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For what is probably the first time since he started this whole Batman crusade, when he gets home from patrol, Bruce does not linger in the Cave. He sheds the suit, rinses off the thick layer of sweat and grime and soot, and goes straight upstairs to his office. He can feel the kids watching him, hear them whispering, but he’s so goddamn angry that he can’t bring himself to care.
He’s not sure how long he’s been pacing when there’s a tentative knock at the door and Tim pokes his head in, “Hey,” He says, a little hesitant, “I’m going to bed.”
Bruce decides, if Tim is already here, that now is as good a time as any, “Come sit down.”
Tim’s eyes widen, and he enters, shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t move from where the ornate door handle is surely digging into his back, “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just stand here.” His tone indicates he is clearly trying to lighten the mood.
“It’s not the same to me,” Bruce all but growls, “Sit.”
The thinly veiled fury seems to urge Tim to obey.
It’s uncharacteristic coming from Bruce. Bruce is a lot of things, not all of them pleasant; but rarely is such true anger directed at his children.
Tim perches on the edge of the leather sofa in Bruce’s office, ready to flee if the situation becomes too volatile to handle. Bruce still hasn’t stopped pacing. After a moment of thick, choking silence, Tim speaks, “I thought patrol went well.”
The simple sentence has Bruce whipping around to face Tim, “You did?”
Tim looks less sure this time, “Yeah. I mean—with the exception of the warehouse fire, which, I mean, GCFD had it out in just a few minutes so...” Under Bruce’s furious glare, Tim withers a bit, “So that’s good.”
Bruce closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s everything in him not to completely lose it on Tim, “Tim... what is the first rule I instilled in you, in all of you, when you became Robin?”
Tim fidgets uncomfortably, so Bruce answers his own question, “When Batman says jump, you say how high,” His voice is rising both in volume and intensity, “When I tell you to get the hell out of there, you do. What you don’t do, is turn your comm off so nobody can get ahold of you.”
“Bruce, I--”
“No, stop!” Bruce exclaims, “This is the third time in as many weeks that you and I have had this issue. You are refusing my orders, and you are putting yourself in extreme danger.”
Tim bristles, standing up, “Do I need to remind you what happened the last time you laid into one of your kids about ‘following your orders’?”
Bruce stiffens, “Watch what you’re about to say, Tim.”
“No, Bruce! You may not like that I ignored your orders, but I saved that security guard,” Tim says, pointing to emphasize his point, “If I had listened to you, he’d have died in the fire. I saved him.”
“I am not worried about him, Tim, I’m worried about you!”
Tim scoffs, “Please. Our mission is to save people. To prevent senseless death. Sometimes we risk our lives, and sometimes we die for it.”
“Not you!” Bruce shouts, and it silences Tim. Bruce pauses, heaving breaths, “It was never supposed to be you all risking your lives. It was always supposed to be me,” He continues, voice booming, “If you had just done as I asked, I would’ve gone into the warehouse for the security guard. I would not have left him behind, but I just,” Bruce gestures emphatically with shaking hands, “I needed to know that you were safe before I did that.”
Tim crosses his arms, “Bruce, you’re being ridiculous. I am fine. I was fine the whole time.” He says, like he still doesn’t smell like smoke. Bruce knows from experience that the smell will linger for at least another day. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to start acting like you have a semblance of trust in me,” He retorts.
“Maybe I will start trusting you when you start acting like you’re not trying to kill yourself!”
Tim pales at that. He swallows hard, “I’m not.” His voice is small.
Bruce sighs exasperatedly, gesturing around him with wide arms, “That’s the only explanation for the way you’ve been acting this month! You ignore orders, you’re reckless, you’re putting yourself in unnecessary danger.” Bruce’s eyebrows knit together in confusion and his eyes swim with concern, “Tim, I don’t understand where this is coming from.”
Tim scoffs, seeming to regain some of his confidence, and he looks away from Bruce. He sits back on the couch, crossing his arms tighter, “Like that’s a surprise.”
Bruce does his best not to sigh again, “Talk to me, Tim. What’s going on?”
Tim looks at him with a blazing fury, “Nothing is going on. I mean, God forbid I dedicate myself to the mission, right? Like sue me for actually giving a shit about what we’re doing here.”
“Tim, none of that matters unless all of you come home at the end of the night,” And Tim clearly wasn’t expecting Bruce to say that, because he’s silent, “Yes, the lives of the people we help are important. Yes, we do things that are dangerous. But God forbid I lose one of you again...” He lets a shaky breath out, dropping his head. Tim stays silent, “I can’t do that again, Tim.”
It’s the most vulnerable that Bruce has ever sounded. Tim watches him breathe steadily, clearly fighting back something; tears, a panic attack. Tim can’t tell.
Tim breathes shakily, “I don’t...not want to die.”
Bruce’s head snaps up, and sure enough, his eyes are wet, “What?” He sounds hopelessly fragile, but now that Tim has said it, he has to say it all.
“I’m not, like, going to shoot myself or something.” Tim stares at his lap, fidgeting with the bracelet on his wrist. It’s a friendship bracelet that Duke made for him; strings of red and black woven together. He only takes it off for patrol. “I don’t want to die. I just...if it happens, it happens, you know? I’m not going to do it myself, but if I get hit by a truck or killed on patrol, then maybe it’s the universe’s way of righting itself or something.”
