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“I can hear you pacing, Tim.”
The footsteps outside of Bruce’s study stop. “Sorry.”
Bruce leans back in his chair, rubbing his eyelids with the pads of his calloused fingers. He’s been staring at these sales reports for what feels like hours, and his eyes feel like they’ve been sprinkled with grains of sand. “What do you need?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yes.”
Bruce sighs, deep and heavy. It is on days such as this that he wonders why he chose to have children. “Then can you please find somewhere else to pace so I can get some work done?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m building courage.”
Bruce’s gaze shifts over to the cracked-open door and he imagines Tim behind it—messy hair, rumpled weekend clothes and all. “For what?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Bruce is too tired for this. “Okay. While you do that, I’m going to go back to working, if you don’t mind.” After a quiet moment, the footsteps start up again, and Bruce leaves him to it. Whatever it is that’s driving his son up the wall, Bruce has no problem with letting him pace it out on his own.
Except.
Over the next three minutes, Bruce tries to focus and forget about the teenager in the hall. Tries to force his eyes to skim through the reports so he can finish this and get some sleep before tonight’s patrol, but the shuffling outside is impossible to ignore when he can feel the waves of Tim’s anxiety from here.
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose in defeat. “Have you built up that courage yet, or are you planning to do this all night? Because I’m going to bed once I finish this, so your time slot is brief.”
Finally Tim pokes his head in, timidity overshadowed by curiosity. “What are you working on?”
“Nothing important. Just cutting you out of my will.”
“Har, har.” Tim comes in and takes a seat on the leather sofa, across the room from Bruce’s desk. “You know, I actually have some ideas for that if you want any outside opinions. For example—and this is just off the top of my head—I think it’s only fair that I inherit the Batjet and the Batmobile since Damian can’t drive yet. I’ve also had my eye on that cool fish lamp Dick got you last year—”
“Tim.”
“Yes?”
“You’re deflecting. Just tell me whatever it is you broke, and I’ll promise not to be mad.”
“I didn’t break anything.”
Bruce arches an eyebrow.
“I’m serious! And, you know, the fact that your first assumption when your own child wants to talk to you is that I’ve come to confess a crime is super offensive? I’m not Jason.”
“You’re sweating bullets and you’ve scratched your ear three times since you’ve come in. Either you need money, or you’ve done something that you know I’ll be angry about.”
For the first time, Tim lets his apprehension show. “Will you be angry about it?”
“That depends on what it is.”
Tim sits forward. “See, here’s the thing, though. I’m not sure that I actually want to tell you if you’re just going to be mad at me for it. You feel me?”
“No.”
“Because like,” Tim continues, “I know you’re an old, rich, white man who grew up with other old, rich, white people, so it’s pretty much expected that you’d have negative views on this sort of thing.”
Oh god, he crashed the yacht didn’t he. Bruce knew he should have locked the keys in a more secure safe.
“But at the same time,” Tim says, “you’re a vigilante whose best friend is an alien, which means you’re not the most orthodox person in the world. And I’m pretty sure you love me, so I guess I’ve got that on my side.”
Bruce blinks. “Pretty sure? That’s all I get?”
“To be fair, you’re not the best at showing emotions.”
“I adopted you. There’s a receipt.”
“Anyway,” Tim says pointedly, cutting off the tangent even though Bruce fully intends to return to it later. “I’m pretty sure you love me and want me to be happy, which is great, except I don’t know if that love comes with conditions, you know? Like, what are the dealbreakers? What crime could I commit that would instantly render all affection null and void?”
Bruce makes a “time-out” gesture. “I’m sorry, you committed a crime?”
Tim rolls his eyes. “God, will you stop interrupting? Jesus gosh darn Christ, Bruce.” He shakes his head. “There’s also the factor that once I tell you the truth, it won’t be something I can take back. Unless of course I build one of those neurolyzers from Men in Black, which I’ve already been planning on doing anyway. Or I could bribe Zatanna and have her erase your memories like the Justice League did to you that one time.”
Bruce craves death. And sleep. And some chocolate-covered almonds for his trouble.
“Problem is, those things would take a lot of work, and I doubt it’d be very effective anyway since you’re Batman and all, which means once I tell you what I have to tell you, there’s no going back. And if you’re mad about it I’m going to wish I’d never told you, whereas if I don’t tell you and it turns out you would have been totally chill with it, then I’ll regret not telling you earlier.”
Bruce could have sworn he kept a bottle of whiskey under this desk. He’ll have to talk to Alfred about moving his stuff.
