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Every data set has an outlier. Every pattern deviates. It doesn’t negate the truth or corrupt the findings—it’s just a proven fact.
Tim’s not sure how long he’s been repeating the above mantra to himself, like some fucked-up livelaughlove meditation, but he’s halfway to Boston by the time he feels his brain clear. The motorcycle he lifted from outside a bar in Crime Alley has been nearing E since he crossed Massachuttes state lines, and he sends a silent prayer to whatever meddling god or meta has the misfortune of hearing him that it won’t crap out before he finds a suitable motel for the night.
He hasn’t slept in fifty hours, which could be contributing to the black wraiths wisping in and out of his vision as he flies down the highway. He’s also pretty sure that the tremors in his hands are from the steady diet of coffee, energy drinks, and the six microwave burritos he’s been subsisting on since last Thursday, and not—definitely not—the small dose of fear toxin he unwittingly inhaled an hour ago.
Though, the disembodied voices he keeps hearing as he shakily maneuvers the bike into the dark parking lot of an abandoned Motel 6 might be from that.
Every data set has an outlier. “TT, Drake. You do not belong here and it is pathetic how you keep trying to win Father’s affection.”
Every pattern deviates. “Drop it, Tim. I thought you were more mature than this.”
It doesn’t negate the truth or corrupt the findings. “Wowww. Didn’t think Bruce tolerated idiots, Pretender. Robins usually aren’t such dumb-asses.”
It’s just a proven fact. “Fly away, little birdie, and don’t come back. It’s not like any of them will notice anyway. I promise I’ll stay away from them as long as you do.”
The man’s smile curls even more menacingly in his memory—a new villain who has enjoyed playing games with them all for months, but this time, only speaks the truth.
But Tim doesn’t need a knock-off fear toxin and threats from crazed criminals to know what his own parents have taught him since he was five—he’s burden and bad luck wrapped in a very annoying package. He wasn’t made for family, and, apparently, not for business—vigilante or otherwise. At one point, Tim believed his usefulness would make up for his many faults, but apparently even Batman knows better.
“You’re benched. We don’t need you here. Just go to bed.”
He’s not sure how he has the presence of mind to pick the lock on one of the doors facing out to the emptied hotel pool (covered in moss and mud and several dirty needles), but apparently he does, because several minutes later he comes to awareness in a dirty tub in the middle of a darkened and ransacked bathroom.
Construction dust covers the floor, and it looks as if vandals and squatters have taken either sledgehammers or their own fists to the walls. Stains that look suspiciously like blood speckle the linoleum, and Tim can’t tell if it’s his own or someone else’s. The scratches on his arms are deeper than usual this time, courtesy of his panic and minor dissociation, and he prods at a couple that are still bleeding. He hisses and moves to get out of the tub to settle somewhere more comfortable, but a migraine forming behind his right eye along with his trembling limbs have him reconsidering.
As he closes his eyes again, he wonders about his vibrating pocket. Sleep overtakes him before he realizes his plan to ditch his phone was all but forgotten in his haste to escape Gotham.
He wakes up to voices, whispering loudly outside the door. His mouth feels like cotton and his back is aching from the way his body lay in the tub. There’s no light streaming through the moth-eaten curtains or from under the door crack—and Tim figures it’s only been about three hours since he arrived.
He hears a muffled “ugh” and a grunt.
“Fuck, I’m not touching that.”
“No worse than all the hovels you have stationed around the city, Todd.”
“Want to say that again, brat?”
“Can we just not for one second? I’m begging you.”
Tim scrambles to lift his body out of the chasm of porcelain and probably tetanus, and quickly scans the room for an alternative exit. His groan must be audible from the outside, given the voices abruptly come to a stop. He curses the paper thin walls.
“Uh, Tim. Bud, are you in there?”
Dick’s voice sounds tentative as Tim notices with relief that there’s a door in the bathroom connecting it to the neighboring room. The lock is broken and he figures he can slip out quietly. He wonders for a moment why they don’t just bust in, but he’s never been good at deciphering his
brothers’
co-workers’ decisions. It must have something to do with the gentle, coaxing quality in Dick’s next words, designed not to spook even the most twitchy of victims, but Tim still has no clue why it’s being directed towards him.
“Can you open the door for us, Timmy? Tell us what’s going on?”