He doesn’t want to look at Bruce. Doesn’t want to see the broken expression that is likely painting his features. Doesn’t want to talk about this, except the bell can’t be unrung.
“How...” Bruce’s voice is shattered. It sounds like he’s been screaming, the way his voice grates out. It must be painful, Tim thinks. “How can you think that?” Tim manages to look up at him, and it was a bad decision because Bruce looks positively miserable. “How could any universe where you’re not here with me be right?” He spits the word, like it’s personally offended him.
Tim stares at his lap again.
“A-are you hurting yourself?”
Tim scoffs, trying to use annoyance to cover up how exposed he’s feeling, “I just told you I don’t want to die.”
“No, you just told me you don’t care if you die, and there is a difference,” Bruce replies. He stays silent for a long moment. The silence is still suffocating. “Tim, whatever you’re feeling...we can work on that. I can help you; I want to help you.” He pauses, trying to see if Tim will look at him, “But you need to be here.” The lack of response from Tim, again, has Bruce sighing, “How did this happen, Tim?”
The question feels rhetorical, but Tim can’t help but respond, “It just did,” Tim says defeatedly, “I don’t know, I woke up one day and... I felt empty. I was trying to do stuff, shake things up just to feel a little more like myself and then it was like…” Tim huffs, “Like the only thing that made me feel alive was when there was a chance I might not be.”
Bruce is quiet again, but this time the silence is different. It’s colder. Less like a wet towel and more like an empty field. There’s an ocean between them with no way to cross it.
Bruce sits in the leather armchair across from Tim. He rests his elbows on his knees, still keeping his head low.
“I want to get better.”
And Tim has never said that out loud before. It’s almost a whisper, like some sort of confession or maybe a prayer. But Bruce’s head snaps up like Tim just screamed in his ear. For the first time since this whole conversation started, there are tears running down his face.
They stare at each other for a long time.
Then Bruce wipes his eyes roughly, “Whatever you need, Tim, anything. Anything.” He says. When he meets Tim’s eyes again, his eyes are swollen and bloodshot. He looks like he’s aged fifty years in such a short time. “I love you.”
Bruce has said that before. He says it pretty regularly now, actually. Before any of them leave the house, when they’re hanging up the phone. It’s almost casual now, a phrase said in passing because that’s just what you do.
This doesn’t sound like that. This sounds like a vow. It sounds like “I’ll protect you with my life.” It sounds like “You are the most important thing to me.”
It sounds like “Please don’t leave me here alone.”
And Tim can’t help but launch out of his seat. Without any hesitation, Bruce stands too and catches Tim in his arms. He holds Tim’s head to his chest and presses a rough kiss to the top of his head, “You are my boy. My son. I’m sorry you’re hurting and I’m sorry I didn’t notice.”
Tim grips Bruce a little tighter, “You couldn’t have. Nobody could have.”
Another kiss to the top of Tim’s head, and then Bruce sighs. His arms are strong around Tim’s shoulders, but he can feel Bruce’s hands shaking where one is splayed out against his back and one is cupping his head. “I love you. We are going to figure this out, okay? I promise. You are not doing this alone.”
Tim closes his eyes, listens to Bruce’s heart thump against his ear for a minute, “Am I still in trouble?”
Bruce makes a conflicted noise, “You should have followed my orders. That’s a non-negotiable in the field and you know that.” Tim hums, a semblance of an agreement, “I think Red Robin should take a break…” Bruce sounds nervous, like Tim is going to explode on him. Tim thinks that, if this had been the beginning of the conversation, he might’ve, “…just until we figure everything out.” Bruce pulls away, just enough to look Tim in the eyes. His hand moves from the back of Tim’s head to Tim’s cheek. Bruce’s calloused thumb strokes gently against Tim’s cheekbone, “You can run point from the Cave, on comms, if you want. But I can’t have you in the field if I think you’re in danger.”
Tim wants to argue so badly. Instead, he closes his eyes, leans into Bruce’s touch, and tries to stave off tears, “I know. I know. I’m sorry.”
The sweeping of Bruce’s thumb against Tim’s face is steady and grounding, “Don’t be sorry, sweetheart,” Bruce’s voice is very low and quiet; Tim feels it more than he hears it, “We can fix this.”
Tim drops his forehead against Bruce’s chest, “What if we can’t? What if this is just the way I am now?”
“Not that I believe that to be the case,” Bruce starts, and Tim rolls his eyes, hiding a smirk, “but if it was, then we would deal with it.”
This time, the silence feels like the first breath of fresh air after nearly drowning. It washes over Tim’s shoulders like a warm shower. He’s still got his head resting against Bruce’s chest, staring at the floor.
Bruce is the one to break it. His voice is still strained, and Tim thinks he might have underestimated the toll this whole conversation has taken on his dad, “I need you to promise me you’ll tell me if…if something changes.” He pulls away, just enough to look Tim in the eyes, “I know you said you weren’t hurting yourself, and I believe you, but…you have to tell me.”
Tim nods, not breaking Bruce’s piercing gaze as much as he desperately wants to, “I will. Promise.”
Bruce presses a kiss to Tim’s forehead. It feels healing, like Bruce has just pressed all of Tim’s broken pieces back together. Like he’s fixed Tim.
He hasn’t, and Tim knows that. But it feels like a start.