The screwdriver fully falls from Tim's grasp as he turns to see Dick standing behind him, that same warm smile paired with those sad, but bright eyes. Jason is behind him, hands buried in his pockets. 

"You're like a perpetually positive fortune cookie," Lizzie rolls her eyes.

"If we can't joke about our trauma, then what was the point of it?" Charlie laughs again, and the others join in.

Dick just sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair.

"Sorry we took so long," he squats next to Tim, "I guess we missed a lot?"

"Oh, just an 11-year-old teaching me more about differentials than my Calc teacher ever has," Lizzie waves her finished math homework. 

Dick steps forward, snatching the paper out of her hands, scanning it over. He stares at the scribbled handwriting, then down at the boy, eyes impossibly wide.

"And then I was prepping for our discussion in my Criminology class next week on nature vs nurture, and it sort of," Eve gestured vaguely at all of them, "turned into a big debate."

"We provided all the arguing," Darnell pointed at the four of them, "and Tim provided the random crime statistics, because, like I said, he's scary."

"These ones are basically the same argument," Tim hands Eve a pair of notecards from the stack on the table, and then another, "but you can probably get two different points out of this one if you change the phrasing." He lays out the rest in separate piles. "The ones on the left are all pretty basic, everyone is going to say them. I'd focus on the ones on the right. I added some statistics on the backs."

"Oh," Tim circles something on the notebook and hands that over too, "and it was the step-daughter."

"Huh?" Eve stops examining the notecards in favor for ripping the journal out of the kid's hands. "This is just a cold case we used to help show examples of some of the new terminology we went over."

"It was interesting," Tim snaps a piece of plastic back into place on the device still in his lap, "but not hard."

"Dick," Lizzie sits up straight, "I know Bruce Wayne is mega-rich but did he buy you a genius robot boy?"

Dick trades the math homework for the notebook, taking out the printed sheets of paper detailing the case that have been stuck between the lined pages, and skimming both the summary of the crime, and Tim's notes. 

Darnell and Charlie are saying something else about the kid, but Tim can no longer listen. Dick Grayson, Nightwing, son of The World's Greatest Detective, is checking over his investigative work. He's right about the step-daughter, he knows he is, but his heart still hammers as he stares up at the man. 

"He's right," Dick breathes, interrupting whatever Charlie was saying. 

"What?" Lizzie looks toward him.

"I - he's bright."

"Bright?" Lizzie scoffs. "He's blinding!"

Tim blushes as the teenagers gush over him, asking the kid to come back and help with all of their schoolwork. Eve and Charlie get into an argument about whether that's immoral child labor. They start to say their goodbyes and Tim hands over the newly fixed DVD player to Lizzie, earning applause from all of them. As he heads off to the car with Dick and Jason, Tim finds himself smiling and waving and promising to return without even really realizing it. 

They've barely been driving for a full minute when he feels his head start to drum, the beat growing louder and faster against his skull. Tim closes his eyes against the painful percussion. Jason starts to say something, but stops after only a few muffled words. The car seems to slow. When it stops again, Tim isn't sure if any time has really passed. 

"Last stop on the donation express," Dick announces, though subdued. 

Tim doesn't move. He isn't sure if he can. Even without the agony, he doesn't want to leave them. Leave this. Despite all the pain, this is the best he has felt in a long time. He would take all this hurt, and more, for this. For them. 

"Well," Jason grunts, nudging him a little, "you gonna help us unload this stuff in so we can go home or what?"

That hurts somewhere apart from his head. He doesn't want to open his eyes. He doesn't want to look out at the shelter, knowing he won't even be able to stay here tonight. Great, now he's causing more problems. He is making them wait on him, making them later all because he is being a baby.

Steadying himself with a breath big enough to hold back any tears that try to break through, Tim opens his eyes. 

And promptly closes them again.

He counts to three in his head. Opens his eyes. 

This can't be right, or real. Maybe he fell asleep on the ride? Maybe his concussion is worse than they all thought and now he is full-on hallucinating. 

Because there is no way Wayne Manor is outside his window. 

Chapter Text

It turns out Wayne Manor is actually, definitely, right outside Tim's window. 

He spends a good five minutes trying to convince Dick to turn back and drop him off somewhere else, anywhere else.

"What about the last shelter?" Tim turns around, like he can see through the back of his seat into the trunk of donation boxes. 

"You missed it Sleeping Beauty," Jason snorts. 

"I've caused you guys enough trouble," Tim tries a different approach, wiping his palms back and forth across the seat, watching his hands move. 

"Jason causes trouble wherever he goes," Dick chuckles from the front, pulling the keys from the ignition.

"You bet I do," Jason grins, "so trust me, Tiny Tim, you're not trouble."

"This - this is your house," Tim swallows, "you don't even know me."

"Sure we do," Dick twirls the keys around his pinky. "You're Tim. You're 11."

"You're a badass," Jason leans toward him. 

"You're brave," Dick amends, "and kind -"

"A scary, possible robot, genius," Jason ticks off with his fingers.

"And you're hurt," Dick sighs, serious. "We're not about to leave you somewhere where you could get worse."

"But - it - it's Thanksgiving." Tim pokes at the leather of the seat.

"Yeah," Jason laughs, "so just be thankful and come in."

"But - Mr. Wayne - doesn't Bruce Wayne have some big party today?" Tim swaps to swirling figure-eights.

Tim knows for a fact that he does. His parents took him one year. 

"Sort of," Dick answers. "It's a charity dinner to raise money for feeding Gotham's homeless."

"And look!" Jason waves his hands. "We're feeding you! It would be rude not to bring you."

"Won't he - Mr. Wayne - be mad? It's his house. And his party." Tim rolls his knuckles across the seams. 

"Nah," Jason waves his phone, "I told him we were bringing you before we left Thompkins'."

Tim does a double take. His hand stills.

"You told - you didn't ask?" 

"He's already said we're supposed to have Alfred take a look at you - he's B's butler, and friend, and former-military-does-everything-around-here-guy."

"But I already saw a doctor," Tim scratches behind his ear.

"That was before you almost took a header on the stairs and overworked your bonked brain with everyone else's homework," Jason wags a finger. 

Tim opens his mouth to argue but something clicks into place and he stutters a little.

"Wait - you told - when we were at Dr. Thompkins'?"

"No way I'm letting some kid with a bump on his weirdly big brain sleep on the streets tonight." Jason smiles like it's nothing. 

"The shelter -"

"You weren't going to stay at the shelter." Jason taps out something on his phone as he says this, no hint of a question or doubt in his tone. 

"How did -"

"You were already making a plan of where to get ice before we left," Jason peeks up from the small screen, "weren't you?" He goes back to typing. "I knew Dickie would try to do the responsible thing first, but would cave pretty quickly. I had a pretty great little speech all planned out, just in case. But he's the one who brought it up actually, when we were fixing that window."

"Speaking of ice," Dick pockets his keys, glancing back at them, "it's been over an hour. We should really get you inside and put some on those ribs. And hey," he turns his body almost completely around in the front seat, "you don't have to go to the party. Alfred or one of us can hang with you and eat dinner away from all those people. We keep the main living areas of the house off-limits during big events so we could find somewhere quiet for your head, like the library or even your room."

"Room?" Tim squeaks.

"What," Jason slips his phone back in his pants, "you think we're going to make you crash on the ballroom floor when B has like a dozen guest bedrooms?"

"I - I can't," Tim rubs his forehead, "this is - too much."

"You deserve it," Jason locks eyes with the kid, "you deserve more."

"I," Tim starts, stops, sniffs, repeat. "I - I'm just some kid. There are - a lot - more. They're hurt too. They're hungry. They've been out there, longer, than me. They - they deserve it. Not me."

"It's not a competition," Jason sighs, frowning. 

"But you're right," Dick's eyes light up, "they do deserve it. Not instead of you, Tim. But they deserve it too."

Jason and Tim share a curious glance. 

It takes another few minutes to finally convince Tim to follow them inside. They have to resort to telling him that they're staying in the car until he does. They make sure he knows that he is free to leave, no matter what, any time, but that they'd very much prefer if he stayed. And Tim hopes more than anything in the world that they mean that. He is pretty sure they're just being nice because they're, you know, superheroes. But he can pretend. 

It turns out that Alfred - Mr. Pennyworth, Tim keeps calling him despite the man's protests - seems about as happy and excited to feed Tim as Tim is to be in Wayne Manor. Because, yeah, Tim is inside Wayne Manor. He has been there before, for an event a few years ago, but that was before. Before Tim deduced Bruce Wayne was Batman. Before Wayne Manor was also Batman's house, and most likely the location of some secret superhero base. Tim guesses it is underground somewhere, somehow. There are other outbuildings on the Wayne property, but something on that scale would be hard to hide above ground. 

He is going to have to stomp down on every aching impulse to go searching for it tonight. 

Mr. Pennyworth is busy in the kitchens, helping the staff prepare for the party, but - despite Tim's objections - he still takes the time to sit the boy down and look him over. It's not as thorough as a screening as the doctor gave Tim, but he check's Tim's pupils, memory, pain levels, current symptoms, and feels around his skull and ribs. He also gives him a fancy gel ice pack that Velcro's around his abdomen. He agrees with the boys that Tim simply - as Jason put it - "nuked his noggin" with too much reading - and thinking. Because that's a thing. Thinking too hard after a concussion can worsen symptoms and if Tim has to stop thinking to heal, it's never going to happen. 

After the checkup, the butler fixes Tim a plate of the party's hors d'oeuvres. Again, Tim tries to resist and argues with the man that the food is for the event. Mr. Pennyworth replies that if Tim will not eat the appetizers, he will simply go whip up something else instead. Even after Tim concedes, the butler offers this again, telling Tim it is perfectly acceptable if he doesn't like or want the fancier foods. He begins to list off some of Jason's favorite junk and frozen foods that they keep on hand, but Tim assures Alfred that the platter in front of him is fine. And, really, it is. 

There is a handful of turkey meatballs with cranberry sauce, a few goat-cheese stuffed mushrooms with bread crumbs, blue cheese and fig bites, two roasted pear slices with brie and pistachios, and and assortment of nuts, olives, and vegetables. 

Alfred seems impressed by the palette of a boy of his age. Tim is only a little embarrassed, because the food filling his empty stomach is too distracting to overthink too much. Tim used to exist on almost solely takeout and cold food at home growing up, but he was around fancy restaurants and dinners and events like this enough. He made a habit out of pocketing the finger foods in napkins for later. He never took up cooking when by himself, though, which was most of the time. It couldn't hold his attention and time wasted in the kitchen was time he could be studying or reading or watching videos on new skills.

He hasn't met Mr. Wayne yet. Hasn't even gotten a glimpse of the man. It makes sense, though. He has a party to get ready for, and work to probably do, both of the Wayne and Bat variety. Jason and Dick left Tim with Alfred awhile ago, promising that they were coming back soon. He hates that it hurts a little when they leave him. He hates more that he doesn't believe they'll return. It's their house. Of course they will. But that doesn't mean they'll stay by his side and hold his hand like a baby. They've spent too much time with Tim already. It's easier for everyone to pawn him off to the butler and wipe their hands clean. It makes sense to Tim and he can't be mad at them for it. 

This is why Tim has to hide an excited noise in the back of his throat when Jason bounds into the kitchen just as Tim is clearing his plate. 

"I have something to show you!"

Tim glances at Mr. Pennyworth. 

"Go on, Master Tim," he smiles, "I'll clean this up -"

"Unless you're still hungry," Jason hurries over, "because you can have another plate full, right Alfie? You can have ten plate fulls, if you want."

"Indeed," the butler nods, "though I fear what may happen to your stomach after plate #4."

"Thank you," Tim grins, still hesitant but there is happiness there, "very much, sir. It was all very good. I think that was plenty enough."

"Don't call Alfie sir," Jason wrinkles his nose, "it makes me look bad."

"I find your politeness refreshing," the man says, with a pointed but kind look at the teenager, "but please, you may simply call me Alfred. Perhaps you will be a good influence on Master Jason."

"Not if I'm a bad influence on him first!" 

Jason takes Tim's wrists in his hand and runs out of the kitchen, Tim able to do little else but follow clumsily, giving a little wave back at the butler before they're out the door. 

Jason drags Tim up a set of wide wooden stairs, only slowing when Tim almost trips. He mutters an apology and something about shaking up Tim's baby brains too much before settling down to a brisk walk. Even restricting himself to this speed seems difficult for him. The boys wind down a long hall until Jason jumps to a halt in front of a door. 

"I picked out a room for you, I hope that's okay," Jason starts, "but if not, there are like three more just down that way, and a bunch on the next floor."

He waves at the doorknob, wiggling his fingers and Tim stares from the boy's face to his goofy gestures. With a hesitant hand, Tim turns the knob and pushes open the door. The room is a little bigger than the one he grew up in, but far emptier. There is a large bed with a canopy in the middle in front of a floor to ceiling set of windows. There are two matching nightstands on either side, with two matching lamps. The lavish rug under the bed frame looks so plush and Tim has a weird desire to shuck of his shoes and shuffle around on it. 

"I know, stupid big, right?" Jason leans against the threshold, whistling, "but also, boring. But hey, totally yours if you want. But," he backs out into the hallway, motioning for Tim to follow, "I picked it because it's ta-da," Jason hops dramatically to another door, "it's right across from mine!"

He swings open the door and walks backward inside, like he is making certain Tim follows, or wanting to see the kid's reaction. Tim isn't sure which. But he looks so darn hopeful and excited and it's a little infectious that Tim can't help but grin. He steps inside after Jason and just sort of, stares. 

Because that's when it hits him. 

He is standing in Robin's bedroom. 

There's an odd clashing of expensive and garish wallpaper with a smattering of posters. Two are for bands Tim hasn't heard of, Poison Dead and Black Canary. One is for Wonder Woman. There is another, framed and centered above the bed. It showcases the Flying Graysons silhouetted against the circus tent ceiling. Tim wonders if this was originally the first Robin's room. Does Jason look up to Dick as much as Tim does? 

An entire wall is covered in shelves of books. Tim does a quick scan. They're mostly fiction, many of them classical literature. There are a few modern YA romances and fantasy novels shoved in here and there. There is an electric guitar and amp in one corner of the room. 

Beside the bed sits a framed photograph of a woman smiling while slinging an arm around a young boy. 

The bed is smack in the middle of the massive room and is the same size as the other, with one key difference. 

The mattress is missing. 

Tim frowns, walking around to the other side of the bed frame to find the mattress on the floor. There is another one smashed up against it along the side, and two more on top of those. Above and around them, a nest of blankets and pillows spreads out in all directions. 

"I missed the floor when I first got here," Jason starts and it startles Tim in the quiet. "I had this sort of - place - inside - for awhile, so I wasn't always out on the streets at night, but I still slept on the floor for a long time. Then I came here and couldn't fall asleep."

He's looking over at Tim now, and Tim hasn't seen Jason this uncertain or shy before. 

"Someone is supposed to check up on you every couple hours tonight, and this place is giant and can be scary alone, so, I just, you know, thought, maybe, if you want - you could sleep - in here." He glances away again. "That other room is totally yours if you want it, but just in case -"

"Yes," Tim says before he can stop himself, "yes, I - I'd like that. Uh. Thank you."

And he really doesn't know what else to say. If he keeps talking, he will let himself protest because Jason needs his sleep, but the chance to bunk with Robin? To not feel alone in the middle of the night? To participate in the first (sort of) sleepover of his life? Plus, the mountain of mattresses and blankets looks very comfy. 

"I was going to give you options," Jason gestures toward the nest, "bed or mattress pile or floor, but bare floor is kind of not an option with your ribs. I also pushed it up against the window because maybe you'd miss seeing the sky. The lights are cool and everything in the City, but out here, you can see the stars so that's cool. But we can always close the curtains if you don't -"

"It," Tim breathes, pressing a hand against the cold glass and gazing down at the grounds below and the sky above, "it's perfect."

He can see the haze of lights of Gotham City in the distance. Lights from tall buildings that Tim has probably perched on with his camera, waiting for the very boy whose room he is in now to swing by for a quick snapshot. 

"So," Jason bounces a little in place, "we have a couple hours before the party starts downstairs, if you even want to go. They're so boring, but the food is always awesome. I've tried just sneaking some from the kitchen before, but Alfred makes me at least make an appearance and say hello if I want some. He won't make you do that, though! But I did ask him and he told me where to find some of Dick's old stuff and I think I nabbed some clothes that should fit you. There's a suit, if you want to go full-penguin. But there's also just some nice pants and a sweater. But you could go in your underwear for all I care. At least that would make it fun!" 

Jason bends over with laughter at his own joke, unaware of the mortified expression stricken across Tim's face. 

"Anyway," Jason comes up for air, "concussions equal no fun stuff, like TV, so we could just sort of hang out, or I could give you a tour of this museum, or, if you want, you can catch some sleep before the party. It's been a long day."

Tim wants nothing more than to see every nook and cranny, and secret, of Wayne Manor. He wants to talk to Robin, in his own bedroom, about everything, anything. But his body and head are feeling heavy again and that nest looks very inviting. He wonders how long he can fight it -

Tim lets out an impressive yawn.

"That's one way to answer," Jason chuckles. "Hang here for a sec. I'll go grab another ice pack and some Tylenol."

Jason zips out of the bedroom before Tim can protest. He is getting a little suspicious that they've just started interrupting him or disappearing before he is able to. 

Tim goes to walk to the bookshelf but suddenly stares down at his shoes. It's impolite to have them on in Jason's bedroom, but Jason has been running around the room in his sneakers so maybe that rule is different here. His gaze travels up to his clothes and skin, both dirtied and crawling with germs from the street. Dr. Thompkins had checked him for lice and scabies, but how many microscopic little guys were renting living space on Tim's body? In comparison to the pristine clean manor, he felt disgusting, and a little itchy. He wipes his hands on his jeans. He had washed them before eating, so they're probably the cleanest part of him. Inspecting the skin of his palm and fingers first, Tim reaches over to stroke the spine of a larger hardcover. He is still browsing the books when Jason returns, balancing a bottle of water, some blue sports drink, and two ice packs.

"Oh," he stops short, noticing Tim, "do you like reading?"

"Mostly nonfiction," Tim turns his head to the side to read a title better, "books I can learn from. But I like detective stuff, like novels or comics. I try to figure it out before the end."

"Cool," Jason shuts the door with his foot, "Bruce has a lot of those, but I don't know where they are right now. We're reorganizing the whole library because some rich dude died and had a ton of first editions of like, everything. I can't wait to read them all, but B says those have to stay downstairs because my room sometimes becomes a safety hazard. A kid leaves an egg salad sandwich under his bed for a month, one time, and never hears the end of it. Does that seem fair to you, Timmy?"

Better than fair, actually, considering what would've happened to him. Tim just nods.

"And he actually thinks I'd hurt the books," Jason shakes his head. 

He dumps the contents in his arms on his dresser and then slowly turns towards the boy. His face is unsure again, his eyes making him appear so much younger when he looks like this. He is biting his lip and swaying side to side. 

"Can I show you something, Tim?" He asks, quiet and so very sincere. "Something you can't tell anyone else about?"

And if Tim's heart flutters because there's a stupid second where he thinks that Jason is going to spill the Robin beans to him for some reason, he doesn't show it. Or ever admit to it in the future. There's something in the way the older boy is holding himself and speaking, that makes Tim sober up from that tempting thought pretty quickly though. He offers a nod in reply. 

Crossing the room, Jason pauses at his closet door. With a heavy sigh, he pulls the doors open. It's a big walk-in one with rows of clothes and shoes. Jason disappears into it for a moment and Tim hovers, uncertain if he is meant to follow. Before he can make up his mind, Jason returns, a box in his now slightly shaking arms. He stops at the closet's threshold, takes another breath, and then heads straight for Tim. When he drops the box in front of the boy, Jason doesn't look at Tim. 

Tim stares over at Jason for a long while, studying this new side of him, before lowering his gaze. He manages to catch his mouth before it opens too wide. At his feet sits a small stash of snacks. The box is filled to the brim with sugary treats, junk food, canned vegetables and fruit and tuna, crackers, and more. This box is bigger, but Tim is struck by the similarity. Tim's stash had a lot more peanut butter, though.

"Just like, the floor," Jason starts, turning away fully now, "I wasn't used to - having stuff - here. I didn't know if me, being here, was going to last. Or if - I just didn't know. And I'd been so hungry, all the time, for so long. So I started doing this. I hide it behind some laundry but I'm pretty sure Alfred knows and just pretends not to. He's good like that. I - I know, now, that I don't need this. But I still - it helps. Plus, now it's less of a 'in case of emergency' stockpile, and more of a 'I don't want to walk down to the kitchen' box. But - it's here. I'm pretty sure Alfie already told you that you can have anything in the kitchen and pantry you want, but, just in case, if you needed, or wanted - it's here."

Both boys are quiet for awhile. Tim never would have imagined he would see Robin look so vulnerable. He has seen the boy dodge bullets and get knocked down and all sorts of things that would make any grown person cower. And yet, here is when Jason shows his cracks. And he's showing them to Tim. 

"I used floorboards," Tim whispers into the silence, forcing himself to resist the urge to shrink away and instead looks right at Jason. 

And when Jason finally meets Tim's gaze, something passes between them. 

They don't say anything else about it. They don't say anything else for awhile. Jason goes to the dresser and hands Tim the ice packs and drinks. When Tim only stares down dubiously at the second bottle, this one with the blue liquid, Jason just presses it further into the boy's hands and walks away. He crosses to the bookshelves, pulls a paperback free, and retreats to the nest, curling up near the center. He is a few pages in when Tim joins him with a selection of his own from the wall, one he didn't refuse or even ask for. Glancing down at his jeans again, he doesn't sit on the mattresses or blankets, but opts for a spot on the outskirts of the pile, his back propped up against Jason's bed frame. He can feel Jason's eyes on him. The sensation doesn't go away until Tim has downed the water bottle and is sipping at the sugary blue sports drink. Tim squints at the small print in front of him, feeling the newly familiar pressure building in his brain. He tries rubbing his eyes and holding the book at different distances away from his face, but it only gets worse. Sighing, he eventually sets the book aside, leaning his head back on the wooden frame. 

“It was November--the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let that great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul.”

Jason is narrating aloud from his own book casually, as if this is how he always reads. He doesn't look over at Tim. And he doesn't make odd inflections with his voice like he is telling a tale to children. He just, reads. 

"Anne was not wont to be troubled with soul fog. But, somehow, since her return to Redmond for this third year, life had not mirrored her spirit back to her with its old, perfect, sparkling clearness."

Tim can't remember the last time anyone ever read to him. He isn't familiar with the story, but the farther Jason goes along, the more Tim begins to recognize names and bits from the long tirade the teenager had went on back in the car. His voice is a blanket yet again.

Tim never wants to leave this room. This home. These people.  

Chapter Text

There are fists the size of small sledgehammers slamming into Tim's stomach, over and over. He is curled up on himself, crying and begging and snot-nosed on the pavement but no one is listening. 

Until someone does. 

A flash of yellow and green dropping down from the sky.

His faceless attackers scatter and scream. One of them stays behind. His face a little less blurry than the others. A little more, familiar.

Robin steps behind the shadow man and the boy, all puffed out chest and bouncing on his heels like a boxer. He's fast, so fast, but the figure is faster.

Robin is down and Tim has to run, run, run. His legs and throat burn. His face feels hot and his chest, his chest is so tight it might just cave in. Each footfall is a deafening drum in his head but he can't stop.

Tim leaps for a fire escape, pulling himself up, scrambling up the stairs and stumbling onto the roof above. He makes it across the top but something is grabbing his arm. It's black and smoky and billows around the boy's wrist, pulling Tim back around to face it. Tim yanks the limb away before he can get a good look - because he doesn't want to know that he knows that face - the force of it causing him to slip backward, right over the edge. He tumbles through the open air, until his body begins bouncing against something. The air is now stairs, tall and wooden and ornate and they seem to go on forever and ever. The bottom, Tim can see as he rolls and flails, is nothing but a long drop before a set of brightly rainbow painted cement steps. He is going to just keep falling down different stairs, and he doesn't even know for how long, or if his body will survive long enough to reach whatever end there is. The wooden stairs stop suddenly and he sees the hard cement below. Tim closes his eyes, screams - and stops falling. 

When Tim opens his eyes, there are arms wrapped around him. Strong and steady and safe.

His head rests against a chest of black and blue.

When Tim wakes up, he is warmer than he can remember being in a long time. There is something lumpy but soft underneath him and something else thick and fluffy on top. For just a second, he is back in his old bedroom, curled up in some hopeless contortion of blankets and pillows having crashed after a late-night Batman and Robin picture hunt. There are no street sounds or people shouting or wind whipping against his bare face, no underlying chill in his bones. He also feels, safe. But that's not right. He was safer at home than on the streets or in the shelters, but he never felt wholly safe. 

Something else is new, too. 

There is a low, quiet, voice steadily speaking. Whoever it is, it doesn't sound like they are talking to someone else. Just, talking. 

No - reading. 

"The skydiving instructor who is strapped to Meg nudges my sneakers out of the door with his hand. I notice them for the first time since putting them on—turquoise with purple laces. It’s as if my brain is trying to memorize the world of the living, just in case. My feet find the platform for a second, and then we tip forward and, in one dizzying motion, roll out of the plane and into the sky."

There is a pause. 

Tim is suspicious enough to crack open one eyelid. 

Dick Grayson, clad in a suit but no shoes, sits propped up against a wooden bed frame, a magazine in his lap.

And everything comes back to Tim all at once. 

He shuffles in some sort of makeshift cocoon, now recognizing them as Jason's blankets. Somehow, he has migrated from sitting upright on the outskirts of the nest to avoid dirtying it, to being snug smack in the middle of the mess of mattresses and pillows. 

Tim, well, Tim has a lot of questions. But for now, he just stares at the magazine.

"Skydiving magazine," Dick waves it in one hand, "I'm planning on having some fun this spring. And Bruce already made me read all the classics growing up and now I stay far, far away."

Tim scrunches his forehead because that actually creates more questions. 

"Jason said reading was helping," Dick says quietly, "with, you know," he nods at Tim. 

Tim can suddenly remember another dream before the last one. It's fragmented but there was something about bricks being thrown at him until Robin flew down, hurling hardcovers at the attackers. He thinks there might have been more. So many blurs of capes and masks,  so many shadows of the familiar face. 

Tim tries to blink the images away, his gaze wandering to the window - and the sun setting outside. 

"The party," Tim pushes impatiently at the blankets, "you're going to be late because of me."

"Always be late to your own events," Dick says sagely and then frowns, "or is that just Bruce's philosophy?"

