Chapter Text
"Pack your shit," Bruce shouts cuttingly, his voice echoing against the cave walls. Dick glares at him as he helps Damian re-apply his bandage.
Bruce catches the look.
"Glare at me like that again, boy," the word is spit like acid, and Tim sees the moment Dick tenses from anger, "and I'll fuck you up. Understood?”
"Well," Dick starts defiantly, ignoring Damian's warnings for him to stop, "I wouldn't have to if you stopped cussing like some thug."
Tim hunkers down, hiding behind the cabinet door. Damian meets his eye, and they stare at each other long enough to convey their mutual discomfort.
"It's just words. I didn't raise you to be a little bitch." Bruce was focused on adjusting his gauntlet, so he didn't see Dick pulling himself up and squaring his shoulders. Damian incessantly tries to tug him back down.
"Leave it, Grayson," Damian hisses quietly. "We've no time for a fight. The meeting is in twenty minutes."
Dick looked ready to argue, but stopped when he noticed Damian was frozen in his seat, warily observing Bruce.
Dick closes his eyes, breathes in and out, then crouches back down in front of Damian. "Sorry. Sorry, you're right," he says, then gives a brief look towards Tim when he closes the cabinet door a little too loudly.
"Watch it!" Bruce glowers.
Tim doesn't meet his eyes, mumbling a quick, "Sorry," under his breath before darting out of the room.
From behind him, Dick's eyes close again, taking a considerably longer time to calm himself down.
"We'll be by the Zeta," Tim hears Dick grit out. "Be done in ten."
"Don't fucking order me around."
"C'mon, Dames." Dick gently grabs Damian's uninjured arm and guides him out of the room. Tim acknowledges them with a nod, then goes back to checking over his equipment.
Dick smiles at him, though his eyes are weary. "Hey, Tim. Doing okay?"
Tim purses his lips, considers ignoring him, but gives in when Dick's face steadily gets more strained. "Fine. You?"
"Been better. What about you, Damian?"
Damian clicks his tongue, then shakes his arm out of Dick's hold. "I do not partake in meaningless chatter. Especially with Drake. I shall do more useful things, such as change into my uniform before Father is done."
Then he goes and does just that.
"Ass," Tim whispers.
Dick shoots him a disapproving look. "Take it easy on him, he's still adjusting."
Unbidden, a familiar anger surfaces back under Tim's skin. That tone, so condescending, used on him so many times before he snapped and left the manor. Treating him like he was crazy, unstable. Not believing him—
"He's been living with us for two years," he says, mindful of his volume, but tone sharp enough to get his point across. "You'd think there'd be some progress by now."
"He grew up isolated from his peers. He was raised to kill people!" Dick puts his arms up in exasperation. "That type of damage won't be fixed so quickly. We should be as accommodating as we can."
"Well, the problem is that he doesn't try.” With that, Tim harshly puts his mask on and storms out, uncaring of how childish he looked. He passes Damian in the doorway, who gives him a menacing glare, his teeth bared like a dog. Tim plants his feet and braces for a punch, or a sword to the face, but Damian just passes him by and heads straight for Dick.
"I am not some broken toy in need of fixing," he snaps, getting all up in Dick's space. "Do not treat me as such. It is an affront to my character."
"Damian-"
"Silence!" Damian clicks his tongue again, turning his head and backing away as he grinds his teeth together. "I am myself. You have no right to try to change that."
At that sentence, Dick rises to his full height. He towers over Damian, who straightens his back defiantly at the attempted intimidation.
"I'm not asking you to be some angelic, perfect kid," Dick says, taking a step forward, shoulders rising up to his ears.
"I don't expect you to have flowers growing with your every step. I don't expect you to—to puke out rainbows! What I want," he pauses, takes a breath, then continues in a softer tone, "what I want, is for you to have a safe place to process your trauma, and to accept the help and support this family is willing to give you."
Damian is silent. His steely glare wavers ever so slightly, and an uncertain look crosses his face. It's gone before Tim could blink again.
"What I want," Dick repeats, "is for you to know that there is so much more to the world than this." He waves a hand, gesturing at the cave, at his suit. "All I want, is for you to eat an ice cream without worrying if it's poisoned. All I want, is for you to not flinch at every touch. Bruce always told me—"
Abruptly, Dick freezes. Then, before Tim's very eyes, he crumples like a stack of unsupported cards. His eyebrows pull together, mouth pinching into a thin line. His eyes are moist.
He looks grief-stricken.
"Bruce... Bruce from- from before," he says, voice hitching. He clears his throat to compose himself. "He told me that...I could be whatever I wanted to be. So long as I knew that he was always there, ready to catch—to catch me."
Damian doesn't reply for a moment. Tim moves to leave, but Damian's quiet voice—vulnerable and so much like the little kid he actually is—stops him.
"That doesn't sound like Father," he whispers, doubtful.
Dick waits for a beat, allowing Tim to catch the deep sorrow bearing down on his shoulders like a heavy, wet cloak.
"No," he says. "No. That Bruce...my Bruce. My- my..." Dick swallows heavily, a tear escaping from his eye, sliding down his cheek. "My Tati is dead."
