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Tim sits up in bed and realizes he’s made a horrible mistake.
He went to bed at two last night, right after patrol because Bruce insisted. He only stayed awake for another hour, he knows. He woke up briefly, saw the time, and rolled over again. He’d get up as soon as Dick or Damian ran past his door.
But he didn’t. Instead, tired and hot, he picks up his phone and stares in horror at the time.
1:17. PM.
“Oh my god.”
He’s out of bed in moments, grabbing a pair of joggers from a pile on his chair, pulling a sweatshirt that is… actually his, not borrowed from Dick or Jason or even Conner. Wait. Conner doesn’t wear sweatshirts. The sweatshirt he's thinking of must be Bruce’s.
It’s probably not a big deal, he’s ninety percent sure Steph has one of his sweatshirts and Cass walks around dressed in other people‘s clothes all the times. Jason even breaks into the manor every few months just to steal some of Bruce’s pants under the guise of “frustrating the old man since I can’t kill him anymore”. Everyone knows what the real reason is.
What is a big deal is the fact that he slept for ten hours and woke up three hours after he wanted to. He’s going to kill himself.
He takes the stairs as fast as he can and, when he gets tired of trying not to slip off the polished edges, perches on the railing and slides down the banister to the end. Once he gets his bearing on the ground floor, he takes off for the kitchen. Maybe Bruce will still be there after… lunch.
He passes the sitting room they use as a games room and sees his siblings sprawled out on the couches, game controllers in hand. One of them glances up, but Tim is gone before they can spot him. He can join them after he talks to Bruce and Alfred, after he apologizes for how late he woke up, after he figures out how to make it up to them.
He skids around the corner to the kitchen and stops as quickly as he started. Alfred is there, laying vegetables in the base of a glass pan, preparing what must be dinner. He looks calm, stately, elegant. Not at all like the mess Tim feels himself to be. The older man's sleeves are pulled up, away from his hands, and even in the middle of work, he looks put-together.
Tim's stomach twists. How selfish he is, coming in to interrupt Alfred just to... Just to what? Get a simple nod and a dismissal? Does he want reassurance that he hasn't messed up the entire day? Does he want Alfred to comfort him? Does he want the butler to yell at him and make him work? Does he want... does he want...
"Master Timothy?" Tim blinks and finds Alfred looking at him, warm gaze fixed on his face. “Are you alright?”
Tim blinks again. Is he alright? No. Definitely not. But he isn’t going to tell Alfred that. His chest is tight, his skin is crawling, and he thinks his ears might be buzzing. He stares at the older man, thinks back on his question, thinks about how he feels, and laughs brokenly. "No."
Alfred wipes off his hands without breaking eye contact. "Why not?" His voice is smooth and even. His gaze doesn’t waver from Tim’s face.
Tim scoffs. “Are you joking? Look at me! Look at the time! Can you honestly expect me to be alright like this?”
Alfred frowns and takes a step forward. “I don’t believe I understand what you’re saying. What is wrong?”
Tim can’t help the mocking laugh that bursts from his chest. “This!” he exclaims, waving his hands wildly, at himself, the kitchen, the clock, even at Alfred. “It’s one in the afternoon! I slept for eleven hours!” He shakes his head and covers his face. "I'm a failure, Alfred. I didn't stay up that late, I went to bed right when Bruce told me, and I still missed so much time." The pit in his stomach deepens and the squeezing in his chest only grows.
Alfred's face clears. He no longer looks confused. In its place is an expression Tim can't quite identify. "Take a breath, Master Tim," he says steadily. "Good. Now come and sit. Take another breath."
Tim breathes in again, slips into the chair Alfred indicates, breathes out, and then collapses over his arms on the counter. He feels like crying. Alfred moves quietly past Tim's head, pausing to touch him on the shoulder. "Breathe," he reminds. "I will be back in just a moment."
Then he's gone, and all Tim is left with is the crushing weight of knowing he messed up and the tangle of painful anxiety swirling through his stomach. He presses his forehead against his arms and sucks in another breath. Then another. Calm down, he tells himself harshly. No one is going to hurt you. The most they’ll do is yell and take you off patrol.
Except that’s almost as bad as the way his parents used to treat him. Getting yelled at will just remind him of his father throwing glasses across the kitchen or grabbing Tim’s computer and storming out of the bedroom. Being benched will remind him of being locked in his room when his parents were in town. He can cope with the yelling, in fact, he’s already preparing for it. No one is perfect and Bruce has certainly had his moments over the years, especially when Tim was first going out as Robin. He never went too far, but he wasn’t exactly a paragon of fatherhood at the time. It’s being benched for slipping that he’s worried about.
Tim hates not doing anything. He always needs some sort of stimulation to keep his thoughts from overwhelming him, usually in the form of cases or patrol work. But he hates being useless even more than being still. If he’s benched for an injury, he can understand that. He won’t like it, but at least there’s a reason and a cause and something he learn, like not to underestimate the aim of the more experienced henchmen.
