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Tim is nine years old and he knows a few things. He’s smart, could probably be considered a genius, and one of the things he happens to know is that charity galas are a goddamn nightmare.
He hates them. He always has. He hasn’t been to too many, because his parents only go to enough to maintain appearances, but since he was old enough to walk by himself, they’ve brought him.
It’s not like it’s a family outing, however. They don’t actually spend any time together. Janet and Jack usually arrive fashionably late, have Tim between them, each with a hand clutching one of his in an iron grip, a painful reminder that if he doesn’t do exactly as they taught him, there would likely be consequences later. Then, once they’re inside, they let go and leave him with the echoed promise that if he doesn’t behave he’ll regret it.
So, yeah. Tim hates them. The only reason he hates this one a tiny, little bit less is that it’s being held by the Waynes. He knows they’re really nice, even though he’s never spoken to any of them, and he knows a few things that would probably get him in trouble if he let them slip.
Not that he would suddenly blurt out that Dick Grayson is Robin and also his favorite person in existence, but still.
(Well, that’s not entirely true. He might ramble about the Boy Wonder because he just can’t help himself sometimes, but he would never utter Dick Grayson’s name in connection to Robin. He’ll protect that information with every fiber of his being.)
Unfortunately, not even the excitement from being in the same room as Batman and Robin (he nearly wants to squeal) can fix the crawling in Tim’s skin and the twitch in his fingers. They’ve only been in attendance for around an hour out of their usual two or three hours, and Tim has spent the entire night pulling at his neatly pressed collar and yanking on his perfectly knotted tie. He can’t help but rub at the skin underneath until it’s an angry shade of red.
(Janet could only stand to watch him for so long before her eye started to twitch. She had spent far too much time trying to get Tim into that suit, and now he was ruining her hard work.)
(Tim had explicitly expressed his desire to stay home, but it had fallen on uncaring, deaf ears. Even as he told his parents with teary eyes that he was really tired and didn’t want to go, Janet had laughed, lifted him to his feet, and strong-armed him into an expensive suit.)
She leaned down far enough to ensure her words would reach only Tim’s ears.
“Stop that,” she hissed, grabbing his hand and forcing it away from his neck. She pointedly ignored the immediate flinch and Tim’s attempt to pull away. She dug in her meticulously manicured nails and forced him to look her in the eyes. “Your suit is wrinkling now, Timothy. What on earth is wrong with you?”
“Feels bad,” Tim told her quietly and she scoffed in disbelief.
(She had thought they had made it past this foolishness.)
Janet kept him in place and forced him to stand completely still while she fixed his collar and tie with icy hands. She ignored or was entirely unaware of the way her son’s lip was trembling and the way his shoulders were curling in.
The rest of the night, Tim clung to her hand and pressed his face into the folds of her slippery-soft dress. She let him, but only because she wasn’t about to shove the nuisance away in front of all those cameras.
It wasn’t until they joined a group of loud, mostly drunk businessmen and their wives. Tim began to tremble and his head dug into her hip and the hand not clutching her dress came up to press against his exposed ear. Janet ignored him at first, as she had been the whole night until the wife of one of the businessmen tapped her arm. She nodded her head in Tim’s direction, her lip captured between her teeth and her brows furrowed in concern.
It was a whole ten minutes before Janet growled under her breath, offered a fake smile and an excuse to the group, and dragged Tim away, Jack looking equally as frustrated. Tim sobbed the whole way, trying to pull his hand out of the vice that was Janet’s grip. The tears came full force no matter how many times Janet hissed for him to stop crying.
(And unbeknownst to everyone in the room, Bruce Wayne was watching from the other end of the hall. He watched as the sound of high heels against the floor made the poor boy flinch and the sound of a woman laughing made his breath hitch and the hand attached firmly to the back of his neck made him tremble. Bruce watched as the cold, callous woman angrily pulled the tiny nine-year-old to the door with her nails dug into his skin. He watched, and something white-hot and vicious stirred inside his gut.)
When they got home, Janet sent Tim to his room, yelling her displeasure all the while. Tim ran the whole way, his entire body lurching with the force of his tears.
The next morning, he was alone. The Drakes were off to Paris.
-
When Tim starts middle school, his parents haven’t been home in over a year, and he’s kind of turned into a walking disaster.
Sitting perched on gargoyles and taking pictures of the new Robin and the same Batman can almost make him forget what’s waiting for him at home.
Tim watches as Robin knocks a thug on her ass and elbows another hard enough to break his nose. He follows carefully and snaps picture after picture of his two favorite people in the whole world.
By the time he’s tired enough to be able to sleep, he settles down next to his favorite gargoyle, lovingly dubbed George, to study all of the pictures he’s taken. He has one leg pulled up to his chest while the other dangles over the side and his hands fiddle with the buttons on his camera.
As Tim scrolls through his pictures, the drawstring from his hoodie finds its way into his mouth. He chews on the drawstring as he examines each picture, weeding out the blurry or downright bad ones. He eagerly maps out each edit he’ll be making to all of the pictures once he gets home and he is buried so deep that he absolutely doesn’t notice the footsteps coming toward him.
Maybe he heard the voice trying to get his attention, maybe he did, but he isn’t broken out of his bubble until a hand comes down on his shoulder.
Tim’s body immediately halts its gentle rocking and the drawstring falls from his mouth. His brain stalls for a moment and the only thing that stops his camera from falling several stories is the green-gloved hand snapping out and steadying it.
“You alright, kid?”
Tim stares up at the young vigilante, his eyes wide and his whole body frozen.
“Kid?” Robin repeats.
After another moment of staring up at his favorite person ever, Tim scrambles to his feet and he almost slips over the edge, the only thing keeping him from doing so being Robin grabbing him by the waist and hoisting him around to the roof.
Unwittingly, Tim’s body curls away from the hands holding him. Robin immediately retracts his hands and holds them up.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he says and Tim almost chokes.
“It’s…” Tim’s brain lags once more until he can speak again. “It’s okay! It’s okay.”
Robin watches him for a little while before he speaks again.
“So, whatcha doin’ up here?” he asks, leaning nonchalantly against the ledge.
“Uh, nothing,” Tim stammers. He shifts from foot to foot until he’s practically swaying back and forth in place and begins to pull at the edge of his sweatshirt.
“It’s kinda cold, don’t ya think?” Robin continues. “And it’s a school night. You shouldn’t be out this late.
Tim’s mouth runs before he can think about it. “Pot, meet kettle.”
The seconds the words leave his mouth, Robin barks out a laugh.
“You’re funny, kid,” he tells him with a smirk. “Seriously, what’re ya doin’ out here so late? I have a reason, what’s yours?”
Tim stammers for a second before blurting, “I’m taking pictures.”
Robin raises an eyebrow. “Of?”
Tim flicks through the pictures on his camera frantically, searching for the pictures he had taken of the skyline and, of all things, rats. He can’t only take pictures of Batman and Robin, and there are plenty of cool things to see around Gotham. Like rats, apparently.
“Just… anything, really,” Tim says lamely, thrusting the camera in Robin’s face to show him. It just so happens to be a picture of some baby rats he had stumbled upon. He had thought they were incredibly cute but now that he’s showing them to someone else, he realizes that not everyone would think they’re as cool as he does, and he cringes and tries to pull the camera away.