Tim leaves.
Then he staggers towards the bathroom, fumbling with the knob. His knees give out and suddenly he's in front of the toilet, heaving, his puke and sweat and tears mixing together with the water.
"God," he gasps. "Oh, god." He coughs from the acid stuck in his throat. Whether it came from his stomach or his heart, it didn't matter. It hurt all the same.
"Bruce, Bruce," he sobs. "I need you, Bruce. We need you."
Bruce, what happened?
What happened to you?
"He’s become a fucking asshole," Jason had said, a month after they got Bruce back. "Don't get me wrong, he's always been one. But this is a whole 'nother level."
Tim rolled his eyes then, before quickly glancing back up at Jason's face to gauge his reaction. Tensions between them were still winding down at the time.
"It's just him coping with trauma," Tim says, once reassured that Jason wouldn't shoot him in the head for daring to be annoyed at him. "His atoms were being ripped apart. For months. He's gonna need time to get used to things."
"Still doesn't give him the right to act like an entitled jerk."
In his head, Tim agreed. But he worked too hard to bring Bruce back, sacrificed too many, loved him too much, to even imply he regretted saving him.
"Did he even thank you?"
Tim buried his chin in his arms, tucking his legs under it. He gazed at Gotham's polluted horizon, all its ugliness seen from their place on a high building's roof.
"For what?" he asked, despite knowing exactly what was meant.
He can feel Jason staring daggers on the side of his face, which he resolutely ignores.
"...Nothing," Jason says eventually.
Looks like he can read the room after all.
"Did you two talk?"
But Tim can't.
Abruptly, Jason tensed, his jaw locking, visible even with his helmet on. "If you call 'beating each other up' talking, then yeah, we talked."
"He hit you?" His disbelief was obvious by the way his voice turned shrill, and by the sudden widening of his eyes, hidden behind his mask.
Jason shrugs like it was no big deal, but Tim could tell he was uncomfortable.
"I started it. Pushed him on the shoulder."
That doesn't make it okay, he wanted to say. But he worked too hard to bring Bruce back, sacrificed too many, loved him too—
"Did he ever," Tim swallows, "hit you...before?"
Jason is silent for a moment, long enough for dread to settle itself in Tim’s stomach.
"Never."
Tim lets out a breath.
"I used to smack him around, the first few months." Jason chuckles hollowly, but a distant mirth was heard when his voice softened. "Punched him in the face, then scratched his neck. Used to hurl bricks at his fancy windows."
Jason pauses, then starts lightly rocking on his toes. His head lifts, and like Tim, takes in Gotham's rotten scenery.
A thoughtful silence befalls them.
Then, when the quiet turns too loud, their musings a bit too dark, Jason sighs and sits down next to him.
"He never made me feel like I wasn't safe with him," Jason admits, nostalgic but still bitter. "But now...it's like he's a different person."
His heart stops.
The world tilts.
It's a possibility. Tim. Tim, there's a very high possibility.
"...It's late," Tim ends up saying. "I have work tomorrow, let's end patrol early tonight."
Jason stares again, and Tim feels his skin prickle at the blank, unreadable expression focused solely on him.
A beat passes.
His fingers twitch, cold sweat freezing his neck.
"Yeah," Jason says carefully, after another moment had passed. "Okay. Get back safe."
Tim lets out a quiet sigh, then offers him a sharp nod in both agreement and apology. "You too."
He turns, looks around, then fires his grapple at the edge of another rooftop, desperately trying to will away the muted horror steadily churning in his gut.
He tugs at the rope, making sure it held, before taking a few steps back and leaping, flying, while his mind spirals, further blurring his surroundings. All his thoughts are focused on one thing, and very soon it's clear that he is in no condition to be swinging across buildings.
Tim stops behind an isolated shop, far enough away from Jason, bracing himself against the wall, gasping. His eyes close shut, painfully aware of the uncomfortable way his uniform chafes against his skin, riddled with goosebumps. When he opens his eyes again, he's in his house, papers strewn all over his desk, some pinned on the wall, most on the ground.
He redid calculations. Discarded some. Made more. But nothing was amiss. Every answer was accurate, dissected again and again.
Bruce Wayne is home.
Bruce Wayne is home.
"Bruce is home," Tim mutters again, inconsolable. "He's home. He's home."
But Tim isn't.
He left, and Bruce hasn't taken him back.
Why hasn't he—
Why didn't he—!
Suddenly, his shaking fingers were dialing a number. It rings, rings, rings. Tim can't breathe. He's breathing too much. Not enough. Tim curls into himself, pressing his face against his phone, using the vibrations to ground himself.
"Please..." he whispers.
A click. The call connects. Bruce, on the other side.
"Hello?" Bruce says tiredly, softly, so much like the Bruce before. "Tim?"
Instantly, air rushes back to his lungs.
Stupid Tim, the child inside him chastises, always so paranoid.
"Tim?" Bruce calls again.
Tim drags a hand down his face, wiping away the tears and spit. He counts to ten, then backwards, listening to Bruce's voice, uncaring of the growing tension behind it.
"Tim, if you don't answer me right now—"
"Sorry," Tim gasps out. "Sorry. Think I dialed you by accident."