Being useless hurts more. It’s his parents leaving again and insisting that Tim doesn’t need them. It’s sneaking into the city and watching people suffer and waiting for Batman to save them. It’s reading the news and realizing that Robin is dead. It’s crouching on a fire escape and watching Batman beat crooks into compliance with no mercy because it’s been less than a week since his son died and he has no other coping mechanism aside from crime fighting. It’s standing outside Dick’s door after begging him to be Robin again and knowing he failed. It’s hearing that his mother is dead and his father is comatose and there’s nothing they can do but wait. It’s his father dying and Tim finding his body too late. It’s Jason sneering that he doesn’t deserve Robin. It’s Dick handing Robin to Damian and ignoring every word Tim says in protest. It’s begging for anyone to believe that Bruce is still alive and receiving only pity in response. It’s watching Nyssa come closer and realizing there’s nothing he can do to stop what’s about to happen. It’s every single bad thing that’s ever happened to him and then some, everything he’s ever feared or despaired of and the horrifying truth that he can’t control this and he never could.
“Tim?” Bruce’s voice is quiet. He sounds… curious? Like he doesn’t know why Alfred called him down to the kitchen. “Kiddo, what’s up?”
Tim’s shoulders scrunch up at the nickname. “I slept in,” he says tightly. “I’m sorry.”
Bruce pauses. “You slept in.” It’s not a question. Tim doesn’t know what it means that it’s not a question.
“Yes.”
“Okay…” A chair squeaks to his left, but not the one right beside him. “Do you mean that you just got up a few minutes ago?”
Tim nods, hunching further over the counter and squeezing his arms against his head.
“Well, what time did you go to bed?” And there’s the question. The one Tim has been waiting for. The obvious one. Because Tim has a habit of staying up for hours past when he’s been told to sleep and if he slept this late, it must be his fault.
“Two!” Tim snaps, banging a wrist on the counter. “I went to bed at two, okay? Right after you told me. I went upstairs, and I changed into this, and then I got in bed and I fell asleep! I didn’t stay up! I didn’t even struggle going to sleep! I just woke up at seven, went back to sleep, and then woke up now! I don’t understand it, Bruce, I don’t know what happened! I don’t know!”
“Tim.” Bruce’s voice is suddenly closer, his tone impossibly gentle. “Tim, kiddo, breathe for me. You can do it. Breathe.”
Tim inhales. It feels like he’s pulling air into his lungs only for the weight on his torso to force it back out. He does it again anyway.
“That’s it,” Bruce encourages. “Keep going.” There’s a nearly silent movement, a hesitation, and then his hand lands on Tim’s back. “I’m here.”
Bruce’s hand stays exactly where he placed it, a steady, unchanging warmth that reminds Tim of every time he’s ever offered comfort, whether during patrol, galas, work, or at home. Tim takes another breath and feels his chest ease a bit more.
He doesn’t know how long it takes for him to raise his head and meet Bruce’s eyes without feeling like his body is compressing on itself. Alfred is back in the kitchen, continuing to prepare dinner in silence. Dish towels have been draped over the clocks to hide them from Tim’s view.
“Kiddo?” Bruce presses his palm against Tim’s back. “Back with me?”
Tim nods. “I think so. Sorry, Bruce.”
“It’s okay, bud.” Bruce’s fingers twitch like he doesn’t know whether to pull away or push closer. He ends up staying where he is. “Tim, I’m not upset at you. Sometimes things like this happen, especially if we go several days without the proper amount of sleep. I’ve slept past my alarms before. I’ve even slept past meetings. Usually, Alfred wakes me up in time, but there have been times, especially after parties, when both of us are too tired to get up on time. It’s part of life.”
Tim starts to answer, but Bruce cuts him off. “Look, at least it’s a Saturday. We have nothing going on today except chores and relaxing. You were catching up on sleep. That’s fine. None of your brothers complained that you were missing. Which, now that I think of it, means some of the blame is on the rest of us too.” Bruce frowns. “We should have realized you weren’t up and gone to check on you."
“I did wake up, Bruce, I just went back to sleep because I thought I’d wake up in an hour or so.” Tim doesn’t want Bruce to blame himself again. Bad things seem to happen when he does.
Bruce smiles a bit. “Well, Damian was a lot calmer today than usual. I think everyone had a good night’s sleep.” He leans closer, sliding his hand up to grip Tim’s shoulder. “Look, other than feeling emotionally bad, how do you feel physically? Rested, sore, tired, calm?”
Tim frowns. Now that he thinks of it, his eyes don’t hurt as much as they usually do. His head doesn’t pulse the way he's used to it doing after getting up. And while his stomach is starting to growl, nothing feels sore or aching. “I’m… fine.”
“See?” Bruce leans away. “Your body needed some extra rest. You slept, what was it? Eleven hours? More than usual, but that’s okay. You’re okay.”
It’s hard to believe good things about himself, even when people he trusts say them. Tim isn’t sure if he believes Bruce right now, but the weight of failure seems lighter now than just a few minutes ago. He nods wordlessly instead of responding.
Alfred picks up the glass dish from where he has finished layering ingredients in it. He offers Tim a comforting smile and says, “Chin up, Master Tim. You’re alright now.”