Tim would have snorted in bewilderment if he weren’t in the middle of creeping through the shared doorway to the other room. Part of him can’t believe they drove all the way out here for a report, but then he abruptly remembers the motorcycle he took, and wonders when the Bat decided to start tracking down petty thieves across states. It’s not like he didn’t have a (fluid, flimsy, theoretical) plan to return it (which included paying $1000 to some down-on-their-luck biker willing to drive it back to Gotham), but even if he didn’t, sending all three of them is just overkill. Of course, as he grabs a sharp piece of mirror on his way out of the bathroom, maybe he’s more of a threat than he gives himself credit for.
This time he does snort, but since his attention is on the bathroom behind him—hopeful that Dick’s still trying to talk through the front door and not actually breaking it down—he stumbles over a nightstand and straight into a brick wall. Also known as Red Hood’s ridiculously large body.
“Going somewhere?”
Jason raises an eyebrow as Tim looks up at him, trying to hide the instinctive flinch that courses through him. He must not have been very successful (big surprise there), because Jason’s amusement turns into a weird, pinched cross between concern and annoyance.
He grabs the back of Tim’s neck, not bruisingly but steadying—gentle, even, for a crime lord/anti-hero/vigilante who could easily bench press at least three Tims—and guides him out of the room and into the parking lot. Dick, who was still standing outside the other door, turns around surprised, and Tim notices that Damian silently follows from the same room Jason found him in. They dodge the weeds and trash and needles in the abandoned space, and come to stand under the only working street light in the whole parking lot. Tim’s blocked in—the stolen motorcycle behind him and three
brothers
coworkersgoddammit in front of him.
Dick sucks in a harsh breath as the light from the lamp above shines down on Tim’s arms, and Jason curses softly. Damian is still and calculating. Tim can’t even hide the bloodied scratches since he left Gotham wearing only a t-shirt, sweatpants, and the woven bracelet Cass had made for him before she left for Hong Kong. He rubs at them absently and chooses to look down at his feet instead. His bare feet. It surprises him—somewhere in the distant part of his brain—that he drove six hours and entered some sort of crack house motel without noticing that fact, but they don’t look too worse for the wear, and honestly, he has a lot of other problems at the moment.
Problems that are still staring at him.
“I—” Dick starts to say something, but instantly sputters out.
Jason glares at him and then especially glares at Tim, but seems unwilling to jump in to help. Tim pities Dick in that moment, supremely acquainted with the feeling of people being unwilling to help.
So he decides to help. Tim clears his throat. It’s rough from disuse—last night was the first time in a week he had even talked out loud with someone and that someone was a crazed meta/prankster/criminal intent on chasing him out of the city. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Damian—the absolute brat he is—has the audacity to scoff loudly at that. His voice doesn’t sound cruel, but Tim has enough experience with him that his next words still unsettle him.
“As if you would have any say in that, Drake.” He corrects himself after an uncomfortable beat. “Timothy.”
The last time he saw them all was two weeks ago, after a patrol fraught with blunders and near-misses—ending with a mistake one hundred percent his fault earning Damian a shot in the leg. The family was pissed at his incompetence —rightly so—and didn’t react well to the revelation that Tim was not only hiding his own injuries, but also running on a cumulative eight hours of sleep that week. It puts their entire operation at risk every time he lets his stupidity get in the way. Obviously, he knew it was only sheer stubbornness and a misplaced childish dream of fitting in that kept him trying to shove his way where he wasn’t wanted.
Tim had slipped out of the Cave as Alfred set Damian up with an IV, and immediately called Lucius to cash in the favor he owed him. He doubted anyone would check on him, but a WE business deal that ostensibly took him to China for six weeks would be enough time for him to get his affairs in order to permanently leave Gotham.
It was a long time coming, honestly. He should have peaced out when Jason came back (definitely when Damian took over Robin, absolutely after Bruce was rescued) but if there was anything Tim was good at, it was forcing himself on others. That’s what his parents always said, at least.
He stares at Damian who stares back at him. The sound of the nearby highway is the only thing that jolts him from the absurdity of the tableau before him.
To be honest, he is stumped at the three standing there. They are clearly uncomfortable. They are in civvies, Damian sporting an Ace bandage on his knee and Jason wearing a leather jacket paired with the Phantom of the Opera shirt Tim had given him last year as a joke. Dick is wearing freaking Crocs of all things and they look like they came from a night hanging out at the manor, instead of a thief-catching mission across the Eastern seaboard. It confuses Tim just as much as Damian’s switch to his first name.
He figures they must be operating under faulty information. He’s happy to fix that.
“I was just borrowing it.” He waves his hand towards the motorcycle. “I have money to send to the owner. You can take it back with you. Tell Batman it was a misunderstanding.”
Dick looks pained, and Jason lets out a bark of laughter that doesn’t sound amused at all. He steps forward and Tim steps back. This makes Jason falter a bit, but he shakes his head and snaps his fingers.