But instead of letting him, Robin grabs the camera and leans closer, the corner of his mouth twitching. He lets out a very quiet aw and Tim is nearly certain he wasn’t supposed to hear that, so he doesn’t say anything. He watches Robin flick through a few more pictures of vermin and the gross skyline, mercifully stopping a few pictures before the vigilante ones begin again.
“Those are really good,” Robin tells him and Tim can’t help the way he bounces happily. Hearing something like that from his hero makes warmth spread through his chest and his heart sing.
“Really?” he asks anyway because he can’t help but be skeptical.
“Yeah,” Robin shrugs. After a moment of watching Tim bounce on the balls of his feet and his hands roam all over the place, his eyes narrow. Tim doesn’t notice until the vigilante steps forward and begins studying him.
“Um,” Tim says dumbly, twitching with discomfort.
“You sure you’re okay?” Robin asks, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Of course!” Tim says too loudly. When he speaks again his voice is much quieter. “Why?”
Robin doesn’t say a word for a few seconds and eventually, the silence stretches on long enough that Tim starts to get real nervous. Did he do something wrong? He must have said something stupid or done something stupid and now he’s made an idiot out of himself.
As Tim’s mind races, his clenched fist begins to tap a steady staccato against his thigh and he rocks on the balls of his feet. Slowly, a small smile grows on Robin’s face and his head tilts slightly.
“No reason. You should probably get home soon,” he tells Tim.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Tim agrees. A shy grin grows on his face and he glances up at Robin. “It was really nice to meet you!”
His smile is blinding.
“Nice to meet you, too, babybird,” Robin replies.
(Because really, this is probably one of the most interesting kids he’s ever met on the streets. He must be a rich kid because no one from this part of town could afford the camera in his hands, but he doesn’t carry himself like one. He doesn’t sound or act like any of the assholes Jason has met before, either.)
Tim’s face lights up bright red. “Babybird?”
Robin smirks and shrugs before pulling out his grappling gun.
“See you around, babybird,” he says. He offers a two finger salute and then he’s gone.
Tim is left standing there with wide eyes. After a moment he’s able to move and his head snaps up. Something shiny catches his eye and. Oh. Right there. On the roof. Right there on the roof is a birdarang. A dark red, metal R. Tim is on his knee in seconds and holding the weapon between quivering fingers.
He knows it has to have been deliberate because Robin isn’t careless enough to leave something like that behind. He launches back to his feet and hugs the birdarang to his chest. He glances around, trying in vain to find Jason Todd perched somewhere. The older boy is nowhere to be seen, but that’s alright.
The smile on Tim’s face won’t fade for the rest of the night.
(Several rooftops away, Jason Todd watches a tiny kid bounce happily, his hands flapping in the air after he tucks the birdarang carefully into his pocket. He smiles at the sight of the kid practically skipping away and down a fire escape. He watches over the hyperactive boy as he slips and slides his way through alleyways and streets, moving like he was never there.
He’s going to smile about it for days, and he already knows that he’s going to spend his next solo patrol looking for this kid. Maybe he’ll get to know him a little better. He seemed pretty interesting.
But a few days later Jason Todd will be dead, and he will never get the chance.
And sometime later, there will be a new Robin.)
-
Tim has a lot on his plate. Bruce knows that. He wants to help, but he has no idea how.
Tim’s school work has piled up with his semester exams approaching, his work as Robin has become more demanding with the formation of the new Teen Titans, Red Hood has been antagonizing all of them, and his sleep schedule has been completely derailed.
Bruce doesn’t really know how to help, but he’s going to figure it out even if it kills him.
“I don’t understand!” Tim groans, watching the same footage of Red Hood again and again on a loop.
“Tim,” Bruce says tiredly. “It is four in the morning. What are you doing?”
He had been asleep not twenty minutes ago. At least, until a very composed but immensely groggy Alfred shook him awake and more or less ordered he make Tim go to sleep.
“I don’t understand how he knows so much!” Tim bursts, spinning the chair around so he can gaze up at Bruce with wide eyes.
Bruce stares down at him for a moment, his entire body still weighed down by four days without sleep.
“Tim,” he starts, taking a deep breath. “Tim, please go upstairs. I understand your frustration but running yourself ragged at four in the morning isn’t going to help you.”
“But Bruce!” Tim exclaims, leaning forward in the chair. That’s when Bruce identifies the faint, plasticky clicking noise. Tim has something small and slightly shiny in his hands. He’s pulling at it and twisting it together and wrapping it around his fingers. Every few twists it comes apart somewhere but Tim just pops the pieces back together, unfazed. It definitely looks old and well-loved and he’s moving it like it’s a part of him.
But Bruce has never seen it before.
“What is that?” he asks instead of entertaining the Red Hood conversation.
Tim’s hands immediately freeze where they are and tighten around the object until it gives a quiet creek and his knuckles turn white. He jerks like he’s about to hide it from view but when Bruce raises an exhausted eyebrow, he aborts the motion and his whole body wilts.
“It’s a Tangle,” he says quietly and Bruce frowns. Tim is nervous. Scared.
“What is a… Tangle?” He thinks he’s heard of those before but he’s so tired he can barely remember what he had for dinner, so he has no idea for the time being.
Tim shrugs and cautiously starts twisting it again.
“It’s just… just for,” he pauses and licks his lips. “Fidgeting? I guess.”
He ducks his head once he finishes speaking. Bruce frowns again.
“I’ve never seen you with that before,” he comments. “When did you get it?”
“I got it… seven years ago?” he says slowly. He squints and then nods. “Yeah. I got it in second grade.”
Bruce hums in acknowledgment and studies the toy. Why wouldn’t Tim buy another? Clearly, seven years of constant use has worn it down to near dysfunction.
“S-Sorry, I’ll put it away, um,” Tim stammers, coiling it up and clumsily trying to shove it into his pocket.
The haze of sleep has finally worn off and alarm bells start ringing in Bruce’s head.
“Tim, why are you sorry?” he uncrosses his arms, his chest tightening when Tim’s hand begins to shake against his thigh.
“Because it’s weird, and I shouldn’t, I’m not supposed to,” Tim spits out quickly.
Bruce hates that those words just came out of his son’s mouth and he can only think of one place where those ideas could have come from. Anger boils in his stomach but he pushes it down because anger isn’t what Tim needs right now.
Bruce turns around and grabs another chair to pull around so he can sit in front of Tim. He sighs as he sits down and leans his elbows on his knees.
“Tim,” he says. Tim doesn’t look up. “Can you look at me, please?” Tim slowly looks up. “Thank you. I’m going to ask you some questions, okay?”
“Okay,” Tim says quietly, looking up through his messy bangs.
“Do you use that a lot?” he starts, asking a basic question that he can build off of. After a few seconds, Tim nods timidly. “Does it help you focus?”
Tim takes a shuddering breath like he’s afraid Bruce is going to yell at him no matter what he says. “Yeah.”
“And having something like that helps?” Bruce continues. Lightbulbs are popping up all over the place in his brain and now everything is making sense. He makes a mental note to call Dinah after this and have a long conversation.
“Yes,” Tim mumbles.
Bruce nods. “Okay. Now, I want you to listen to me carefully.”