Tim sits up, rubbing at his chest.

"How are you feeling?"

The lie is so close to the surface, but the little wheeze gives him away. 

"Hurts to breathe again."

"Probably just how you slept," Dick hums, "hot shower should help. Jason's got a bathroom right through there," he points, "and he put some towels on the counter for you. If you want."

Tim wants to argue, again, but he can't remember his last shower. He thinks of the dirt and germs and swears he can feel them crawling on his skin. It's odd though. As much as he wants to rid himself of the layers of grime and sweat and microbes, it's almost become this sort of second skin. Familiar. It will also only just make it harder still when he goes back out onto the streets after all this. 

But the congestion in his nose and the pain pulsing through his whole body is enough to pause his protest. 

"He left some of my old clothes hanging up in there too," Dick offers.

He is watching Tim with those warm eyes, head cocked to one side and a goofy ghost of a smile on his lips. It looks like he is maybe studying Tim and the boy realizes that he isn't sure how much time passed without him offering any sort of response. How long has Dick just been looking at him like that? And why?

"Uh - what about?" Tim gestures vaguely toward his nose. 

"You don't have any internal splinting or dressings," Dick shrugs, "just try to keep your face and the bandaging dry. You can always take a bath -" Tim must make a face because Dick stops and smiles. "It'll be fine. If it needs replacing, Alfred or I can take care of it for you. I've, uh, had a lot practice, you know, with gymnastics."

Right. Yup. Gymnastics. 

He mumbles a quiet "thank you" and shuffles off toward the bathroom. 

Tim stumbles in front of the mirror. His mouth falls open and he just sort of stares at himself for a long moment. It's the first time he has looked at himself in awhile, but definitely since the alley. 

His hair is greasy, sticking up and out in odd directions from sleep and, you know, the kid's lack of a comb. He thinks of Dr. Tompkins running her gloved fingers across his scalp and shudders. His parents always had him keep his hair trimmed neatly. They weren't exactly around to enforce it, but Tim had a standing scheduled appointment since he was very young. Tim knew to never miss it, even if his parents weren't home. Now, it has grown past his ears a bit and sort of flys and flips wherever it wants. 

His drooping bangs hide a lot of scrapes and cuts along his forehead from where the men had shoved his face into the gravel. For a second, he can taste it again. Hear their laughter. Feel their hands on him, holding him down. 

His eyes look duller than he remembers, a sort of grayish tint to them instead of that vibrant, bright blue. They are cradled by dark circles. The discoloration looks mostly like it is from lack of sleep. There are some hints of reddening on the outer edges and a little flushness toward the inner corners, but it hasn't been long enough for the bruising to bleed through. Alfred had warned that it might look worse tomorrow. The echo of that sickening squish and crack when the knee connected with his nose sounds somewhere in the back of his mind. 

His jaw is sore where a fist found its landing, a little swollen but the skin still a pinkish pale.

He can't look at anything else.

Tim turns around, fingers fumbling at the hem of his shirt. It's a chore to bring it over his head, the movement making the pain in his chest spike and stretch. When it's finally over his head and tossed on the floor, Tim leans back against the counter, breathing heavy. He keeps his gaze straight ahead as he finishes undressing, folding his clothes neatly into a pile and placing them on top of the closed hamper.  

Reaching one hand in behind the curtain, Tim turns the dial. The water gets hot impressively fast, and he holds his outstretched fingers underneath the steady stream. It take a few more deep breaths, but eventually Tim slips inside. The water pelts against his back and the sigh Tim lets loose is a little embarrassing.

There is already steam filling and fogging the tub and Tim feels the air move through his nostrils for the first time in awhile. 

The bone chill that has been living with him for too long now had already started to fade from his mountains of blankets he woke up underneath. The hot water is drowning out the cold now. He lets it soak in through his skin, spreading the warmth through him all over. The layer of dirt and germs and protection is washing away, but it's being replaced by this sensation. He thinks he could stay like this in there forever.

He doesn't want to seem greedy, though, and forces himself to open his eyes and get on with it.  

Stacked up against a long shelf that runs the length of the shower wall there stands a row of various shampoos, conditioners, and soaps. When Tim lifts a few of them, they are heavy. Full. New. There are both liquid body washes and bar soaps.  A washcloth, a loofah, and a sponge all hang below them. Also brand new. Tim runs his fingers along their course surfaces, picking up the small towel. On the edge of the tub, on the other side, sits a set of shampoo, conditioner, and soap. These are all at least half way used up. When he pops the top on one, it smells like Jason. And Dick. 

He has the soap in his hands before he really knows what he is doing. Before he can berate and stop himself for overstepping his welcome here even more. He scrubs at his skin in a rough circular motion without looking down at what he is doing. He doesn't want to see the murky watery runoff. He doesn't want to see how pale he knows he's gotten or how thin or how gross. He doesn't want to see the reminder of how this all started what feels like so long ago. 

When the washcloth is more brown than beige, Tim swaps to the sponge. And then the loofah. He goes over every inch of himself three different times. Just to be sure. Now that the layer is stripped, he can't stop until it's all gone. He doesn't realize he is silently sobbing until he remembers that he is facing away from the faucet and his face shouldn't be getting wet. Wiping at the tears, Tim starts to scrub down his face, mindful of his nose and cuts. His hands are in his hair next, lathering the soap until his scalp is sore. He uses the shampoo next three times before he has to physically set it down on the floor outside the curtain to stop. By the time he gets to the conditioner, his hair is even more matted than it was before. He reaches for what looks like a brand new comb that is hanging by where the washcloth was. Tim rakes it through his hair, harder, harder. He isn't enjoying this anymore. Isn't basking in the warmth. Because, yeah, that perpetual cold is blessedly gone, but he is just too dirty. Too filthy. Too tangled and broken and bruised and disgusting and - 

The water is turning red by his feet. Tim has a horrifying thought that he's scratched away at his scalp but then he can feel it. The liquid, draining down his face and chin and chest and dripping onto the white tub floor below. It's pooling a little, thicker, and he doesn't know how long it's been happening but when he looks over to the discarded sponge, there are streaks of red. There are small stains on the washcloth and loofah too. Tim's heart rockets against his ribs as he lifts his arms to see blotches blemishing his skin. His hand goes for the washcloth again but he is moving too fast, legs like noodles as his feet slip against the water and blood. Thrusting his arms out, Tim barely manages to land on his hands instead of his broken and bleeding face. He tries to stand but his knees knock together, sliding underneath him against the slick tub floor. He's on his stomach, chest burning. He can feel their boots and hands on his back. They're shoving him down, holding him there. 

"Tim?"

The voice is urgent and close, right on the other side of the curtain. Tim hadn't even heard the door open. There's a tall shadow on the other side of the fabric, fidgeting like it keeps reaching to tug at the curtain and then stopping. 

"Tim? Are you alright?"

"It won't stop."

Even Tim can barely hear his own voice against the water and the tremors and his tears. 

"Tim, I'm pulling back the curtain."

He's barely finished the sentence before one hand is ripping the fabric to the side and the other is jamming the shower dial off. Tim hears him do these things, but he doesn't look at him. At this point, he can't open his eyes. Something soft falls over his skin, wrapping around him as he shivers. 

"The blood," he mumbles, "it won't stop bleeding."

"You're okay, Tim. You're okay. It's stopped now. Just open your eyes. You'll see. I promise."

Tim doesn't believe it. But he wants to. He believes that voice. He's believed it since he was a very little boy. 

It takes a few seconds, but Tim finally obeys, blinking his eyes open until Dick Grayson is blurring into view. 

"See? It's not bleeding anymore."

Tim reaches up to touch his nose with a tentative hand. It comes back barely moist. When he pulls his arm away, his stained skin is now clear. The water beneath him is barely dotted pink. The blood has stopped. It's gone. Or most of it was never even there. Tim isn't sure. 

"I'm sorry, I should've reminded you Leslie said it could happen. The steam helps breaks things up, opens everything up so you can breath better. But it can cause more bleeding." 

Dick is wrapping the soft fabric - a towel Tim notices now - more tightly around him now, helping him sit and then slowly stand. He guides the boy out and off of the slick floor and then down onto the side of the tub.

"There was so much," Tim stares down at his hands, clean save for some small spots on his fingers. "I thought - it - it might never stop."

Dick studies Tim's face and when he moves to adjust the towel, his gaze catches the boy's chest. Tim watches his hero's eyes do a little dance of up to his face then back down then up again and back. Now Dick is the one sort of shaking. 

"It wouldn't stop bleeding," he repeats, unsure why but also not knowing how not to. "I - I - it - the blood -"

Dick's arms are thrown around Tim's shoulders before the kid can object. He doesn't flinch or pull away, though. Dick is careful of Tim's chest, keeping space between his own body and the boy's. His hand is in Tim's wet hair, holding the back of his head like it's precious and in need of protection. Tim doesn't bring up his own arms or hug Dick back. He just, lets himself be held. 

Because Dick is there, again. He didn't catch Tim this time, but he caught him before. And in those dreams. And he's got him now. 

He's got him now.

Chapter Text

Dick is halfway through running his own little checkup when Tim realizes it. 

Dick was there. 

Yeah, of course, Dick is there right now, in front of him and making sure the kid didn't crack open anything new in his little slip and slide bathtub tumble, but he was there. Like, right away. Like, immediately after it happened. 

Tim had been in the shower for a good while at that point. And Dick had just been, what, chilling with his weird skydiving magazine in Jason's room the whole time? Waiting for Tim? 

Why did that make his heart feel both heavy and light all at the same time? 

"And you're sure you didn't hit your head again?"

Tim nods because he is still processing his little revelation. 

"Your nose might bleed again," he sighs, "if it happens, make sure to lean forward to keep the blood from going down your throat. Between earlier and now, I don't want you getting too nauseous and getting sick. That won't feel great for your ribs or your nose."

If Tim adds throwing up in Wayne Manor to his list of embarrassments, he won't care about his ribs or nose. He will only care about running from this place in shame as fast as humanly possible.

"You want help with your hair?"

Tim raises an eyebrow up at him.

"Hey, grew up in the circus, remember? Hygiene wasn't - uh - exactly a top priority. Between constant traveling and training and swinging through the air - and the sweating, lots of sweating - and the lack of routine haircuts, this," he points at his own head, "was a nightmare."

Tim wonders if that is why Robin doesn't wear a cowl like Batman. How does Bruce Wayne keep his hair from getting gross under that thing anyway? 

"I'm not a baby," Tim huffs, folding his arms. 

"And I'm not a hippopotamus in a tutu," Dick twirls the comb, "are we just saying random facts about ourselves or are you going to let me tame that jungle? I've actually been to the jungle before. Bruce travels a lot for work. It was crazy, Tim. Spiders the size of your face. And so hot. Like, illegally hot. And Bruce still insisted we wear suits. Suits! So, we're on our way to some big conference when something blows one of our tires, right? The tire doesn't just pop, something hit it. Next thing you know, we're surrounded. They make us get out of the car and are trying to rob us. They don't realize that they're holding up Bruce Wayne. They just do this to all foreigners. They also don't realize that Bruce speaks their language. He overhears two of them, talking about how they need more to afford 'the medicine'. Bruce interrupts their little robbery speech, asks them what they need. Who's sick? Turns out, this whole village had been suffering because of some new virus and the local governments were using it as an opportunity to quarantine them, cut them off, kill them off. Bruce talks himself into the village, past the officials, examines some of the sick people, figures out what is causing it, and has a helicopter of medicine and food flown in before the end of the day. And I got to play games with some of the kids instead of standing around while Bruce rubs shoulders at the conference."

Tim doesn't realize that Dick's done with his hair until the comb is set down beside him. He should be more embarrassed, but he is too enthralled in the story. He's researched every known Batman and Robin fight or case, has witnessed a few of them firsthand. This isn't just  a new adventure, it's a new story - about Bruce and Dick, not their caped counterparts. Even out of a mask, Bruce Wayne can't stop being a hero. 

His parents went to the jungle last year to learn about some new artifact the archeological division had uncovered and how its properties could be applied to modern medicine. Now, the research is all in the hands of Drake Industries and when the trials are complete, the medicines will be available, to pharmaceutical companies and anyone with enough in the bank. Tim doubts any money, or medicine, will make its way back to the small town where it was found. 

"Tim."

Dick sighs low and Tim stiffens, brought back to the present. Dick is going to ask him about it now. Why wouldn't he? He's seen it, up close even. Tim is good at lying. He can spin something out. He can -

"Back in the alley, when we first met," Dick starts instead, surprising Tim enough that he looks up, "you called me Nightwing. Do you remember that?"

Tim silently thanks growing up with his parents for the years of learning how to school his features, no matter what he's feeling on the side. Because while Tim's face is innocently blank and blinking, his heart and head and lungs are all having 404 System Errors simultaneously. What is Dick doing? Bringing it up again is just more dangerous for him. Tim already took care of this with his quick thinking then and there. Why is Dick making Tim do all the heavy lifting of keeping the vigilante's secret identity? Didn't Batman like train them on these sort of things? And - oh yeah, he should be responding right about now.

"I, I met him," Tim shrugs, "I mean, not met him, but - he saved me, once, last year." Tim smiles softly and this time, he isn't lying. "I was downtown and it was late. There'd been an Arkham breakout, again," Tim rolls his eyes and Dick seems to sort of laugh a little at that. "I was just trying to get home. It was stupid. I turned a corner, and bam, a whole bunch of guys in Arkham jumpsuits setting fire to a cop car. They saw me and started chasing me. They almost got me, but Nightwing jumped down right between us. He told me to run and I did."

"You remember his voice, just from that?"

"I," Tim glances away, "I used to dream about it a lot."

It had been a nice dream to replace the nightmare of The Flying Grayson's falling to their death over and over and over. Before the new nightmares had started. 

"Tim," Dick has his serious face on again, "what were you doing downtown late at night? Have you been out on the streets that long?"

Now comes the lying part. 

"I fell asleep at the library doing homework." Tim blushes.

While that has definitely happened before - hints of truths in the lie always help - Tim had most certainly been chasing a good photograph of Nightwing that night, seeing as the vigilante was back in Gotham for a few days and he couldn't pass up the opportunity. The breakout had happened while he was already downtown. He wasn't that stupid to purposefully go out with a bunch of escapees on the loose, usually, sometimes - okay, he did it that one time later but he had been fine. 

Dick seems to consider his answer, not suspicious, just sort of, thoughtful. Seemingly satisfied, he pats Tim's knee and stands. 

"Why don't you get dressed?"

He waves at the clothing options Jason has hung up for him along the bathroom closet door. There is a nice black suit and tie, a pair of dark slacks and a crimson sweater, and finally, a pair of grey sweatpants and t-shirt.

"You can pick what clothes you want, and if you want to go down to the party, even if you choose the pajamas," Dick chuckles.

Tim is reminded of Jason's previous underwear comment. These two really are brothers. 

"There's no pressure to come," Dick repeats earlier sentiments, "with everything you've been through today. But, there's a lot of food, and you'll give Jason and me and excuse not to talk to the more annoying guests. Also, I might have a little surprise."

Tim frowns. How did Dick do that? The man doesn't even know him yet and still chose to perfect tactic. Yeah, Tim's desire to help and repay Jason and Dick any way he can is a pretty significant motivator, his own personal comfort at going be damned, but the surprise? Tim's nature is just is too curious to turn that down. 

He chooses the suit. He would prefer the sweatpants and shirt, but that is just wildly improper. Even the slacks and sweater combo is too causal for how Tim was raised. He is at Wayne Manor, for crying out loud. He is their guest. His facial accessories are going to be an embarrassment enough to the host. Tim isn't about to add violating the unspoken - or, actually, very loudly spoken in his former household - dress code of these sorts of things.

Dick asks once more if he is sure and then steps out to let Tim get dressed. He doesn't look in the mirror this time until he is clothed and ready to check his hair. It's mostly dry now and when he styles it a bit, the dampness just looks like hair gel. Taking a deep breath, Tim turns from his reflection and heads out the door, Dick whistling when he sees the kid. 

They head downstairs together, Dick leading the way and Tim trying to memorize the layout again. They're at the large doors to the ballroom when Tim pauses, hand hovering over his face.

"What about," he waves at his nose, "this?"

"Bruce has looked much worse at his own parties," Dick grins.

"Besides, it makes you look like a badass," Tim whirls at the voice, Jason sauntering hum beside them, "which, of course, you are."

"How are they doing?" Dick asks his brother.

Tim assumes they're speaking of Bruce and Alfred, or the guests in general. 

"Their mouths have stopped hanging open like mine did when I first saw this place," Jason grunts. 

Tim's brow furrows. He is opening his own mouth to question them when Dick places his hands on the doorknobs. 

"You sure you're ready for this, Tim?"

Dick hasn't stopped making sure he actually wants to come and is going to be alright since he came out of the bathroom. Tim would be annoyed, if it didn't make his heart warm a little more each time. 

Tim nods, stealing himself. He stretches his face muscles as best he can with the pain in his nose. He is about to plaster on a tried and true plastic gala smile when the doors open, and he sees them. 

The ballroom is filled with Gotham's elite. Politicians, local celebrities, CEOs, and more, all wander and wave to each other. They are a sea of black and white, of silver and gold. But the sea is specked by something else. A trio of young girls scamper across toward the tables of food. An older teenager is grabbing the wrist of boy who looks like he was just about to relieve a man of his wallet. Another adolescent is plunking away a surprisingly beautiful melody on the piano and even the adults around her seem impressed. Alfred is across the way, seizing a small child before he can make a leap for the chandelier. A boy and girl are pretending to slow dance. When he stomps on her toes for the third time, an short elderly man steps in, teaching them with surprising patience. He is most definitely the minority of the affluent guests. The other adults gape and whisper at the smattering of youths romping and playing and pigging out among them. There are a few that are receiving more stares than the others. Tim recognizes the group immediately. Tucked in the corner together, stand Rachel and the teenagers he had met earlier, plus a few he didn't but are obviously friends with the others. 

"Hey! It's Robot Boy!"

Eve elbows Darnell's side. 

"Don't call him that!"

"What?" Darnell laughs, loud. "Boy Wonder is already taken. Brain Boy?"

"Kid Genius."

A handful of them devolve into a debate over Tim's apparently very important nickname as he approaches them with Dick and Jason. 

"W - what?" Tim glances around again, tugging on his tie. 

"You said that it wasn't fair that there were other kids who deserved to come too," Dick shrugs, smile stretching ear to ear, "so, I invited them."

"You kind of kidnapped them," Jason cocks his head. 

"I stopped back at all the shelters we went to today," Dick clarifies, shaking his head, "and told all the kids I saw, and told them to spread the word. Most remembered me from dropping off donations or recognized me as Bruce Wayne's son. I told them a time to be ready and then sent cars to pick them up. If their parents were with them, they could come too, of course. Not everyone came."

"Because it looked like you were kidnapping them," Jason repeats. 

"Some didn't trust we weren't going to call up social services the minute they got inside," Dick frowns, "but we told everyone to take whatever food they want back to other kids that stayed behind."

Tim did a double take at the crowd, turning around and around in a circle to get a better look at all of the new guests. 

"Won't - will - Mr. Wayne be angry?"

"This is a charity event for feeding the homeless," Dick waves his arms toward the crowds. "I just brought the people in need to the party instead of waiting for the money to get to the people and cut out the middle man. Win-win. I think the only people upset were the staff, because they had to make more food. The pay bonus made up for it. And Alfred was stressed a little, but he likes feeding people too much to be upset."

"What about," Tim eyes a few of the gawkers, "everyone else?"

"Some will leave," Dick rolls his eyes, "some already have, but they won't dare show up to a Wayne function and not at least sign a check before heading out the door."

"And if they all run scared," Lizzie bounces up to them, "then the more for the rest of us."

"Told you you could've worn the pajamas," Dick grins at Tim.

"Hey," Eve twirls her red cocktail dress, "I look fantastic."

"So do I," Charlie struts dramatically, flaring the collar of his wrinkled striped shirt.

"On the runway today we have Charles Reiner," Lizzie holds her fist up to her mouth like a microphone. "At only 16, he's gone from juvie jumpsuits to Goodwill Gucci. What a transformation, ladies and gentlemen. Today, he is modeling an authentic, vintage, yellow and blue striped shirt that we all warned him months ago when he found it in the discount bin that it looked hideous. But that's just Charles Reiner for you, folks. Daring. Rebellious. A trend setter, really."

The rest of them laugh while Charlie pretends to go for Lizzie's microphone as she continues. Eve whines about not being featured as the top model for her dress. Darnell argues that she can't take the glory for something she stole from Rachel's closet. Rachel assures Eve that she can steal anything the girl wants until they can get the money to buy Eve her own women's clothing. Eve says Darnell isn't allowed to say anything to anyone about their fashion choices when he chose a velvet ensemble that he sewed himself with scraps from the dumpster of a fabric store. A few of them are in suits, but they're either too big or too small, and one of the boy's pants and jacket are different shades of brown. 

"I," Tim starts quietly, "I think you all look great."

"You're one to talk," a pink-haired girl in a plaid skirt and thick tights wags her finger up and down his outfit and then slaps the guy in the mismatched brown, "now that's a suit."

"You do clean up nice," Lizzie laughs. 

"Is that Armani?" Darnell leans in closer. "It looks like it. May I?" He extends a hand and Tim just blankly stares, nodding while the teenager rubs at the sleeve. "Oh, it feels like Armani, too."

"You don't know what Armani feels like," brown-suit boy rolls his eyes. 

"I've worn it before," Darnell grins, "in my dreams every night."

"Tell you what," Dick chuckles, "I'll take you upstairs later and you can pick out one of my old ones, actually, as many as you want. They don't fit me and this," he gestures at Tim, "is the first time one of them has seen the light of day in years."

"Wait, what? Are you serious? That is -"

Darnell keeps talking, and so do the rest of them, but Tim can't hear anyone anymore. He can't really hear anything anymore. The world's noises have all sort of smooshed all together in one loud whooshing sound. It's low but builds until Tim's ears are ringing and he almost moves to cover them. 

"I, uh," Tim stammers, unable to place his own voice over the echo, "I need to use the bathroom. Please excuse me."

Tim turns and takes off into the crowd before anyone can reply, not that he would've heard them. He realizes only too late that he doesn't know where the bathroom actually is, but that doesn't matter. He can't go back toward the doors they entered through. He can't even look over that way right now. Now when they are - he spots the grand staircase. Considers it. There are doors where the staff has been coming in from with new trays of food and there is only one other hallway toward the side of the ballroom. It's the best option.

He doesn't run. That would draw too much attention. His movements are quick, but precise. He weaves between waiters and guests, disappearing into the masses. After a few feet and away from his friends - are they his friends now? - Tim tucks one hand under his suit jacket, pressing it firm against his chest, ignoring the pain. He can't hear it but he knows he is wheezing. Breathing too fast. He focuses on his hand as he moves, measuring how it rises and falls, forcing his lungs to slow. 

As a computer can be overloaded, so can a human brain. There is a finite processing capacity and when the ability to process fear is exceeded, panic sets in. As with a machine, decrease inputs. Go somewhere quiet. Get away from the stress. The intense worry can be overridden, to a degree, that in this panic, painful though it is, a person can keep functioning. It still damages the hard drive, messes with processing speeds, hurting the body and brain and altering the expression of hundreds of genes. If left untreated, system overload can lead to corrupt files and sparks, actions erratic and escalating, becoming a danger to themselves and others. Or worse, the brain blue screens. Sends someone offline. 

Tim can't let that happen, not now. 

The hand over his heart is helping. He can take in breaths without worrying if his lungs will collapse. The sound is less sharp now, back down to that warbled whooshing. And then it just sort of, stops. It feels like when his ears would pop after a long plane ride and everything finally wasn't underwater. 

"I think that's one of them," a voice says nearby, "playing dress up."

"He looks familiar, though. Isn't that -"

Tim turns, skidding to stop her. To correct her. Because he isn't who she thinks he is. Who she is about to say aloud. 

He's not. They said so. 

Tim opens his mouth, voice dying around the same time his soul does. They're no longer by the big tall doors. They're on the move. 

Toward him. 

Chapter Text

Tim never meant to come out to his parents. 

He never meant to come out at all.

Most kids learn how to pretend as a game. Imagining fanciful stories, playing house, making toys go on adventures. A million little worlds could exist in just one child's mind. 

Tim had one world. And he had to pretend just to get by living in it. 

His parents taught him early. 

How to stop crying when upset so they wouldn't become annoyed with him. How to fake smiles at parties to be polite, a skill he quickly turned on his mother and father. How to not let your outside reflect what you feel on the inside. How to be fighting with each other in the car one second, and laughing and holding hands in front of friends the next. 

How to be anything but himself. 

So, when Tim started to slowly make the realization that he was different, he just pretended he wasn't. 

He also had a plan. 

Tim had plans for everything. And then backup plans. 

And then backup to the backup plans. 

He wasn't exactly old enough to be expected to have crushes or girlfriends yet. But Tim had picked his target. A girl at school. The most popular girl, to be precise. Her family was just as rich as the Drakes, so his parents would approve and encourage the match. The girl, however, would never go for him. Her absolute unattainability made her the perfect person. That would maybe satisfy his parents for awhile. 

He could also just make up a girlfriend. His parents weren't around enough to notice. Conveniently, the two would breakup right before his mother and father returned from a trip. 

There was always a chance that Tim might actually find a girl he really did like and there wouldn't be a need for all the smoke and mirrors, but he preferred to be prepared. 

He would figure out the whole future marriage and kids thing eventually. He had grown up watching a marriage that was sometimes loveless play out in front of him. This wouldn't be much different. Except Tim would love his kid, no matter who it came from. He was pretty sure that his parents loved him, in their own way, but he sometimes wondered if they liked him. Tim would like his kid, even if he or she was the product of some fake family. 

So yes, Tim had never meant to come out to his parents. 

Until he accidentally did. 

"I don't want him coming over to this house anymore," Jack sat across from Tim at the table, cutting into his steak. 

"And that doesn't mean you can just go over to his," Janet waved her fork with a smile. 

"I don't understand," Tim looked between both his parents.

"He's sick, Timothy," Jack leaned forward, "they all are. It's inside them. A disease."

"He doesn't look sick," Tim frowned. 

"Like I said, son," Jack continued, eyes dark, "it's inside of them. In their blood. And they can - infect - other people. Make them sick too."

"But, he's - my friend," Tim stabbed at his broccoli.

"Mind your manners," Janet raised her brow at the knife in Tim's hands.

"And since when do you argue with us?" Jack took a bite, ripping at the fat of the meat.

"I - I'm not," Tim bowed his head.