“Eyes on me, baby bird.” His voice is more of a growl than anything else. “There we go. First, the “owner” is me, myself, and I.” Tim chokes at that, but Jason continues. “And lucky for you that it was or your dumbass probably would have died from rabid raccoons or something out here. What the hell, Timbo?”
Jason ignores Dick’s chastising “Jay!” and growls again. “Dickhead, please. Look at him. A stiff wind could blow the little shit away.” He looks disgustedly up and down Tim’s body, “God, have you even eaten anything since we last saw you?” Grabbing Tim’s arms, he turns to Dick and waves them in his face. “Look at how deep these are. I told the Old Man it was a bad idea to let him stew.”
“Calm yourself or take a walk, Todd. You are hysterical and none of us want to deal with your particular brand of lunacy tonight.” Damian sounds carefully bored, which is a distinction Tim notes as being different from his usual apathy. Almost like he’s trying to sound unaffected, but misses the mark just barely. Which is just confusing—especially coming from the twelve-year-old former assassin who hates his guts.
Dick clears his throat as Jason lunges. Damian steps to the side deftly, and Jason punches air. As they begin to argue back and forth, Dick is still looking at Tim like he’s a spooked puppy, and it makes his arms itch. Dick gently stops his hands before they reach their goal, and pulls him off to the side.
“Timmy, B found the footage of your run-in with that guy. Whatever that idiot said isn’t true, ok? He’s in custody right now. Like League level. We also found the substance he used on you—apparently it is designed to…” uncharacteristically, Dick falters here, “...to enhance, um—”
Damian joins them again. He interjects stoically, “It enhances anxiety, as well as self-harming, suicidal, and dangerous acts.”
“Which you apparently aren’t a stranger to if the state of your Nest has anything to say about it.” Jason huffs but it just makes Tim bristle.
He didn't ask them to investigate. He didn’t ask them to pry into his very private space. He didn’t ask to be judged by the men in front of him—in fact, he very nicely left them alone and noped out of their lives. The fact that Jason Todd, patron saint of recklessness, is lecturing him on dangerous acts raises his hackles.
Which Dick expertly interrupts by quickly pulling out a first aid kit (hidden in his hoodie) and wrapping his arms.
“It’ll wear off, you know.” Dick’s voice is gentle and quiet. “It should be gone by the time we get home. Most of it at least.”
The implication that this isn’t just a toxin reaction sits heavy.
Tim’s glare lacks heat—not because he’s not angry with their meddling but because his body is absolutely devastated with fatigue. It’s not until he sways that he realizes how dire the situation is.
The others exchange loaded looks, but Tim is no longer paying attention, not even when they pull him over to Dick’s car and stick him in the backseat. Not even when Damian tuts like he’s a wayward cat and bandages his feet. Not even when Jason hops on the bike, and swears to meet them back at the Cave. Not even when Dick clicks on the child locks, finds the broken piece of mirror and throws it away sadly, and Damian turns on the radio and Cat Stevens sings about absent fathers.
In fact, he remembers nothing of the four hour drive back (because Dickiebird apparently missed his calling as the next Dale Earnhardt) and only snaps out of his haze when the gravel of the Manor’s drive crackles under their tires.
And then he bolts.
Or tries to.
The brick wall this time is less broad, more English, and levels a look that has Tim’s insides eating themselves in shame. Tim would have a better chance at taking all four of the bat boys combined, including the main man himself, than even think of defying Alfred.
Alfred, whose eyes soften at Tim’s obvious surrender, gently places a hand on his shoulder, and guides him inside.
“Glad to have you home , Master Tim. Let’s get you to bed.”
They bypass the Cave entrance, walking through the front door and up the grand staircase. Alfred opens the door to the room Tim typically stays in—he doesn’t really have a right to claim it as his, even though deep down he pretends it is—and ushers him to the adjoined bathroom.
Time skips—Alfie must have helped him change though he has no memory of it—and Tim finds himself buried under three quilts that smell of sandalwood detergent and, inexplicably, Bruce’s cologne. It occurs to Tim distantly that these blankets probably came from B’s own bed, but the reasons for this just don’t compute.
The bed shifts and Tim is instantly aware of another body sitting next to him, back propped against the headboard, still and waiting, but relaxed.
Tim looks up. The cologne makes sense now.
A book is sitting unopened in Bruce’s lap—
Welcome to the Universe
by Neil Degrasse Tyson—a shared favorite between both himself and his
father mentor
boss.
