Work Text:
Ives is stalking him.
Tim darts around another street corner, trying to lose him. At least as Robin, he’s different - his movements quick, silent, his voice sharp, with less of the friendly looseness he has as Tim. Ives suspects, maybe, he thinks - why else would he be following Tim around?
Ives is smart, too. Tim’s tried to follow him a couple of times, tried to put into practise all he’s been taught, and Ives has dodged him twice so far. It’s a little embarrassing - Ives is his classmate, and Tim’s supposed to be trained - but at least Tim hasn’t screwed up like that on patrol, or lost a trail in front of Bruce.
That would be worse.
He loses Ives at some point before he reaches Widowstone Creek. He’s seen Spoiler a couple of times around here, and The Bowery and Park Row, a couple more in the Narrows, but she’s not here right now. It’s probably for the best, with what Tim is investigating.
He heads to the crime scene: a small park near the middle of the city. Babs - as she insists Tim calls her - has already sent him the footage of a masked man, build similar to Bruce’s, dressed in suit and tie, walking a child away. The man had talked to the child, murmured something, and Tim had spotted a flash of silver, quickly disappearing. The kid had worn a prep school uniform.
Tim hunts for clues, but all he finds are the newly browning leaves of Autumn, rustling in the wind, and a small school house badge. Keating, it reads, bright red, a sketch of a mountain against it. He drops the badge into a plastic ziplock bag and heads back to Wayne Manor.
Bruce doesn’t want Tim looking into this - scared it’s too dangerous - but Tim’s ready. He knows he is. And he knows he can solve this, too.
“Hey Dad,” Tim says, a little awkward.
“It’ll just be us, for a while,” Dad says. “And maybe Dana.” Tim’s met Dana a couple of times already - she’s nice, friendly, open - but…well. Dad’s just gotten out of hospital. Dana’s his physiotherapist. And Tim was hoping it would be just Dad and him, for a little while, until the pressure in Tim’s chest eased.
“Sure,” Tim says, instead, smiles at Dana, when she walks out of the car.
They eat dinner together.
It’s nice, but it’s also…weird.
They never felt like much of a family, before. And with Bruce, he knows he isn’t family, no matter how often Bruce and Alfred insist Tim stay the night, no matter how often Dick insists Tim join him for dinner in Bludhaven, a whole half-hour away.
It’s not like he hasn’t eaten dinner with his parents before. It’s not like he hasn’t eaten dinner with just Dad, before. But it’s still weird - Dad, a little awkward, a little trying - I want to be better for you, now, kid. More involved - Tim, hiding secrets in his chest, not sure what to talk about.
Dad suggests they watch football, after. Tim agrees, even if he doesn’t want to.
“So,” Dad says, one evening, when Tim comes home around seven. “What have you been up to?”
Tim shrugs. “Just studying.”
“Studying? Were you over at Bruce Wayne’s?”
Tim stares.
“He gave me a call,” Dad says, like this isn’t new to Tim. Bruce should have told him, but it’s not like Bruce is the communicative sort. Tim knows that; Tim became Robin, knowing that. “Said you were staying over for dinner.” Have you done this before? Dad doesn’t ask.
“Yeah,” Tim says. “Alfred - Mr Pennyworth, his butler - he served pot pie.”
“You didn’t think to tell me?”
And, oh. Tim hadn’t - he didn’t think Dad would mind. Not really. Not when Mom and Dad wouldn’t have minded, before, off on their trips all the time. Not when Tim hasn’t really had to check in with an adult for months. “He helped out a lot,” Tim finds himself saying. “After - when you were–” the words die in his throat.
“Alright,” Dad says, slowly, but there’s a suspicion in his eyes Tim isn’t comfortable with. “Dana made desert before leaving. Strawberry custard. I’ll put the television on.”
“Are you liking school?”
“Yeah, Dad,” Tim says.
“I heard your grades dropped.”
Tim bites back the response that rises in his throat. “I’ll bring them back up,” he says.
“You’ve got…friends, and all?”
Like Tim hasn’t told him this already, millions of times, when Dad couldn’t hear him, sitting next to his hospital bed. “Yeah. Ives, Kevin, Philmont, Ariana–”
“Ariana?”