"Good, because my decision here is final, Timothy," Jack nodded and then shook his head with a huff. "Bisexual." He spat the word. "The boy should just call it what it is - gay. It's bad enough he has to be gay, but then he throws some other title on there just to cover it up."

Tim was confused. What did Bernard being gay have to do with him also being sick? 

"His parents are just devastated," Janet put a hand over her chest.

"What they should be is embarrassed," Jack said through a mouthful, "raising him to be - that - and then letting him shout it from the rooftops for anyone to hear. They should have put a stop to it. Or at least kept it behind closed doors."

Tim didn't understand. If his friend was sick, why was it his or his parents' fault?

"They're thinking of sending him somewhere," Janet added.

"Reform school?"

"No, some sort of camp that deals with - this sort of thing. Helps set kids right."

"You mean sets kids straight," Jack chuckled.

"They can cure him?" Tim furrowed his brow. "From being sick?"

"They'll try, dear," Janet patted Tim's arm.

"Back in the day you just beat the gay out of someone," Jack grunted. 

"I don't," Tim shook his head, "wait, is he gay or is he sick?"

"He's both." Jack nodded sagely. 

"When men choose to be gay," Janet explained quietly, "they get sick. And they can make other people sick. Like through their blood or other things."

"Just when someone is gay?" Tim swallowed. "What about, like Bernard, people who are bisexual?"

"They're sick too," Janet said softly. 

"And they're stupid," Jack shoved more steak in his mouth, "Bisexual and all those other words are just things those people came up with to sound special, or to cover up being gay. When someone says they're bisexual, they either mean they're just scre -"

"Jack," Janet whispered.  

"- experimenting around in college, or they just don't want to admit they're gay because they're ashamed. As they should be."

"There is no such thing as being bisexual." Janet concludes with a grin.

"Yes there is."

The clang of silverware against plates was deafening in the large house. 

"Excuse me?" Jack glared over at him. 

"I just, I mean," Tim scooted backward in his seat, "there are people at school, like Bernard -"

"Bernard," Jack ground out the name, "and those other kids, are just confused or want attention or are just stupid."

"Bernard isn't stupid," Tim mumbled. 

"What?" 

"Bernard," Tim cleared his throat, "he - he's not stupid. He's my friend and -"

"He isn't anymore," Jack stood, chair sliding sharply backward, "and if you keep talking back like this you won't be seeing any friends for a very long time."

It happened a few weeks later. Bernard wasn't sent to a camp, but he did get shipped off to a different boarding school. The topic hadn't been broached again at the Drake household. 

Until that day.

Tim rounded the corner, feet skidding to a stop at the threshold of his own bedroom. There, looming over his computer, stood his parents. Jack's face was flushed, cheeks puffed and eyes wide. Janet looked grieved, a grayish hue to her skin. Their eyes both snapped to him as he entered and Tim felt something cold and hot all at once crawl up his spine. 

"Everything we've done for you," Jack's voice is solid like a stone, "everything we're provided for you. And this? This is how you repay us?"

No. No. No. No. No. 

This was impossible. His files were protected. Encrypted. It would take Batman himself to crack them. He couldn't be found out this way. Bruce Wayne wouldn't be publicly outed as a vigilante because he didn't cover his cyber tracks enough. Tim would never forgive himself. He could say that the photos were edited, as a project. Or for fun. They were going to lock and bar his windows. He was going to lose his electronics. His camera. He would be in serious trouble, but Batman would be safe. 

Tim couldn't bring himself to step any further into the room. Apparently done waiting for a response, Jack spun the monitor around to face his son. 

It was a really good thing Tim had skipped lunch to study for that French test. Throwing up on the rug in the hallway that his mother had brought home from Istanbul would have made this oh so much worse. 

Not that it went well, at all.

There, staring back at him from his own computer screen, were his emails. 

The ones with Bernard. 

The ones with the boy he was never supposed to speak to again.

The ones with the boy he had had a crush on all semester. 

The ones with the boy, the only person, Tim told - about being bisexual. 

His mind was screaming. And yet, there was a small voice inside somewhere sighing, relieved that his parents hadn't dug any deeper. This was going to hurt him. This was going - Tim didn't actually know what his parents were going to do in response to this revelation. But it was going to happen to him. Not Batman. Not Robin. 

"Is this true, Timothy?" Janet moved from behind Tim's computer to step toward her son, arms outstretched.

"Of course it's true!" Jack slammed a fist on the desk. "He said it right here! He's been lying to us this whole time!"

"You're just confused, son," Janet took another step, smiling sadly. 

Jack stood suddenly, pacing as he scrubbed his forehead with his hands.

"I raised you to be a man, not like a man!"

"We can fix this," Janet nodded, still wearing that sick smile, "we can. There are those camps. People we can -"

"No!" Jack spun around. "No one is going to know about this! Think of the company. Our friends." Jack marched toward Tim, towering over him. "Listen to me very carefully. Have you said - this - to anyone else?"

Tim was trembling so hard, it barely looked any different when he shook his head. 

"Then you tell no one else, not ever," Jack jabbed a finger in Tim's face, "understand? You forget about this! You forget about your friend!"

"But, he -"

"He has been a bad influence on you!"

"Listen, dear," Janet moved closer and Tim finally found the strength to back out into the hall, "no matter what you call yourself, or think you are, you still like girls. So you can still get married and have kids."

"Why are we talking about getting married? I'm 11!" Tim waves his arms. 

"Exactly." Janet nodded. "You are too young to understand these things."

"Right," Jack breathed, calming himself, "it's just a phase. That's all."

"But," Tim's mouth was moving before he gave it permission, "what, what if - it's not?"

Jack advanced again and Tim stumbled backward quickly. 

"Of course it is! We've already emailed that boy and said as much. And we've let his parents know. You won't be talking to him, ever again."

Tim stalled, breath catching somewhere in his chest. 

"You - you told him - you said I - he thinks I don't -"

"We told him what he needs to hear!" Jack ground out. "That him, you, all of this, is wrong. Sick."

"You -" Tim reached for his throat, suddenly too hot, "- you sent that? From me?!"

"Don't you raise your voice at me!"

"Why - why are you doing this?" Tim squeaked.

"Because we love you," Janet took another step, "and you're our son."

"If - if you love me," Tim cried, "then shouldn't - shouldn't you accept me, no matter what? Isn't that - love?"

"Sometimes when you love someone, you have to help them," Janet frowned, "even if it hurts. We're doing this because we love you."

"What if," Tim sobbed, "what if I can't change?"

His parents were quiet for a long moment.

It was Jack who spoke first, straightening up tall and standing so close to Tim, the boy could feel his warm breath.

"Then you won't be our son."

Tim swallowed, sputtering and snapping up to look into his father's cold glare.

"W-what?"

"I will not have you bringing shame on this family. The Drake name that we built. If you don't listen to us, if you don't do this, then you're not a part of this family. You don't deserve our name. Or to live under the roof it provides. You're not a Drake."

If things had fallen quiet before, now the silence was deafening. The whole house felt still. 

Not a Drake. Not our son.

It was too much. And his parents were too close. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. 

He turned to go down the stairs, to run out into the Gotham City streets. They had fought before. Never like this. But his parents were predictable creatures sometimes. He would disappear. They would cool down. He would sneak back in. And then the following day they would pretend like nothing happened. Maybe his gaming system or comic books or other things would be missing or destroyed while he was away, but whatever had transpired would be forgotten. More of their pretending. 

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Jack's hand gripped Tim's wrist, harder than ever before. He pulled the boy toward them as Tim tried to yank his arm free. The motion threw Tim off balance. Jack let go and Tim topped over backwards, tumbling down the wooden steps. He had only enough time to try to whirl his body around, to spare his camera and laptop in his backpack still slung over his shoulders.

When he hit the small console table at the bottom of the stairs, he lost all air in his lungs. When he glanced down, he was also losing blood. A chunk of a blue and white glass vase stuck out right there just above his stomach. The stain bloomed on his shirt all around it. 

"That was fifth century!" He heard Janet gasp from above. 

Grimacing, Tim kept himself facing away from his parents. Letting them see he was bleeding all over their table was only going to make things worse, even if he wasn't sure if that was possible.

Tim made for the front door. He had to leave. Had to fix this. Fix himself. Come back later when - 

"If you walk out that door, Timothy, then you don't ever come back."

Tim froze at his father's voice. 

"In fact, if you can't - won't - do what is right by your family. Then you don't deserve to be a part of it. Then you should leave."

Tim didn't want to leave. He loved his parents, despite their faults and failings and frequent absences. Somehow, he still loved them. But he couldn't breathe in that house. And bleeding plus not breathing wasn't great. He also needed to get in touch with Bernard, and he couldn't do that here. His friend had had a hard enough time lately. Thinking he lost Tim? It might just send him over the edge. 

And then there was the anger. He didn't dare show it, not to his parents. But he was burning hot with it. Fear and shame and grief and confusion too. But also a whole lot of anger. As much as he didn't want to leave them, as much as he still loved them, he wanted to be gone. To be rid of them. To maybe make them worry. Make them regret this. Make them hurt. 

It was still all too much. Too many conflicting emotions and thoughts. Too many - everything. 

When it came to the four "F"'s of stress responses: Fight, Flight, Freeze, or Fawn - Tim had always succumbed to the latter three. If his body wasn't frozen, he ran. And if running didn't work, he found himself fawning. His body and mind were too used to the pattern to change course now. 

Without looking back at his parents, Tim flew out the door.

He didn't stop running until his legs started wobbling and the pain in his chest had his upper body seizing. He had tried balling up his gym shirt from his bag against it, but it just wouldn't stop bleeding. It soaked through the top, and then the matching shorts. And it still wouldn't stop.

Zipping up his sweater over the wound, he caught a bus downtown. Tim had been using Gotham as his playground for a few years now. Had even snoozed on a few rooftops before when Batman photo hunting had run late. It was more familiar to him than his own neighborhood ever was. It took awhile, but he was able to scrounge up a needle and thread. He plucked an almost empty glass of alcohol out of a trash bin, dunking the needle in the liquid to sterilize it. He couldn't make it up a fire escape or scale any walls with the pain in his abdomen. He could hardly even stand much anymore. 

There were things more important than himself, though. He knew of a coffee shop with free wifi and snuck around into the back alley, opening up his laptop. Remotely accessing his home computer was easy enough. He deleted everything even remotely Batman-related, most of it already also on his laptop. It only took a few minutes to then remotely also access his parent's computer and find the emails between them and their IT Expert at Drake Industries. He had been the one to get them into Tim's system. He wiped his whole home system entirely after a moment of thought. They didn't need to be able to dig through any part of his life if he wasn't their son. And they definitely didn't need the continued ability to contact Bernard. 

He shot off a quick message to the boy next, containing about a thousand apologies. It came back as unable to be delivered - he would spend his first two weeks on the streets trying to find a way to contact Bernard, and where exactly he had been moved to.   

When his lap was soaked and he started getting dizzy, Tim decided it might be time to take care of the other glaring, bloody, issue.

That was how Tim found himself hunched over behind a dumpster, biting his cheek and crying, as he pulled the piece of glass free and then clumsily sewed himself up. The needle was thick and his sewing was jagged, leaving in the end with a mess of stitching and blood.

He fell asleep like that, begging for the blood, for all of it, to just stop. 

Chapter Text

Freeze.

Tim tries to move as his brain plays a best bits reel of the last time he saw his parents.

Those same parents walking toward him now. 

Tim's fingers press into his shirt, nails digging into flesh. He isn't trying to hold his heart steady anymore. He needs to hold it in. 

Because they're coming, they're coming, they're -

They are walking right past him, reaching out to shake someone's hand. They're so close Tim could touch them. He would hardly have to reach. He can smell her perfume and taste his tobacco. It suffocates him. 

"Jack, Janet," the woman from a second ago, the woman he had tried to shut up before it was all too late, follows them, "isn't that your boy? He's gotten so big since -"

"You must be mistaken, Grace," comes the steady reply. 

That voice. He's been hearing that voice for so long in his dreams. He heard it today in his nightmare, among the laughter of the men in the alley. At the top of that rooftop, those stairs. 

The spell is somehow broken and Tim can move. 

He flees. 

Flight.

Stumbling backward and flying so fast down the hall, it draws a few glances. He doesn't care. 

There is a door and Tim barrels through it, praying he isn't about to burst into Mr. Wayne's office or a closet. 

This bathroom is smaller than those upstairs, missing a bathtub or shower, but the sink is wide and long and the counter is close enough for Tim to clutch before he can collapse. 

Tim grips the marble countertop, hands shaking so violently that he worries he might snap the stone. His breath comes in only short little staccato puffs, the pain in his ribs not helping as he struggles to take in more air. With trembling fingers, Tim tugs at his collar, popping the top button on accident and ripping out the tie. The fact that he just broke the button off of the borrowed shirt would be enough to send him further spiraling but he's already falling down the rabbit hole. The world around him is starting to tilt. He can see the toilet stretching and then melting into the floor behind him through the mirror. His own reflection is distorted, dancing and swirling and laughing at him. Everyone outside the bathroom is laughing at him. Cackling. He can hear them. He can. They're so loud and only getting louder. He reaches forward, missing the faucet at first. On the second attempt, he cranks the handle all the way over. The sudden rushing of the water is enough to pull his attention. He stares at it, water cascading down to the drain, the stream so hard and fast that some of it sprays and splatters out over onto the counter and his chest. Scooping the icy cold liquid into his hands, Tim splashes it again and again against his warm, flushed face. Closing his eyes, he focuses solely on the sound. Letting the steady stream of white noise drown out the echoes of phantom laughter.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

He hadn't heard the door open. The voice cuts through the water like lightning and Tim recoils from the electric shock of it. He whirls around, flying backward into the wall as his father's frame draws closer. His ribs shout out a sharp pang but he barely registers it, the fear far outweighing the pain. 

"I asked you a question, Timothy."

Timothy. 

He hasn't heard his full name since that last day at the house. 

Tim swallows, his face wet but his throat suddenly very dry. 

Fawn.

"I - sorry - I was invited."

Jack Drake stiffens, stopping his advance. 

"You? Who would invite you?"

Jack glances around hopelessly. 

"I met - Br - Mr. Wayne's sons. They invited me."

"Are they - what -" Jack shakes his head, "-your friends?"

Tim blinks. Thinks of Dick's hand in his at Dr. Thompkins. Of Jason pulling funny faces in the backseat whenever his brother spoke. Of Anne of Green Gables and skydiving. Catching him. Laughing with him. Combing his hair without complaint. Kind eyes and kinder smiles. 

"Yeah," he exhales the word and he is just as surprised to think it, as he is to say it aloud. "Yes, they are - my friends."

Jack deflates a little, heaving a sigh as he goes to lean against the countertop, right where his son had just been standing. 

"I'm sorry," he runs a hand down his face, "I was just, surprised, to see you." He turns to Tim, one hand still on the marble.

"You didn't," Tim squints, "didn't you see me, out there?"

Had his father really not recognized him? That it wasn't because he was no longer his son? 

"What did you expect?" Jack catches his volume, lowering it back down. "You show up here, looking like that?" He waves at Tim's face. "What was I going to tell her? You understand."

No, he really, really, doesn't.

"Yeah, yes," Tim nods, "I'm sorry."

"You know, your mother and I, we miss you." Jack takes a step forward and Tim tries to take one backward into the wall. "We do. I know it may not seem like it, but what we found, what we found out, about - you - it came as a shock. You can't blame us for how we reacted. And then you just ran away and we didn't know where you were. We've been so worried."

Tim pauses his attempts to somehow shift his molecules into the wood behind him. He stills, head turning toward his father. 

"You - you were?" His voice squeaks and Tim curses puberty and fear and himself all in one thought. 

"Of course, Timothy." Jack leans his head to one side, brows raised. "We're your parents. We love you."

Tim can't remember the last time either of his parents said that, even before all of this. He almost hates how much it makes his heart swell. There's a small part of him, though, that realizes it's not the same feeling as when Dick smiles at him or when Jason shared his secret stash. If he let himself dwell on it, he might realize that it's startlingly not even close. 

"But you - you said - I wasn't -" Tim starts and stops, groping at his chest.

"It doesn't matter what was said," Jack shakes his head, opening his arms, "you're here, now. And you can come home with us and we can forget about all of this nonsense."

Tim meets his father's eyes for the first time in a very long time. 

"Nonsense?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don't."

"It's okay, you're probably confused. You look so tired. Have you even been sleeping? You know how you get when you don't, son."

Son.

"Not a Drake," Tim whispers, head bowed.

His voice is so very soft, but it breaks through Jack's words like a fist. 

"You, you said," Tim swallows around the knot in his throat, taking a shuddering breath, "you said that I'm not a Drake, not anymore."

"Of course you're a Drake, you're our son." Jack's smile is stiff. "So long as, you know." 

Tim narrows his eyes. 

"So long as what?"

"Look," Jack puts a hand on Tim's shoulder and Tim thinks of Dick's hand there and how different this feels now, "you've always been a sensitive boy. A bit, quirky. Emotional. I've tried my best to make you smart, tough, ready for the world." He squeezes and Tim tenses. "You know, everything I have, the company, this life, was meant to be yours. I mean, it still is. I understand, son. We all have our own lives. I want you to succeed, I do. I want you to have a great life, Timothy. And you can. As long as we just put all of this behind us."

Tim's fist clenches, fighting the urge to pull out of the man's grip.

"This? All of what?"

"You understand me." Jack sighs, nodding.

"No I don't." Tim shakes his head, closing his eyes. 

"Timothy," Jack's jaw squares, "if you - if you can't - then we'll deal with it. Quietly. You can, do whatever you want to do, in private. No one has to know." He runs Tim's collarbone with his thumb. "I'm talking about your family, son. Your future."

"And I'm talking about me. You want me to pretend -"

"I want you to think about your life -"

"This isn't about my life to you, is it?"

"Of course it is, but your life affects -"

"I can't -"

"Don't interrupt me -"

"What the hell is going on in here?"

The door swings open and slams shut. Tim's eyes flutter open in time to see Jason Todd barreling inside and bounding across the bathroom, bodily placing himself between the boy and his father as he bats Jack's hand off of Tim. 

"I'm sorry," Jack clears his throat, "this is between family."

"Family?" Jason turns his head from Tim to the man. "Is this your dad?"

"I am his father, yes, and I would appreciate it if -"

"And I'd appreciate not finding an 11 year old kid getting his ass kicked in an alley, but shit, life is funny sometimes, huh?" Jason whirls around, inspecting Tim. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Tim shrinks back against the wall, wishing for the hundredth time he could shrink into it, and just nods. 

"Tim," Jason is quiet, calm, a different person than who just spoke to Jack, "do you want me to get you out of here?"

Tim buries his chin deeper into his own chest, nodding again. Jason turns back around, stepping forward, arm outstretched in front of the boy.

"We're leaving."

He says it with so much assurance. Such authority. And Tim believes him with everything he has. He doesn't put it past Jason to pick Tim up over his shoulder and haul him out. 

"This doesn't concern you," Jack waves his hand. 

"You're in my house, so I think it does." Jason straightens, shoulders back.

"He is my son."

"And if he wants to talk to you, I'll have him send a postcard."

"I need to speak with -"

"Not tonight." 

"You don't tell me what I can and cannot do with my own son."

Jack grabs the teenager's forearm, yanking him away from Tim. Jason shoves the man back in the chest, other hand clenched tight at his side and looking as if he is only barely holding himself back. Jason looks toward Tim and that's when it happens. The fist catches the side of Jason's face and he stumbles backward, slipping on the puddles of water Tim had left on the floor. He's falling, his head aimed toward the edge of the counter. 

Tim doesn't see Jason easily catch himself before his skull can be cracked open. He doesn't see the shocked look on his father's face at what he's done to one of the Wayne boys. He doesn't see Dick opening the door.

He doesn't see anything. 

Fight.

The scream is primal, high-pitched and cracking, as Tim charges forward, arms outstretched. His small body crashes against the larger man's and the pair go tumbling out the door before it can close again. They're in the hallway and Tim is tackling his father, wheezing and wailing. Now that Tim is on top of him, Tim pauses, arms raised loosely, like he doesn't quite know what to do next. 

For his own part, Jack isn't fighting back. He isn't punching or kicking or even saying anything. He just lays there, in a sort of stunned stupor. 

Horror spreads across Tim's face and the boy bucks off of the man, fumbling and crawling backwards. He claws at the wall, using it to help him stand. Dick is already there, hands outstretched, offering help, but not forcing it upon Tim. The door opens once more, Jason stomping out, storming right toward the downed Jack Drake. Dick shifts his focus from Tim to his brother, blocking Jason's path. 

There is the sound of quick clicking heels and Janet Drake appears at the end of the hall, hurrying toward them. Tim pales, gaping at the woman. She must have been close. Maybe she event sent her husband into the bathroom after their son. 

"Jack, are you alright dear?"

"Him?" Jason shouts, jamming a finger toward her. "What about your own son?"

Janet attempts to help haul Jack to his feet but he pushes her assistance away, standing on his own. He is brushing himself off as she slowly approaches her son. It's Dick's turn to stand between the boy and one of his parents. 

"Timothy, darling," she coos, reaching out "oh my, I -"

"I think you both should leave," Dick moves to block her hand, "now."

There is a small crowd forming at the end of the hall, hushed whispers and pointing fingers. 

"This is embarrassing," Jack hisses, voice low.

"Then go," Jason huffs. 

"You're breaking your mother's heart." Jack tries to get a better look at his son around Dick's broad shoulders. 

"You have enough money," Jason spits, "buy a new one."

"You can't speak to my wife -"

"You're lucky talking is the only thing I'm doing!"

"I can't -" Tim bolts for the ballroom, cutting through the crowd. 

He pushes past people with more urgency this time, abandoning stealth or politeness in favor of just getting away.

Stupid flight. 

A gaggle of little girls dances in front of the large doors. The kitchen is too cramped, too easy to be cornered in. Then there's the grand staircase. There is a long balcony and more guests gathered up there, he isn't sure of what else. But it's something. 

"Tim, are you -"

Rachel reaches for him but he is too fast, fumbling past his new friends and reaching the steps only seconds later. He takes them two at a time. His slips toward the top of the stairs and for a frightening second he thinks he is going back down them backwards. But he rights himself at the last moment and scrambles the rest of the distance.

"Careful, son," a man reaches out a hand, "you're going to hurt yourself."

"You're confused, son."

Tim backs away into another body. 

"Watch it! What is wrong with you?"

"This is wrong."

"Timothy."

"Tim."

Jack and Dick reach him at the same time, Janet and Jason not far behind. 

"Get away from him!" Jason shouts, drawing stares from all around. 

"I won't be made a fool like this by some punk who got lucky Bruce Wayne pulled him off the streets."

A few of the shelter kids nearby turn their heads, stepping forward. 

"That's rich coming from a guy who threw his own son out on the street!" Jason fires back. 

"I did no such thing!"

"This isn't helping," Dick raises his hands, "let's all calm down and -"

"I was calm until this little bastard put his hands on me -"

"Jack, maybe we should -"

"Don't you dare talk about my brother like that, in our own home -"

"You touched me first, you -"

"How can you hate me so much?"

The quiet question has them all falling silent. Tim is on the floor and trembling against the balcony railing, his eyes burning wet and bright.

"We don't hate you, Timothy," Janet reaches out for him again, Dick once more right there in her way. 

"Just who I am," Tim sniffs, "right?"

"You know that's not true," Jack says, a little louder, eyeing the audience, "we love you, son."

Fight.

"No," Tim moves to stand beside Dick instead of behind him, "you don't. I mean, maybe, in your own way. Somehow. But not enough. Not enough to ever stick around before. To be there. Not enough to let me be myself. No skateboard. No karate. No wearing this. No doing that. No life. And now? I - I'm - I -"

He grinds his teeth, the word lodged in his throat. It's stupid. By now, Dick and Jason have probably figured it out. They're crime fighting detectives. Of course they're smart. But they haven't asked. Haven't assumed. Haven't pushed. And he's so grateful for that. For all they've done. They were there for him, back in that alley, before they even knew him. They're here for him now, despite the dishonor of a family feud in the middle of their manor during a party. This won't change anything. They'll still be here for him. They've proven that. His parents weren't even there for him - before.

He trusts Nightwing and Robin with his life. 

It's about time he trusts Dick and Jason with this. 

Trusts himself. 

"I'm gay!"

Janet looks like she's been struck. Jack looks like he's ready to strike. 

Dick and Jason, they're still here. Jason has come up on Tim's other side now. Tim doesn't look at them, he can't. But they're here. They move closer to Tim, in sync, just barely moving in front of him without blocking him. Because he might not be able to look at them, but he needs to be able to see his parents. To say this to their faces. 

"I'm gay." He repeats, quieter. 

"Timothy," Janet shakes her head, "you're so young, you don't -"

"What? Too young to know who he is, but not too young to be kicked out onto the streets," Jason snaps. 

"I know who I am," Tim takes a controlled breath, "I just do. And maybe things will change, maybe I'll change. But this is who I am, right now. I'm - I'm - bisexual. That's, that's what I feel. It's what I know."

"You've never even been in a relationship," Janet argues, "and you've definitely never," her voice lowers, barely audible, "had, you know."

Fight .

"It's not about that," Tim rakes his fingers through his hair, "it's about who I am."

"Who you are," Janet steps forward, "is our son."

Fight.

"Not according to him," Tim turns toward his father. 

"Let's go," Jack places a hand on his wife's shoulder, "we'll sort this out another time, when he isn't causing a scene." 

"Oh, I'll show you a scene," Jason narrows his brow. "I'll show you my foot, kicking your ass out the door if you ever -"

It happens so fast. Impossibly so. 

Tim sees Jack's fist before Jason does. It's a surprise, even to him. Maybe he just knows his father. How he moves. Maybe he's just been here before. Maybe Jason just doesn't expect him to try something again out in the open like this. Maybe Jason is just too confident that Robin can take a hit from a scrawny CEO. Dick's noticed. He is tensing, stepping to take the blow for his brother. Tim's not sure how he does it. They probably don't expect him to move so fast, or at all. But in the span of a second, he's breaking out from behind both of them, shoving them to the side with each arm. He's bled on both of them. He won't let them bleed for him. 

Fight.

He can practically feel the open air of the stairs behind him. He knows what comes next. He's been through this. But he's got Dick and Jason now. They'll catch him. He knows it. 

Jack's fist is the last thing Tim sees before he closes his eyes. 

Chapter Text

He can practically feel the open air of the stairs behind him. He knows what comes next. He's been through this. But he's got Dick and Jason now. They'll catch him. He knows it. 