“Okay,” Tim whispers.
Bruce leans forward. “If that,” he points to the Tangle, “or anything else like that makes things easier for you or make you happy, then I am absolutely okay with you having it. I want you to have access to whatever you want or need.”
Tim’s head slowly rises, revealing eyes widened with shock and confusion.
“What…” he trails. His eyes flick back and forth between the tangle and Bruce’s face. “What do you mean?”
Bruce smiles softly. “If you want to use that, you do exactly what you need to do. I would never take that away from you. If you want anything like that, don’t hesitate to ask. I will always get it for you.”
Tim’s confusion gives way to wonder. “Seriously?”
“Of course, Tim,” Bruce replies.
The boy sits there for a moment and Bruce can practically hear the gears working in his head. He’s not sure what Tim is thinking until the boy’s face cracks and he positively beams. Faint dimples that Bruce has never seen before appear in his cheeks and bright red grows high on his cheeks. He bounces a tiny bit in the chair and the Tangle twists around his fingers.
And Bruce almost feels like he can’t breathe.
Tim looks so happy and at ease and he looks his age. Bruce can’t remember the last time he saw that. Before Red Hood? Before the Teen Titans?
(Ever?)
(If only the look had lasted for more than one day.
If only Red Hood could have let the poor boy be happy for one more day.)
-
Tim has been doing a fairly good job avoiding the Red Hood so far. Since he was attacked at Titans Tower, he’s been watching his own back like a hawk. Bruce cut down on Robin’s patrol times in an effort to protect him from Hood while also not taking the mask away from him entirely.
And Tim gets it. Really, he does. It makes him feel warm inside to know someone cares about him like that. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t paranoid. It doesn’t mean he isn’t constantly on edge, looking over his shoulder even when he’s walking through the halls of his own house.
The nervous energy is constantly thrumming beneath his skin and he can hardly stand it anymore. He can hardly sleep because he’s afraid Hood will attack the manor at night. Eating makes him jittery and he does it rather quickly and sparsely because he’s in a moment of weakness then. And one moment of weakness could mean Red Hood’s bullet in his head.
Tim knows he’s being overdramatic and unrealistic; the odds of Red Hood exploding in through the window while Tim is groggily forking down oatmeal are astronomically low. The odds of him making it passed the manor’s security without a soul knowing are even lower.
But for some reason that doesn’t stop him from worrying. His usually logical and very fact-based brain works the same way it always has, but that doesn’t mean he’s not… nervous. Anxious.
So far, though, every patrol since the attack and every day since has been uneventful.
Even now. Tim is patrolling separately from Bruce tonight, something that rarely happens anymore, if at all. It has been a quiet couple of weeks so Bruce decided to tentatively allow Tim to patrol alone for a little while. They both figured things had quieted down.
(How foolish of them.)
So far, Tim’s been pretty bored. He stopped two muggings, knocked out a rapist, and prevented a convenience store robbery. Pretty run-of-the-mill things. Things he’s used to, things he can handle.
The night has been fairly peaceful and he’s feeling good until suddenly he’s in the middle of a shootout. His entire body becomes rigid and his eyes scan over the situation.
It might be a gang dispute, or it’s an intense disagreement, he doesn’t know. The shooters are yelling back and forth in heavy lower Gotham accents and emptying clips at each other. None of them are a particularly good shot, Tim discovers. It takes two clips from all sides for anyone to take a single hit.
This is when Tim drops in. The second he appears the shouts and curses increase tenfold.
“Stay outta this, kid,” a rather large guy snarls, turning his gun on Tim.
Tim smirks. “No can do.”
Disarming them is the easy part. Getting them to stay down is the hard part. The guns are in pieces on the ground and knives have been taken and thrown away, but the fire is still lit between them.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey, let’s just take a minute here,” a tall, heavy-set man at the head of one of the groups cuts in. Everyone eases to a halt at the suggestion because apparently, they hate the Bats more than they each other.
“You’re causing a bit of a public disturbance,” Tim says, balanced cautiously. His eyes sweep back and forth nonstop and his muscles remain tense, ready to fight any of them immediately. His hand stays close to his emergency beacon, just in case. He knows his limits and he knows this could get out of hand quickly.
“Just a little disagreement between friends,” the head of the other group, a disproportionately muscular short guy, offers. His voice takes a borderline condescending tone and a murmur of agreement spreads through the small crowd.
Tim sighs, a headache growing behind his right eye.
“Might I suggest talking about your problems instead of shooting each other?” he asks, tightening his grip on his bo staff.
Tall guy scoffs. “You don’t know shit, kid.”
“I know enough,” he says. He doesn’t really, he actually has no idea what the fuck is going on here, but he figures if he drags this out long enough he might be able to dull their anger a little. Or maybe annoy them enough to go home for the night and do this another day.
“How about you just run along home to Daddy Bats and let the adults handle this?” short guy suggests, his voice dripping with condescension and smugness.
The streetlight above flickers. Tim’s eyes twitches.
“Oh? You’re adults?” Tim asks and he knows he’s pushing his luck. He knows it’s obviously a bad idea to antagonize this many criminals at one time. But he can’t help it; he’s so fucking irritated that he could bite someone’s head off. Against his better judgment, he continues. “With the way you’re all acting like a bunch of toddlers, I never could’ve guessed.”
Tall guy’s face twists and Tim knows he’s crossing a line. But he can’t find it in himself to care.
“You think you’re funny, brat?”
Tim’s head pounds and his vision floats. He squints and he snarls.
“Sure,” he snaps.
“You’re dead!” someone yells and suddenly they’re all shouting. Now Tim is the target of both sides.
Alarms are ringing in Tim’s head and he’s moving on instinct and he’s doing just fine until suddenly tires are screeching and headlights are flooding the street. He stumbles and that’s a mistake because someone latches onto his cape and pulls. He gags and the pull isn’t enough to take him down, but it’s enough to make his collar dig into his neck send spiders skittering across his skin.
The anger boiling in his gut gives him enough strength to yank it back and slam the man over his shoulder.
The crowd has grown much bigger now and Tim knows he can’t handle this on his own. He knows he has to turn tail and run. It leaves the thugs to do whatever they please, but he could get seriously hurt or worse yet… die.
“Get out if you have to, no matter what you’re doing,” Bruce’s words float through his overrun head. “The job is never worth you .”
And Tim is so mad and so annoyed and his head hurts so bad and he can’t stand being in the middle of this anymore. He’ll have to bite the bullet and leave this one behind, as much as he hates the thought.
Hands are all over him and he can barely get his hand through to press his emergency beacon. Even if he can get out of this, tears are gathering in his eyes and the sharp pain at his temples is enough to make him gasp.
But then… someone else joins the fight. It’s not Batman, Dick isn’t even in town, and Cass is with Babs for the night. But for the moment, he doesn’t care who it is because whoever they are, they know how to fight and they’re trying to help him.
“Come on, haul ass, kid!” the person shouts once they’ve taken enough of them down to create a path. His voice is deep and carries an accent unique to Crime Alley.
Tim can hardly contain a sob at the sound of it. He runs and the man follows close behind. Tim breaks off and scales the side of a building. He thinks rather belatedly he should’ve thanked the man, but he can’t go back now. He continues climbing until he reaches the roof and once he’s there, he tears at his gloves and his cape and his hands shake until he can’t do anything other than cry. The tears make his head throb and he feels endlessly stupid for crying.