Tim straightens. He does feel better. He glances over at Bruce, whose face relaxes when he sees Tim’s expression. “There you go,” he says as he squeezes Tim’s shoulder one more time before removing his hand. “Why don’t you join the other boys in the games room? Cass is out until the evening, but Jason is here.”
Something warm begins to creep up Tim’s back. Alfred’s calm reaction, Bruce’s gentle reassurance, Jason just being here in the manor and playing video games…
Tim remembers his older brother screaming at Bruce just weeks ago about how he can’t stop seeing the Joker in his nightmares and he can’t get better and why are they even trying to help him anymore and Bruce shaking with frustration before finally—much to the shock of everyone who thought he was going to yell—saying in a voice tight with emotion, because we love you, Jason, and we believe that you can get better, even if it’s not the way you were before, we just want you to be as okay as you can be.
Cass and Alfred had shut the doors on the two when Jason collapsed into tears, pulling everyone else away so they could be alone. Tim remembers that now and feels a sudden surge of affection that makes his heart start pounding.
“Sure. Thanks, Dad.”
Tim is off the chair and out of the kitchen before Bruce can realize what he just said. His face flames, and he shakes his head to try and stop the feeling. Really? You had to call him Dad?
He skids around the doorway into the games room, runs in front of the screen to a chorus of complaints from Damian about “blocking the view”, dives onto the nearest empty section of couch, and buries his head in his knees. The ruckus caused by his arrival quiets down faster than he hoped it would and then Jason’s elbow is poking into his ribs none too gently.
“Yo, babybird, what’s up? Bruce scare you off?”
Tim groans and shakes his head. “No, he was fine. Calmed me down and everything after I was feeling bad. But then I, uh…”
“Oh, if Drake is embarrassed, it must be good.” Damian’s voice is dry, but Tim can hear his interest hiding behind the attempted scorn.
“Shush, brat, let Tim speak.”
“I am not a brat, Todd!”
“Calm down, both of you. Tim, what did you do? It can’t be that bad.” Dick’s voice sounds calm on the surface, but Tim can hear a trace of annoyance in his first statement. He’s probably been keeping them away from each other’s throats all game. It probably would have been worse if Tim were there, so at least there’s something.
His brothers are waiting for his answer, so Tim resigns himself to their widely varying reactions and decides to go for it.
“I called Bruce Dad,” he admits.
Silence.
“Aww, babybird!” Dick cries. “That’s adorable!”
“Drake, that is my father. How dare you call him yours?”
Jason just laughs.
Tim sighs and pulls a blanket over his knees to bury his face in. Dick continues waxing poetry about how sweet Tim is, Damian continues berating him for referring to Bruce that way, and after Jason catches his breath, he starts mocking Tim for freaking out over something like that.
At least five minutes pass of just bickering before Jason finally knocks his shoulder against Tim’s and says, “Come on, babybird, that’s fine. We’ve all called him that reflexively and embarrassed ourselves.”
“Excuse you, Todd!” Tim looks up to see Damian toss his remote down and fold his arms angrily. “I have never referred to Father so informally!”
“You called him Baba last week,” Tim decides to point out.
Dick and Jason lose it while Damian’s mouth opens and closes silently. Tim grins savagely. After several seconds of Damian's gaping, the younger teen finally burrows into the couch with a huff. "I hate you," he mutters sullenly.
Jason shakes his head good-naturedly and ruffles Tim's hair. "Seriously, Tim. I called him Dad on patrol. You don't get any more embarrassing than that."
"I called him Dad before he even adopted me," Dick adds. "I think his brain crashed. Never mentioned it again, but the next time I called him Bruce, he looked very, very slightly disappointed."
"How old were you?" Jason asks. "When you were little, you were adamant that he wasn't your father, and by the time I came around, the two of you were barely on speaking terms."
"I was twelve," Dick says. "Anyway, Tim, are you going to join in? We can have another player."
"What are you playing?" Tim leans against Jason's arm and squints at the TV. "Wait, Mario Kart? Wasn't this banned?"
"It's Sonic Racing, actually," Jason corrects, slinging his arm around Tim's neck and pulling him close. "And as long as no one tries to kill anyone, we should be able to keep it around for a while. Alfred hasn't realized it's basically the same thing, but newer."
"Huh." Tim resists the urge to elbow Jason in the gut and instead holds up a hand. "Remote."
A remote hurtles across the room from where Dmaian is sitting. Tim catches it with his Bat-trained reflexes and frowns at Dick.
"Why does Damian have the extra remotes?"
Damian scoffs. "Because Grayson would have knocked them off the couch and Todd would have sat on them by accident. Both of you move far too much while playing."
Tim laughs and turns on his remote. Dick has navigated back to the main screen so Tim can join the next game. Jason explains the rules with Damian interjecting every few sentences with what Jason clearly thinks is unnecessary information, but Tim finds it interesting.
Within minutes, they've chosen their characters, cars, and teams, and as the racetracks load, Tim grins and says, "Alright, brothers, who's ready to lose?"