Jack's fist is the last thing Tim sees before he closes his eyes. 

He waits for the blow. For the smash-crunch of his already broken nose. For the familiar feeling of air beneath his feet as he falls. For Dick or Jason's arms, catching him. For anything. 

But there's just - nothing.

Maybe he has been clocked into unconsciousness. Maybe he has been back in one of his dreams this whole time.

When Tim open his eyes, there is certainly a hand in front of his face, but it isn't a fist. Well, technically, his father's fist is there too, but it's being blocked, no, caught, by another large, calloused hand. 

"You need to leave," a low voice comes from Tim's left, repeating Dick's earlier words but with more gravitas and grit, "now."

There is no more shouting between any of them. No more whispers from all around. No more piano below. 

It takes Tim a long few seconds to turn his head. He has already heard the voice. He knows who is there. But his brain is a little busy overloading and he needs to be sure. 

Bruce Wayne stands to the side, just barely in front of Jason, arm outstretched and hand holding Jack Drake's fist with an almost lazy ease. Everything else about the man, though, is coiled. There is a fierceness to his face that Tim has only seen the lower half of underneath the cowl. Yet there is something in his eyes. Something both soft and hard at the same time. This isn't Bruce, billionaire and host of the party. This is Bruce, father to two boys just like Tim. This is Batman, vigilante fighting for justice. This is both of them all at once.

Jack Drake falters, fumbling backward and Tim swears his father shrinks a few good inches right before his eyes. 

"M - Mr. Wayne, I - I apologize. I don't know what came over me."

"I do," Bruce steps forward, now fully in front of Tim. "You're a scared, selfish, little man who would send his son out into the cold because he doesn't have enough warmth in his heart."

"This," Jack waves his arms, "this is all a big misunderstanding, really. I don't know what my son has been telling these boys, but we never kicked Timothy out."

"My boys have been taking care of your son all day." 

"We had - there was a - disagreement," Jack stutters, "that's all. Timothy ran away."

"Where is the missing persons report?" Bruce arches an eyebrow. 

"We just - assumed - we thought he would come back," Jack argued, "he does this all the time."

"For this long?" Bruce squints. "I guess he's learned it from his parents. You see, it didn't take me long to figure out who exactly my sons were with today, not after I saw his face."

Tim is still fritzing out, but he has enough sense to snap his head toward the man at that - because this is definitely the first time he has seen Bruce Wayne all day. When exactly did Bruce see him?

"You two are out of the country more than in it," Mr. Wayne continues, "it will make the case of negligence easy."

"Case?" Janet steps forward, placing a hesitant hand on her husband's shoulder. "What case?"

"Mine," Bruce grinds out, "against the both of you. Physical abuse can be tricky if there aren't witnesses. But the paper trail that the two of you have left of leaving your son alone, with no regular caregiver, was almost too easy to put together."

"And he totally hit me," Jason pipes up, fiery eyes dancing as he glares over at the man, "Dick saw it."

"Yes, assault, too. Not to mention the fact that you were about to do so again before I intervened," Bruce narrows his brow.

"Yeah," Dick scoffs, "despite your son proving for about the hundredth time today that he is a far better man than you'll ever be by trying to take the hit for him."

"Honestly, Mr. Drake," Bruce continues, "I'd consider yourself lucky."

Jack jerks back, shaking his head in confusion.

"What? Lucky?"

Bruce is a breath away from him in just one stride, nearly nose to nose. 

"We have an audience." Mr. Wayne smiles and it's a thing of cold wicked beauty. "Because, let me make myself very clear, if we didn't, well - you hit my kid," he lifts his chin, "I hit you."

Jack's shoulders rise up, his face flushing even further. 

"Mr. - Wayne - are you threatening me?" He asks this a little louder, glancing around. 

Bruce takes a step back, smile twitching.

"Yes."

"I - I could press charges."

Bruce reaches forward, straightening the other man's collar as Jack flinches. 

"Oh, don't worry." Mr. Wayne waves at someone that Tim can't see. "I already am."

An older gentleman steps forward from the audience, a pair of handcuffs in his fingers. Tim recognizes him from the television, and from a few of his rooftop meetings with Batman. 

"Commissioner Gordon," the man places a hand on Jack's back, "Mr. Drake, you are under arrest for -"

"Timothy!" Jack reaches for the kid. "Stop this, please! Tell them! Tell them it's all a misunderstanding, son!"

There are enough people standing between the boy and the wild man that Jack doesn't even get close to him. Still, Tim squeezes through his small wall of vigilante protectors - something that will have him reeling for weeks, seriously - to stand in front of Jack. Tim stares at the stranger across from him.

"I'm not your son." Tim squares his shoulders. "Not anymore."

Jack lunges. 

Only one of his hands is cuffed and he breaks free of the Commissioner's grasp. All three vigilantes are moving in unison, but Tim is too close. Too fast. Dodging to the side, Tim sticks one leg out, tripping Jack. The boy uses his other foot to kick his former father's backside, sending the man over the edge of the top of the stairs. 

Jack has hardly started to slip when he stops short, screaming and flailing as he stares down at the tall wooden steps that he almost just tumbled all the way down. 

Tim's hand is on the back his jacket, gripping the fabric in a fist to keep the man from falling further. 

Bruce is looking at Tim as if he might have to talk this kid down from letting go. Jason's face shines with pride. Dick only has concerned eyes for Tim, not that he's going to hurt anyone, but more so making sure he isn't further hurt. 

Janet is shrieking somewhere behind him. 

Without hesitation, Tim yanks Jack backward onto solid ground. Bruce wastes to time shoving the man back toward Jim Gordon. 

Tim is still standing at the top of the stairs, staring down the tall steps. His hand ghosts over his abdomen, and the ugly scarring he knows is there. This will leave their own scars, too. He knows. But right now, it doesn't hurt. Not really. 

It's a whole day of firsts for Tim. The first time he's felt truly safe. The first time he's said aloud who he is. 

And now, the first time he's ever felt - free. 

He stays there, someone's hands finding his shoulders, as his parents are lead down around him by the Commissioner. He doesn't hear their cries or pleas. His friends from the shelter have gathered at the base of the stairs some time ago. He thinks he sees Lizzie spit on Jack as he is dragged by. Rachel and Charlie are holding Darnell back. A few of the others help part the crowd to let Gordon through. Eve isn't paying attention to the show. She gazes up at him, smile somewhere between sad and proud. 

And when the crowd begins to blur and the lights shine too brightly and Tim feels his head start to spin, his body doesn't even get the chance to sway over the edge of the stairs before those hands on his shoulders are pulling him gently back. 

He lets himself be lead through the masses of people, down a new hallway he hasn't seen before. A set of wide doors is opened and he is brought inside, suddenly surrounded by walls and walls of books. He would take it all in, if he could turn his head to see properly. But any little movement sends his vision vibrating and sets off something in his skull. The hands deposit him in a plush armchair, but they don't leave his shoulders. There is a deep voice and then fading footsteps. 

Sometime later, he can't be sure how long, something wet is place against his forehead. There is now a glass of water in his hand and two pills in the other. He doesn't remember how he got them. Someone is speaking to him again, but it's all just drumming. Tim can assume, though. He downs the pills and sips at the water, closing his eyes as he swallows. 

He loses time again but finally the spinning and banging stops. Everything sort of just, steadies. 

When he opens his eyes, Bruce Wayne is in the chair across from him. He glances, finding Dick and Jason still at his sides. 

"There he is," Jason grins, "are you okay?"

Tim blinks a few times, rubbing at his face. 

"Tim," Dick drops down to his knees in front of the boy, "I am so sorry. I should have never told you to come tonight. I didn't know who you parents were," he shoots a small glare backwards toward Bruce, "and I should have known better that all the people and lights and everything wouldn't be good for your head, even - you know - without everything else that happened."

God, Dick's eyes just make Tim break. 

"It - it's okay," his voice is a little scratchy and small, but he tries to make sure he sounds sincere. 

"It's really not," Dick shakes his head, "especially after what happened right before, I'm so -"

"Wait," Jason looks to his brother, "what happened before?"

"Boys."

Both brothers turn toward the man in the chair. 

"Why don't you give Tim a little space? How about you go help Alfred with the party? Make sure all of our younger, special guests are okay."

"Bruce," Dick shakes his head, "we've been with him all day."

"Yes," Bruce sighs, smile soft, "and you've both been doing wonderful. I'm proud of you."

That startles Dick enough to stop arguing for a moment.

"But I would like a moment alone with Tim now, if that's okay with him."

All eyes find the boy and he squirms. Even though their gazes are kind, they're still intense. Tim doesn't really want Dick or Jason to leave him, but he's been so very greedy with them. And he did just cause a whole scene at Wayne Manor. He isn't exactly in a position to be making requests. He'll take whatever lecture or punishment Mr. Wayne deems appropriate. 

Tim looks to Dick and then Jason, nodding. They both take turns squeezing his shoulder before slowly shuffling out, looking back at him before closing the door.

And then Tim is alone, with Bruce Wayne. 

Batman.   

They sit in shared silence for a few seconds, Tim gripping the fabric of his trousers to keep from bouncing his legs or fidgeting with his hands. It's a perfect storm of fear and excitement, all raging within him right on the heels of the hurricane of emotions that he has just experienced in the ballroom. 

"How are you feeling, Tim?"

Bruce's voice is so much softer, lighter, than when he spoke to Jack Drake. Even a small octave above how he just sounded with his sons. 

Tim stares blankly. 

"Let's start more specific," Bruce amends. "How is your head feeling? Is there pain, dizziness, anything of the sort?"

Tim checks in with his brain. Seems stable for now. 

"No," Tim whispers, "no, sir."

"Concussions aren't fun," Mr. Wayne grimaces, "but it seems Alfred and my boys have been doing a good job making sure you're okay."

"They've been great," Tim nods hurriedly, "really, sir. Please don't punish them for bringing me here, or inviting all those kids, or, or anything. It's all my fault."

"They're not in trouble," Bruce sighs, "I meant what I said. I am very proud of them for helping you."

"I'm really sorry about your party," Tim continues, barely having processed anything the man has said, "I caused a scene and -"

"No one is in trouble," Bruce raises his hands, "I promise. Not Dick or Jason. And certainly not you."

"But I -"

"Tim," Bruce leans forward, "why did you stand up to your parents in the end? You didn't cover for them, like they asked. You didn't let Jason get hit. Why didn't you just let them keep lying or hurting you?"

"I," Tim looks down at his hands, "I'm not sure."

"Because it was wrong," Bruce answers for him, voice quiet, "what they were doing, what they've been doing, is wrong. You've grown up being forced to obey. To cower. But you didn't tonight. Because a part of you always knew what they were doing wasn't right. You stood up for Jason when he was going to get hit. It was probably easier to do so for someone else first. But then you stood up for yourself, too. And Tim," Bruce waits until the boy finally meets his gaze again, "that's a good thing."

Mr. Wayne moves out of his chair, squatting down in front of Tim in one fluid motion. 

"It's not your fault you were attacked in that alley or that my boys decided to help you. It's not your fault your parents were at the party. It's not your fault what they did to you. Tonight - and ever. None of that, is your fault. Okay, Tim?"

Bruce places a hand on each of Tim's knees. He feels his body instinctively tense but it goes loose soon after. Bruce Wayne may be a father and fathers can be terrifying. But he's also Batman. And Tim could never stay scared of Batman. 

His hands are more calloused than Dick or Jason's, but they're just as sure, just as strong. 

Dick and Jason caught Tim when he fell.  

Bruce hadn't let him fall at all. 

He can still see Bruce's - Batman's - hand in front of his own face, stopping Jack's fist just before it could make contact. He'll freak out and be giddy about that later, when he can separate himself from the severity of the circumstances.

"Why," Tim swallows, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Go ahead, Tim," Bruce squeezes the boy's knees just a little.

"Why did -" Tim tangles his fingers together, "why did you become a dad?" 

That seems to set Bruce back on his heels a little. Tim would be proud of surprising Batman if he wasn't so desperate for an answer. He doesn't really understand why his parents had a kid. They didn't like other children. In fact, they usually complained about everyone else's offspring. They didn't play with him or watch movies together or put Tim on their backs or read him bedtime stories - nothing. 

"When I met Dick," Bruce takes a deep breath, "he had just lost his parents, and I - I knew what that felt like. I saw myself in him, and I wanted him to have a home, a family. It was almost, like a duty. But, I soon saw him as my own son. And then with Jason," Bruce stares at the ceiling thoughtfully for a moment, "I didn't realize it at first, but I took him in because, because I missed Dick. That wasn't fair to Jason. And then I went about, expecting raising Jason would be similar to raising Dick, and quickly found them to be very different. In time, I grew to love Jason, as my son, but also, as himself. We've had our struggles, our disagreements, but in the end, that love is always enough." Bruce brought his gaze back down, meeting Tim's eyes. "I know these aren't particularly, flattering, answers, on my part, but you deserve honesty after living with so many lies." His smile is both sad and happy. "I wanted to give them a family, but I think, I think I also wanted one for myself."

Tim sits with that for awhile. His hands go back to gripping his slacks. 

"But," he begins, almost too quiet to be heard, "but, you love them? Right? You - you said you do. They're not - they're not even - I mean, they're yours, but they weren't yours. And you still - you love them. Even when you fight, you said it's enough." Tim's eyes dance all around the room, until they land back on Bruce. "Why," he swallows, a sob catching in his throat, "why couldn't they love me? I think they did - they tried. But - why couldn't their love be enough?"

The sob lodged in Tim's throat breaks loose, the boy letting out a small wail as the tears and pain come all at once. 

Bruce launches himself from the floor, wrapping his arms around Tim's trembling frame. Tim can't hear what the man is whispering in his ear but it's soft and kind and the hand on the back of his head is running fingers through his hair and he just lets himself fall. It's a different fall. One where he doesn't need to stopped or caught. One where he is already being held together so he knows he can. 

Chapter Text

Gotham citizens are pretty good at rebounding. While the confrontation and the arrest of the Drakes remains the talk of the evening through more whispers and social media updates, the party goes on. The scene might have been an entertaining spectacle, but it hadn't been a supervillain, so the guests weren't exactly phased. 

Tim doesn't make another appearance. 

He isn't sure how long he stays wrapped up in Bruce Wayne's arms, but even after his sobs stop and his tears taper off, neither of them let go for awhile.  

They stay sequestered in the library for a bit, Tim asking what will happen to his parents next and Bruce doing his best to answer. Tim doesn't ask what will happen to himself next. He doesn't want to think about that yet while he's still warm from the man's tight embrace. Bruce has to eventually leave to smooth some things over with the party and say goodbye to his guests. Jason takes his place. Dick returns later too. Eventually, they retreat downstairs. Not back to the ballroom, of course. There is an informal dining area off of the kitchen and the boys lead Tim inside. 

There, sitting along the table, are Tim's new friends. The table itself is filled with turkey, potatoes, stuffing, vegetables, and a some of the appetizers from the party. At the far end, sits Bruce, smile warm and welcoming. Alfred stands beside him. 

Usually, after one of these holiday events, Jason had explained upstairs, Alfred demands a proper dinner between the family - since all that is served at the parties are finger foods and his boys don't eat enough, especially together. Tim was, of course, given the option to bow out and stay in the library or go to his or Jason's room instead. He's been through a lot and they aren't going to force further social interaction out of him. But the idea sounded nice to Tim. And, oh yeah, all he ate today was that plate of hors d'oeuvres, and the granola bar and little cake snack from earlier. His stomach sort of answered for him. Dick assured him that they could  bring him whatever food he wanted upstairs, but Tim insisted. He is tired and achy and very drained, but when is he going to get the chance to have dinner with Batman, Nightwing, and Robin? Or Bruce, Dick, and Jason? 

Because, after today, the vigilantes are still Tim's heroes. 

But so are their counterparts. 

No one mentions the Drakes over dinner. They barely even speak about the party at all. Lizzie gushes to Mr. Wayne about Tim being a genius, some of the others joining in. Rachel compliments Bruce for raising such fine boys like Dick and Jason who are always there to help and bring by supplies. Bruce volunteers to send someone over the following day to properly fix the walls and window of their building, instead of just boarding them up. 

They talk about the children that were invited. Bruce somehow got ahold of all of the names of the kids that came. For the ones that brought parents, he will offer to set them up in an apartment building The Wayne Foundation has long since established for families in need. As for the children with no one else, he will work to find every single one of them decent homes. They discuss how some of them have been far too hurt by family and others to ever accept such a thing, though. A lot of these children would rather live on the streets than risk being hurt like that again. Bruce says he knows, but he still will do his best. It isn't a perfect solution, of course. Living in Gotham for this long, they all know there never really is one when it comes to these things. Bruce tries to fund housing projects, shelters, anything he can do. It never seems enough. 

"It's way more than most," Rachel shakes her head, "and none of us can ever thank you enough."

A few minutes later, Charlie waves his fork while talking and accidentally splatters Darnell with potatoes. Darnell retaliates with a flicked pea to the face but it bounces off Charlies's cheek and lands in the pink-haired girl's - Rowan, Tim's learned - ear. When she launches a steamed carrot at the boys, it goes wide, smacking Dick in the chin. Tim holds his breath. Rachel looks like she is ready to crack their heads together. Jason is laughing. Everyone looks to Mr. Wayne.

And Bruce, Bruce is smiling.

The grin drops and Mr. Wayne clears his throat. All the guests all stiffen. 

"There will be no food fighting of any sort," he starts seriously, "unless the rules are obeyed."

Tim's eyelids do a weird sort of fluttering thing as he squints at the butler.

"There are three rules to food fights at Wayne Manor," Dick says, slowly rising from his chair with a sinister smile. "The first one is, you clean up any mess you make yourselves."

"The second," Jason reaches for his spoon filled with stuffing, "is you never target Alfred."

"And the third rule is," Bruce stands, all eyes training on him, "there are no other rules."

Bruce Wayne fires the first shot, a perfect scoop of cranberry sauce careening right toward Jason. Jason ducks, releasing his spoonful of stuffing toward the man. Bruce yanks Dick by the collar in front of him as a shield. 

"Cheating!" Jason roars.

"The man said no rules," Lizzie shrugs, earning her a helping of stuffing in her hair from Jason. 

Grabbing a handful of sweet potato, Lizzie lobs it toward the boy. The consistency doesn't exactly hold up and it starts breaking apart midair, sending chunks at Eve and Rowan. Brown suit boy - Quinn - rises to their defense with a return throw of green beans. Some of the guests seem hesitant, but soon enough the room has erupted into chaos. Darnell and Eve duck under the table together to save their outfits. At some point, Jason ends up on top of the table. They somehow wordlessly break into teams. Dick, Jason, Rowan and Quinn work together against Bruce, Lizzie, Rachel, Charlie and the others. Eve and Darnell still stay under the table, but they've started to keep score. 

Tim steps back against the wall, watching with wide eyes. He almost wants to participate, almost. But this isn't his suit. And Darnell had said that it was Armani. 

He sees the bread roll too late. 

Dick dives dramatically in front of Tim, taking the buttered bullet for him. 

"Rule four! Rule four!" Dick waves his arms as he stands in front of Tim. "No targeting the kid with bruised ribs and a concussion."

"Protect the genius child!" Rowan shouts, rushing toward them.

"Rally on Tim!" Quinn follows.

Dick and Jason stay on offensive against the opposing team while Rowan and Quinn quickly assemble a chair wall between the others and Tim, their team ducking behind it. They fashion a couple catapults from bread baskets and the salt and pepper shakers. 

"Surrender the child!" Lizzie leaps onto the table. "And we will spare your lives!"

"Never!" Jason blindly tosses the bread back over the chair wall. 

"You've given us no choice," Charlie sighs. "Prepare the gravy cannon!"

Tim and his apparent protectors peak over the barricade as Bruce hefts the large gravy bowl, the others adding sauces and cranberry to the mixture. 

"Are you sure about this?" One of the boys asks. 

"We must," Lizzie bows her head, "we need the genius child to save our kingdom!"

"Mr. Wayne," Charlie turns to the man with a grave expression, "do what you must."

Bruce hefts the bowl. 

"Wait, wait!" Dick waves an arm over the barricade, a white napkin in his hand. "Couldn't we just - let you borrow him? To save your kingdom?" 

Bruce lowers the gravy bomb mixture. His team share a look and then shuffle together, murmuring. Finally, they draw apart.

"Your terms," Bruce announces, "are, agreeable."

"A truce then?" Dick clarifies. 

"A truce," Bruce responds.

Both sides lower their silverware and handfuls of food. 

It about that time that Alfred pops back in after having excused himself a few minutes ago to see the staff out after they had finished cleaning. He stands in the threshold for a measured moment, eyes roaming the battlefield. 

"I will assume," he sighs, "you informed them of Rule Number One?"

Dick and Jason nod their heads quickly. 

Alfred takes one last look, hums, and then turns right around.

Tim is sad to see his new friends go later, but he vows to visit soon. As promised, Dick brings Darnell upstairs and lets the kid pick out a couple suits. All the boys are able to take one home for job interviews. Since Bruce has kept pretty much everything from Dick's time growing up at the manor, there are a lot of sizes to choose from. Rowan snags one of the suit jackets. To make things fair, Dick tells Rachel to call him to set up a time and he will have the girls meet a family friend and take a shopping day sponsored by Bruce Wayne's credit card. Jason is going to email Quinn his thoughts on The Great Gatsby in time for the teenager's test. Bruce confirms the time that the company will be by to fix the windows, despite Rachel's continued protest at the generosity. Alfred hands each of them a bag of leftovers and dessert. 

And then they're gone and Tim is left alone with the Wayne family again. He misses the kids from the shelter, but he likes it quiet. Or, quieter. At least his head does. 

Jason and Bruce are banished to the showers. Dick had remained relatively unscathed during the battle with his gymnastic, reflexes, and height advantages. Bruce probably would have, too, if not for a few luck sneak attacks from his own sons. 

"How are you feeling, my boy?" Alfred looks Tim up and down once they've returned to the kitchens.

Tim doesn't know if he could lie to the man if his life depended on it. 

"Tired," Tim shrugs, "and my head is a little sore."

"Hey Tim," Dick pulls up a stool, "when, when Alfred checked you over, you know, when you first got here, did he look at your ribs?"

Tim goes a little grey. He knows what Dick is really asking. 

He just gives a silent nod.

"I know he checked them, the bruising, but did he actually look at them?" Dick presses, quietly. 

Tim turns his head away.

"I allowed the young master his privacy and merely did a physical examination over his shirt to ensue nothing was broken," the butler answers for him, brow rising. "Why? Do you have a reason for concern?"

"Not with his ribs," Dick sighs, still looking at Tim with that soft expression.

"Master Richard," Alfred shakes his head, "may I ask why you didn't bring this to my attention earlier? If there is an urgent -"

"It's not urgent, Alfred," Dick waves a hand, "but - but it is something we should take a look at, and maybe talk about?"

The inside of Tim's cheek is starting to get bloody for all of his biting down on it today.

"Master Tim," Alfred bends over in front of the boy, "I believe Master Richard's instincts. We don't want you to feel uncomfortable, but we also want you to be safe. 

Tim glances from the butler to Dick. He doesn't quite know why he his hesitant. They've seen him, the inside of him, now. It shouldn't make him this nervous for them to see the outside. It's stupid. All of them are probably a patchwork of scars and burns and whatever else comes with the territory of fighting crime every single night.

With a slow breath, he shrugs off the suit jacket and begins unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers fumble and tremble. Alfred's own hands come down to wrap over Tim's.

"It's alright," he says quietly with a small nod.

Alfred moves his hands from Tim's, placing one on the boy's shoulder instead. It's softer than the others' have been, but it fills Tim with that same sense of safety. Maybe they really did have superpowers. 

Tim undoes the final button, leaving the shirt hanging open. He just can't bring himself to take it off. He can't bring himself to breathe. 

He knows it looks bad. Worse than it should. The old wound is a blend of red and white, little white scar lines extending out at odd angles from the stitches. It reminds Tim of a lightning strike, if the lightning had struck Tim at a vertical angle. The body of the scar is puffy, raised. Alfred studies Tim's chest without much reaction or commentary at first. 

"It only looks like that because I had a big needle and - my hands wouldn't stop shaking."

"You did a fine job," Alfred tilts his head, offering a reassuring smile. "I've definitely seen far worse. Were you living with your parents when this happened?"

Tim pulls his shirt closed without buttoning it, crossing his arms. 

"Yes and no."

Dick and Alfred exchange a glance. 

"So," Dick sighs, "they were hurting you - physically - too?" 

"No, no," Tim hurriedly shakes his head, "not like, they didn't hit me or anything. Sometimes my dad would grab my arm, but that was, like, to get my attention or something. This was - this was an accident. They didn't even - they didn't know."

Tim rubs his eyes. He doesn't know why he feels the needs to defend them.

"How could they not know?" Dick asks evenly, like he's forcing his voice to stay level.

"It was," Tim looks down at his chest, puts his arms over it again, "it was, the day. That day. When I left." He shakes his head. "When they told me to leave. It happened, right before. My dad, he grabbed me - my arm - but we were at the top of the stairs," he pretends not to see Dick's eyes close or Alfred's jaw clench, "and, I fell. My parents, they kept all sorts of artifacts and stuff all over the house from their work and traveling, you know. When I fell, I sort of - landed on one. I left, right after. Before they could see."

"You're quite lucky it didn't get infected," Alfred squeezes the boy's shoulder. 

"I snuck into the back of an ambulance the next day," Tim shrugs, "got some stuff. And I pawned my watch to buy some ointments and supplies. I hadn't sold my phone yet so I looked up what to do and how to take care of it."

"Well," Alfred claps his hands together, "you are one very clever and resourceful young man, but we knew that already." He stands. "You must also be a very tired one as well, after today. Why don't you run upstairs and get ready for bed? I believe Master Jason is already retrieving a toothbrush and some other things for you."

Tim glances around at the kitchen. All traces of the party are almost gone, but there are still a few odds and ends laying about.

"Are you sure you don't need any more help?"

"You are too kind," Alfred grins. "There are those around here who could learn a thing or two from you."

Dick looks gravely wounded. 

"I heard that," Bruce's head pops in the doorway. 

"I would hope so," the butler cocks his head, "considering it was meant, for you."

"Tim," Bruce side-eyes the man, "Jason tells me you like detective stories? I found some of my favorites in the library. I thought maybe we could read them together before bed."

Read them together. Even though, with Tim's concussion, Bruce would be reading them to him. But he phrased it like that. Why? So Tim wouldn't think he was being treated like a baby? No, he must be overthinking it. Why would Bruce worry about how he phrases things to some kid staying over in his house? 