(Two roofs away, fresh from assisting Robin in a fight, Jason Todd spies a perfect opportunity to nab his replacement. A perfect opportunity to nab his replacement, who is shaking, and crying, and rocking back and forth…)
Feet hit the roof and Tim slams a hand over his ear, his eyes already squeezed shut. He wants everything off.
A soft, gentle hand touches his forearm. He flinches but he recognizes the touch, so he doesn’t pull away. He lets his forearm be pulled away from his face and stays still as earplugs are slowly guided into his ears. He doesn’t love the feeling, but they block out every sound other than his own heartbeat, so he sucks it up.
He squints open his eyes and watches hazily as Bruce gathers his discarded cape and gloves. For a minute or two, Bruce doesn’t move a muscle, standing as a protective statue.
Tim’s tears finally slow to a stop
“Home now?” Bruce asks. Tim can’t hear him but he can read his lips and absolutely nothing seems better right now. He nods jerkily and doesn’t protest when Bruce crouches down to gather him into his arms.
Tim feels weak and pathetic and all he wants is to hide, but then Bruce tightens his hold and tucks Tim’s head underneath his chin. Tim takes a deep breath and remembers the last time this happened.
“These things happen, Tim,” Bruce had said. “I don’t want you to feel ashamed.”
Tim lets out the breath and burrows down into the comforting warmth of his father’s arms.
This doesn’t happen often, at least not to this degree, but after the second time it happened on patrol, Bruce figured out a way to make it better, and he’s been doing it since.
Tim hates it… but these things happen.
And maybe that’s okay.
(Two roofs away, Jason Todd watches as his former father carries a tiny, trembling kid off the roof and gently lowers him into the Batmobile. Something in his brain shifts and something in his chest breaks. He turns around and walks away.)
(Two days later, Tim Wayne will shoot up in bed so quickly he almost brains himself on the headboard, because at the very moment he will realize why he recognizes that voice.)
-
“Can you believe that?”
Silence.
“Can you?!”
Snap.
“What.”
Tim’s voice is so icy and venomous and laced with so much frustration that Dick actually flinches. He drops from the handstand he’d reside in for the past five minutes and shifts uncomfortably. For a second, neither of them says a word. Dick is about to speak when the light from Tim’s laptop illuminates the tears gathering in his pale blue eyes.
If Dick had to hazard a guess, they’re not tears of sadness. Tim’s face is burning a splotchy red and his fists are clenched so hard he’s shaking. His pencil, which he’d been frantically scrawling anatomy notes with, lays beside his right fist, snapped in two.
Dick’s shoulders sag and he kneels down in front of his little brother.
“What’s going on, Timmy?” he asks quietly. Tim doesn’t say anything. He sniffles and roughly wipes away the one tear that he couldn’t hold back. “You don’t have to tell me, but I’ll listen if you want to.”
Tim’s shoulders tremble and his mouth twists. It’s the face he makes when he’s really trying not to cry and the sight makes Dick’s heart break into pieces.
“I’ve been working on this all day!” Tim bursts, burying a hand in his already messy hair and pulling.
Dick glances at the notebook page that’s been open since he got here twenty minutes ago. The paper isn’t even half full.
“Is this all you’ve done?” he asks, reaching out to flip the page. Nothing. He hadn’t meant for his words to be a jab, but Tim takes them that way, and Dick realizes his mistake.
“Yes!” he cries, voice cracking in the middle of the word. “I’ve been reading this stupid fucking book for three hours and this is all I’ve fucking done!”
Dick is struck silent for a few moments. In all the years he’s known the boy, Tim was never one to get angry enough to yell. Dick can’t recall a time when he ever did.
“Are you alright?” Dick asks because he has no idea how to deal with this. But he’ll figure it out. He always does.
(He has to.)
(Golden boy, Jason calls him. Goldie, he says. Through the stress, the fear, the trauma, the anxiety, the depression, the anger, Dick almost wishes he could be.)
Tim looks like he wants to say something, but all he seems to be able to do is wave a hand and make faces. Finally, he makes a high-pitched noise of pure frustration.
“No, Dick, I’m not fucking okay!” he shouts. He climbs to his feet and launches his notebook across the room. “I’m not! I can’t fucking do anything anymore! I woke up five minutes later than I’m supposed to and I couldn’t find my headphones because I left them somewhere and then I forgot to grab my textbook from my locker and now I have to use the PDF and I keep losing my spot because I can’t highlight anything and I have to get this done because I’m failing and I can’t do this anymore!”
Dick stands back and lets Tim throw things around and take his anger out in the least harmful way. Nothing he grabs is valuable or easily breakable, so Dick doesn’t intervene until Tim’s hand wraps around the edge of his laptop.
“Whoa there, Timmy, you don’t want to throw that one,” Dick tells him as he reaches out to grab his forearm.
Tim immediately tears his arm away and looks up at Dick with wide eyes.
“Don’t touch me!” he says loudly. Dick holds his hands up in surrender, trying to keep his own hurt and frustration off his face.
“Okay, I won’t touch you, it’s fine,” Dick says calmly.
Tim seems to register the words and the burning fury in his eyes slowly melts away. He looks around at the mess he’s made, looks at the pens and pencils strewn across the floor, the papers resting on nearly every surface, the notebooks lying open on the floor.
He looks back to Dick. His eyes are wide with mortification and his lip is trembling again.
“Sh-shit,” he stutters. His mouth opens again like he’s going to say more, but nothing comes out, and his entire body wilts.
Dick just wants to wrap his baby brother up in his arms and hold him close and never let anyone hurt him ever again. He hates that he can’t do that. He hates the panicked look in his eye, the shaking in his hands, the defensive curl of shoulders.
“Can I hug you, please?” Dick asks, his voice breaking with the tears he’s holding back. He hates seeing any of his brothers in pain, and Tim feels so much of it.
(He doesn’t deserve a single second of it.)
Tim doesn’t bother to answer, instead opting to duck his head and walk straight into Dick’s open arms. Dick wraps him up and presses him close to his chest. Tim is still short enough that he can rest his cheek comfortably on top of his head.
“What’s got you so scrambled up, Timmy?” he asks quietly, gently rocking them back and forth. “What’s going on?”
Tim nuzzles closer to Dick’s chest and heaves a shuddering sigh.
“I don’t know,” he says. Exhaustion weighs down every word. “I don’t know what happened. Last year I was acing everything and now I’m failing anatomy and calculus.”
Dick frowns. “You love calc, don’t you?”
“Yes!” Tim cries, his fists clenching in the back of Dick’s shirt and his forehead pressing into his shoulder in his frustration. “I love calculus. It’s my favorite class. But I just… I can’t--I can’t do it anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
Tim makes another frustrated noise and pulls away from the hug. He runs a hand through his messy, too-long hair and pulls.
“It’s like, I,” he starts, heaves a heavy sigh, and continues, “nothing connects anymore. I’ve been reading the same page for thirty minutes now. I’ve read it five times! It’s like… it’s like I’m stupid now or something!”
Dick’s fist clenches.