Tim tries not to flush. He feels like he’s doing that a lot, now - around Ariana, around Spoiler; hell, even around Ives - then clears his throat. “She’s just a friend.”
Dad chuckles. “Sure. Alright, kid.”
“You coming to our game this week?”
Tim winces. He’s missed the last three, but that’s been because of Robin - not because of Dad, even if Ives thinks it is.
“Yeah,” Tim says. “I’ll try.”
“Things been…alright? At home?” Ives’ words are a little clunky, and Tim snorts.
“Yeah, you doofus. Things have been fine. Just - it’s weird, having Dad back, but it’s been…good.” Maybe good isn’t the right word, exactly, but how many times had he sat next to Dad and wished he’d wake up?
Ives grins, ruffles his hair, light, as Tim tries and fail to dodge, laughing. “So what I’m hearing is that you’re not missing the game. And I’m having dinner at yours.”
“What, Ives, you can’t just–alright, alright! You can come over. I’ll let Dad know.”
It’s not like Tim isn’t grateful - of course he is - but he had sort of hoped his Dad would have realised that he wanted to be around Tim earlier. He’d sort of hoped it wouldn’t take a near-death experience to realise that. And Tim’s gotten used to being alone, shipped from boarding school to boarding school, never knowing when his parents would return. Now Dad asking questions, curious and longing, feels intrusive, like he’s dragging Tim’s insides out of him, raw-edged and squirming.
Bruce goes through Tim’s findings with him. He hums, once Tim is done. “We’ll have to work fast,” he says, and Tim can see it’s the sort of thing he wants to do alone.
“I can help,” Tim says.
“I know,” Bruce says, glancing at Tim, face softening. “Are you…alright? School is going fine?”
“Of course,” Tim says, instinctual.
“And…otherwise?” Bruce says.
Otherwise? Tim stares at Bruce, for a few moments, a little blank. Is Bruce trying to work out if Tim can still be Robin? “Yeah,” Tim says. “Good. Dad’s back.”
“I know,” Bruce says. “He’s…everything’s alright?”
Tim shrugs, nods. “Yeah. As much as they can be, I guess.”
It’s kind of hard, hiding Robin from Dad, but Tim’s not going to admit that.
Bruce sighs. Tim turns back to the screen. His gaze catches on the photo stuck to the screen - Dick’s work, he’s sure - of Bruce as a high school student with some friends; a lanky boy with bruised knuckles; a scowling girl; and Bruce, in the middle, eyes stormy.
“Dick dug it out a few years ago,” Bruce says, because of course he knows what Tim is looking at. “It’s from that yearbook you took a look at a few months ago. That’s the McKillen girl. Her twin was sick that day. And there’s - oh - Thomas - Tommy - Elliot. Alfred would probably argue I was…grumpier, then. Though perhaps I’m not much better now.” His lips tilt up in a shadow of a grin. Tim snorts.
“And then you - a little looser,” Dick says, pointing at Tim’s leg. “You don’t want to land too hard, especially if you’re doing two mid-air flips.”
Tim groans, flops down onto Dick’s couch. “I’m not as flexible as you.”
Dick snorts. “I’ve had a lot more training than you, bud. We’ll pick it up again next time. How’s that case going?”
Tim shrugs. “Good. I think he’s just targeting rich kids.” Tim pauses. “Rich people? Bruce thinks he might move onto adults, but I don’t know. He had a look in his eye - like he knew the guy, or something.”
Dick sighs, sits down next to him. “Maybe. That’s Bruce - you know how he is. But things are alright at home, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Tim says, but it doesn’t sound convincing. He can feel Dick’s eyes track his face.
“It’s a hard change,” Dick says. “With Robin, too. I know it’s not always easy to hide.”
“Yeah,” Tim says. “You sound like Bruce.”
Dick chuckles. “Where do you think Bruce learnt it from? It’s…let me know if you’re having any trouble, alright? Or just sneak in. I don’t mind. There’s usually leftovers in the fridge, if you’re hungry, too.”
Tim’s lips tilt up. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Ives.”
“What? It’s not my fault you rolled a one–”
“You’re the DM!” Tim says. “Come on, man. One isn’t a zero, surely I can–”
Kevin snorts, next to Tim. Tim scowls at him.
“You try to cast a binding spell…and tangle yourself, instead of the beast!”