"I, I'd like that," Tim smiles, and something about it feels more real than anything he has felt in awhile. 

Tim shuffles from the room after wishing the others a goodnight. Dick makes a move like he is going to hug Tim and Tim just sort of, waves. And then leaves. 

When he gets upstairs, he listens at the door. Hearing no movement inside, Tim enters Jason's bedroom. Maybe if he is quick enough, he can slip into the bathroom, snag whatever the boy has left out for him, and retreat to his assigned guest room. He isn't avoiding Jason. He was with him during the food fight and clean up not fifteen minutes ago after all. But that was among other people. He doesn't exactly wish to be alone with his new friend after - 

Someone's throat clears. 

Chapter Text

Someone's throat clears. 

Tim freezes mid tiptoe, slowly spinning on one foot to see Jason, hanging outside his own bedroom window. He's sitting on the sill, legs dangling out over the open air. A cigarette balances just as precariously in his fingertips as he does on the ledge. He turns his body, kicking one leg back inside over the windowsill. Tim would be surprised, and concerned, if he didn't know what he knew. 

"Whatchya being sneaky for?" Jason squints, and smirks, at Tim. 

"I, uh, thought maybe you went to sleep already," Tim tries to make his body loosen.

"Nah," Jason takes a hit of the cigarette as his still wet hair from his post-food fight shower dangles in front of his face, "it's way early for me." He turns back to Tim and coughs. "I mean, yeah, probably soon. Getting tired."

Really, seriously? How has no one else figured out the big secret by now? 

They stare at each other in silence for awhile. Jason cocks his head, blowing smoke out the window into the cool evening air

"Those things will kill you, you know?" Tim nods at the cigarette. 

"Yeah, but this will if I don't have one," Jason taps the side of his skull. "They help calm it all down, you know?" Jason stretches, snuffing out the cigarette on the brick underneath the window outside. "Besides, this is Gotham. There are plenty of other things that will get to me before these."

Jason hops down from the window, waving at the smoke to clear it and then sticking the half-used cigarette into a small metal container. Tim watches as the teenager takes the tin and opens a copy of Catcher in the Rye that has been hollowed out, placing the container inside. He picks up his carton of smokes and lighter, shoving them into an also empty Atlas Shrugged. The fake books go back onto a stack of other classics near the window. 

"You won't rat me out, will you?" Jason grins over at Tim. 

Tim can't imagine Batman's son pulling one over on The World's Greatest Detective, but he shakes his head anyway.

"Not that B doesn't probably already know," Jason shrugs, "but we disagree on a lot, so I think he maybe pretends not to notice to avoid another argument or something. 

"Love," Tim mumbles. 

"Huh?" 

"Nothing, just," Tim scratches the back of his neck, eyeing the bathroom door he so desperately wants to just dart toward, "something, Mr. Wayne said, to me."

"Bruce talked to you?" Jason walks toward him, eyes bright. "About me?"

"Yeah," Tim interlocks his fingers in front of him and then tangles them, "he, he said that you guys, you guys sometimes fight and stuff," Jason scoffs, rolling his eyes and opening his mouth, "but," Tim quickly continues, "that, even though you do, love is always enough. That you love each other, and that is enough." Tim's eyes search the night sky out the still open window. "It was - nice."

When Tim finally pulls his wandering mind away from the window and looks back to the boy, Jason is flushed. His eyes are a little shiny, too. 

"Wow," Jason shakes his head, swallowing, "you really are a genius, huh? First, all those book smarts. And now, getting Bruce Wayne to share his feelings? Are you sure you're not a robot? Or a meta?" 

"Not since last time I checked," Tim rubs his elbow. 

"So," Jason rubs his forehead, "this isn't me at all avoiding the topic of B or emotions or anything - but, you want to tell me why you were really trying to sneak to the bathroom?"

Geez. Being around crime fighting detectives was sometimes a pain.

Tim stares at his shoes.

"I, uh," he murmurs, "I thought maybe - you might - be mad, at me."

Tim can't see Jason's face but the kid takes a step back. 

"What? Why?"

"Because, what he - my dad - he hit you. Because of me. And then he almost - again. I thought that Mr. Wayne was going to be angry that I disrupted his party, but he said he wasn't. That it wasn't my fault. I still sort of feel like it all is but he said it a lot. And then Dick said later that Mr. Wayne makes bigger scenes at his own parties all the time, so it's really not a big deal. And, you were being nice to me after in the library and the dinner, but everyone was there so it's not like you could show it in front of them. But even right after, back with - my parents - you still tried to help me, protect me. So, maybe you weren't mad, or aren't mad, but it still happened because of me so I still feel bad. I could've just left the bathroom. But you asked if I wanted you to get me out of there, and I said yes. I asked you to help me, and then he hurt you and -"

"Whoa, hey, Tim," Jason has stepped forward again, suddenly close, and his hands are on Tim's waving arms, until they move so Jason's palms can cup the kid's cheeks, gently forcing Tim to look up at him. "Tim, slow down. One, give me a second because my brain can't move at light speed like yours." Jason sighs, lowering his arms and Tim doesn't look away because Jason looks gutted. "Okay, two," he continues after a moment, "trust me, he didn't hurt me, not even a little. Three, you said yourself just now. I asked if you wanted me to get you out of that bathroom and away from him. I did that. Uh, four, he is the one that shoved me. Not you. Five, and I know Bruce told you this, but you deserve to hear it again, and as many times as you need to hear it until it sinks in to that big brain of yours: nothing that happened tonight was your fault. Got me, Tim? Nothing. That was your parent's shit, not yours. And, what is this? Six? Six, I am not mad at you. At all. If anything, I'm mad at them. Pissed at them for what they put you through. And if Dick hadn't held me back, I'm not proud of what I would've done to your dad. No, wait, I am."

Jason sighs and then looks right into Tim's wide eyes. 

"Okay," he nods, "I'm going to hug you now."

Before Tim can react, Jason collides with him, strong arms around his back. Tim's own arms pop up halfway in surprise, hanging there midair for a moment. There is a part of him that is denying Jason's words, just as some small voice tells him Bruce and Dick are wrong too. And maybe if they were just strangers that Tim met by chance, like they all think they are, that part of him would be louder. Would win. Maybe if they were just Bruce, Dick, and Jason. But they're not. Not to Tim. Tim has been believing in Batman and Co. for years now.

Finally, Tim brings his arms around to return the embrace. Tim is getting more hugs today than he has had total put together in the last year. Of course, this single day has felt like an entire year. 

Tim doesn't realize he is yawning until he feels his chest shake from the small rumble of Jason's laughter. Jason pulls away, hanging onto to the boy's shoulders for just an extra second longer. 

"I left you some stuff in the bathroom," he smiles, "go before you fall over on me. B said he was going to bring us some of those detective books. I'll be back up in a couple minutes. Just want to say goodnight to Alfred and Dick."

Tim is still processing everything a little, but he manages to mumble out a quiet thank you and head to the bathroom. 

The sweatpants and t-shirt and still hanging there, but now there are the additional options of athletic shorts, a tank top, and a sweatshirt.  There are also fresh socks, new toothbrush, and a small robe. Why does something so simple as clothing being set out for him make his heart heavy? Jason dug through Dick's old clothing, took the time to find items that looked to match Tim's size, and then picked out specific ones he thought Tim would like, even offering varying options and styles. Holding a pair of socks in his hands shouldn't make Tim want to cry. 

His old clothes are still folded up on top of the hamper. They look so out of place in somewhere so pristine. Like he did. 

Does. 

He can't let wearing this suit for a few hours fool himself. 

He shucks off the jacket and shirt, hanging them up neatly on their original hangers from earlier. He tries to brush off a bit of the food. He missed most of the action, but he still insisted on helping with cleanup and earned some small stains for his efforts. 

The sweatpants are ridiculously soft with a plush fleece lining. They would have made some of the more recent colder nights a lot warmer. Maybe they will let him keep these when he leaves. Dick did give the boys those suits. Surely he could part with some sweatpants half his size. The t-shirt is plain black cotton but it's clean and smells like the brothers. When Tim grabs the sweatshirt, he notices a Wonder Woman logo on the chest. It's also bigger, roughly Jason's current size and it hits Tim that this is Jason's. Not one of his old items of clothing, but his, now. And Jason wants him to wear it. All he needs is something belonging to Bruce and he would be decked out in stuff from the whole family. His heart pangs again.  

He is getting too attached. 

Tim paces Jason's bedroom for what feels like a painful eternity, but is probably only a couple seconds. He starts to shuffle his feet against the carpet, and then counts the number of books on Jason's shelves, then the stripes on his blanket. Starting to feel itchy inside, Tim makes his way into the hall. He just plans on wandering a bit. Despite his deepest desires, he isn't looking for the secret lair or anything. He just needs to give moving, keep busy. Distract his stupid head from stupid thoughts about a family he isn't a part of. 

"I can't know for certain, but it appears to be at least six months or so into the healing process, with the coloring of the scar."

Tim pauses. He isn't sure what room he is coming upon, but that is definitely Alfred's voice inside of it. 

"Why didn't he tell me? Show me?"

Jason sounds more hurt than offended. 

"I only found out by accident."

"The young lad is most likely embarrassed or hesitant. Remember, you both were strangers to him this morning."

Not true, sort of. 

"He's been out there, on the streets, for half a year, while his parents traveled and went to parties."

Dick sounds angrier than Tim has ever heard him. He shudders and presses his body against the wall. 

"There are kids living out there, longer," he continues, "but their parents are dead or gone or addicts or - shit, I'm sorry Jason. I didn't -"

"It - it's okay."

Jason definitely doesn't sound okay.

"I get it," Jason snaps, "my mom OD'd, my dad was murdered. They - they weren't great people, not always. My mom, she loved me, but she was - sick. Your mom and dad, Dick. And yours, Bruce. They died. They didn't have a choice. We became orphans because we lost our parents. Tim's parents made him an orphan because they let him go. They chose."

There is a long pause. Tim considers turning back. 

"What are we going to do, Bruce?" Dick asks, desperate and sighing.

"We'll do what we can."

Bruce sounds somber, but so sure. So sure he can fix this. 

"I'm going to find good homes for the kids wet met tonight, and I can find one for Tim, too."

"What?" Jason hisses. "Hand him off to social services? I know you've been trying to clean up the system, B," Jason huffs, "but you know how it is. He can't go through that. Not like I did."

"We can make sure he gets a good place and a good family," Bruce responds. 

"He could have a good family," Jason says suddenly, "right here."

Tim doesn't realize he has stopped breathing. 

"We can't just take him -"

"It's not exactly like we'd be kidnapping him," Dick hums, "and it's not like you haven't done it before."

Tim holds himself against the wall to keep from collapsing. Dick wants him too. 

"There's a lot more to it than that," Bruce sighs, "like our more, extra-curricular activities -"

"Hey, whoa," Jason interrupts, "I got kidnapped, adopted, and became Robin and it turned out great, actually." 

"I would, I'd like to," Bruce clears his throat and Tim sees stars, "but with everything he has been through, how he had to hide this big part of himself, it's not fair to bring him into a home that is hiding something from him."

"Come on," Jason whines, "he's a tiny, black-haired, blue-eyed, parentless, math-tech-crime-solving genius with a tragic backstory that we found in Crime Alley with nowhere to go and who needs help, and we brought him home exactly like you know you would have. What the hell more do you want, Bruce? It's like he was made in a lab specifically for you."

"At least until we find him somewhere permanent," Dick presses. "We can't send him back out there, and you can't find the perfect fit overnight. If he goes on the streets again, we could lose him for good. Or worse, his parents might get ahold of him again."

"What?" Jason asks at the same time Tim screams it in his head. "How - why?"

"The Drakes have enough money and enough lawyers to make bail and put up a fight in courts," Dick explains, "you know that, Bruce."

"Why would they?" Jason scoffs.

"Dick's right," Bruce makes a noise like he's standing, "after tonight, they might try to save face. Prove that this was all one big misunderstanding. They can produce false documentation, pay off staff and caregivers to say they were there with Tim while the Drakes were away, use Tim's impeccable school records to show that he is a model student, and more. But the easiest way for them to do it, is through Tim. If they get to him, convince him to cover for them. To lie. Say he wants to be be with them. Well, it might prove difficult in court."

"Tim would never do that!" Jason raises his voice, promptly lowering it. "He didn't, tonight."

"He didn't," Bruce agrees softly, "but that doesn't mean they won't manipulate him, or possibly even threaten him, to do what they ask. Tim is a remarkably intelligent and strong boy, but these are his parents. These are the people who have been controlling him his entire life. Today, he had us. And the fact that he hasn't been under their roof in months. If they get to him somehow, convince him, however they do it, they will win."

"Then he'll have us again," Jason slams something, "when we stays with us."

"Jay, lad -"

"No," Jason's standing now too, "he said they never hit him, right? That was the first time they hurt him, right? You know it only gets worse from there. If his dad did it once now, he'll do it again. We've seen it. I've seen it! I know. And the other stuff? Sometimes, it's worse. You haven't been with him all day, not like we have. He's scared, jumpy, always on edge like he's always in trouble. He tenses if you touch him but then he does this thing, shit, like he doesn't really know how to react. Like he doesn't know what it's like to be hugged. In the bathroom, his dad was straight up gaslighting him, B. And you should've seen Tim. It was like he was trying to disappear into the damn wall, he was so scared. They might not have hurt his body, but they hurt him, bad. And now, if he goes back, they will hurt him, physically. And that'll be on you, B. Your fault."

There are heavy footfalls and Tim ducks into a nearby shadowed corner just as Jason bolts from the room, sprinting down the hall. Part of Tim wants to chase after his friend. Another part wants to run too. 

"Bruce," Dick speaks up, "let him."

"Today's events weren't easy for anyone, sir. But, they hit quite close to home for Master Jason, as you know. Perhaps, give the boy some time to process and then go and speak with him. We have been rightfully focused on young Master Tim, but I think this has all taken more of a toll on your son than he would care to admit."

The remaining trio stay silent for some time. Tim steps out from the shadows and begins to back up, away from all of this.

"Isn't it obvious?" Bruce's voice is strained. "I can barely raise the one son I have now. Dick, you and I, it didn't - end well. Tim, he," Bruce clears his throat, "he doesn't deserve another parent who will only end up hurting him."

"Master Bruce -"

"B -"

Both Alfred and Dick speak at once but Bruce is already moving on.

"Even if I did," Bruce starts, stops, and sighs, "if I did try and take him in, his parents could still sue for custody."

"Like they'd win against you," Dick huffs. 

"I really can't say for certain what the best course of action is, until we know more of what the Drakes' next move is going to be."

Tim knows what his is. 

Even if Bruce and Jason both insist that none of this is his fault, it doesn't change the facts that all of it is only happening because Tim is there. Jason and Bruce are fighting, over him. Bruce is having to consider a court battle, over him. It might not be his fault, but that doesn't mean he can't make it go away.

And there's his parents. His parents who were publicly humiliated in front of Gotham's elite by the Bruce Wayne. It was one thing when their son was just quietly gone with no one asking questions. Now, with how many people were in attendance tonight, Tim will be surprised if this doesn't make the news. Everyone will be asking questions. The Drakes' hands will be forced to take Tim back if they want to save their precious name they had been so worried about Tim embarrassing. 

And, well, Bruce is right. Tim hates it, but he is. 

Tim stood up to them tonight. That doesn't mean he will have the strength to do so in the future. He wants his family, even if they don't want him. Even if his conscious mind hates them. He still can't help how much he wants them. How much he cried over them for those first few weeks on the streets. It makes him a little sick that he knows they will manipulate him, and yet he will still fall for it. Like he has two brains that aren't always connected. 

It's a simple solution. Two birds, one stone, all that. Prevent his parents from getting to him, and stop hurting the Waynes. 

He makes it back to Jason's bedroom before he can stop himself, or be stopped. The teenager isn't there this time. Grabbing his backpack, Tim ducks into the bathroom, shoving his old clothes in the bag. The window is still propped open and Tim is careful about climbing outside. The bricks and stone of the building provide enough footholds for him to scale down the wall mostly with ease. 

When he runs from the property, he doesn't let himself look back. 

Chapter Text

Tim can't go to the shelters anymore. 

His parents are playing the parts of the worried mother and father, searching for their missing runaway son. There are flyers everywhere. They hold a couple press conferences in front of Drake Industries. Batman and Co. are also searching for him. No more following them around to snap a photo. He has never been caught before but it's just not worth the risk. And it hurts too much. Nightwing makes more appearances in Gotham, despite disappearing off to Bludhaven regularly.

Robin almost catches him about a week after Thanksgiving. Tim is at one of his old favorite spots to camp out overnight. He never told anyone, so Jason must've asked around enough to work it out himself. But Tim hears the familiar release of the grapple in time and shimmies into a hiding spot in the busted out wall that he made a long time ago for any possible encounters with cops or criminals. 

He listens with held breath as Robin kicks a can. Then another. Smashing and stomping it with his boots. Tim has to wrap his own arms around himself as a restraint. It's all he can do not to bust out and cry and beg to be taken back. 

Tim doesn't let any of them get close again.

The Wayne family, not their nighttime counterparts, have even made public appeals. Tim tries hard not to think about how they sound more sincere than his sobbing parents. The friends he made at the shelter have also been making the rounds, asking other street kids they know to keep an eye out. He has almost gotten spotted by their little lookouts a couple times and learns pretty quickly that he has to stay away from his old haunts.

He sees himself on the news at a coffee shop and bolts. 

He is angry at his parents for making this harder for him. Well, he's angry at them for a lot of things. But he's also mad that this much effort is being taken by local news and police now that he is "missing", all because he is a Drake - even if those people don't know he really isn't one anymore. 

There are plenty of other kids out here that deserve all this attention and support. 

Even without the shelters, he is doing okay on food. He moved to a new borough and there is a grocery store with horrible security that throws away a lot of dented or expired stuff. He didn't make a stop there today, though. Tim is too nauseous to keep anything down. Winter has invaded Gotham and it's probably just some bug.

The first few days were rough, with his ribs and head still sore. After snagging some snacks from a food pantry before all the posters had gone up, he spent a good amount of time finding a secure spot to hunker down and hide and just slept on and off. Neither has bothered him now for over a week so his nausea isn't most likely caused by ribs or head. 

He hadn't fully realized that he had left Wayne Manor in the borrowed clothing until it was far too late. He keeps the Wonder Woman sweatshirt turned inside out, but he doesn't stop wearing it. The bright red is a beacon and it would be smarter to ditch it altogether. But it smells like Jason and Dick and when he sleeps at night, he can tuck his head down into the oversized fabric and breathe them in, imagining that he is in that pile of mattresses and blankets. 

He wishes he was. 

The attic he is currently squatting in is toasty enough, save for a draft, but he just can't seem to get warm. The window to the small space had been unlocked when he found it, and Tim really thinks the homeowner is lucky that it was him who came upon it and not someone with more nefarious goals. Really, an open window? In Gotham? The elderly woman who lives downstairs never comes up here. She can barely even make it to the second floor anymore. She spends her days blasting daytime television so loud that he can listen in all the way up there. He has been here a week and her kids have stopped in now and again. They barely stay long enough to finish a cup of coffee. From what he's overheard from them outside, apparently the woman was a mean old bat before the dementia but is quite loaded. They're putting in the time to earn a spot in the will. A nurse swings by each morning, and a caregiver is there for a few hours each day, but otherwise, the woman is left alone. And so is Tim.

Tim rolls over in his little cocoon of blankets and old jackets he found in a box up here. He is still shivering.

He has also needed to go to the bathroom for over an hour now, but the cold, and the fun new sharp pain in his abdomen, have been keeping him in place. When he can't hold it any longer, Tim shoves off the jackets and thin blankets. This has been the best part about staying here. At night, the woman takes her hearing aids out. Tim has access to free plumbing for the first time in weeks, if only in the evening. 

A few days ago, Tim had snuck all the way down to the living room. The woman complained to her children and caregiver about her record player not working. Tim had it working in a few minutes. He also fixed her recliner that she would holler about to nobody in particular as she watched her shows. It was the least he could do for the roof over his head and toilet. He wouldn't stay longer than through the end of the week, just to be careful. 

The couple in the brownstone a few doors down were taking a trip to see family for Christmas. He could circle back to this neighborhood in a few days and have heat for the holidays. 

The attic hatch opened right down into the upstairs hallway, only a few steps from the bathroom. The little extendable ladder was rather creaky so Tim had quickly grown accustomed to just hanging by his hands and dropping down as softly as possible the rest of the distance - not that the woman would hear. He had accidentally flushed just on habit alone that first night and she hadn't even stirred. Tonight, though, the mere act of bending over to climb down is painful. Putting his legs through the hole first, Tim's arms wobble as they hold his weight. He hasn't even fully extended his arms before something sharp stabs at his stomach and Tim flinches, losing grip. He tumbles the rest of the way down onto the floor in a heap. He stays like that for a long moment, partially to listen for the old lady waking up, and partially because he really can't bring himself to move. There is a grunting snore from behind the closed door and Tim sighs long and slow. He sort of half crawls, half walks, to the bathroom. By the time he's at the toilet, he's gotten most of his breath back. 

Until he loses it again when he looks down. 

That can't be right. 

Maybe it's like back in the shower at Wayne Manor. The blood that wasn't really all there. 

He blinks, and then again. 

Every time he opens his eyes, it's still there. 

Tim flushes the blood in the toilet so he can stop staring at it. 

It could be nothing, really. Just a bladder or kidney infection. But it could also be so much worse. 

Tim doubles over, clinging to the counter as another wave of nausea knocks into him, making the pain in his chest explode.

And, yeah, there's also that. 

Tim has thought about how easy it would be to fake his own death to get his parents and the police off of his trail. But he doesn't want to, you know, actually die. 

(He doesn't go through with the it because he can't do that to the Wayne family, though. Tim knows all too well about blaming oneself for things, and he knows they would blame themselves over it. He is considering leaving Gotham, once he looks old enough to pass for a teenager and can travel more without so much suspicion.)

He might not make it to his teenage years if this is something serious. 

He so badly doesn't want to be caught, and self preservation has never been his strong suit, but Tim is scared. 

Fight.

It sounds like Jason's voice in his head. Stubborn, sure.

His bag is back up in the attic and Tim knows he can't make the jump now. Usually, he sleeps with it still on, laying on his side to avoid smashing his only belongings, just in case he is discovered and needs to bolt. He was tossing and turning so much tonight that he had shucked if off. He will just have to come back for it.

If he makes it.

No, stop. He can't think like that. 

He could phone for an ambulance from the old lady's landline, but that would mean police, and his parents. He can still walk. He can do this. 

He keeps his little bit of cash and bus and subway passes on his person at all times, so he's got those at least. He'll have to take a bus to the nearest station and then take the J-Train, swapping over the O-Train. It will take almost an hour to get basically clear across Gotham.

Tim never really liked this time of year. There was beauty in it, of course. The colors of his world putting on their winter coats, every hue darker and richer than before under a dove grey sky. Every footfall sparkles and crunches, like sugar underfoot. The coolness brings Tim right into the now, into the sharpness and moment of life. It exhilarates him. 

The smells of the city die, which for the ripe and rotting trash, is a plus. 

But, for Tim, there is far more about the season to loathe. For one, it makes things like skateboarding or Batman-hunting harder, if not sometimes impossible. Under the wintry air and the sky that bears black clouds, the harbor turns grey. The Gotham Bay blues bleed to dull and dark, the stones no longer shine wet and brilliant, the boats dirty and monochrome. The air tastes chalky and dull. The cold drives crime down, which, overall, is a good thing. But it means less appearances by his favorite vigilantes. Not that he can make it around the rooftops and downtown as much in the snowy season. The days are shorter and chillier and Tim feels trapped, cooped up in his house alone. The holidays that come with the winter only a painful reminder of his parents' absence. 

Since living on the streets, his feelings for the time have only further soured. Finding a warm place to sleep becomes the only priority throughout the limited daylight hours. It's a world of cold and slush and frozen mud. Of numb toes and achy fingers. 

No, Tim doesn't like the winter. And tonight, tonight he hates it.

The wind whips salt into his eyelashes and onto exposed skin. Slush seeps in through his sneakers, soaking his socks. They squelch with each faltering footstep. He can't tell where the shivering from the cold ends and the shaking from the pain begins. 

The bus station is only a block over, but Tim is winded when he gets there. Snow is pelting his pale face and he is really wishing he would've grabbed one of those jackets from the attic. It's late, even for Gotham, and he gets a few stares for  his age, and the whole clutching his stomach like he might break in two thing he is doing. He dozes against the window a few times and almost misses his stop. The bus driver scowls as he waits for Tim to trudge up the aisle slowly. Stumbling out onto the sidewalk, he can see the steps down to the subway in the distance. They seem so very far away. 

Tim is getting dizzy now, the white snowy world tilting every now and again. He feels like he is inside of a snow globe, and someone keeps shaking the glass. The train is going to take too long, he can just tell. Feel it in his own breaking down body. 

Fight.

And that's Dick, soft but strong.

Tim stands on the edge of the pavement, sticking his hand out. Far fewer cabs run this late, especially ones willing to go over by Crime Alley, but he has to try. A drunk couple staggers out from a club. They notice the tiny slip of a kid standing next to them, his short arm not attracting any attention. 

"You okay, kiddo?" The woman bends down to be at his level and almost tips sideways on her heels. 

Tim nods. 

"You get lost or something? Trying to get home?"

He nods again. 

"I - I fell asleep on the bus and woke up really far away," he frowns, making his eyes go round.

"Where do you live, sweetie?"

"Um, The Village."

Gotham Village is close enough to Crime Alley without revealing his exact destination to a stranger. 

It's not typically smart to seem weak or scared on the streets, or at all in Gotham. But she has kind, if not a little glassy, eyes, and she is talking to him like he is a lot smaller than he truly is. Maybe in the darkness, with pale sunken skin and a hunched, shivering body, he really does look it.  

The woman elbows her companion and the man sticks his arm out, waving. A cab notices him a lot quicker and pulls over. Tim starts to dig crumpled singles and fives out of his pockets, but the woman passes the driver a $50. He gapes a little. She is either a very good soul, or very intoxicated. Either way, Tim thanks her profusely. Normally, he wouldn't accept such charity, but he isn't sure he has enough cash to get himself over to the next borough, let alone halfway across the city. And absolute agony is a great motivator. 

When the vehicle pulls out, Tim swears she sees the woman sober up suddenly, standing just behind the man, her hand slipping into his pocket, coming back out with his wallet and a keycard. Something about her face feels familiar but his mind is too mushy and the cab is long gone before he can place it. 