“Alright, sit down,” he says, ignoring Tim’s weak protests and guiding him toward the bed by his shoulders. He sits down beside him and holds the boy’s face gently but firmly in his hands. “Timothy Wayne, you are anything but stupid. You are the smartest goddamn kid I’ve ever met.”
“You don’t have to lie to me to make me feel better,” Tim says bitterly, but Dick can see the hope sparkling faintly in his eyes. So he pushes on.
“Timmy, that’s ridiculous. I would never lie to you,” he promises, brushing his thumbs over his little brother’s cheeks. “I meant it when I say you’re the smartest kid I’ve met in my whole life. I’m always amazed by the things you come up with.”
“Then why can’t I do anything?” Tim asks. His voice holds a hint of desperation.
Dick takes a moment to search his face before lowering his hands. A disappointed look flickers fleetingly across Tim’s face at the loss of contact, so Dick grabs one of his hands instead, and Tim doesn’t fight it.
“Okay, how about this. Tell me everything you have to get done right now,” Dick says.
Tim’s face falls before it goes blank once more. “I have to finish these anatomy notes and the study guide for the test tomorrow. And I have calc homework due tomorrow. And I have an English essay that was due today that I haven’t started yet that the teacher gave me two days to turn in before I get an F. I also haven’t written my report from last night and Bruce wants it. And I need to do some research on a guy we think is connected to a weapons deal Kon caught wind of in Metropolis.”
Dick lets that roll around in his mind for a moment before nodding slowly. His hand tightens around Tim’s when the boy’s breath starts to hitch and his eyes begin to fill with panic.
“Alright, that’s okay, is there anything else?” Dick asks gently.
“I have a Spanish quiz tomorrow and I haven’t studied for it at all,” Tim replies miserably. Dick can’t help but wince. It’s already an overload of work, but on top of that, Spanish is one of Tim’s worst languages. They all have their strong suits; Dick with his native tongue and English, and then French (he’d already been learning it from the fire-breather in Haly’s), Jason with Spanish (he’d already known most of the spoken language from his life in Crime Alley and on the streets), and Tim with Russian (he’d started teaching himself when he was twelve and it just stuck). But they also have their weaknesses. Unfortunately, Spanish is one of Tim’s, which is why he chose it his freshman year as a “second language” instead of Russian.
Apparently, it’s proving to be quite difficult.
“Alright,” Dick breathes. “Alright. Here’s what we’re gonna do: I’ll talk to Bruce about foregoing the report and taking a few days off from the Teen Titans.”
Tim’s eyes widen. “But I need-”
“Tim,” Dick interrupts gently. “What you need is a breather. There’s nothing wrong with taking a break every once in a while. I take breaks from the Titans when I need to.”
Tim doesn’t say anything before he nods reluctantly.
“Great,” Dick says, smiling. “So, it’s only three o’clock, and now you just need to finish your homework.”
“But what about patrol?”
“I’ll talk to Bruce about that, too,” he tells him. “I’m sure Cass can cover for you tonight. Maybe Steph can cover for me.”
“Wait, what? Why?” Tim asks, frowning.
Dick shrugs. “I can take a night off if it means helping my little brother.”
Tim’s face immediately erupts with guilt. “You don’t have to do that.” He pulls his hand away and draws his knees up to his chest.
“You’re right, I don’t have to, but I want to,” Dick replies.
“Really?” Tim asks in a tiny voice.
“Of course,” Dick says before standing. “Alright, I’m gonna go talk to Bruce. Why don’t you clean some of this up and figure out what you want to work on first, and I’ll help you with whatever you need.”
A tiny smile grows on the younger boy’s face and to Dick, everything is suddenly right with the world.
-
There are some things in life that Tim has just resigned himself to never understanding. It pisses him off that he can’t figure everything out and know everything about everything, but there are just some things he won’t get.
Like Damian. Damian is so confusing to Tim and it’s borderline exhausting dealing with the newest Robin.
It seems like no matter what Tim does, Damian is pissed off, and Tim has tried everything. He really has. He’s tried helping as much as he can and doing everything to get on Damian’s good side, but then the kid just yells at him for getting in the way. Then he tried to stay away from him as much as possible and only work with him when he absolutely had to, but then Damian just called him a lazy slacker, and Tim just about lost it.
So there’s no winning with Damian. And at this point, Tim has just accepted that it’s one of those things he’ll never get. He doesn’t really care at all how many times Dick tells him to be patient and give Damian some space.
But just because he can’t stand Damian doesn’t mean he doesn’t love Damian’s pets.
Well, Titus and Alfred at least. Titus is big and soft and heavy and he’s so easy to read. Alfred is lazy, fluffy, surprisingly tolerant, and even though he kind of makes Tim’s eyes itch, he puts up with Tim shoving his face into his side.
Of the two of them, Titus is his favorite. Mostly because Tim loves dogs with every fiber of his being, but also because he’s just the best dog.
He comes to that conclusion on the night before he has to make a big speech in front of the WE board and he’s just incapable of falling asleep or even sitting down.
He’s been stuck in the living room of the manor for at least an hour at this point, and he’s dissolved into pacing back and forth across the floor, one hand curled into a fist and tapping a steady beat on the center of his chest, and the other tucked in his pocket where his trusty black and blue Tangle sits.
“However,” Tim drones as he repeats his speech for the fifth time. He pauses to finally take a breath and closes his eyes for a second, wishing over and over that the sick feeling in his stomach would go away. “However, however…”
He doesn’t continue for another minute, repeating the same word under his breath until he jerks to a stop. Sitting at his feet, mouth open in a wide grin and tail flapping against the hardwood is Titus. The Great Dane is panting and his tongue is sticking out and a little bit of the rolling in his Tim’s stomach eases.
“Hey, Titus,” Tim says quietly, dropping into a tight crouch and putting his hand out for the dog to sniff. Titus doesn’t waste any time shoving his nose into Tim’s palm and once Tim has given the side of his head sufficient scratches, he launches to his feet and shoves his way into Tim’s personal space.
Tim lets out a quiet grunt of surprise when he finds himself sitting on the floor with Titus licking his face enthusiastically. Normally, the wet and sticky feeling on his face would make him cringe into a pile on the floor, but the weight of Titus’ massive paws on his thighs is enough to make him sit through it.
“However,” Tim starts again. This time he powers through and gets to the end of the speech. He’s run through it five times now without having to read from his prompt cards, but somehow, he still doesn’t feel any better. All he can think about is all of the people he will have to stand in front of, the older businessmen and women staring him down as he stands at the front of the room-
Tim’s running thoughts are interrupted when Titus plants his paws firmly on Tim’s chest and shoves him down to the ground.
“Oof,” Tim huffs out quietly, staring up at the ceiling in mild surprise as the dog settles on Tim’s stomach and chest. After a moment or two of shifting, Titus drops his head onto Tim’s shoulder with a large sigh and a quiet growl.
Unwittingly, Tim mimics the sound and then brings his hand up to rest on Titus’ head. As content as he was pacing, this is ten million times better.
Titus is no small dog, and the heavy weight settling in Tim’s bones calms his stomach and breaks up the tension in his chest. Tim’s eyes close rather quickly after that, and his hands find themselves running over the short fur of Titus’ shoulders.
