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Tim is born sick.
Premature with a weak heart and even weaker lungs.
His mother turns her nose in disdain as she looks at his fragile, wrinkly body.
The nurse asks her if she wants to hold him.
She declines.
Tim spends his first weeks of life lying alone, hooked up to tubes and wires.
His mother holds him for twenty minutes when they are released, holding him on the car ride back to the manor.
That is the longest she will ever hold him.
.-~*~-.
Tim is a sick baby.
He has harsh coughs that rattle his tiny chest. He has runny noses that his parents don’t dare take care of themselves. He has rashes and hives and every other inconveniencing nuisance that a baby can have.
His mother does not rock him in her arms. His father does not hum him soothing songs to settle his little nerves.
Tim just cries. He cries and cries.
And his parents leave him.
That is when he learns.
When he isn’t good, his parents leave.
.-~*~-.
Tim is an unwell toddler.
After their night at the circus, he has been a blubbering mess.
His parents shove him away to therapists that use words like “traumatized” and “clinically anxious.”
His parents take him out of therapy.
Tim tries his hardest to not be such a burden. To not let his emotions take over. But everything reminds him of the fragility of life. Everything reminds him of seeing the picturesque parents of a perfect family plummet and fall.
If tragedy strikes people as good as them, then what will come of Tim?
Tim bottles his distress. Bottles his trauma. But it’s too late.
His parents leave again.
.-~*~-.
Tim is not a sick child.
Well, he is. But he doesn’t dare show it.
He is at the annual Wayne charity gala. He wheezes labored breaths.
He plasters on a smile, tiny chubby cheeks flushed and puffy.
His father has a warning palm on his shoulder blades, a reminder to stay in line, but all he can focus on is he’s touching me, Father is touching me.
He relishes in the rare contact and makes sure that he is absolutely perfect.
Tim skipped preschool and kindergarten, not needing to waste time on something so frivolous and unimportant, and is now a four year old in first grade.
His parents boast about this and it makes his heart flutter and soar.
Father lets him grab some refreshments, some meat and cheese from the charcuterie board. He nibbles on them gratefully but can’t help the nausea churning in his gut.
He swallows back the bile that bubbles in his throat and smiles harder. Maybe it he focuses on his presentation, he’ll forget all about the way his stomach flips and gurgles unhappily.
Dick Grayson spots him at the bar, sipping at a ginger ale in hopes that it will settle his momentary weakness.
In his pure starstruck panic, Tim forgets to hold back.
He hurls all over Dick and his expensive suit.
His parents scream at him the whole car ride home.
And then they leave again.
.-~*~-.
Tim is an unwell pre-teen.
He doesn’t feel as though he is, but he must be if he considers parkouring across rooftops in the dead of the night in the most crime-ridden city with his thousand dollar camera is a better idea than staying in the safety of his multi-million dollar home.
He doesn’t feel as though he is, but he must be if he finds more solace in the hero worship he has for Dick Grayson than he ever did from his own flesh and blood.
He doesn’t feel as though he is, but he is.
When he comes home — knees and palms scuffed up from not so stellar landings, shivering and red nosed from the chilly midnight air — to an empty, lonely home, he has nothing to hide.
Because there is no one to notice.
When his parents come home and notice that his creamy skin is marred with scabs, they scold him. His mother pokes into the fresh wounds to make a point.
But she was touching him. And that was a gift in itself.
.-~*~-.
Tim is not Robin.
He wears the title, he dons the colors, but he will never truly be Robin.
Tim is not anything to Bruce Wayne but Robin.
Hardly even that.
He is a pest. A leech that has latched itself into Bruce’s life.
Though it’s not a completely parasitic relationship — with Tim still trying and trying to mend things in Bruce’s broken, bloody world — he definitely isn’t wanted.
He is nothing more but an asset to aid Batman. His only purpose is to keep him in line, to bring him to the light.
His wants, his desires, his crushing hope that he will one day be valued and wanted? They don’t matter.