Tim rolls his eyes. Ives laughs. It’s warm, tinkling, and Tim ignores the heat that creeps up his spine.
“Are you stalking me?”
“No,” Tim says, flushing. “I’m just - I’m looking into a case.”
“What case?”
“The kidnapping one,” Tim says.
Spoiler frowns. “Oh.”
“What’re you doing here?”
“Spoiling,” Spoiler says, dry. “What else?”
Tim stares at the building she’s looking at. “Cluemaster?”
“Yeah.”
“You know–”
“I’m fine, Robin.”
Tim raises his hands, palms up, in a peace offering. “Alright, alright. You mind if I sit for a bit?”
For someone who once whacked Tim in the head, she’s not that bad, really. “Yeah,” she says, shrugging. “If you want.”
Tim does. “Is he doing anything tonight?”
“I doubt it,” Spoiler says. Cluemaster struck just last week, Tim knows - he’s probably still licking his wounds from Batman.
They watch the lights flicking in the building for a while, silent. “Sky’s nice, tonight,” Tim says, after a moment. Even with all the Gotham smog, there are a couple of gleaming dots above them. “You can even see Jupiter. See?” Tim goes to stand and almost careens off the edge, and Spoiler laughs. He glares, and she waves him off.
“I can see it,” she says. “You know, you’re not half boring, Robin,” she continues, teasing, and Tim feels a flush creep up his cheeks.
“Yeah, yeah,” Tim says. “Very funny.” He jumps into the night.
Dad watches him in the morning, critical, assessing. “Stayed up, did you?”
At least Dad didn’t hear him sneak back in. “Yeah,” Tim says. “You know how it is.”
Dad frowns. “You’re a growing boy. You should be sleeping early.”
Tim swallows. “Sometimes I can’t help it,” he says, instead, and something flickers in Dad’s eyes. Tim shoves his guilt to the back of his mind. Dad doesn’t know - Dad doesn’t need to know. It would just make everything more complicated.
Ives is following him again.
Tim darts into the market, smiles at people passing by, helps a woman pass out flyers for her missing cat, saves a boy’s dangerously tilting ice-cream, helps a man find his wedding ring that’s rolled into a crevice in the street. When he leaves, Ives is gone.
(And even if Ives does suspect, what’s the worst he can do? It’s not like anyone would believe him. Still, there’s a pulse of fear in Tim’s chest.)
“I think my friend might be…suspicious,” Tim says, slowly.
Dick frowns. “I thought you were hiding things pretty well. Are you sure?”
Tim shrugs. “I don’t - no, but…”
Dick sighs. “Try not to worry about it too much. Change your route up, your days, your walk - things like that. It’ll help with your Dad, too.”
Tim swallows. Right. Dad.
Dick’s eyes soften. “I’m glad he woke up, Tim.”
“Yeah,” Tim says, because he can’t not be grateful Dad’s not dead. “Me too.” Then: “Are we going train-riding again?”
Dick sighs, but a grin is twitching at his lips. “You’re just mad I beat you last time.”
“You got a head start, Dick, you were cheating–!”
Tim inches forward, resisting the urge to tug at his suit. When he’s Robin, he’s confident, sleek, sharp; not a teenager.
Bruce is crouching over a body, alongside Commissioner Gordon. Tim hasn’t gotten a good look, yet - not that he really wants to - standing awkwardly inside the yellow crime scene tape.
Bruce lets out a sharp breath, stands. “The…his heart has been cut out. Surgical precision,” Bruce says. “It must be someone skilled. A cardiothoracic surgeon?” He glances at Commissioner Gordon, who nods, hands curled into fists.
Tim’s heart stutters in his chest. The figure looks - kind of small. A flash of burgundy red, like a uniform. Black lace shoes.
Tim stares, head spinning.
“Go home,” Bruce says, very quietly.
“B–”
“You don’t need to see this,” Bruce says, more firmly. “Go home.”
Tim swallows. Bruce’s eyes are stormy, anguished, wet. Tim stares, past him, through him.
It’s the child. The kidnapped one.
Killed.
Tim spends the next few days in a weird sort of haze. He goes to school and comes home and tries his best to act normal, but he skips two Warlocks & Warriors sessions with Ives and the rest, and sometimes when Dad asks him questions his brain buffers, and he doesn’t answer until later, like he’s talking through cotton.