“And even if you are okay about it, there’s still the chance that everything will be super awkward between us now. And I’m not sure I want to deal with that even though it’s better than getting, you know, kicked out and all. Though I already have plenty of contingencies in place should that happen, so—”
“Tim,” Bruce cuts him off, finally. Good timing too, because he’s pretty sure the kid is turning blue. “Please take a breath.” Tim does. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind, and we’ll go from there. Okay?”
Tim still looks unsure, but he inhales shakily. His hands wring in his lap. “Okay. So there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while. And I’m going to say in advance that I don’t want anyone aside from my friends and family to know about this. I’m not ashamed of it, but the press would have a field day if they got ahold of this kind of info and I’m just not ready for that yet. You with me so far?”
Bruce’s headache is slowly overtaking all neural functions. “I...think so?”
“And, it’s really not that big of a deal, even though it is, you know? Which...makes no sense, now that I’m saying it out loud.” He waves his hands. “Moral of the story is I just want to clear the air and get this off my chest. Cool?”
“Okay.”
Tim’s knee bounces like a speedster’s. “Okay. So…” He takes a deep breath. “I’m bisexual.”
Bruce’s eyebrows raise. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Bruce tries to remember the bisexuality slide from the LGBTQ+ PowerPoint Hal showed him last year. “That’s...which one is that?”
“I like girls and guys. Just...people in general, I guess.”
Bruce nods patiently. “How long have you known?”
Tim scratches the back of his neck. His eyes are trained on his Converse; anything but Bruce’s face. “Um...a year? Ish?”
Bruce thinks back, tries to recall noticing anything off about Tim during that time. But as always, Tim is adept at masking his feelings and/or internal crises. Bruce can’t believe he missed it.
“It’s just,” Tim continues, likely freaked out by Bruce’s silence, “I know Steph and I were dating at the time—are dating, but...I noticed, you know? I noticed...guys...and it wasn’t like I suddenly developed this attraction out of the blue or anything. More like...I slowly stopped repressing it? Because my dad’s philosophy on this kind of stuff was more or less, ‘if you’re queer, you can find somewhere else to live and also kill yourself while you’re at it.’ And that screwed me up a little as a kid, so I pushed any gay thoughts down and tried to pretend they weren’t there, which in hindsight wasn’t the healthiest thing, but.” He shrugs.
Bruce opens his mouth to speak, to rage about how someone could ever make his son feel like he wasn’t welcome in his own home simply for being himself, but Tim is already rambling. “And I have no idea how you feel about it, because you don’t exactly know a lot of openly gay people except for Kate, and you two aren’t even that close anyway. So if you did have a problem with me being this way, I’d understand. Just don’t like—don’t hit me or kick me out, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Tim—”
“And this doesn’t have to change anything. I’m still me, and I’ve already told Dick, Steph, and Conner, and they’ve been really supportive about it. I just wanted to make sure you knew too because...well, because you’re my dad now, and even though I’m already in a relationship and don’t plan on dating anyone else in the near future, I thought this was kind of important? And it probably isn’t, but...it is to me.”
For the first time since he said the word, Tim looks up from his twiddling thumbs at Bruce, gauging for a reaction. “So?”
“So...what?”
“Are you okay with this?”
Bruce yearns to cross the room and hug Tim, but he holds himself back. “Of course I am. Like you said, this doesn’t change anything.”
Tim lets out a breath. “Really?”
“I can’t believe you had so little faith in me. Your brother kills people and I still love him. How could I ever stop loving you just for wanting to be yourself?”
Little by little the tension bleeds out of Tim’s shoulders, like this secret has weighed him down for so long that finally being free of the load is a foreign sensation. “Oh. Cool.” He dares to meet Bruce’s eyes then, and Bruce pretends not to notice the glazing shimmer in them. The tiny flicker of a smile. “Thanks.”
Bruce drums his fingers on the desk, awkwardness settling. “Should I...hug you now?”
Tim considers it. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t, but I’ll take a high five.”
“No.”
“Fist bump?”
“Firm handshake.”
“Deal.” Tim rises from the sofa and Bruce from his chair. Bruce sticks out his hand and Tim takes it with a grin, only to squeak when Bruce tugs him in and goes for the hug because goddamn it, his son just came out to him and he needs this, okay?
Tim’s indignant squawk is muffled by Bruce’s large shoulder. “You cheated!”
Bruce ignores his struggles and holds Tim close, resting his cheek on the kid’s head. “I’m proud of you, Tim.”
“You’re crushing me. This is child abuse.” When they finally part, Tim steps back and smooths his hair back into shape with a hardly convincing scowl. His flushed cheeks and bright eyes betray his true feelings, though.
“Now go to bed,” Bruce tells him. “You look like hell.”
Tim snorts. “You look worse.” But he gives a quick salute as he leaves, a brand new skip in his step. “‘Night, B.”
“‘Night, Tim.”
So, so proud.