Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tim was a ghost in the manor. He didn’t speak, he didn’t do any of his hobbies, he didn’t eat much, he didn’t sleep much. He wandered through the halls, footsteps silent like he had learned to do at a young age. The only evidence that he lived there was the sight of him, and even then, Bruce could go days without finding the boy awake, only ever catching up to his endless walk when he stopped to sleep.

Bruce missed the noise. He missed the sound of him playing video games. He missed the sound of him arguing with his brothers over stupid, meaningless things. He missed the ranting when Tim got excited about something, the stubborn and biting wit, the righteous fury that fuelled him to scream and fight.

He was no stranger to grief. He felt in himself. He watched it in others. But the silence? He wasn’t used to the silence.

Bruce’s sons had never been quiet when grieving. They screamed, they sobbed, they kicked and punched and they broke things. But Tim? Tim did none of that.

He cried the day of. He sobbed in Bruce’s arms until he fell asleep, whimpering through his dreams. Then, the next day, he stopped making noise. He made grunts at most, but most of the time it was nothing.

Bruce didn’t know what to do with nothing.

Screaming, hitting, sobbing, throwing things, breaking things? He had handled those things. He could handle them again.

But nothing? What could he do with oppressive silence? What could be do with glazed over eyes as Tim just stared at the world around him? Silent, watching, and waiting. Waiting for what? Bruce did not know - and he had a feeling Tim didn’t either.

After the first week, he stopped trying to make Tim talk. It didn’t work, and it only seemed to make Tim frustrated. He still talked to Tim, leaving the opening for whenever he was ready, but he had learned to expect no answer.

It was late, nearly midnight, as Bruce worked in his office. It wasn’t usual for company work to keep him up this late. Usual, it was Batman work, but he needed to get a handle on an ethical issue going on in one of the buildings he owned.

A snowstorm blew outside the window, so he decided to start a fire in the small fireplace. The crackling, the warmth, the smell, they all kept him grounded as he worked through frustrating paperwork.

There was a knock on the door, not waiting for an answer before coming in. Bruce looked up and frowned at the sight of Tim in his pajamas, closing the door behind him.

“You should be in bed, kid.” No response, of course. There never was nowadays.

Tim moved silently over to the couch in front of the fireplace. He sat down and pulled his knees up to chest and making himself look small. Bruce watched him for a moment before sighing and going back to his work.

A few minutes passed, and the grandfather clock began its ringing as it hit midnight. Usually, Tim didn’t react to noise, always distant and in another space. But, this time, he turned his head to stare at the clock while it rang.

When the last chime’s ring just began to fade away, a raspy voice, cracking from disuse, spoke.

“40 days was the longest I had ever gone without a call from them.” It’s a distant sound, as if Tim is still not fully in the room with him, and Bruce feels a shiver run down his spine.

He drops his pen and focuses on the small boy, curled up in front of the fireplace, looking at the burning blaze like it could tell him something he needed to hear.

“It’s 41 now.” He says quietly, yet it sounds like a scream in the near silent room. Bruce’s pulse quickens, and he feels cold.

41 days.

41 days since he became an orphan.

He's been counting.

Bruce senses it’s not his turn to talk yet by the way Tim adjusts himself on the couch, tilting his head as if considering something. As if silently asking the fire if he should just toss in his voice to the destructive flames or if he should speak.

“I feel like I’m still waiting for a phone call or a postcard…” Another long pause, but Bruce still doesn’t speak. He gives him the space to say whatever he wants, to scream if he needs. It’s not his turn. It’s not his time. Tim doesn’t need to be encouraged to talk. He needs patience while he finds his voice in the raging sea that is his mind.

“I forgot I’m meant to be sad sometimes. It… It doesn’t feel all that different than before.” Tim sighs. He sounds so tired. So fragile. “Then I remember his body and I just-…” His voice hitches, and he let’s out a shaky breath, something closer to a whimper than either of them would admit. “I feel so shitty. H-he’s dead a-and I don’t even realize sometimes. I miss him, I really do… But, it’s not enough. I-I should be destroyed with grief, n-not… Not passive.” He spits the word, disgusted with himself.