Dick calls, and Tim picks up, but he doesn’t think he’s convincing.
“I’ll come over,” Dick says, finally.
“No,” Tim blurts. “No, it’s fine. I’m okay.”
“...Talk to Bruce, at least,” Dick says, softly, and Tim says he will, even if he knows he won’t.
Dad frowns at him. “Are you alright, Tim? Did anything happen? Is it that Bruce Wayne man?”
“No,” Tim says, louder than he means no. “It’s not Bruce, Dad. I’m fine. Nothing - nothing happened.” I saw a child’s dead body. “Nothing happened.” His heart was cut out. “I’m fine.” I couldn’t find him fast enough.
Dad’s voice rises. “Tim, don’t lie to me. This act–”
“Don’t be too hard on him, Jack,” Dana says, next to Dad. “He’s a teenage boy. You remember what that was like, right?”
Tim forces his lips into a smile. “I’m alright. Really.”
Dad goes back to eating, lips pressed into a thin line. Tim’s stomach squeezes, squirms.
Tim doesn’t notice, at first. He opens the door, and walks inside, like usual. Notices the couch pillows are on the floor, the television skewed, but doesn’t pay much attention to it. Walks closer to his room, through the hallway.
His clothes are outside, scattered along the floor. Tim stops walking. His bag drops to the floor with a thud. Tim looks around again.
The house is a mess, he realises. Tim’s heart stutters, pounds in his head.
There’s a low creak of wheels. Dad emerges. He’s holding something in his arms. His face is red, scowling, and something cold runs down Tim’s spine.
Dad’s carrying red and yellow and green. Tim’s heart freezes. His mind turns to static, to white cotton.
“You’re Robin?” Dad says, sharp and loud and angry.
Oh.
Shit.
Tim is out the door before he realises, the cold air biting.
Dad knows. Dad knows.
Holy shit. Holy shit, Dad knows. What is Tim going to do now? What can he do? He’ll need to give up Robin, maybe, probably. Dad wouldn’t understand. Not before, and not now, even if he’s changed, even if he’s trying.
He’s been lying to Dad for ages.
His stomach churns. His vision blurs, the world too loud, too harsh, too bright. He’s going to be sick. He needs to get a hold of himself, needs to warn Bruce and Alfred, needs to tell Dick, but he’s going to be–
He doesn’t notice the man until it’s too late.
Tim wakes slowly, woozily. Tugs at his arms, his legs, but both are bound. His body aches, stiff, and there’s a low pulse in his neck.
“Good.” The man’s voice is loud. Tim winces. “You’re awake.”
Tim glances around. His stomach swoops. Ives. Ives is there, on the other side of the room, bound to a chair, gag in his mouth, flopped over in a way that suggests he’s unconscious.
“I found that one loitering around,” The man says. “Looking for Robin, if you can believe.”
Tim swallows, pushes back the burn of his wrists, his arms, the guilt in his gut, forces himself to focus.
“You know,” the man says, twining a bandage around his haand, and Tim frowns, because there’s something - almost familiar, not quite–
“...I had thought you would be harder to kidnap. You teenagers always are, especially you rich ones. Not that I can talk, I suppose. Now, the children - the children are…”
–Bruce’s yearbook. Bruce, stoic and grumpy, scowling at the camera. Another boy, next to him, sharp smile on his face. Dick had mentioned it looked like the teenager wanted to pick a fight, and Bruce had laughed, said - Thomas was like that; crafty, adventurous, a little too sharp–
“...You don’t realise what other people have, until you’ve got it yourself. Parents gone; fortune claimed; no drunken idiot to ruin all your best laid plans…”
–you know, I think he became a surgeon–
“...But, of course, then people had to start asking questions at the fundraisers, the events. And I realised - what better revenge, than taking their pride and joy? What better revenge, than biting back against the society that looked and stared and did nothing, that turned my own fortune against me, that refused me my birthright…”
“You’re Dr. Thomas Elliot,” Tim breathes. He looks up, up, stares into those eyes. “Aren’t you?”
Thomas Elliot smiles. “You’re smart,” he says, eyes sharp, grin stretching across his face. “Oh. This will be fun. You're Bruce's, too, aren't you? I've been watching. Well, at least you know my name. The others didn't.”