Tim has no idea how long he lies there on the living room floor with a dog on top of him, but eventually, his blissful peace is interrupted by a sound that truly haunts his nightmares.
“Tt.”
Tim’s eyes snap open and immediately every muscle in his body tightens. Titus notices the sudden change instantly, and he lazily leans forward to plant another wet kiss on Tim’s cheek.
“Why are you defiling Titus?” Damian asks, his nose turned up even though he’s already looking down on Tim.
Tim sighs, long and slow, and presses one hand against his temple to stave off the headache that will no doubt come from this conversation.
“I’m not doing anything to your dog, Damian, he did this himself,” he says tiredly. He doesn’t bother to move his head so he can look at Damian, the kid will probably stomp his way over fairly soon anyway.
“Titus,” Damian snaps, whistling and pointing to the spot on the floor next to him. When the dog gives no indication that he plans on moving anytime soon, Damian huffs and takes a seat on the couch. He’s scowling and his hands are folded tightly in his lap. “Drake.”
Tim twitches.
“Wayne, actually,” he corrects casually. “Yes?”
The scowl deepens. “What on Earth are you doing?”
“I’m just lying here. Minding my business. Not bothering anybody.”
“Obviously that’s not what I meant,” Damian grumbles.
Tim finally lifts his head and lays a gentle hand on top of Titus’ head.
“Oh, you mean this?” he asks innocently. “I’m pretty comfortable like this.”
“Are you ill?”
Tim raises an eyebrow. “No? Why?”
“Titus weighs nearly as much as you do, that cannot possibly be comfortable.”
Tim remains silent for a long few moments. How would he even explain to Damian why he’s doing what he’s doing?
That’s when it occurs to him.
Damian has no idea that Tim’s autistic. Bruce doesn’t tell people unless Tim asks him to, Tim doesn’t advertise it because he doesn’t really care to, and Damian would have no reason to assume.
“Hey, Damian,” Tim says and waits for the quiet grunt of acknowledgment before he continues. “Did Bruce ever tell you that I’m autistic?”
A long silence follows.
Then, finally.
“No.”
Tim tries for a smile (he’s not entirely sure if it works or not), gently shoves at Titus until the big oaf moves, and sits up. Titus settles back down with his head on Tim’s thigh and sighs in content.
“Do you know what that means?” he asks. He gently grabs one of Titus’ floppy ears and rubs it between his fingers.
“I’m not an idiot,” Damian snaps, and Tim sighs.
“I know you’re not, but you’re still not all-knowing,” Tim tells him.
Damian’s face twitches and he keeps his gaze solely fixed on his dog. Tim waits the few minutes it takes for Damian to finally continue.
“I do not,” he says quietly, and it takes Tim a second to realize what he’s even talking about. When he does, he smiles and moves on to scratching behind Titus’ ears.
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he teases, just because he knows he can. Damian huffs in indignation but doesn’t rise to the bait for once.
“I have heard the term before, but I am… unaware of what it entails,” Damian finally admits.
“Do you wanna know about it?” Tim asks.
Silence.
More silence.
Tim thinks maybe he’s misstepped somewhere, even though he thought he had a pretty good handle on this conversation. Then again, he often thinks that, and then things go down the drain really quick.
More silence.
“Yes.”
Over an hour later, Tim’s stomach has finally settled and Damian has an extensive list of notes, things to research, and a brain running a mile a minute.
“This has been informative,” Damian says stiffly.
“Yeah,” Tim says quietly, his eyes fluttering as he tries to stay awake. During their talk, he had made his way back to lying down and Titus had taken up residence over his legs and stomach. The pressure has been so nice that it made him sleepy and it’s also nearly three in the morning, and Tim really hasn’t slept in over forty-eight hours, so he’s pretty beat. “Thanks, Damian.”
Damian makes a confused sound in the back of his throat. “What for?”
Tim smiles sleepily and wraps his arms around Titus one more time before he moves him out of the way to get up.
“You actually took the time to listen to what I had to say so you can understand me better,” Tim tells him. “Maybe you do actually like me a little bit.”
“I don’t… not like you,” Damian says incredibly awkwardly. “You are… tolerable.”
Tim gives Titus a gentle shove and rolls to his feet.
“Aw, kid, love you, too,” Tim teases, because getting affection from Damian is like ripping out teeth, so that was pretty close.
Tim just manages to slip out of the room before any of Damian’s projectiles make contact.
-
Every time Tim comes home, Titus is very excited to see him.
(For a while, he had thought Damian would be jealous, because the kid is very possessive, especially when it comes to his ridiculous amount of pets.)
This time, though, something is off. When Tim steps into the manor after a two-week mission, the manor is completely silent. There’s no excited barking, no Alfred anywhere to be seen, no cat padding into the room to investigate the person who’s entered his abode.
It’s just… silent.
Tim is immediately suspicious.
He makes his way to the living room, which is where he can usually find Damian at this time of day. As he walks through the halls and gets closer, voices grow louder.
“Worry not, Father,” he hears Damian say and wow, Tim can hardly believe that he missed hearing Damian’s unnaturally pompous language.
He doesn’t hear what Damian says after that but when he steps into the room, everyone is silent. Again. It’s weird. Unusual.
“What’s going on?” he asks immediately.
None of this is right. Bruce is sitting on the couch, turned slightly so he can see Damian standing behind him. Damian is slightly bent over with his eyes glued to something on the floor.
“Timothy,” Damian says hastily, straightening up and lacing his fingers behind his back.
(Ever since their early morning bonding session, Damian has been a hell of a lot more respectful and just generally brotherly, and Tim is completely down for it.)
(He hasn’t been called Drake in weeks.)
“Yes?” Tim says slowly.
Damian makes a face and it takes Tim a second to figure out that he’s trying to smile. He glances at Bruce, an eyebrow raised, but when he gets nothing, he looks back to his brother. Damian is busy glancing back and forth between something on the floor and Tim.
“Alright, what the hell is going on, what’s over there,” Tim steps forward and Damian doesn’t move so he keeps going, and when he lays eyes on whatever’s getting Damian so freaked, he jerks to a stop. “Oh my god.”
Sitting on the floor, silent and grinning, is a dog.
“This is Leia,” Damian says. Tim is snapped out of his reverie for a brief moment.
“Ha! I knew you liked those movies!” Tim teases before his attention is drawn back to the dog on the floor. “You got another dog?”
He doesn’t wait for Damian to reply before he slowly sinks to his knees in front of the calm animal and reaches a hand out for her to sniff.
“No, I have not,” Damian replies. “I am fostering her. She would have been put down had I not.”
Tim scowls. He’s been trying to organize an effort to purchase and put an end to all of the kill shelters in the city, but he hasn’t told Bruce that yet. He isn’t going to propose it until he has it all figured out.
Leia gives Tim’s hand a good sniff until finally she just gently presses her nose into his palm. Tim melts where he kneels and he rearranges so he’s sitting with his legs crossed beneath him.
“She is a-” Damian starts but Tim doesn’t let him finish.
“American Staffie, yeah,” Tim hums, gently holding her face in his hands and brushing his thumbs across the silky short fur beneath her eyes. Her eyes droop and then close and she melts under his hands. “She’s beautiful.”
“Indeed,” Damian agrees. “I was told she is approximately two years old and was rescued from a puppy mill.”