He is just a title. A meaningless boy in colors that aren’t his own.
Bruce does not leave.
But Tim is waiting for the day he does.
.-~*~-.
Tim’s mother is dead.
Her death rattles him to the core, leaves him empty and numb in ways that settle deep in his bones.
He never truly knew his mother. He clung onto the fleeting moments they shared. Clung onto the feeling of her manicured nails brushing his skin for short, far between occasions. Clung onto the praise that she would spew only in public to people who didn’t give a damn about him or her alike. Clung onto the infinitesimal amount of care she threw his way, clung so hard to it because he was starving for her attention.
And now she’s gone.
And he’ll never have it.
.-~*~-.
Tim is not Robin.
Officially, this time.
His father is out of his coma and has forbade him to return to the capes.
Robin was… it was a haven in his worthless, lonely life.
But now he wanders the echoing halls of his manor, acting as though his father has done him the greatest service for what he believes to be protection.
He does as he’s told.
He doesn’t dare let himself be a nuisance or bother.
Doesn’t even think about letting his emotions spill out.
He’s better than that.
He has to be.
.-~*~-.
His father is dead.
And Tim is Robin.
Tim isn’t Robin, but he has the title, the colors back.
He lives with Bruce in a house that is a different kind of lonely.
Because at least the old lonely was from being alone.
Bruce is lighter. He has more things to live for.
He doesn’t really need Tim.
Bruce hasn’t left yet.
But Tim is waiting for the day he does.
.-~*~-.
Bruce leaves.
They say he’s dead but he’s not, he’s not, he’s not.
He can’t be dead because if he is, then that means…
Kon is dead. Bart is dead. Tim’s Robin is dead.
Dick took it and gave it to Damian because of course he did.
Tim was never worthy of the title and it’s not his to give away. It’s Dick’s.
Damian’s place in the family is obvious. No matter his faults or the seething hatred he releases onto Tim, he is welcomed back with loving arms.
Those loving arms are not for Tim.
They never have been.
Tim leaves before he can be left again.
He goes to prove how worthy he is to be part of the family. He goes to find Bruce to show that he can bring back the core to the crumbling Waynes. Show that he’s enough so they won’t toss him away.
.-~*~-.
He brings back Bruce.
Bruce reintegrates himself to the new shattered dynamic with effortless ease, just as Tim suspected.
And suddenly he’s present in a way he’s never been.
He says that he had a lot of introspection during his journey through the timestream.
Tim doesn’t understand.
Bruce makes an effort to talk to Tim and engage into deeper, more thorough conversations that don’t pertain to the caped world or Wayne Enterprises business.
Tim doesn’t understand.
He suspects this is his way of testing him, so Tim tries to find the right answers. But he can’t find the right answers because Bruce never seems satisfied with them.
He doesn’t know what the right answers are.
Dick also begins to insert himself more into Tim’s life.
He invites Tim to go grab lunch with him or to watch movies with him or work cases with him.
Dick also makes an effort to make amends. He encourages a tenacious alliance between Damian and Tim and encourages them to work together more.
Damian actually does.
Tim doesn’t understand.
Tim realizes that his successes in bringing Bruce back must have proven his worth.
But now that he has been accepted, he doesn’t know what to do.
He’s never planned this far.
He doesn’t know much about what it’s supposed to be like being in a — he’s hesitant to refer to himself as even part of their — family.
But he knows how it works.
He must be at his best. He must continue to earn their approval. He must prove his worth or they will leave.
There is no room for weakness. There is no room for imperfection.
Tim knows better than to let that show.
So he becomes what he thinks they want.
.-~*~-.
Tim is getting sick.
He doesn’t notice it at first because he’s done much more with much worse.
He’s got a bit of a fever, though he’s been having those frequently. He’s got a headache, but then again, when does he not? And he’s got a stiff neck which he just rubs mindlessly at while he works on his paperwork.
Tim cannot, will not, allow something as trivial as what seems like a bad head cold to interfere with his work.