Neither look at each other—Tim’s eyes are interested in the dips and ridges of the blankets, and Bruce’s in the room’s window in front of them. Bruce clears his throat and Tim stares at the blankets harder.
“This wasn’t just because of the meta, was it?”
It’s a clumsy attempt at getting him to talk—they both know it—but Bruce marches forward despite the discomfort rolling off of Tim in tsunami-like waves.
“Because Lucius said you called him two weeks ago. And all your cases were wrapped up. And your apartment was filled with boxes.”
Marching forward like the Energizer Bunny.
“You were planning to leave even before that man got to you. Why?”
Tim knows the broken quality he hears in the question is just his own mind playing tricks on him, but he soaks it up all the same. Not because Bruce should be broken—not at all, he was way too good for that—but because no one had ever broken for Tim, and it might be nice to be worth something for once.
He plays with a loose thread and shrugs.
“Son.” And then he questions his reality because Bruce’s voice definitely sounds rawer and realer than anything his own lizard brain could ever dream up.
“It seems you're operating under a misconception that I want—no, need—to correct immediately.” Tim’s eyes betray him as he decides to look away from the quilt and towards Bruce’s bafflingly concerned face. The man continues.
“I fucked up. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am.”
This blunt statement, delivered with all the gravitas of Batman and all the earnestness of Bruce, jolts Tim to Earth and sends him reeling. Not only because of the rarely-used (by B, at least) expletive, but also due to the fact the admission itself is out of place. The apology is a deviation of the highest order. The math just isn’t mathing here: Tim is the perpetual screw-up in this (in every) equation. Not Bruce.
Tim’s aware that The Greatest Detective™️ can read his body language, but even the strongest of his masks can’t find purchase on his face after that confession. Bruce, ever the soldier, keeps moving forward.
“I gave you space because I mistakenly thought that’s what you needed to feel safe. It was a grave mistake, Tim. And I am sorry I never noticed before just how much you bore.” The man sighs deeply, and Tim is mesmerized by the sincerity dripping from his words.
“It shouldn’t have taken Lucius Fox to tell me that you were leaving—and I am ashamed of the two weeks we spent without contact.”
Tim engages this point, more clarification than argument. “It’s fine, Bruce. We’ve gone longer.”
The man winces at this, but for some odd reason, continues on. Tim can’t imagine he’s worth all this attention right now, and it’s freaking him out more than he wants to admit.
“No, it’s not fine. Tim, look at me.” He does. Bruce looks wrecked. “I was in a bad place when we first met and I did everything I could to push you away. But you stayed. Because that’s the heart you have. And what I’m now beginning to realize is that you don’t understand just what that means to this family. Chum, you’re the heart. We don’t—we can’t—operate without you. I love you, son. And if that has been so unclear to you that you ran three hundred miles away because you believed yourself to be unwanted, I only have myself to blame.”
Bruce’s words land, they land right into the center of his chest, they land hard, and they land harder and god, he can’t breathe, they keep landing and filling his lungs so full that there’s no place for air.
Bruce almost seems alarmed as Tim starts hyperventilating, but quickly springs into action, counting breaths with him and pulling him out of the peak of his panic attack.
“Breathe, son, there you go, breathe.”
Finally—finally—he pulls himself together (no, that’s not right,
Bruce
pulls him together) and turns to his boss mentor father. He realizes he must have let something vulnerable show on his face because Bruce softens—embarrassingly so (a move incredibly incongruous with his nighttime persona).
“Are you sure?” Tim asks.
Are you sure I’m worth it?
Are you sure I fit?
Are you sure you love me?
“Yes, Tim. 100%.”
It is a Batman promise from Bruce’s mouth, and even in the midst of all the turmoil surrounding his recent activities, his gut recognizes the vow and unclenches instantly.
“God, B, you’re such a sap.” Tim’s head snaps up at Jason’s voice. All three of his brothers are crowding the doorway, looking vaguely uncomfortable and contrite.
For all Tim is concerned, there’s nothing to be contrite about , but he recognizes the need for absolution that thrums through Dick’s body. Jason’s false bravado suits him fine until Bruce gestures towards the bed and scoots over to make room for him—the feared Red Hood actually melting into his side.
Damian looks wary, especially as Dick jumps to the other side of Tim, making the mattress dip with his arrival.
“C’mon, Dami.” If Damian is surprised by Tim’s invite, he hardly shows it. Instead, he sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. Tim sits up and pulls him closer. The California King is still a bit tiny for all five of them, but Tim’s asleep again before he hears Jason calling Bruce a tightwad. The rumbles of Dick’s laughter are lost to the night, as Tim dreams of birds and sandalwood and home.