“You’re doing fine, Tim.” Bruce said softly. He didn’t know if that was the right thing to say, but it’s the only thing he could think.

Tim flinches slightly at his voice, and that makes Bruce’s skin feel all prickly and cold. His small body is trembling with how hard he’s tensing. “I see you guys… A-and I almost smile… I shouldn’t smile anymore. I shouldn’t be happy. He… He and mom can’t. They’re gone, and I feel… I feel wrong. I feel like nothing ch-changed…I-I feel like everything did. I feel stuck as a seven year old boy waiting for a call from his mom and dad. I feel like everything changed, and I can’t catch up.” Every word sounds like it's ripped out of him, like it hurts to speak but he can't stop now that he's started.

“It’s like your body is being dragged through the motions of life. Like you’re helpless to the passage of time.” Bruce says softly, knowing the feeling all too well.

Tim let’s out a shaky breath. “Yeah..” He nods softly.

Bruce stands up and cautiously sits down. Everything feels so fragile, and he’s so scared that if he says or does the wrong thing, Tim will go mute again.

“I-… I feel so guilty anytime I feel joy…” He mutters, and Bruce opens his mouth only to be cut off. “I know you’re going to give me that whole spiel a-about how he wouldn’t want me to be sad all the time, but I’m not sure that’s true.” He said, his voice a bit louder now yet the same amount of broken.

“When mom…” He hesitates, the words getting caught on his tongue as if saying them makes them too real. “When mom didn’t come back,” He decides on “and he was still… still not moving fully. He’d get angry if I wasn’t somber and quiet. H-he’d say “What do you have to cheer for? Your mother is dead.” A-and… And he was right, doing good in school, winning a game, figuring out a case? None of it brought her back. None of it was worth smiling about if she couldn’t smile, too.”

“You were worth it, Tim.” Bruce said firmly, and Tim gives him a surprised look, as if that hadn’t crossed his mind. “Maybe your dad would want you to be sad and quiet all the time.” Bruce put a hand on his shoulder and Tim leaned towards him a little. “But to be honest, Tim? I don’t give two shits about what he would want. I care about what you want.”

Tim’s body was trembling and his eyes were tearing up as he tried to keep the tears in. “I-…” He let out a harsh exhale. “I want so much. Too much…”

“Then let’s just start with one thing. What do you want right this second, Tim?” Bruce asks, his voice calm yet firm, keeping him anchored to the room so he couldn’t float away again.

There’s a long pause but finally, so quietly, Tim says “I want a hug…”

And Bruce wraps his arms around him tightly. Sobs wrack through the teenager’s body as he finally gives up trying to be quiet, clutching Bruce’s shirt so tight his nails almost rip the soft cotton.

Bruce pulls him into his lap, holding his waist with one arm and stroking his hair with the other. He rocks the boy softly like he was an infant- Tim almost feels like one in his arms, warm and protected from the world.

“I’m here, baby, and I’m never leaving. Scream, hit and cry. Just don’t stop fighting. Don’t stop living.” Bruce whispers, the worry from the past 41 days finally finding relief as he clutches a loud boy to his chest. “I-… I don’t want to ever stop hearing you like that again.”

Tim sobs hard and loud, burying his face in his chest like he did the night of. “I’m sorry! I-I’m so sorry! I w-was- I am scared, that I'm going to fail him i-if I don't react right. I feel like i should be distraught, a-and I'm not. I feel like a monster."

“I know, baby, I know. And I’m not mad at you for that. But you don’t need to be quiet to prove that your grief is valid.” Bruce reassures him firmly. “Greif… Greif is something personal. It’s different for everyone. It’s different every time. It’s yours and you don’t ever have to prove it’s valid to anyone else.”

“You don’t think I’m a-a bad son?” Tim asked desperately, so scared of rejection from one of the only adults he has left in his life. “A-a monster?”