As the day progresses, the dull ache in his temples becomes a throb. His stomach growls and churns uncomfortably. He is barely able to stomach his salad from lunch, only managing a few bites.
But he pushes forward. He has work to do.
Evening comes quick. It’s Friday family dinner and Tim is bringing dessert.
As he enters the bakery, the sickeningly sweet aroma of chocolate and sugar filling the air, Tim has to swallow down his meager lunch heading back the wrong way.
He takes the cake and gags as the smell pollutes the air in his car.
It’s a grueling car ride and Tim can’t imagine being able to sit at the table with the fumes of different dishes all exuded into the air, let alone actually eating any of it.
But he will. It is dinner table etiquette to eat what you are served and to finish it all. So he will.
The manor is unbearably bright, even though he knows it is only being lit with dim amber light.
He can’t hear anything above the static in his brain and the ringing in his ears.
“Right, Tim?”
Tim forces his head to tilt up and face Dick. He gives him a wobbly smile. “Hm?”
“The Wizards of Waverly Place canon shouldn’t be dependent on a separate movie not connected to the original series. Right?”
Tim swallows and makes his head nod. “Right.”
“See!” Dick exclaims, throwing up his hands.
Tim winces at the noise. The tensing makes his muscles ache. He hadn’t noticed the burn and ache until now. But they’re sore as if he had a hard night patrol, yet he hadn’t been out all week.
“I think…” Tim’s lips smack together dryly as he tries to find the strength to speak. “I have to go to the…” He stands and suddenly he’s falling and the world is fading away.
.-~*~-.
Tim fades back to the waking world while lying on a cot in the cave.
He blinks blearily and tries to pull himself up.
“Woah, woah, don’t try to sit up,” a deep voice instructs along with two large hands pushing him back down.
“J’y?”
Jason snorts. “Yeah, kiddo, it’s me.”
“What’re’you doin’ h’re?” Tim slurs.
“Watching your dumbass, that’s what.” He scoffs. “Jesus, Tim. Do you know that you were close to being in the fatal stages of Meningococcemia. We caught it just as your blood vessels started to fuckin’ burst.”
“S’rry.”
“Yeah. Well you should be. You coulda,” he runs his fingers through his hair with frustration. “Do you know how much B woulda lost it if you’d’a died? He would’ve gone fuckin’ nuts. He doesn’t have another Tim to keep him in line. You’re what brings him back from the darkness. God forbid Demon Brat tryta…” He shakes his head. “You’re… Jesus, Tim. You matter too much to die. ‘Specially like this.”
“S’rry.”
Jason sighs. “I know. I know you are.” He runs his fingers through Tim’s hair. “How the hell’d you manage to get meningococcal septicemia? I know you’re not swapping spit with just anyone.”
Tim’s brows furrow. “I… shared an ice cream cone with Dick?”
Jason stares. “...right. I… will look into that one.” Jason sighs again. “I’m gonna let everyone know you’re awake. I’m sure they want to see you.” And with that, Jason exits.
Tim stares at the ceiling, breathing heavily and blinking back tears.
He ruined family dinner. He has created a scene and has been a nuisance and a bother and now they’re going to leave.
He’s ruined everything.
His fists clench at his sides, shaking with anxiety, awaiting the inevitable.
Dick rushes in with Bruce quickly behind.
“Oh, Babybird! You’re awake!” Dick wails.
Tim coughs weakly in response, unable to form words.
“Oh, take it easy,” Dick says soothingly. “It’s alright.”
“I’m sorry,” Tim whispers.
“Hey, no need to be sorry. We’re just happy you’re alright.” Dick squeezes his hand.
Tim shakes his head. “I ruined your night. I wasted your time.”
“Not a waste at all,” Dick says quickly. “Really. You know we would drop everything for you, right? No matter what?”
Tim stares at him blankly, not understanding.
“Tim?”
He doesn’t know the correct answer.