Tim’s head shoots up and his lip curls.
Damian continues before Tim can verbally express his displeasure. “The shelter believes she was not able to be used for breeding and was neglected as a result.”
“When did you apply to foster?” Tim asks, eagerly hugging Leia to his chest when she rises to her feet and presses into him.
“He applied last week, apparently,” Bruce replies drily. “Which he decided to inform me of twenty minutes ago.”
“Father, please, it’s not as if you will have any part in taking care of Leia,” Damian scoffs and Tim snorts.
“Yeah, Bruce, please,” Tim teases.
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose and looks skyward with exasperation.
“Anyhow,” Damian says, “She had three days before she would have been put down. Nobody was interested in adopting her, so I took it upon myself to foster her until someone would.”
“Damian, stop talking,” Tim says suddenly, pressing his cheek into the top of Leia’s broad head. Damian makes an offended noise but stops talking.
Tim could do it. He could do it. He wants to do it. Should he do it?
“I’m,” he starts, but then scraps the sentence and huffs out a breath. “She’s mine, I’m adopting her, thanks, Damian.”
He’s not sure what he expects when he looks up, but the tremendously victorious grin on Damian’s face is not it.
“You planned this,” Tim says, squinting up at his brother, who just laughs.
“I did, and you have fallen for my plan beautifully.”
And. Well. Given the plans Damian used to concoct at Tim’s expense, this definitely could have been worse.
Tim looks down at Leia’s sparkling eyes and decides that yeah, this’ll be just fine.
-
“I don’t know why I let myself think you didn’t know about this place.”
Tim doesn’t move from his spot on the floor. He’s comfortable where he is, curled up against Jason’s ratty sofa with his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms cradled against his chest. His mask is somewhere underneath the wobbly coffee table where he left it when he stumbled through.
He doesn’t respond.
“Replacement?” Jason calls. Before he hadn’t even walked into the room, he’d just known that Tim was around because the younger bird had dropped a few things on his way to the living room.
Jason steps into the room, his hands busy unstrapping his weapons from his body and loosening the clasps and zippers of his suit.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
Tim doesn’t respond.
“Timbit?”
Tim distantly registers that there is a sound, but it means nothing.
“Are you hurt?” Jason doesn’t ask so much as demands. He crouches down beside Tim and reaches out to touch his shoulder.
The second Jason’s hand comes in contact with Tim’s exposed skin, Tim’s whole body curls away with nothing but a low, cut-off whimper.
“What the fuck,” Jason says, popping back to his feet. “I’m calling Dick, I’m not dealing with this shit.”
Somewhere deep in Tim’s brain, a little boy stands in front of his parents and listens to them as they tell him he’s not worth their time, and they don’t need to deal with this. Tim curls further into himself and his eyes slip closed.
Off in the distance, “what the fuck is going on here? Come get your bird.”
The rest dips away from Tim’s ears.
Time passes, Jason hangs up the phone, moves around his apartment, turns some lights on, some lights off, turns the TV on, turns the kitchen sink on, turns it off, comes back to the living room, sits on the couch next to where Tim sits on the floor, stays there for a while.
It’s maybe twenty minutes later when Tim’s hand finally twitches where it rests against his chest. He blinks a few times and lets out a deep sigh.
The storm in his brain drifts away and he curls tighter where he sits.
“You okay, babybird?” Jason asks, and Tim twitches. He hadn’t forgotten Jason was there, definitely not, because the strong presence was comforting, and he felt safe and protected, but hearing Jason’s voice again without any trace of malice is something he wasn’t prepared for.
It takes him a minute, the words rolling around in his brain.
“Okay,” Tim repeats, his voice raspy and tired. “Okay.”
“Alright, kid,” Jason murmurs, before moving from the couch to sit down beside Tim on the floor. “I called Dick.”
Tim hums, prompting Jason to continue.
“He told me what that was,” he goes on, before clearing his throat awkwardly. “I… ah, sorry I said I didn’t wanna deal with you.”
Tim looks up, confused down to his bones. Why is Jason apologizing? To him? Tim’s the one who broke into Jason’s apartment and made him deal with him while he pulled himself together.
“Don’t look at me with those Bambi eyes,” Jason turns away, frowning. “I’m capable of being nice once in a while.”
“Pigs fly,” Tim tells him, and Jason scoffs.
“When pigs fly?” Tim nods. “You’re funny, kid. I’ve seen flying pigs before, don’t test me.”
Tim giggles quietly, leaning toward his older brother. When he looks up at the television, he starts laughing again.
“Cartoon Network?” he asks and Jason elbows him gently in the side.
“Hey, I know you love this shit,” Jason snaps with no real heat.
“Mhm,” Tim hums.
“Dick told me, so shut up and watch some…” he trails off, pressing the info button on the remote. “Fucking Regular Show with me.”
Tim smiles and settles back into the couch, content.
Maybe Jason doesn’t hate him as much as he thought.
-
Tim doesn’t have dreams often. He doesn’t like having dreams. They’re never fun. He can hardly ever remember them when he has them, but the ones he does remember aren’t good.
When he was a kid, he used to dream about his parents dying halfway across the world and leaving him homeless. He once dreamed of his house burning down. Getting in a car accident. Anxiety-fueled terrors where he’s holding up the whole world on his shoulders.
(He used to dream of his parents coming home and hugging him and taking him to the zoo or taking him out to eat or taking him to see a movie, but then he’d wake up, and he would turn the heat up in his cold, empty house, and wait for the phone call from his parents that would never come.
Those ones hurt the most.
They never remembered him.)
When his parents died, he dreamt about it. He saw his dad dying in gruesome ways. He saw his mother begging for her life as she was brutally slaughtered in front of his eyes. It didn’t have to make sense and it didn’t have to be real, but it still left him with a heart beating a mile a minute.
As Robin, he dreamt of Dick plunging into the harbor and never coming back up. Of diving in to pull his brother’s limp body back to the surface, but never being able to reach the top.
Of watching Jason run away, knowing what would happen to him, and Jason not being able to hear him no matter how much he screamed to turn back!
Damian falling into the pale claws of the Joker and having to watch in flashes as his baby brother was broken into pieces.
Bruce’s face in the center of his vision, telling him that he needs quiet hands, holding his hands down against the table to stop them from tapping, telling him that he’s a disappointment, telling him he’s not a good Robin, telling him he’s worth nothing.
But now, he barely dreams.
Except just now. Just now, he had the worst nightmare he’s ever had, and he feels like he can barely breathe.
Tim stumbles out of bed, his leg getting caught on his tangled blankets and nearly sending him to the floor. Once he finds his footing, he stands in the center of the room, his palms pressed into the sides of his head until his forearms start to shake. His chest rises and falls rapidly, each exhale in danger of becoming a whimper.
He doesn’t want to cry. Crying makes his face feel tight. Makes it feel itchy. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want to.
He needs to hit something.
Tim rapidly pulls on a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He bites into his tongue as he dashes from his room. He doesn’t want to wake anybody up, because the thought of opening up his mouth and forming words is enough to make him want to cry.
As he makes his way down the stairs into the cave, his jaw working harshly, he wants to scream. He wants to scream, but nothing’s coming out. He wants to yell his emotions to the bats hanging from the ceiling, but all that comes out when he opens his mouth is a puff of air.