“No! Never. Tim, I’ll never think that about you. Because I know how much you care. I know how sweet and kind you are. I- I know you’re a good person because you show it time and time again.” Bruce said honestly and Tim pressed his body against him even further. He was smaller than he used to be from not eating enough and that scared Bruce so very much.

“H-he was… He wasn’t cold b-but he wasn’t warm, Bruce.” Tim whispered, small hiccupped sobs breaking up his words. “I could feel on his skin, t-that I was just too slow. Too late by a few minutes..."

“It wasn’t your fault, Tim. We can only do so much.”

“I never heard him scream..."

Bruce froze his stroking for a second as those whispered words registered. “What was that, hon?” He asks softly, unsure of what that meant.

“I- I never heard him scream.” Tim repeats, and a heavy sob makes his whole body shake.

“Shh, deep breaths, bud, deep breaths.” Bruce instructed quickly, heart aching at the sound of his sputtering. Tim takes a few shaky deep breaths before continuing.

“I-i… I’ve seen people die before… They scream. B-but… But I got there after the scream.” Tim explained as best he could, and Bruce sat with those words for a moment. He couldn’t understand why Tim would want to hear the sound of his father's death. It was nothing good, Bruce knew that for sure, and so did Tim.

“It… It was so quiet.” Tim whispered in a horrified voice. “It was so late. N-no breath or heartbeat. No noise. No hope.”

“Oh..” Bruce said quietly, the explanation making him feel sick to his stomach. He wanted to hear his dad scream because screaming meant he was alive.

He supposed it wasn't so different than wanting Tim to make sound.

“He screamed alone, Bruce.”

“He wasn’t alone.” Bruce says softly. “Well, at least not completely. He had the thought of you and your mother. He had… He had love.”

“Do-…” Tim swallowed hard. “Do you think that was enough?”

Bruce swallowed as well. “I… I don’t know.” He admitted. “But, we can hope.”

“Hoping’s hard.” Tim said with a weak, wet laugh, and Bruce made a similar noise.

“It is. But that’s why you keep hoping anyway.” Bruce said softly, and Tim’s sobs started to calm at that thought.

They sat in silence again. This time Bruce wasn’t scared. He knew things would be tough, and he knew that Tim was tougher. And when he couldn’t be tougher, his family could be for him.

Tim’s cries don’t follow a pattern. For 15 minutes, he might be silent, no tears and a steady breath, then his breath picks up, and he starts to cry suddenly. Sometimes, the cries are a loud and painful sound, so Bruce strokes his back and reminds him to breathe. Sometimes Tim tries to talk through them, whimpered apologies that Bruce shushes away. Sometimes it’s just a quiet sniffle and tears dripping down his pink cheeks.

An hour pasts and Tim is nodding off in his lap, clutching him tightly still.

“I don’t know what your dad would want you to feel.” Tim stiffens a little at the mention of his father. “But… But I know I feel proud of you, kid. A-and I don’t know how much that matters in the long run. But… But it’s something I want you to remember whenever you feel guilty or like you're doing everything wrong."

Tim nods against his chest and swallows before speaking. “I miss my mom and dad…” he whispers. “B-but… But I have you and Alfred and Dick... Damian and Jason when they're not being asshats.” Bruce let out a startled laugh and Tim giggled too. “A-and… And I feel bad replacing them.. But I also feel warm.”

“You’re not replacing them, Tim.” Bruce said firmly. “I never replaced my parents or Jason or anyone else I lost. I... expanded and that’s what you’re doing, too. That’s what you have to do. You can’t just shut yourself into an icy silence. You have to let in warmth and noise.”

“…I like this warmth.”

“Me too.”

42 days. 42 days since Tim became an orphan.

2 since he talked and felt warm in someone’s arm. And there’s more coming because Tim isn’t alone. Tim isn’t quiet. Tim isn’t going to focus anymore on grieving the “right” way. Tim is going to feel. He’s going to laugh and cry. He’s going to scream and be loud. He’s going to keep expanding his space to let in warmth and sound until the cold silence isn’t as scary.

Tim is going to hope.

Tim is going to fight.

Tim is going to live.

And he’s going to do it with family by his side