The cabbie continually glances back at the boy as Tim groans and breathes through his nose. He warns the kid about an extra fee for throwing up in the car. Tim manages to make it to the clinic before he is tumbling out of the backseat and hurling out onto the sidewalk. He vaguely notices the cab peel off as he is still retching. 

Wiping his mouth with the backside of his hand - he would never use the sleeve of his current most prized possession, Tim gets groggily to his feet and wobbles to the Dr. Thompkin's door. He knocks once, twice, three times. And then he's pounding. Frantic. She has to be there. She is his only option. She wouldn't snitch to the police or his parents, and Tim could maybe convince her not to tattle to the Waynes. Even if he does lose all resolve and resort to a hospital, the closest one is too far away now. 

He is so cold but he can't stop sweating. Or shaking. He can feel his heart hammering against his chest, pulse in his neck pounding. The stabbing in his stomach only continues to increase. He can feel his brain starting to fog over, sort of like when he had the concussion, but different. Like he is fading far far away. 

Is this what dying feels like? 

Fight.

Is that Alfred? 

Tim frantically looks up and down the street. No one else is outside. And why should they be at this hour? There was a sex worker on the corner when the cab had pulled up, but sometime while he emptied the limited contents of his stomach, she had been picked up. There is a clock hanging on the outside of a storefront. Nearly 3am. 

The bats and birds will be making their final rounds of patrols right around now, unless something has drawn their attention for too long. Or unless it's been a quiet night and they've already made their last pass. What other option does Tim have now?  

Closing his eyes, Tim checks over a mental image of Gotham. The vigilantes' routes will put them just one street over. He can make it. He has to. 

Using buildings and lampposts for support, Tim staggers down and then across the road. The alley is dark and dangerous, but his body needs the shortcut. A stranger in the shadows starts to approach him, but Tim heaves a little and the man sulks back to his spot. Tim almost asks the potential predator for a phone to use. To call 911. But the guy is still sort of growling and Tim doesn't push his luck. 

He makes it to the other street and slumps down onto the sidewalk's edge. The curb is sticky and snow-covered but standing is for non-dying Tim. A man is hopping into an Uber and Tim tries to call out but can't find his voice between his chattering teeth. He starts to nod off, slipping further and further down the garbage can he is using for support. Grunting, Tim forces himself to sit straighter, despite the pain. He pinches his cheeks and flicks snow at his face to keep awake. If he falls asleep now, even if whatever is happening to him doesn't kill him, the weather certainly will. Some poor person will stumble upon a Timsicle come morning, if he isn't covered in snow. 

His heavy eyelids droop and he starts to edge into a dream when Tim hears it. 

He would recognize that roar anywhere. 

The vehicle is approaching fast. Tim will just be a snowy blur. But his limbs are going numb and weak and sort of tingly all at the same time. He doesn't want to move anymore. Doesn't want to think. 

Fight.

Bruce. Pleading.

Tim rolls his head against the trashcan. He's too tired. Too - 

Fight. 

Batman. And it isn't a request. 

Tim's trembling hands reach up, fumbling against the bin. He grips the side, fingers nearly frozen as they stiffly curl around the edge. He takes a breath, and then pulls. 

The pain stabs his chest and it has him slipping on the snow as he stands. He almost falls back to the cold ground. 

Fight! 

Robin and Nightwing now, shouting.

Tim finds his footing, hugging the top of the trashcan. With knocking knees, the kid shuffles out into the street. He can see it in the distance now and Tim lifts his arms, waving them. He doesn't care if he looks ridiculous or pathetic. He doesn't care if Bruce and the others hate him for running off like he did. Because Batman is coming. Even if Bruce is upset, Batman will save him. Batman will -

Tim lurches, his stomach knotting. The world around him gives a jolt and then a spin. The ground beneath his feet seems to shift and the street goes sideways. It's not in Tim's head now, though. He's falling. And vomiting. It's thick and red and Tim tastes blood as he tries to suck in air because he can't breathe. 

He's fading again. The pain, the world, Tim, is all just floating far far from here.

But something else is coming closer. It's fast and bright and heading straight for the lump of a kid in the middle of the street.

It's also the last thing Tim sees before consciousness slips away.

Chapter Text

Tim's world washes in and out of existence. 

Bright lights. Loud rumbling. Low sounds, maybe a voice. Something rough against his face and neck, so very warm against the freezing ocean that drives him under. 

Then drowning. 

Yellow and green. A new voice, rushed and pitched. 

Darkness. 

Something stuck in his throat. Can't breathe. Fear. 

Black.

Scared. Scared. Scared. 

Back under. 

New lights. New sounds. Cold and warm things against his skin. 

The wave comes again, Tim clawing at the shore of consciousness one last time before giving into the current. 

There is a hand around his when he is spit back out on land. 

It's strong and steady and there. 

There's a familiar dark form hovering over him, saying something he can't quite hear yet because the ocean is still in his ears. 

Tim sputters, tries to speak. Throat too dry. Which is odd, what with all the drowning. 

Something comes to his mouth and Tim sucks on the small pieces of ice. 

He expects to shiver, the chips are so cold. And last he remembers, Tim was freezing to death. But the ice soothes his sore throat and when he stretches himself out to sense the rest of his body, he finds himself warm. 

"-rry," he croaks at the shadow, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He floats back out to sea with those words still on his lips. 

A new hand is on his next time, light and loose. When he groans, it squeezes. 

"Oh, thank God, Timothy."

And Tim is so very cold again. Plunged back into the depths. Back into the snow and slush on that sidewalk. 

"That's it, son, wake up."

Son. 

The cold is soothed by a sudden warmth. It starts in his stomach, spreading. 

Oh, right, his stomach. Should it still be hurting? Was it ever? 

"Oh, Timothy, we've been so worried."

It sounds so sincere. And Tim really thinks it is.

Bruce was right. Tim was smart to run. If he opens his eyes, if Tim's sees their faces -

Tim can't help it when his eyelids peel back, heavy and slow. And there they are. 

His mother and father are beside him on either side, their faces leaning in close to his. His mother looks thinner, more cheekbones than cheek. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she breathes like her lungs are tethered to him, swaying closer and father away with each inhale. His father is smiling. It's the most genuine smile Tim has ever seen the man wear. Soft, but still stoic. 

Tim doesn't realize he is crying until the back of his mother's hand is wiping away the tears. 

"We're so glad you're okay, darling." She coos, stroking his cheek. 

Tim can't help it if he leans into the touch. 

"How are you feeling, son?"

Tim turns toward his father, squinting a little. 

"Uh," Tim swallows and his throat is dry again.

"Oh, hold on, Timothy," his mother whispers and then leans away, "can we get a nurse in here please?"

A man in pale blue scrubs shuffles in, greeting Tim kindly as she gets some ice chips and brings them over to the boy. Once Tim has taken a few, his mother takes over holding the cup. A moment later, he is finished and she is handing it back to the stranger. 

A doctor soon follows inside, also asking how Tim is feeling. He just sort of shrugs. She and the nurse ask a few more questions, checking screens and tubes and exchanging numbers and words he doesn't all follow. 

"Timothy," the woman in the white coat looks over something on one of the monitors near his bed, "do you remember what happened?"

Tim blinks, tries to reach out past the endless ocean he has been drifting and drowning in. 

"I," he clears his throat, "I felt sick. Bad."

"I bet," the doctor frowns sympathetically, "you were suffering from the beginning stages of hypothermia and were bleeding internally into your stomach. When you were brought in, we were told that you had suffered a fall awhile ago and had some sort of glass penetrate your abdomen," she places her hand above her own to demonstrate like Tim doesn't remember that pain vividly, "your parents told me that you tripped and fell into an antique glass vase. That doesn't sound like fun. While you were - away - it appears that the wound healed properly, but a piece of that glass had broken off and had remained inside your body that whole time. It moved, knicking your kidney. We had to perform emergency surgery to find the source of your bleeding and found the tear. We also found the piece of glass and removed it. It had just barely started to penetrate your spleen but we were able to get it out before it caused further damage. We repaired both your kidney and spleen and stopped the bleeding. You're lucky you were found and brought in when you were, but you're going to be just fine."

Tim works his muddled mind around that. It lines up with the memories that are slowly making their way back to him, but some of the things the doctor said don't seem right. 

"Thank you again, doctor, really," his father stands to shake the woman's hand. "I know he just woke up, but how soon can we get him out of here?"

The doctor furrows her brow and glances between the parents and their son.

"Well, now that the anesthesia is wearing off, we will run some tests and keep an eye on him for a little while, but we should be able to move him out of recovery and into a new room soon -"

"No," his father waves a hand, "I meant, out of the hospital."

"I know," she sighs, managing a practiced polite smile, "and it's difficult to say at this point. It could be a few days, it could be a week. We need to monitor Timothy's pain level and vitals. He is going to need fluids and pain medication through an IV for a bit. It might take some time before Timothy can eat or drink normally. Once able to do these things, he will be transitioned over to oral pain medication. As soon as he feels up to it, he can begin work with one of our nurses or physical therapists. Simple acts like getting out of bed, sitting in a chair, and eventually, walking, will all take time and need help, but will be necessary to begin doing so as soon as Timothy is able to prevent blood clots. His catheter and abdominal drain will be removed within a few days as well -"

"We just want to bring him home," his mother interrupts, rubbing Tim's arm. 

"I understand that," the doctor nods. "These things take time, Mr. and Mrs. Drake, but I promise you both that we will be doing our best to take care of Timothy while he is here with us and get him back home with you soon." 

Home. 

He wants to go so badly it hurts. His bed. His room. His parents. 

"Can he speak with that detective now?"

Tim cocks his head toward his father as the doctor frowns.

"Uh, I don't know if that's best -"

"We just want to put this all behind us so that we can focus on Timothy's recovery."

Tim squints as his mother. 

"Detective?" Tim squeaks.

"It's nothing, really, darling," his mother pets his hair stiffly. 

"The man just has some questions for you to answer," his father nods, "about how you ran away and those Wayne kids abducted you, and then wouldn't let you leave with us when we found out you were there."

"They claimed you ran off that very evening," his mother sniffed, "that you got away. We just had to be sure."

Tim shakes his head, blinking. This doesn't sound...right.

"So when the search of Wayne Manor turned up nothing, we thought - maybe - he -" she cups a hand over her mouth. 

Tim doesn't need to be connected to a monitor to know his heart just started racing. His parents had the Wayne's home searched by police? They didn't find anything, right? They couldn't have. It would have been all over the news. But the Manor had been combed through, because of him. Bruce probably hated Tim. They all did. 

"Bruce Wayne and those boys of his have had the audacity to make public pleas to find you," his mother huffs. "I always knew there was something - off - about that man. Taking in a little boy like that. And then another, just when the first one is old enough to leave."

Tim swallows. What exactly is she saying? 

"And then they come in here," his father grumbles, "right after you're brought in, demanding to see you. Trying to get to you first." He shakes his head. "Thank God the Chief of Staff here is an old friend."

Tim's heart monitor gives a little song again and he starts shaking. 

"Oh, darling," his mother clutches at his hand, "it's alright. He can't hurt you. We're here. We're going to stay with you until we can take you home."

Home.

His bed. His room. His parents. 

"We've got you, son."

His bed. 

Hiding under the covers when he is five because there is a thunderstorm and being told to "man up" when he tries to climb into his parents' bed. Pressing pillows against his ears as he tries to sleep while glass shatters somewhere downstairs. Stashing food under the floorboards below. 

"We're never going to let you leave us again."

His room. 

Being locked inside when he is eight for accidentally coming downstairs for a snack when his father has an important associate over for tea in the den. Breaking the latch on his window so he can sneak in and out in case it happens again - it does, and later, to spy on superheroes. Living for days, weeks, on end, between those four walls, only coming out to go to school or eat because walking around the big empty house is too lonely. Walking through the threshold to see his parents at his laptop. 

"We love you, son." 

His parents. 

Their screaming. The feel of his father's hand around his wrist. His mother's cry of protest that the vase was broken, but sparing no words for her son. 

"Timothy?"

His bed. 

A pile of of mattresses and pillows and blankets.

His room.

A whole guest room picked out for him, but with the offer to share.

His parents. 

Bruce Wayne catching his father's - Jack's - fist as it flies toward his own face. 

Bruce Wayne, standing in the doorway of his hospital room, right now.

"How dare you," Jack raises a finger like a weapon, stabbing it at the man, "you're not allowed to -"

"Actually," Bruce takes a single step instead, "it is the both of you who are not authorized to be here right now."

"We are Timothy's parents," Janet stands, gripping Tim's hand so hard it hurts.

"Who are currently under investigation for child negligence and abuse," Bruce crosses his arms. 

"Those charges are still pending and are ridiculous," Jack shakes a fist.

"Besides," Janet gestures, pulling Tim's hand with hers and jerking the IV enough to make the boy wince, "nothing has been proven."

"Yet." Bruce's eyes narrow to slits. 

"I need to ask all of you to leave," the doctor raises her hands, "this isn't good for Timothy -"

"Timothy wants us to stay, doesn't he?" Janet hisses. 

"Call Bill," Jack turns to the doctor, "he'll -"

"The Chief of Staff is busy right now," Bruce lifts a single eyebrow. "It seems evidence has been found, detailing how the good doctor has been helping wealthy patients cover up certain things, like drunk driving accidents, pregnancies, child abuse. Huh. Just like the two of you, he is also now under investigation."

Jack's face flushes, teeth barred.

"We are still Timothy's parents, we have a legal right to here -"

"Not for long."

"We're not at your house this time, Wayne," Jack steps forward, "you can't just act like you own the place."

"I can," Bruce shrugs, "if I do."

Jack stumbles backward, an odd noise in his throat.

"I already have one," Bruce waves a hand, "so I figured, why not another?"

"You, you can't just - buy - a hospital-" Jack stutters, gesturing around the room. 

"Apparently," Bruce smiles, "I can."

"This is outrageous!" 

"Please," the doctor raises her voice, "for Timothy's sake -"

"Timothy is our concern -"

"Is it your concern to catch him while waking up, still groggy from anesthesia, and feed him the right story to tell the police?"

"We only want what's best for Timothy -"

"So much so that you waited until I wasn't here to sneak inside and corner him?"

"We were here for our son, for Timothy -"

"Then where were you while he lived on the streets? When he was injured?"

"Please, everyone, Timothy is -"

"Timothy ran away -"

"Tim!"

It hurts his throat, the scream. 

It also sends the room into a startling silence. 

"Tim," he repeats, breathing heavy, "it's Tim. I hate Timothy. I've always hated Timothy. You know that. Or, you would, if you paid any attention to me at all. You - you -"

The monitors start to sing as Tim struggles to come up for air. He is being pushed back under the surface again. Coughing, sputtering. 

"Everyone out!" The doctor hollers, jamming a finger toward the door. "Or I'm calling security!"

Another nurse pushes past Mr. Wayne and Tim doesn't see his parents leave. He doesn't see much of anything for a few moments while his vision goes splotchy. Plastic comes up over his face and there is air, air, air. He's not drowning anymore. 

"Just breath, Timo - Tim," the doctor instructs, "nice and slow."

And he does. 

And he tries not to think of his bed, his room, his parents. His parents, telling Tim he ran away. He tripped. Of Mr. Wayne, under investigation, because of him. Mr. Wayne, buying a hospital, because of him. Mr. Wayne, out in the cold at night, because of -

Wait, that's not right. 

But something tugs at the corner of his murky mind. Something oh so very important. 

"Timothy, do you remember what happened?"

"I felt sick. Bad."

He knows his parents were lying. He's a runner. A Grade A flight risk. Fight or flight? The latter, please and thank you. But Tim did not run away. And he certainly didn't trip. He remembers all that. Remembers the Waynes, the party, leaving the Manor. He even remembers the pain. The surety that he was going to die right there in the snowy street. But there's something more. 

Tim closes his eyes as the doctor keeps talking. He'll focus on himself later, okay? He needs to figure this out now. It's important. It's, it's - 

Tim sees the bright headlights, hears the rumbling engine. Feels the freezing wind against his skin. The sensations are all there. His senses taking in his surroundings. Tim forces himself back there. Back out into the cold and agony. 

He can see it in the distance now and Tim lifts his arms, waving them. He doesn't care if he looks ridiculous or pathetic. He doesn't care if Bruce and the others hate him for running off like he did. Because Batman is coming. Even if Bruce is upset, Batman will save him. Batman will -

Not this. Too early. Something, later?

Tim's world washes in and out of existence. 

Low sounds, maybe a voice. Yes, that's his name. It's clearer now in his memory.

"Tim."

Batman. Bruce. 

Something rough against his face and neck, so very warm against the freezing ocean that drives him under. Fingers, pressing against his thumbing too-fast pulse.  

Then drowning. 

Yellow and green. A new voice, rushed and pitched.

"Is he breathing?"

Robin. Jason. 

Darkness. 

Something stuck in his throat. Can't breathe. Fear. 

No, no, no. 

Go back. He missed something.

Low sounds, that voice. His name. Sounding for all the world like a prayer. 

"Tim."

Batman. Bruce. 

The roughness, gloves maybe, finding his pulse - 

He's so close. It's right there. 

He listens for the voice again.

"Tim."

Batman -

"Bruce."

Chapter Text

For the next few hours while Tim is closely monitored, Jack and Janet don't make a return appearance. Later, when Tim is moved into a new room in the recovery ward, his parents aren't there either. The doctors must be doing a good job of keeping them at bay. That, or Mr. Wayne, you know, the hospital's new owner. 

"Bruce."

Tim wrenches his head back, burying it farther into his pillow as he grinds his teeth. 

His heart rate keeps spiking and staff won't stop asking him if he is in pain. 

It's not exactly like he can tell them the truth. 

He has large, private room. The oversized windows stretch out behind a small sofa and recliner. Opposite of the bed is a bathroom, sink, and flatscreen tv. The Drakes could have swung for this, but Tim has other suspicions.  

Is the man going to try to buy Tim's silence? Is that why Bruce had gone to such extreme lengths of buying the whole dang hospital just to make certain he could keep his parents away from him? 

First, the search of Wayne Manor, and now this? How many times was Tim going to compromise Batman's - Bruce's identity? 

Thankfully, Tim doesn't have to dwell on it for too long. The constant panicking has only lead to higher dosage of pain medications, and wearing himself down. 

He is passed out cold when Jack Drake slips in. 

Something is squeezing his hand too tight when Tim startles awake. 

Jack's hand is clenched over his own and Tim jerks back sluggishly, the grip winning out and keeping his arm in place. His arm, his whole body, feels too heavy, not just from the man's weight on him. His father is hovering over the bed and there is something sharp and jagged in the man's eyes that Tim has only ever seen for that split second before he fell down the stairs. 

No, wait, not his father. Jack. Just Jack. 

"What do you think you're doing, huh?"

Tim swallows the dryness of sleep, trying to gulp down the fear too. He tastes something else. Chalky. He only manages a confused noise before Jack pounces, free hand coming across the bed to grip the safety railing on Tim's other side. 

"We come here for you, sit with you, help care for you, and you have the audacity to yell at us, in front of other people? Again?"

Tim isn't exactly sure how much help his parents could have lended to the doctors and nurses as they cut him open. 

"Are you trying to make your mother and I look bad? Is that what this is? Some preteen rebellion?"

Tim opens his mouth.

"We offered to take you back. We offered you our company. Our money. Our name." 

Tim shrinks back as his father draws closer. 

"And instead you made fools of us in front of all of our friends, in front of all of Gotham."

Tim can't swallow past the rock in his throat this time.

"I - I'm -"

"Are you sorry? Is that what you are going to say? Because you can, you know," Jack eases back a little, "you can apologize, to us, to the press. Tell everyone how this was all a big misunderstanding. You ran away. Your mother has a script prepared for you, you won't have to -"

"B-but -"

"But what, Timothy? What other option do you have? Do you really think that just because Mr. Wayne took in two young boys, that he'll take care of you too? He won't. You'll end up back out on the streets."

Tim tries to turn away but the man only moves his head to keep in the boy's line of sight. 

"He's already got one close enough to your age," Jack continues, "why would he want you? Especially when he learns your sick." Jack's eyes widen and then gleam. "Or is that why you think he'll want you? Because he's sick too. You think you want that life, huh? Just wait until you see what him and his sons will do to some pathetic, scrawny little boy."

"He - he wouldn't -"

"He kidnapped you -"

"No -"

"You had to sneak away from them in the middle of the night -"

"That was -"

"Just say it!"

Jack's grip moves from Tim's hand to his wrist, wrapping around roughly. Tim is back at the top of that staircase. Outside of his bedroom with his secret food stash and broken window and open computer. In front of his parents and their screaming and their faces as they stare at the screen, as he falls down the steps. 

"No."

Tim's voice is so very quiet. But it feels strong. Strong like Jason standing between Tim and Jack. Strong like Dick holding him. Strong like Bruce catching a fist. Strong like he was, just for a moment, in front of everyone at that party. 

Fight. 

"Excuse me?"

"I said," Tim swallows, raising his eyes to meet the man's, "no. I didn't run away. You kicked me out! Mr. Wayne didn't abduct me, Dick and Jason saved me. And - and I didn't - I didn't trip on the stairs. You grabbed me. You hurt me. Just like you're doing now."

Tim glares at his father and then down at his wrist. Jack makes an odd sound in his throat that sounds like laughter. 

"You think this is hurting you?" Jack lifts Tim's arm, shaking it. "We've given you everything! You hurt this family. You hurt our name, our business. You think this hurts?"

Jack's other arm comes up high. Tim doesn't close his eyes, but he braces. 

There's a blur and a crash and suddenly Jack Drake is on the floor, a mop of black hair and fists on top of him. 

Tim tries to lean over to get a better view, but the action pulls on his abdomen and he's stuck in place. Another blur bursts into the room, wrangling the first off of the floor, and off of Jack. There's a flurry of limbs - and curses - before Jack is standing, panting and holding himself up against the wall, his attacker still trying to get at him. Jack's nose is crooked and leaking. He spits out blood on the tile and rears back, straightening his shoulders. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"You were about to hit him!" The attacker - the boy - Jason - growls. "You were hurting him."

"You - you broke my nose!" Jack brings a hand up to the blood. 

"Fitting," Jason huffs, "since you don't seem to have a fucking shred of empathy, now you can feel some of the same pain your son did."

Jason jerks a hand toward Tim, but doesn't look at him. He's only got dark, hungry eyes for Jack. 

"You're crazy," Jack points a bloody finger toward the teenager, "I never hurt Timothy."

"You sure?" Jason yanks a phone out of his pocket. 

"You hurt me. Just like you're doing now."

"You think this is hurting you?" 

Jason waves the device as it plays.

"That proves nothing. But you just assaulted me. I don't care who you're daddy is now. You're going to pay for this, for all of this. You'll be sent to juvie, right where street trash like you belo-"

The taller blur - Dick - moves before his younger brother can. Jack had been advancing, nearly foaming in Jason's face. The teenager had been ready. Balled fists and coiled muscles. But Dick, Dick was like lightning. One second, he was behind his brother, holding him back. And the next, Jason was pushed behind Dick and Jack Drake was back up against the wall, held there by a single hand to the chest. 

Tim would have missed it had he blinked. It's lucky that he's in such a panicked state right now that he can't seem to close his too wide eyes, even if he wanted to. 

"And just where do you think you'll be sent?" Dick lowers his head, a predatory smile stretching across his shadowed face. "Your connections, your lawyers, they're good. They've slowed him down, but Bruce Wayne has better connections, better lawyers. All that fake evidence against the child neglect charges, it's being taken apart, piece by piece, until you have no more lies to hide behind. You paid a lot of people to say a lot of things on your behalf. Smart. You have the money to do that." Dick cocks his head. "We have more. Their stories are all changing, Jack. And they're not just recanting their statements. They're spilling all your dirty secrets. The neglect. The abuse. The illegal business practices. Everything. And for what?" Dick pushes his hand harder against the man's chest. "All because you couldn't accept your son for who he is? How is that so hard, huh?"

"I - he - you don't - this -" Jack sputters, eyes racing around the room until they finally connect with Tim's. "Timothy, please -"

"Don't talk to him," Jason moves, blocking Tim from Jack's sight - and Jack from Tim's. 

"Are you alright, Tim?"

It takes the kid a second to realize Dick is talking to him, because he is still pinning Jack with a glower. Tim parts his lips, his tongue trying to work. It flicks against the roof of his mouth uselessly. After a moment, he just nods instead. Dick must see it out of the corner of his eye because something in his frame smooths out ever so slightly. 

"I'm going to escort him out now," Dick continues, tone still hard, but softening on the second part, "is that okay, Tim?"

Tim - Tim should feel something at that. Right? Relief? Rage? Grief? 

Again, he nods. 

Dick doesn't hesitate. His free hand grips Jack's shoulder and yanks him off the wall. Jason follows, sidestepping to block the man from his son as he is dragged and pushed out the room. Tim can't see Jack's face, but he can certainly hear him. The man who used to be his father shouts at Tim, alternating between pleas and threats. The voice carries out into the hallway, fading further and further. 

Tim thinks he might be fading in the opposite direction. 

He still doesn't feel anything. Now, it's becoming physical. Not just the lack of emotions that should be there. But the bed that is somehow underneath him and nowhere at the same time. The room that is sort of beveling and blurring at the edges, like he is looking at everything through a fisheye lens on his camera. 

Jason's shoulders are shuddering a little in front of him. Tim can't tell if it's his vision or the boy's heavy breathing. Jason takes a long second before moving. The teenager's face is flushed, cheeks puffy and eyes hard. He glares over at the door and then finishes turning toward the boy in the bed. The anger isn't going away when he looks at Tim, though.

And why should it? 

"Bruce."

Tim knows. He's known. He's been a risk to them this whole time, and they invited him home. He caused a scene. The Manor was searched. And he knows. 

Tim has been panicking about this moment since the memory came back to him. Has been worrying the hospital staff with his sudden spikes of heart rates. But now? 

He's too busy floating away. 

"Do you," Jason starts, shifting to the side so that he isn't looking at Tim again, "do you know what it was like, that night? You ran. After everything we did - you left us."

"Everything we've done for you," Jack's voice is solid like a stone, "everything we're provided for you. And this? This is how you repay us?"

"I thought," Jason swallows, "you were hurt. Passed out somewhere in the Manor. That your brain had started bleeding or something. And then," his breath is more like a hiss, "I saw - your stuff - gone. You just, ran away. I, we, all of us, we were - scared."

"And then you just ran away and we didn't know where you were. We've been so worried."

This is - not what Tim expected. 

The anger in Jason's eyes, he'd imagined it was because Tim knew who they were. Not because he left. But maybe it's both. Because he left, and he could've told someone. 