Bruce doesn't respond.
"I'll hang up now," no, not yet, don't hang up yet, "hope I didn't bother you."
The silence stretches.
"Um." Tim fidgets, then forced himself to still despite knowing Bruce couldn't see him. "I'll go now. Bye."
His thumb hovers over the red button.
He bites his lip, eyes involuntarily wandering over to the piles of papers. Then to the messy, scribbled calculations.
He thinks of Bruce, ruffling his hair, tucking him into bed. Of Batman, fighting pressed against his back, carrying him in his arms.
Carrying Tim home.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he whispers to the phone. Then, more quietly, more tender, "I love you, Dad."
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Bruce hung up.
Tim is silent. His chest is unbelievably heavy.
Then he dry heaves over the toilet, dizzy from the rush of memories.
"...rake..!" a faint voice calls, their steps steadily getting louder. "We are leaving in five minutes! Where have you gone?!"
Tim springs up and flushes the toilet, then hastily drags himself to the sink, splashing water on his face and in his mouth.
"Drake!" Damian pounds at the door. "We are leaving! Make haste!"
Tim rolls his eyes and bends over the sink to spit out the water in his mouth.
"Drake!"
"I'm coming! God!"
Damian pounds even harder at the door, so much so that Tim can almost see it shake.
"Your Lord will not save you from my wrath if you do not come out right now!" Damian shouts. "Father is waiting!"
In an instant, all of Tim's wry amusement vanished.
He quickly rips his damp domino mask off of his eyes and replaces it with a new one, slapping it on without care for its appearance. He wipes his mouth and fixes his hair, before finally opening the door to Damian's anxious face.
"Let's g-"
Damian doesn't let him finish. He grabs him by the wrist, then books it out the hall, towards the Zeta.
What greets them when they get there is Bruce, his foot impatiently tapping on the ground, his arms crossed and cowl on, masking his expression.
But his mood was obvious.
His jaw was clenched, his fists curled. Dick, beside him, was shifting uneasily from side to side.
He was mad.
No, not just mad.
He was pissed.
"We've arrived, Father," Damian announces stiffly, letting go of Tim and standing with his arms behind his back, his posture straight, chin tipped high.
The perfect soldier.
"Sorry, Bruce," Tim says tensely. "I lost track of time."
Bruce uncrosses his arms and his foot stills, his earlier anger seeming to have turned into a muted simmer.
Tim relaxes—
"You're benched."
Then immediately reels back, an instinctive reaction to the uttered words. For a moment, he becomes one with the small, lonely child he carries inside him.
"Bruce—" Dick attempts to step in, only to be shot down by Damian, who elbows him hard in the gut.
"Do not interrupt Father," Damian says harshly. "He is teaching Drake a lesson."
Rage bubbles under Tim's skin, ready to erupt with just another trigger. All the while, Bruce towers over him, mercilessly, eyes cold and hard.
And there it was. The trigger. Bruce. The child inside him.
The child whose tears runs in his veins, who fuels his volcanic anger. Before he knows it, he's talking, his voice rising at every word.
"You don't get to order me around," he spits out, pointing a finger at the man he no longer recognizes. "I am not your partner—your sidekick. I am not Robin."
"Tim," Bruce says warningly.
"No!" Tim heaves. "No. You don't get to do that anymore."
Only Bruce—the old Bruce. His Bruce. His Dad, gets to talk to him like that. The man looking down at him, with wrath in his eyes, is a stranger.
He is not— "You're not my father."
His head jerks to the side. Pain blooms on his cheek.
Dick screams.
"How dare you!" Bruce is shoved back, Dick following him, fingers curled on the front of Bruce's uniform, his face a furious shade of red. "How dare you."
"Let go of me," Bruce says gruffly.
"No! You listen to me." Dick shakes him hard. "You do that again and I'll end you. Do you understand me!?"
Bruce clenches his jaw.
Dick tightens his grip with a snarl, giving Bruce another brutal shake. "I asked you a fucking question!"
Bruce shoves him away, his teeth grit. He straightens his uniform.
"We need to leave," is what Bruce says instead. "The meeting already started."
Dick lets out an incredulous laugh. "Un-believable!"
Damian pushes past him, dutifully following behind Batman's back.
“Da—“ Dick cuts himself off and shakes his head with an aggravated sigh. He turns towards Tim instead, whose face was still jerked to the side, his cheek red and stinging.
"Hey, Tim," Dick says tiredly, walking up to him. "You okay?"
What do you think? he wanted to say.
"Just fine."
Dick stares at his cheek sadly, and only the righteous anger burning in his eyes prevents Tim from taking it as pity.
"We should go," Tim says.
Dick doesn't say anything back. He just reaches a hand out and places it on Tim's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.
"Okay."
And then they go.
As Red Robin steps in front of the Zeta, with its beam slowly preparing to teleport him to space, he hears Nightwing behind him, talking with Batman.
"Damian will stay with me." There was no question in Nightwing's voice. "Until you get your shit together, you won't be getting him back."
Red Robin blinks. The stars blink back.
“RR! You made it!”
Superboy grins.