“I don’t expect you to,” Tim says slowly. “Because you have more pertinent priorities than me?”
Dick gapes at him. “What?”
Wrong answer.
“I-I, uh,” Tim stammers, “I understand that I will have to make up for it.”
“For what?” Dick asks gently.
“For being such a burden.”
Dick and Bruce’s faces fall even more.
Another wrong answer.
What is the right answer?
“I… I can leave. I can leave and I won’t bother you anymore and you won’t have to worry about me again.”
“Tim, you’re not going anywhere,” Bruce says, voice stern.
Tim flinches.
Bruce’s eyes soften. “We have to keep you under observation. It’s possible that you will lose bloodflow to your heart, spine, and brain.” He examines Tim’s arms. “The rash hasn’t gone down, even with the antibiotics.”
“Antibiotics haven’t exactly been working the same since…” Tim trails off.
“Since what, Tim?” Bruce questions.
“Since my splenectomy.”
The silence that fills the room is palpable.
“Splenectomy,” Bruce states blankly. “When.”
“It was when you were lost in the timestream,” Tim says quickly. “It was a long time ago.”
“Tim,” Bruce interjects. “You realize that there are repercussions to Asplenia. Yes?”
Tim stares.
“Did… did your doctors not tell you about the dangers post splenectomy?”
“They didn’t tell me anything.”
Bruce’s gaze darkens. “What incompetent hospital was this performed at?”
Tim bites his lip, looking down and away from Bruce’s stare. “The League of Assassins?”
The silence gets tenser.
Bruce blinks. “What.”
Tim nods again, eyes glued to the wall.
“Tim,” Bruce says. “We should have known about this.”
“It’s in my updated medical file?” Tim tries.
Bruce takes a long breath.
“Tim,” Dick says. “If we hadn’t known about this, then we would never be able to accommodate your new immune system. I—” he sucks in a breath. “Every time we gave you medication. It… it didn’t work properly?”
Tim’s lower lip wobbles. He nods.
Their breaths hitch.
“Dick,” Bruce says, clipped. “Please go find Alfred and update him so Tim may receive the proper care. Make sure Damian stays upstairs.”
Dick gives him a hesitant affirmation before heading out.
Bruce sits beside Tim’s cot. “Tim? Will you look at me?”
Tim wills himself to meet Bruce’s eyes.
“No one is mad at you.”
Tim can’t find it in himself to believe him.
“No one is mad. We’re worried. And we’re scared. We… we were close to losing you.” Bruce swallows slowly. “You had a seizure. The walls of your blood vessels have severe damage. We… we had to call in a real doctor. Because it was that bad.”
“I’m sorry,” Tim croaks.
“Tim,” Bruce says softly. “Why didn’t you tell us? Why… things could’ve been much worse. You could’ve gotten sepsis from patrol. You could’ve contracted any number of bacterias or viruses or infections and we wouldn’t properly care for it and then you’d—” The words get caught in his throat. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“It wasn’t necessary,” Tim says. “It was… a deficit. That reflected poorly on me. And I… I figured you would…”
“Would what, Tim?”
Tim gulps. “Would realize that I’m not worth bothering with anymore.”
“Tim, do you…” Bruce stops. “Why do you think that? That we… that we’ll get rid of you when you aren’t… sufficient enough?”
“Because that’s how it works,” Tim says, confused.
Silence falls once more.
“Tim.” Bruce gives him a sad smile. “We value you in our lives. You are a part of this family and there is nothing you need to earn your place in this family. There is nothing you will do that will make you lose that love. There is nothing you need to do to earn our love. You deserve it, no matter what, no matter when. I’m sorry that you didn’t already know this.”
Tim shakes his head with disbelief. “That’s not how it works.”
“But it is,” Bruce says, as if it’s that simple. “You deserve love and do not have to earn it.”
“No,” Tim says lamely.
“We will say it as many times as it will take to make you understand. We will show you however we can.”
Tim is an unwell teen.
But he will learn to understand.