Jack had wanted Tim to fix his mess. To lie for the sake of their family, their business. 

Jason must want something from him, too. 

"We just wanted to help you."

"Sometimes when you love someone, you have to help them, even if it hurts. We're doing this because we love you."

"We looked everywhere!" Jason kicks a nearby chair. "We couldn't find you. You were hurt and we couldn't find you! Either you didn't want to be found. Or - or - you were dead. Every time I landed on a rooftop, or turned an alley corner, fuck, I thought I'd find your body. Because why would you hide from us? But," Jason huffs, "apparently you did. Apparently you -"

Jason spins, aiming those angry eyes back at Tim, but this time they falter - and so does Jason. The teenager sways a little to one side and then is sprinting forward, toward Tim. 

"Shit."

Tim isn't exactly sure what Jason is seeing, or why he is suddenly all soft hands and wide eyes when he was balled fists and cold glares just a moment ago. 

"Tim?"

It's so quiet and Tim didn't see Jason's lips move, so maybe it was in his head. But Jason's been fuzzy for awhile now so maybe Tim just missed it. 

"Tim."

Huh. That sounds like Robin. Strong, but comforting. Hopeful. Sure. 

Someone is crying. Tim can't hear them, but he can taste the salt. Robin will help them. But Robin is busy shaking Tim. Or - is he? His hands are hovering over the bed, but they're not touching him. But then why is Tim still shaking? 

"I'm such an idiot."

Tim wants to tell Robin that he is definitely not an idiot. He's a hero. Tim's hero. Funny and smart and strong and brave and everything Tim isn't. 

"You are, Tim. You are all of those things."

Tim is pretty sure Robin doesn't have telepathy. 

"Sure don't, Timbo."

Jason should really go help whoever is crying. Tim is fine floating away. Really. The other person needs help. Tim - Tim is fine on his own. He is used to it. He deserves it. He screws up everything. He can't screw up Robin. 

"I'm not going anywhere, Tim." 

A hand finds Tim's. This one doesn't squeeze so tight until it hurts like Jack's. 

He wants so badly for this to be real. For this to last. But they can't go back to before. To food fights and hugs and stories read aloud and friends. Not after everything he's done. After everything he knows. 

The door opens. 

"He won't be coming back anytime soon, don't worry."

That's Nightwing's voice. Half offering a report to Robin, half offering comfort to a victim. 

"Guess that settles it," Nightwing sighs, looking between Tim and Robin, "he really does know."

Okay, now it'll happen. Whatever - it - is. Nightwing is here and Robin has just been keeping him distracted, keeping him compliant. They got Jack out of the way so there is no one else to see or hear. No one else to know. 

What is it going to be? Simple threats? That doesn't seem like enough. Mind wipe? If anyone has the technology, it would be Bruce Wayne. And isn't there a telepathic alien on the League? Maybe there is some secret prison for people like him. He's been so surprised no one else has found out, what with some of their obvious lies and cagey behavior, but maybe others have. And this is why Tim doesn't know about them. Why no one does. Would disappearing be all that bad? All that different to his life so far? Hiding this big part of himself for so long. The rest of him being invisible anyways. 

Tim thinks he'll take the prison over the memory loss. He doesn't have a lot in this world except his mind. He also doesn't have a lot of good memories either, the best being the day with the Waynes. He doesn't want to lose either. There are other good ones, too. All those times, chasing after the vigilantes. Running across rooftops and feeling alive and free for those brief few hours in the night. Cracking cases and secretly sending just the right amount of breadcrumbs to the GCPD. Finding criminals or deals or people needing help, and leading Batman & Co. right to them. Just a little information drop here, a 911 call there using the perfect keywords that he knows the vigilante screens for, placing people in the path of one of the hero's patrols.

When he wasn't invisible, he was in the way. But for those criminals he helped stop, those people he helped save, that was different. 

He doesn't want all of that to just be - gone. 

He'll take it, though. To keep them all safe. To stop making a mess of their lives. He'll roll over and take whatever they decide. 

"What is he talking about?" Nightwing steps forward, brow furrowed but the rest of his face taut. 

"Dick," Jason's voice is a whisper of breath, "look."

A hand finds Tim's face and the boy leans into the touch, despite himself. He didn't realize his eyelids were drooping until one of them is being gently pulled up and Nightwing is suddenly right there. 

"Get a nurse," Nightwing orders. 

"I already hit the call button," Jason nods, "I - I didn't want to leave him alone."

That doesn't make sense. Tim is always alone. Oh wait, it does. He could tell someone if they leave him alone. Not that he would. But they don't know that. 

"We know," Nightwing takes Tim's other hand, the one that has started to tingle at some point, "we know, Tim."

Tim's eyes are drooping again. He's gone both heavier and lighter all over.

He's still floating away but his hands are being held now by his heroes and they won't let him go too far. 

Chapter Text

"Tim thinks you're going to Men In Black his brain."

Tim has been coming down to earth, and to his bed, for awhile now. A nurse had adjusted his painkiller dosage - the one that Jack Drake had apparently tampered with and raised significantly, probably in order to make it easier to manipulate or threaten Tim - and he was back in his body again. 

It was honestly a small miracle he had stayed lucid enough until Jason and Dick showed up, the panic and adrenaline keeping Tim sober and tethered before he floated away. 

Dick and Jason have stayed with him the whole return journey and Tim can feel their fingers more solidly against his own with every passing moment. Sometimes, Tim starts to shiver, remembering what he knows, what he said, what has all happened. They only squeeze him tighter. There are a lot of staff coming in and out, though, so they don't speak much. And that's okay. Tim's mouth went all cottony for a bit anyway. He's also worried about starting to say the things in his head again. Because he remembers some of that now. Unfortunately. 

So when a tall familiar figure comes to stand in the doorway, Tim tenses. 

Jason, apparently, takes that as a sign that this is the perfect opportunity for a joke. 

The very far corner of Bruce Wayne's mouth does an odd little uptick motion, but the man gives no further reaction to the statement. He does, however, step inside, shutting the door behind him. 

"How are you feeling, Tim?" He asks instead, taking a seat next to his sons and the boy's bed. 

Tim makes a jittery shoulder shrug motion because he doesn't trust himself to speak in Batman's presence right now. 

"He also thinks you might have some secret prison," Jason adds, "which, you know B, isn't a bad idea, considering the number of Arkham breakouts."

Bruce leans forward in his seat, ignoring the teenager. 

"You've been through a lot, Tim," he sighs, "and we'll talk about - everything - when you're ready. But all that matters right now, is that you heal and get better. Okay? I'm - I'm sorry, for how I handled things, with your parents, before. I shouldn't have done that with you right there, and so soon after your surgery. But I need you to know something, something very important, Tim." Bruce pauses, waits for Tim's lowered eyes to meet his own. "You are safe now." It sounds like a promise and a prayer wrapped into one. "No one is going to hurt you, not if we can help it. We're going to take care of you, Tim."

Tim blinks. And then again. It sounds so sincere. But then again, so did Jack and Janet when he first woke up. 

Tim works his mouth around the words. 

"You - you don't - I - you don't have to," Tim mumbles, "I, I promise I won't - tell. I never have. I wouldn't. You don't need to - stay - to make sure or -"

Jason looks hurt. Dick looks sad. 

Bruce - Tim can't read his expression. 

"Is that really why you think we're here?" Jason frowns.

His hand loosens and his elbow twitches like he is going to let go of Tim and pull away. Tim doesn't mean to make the wounded noise in the back of his throat but when he does, Jason latches back onto him with fervor. 

"We're not doing this because of what you know," Bruce places a hand on Tim's shoulder. "Like I said, that - isn't important, not now. We are doing all of this, we are here, we are going to take care of you, because we care about you, Tim." He squeezes softly. "I promise."

This is somehow worse than his parents. Tim wants to believe them so badly. The distrust must show on his face because Bruce sighs, bowing his head a little. 

"Hey, Tim," Dick nudges the boy's arm, "does Batman lie?"

Tim bites his cheek. It's a complicated question. Batman's very existence is a lie, isn't it? A mask. Hiding a secret identity. 

"When it comes to the big stuff," Dick clarifies, smiling slightly at the gears turning in the kid's eyes, "the stuff that really matters. Does Batman lie?"

Tim has been following the Dark Knight for a long time now. 

He shakes his head. 

"Tim," Jason clears his throat, glancing away, "did - did your parents - would they tell you things? Say they were going to do something, and then bail? Make promises they didn't keep?"

Tim stares down at his lap. 

He can see Jason shifting and the older boy's hand starts to tremble around Tim's. Curious, Tim finally looks back up to find Jason glancing between Bruce and Dick. His cheeks are red and when he speaks, he drops his gaze from all of them. 

"I can't - I can't remember how many times my, my mom, she said she was going to - quit - quit using. Promised me over and over."

Tim's hand is vibrating inside of Jason's now. Dick reaches over across the bed to place his free hand on one of his brother's shoulders. Bruce is cupping the back of the boy's neck.

"And," Jason continues, closing his eyes, "and, my - dad - telling her he wouldn't - won't - hit - her - again. Telling me, too. Half the time, I think, I think they really meant it. Wanted to. The other half, they just wanted something from me. And those were just the broken promise lies," Jason swallows, "not counting the ones meant to, to, manipulate. But, shit, I believed him." He sniffs. "Believed both of them. Every time. For a long time. And then, later, I stopped believing anybody." He huffs, chancing a quick look back at Bruce. "Took me awhile to believe B."

"Of course we'll make it back for your birthday, son. We'll spend the whole day together."

They did make it back. They spent the day at the offices. Without Tim. 

"Just one more week longer and then we'll home in time for Christmas."

Tim didn't see them until after New Year's. 

"You must have forgotten. I know we told you."

"That's not what happened."

"You have such an active imagination."

"You're sick."

Trying to convince Tim that he had tripped. Ran away. That the Waynes abducted him. 

And Tim had used to believe them too, just like Jason. He even wanted desperately to believe them when he woke up in the hospital. He can't imagine how all of this would have gone down had it happened only a few years ago. Maybe even before the day with the Waynes. Jack and Janet would have convinced him, Tim can't deny it. A few years ago, he never would've made it out of that house. A few weeks ago, he would've let them manipulate him right back through the door. 

Someone is crying and he really hopes he hasn't upset Jason any further until Tim looks over to see the teenager. Jason's eyes are red, but there are no tears on his flushed face. Jason's gaze meets Tim's and the older boy nearly launches himself onto the bed. Tim can't entirely reciprocate. His one hand is occupied in Dick's, who has started to rub his thumb across Tim's knuckles. The rest of him, can't really move yet. Jason doesn't seem to mind, as he brings his forehead down to press against Tim's. 

"I'm still mad at you for leaving," he mumbles, "but I'm so happy you're okay."

Something inside Tim just - breaks. 

After he woke up, when his parents were holding his hands, Tim thinks that might have been the first time they touched him - lovingly touched him - in longer than he can actual remember. 

Now, ever since the alley, Tim has had more physical touch than he knows what to do with. Jason's hands on his shoulders as he cried from a concussion and pain. Dick giving him a piggyback ride to the car. Dick asking Tim to hold his hand at the clinic. The hugs he has received from every single one of them. Clinging to Bruce in the study. The hands holding his now. Jason's forehead flush against his own. None of it feels the same, like with his parents. Gentle and strong at the same time. Like they'd stay like that forever if Tim just asked them to. But also loose enough to let him choose when to let go. And so sincere. 

And if they're sincere with something so simple as touch, then they must be sincere in their words too, right? 

"Please don't be lying."

Tim doesn't realize he says it out loud until Jason is shaking his head against his own. 

"Batman," Tim repeats after Jason, who has been repeating it so very quietly into the boy's ear, "doesn't - he -"

"Doesn't lie," a low voice finishes for him, closer now. 

"Robin," Tim sniffs, and feels Jason tense against him, "doesn't lie."

"Nightwing," Tim glances over as the older brother practically joins Jason on the bed.

"Doesn't lie," Nightwing smiles. 

Tim takes a shaking breath, repeating the words - with a few changes. 

"Mr. W - Bruce," he looks over at man who is now leaning over him and then knocks his head a little against the one still against his, "Jason," finally, Tim turns back to the right, "Dick," Tim swallows, "don't lie."

Jason leans back, looking into Tim's wet eyes with his own teary gaze. 

"And now," he nods, "Tim never has to lie about himself, ever again."

There had been some invisible weight that had lifted off of him that night at the party. Tim hadn't even realized there was more still there. But with those words, Tim feels impossibly light. 

It was one thing to finally admit it to himself, then another to admit it to others. And now, something else entirely and wholly freeing about realizing that he won't ever need to admit it to anyone again. Because he won't need to conceal it. Won't need to lie. 

And to think, a few minutes ago, Tim's biggest focus had been on what method was going to be used to keep him quiet about Batman's secrets. Instead, in trying to convince the kid they weren't going to melt his mind or send him off to a prison, they had also simultaneously sidestepped him right through an epiphany. 

Dang, they really are good. 

Tim isn't left alone again in the hospital. 

Jack and Janet are no longer allowed on the premises. There is even a restraining order in the works. No one really thinks they would try something again, what with the newly added security, and how the last confrontation ended. Well, no one, except Tim. 

Tim believes the Waynes. That they care about him. That they are going to stay with him while he recovers. That they will protect him. 

But he also believes that the Drakes are persistent people. Just the thought or mention of the Waynes leaving his room is enough to send him panicking. Thankfully, it is pretty easy to override visiting hour rules when you own the place. They stay with Tim in shifts. 

Bruce is with Tim when he does breathing exercises again. The nurses have helped him through a few already here and there so Tim has the motions down now. This time, when Tim rests his palm on his abdomen, watching his stomach muscles work to expand, Bruce's hand is on top of his own. Afterward, the man teaches Tim some deep breathing meditation tricks. 

When Tim can finally start eating and drinking a bit more normally, Jason steals him a few extra Jell-O and pudding cups and then proceeds to poke the food closer and closer across the tray until Tim gives in. 

Dick helps the nurse bend and rotate Tim's legs, running through the same movements he's had to do with Alfred or B after particularly bad nights that left him bedridden for days. He is there, too, when Tim is first helped to stand and start walking. It's slow and painful and Tim barely makes it a few feet from his door, but Dick is there the whole time, hand in his and other arm hovering and ready to catch the kid. 

And Tim, Tim tries not to get too used to it. 

They're there for him. To help him recover. To keep his parents away. He believes all of that now. But what about after? 

Dick's laughter pulls Tim out of his thoughts as he is lowered back onto the bed. Dick is so careful as helps Tim lean onto his side, lift his legs up, and then roll slowly to his back. When the older boy sits back down, Tim bites back on the whine of the loss of touch. Somehow, like they all seem to, Dick still knows, and levers an arm back up next to Tim's casually. The recliner has been dragged up against the bed so that whoever is on Tim Shift is close enough. 

Jason shuffles back into the room from his break, and the cafeteria with dinner for him and Dick - and a little sugary contraband for Tim. Dick is still giggling, staring over at Tim and shaking his head. Jason squints between the pair. Tim just makes a face at him. 

"I knew it," Dick rolls his eyes, "I just knew it."

Tim blinks at the older boy, lifting his eyebrows. 

"You called me Nightwing," Dick chuckles, "back in that alley. God, I thought my heart stopped. And then you, you, little conniving genius you are, made up some story about -"

"It wasn't a story," Tim says quickly.

They just established that they weren't lying to him. Tim doesn't exactly want Dick to think he is a liar now.

The laughter dies and Dick's face drops.

"You said, that," Dick's eyes are searching for the memory, "he saved you, last year. That you were downtown late at night, during an Arkham breakout. You - you said you fell asleep at the library, but the downtown library is all the way across Gotham from where you used to live."

Right. Because Tim hadn't lied about that first bit. It wasn't a story. But the library part, 100% organic bologna. 

"Tim," Dick leans forward, "exactly how long have you known, about us?"

Tim glances between the brothers, back and forth, back and forth. 

"Since," he swallows, now dropping his gaze from either of them, "I was nine." 

Dick looks like he is doing quick math in his head. 

"But that would've been," he trails off.

"When you were Robin," Tim nods, "yeah."

"How - how did a nine-year-old figure us out?"

"With details," Jason adds, eyes large, "because B is gonna want to know how to keep it from happening again."

"I really don't think you have to worry," Tim bites his cheek, "I mean, how many other people were at the circus the night -" Tim snaps his mouth shut. 

There is a long silence before - 

"Holy," Dick breathes heavily, "you told us that you were at the circus, when we first met. You told us you were at the circus and you called me Nightwing. Damn. Some detectives we are."

"I - I was scared," Tim whispers, "it was stupid, but I was. You - you said you were going to perform, just for me. You gave me a - hug," the first hug he'd received in a long time, and the best one he'd received until the day with the Waynes, "and then, it - happened."

More silence. 

"But," Dick clears his throat, once, twice, "how does - how did -"

"I dreamed about it," Tim bows his head lower, "a lot. In the dream, and that night, you did a quadruple somersault. The guy at the circus said only three people alive could do that move. And then, later, Robin did the same somersault. I saw it on the news. Since, you'd been taken in by Bruce Wayne, and Batman had been at the circus after, it wasn't hard to figure out once I knew what I was looking for. The pieces just started fitting together. And then, suddenly, Robin disappeared for a little while. People thought he died or something, until he came back. But he was - different. I mean, not bad different," Tim hurries to explain, "but just little things, the way he moved, his size. And then Nightwing showed up, and did the same quadruple somersault. Plus, I mean, you were working with the Titans, the same group Robin worked with."

"Huh," Jason whistles, "I'm just glad it wasn't me."

"Tim," Dick sounds very serious now, "why were you downtown that night then?"

Tim performs a few of the little ankle stretches he has been doing to help avoid blood clots. He stares dutifully at his wiggling toes under the blanket. 

"Because you were?" He gulps. 

"What?"

"Nightwing doesn't come to Gotham a lot and I hadn't been able to get a good picture of him," the words tumble out before Tim can stop them, "but, I swear, I was there before the breakout. I'm not that stupid. When I heard about it, I tried to leave right away. You know the rest."

"I really don't think I do," Dick wipes a hand over his face. "So, you've known about us since you were nine. How often did you go out and take pictures of us?"

Tim works at bending his knees. 

"Also," he squeaks, "since I was nine?"

Jason bolts out of his spot on the sofa, nearly knocking over the cafeteria food. 

"Okay, yup," he starts to pace at the foot of the bed, "I'm mad at you again."

Dick holds up a hand toward his brother, but his other is clenching. 

"I'd tell you how dangerous that is, but considering you've lived on the street now, I think you understand that," Dick starts, his voice carefully kept level, "but, why? Why would you take those risks?"

Tim places jittery hands over his abdomen, taking in one of those deep breaths he has been doing with the nurses and Bruce. He had said a lot of his thoughts aloud accidentally while almost overdosing on the painkillers courtesy of Jack Drake. Thankfully, he must have left out this part of his internal monologue. 

"At the circus," he starts, so very quietly, "I was scared." Another deep breath, and Tim finally manages to lift his gaze toward Dick. "You made me feel like I didn't need to be. Like I could be brave. At - at home, I was always alone, always scared. Watching you guys, being out there, I felt brave again. But also, more? Like, I wasn't invisible, no, more than that, like I was alive. And free. And then, I realized, I could do more than just watch." Dick and Jason go still. "I wasn't busy fighting, right? So I could see everything. Notice patterns. Find connections. I could help. So, I called in tips and stuff. No big deal."

Both boys loosen a little. 

"So you didn't try and fight anyone?" Jason throws his head back and curses. "Holy shit. Give me a heart attack, why don't you?"

"What? No." Tim flails his hands. 

"What sort of tips?" Dick cocks his head. 

"Uh," Tim scratches at his ear, "a couple location of deals I figured out, one that I accidentally stumbled on. I put together that the Russians were using those bank robberies as a distraction for their trafficking, because they were already on the front of the credit card fraud business at the time, so why would they need to rob banks? Oh, that Two-Face was framing Penguin for those murders in The Bowery to get back at him for -"

"That was you?"

All three heads swivel to the other side of the room.

Bruce is standing near the closed door and Tim has no clue how long the man has been lurking there. When he glances at Jason and Dick, he is at least a little reassured that they don't seem to know for certain either. They all are sort of holding their breath as Bruce stalks toward them. When he gets to Tim's bedside, he stares down at the wide-eyed boy, squinting.

"Impressive."

The three boys deflate a little as a collective breath is released. They all look relieved, but also equally confused. 

"Very dangerous," Bruce hums, titling his head, "but very impressive."

It takes a bit of coaxing, especially with Bruce in the room now, but eventually they get Tim to tell them all about the different cases he has cracked, and a few of the other secret identities he has pieced together. Bruce also may or may not ask a series of questions about where Tim stores all of those photographs and information. Tim reassures the vigilante that he wiped his home computer, scrubbed the camera clean before selling it, and that his laptop was too far gone after being smashed to recover any possible data. All he has left is the encrypted SD card tucked away in that hidden compartment in his backpack. 

The backpack currently sitting in some old woman's attic, Tim is suddenly reminded of. 

The apologies are falling off of his tongue faster than he can keep up with them and he starts to stammer. 

"- and I was going to go back for it, I swear," Tim pants, "but then, everything, and I was here, and the room was covered in dust and like several generations of spider families. I don't think anyone had gone up there in years and it's not like anyone will either. And even if they did, it's hidden in the lining so they wouldn't see it, and even if they still somehow found it, it's encrypted, and -"

"Tim," Bruce says softly, "it's okay. Do you remember the address?"

Tim nods, rattling it off quickly. Bruce glances toward Dick, who sighs and stands up. 

"I'll be back."

"Little square back window," Tim swallows.

Dick nods, offering the boy an appreciative and consoling small smile. 

As Dick goes to leave, Tim notices the large windows in his own room, and the dark sky behind them.

"It - it's late."

Bruce just hums in agreement. Jason kicks his feet up by Tim's and starts twirling noodles around a fork. 

"Don't you - shouldn't you," Tim looks at Bruce and then at the night sky with arched brows, "you know?"

"Dick will probably do a quick patrol on his way there and back," Bruce sighs, leaning back to gaze out at the city skyline, "but otherwise, it's okay."

"But," Tim shakes his head, "it's important."

"So are you."

Bruce isn't staring out the window anymore and it's spoken with such assurance, and no hesitation, and Tim thinks if Bruce keeps looking at him like that he just might cry again. 

Jack and Janet had told Tim countless times that their work was important. More important than family meals and holidays and birthdays and - and - Tim. But this was Batman. His work was more than important. 

"What if," Tim starts, averting his own eyes, "something happens? Something bad?"

"It's okay for us to take a night off sometimes," Bruce's smile is faint, but sincere. 

The Drakes would balk at such a sentiment. They didn't believe in taking a night, or any time for that matter, off, for anything or anyone. Tim has a fever? Call the old nanny. The Joker gassed the city? Working from home. 

And yet here Bruce is, taking a night off, for him. 

Tim doesn't argue this time, but he still squirms. 

"How about this?" Bruce pulls a tablet out from his jacket, handing it to Tim. "Oracle will be monitoring the city, just in case something really bad happens that requires our help. You can even help watch. We're already in the city, so we're close by. If there's something really urgent, I'll take care of it. Or Dick if he's still out. But Jason stays with you, no exceptions."

"That's not fair to him," Tim mumbles, hating to argue but also worried about how much more mad at him Jason could get. 

"Not true," Jason wiggles his fork, noodles coming loose. "Being benched because I'm hurt or B thinks I can't handle something, sucks. Being put on Timmy duty and getting the chance to deck Mr. Drake again? Awesome."

Tim almost misses the look Bruce sends his son's way. 

"But I thought," Tim digs his hands under the blanket, "you were mad at me?"

Jason sets the bowl of pasta down, hard. Dropping his legs off the bed, he leans forward, tugging a little on the edge of the blanket. 

"Nope, come on."

He pulls on the fabric, but doesn't force it down, or yank Tim's arms out. With his other hand, Jason holds it out, propping his elbow up on the edge of the bed, almost like it looks like he's challenging Tim to arm wrestle. 

Tim gives him a confused, then suspicious look as Jason just nods from his own hand to Tim's, back and forth. Finally, Tim drags one arm out and clasps Jason's hand. Now they definitely look like they're about to arm wrestle. 

"I was mad - am mad," Jason lowers his head, but keeps Tim's gaze held just as firm as his hand, "but not really at you. Well, sort of. You scared me, when you left. And thinking about you, teeny tiny Timmy, running around Gotham, scares me. Sometimes that comes out as mad, especially with me. But you and me? We're good, okay? I've got your back. Always."

Tim looks startled. 

"Always?"

Jason just nods, eyes bright and still unwavering from Tim's. 

It's about five minutes later, after Tim has recovered from the shock, that he remembers Bruce's words.

That he could help keep watch. 

He spends the next few hours with his nose practically against the tablet screen. Bruce gives him a pair of headphones. It isn't a comm, but it still lets him listen into the police scanners and the cameras as he flips through news feeds and traffic cams and security footage. 

Tim gets to talk to Oracle for a little bit. They play 21 questions because Tim wants to deduce where she is currently based. He guesses correctly in four. 

Alfred calls and Jason loudly complains about the cafeteria food, despite having eaten both his and Dick's meals. The butler promises to come by the following day with proper sustenance, but he says it's only because he wishes to say hello to Tim and not because he is at Jason's beck and call, thank you very much.

Whenever the staff stop in, they have to pretend he is playing games on the tablet, which he does, until they leave. And then until Jason whips out his phone and they start playing the game together and Tim doesn't switch it off this time. 

Dick returns with the backpack and some bruised knuckles. He says it's nothing and he's grinning and looser than he was the whole conversation with Tim and maybe Jason isn't the only one with anger issues. 

Eventually, Tim's stomach muscles are too sore to keep him sitting up and he has to abandon the tablet. Dick clicks on the flatscreen and they throw on some space movie none of them have seen before. The acting is terrible and halfway through, Jason mutes the audio in favor of dubbing the lines himself. Dick joins in. 

Tim is still laughing as he falls asleep. 

Chapter Text

Tim stumbles along the hallway, socked feet shuffling against the hardwood as his hands reach out, blindly. His fingertips graze unfamiliar course wallpaper. He has to move slow. Walking is still a bit of a chore with his healing abdominal muscles.

And then there's also the whole fact that he can't see anything.  

The blindfold is scratchy against his eyes and skin and every time he reaches up for it, hands smack his down.

The ambush had been unexpected, to say the least. And he is pretty sure the blindfold is overkill.  

