Chapter Text
Tim wakes up, and the world is hazy. He’s in his room, he knows that. He blinks, tries to clear the fuzziness from his mind, but it doesn’t really work. His head throbs, aches.
There’s the squeak of a chair. “Whoa, whoa, Timbo,” Jason’s face, fuzzy, comes into view. He’s got a purpling bruise on his cheek. “You’ve been out for a day. You’ve got a concussion, and your ribs are broken. Don’t get up just yet on your own, yeah?”
Tim makes a noise of agreement. The blanket is soft, warm, and the bed creaks when he shifts, but that pulls at his ribs, so he stops. Jason scratches the back of his head. “I’ll get Bruce and Alfred, yeah?”
Tim closes his eyes. He hears Jason close the door, quietly, and the next thing he feels is a warm palm on his forehead. There’s a murmur, a soft noise, and then Tim is asleep. (The palm is almost comforting. His parents wouldn’t have done that.)
He gets woken up in the middle of the night; Damian, voice serious: “Your first name, Drake?”
“Timothy,” he mumbles, and Damian gives a hmph, and then hisses, more quietly, “I can look after him, Alfred, you don’t have to hover.”
Tim falls back asleep.
Cass comes sometime in the night or early morning, he thinks; he can feel the familiar stroke of her palm, it’s calluses, its warmth, over his forehead. He sleeps.
–
The second day, Kon comes. Tim wakes up, bleary, head throbbing, feeling only slightly better.
He spots Kon’s mop of black hair, first, then his blue eyes, concerned, and tries sitting up, but it doesn’t work. “Kon,” he croaks, and Kon is there and helping him to sit.
“Here,” Kon hands him a glass of water. Tim gulps in down, letting it settle uneasily in his stomach. “Have some toast, too.” Tim takes a piece, munches it slowly.
“Sorry,” he says.
Kon’s eyes are gentle. “Don’t be. You weren’t expecting it, right? Jason told me. You did your best.”
Tim cracks a small grin. His ribs ache; his head pulses. “Thanks, Kon.”
Kon rests a hand over Tim’s knee, and Tim lifts his leg as best he can, leans into the touch. “You just make sure you rest. I’ll get Ma Kent to make some of her rhubarb pie next week, alright?”
“Alright.”
–
Bruce comes that afternoon. “Tim,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“Alright. Better.” It’s true: his ribs still hurt, but the pain in his head is dulling, and he knows he should be back to moving about, soon. (He doesn’t want to be stuck on bed-rest too long, anyway.)
“Good,” Bruce sits on the chair that’s been moved to next to Tim’s bed. “Are you…okay?”
“Yes?” Tim says. He’s not sure why Bruce is asking; he doesn’t, usually.
“I just…you know, I…you know how I feel, yes?”
“About?”
“About you.” Bruce’s voice is soft, but Tim’s heart clenches in his chest, anyway.
“I - I mean…” he trails off, glances at the door. He’s not sure, not really. See, the thing is, Tim needs to hear it. Not just as a fear-induced spiel, not as a never-said, only-suggested thing, he needs to hear Bruce say those words to him.
Bruce’s hand lands on his shoulder, gentle, without pressure. Tim looks at him. Bruce’s eyes are heavy, his face serious. Tim can hear his heartbeat in his chest.
“You know I…” Bruce clears his throat; his words aren’t exactly stilted, but they’re close: “I love you, don’t you, Tim? You’re one of my children.”
Something twists, cracks, inside him.
I love you. You’re one of my children.
“Yeah,” his voice is rough. “I love you, too.”
Bruce draws him into a careful hug. Tim buries his head in Bruce’s shoulder and sobs: relieved, happy sobs. Sobs that mean he’s finally family.
–
A few days pass; Tim spends them lounging in the library, or sitting and watching Alfred cook with the younger boys, or taking photographs in the garden with his camera. Slow, easy days; days that feel almost peaceful, after everything.
Dinner comes, and with it everyone else: Steph, who comes in holding Cass’ hand and draws Tim into a tight hug; Cass, who hugs Tim, too, then draws back and smiles, because she knows he’s happy, relaxed; Dick, who squishes Tim to his chest; Barbara, who gives Tim a careful hug and a squeeze of the elbow; and Kon, finally, of course, who hugs Tim, warm and tender, then pulls back and gives Tim a smile as precious as the sun, and Tim feels his heart warming.
After dinner, Tim clears his throat. He lifts up his camera. “I’d like to take a photo, if that’s alright. Especially since we’re all here, today.” He cracks a grin. “It's not often that happens.”
There’s a bustle of noise - Alfred and Cass looking pleased; Damian focused; Little-Dick staring curiously at the camera, holding Jason’s hand, Jason and Steph giving a whoop; Dick and Barbara corralling everyone in front of the portrait area; and finally Tim, securing the camera to the tripod, playing with the settings, and giving himself ten seconds before the camera flashes.
They’re all lined up, golden under the ceiling-lights, and Tim thinks, with a pang, that they look like a real family.
“Come on, Timbo,” Jason says, grinning, and Tim shakes his thoughts off and does. (They’re his family, now, and he’s theirs; he’s one of them.)
Cass’s palm is reassuring at his back; Kon’s hand is in his, warm, comforting; Jason’s arm is slung over Tim’s shoulder, bright.
He stands next to his family and smiles.
The camera clicks.