When Tim wraps his hands, he doesn’t do a very good job, but he doesn’t care too much. His fists make contact with the bag and the force of the punch shakes down his arm and through his whole body. It feels good.
He’s hitting it with everything he has, almost hysterically, and his knuckles probably hurt, but he can’t really tell, he’s not really paying attention.
“Brother,” a quiet voice says.
Tim sucks in a sharp breath, faltering on his next punch. It makes contact and he finally notices the blood dripping from one of his hands.
“Little brother,” the voice says again.
He turns around slowly, his eyes glued to the floor. Cass is standing a few feet away, her hands linked in front of her.
Tim doesn’t say anything as his eyes flick from the floor to his trembling, bloody hands. He tries to speak, but he still can’t, and he whimpers his frustration.
“Bleeding,” Cass tells him, and he looks up at her.
Yes, he’s very aware that he’s bleeding. He should probably fix that. He doesn’t move.
“Help,” she says, offering a hand. He lets her take one of his and follows her over to the medbay. She doesn’t say a word as she unwraps his hands, cleans his split knuckles, and sticks bandages over them.
He wants to thank her. He doesn’t.
“What happened?” Cass asks, placing Tim’s hand gently on his knee and beginning to pack away the medical supplies. “It’s early.”
Tim huffs and curls his hands into fists even though it stings. He shakes his head.
Cass watches him for a few seconds, her head tilted to the side. Her chin dips toward her chest and she makes a gesture that Tim only vaguely recognizes.
Sign? she asks, and Tim sighs.
He shakes his head. He’s not good enough to talk to her in sign language. He wishes he was.
“Learn?”
Tim straightens in his seat. He knows enough sign language to be passable and enough signs to use it in the field, but he doesn’t know anything useful to have a conversation. But he could learn.
He would love to learn.
He nods enthusiastically, excitement thrumming through his whole body.
Cass smiles, and maybe it’ll be okay.
-
Tim has a lot of bad habits. He’s pretty much a walking bad habit.
He doesn’t drink nearly as much coffee as everyone thinks he does because the caffeine makes him even sleepier, but he does tend to leave empty bottles or cans of iced tea everywhere. Alfred has found them in piles underneath Tim’s bed, all over tables on the Batcomputer desk, he’s even found them in the attic.
He doodles all over any paper placed in front of him and it took at least a year for Bruce to get him to stop drawing all over their files. He just gets bored, okay?
If he’s not drawing on papers, then he’s folding or rolling the edges. It drives Bruce insane when suddenly all of his files or work papers look like they’ve been thrown all over the ground. When Tim almost started doing it to one of Jason’s books, the older Robin nearly threw Tim out the window.
But nothing compares to his bad habit of chewing. Tim chews absolutely everything. He’s ruined the collars of countless t-shirts, demolished the hard ends of sweatshirt drawstrings, turns drinking straws into nearly unrecognizable coils, and ruins the caps of any pen that makes it into his hands.
But worst of all, he bites up the inside of his own mouth. It’s just a habit that he’s always had. He bites the inside of his cheeks and lips and they’re almost always torn up and raw. He usually doesn’t pay much mind to it because the pain isn’t too much and he ignores it, but when it bleeds, it’s rather annoying.
Tim isn’t actively hiding it, but nobody really knows that he does it, until one day, Alfred finds out, and he isn’t really happy about it.
Tim is seated at the breakfast bar, absentmindedly working on his Gotham replica in Minecraft and Alfred is working on something by the sink. Leia’s lying at Tim’s feet, snoring away with one of her front legs draped over her favorite squeaky bat toy. Tim had been working in his room beforehand when the desire to be around someone other than her struck him and he approached Alfred like a magnet. He hadn’t even said hello when he approached, but Alfred had offered him a tiny smile and a cup of his favorite tea.
Twenty minutes later, a metallic taste hits Tim’s tongue and he’s broken out of his daze. He runs his tongue over his teeth and when he gets nothing but more metal, he sighs quietly. He sticks the tip of his finger in between his lips just to confirm and when it comes back covered in watery red, he frowns.
“Master Tim?” Alfred asks, making Tim twitch. He hadn’t realized the man was so close, but when he looks up, Alfred is standing right on the other side of the breakfast bar. “Are you alright?”
“Um,” Tim starts before stopping. He swallows a mouthful of saliva mixed with blood and considers lying but then sees the look on Alfred’s face and decides that wouldn’t be the best idea. “I’m good, I just chewed through my lip again.”
“Again?” Alfred asks, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Yeah,” Tim says immediately, his tone mirroring Alfred’s confusion. “It happens all the time.”
He reaches up and pulls his bottom lip down, revealing the raw inside of his mouth.
“Master Tim!” Alfred says, standing up straighter. “That most certainly is not good for you!”
Tim presses escape on his laptop to stop a pesky bat from leaving his incomplete Cave and twists his fingers together.
“Uh, you’re probably right,” Tim replies, shrugging his shoulders with discomfort. “I don’t know, I’ve always done it, it’s fine.”
Alfred looks affronted at the suggestion that it is fine because Tim is bleeding, it most definitely is not fine.
“Please do try to stop that,” Alfred tells him, and Tim hears him but just kind of shrugs, before going back to his game.
Tim assumes that the topic will die for the foreseeable future and goes back to carefully constructing the T-Rex in the Cave.
Until two days later when Alfred quietly and inconspicuously approaches him while he’s sprawled across the couch in the living room, Leia laying across his torso and a cartoon playing on the television.
“Master Tim,” Alfred says in greeting, coming to stand behind the couch. Tim looks up and gently shoves Leia away so he can sit up properly.
“Hi,” he says, his eyes flicking back and forth before they narrow suspiciously. “Is everything okay?”
The corner of Alfred’s lip turns up just slightly. “Oh, everything is quite alright. You have received a package in the mail.”
Tim’s confusion only increases tenfold. He didn’t order anything, and nobody told him to expect anything, but he takes the small envelope from Alfred anyway. Alfred nods with satisfaction and turns on his heel, exiting the room.
He lets Leia sniff at the package until she’s satisfied and rests her head on his thigh to doze off again.
Tim tears into the package and peers inside, frowning at the black string he can see and the small red case. There’s also a bracelet, but he doesn’t pay attention to that, and instead pulls out both objects. It’s a necklace and what looks to be a retainer case.
But the necklace.
The necklace is very interesting.
It’s attached to a cord and on the end is a silicon bat. Tim’s not really sure what it is other than a necklace until he pulls out the paper that came with it, detailing how to properly clean and store chewable jewelry.
Chewable jewelry.
Tim does know what this is, and he’s equal parts surprised and fucking elated that he’s holding what he is.
He’s always wanted something like this, but he was too afraid of his parents finding it and then he was too afraid that his family would think it’s weird, so he never bought anything.
Slowly, like he’s afraid of breaking it, Tim clasps the necklace around his neck and lets it rest against his chest. He shoves it in his mouth and bites down on one of the wings, running his tongue over the grooves.
He decides at that moment that it’s the best thing he’s ever had, and he’s going to cherish it until he dies.
He lets it go and smiles down at Leia as she grins up at him.
He loves it.
It’s a bat, resting right over his heart.