Still groggy from sleep, Tim grumbles and nearly trips on a rug. Overcorrecting, Tim stubs his toe on something hard and he squeaks. Someone mutters an apology nearby and the grip on his shoulders tightens. Tim relinquishes control, letting himself just be steered. He knows he shouldn't, but he feels completely and utterly safe in these hands, despite the blindfold - and the throbbing toe. 

"Alright, a few more steps." Dick's voice, right next to his ear. 

"If you're leading me outside into a snow pile or something -"

"Trust, Tiny Tim." Jason, ahead of him and laughing. 

He can feel Bruce's presence somewhere to his left. He thinks Alfred is behind Dick. 

"Okay," Dick squeezes his shoulders, "3, 2, 1!"

The blindfold falls away and it takes Tim a few blinks to adjust. He is squinting, and then very promptly, gaping. 

He is standing in the guest bedroom, the same one Jason had picked out for him on that first night. Or, well, Tim is pretty positive it's that same bedroom, because it doesn't remotely look the same. One of the walls has been painted with what looks like chalkboard paint. He can only tell that because there is a crude stick-figure sketch of Batman, Robin, and Nightwing with speech bubbles coming together to say "TIM'S ROOM!". Another wall has various paint samples and wallpaper swatches taped across it. 

The four poster bed is still situated in the middle of the room, but the bedding has been replaced by deep bright red comforter. The shelves on either side are stuffed full of comic books and detective novels. There is a new desk up against the window, a present resting on top of it and a red and black wheeled gaming chair sitting in front of it. Next to the desk, a large combination pegboard and whiteboard hangs on the wall, right above a narrow table covered in tools and gadgets.

"You'll have your own workbench downstairs," Bruce waves at it, "but this way you have everything you need in your own space."

"Though, I for one," Alfred interjects, "would most prefer the majority of such work be conducted down in the more safe and designated areas."

"That's his way of saying don't accidentally burn down your bedroom while soldering something," Jason huffs. 

Tim doesn't respond. He's not quite sure he can physically speak right now anyway. 

On the other side of the desk, sits a mini fridge and short cabinet filled with snacks. When Tim opens the fridge, he glances at Jason, who promptly looks away. Rounding the other side of the bed, Tim finds a loveseat and two oversized bean bag chairs. 

"Now," Jason rounds on him, "the room was mine and Dick's doing, mostly. Bruce was going to give it to you as is but that's so boring. But, as awesome as we've made this room, this doesn't mean I'm kicking you out of mine, okay? You can stay there as long as you want. We can forget about all of this and just buy a bunk bed for mine. Or keep using our nest until we're too old and it breaks our backs."

Tim and Jason have been sleeping in said nest ever since Tim was released from the hospital. Jason never disassembled it after Tim ran off. It's not the best for his abdomen, and getting up off the floor is harder than rolling off of a bed, but it's worth it. Dick joined them that first night, allegedly by accident. He had apparently stumbled in after patrol to check on the pair, sat down to rest for a second, and then woke up in his Nightwing outfit to Jason stretching out his bare toes in Dick's face and Alfred lecturing about costumes being worn in the Manor outside of the Cave. 

Tim had nightmares every night for that first week. Of falling down stairs. Of waiting in the snow for the Batmobile that never came. Of Jack and Janet showing up with a team of lawyers and police and dragging him away. Whenever the dreams got bad, he would hear a voice and they would take a turn for the better. Someone would catch him. The Batmobile would pull up and Batman would wrap Tim in his cape. One of the Waynes would rescue him from his parents' house as he sat curled up in his big bedroom all alone, or would hide him away so he could never get taken back in the first place. 

Tim woke up to someone reading to him every time when that would happen. Dick with his weird magazines. Jason with whatever book he was currently binging his way through. Alfred paging through one of the classics. Bruce, with those detective novels Jason had told him about what feels like so very long ago. 

Bruce read those to him while he was bedridden those first few days, too. Tim would try to figure out the outcome and the culprit as quickly as possible, but always urged Bruce to finish the book, even if he guessed correctly. Sometimes, they would alternate for a murder mystery television show or movie. Tim was still almost always right. And the few times he wasn't? Well, Tim argued that it was because the director had purposefully not given the viewer all the proper information someone in that situation would actually have. Like when they used a limited single point-of-view or introduced the true criminal in the last second as a brand new character. Bruce agreed, but also argued that you don't always get all of the information in a case, or even a little. But he still complimented Tim every single time the boy deduced things, and Tim still blushed every single time too. 

"Timbo?" Jason's face is in front of his own. "You with us?"

Tim manages a single nod as he stares at the room - his room. 

Of course, he had his own room before. But he hasn't had one in so long, and never one that was so thoughtfully put together.

"It's not done," Dick waves at the paint and wallpaper samples, "because we wanted you to be able to pick out a lot of it yourself."

"And if there is anything that you don't like, we can change it," Bruce adds, "from the walls to the bedding, anything Tim."

Tim had hated the color of his old bedding, the whole color palette of his room, but it had matched Janet's "aesthetic" for the house. He loves the red of this comforter. Like Robin's tunic. 

Speaking of his bed, there is an envelope propped up against the pillows that he hadn't noticed before. It's a standard yellow envelope, but has a single small bow. There are other wrapped gifts in the room, but this causes something inside of him to stir. He squints at it and then glances back over at the others. 

"That one's from Bruce," Dick bumps Tim's shoulder with his own, "go for it."

Tim turns to each of them first before hesitantly walking toward the bed. There is a positive sort of tension building in the room now. Dick's face is doing this thing like he is trying to control his expression. Jason's eyes are bright and he's bouncing a bit. Alfred is smiling fondly from Bruce to Tim. And Bruce, Bruce is kind of frozen. 

Tim reaches out for the envelope, brushing it with tentative fingers before picking it up. His mouth and hands have gone dry and it takes a second to peel it open. A thick stack of papers falls out onto the bed, and Tim has to read the header a few times before it sticks in his brain. He lowers his hand toward them slowly, stops, reels it back, and then lunges out for them, gripping the sheets tight in shaking fists. He doesn't notice when he crumples down onto the bed. He doesn't realize when he stops breathing. He doesn't see the new watery stains on the papers. 

He does feel it when a pair of strong hands are placed over his own. 

Swallowing down air again, Tim blinks up at the man kneeling in front of him. He stares at him for a long, quiet moment, before gazing wide-eyed back down at the papers' header. 

STATE OF NEW JERSEY

REPORT OF ADOPTION

Tim has been staying with the Waynes under emergency foster care placement while his parents are in court. It's Gotham, and the Drakes do have a lot of pull, so the proceedings are taking some time. Anyone with eyes can see, though, that the Drakes' statements and interviews and even testimonies are all centered around getting back their reputation, not their son - despite what they would have others believe. At this point, there is no way they are getting Tim back into their custody. Now, all that's left to decide is if they are going to jail. Which, is looking more and more likely. 

Tim didn't need to make any court appearances, which he is eternally grateful for. The recording from the hospital and the mounting paper trail evidence of neglect and abandonment is more than enough. He still keeps himself updated on the case, though, and when he asks, Bruce is honest. 

They haven't really talked about where Tim will go from here, and he's been happy for once not to think about it and just enjoy his time with the Waynes while he can. And maybe, just maybe, he thought about finding ways to sabotage or prolong his recovery since they had promised to care for him while he healed. 

But this?

Tim never imagined this. 

"My lawyers have set everything up. We're ready to proceed the moment I give them the word - which I will do, the moment you agree." He squeezes the boy's still shaking hands. "I'd like to adopt you, Tim. I'd very much like you to become my son."

And when Tim tackles Bruce Wayne to the floor, Dick and Jason are right there with him, Alfred beaming standing above. 

They stay like that for awhile. There is laughter and tears and more hugs than Tim every thought possible. When Tim starts to wince, a hand ghosting over his stomach, Bruce rights them and helps the boy to stand. Dick still keeps an arm wrapped around each of his brothers.

"But," Tim swallows, "but I caused you - so much trouble."

Bruce cups the boy's chin. 

"Oh, Tim," he smiles, "I would go through all that, and so much more, for you."

"We all would," Dick says with marked sincerity as Jason nods. "We've cared about you since back in that alley," and boy didn't that feel like a lifetime ago, "and we've only cared more and more since then."

"Plus, B knows you'll just try to stalk us and fight crime on your own if we're not there to -" Jason coughs when Dick's elbow meets his side. "Kidding, sort of." His grin is crooked and it almost looks like he's started trying to imitate Dick's smile over time. "Either way, we still love you, Timbo." 

Tim almost trips backwards onto the bed. Sure, they cared. Sure, they wanted him to heal and be safe, but, but - 

"We love you, Tim." Dick echoes, face soft and so serious. "You don't need to feel like you have to say it back to us or anything, but we do. We love you."

Tim glances between them, a bit frantic. 

"Use your words, B," Dick chuckles. 

"Say it," Jason nudges the man, "or he won't believe it, old man."

Bruce uses his hand still on the boy's chin to turn Tim to face him. 

"I love you." 

Bruce blinks at the man holding his face. The words were quiet and slow, but they were real and warm.  

"Whoa," Jason whistles low, "did that physically hurt, B?"

"This family could due with better emotional maturity and communication," Alfred interjected from somewhere on Tim's left beyond the bodies encircling him. "And, I would like to young Master Timothy to know that this old butler loves him, too, very much."

Tim shakes his head.

"You - you all - you barely know me." He frowns. "You met me, like, a month ago."

"Technically, apparently Dickie met you last year," Jason shrugs.

"Sometimes, Tim," Alfred moves forward, Dick and Jason moving to clear a spot for the older man, "you meet someone, and it's painfully clear that you and that person, on some level belong together. As friends or family or something else. You just, work, whether you understand each other or care for one another without ever trying to do so. You meet these people throughout your life, out of nowhere, and sometimes under the strangest of circumstances, and they help you feel alive." Alfred sighs, smiling. "I don't know if that makes me believe in coincidence, or fate, or sheer blind luck, but it definitely makes me believe in something."

Tim bites his cheek, sniffing. He thinks he just might start weeping again. 

"You don't meet the people you love, Tim," Jason adds, "you recognize them."

Okay, now Tim is definitely going to start sloppy sobbing. Snot and everything. This is too much. This is -

"Those are both from books, aren't they?" Dick cocks an eyebrow. "I was suspicious with Alf, but then Jason spouts out a fortune cookie. They're book quotes," he whirls toward Tim, "which totally doesn't make them any less true, by the way. We love you. But also," he turns back to the butler, "has everything wise you've ever told me just been from a book?"

"That doesn't make any of it mean anything less," Alfred answers. 

"Dick," Jason rolls his eyes, "half of Bruce's training comes straight out of The Art of War." He straightens and drops his voice. "'The expert in battle moves the enemy, and is not moved by him.'” He clears his throat, voice going even deeper. “'Do not repeat the tactics which have gained you one victory, but let your methods be regulated by the infinite variety of circumstances.'”

"Yes," Dick huffs, "but I knew that. He made me read it, too. I didn't know that kind, wise, Alfred, has just been handing out SparkNotes as sage advice. Fine, I can do that, too." He turns to Tim, hands on his shoulders and the boy's eyes grow wide. "When the night falls on you and you don't know what to do, nothing you confess, could make me love you less. I'll stand by you."

"Merry Christmas, little brother," Jason chuckles and then fist bumps the air, "oh wait! Whoa! I'm not the youngest anymore! Awesome!"

"You'll always be baby bird to me," Dick teases, ruffling the teenager's curls and then turning toward Tim. "Do you think enough of the shock has worn off that you can open the rest of your presents?"

Tim stumbles.

"The rest?" He gapes. "There's more?"

"Well, yeah," Dick grins, "the bedroom is more of a 'welcome home' gift, and the adoption isn't really a present, since you're our present -"

Jason elbows him, rolling his eyes. He twists out of his brother's grasp and scrambles to snatch Tim's arms, dragging him away from Bruce and Dick and over to the desk. 

"Open it," he waves his fingers dramatically over the gift on the desk.

Tim glances back at the others - his family, yeah he's not going to stop vibrating into the floor over that one for awhile - and then digs into the sparkling paper. When the wrapping is all fallen away, he takes a step back. 

"We'll get you set up with a really nice PC for your room," Jason shrugs, "but we figured, with you being, well, you know, you, we thought you might want to build it yourself. That's O's present, by the way. A standing invite to go with Barbara and pick out all the tech junk you need and then she'll come over after and help you put it all together, if you want." He runs his knuckles across the box on the desk. "But, we figured you might want a laptop, too, for school and stuff."

"Babs said it was top of the line," Dick adds proudly. 

"It," Tim spins the box delicately, cocking his head to each side to stare at it, "it is!"

He's gotten to use the Batcomputer, under careful supervision, and boy wasn't that a day. Since Tim had deduced their double lives, they figured it was only fair to show him the Cave. Bruce had given Tim a peculiar look and then proceeded to ask Tim if he wanted to try to figure out the location for himself. How did they always read his mind? Of course, Tim was chomping at the bit to see the place, but finding the secret location on his own would be so much more satisfactory. And he never passed up an opportunity to try to impress any of them. 

He had already long since deduced that it was underground, considering the Wayne property had no other substantial enough outbuildings. It could have been some defunct Wayne Enterprises hanger or warehouse or something in the city, but Tim had seen the vigilantes head back in the direction of Bristol enough nights to know otherwise. 

Pulling a book on a shelf seemed a little too obvious for The World's Greatest Detective. He guessed that there might be secondary access points on higher floors, but it made the most sense for the main entry to be somewhere on the ground floor. It would also need to be somewhere away from any of the areas granted to the public or staff during large events, so that cut out the ballroom, kitchens, parlor, dining room, and a few other places. Eventually, Tim narrowed it down to three possible rooms. 

When he asked for a blacklight flashlight, to study the floors, Jason took a halted step toward the main study to retrieve one, and swore. So, study it was. Tim went for the bulky desk first, checking the chair and the drawers for levers or buttons. It was while he was doing so that he spotted the grandfather clock against the wall. The minute hand was a little wobbly when it ticked and when Tim took a closer look at the large piece of furniture, putting his nose practically against the ground, he found small faded markings running along the wood grain. As though the clock was moved. The scratches were mostly hidden and polished away, but a close enough look still revealed a few. He tried moving it himself, and then swept his hands along the sides and front and top for a switch. Finding none, Tim opened the clock face and jiggled the hands. They were a little loose and Tim was sure he had struck the jackpot. There were a few times that could share some significance with Bruce, but this was specifically about Batman. Batman, who had been birthed from Bruce Wayne's childhood tragedy. He tried the date of the Wayne murder, but Tim didn't know the time. And it wasn't something he was going to ask. Solemnly, he stepped back from the clock. 

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I couldn't figure it out."

Bruce had stepped up beside him, strong hand on his shoulder, the other hand moving the hands of the clock. 

"Yes, you did."

Dick is the one with a strong hand on his shoulder now, turning Tim around, away from the desk and new laptop. 

"My turn!" He cheers, steering Tim across the room to a shelf. 

The wall above the shelf is covered in empty picture frames, save for two. The first, is the photo of Tim with Dick's family at the circus and Tim looks up at his new older brother with something between sadness and love. The second, after Tim turns his head back around to look at it, is a selfie Dick snapped of all of them gathered around the hospital bed. Under the photos and blank frames, sits a package on the shelf. Tim picks it up and carefully pulls back the wrapping paper until there is a brand new digital camera in his hands. 

"On one condition," Dick spins Tim to face him, "no more chasing after us for pictures," Tim frowns, "unless one of us is with you."

Tim brightens, beaming and throwing the camera's strap around his neck to take a closer look at all of the buttons. Bruce doesn't look entirely thrilled with the deal, but he does look happy at Tim's joy. 

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Tim bounces. "I - I don't know what - this is all too much!"

Dick pulls on the camera strap, tugging Tim toward the door. 

"Oh, you haven't even seen what's all under the tree yet."

The five of them file out of Tim's bedroom - Tim has his own bedroom in Wayne Manor because he is going to be a Wayne and lives there permanently now and - 

"You okay buddy?" Bruce pauses in the hallway as Jason and Dick race each other down toward the steps - and the stockings waiting for them downstairs.

Tim can hear Alfred calling after them that "this was a special circumstance" and "presents come after breakfast" and "I insist on all of us having a proper meal before you go about making a mess of the den".

Tim bites his cheek. He's been doing it a lot less lately. 

"I know this is a lot," Bruce nods, "do you want to take a second?"

Tim bobs his head before he really realizes he is doing it. 

"Alright," Bruce straightens, "do you want me to stay with you?"

Tim considers this.

"No," he says softly, "is that okay?"

"Of course," Bruce smiles, patting Tim's arm, "just come down to the kitchen for breakfast when you're ready. I'll make sure the boys don't inhale everything. 

Tim watches Bruce walk away, standing in the hallway and breathing slow, steady. Tim takes a moment in the threshold when he turns back around. 

His room. 

He steps inside, running his hands along the walls and furniture as he goes. 

He wonders how a place that has only been his for a few minutes somehow feels more like home than his old bedroom ever did. 

He stares at the two pictures on the wall, brushes his fingertips over their faces. He doesn't know yet that this wall will soon be covered in photographs. That he will eventually fill all the frames and hang lights around the little gallery, clipping more pictures to the string and taping other photos to the outside of the frames. Faces of his new family, of Bernard, of friends from the shelter, and those he hasn't even met yet, like the Titans team he will one day lead. 

He traces a finger along the poor stick-figure drawings on the chalkboard wall. He won't use it for art, but it will come in handy when he runs out of room on his whiteboard. And later, after Bruce gains yet another son, when Damian sneaks into his older brother's room to leave behind miniature masterpieces here and there, Tim won't say anything. He'll just snap a picture and continue his math or science or other work around it until the small boy returns again to erase the design in favor of a new one - sometimes correcting one of Tim's equations or theories with a scribbled note. 

Tim moves to the desk next, opening and closing filled drawers. The erasers, binder clips, sticky notes, are all red. Tim made the mistake at some point of telling Jason it's his favorite color - which is Jason's too. Even the laptop is red. Tim will figure out how to connect to the Batcomputer mainframe from his own laptop pretty soon. He will use it to track down Bernard and restart their regular emails and chats. 

Tim shuffles over to the closet. It's smaller than Jason's, but just barely, and currently stuffed full of a mixture of his own old and a bunch of brand new clothes.

They had been able to go to Drake Manor and retrieve some of his belongings after his stay in the hospital. But really, there was nothing there he wanted too badly. It was all just tied to bad memories. Alfred and Dick packed up his clothing but Tim didn't set foot back in that lonely, empty, house. Afterward, Dick had looked somewhere between upset and angry, but he never exactly said why. Even Alfred was quiet. 

Bruce had already bought him some things to tide him over, but Tim has mostly been spending his days in Dick or Jason's old sweats and t-shirts. Getting dressed is sometimes painful and he is forced to sit or lie down a lot to rest, so leisurewear it is. Tim never mentioned how the too-big clothes and their familiar smells made him feel safer. He had barely taken off the red Wonder Woman hoodie, save to once try to give it back to Jason - who promptly refused - and then when they returned to the Manor, at Alfred's insistence on washing the poor, dirtied, thing. 

Tim tucks his hands up into the too-long sleeves of it now as something inside him stirs. The closet isn't just filled with his old and brand new clothing. There are more sweatpants and shirts and sweaters, all from Dick and Jason. Tim riffles through them. A well-worn Black Canary band tee, a few tops with the Superman logo, Wonder Woman drawstring pants with some fraying on the bottoms, and more. Reverently, Tim moves these items to the front of the closet, on one of the closest shelves and racks to the door. 

Stepping back out into the quiet room, Tim closes his eyes. After a moment, he lets himself fall backward onto the large bed, arms splayed. He drinks in the silence, the smells, the safety. 

Blindly, Tim reaches over for the papers that had been dropped their earlier. Dragging them over, he holds them up and opens his eyes. 

REPORT OF ADOPTION

He reads it over. The boxes are almost all filled in. Everything but the date and Tim's surname. Well, it's there, up at the top under the section for the information from his original birth certificate. But there's another section: "Information of Record Following Adoption". And the last name there, is blank. There is a part of his brain, the part that's been so loud for so long, that tells Tim that it's just a mistake or maybe a formality. That they don't actually want him to be a Wayne. But there's this other part. The one that's been growing stronger and louder and sometimes sounds like Jason or Dick or Bruce. That reminds him that he is wanted. That tells him the same things the others have been repeated to him over and over in that hospital room, and still since coming to the Manor. 

They want him to be a Wayne.

They want him to be a part of their family.

But they're letting him choose. If he wants to. If he wants their name. 

Bruce's signature is already scrawled at the bottom.

Tim stares back up at the ceiling.

And blinks.

There is a pride flag draped across his ceiling above his bed.

There's also a Gotham Knights flag and a skateboarding brand Tim recognizes.

But right there, hanging for everyone to see, are those stripes.

It's not exactly his taste, but the sentiment makes his heart stutter a little.

He'll add more later. Sports teams his friends play on, the Gotham Academy banner, but this? Tim will never take this down.

He'll never hide it again.   

When he comes downstairs a few minutes later, Tim pauses, fingers fiddling with the back of a dining chair as the other boys help Alfred set the table with a breakfast fit for a small army.

There was another charity gala a few days ago, this one to help fund a brand new, bigger, shelter for homeless LGBTQ youth. They'll still have their current house, plus the one down the block that used to be owned by that vet that will specialize in the kids with substance problems. But Wayne Enterprises is going to build a new, safer, space. The party had a Santa and was open to Gotham's homeless children, with presents and food. 

But today, today is all for the family.

His family, he supposes, now. 

Following breakfast, Tim will still insist on bringing donations down to the shelters after gifts are opened, and once he's done drooling over his new yellow and green and red skateboard. They'll all go together this time. No new kids will be acquired from any alleyways but Bruce will stop a drunk man from wandering into traffic. They'll return home to the media room when Tim starts to get winded, settling in for a movie marathon. Calendar Man will make an appearance and Tim will happily hop onto the Batcomputer to help Alfred with comms.

He'll start doing that a lot, eventually. Alfred finally gets a break at nights and Tim takes to running point. He works the backend of cases, tracking down targets, plotting out plans, trading tactics with the others. Bruce teaches him strategy, profiling, and anything else he can because Tim just won't stop soaking it all up. They wait on anything physical for awhile. 

Dick - Nightwing - will go back to Bludhaven, but he will visit. He had, apparently, only been visiting for Thanksgiving on Alfred's persistent insistence and Jason's request. Jason will also admit that uniting together to help Tim also helped the brothers bond. Tim learns of the oldest son's and Bruce's current frayed relationship through Jason - and how much they had been hiding it for Tim's benefit - and devotes himself to repairing that bond. It isn't easy and takes time, but Tim is nothing if not stubborn. And once Jason gets on board, the father and son don't stand a chance. 

Bruce will mention that Jason is training harder than before. Dick will say it has something to do with the way Tim worships at the altar of Robin and keeps calling his brothers heroes all the time. Says it was one thing when Jason was insecure and trying to prove himself worthy of the mantle, but now he is trying to prove himself worthy of Tim's adoration. 

Him and Jason get into a big argument after civilian Tim does something reckless to save vigilante Jason and Tim hauls his mattress, despite having a broken arm, into Jason's bedroom and creates another nest for the two of them. They don't exchange apologies. But they do have a pillow fight and sleep under the stars behind the large window. The nest is continually brought back, like when one of them gets sick and the night before Jason moves off to college. 

And when he finds out about his birth mother, Jason won't go looking for her, because he's got enough family that actually want him and love him right here, thank you very much. 

When Jason gets injured and benched for about a week right in the middle of a crisis, he offers the Robin suit temporarily to Tim. Batman is hurt too and he doesn't want their dad going out alone. He's not exactly fond of his little brother taking up the cape either, but this is what they trained for. Later, when Jason laments that his grades are slipping and wants to sit a night or two out, the pair come to an agreement and they start sharing Robin for awhile. It makes sense, seeing as they're both kids and still in school. It's also really funny when Batman and Tim-Robin get captured one time and Jason-Robin shows up for a rescue. Sometimes, one Robin works with the Titans, while the other hangs back with Batman. Conspiracy pages run wild with theories that the Dark Knight is cloning his sidekick or using sophisticated robots.

Bruce Wayne will also face scrutiny and speculation from the media, especially when he takes in his first daughter. 

When Damian comes along, he's still, well - he's still a child raised by assassins so he's still a demon who tries to prove his rightful place as the true blood son. It's a little harder to gun for multiple brothers, though. And with Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Bruce and Alfred all acting as a unified front, they keep the kid from maiming any family members until he is drawing on Tim's walls and borrowing Jason's books and demanding acrobatic lessons from Dick.  

When Bruce is presumed dead and Tim thinks otherwise, his family will believe him because they've learned by now not to question the boy genius. They agree to have Dick stay in Gotham as Batman and both Jason and Tim pass on Robin to Damian. They'll need new pseudo-identities if they're going to go global in their hunt for their father anyway. Cass passes the Batgirl mantle over to Stephanie so that there will be a Batman, Robin, and Batgirl all still in Gotham, as she is going to search for Bruce too. No one is happy about splitting up, and Damian is determined to join them, but they finally decide it is best for the city, and each other. This way, everyone will have someone to watch their backs. Not to mention that Tim will have recently lost his two best friends outside of his family, and Jason has always been Tim's emotional-support-brother.

Even on the hunt for their father, Jason will continue to read to his sister as he helps teach her.

Just like he will read to Tim tonight during a particularly vocal nightmare.

But none of that has happened yet.

It's still Christmas, and Tim's hand is still hovering on the back of the chair, watching his new family.

Dick tries to snag a piece of bacon as he sets the platter down, only to have his hand smacked by Alfred. Jason intercepts the falling piece of meat and shoves it into his own mouth with a triumphant smile at Dick, and then a sheepish bowed head at the butler. Bruce glances at his phone with a frown until Alfred snatches the device away, handing the man a stack of plates instead.

There is soft holiday music coming from a speaker somewhere. Tim can see the snow falling languidly through the windows, a blanket of frosty white stretching out across the property. A strong breeze bends the trees, but the Manor is warm. 

Tim glances back at his family. 

He's warm too. 

"I, uh," Tim says, softly. 

Though his voice is small, it stops them all, each turning toward him 

"I," he starts again, lifting his head and meeting their eyes - the eyes all on him, with smiles and and love all for him. 

"I love you, too."

Chapter Text

Just popping in to let you all know that there is now a sequel/companion story for this fic: Stand By Me

Can't wait to see you all over there and thank you everyone so much for the love you've shown this story!