Tim’s heart thuds in his chest. He glances around, searching, looking, cataloguing–
They’re in a warehouse of some sort; Tim can hear the faint grind and crunch of construction outside (an abandoned building?) and above, a row of fluorescent lights shine, rectangular. There’s nothing else in the room, apart from dust and dirt - no tables, no cardboard, no shelves. Just echoing emptiness.
His hands are tied behind his back, but these are only ropes. And they’re tied well, but Tim can get out of them. If he does it surreptitiously enough, Elliot won’t even notice.
His ankles are a different issue - wait until Elliot leaves, and get out of them then? Because Elliot will leave, he thinks; Elliot still works as a surgeon, doesn’t he? And there’s no equipment here; Elliot needs to leave to get that.
Tim tries not to think much more about what equipment Elliot would need.
Tim can fight. He might not be as good as Bruce, or Dick, but he can still fight, if he needs to. He can use the chair - it’s moveable, not bolted to the ground.
But Ives - Ives. Tim can carry him on his back, maybe, but it’ll slow him down. But that’s a risk Tim will have to take, he supposes. He’s not leaving Ives here, all alone, defenseless.
There’s a door. He can pick the lock - he’s got clips in his pocket for a reason. Grab Ives and run for it, the moment Elliot is gone.
Elliot keeps talking, eyes sharp, hungry. Don't try anything. With your size, you'll bleed out in minutes when I cut your carotid artery.Tim wiggles his hands, starts loosening the rope.
Elliot leaves, finally. I need to get my tools. Tim’s head feels fuzzy. Elliot’s drugged him, maybe, but Tim can keep going. He needs to.
Tim wrenches his wrists out of the rope, loose enough, now. He moves to his ankles, ignoring the throb, the dull burn, then stumbles to his feet.
He’s a little woozy. The room spins, fluorescent. Tim squeezes his eyes shut, opens them back up, heads for Ives. Unties Ives’ ropes, pulls the gag out of his mouth. Ives is still slumped over, unconscious, but breathing, pulse steady.
Tim rubs at his head. If only he had Bruce, or Dick, or Alfred, or his Robin suit, but–
This has to be enough. He has to be enough.
He considers grabbing the chair, but the world swoops, again, so he just takes Ives by the collar and pulls him over to the door.
Digs the bobby pin out of his pants pocket, hands trembling, shoves it into the keyhole. Once - twice - twists, listens to that faint click-click-click, tries to make himself move slowly, even as everything spins and aches and melts together.
He drags Ives out, up the stairs, hopes the construction will conceal the pound of his heart, the gasp of his breaths, the patter of his feet, Ives, clunky and clanging behind him, arms burning. Runs and runs and runs, straight for the hospital he knows is four miles away–
There's a flash of black, in the distance. An arc of blue. A burst of purple. Tim doesn't see them, though.
Consciousness comes slowly: the dull beep of a machine, a strange scratching over his skin, the soreness of his wrists, his ankles, the bright white, pressing into his eyes.
Tim opens them. A hospital, he guesses, quickly, even though his mind feels like parsing through sludge. And, next to him, flicking through a magazine, pages thwacking–
Bruce.
Tim clears his throat. It’s dry. “Is Ives–?”
Bruce hands him a cup of water. “He’s fine. We caught Thomas Elliot, as well; he’s with the GCPD. Dick and Spoiler helped."
Tim swallows. “I’ll thank them,” he says, quietly, and Bruce’s lips tilt up.
“Alfred made you some shepherd’s pie, if you’re hungry, later.”
“Thanks, Bruce. Is my - is my Dad–?”
“Just outside,” Bruce says, gently. He moves to stand - Tim’s heart squeezes - but the door swings open.
“Tim,” Dad says, drawing him into a hug. Tim melts into it, swallows down a sob, lets his Dad hug him in a way Tim hasn’t been hugged in years. Dad looks up, at Bruce. “Thank you,” Dad says, stiff, quiet.
Bruce nods. “Of course. I care about Tim.”
Dad lets out a breath. “I can see that,” he says. It sounds reluctant, but at least he’s saying it.
“My butler, Alfred, left some food for Tim. He can have it when he’s hungry.” Bruce gathers his bag.
“Can you stay?” Tim says. His voice is - smaller than he’d like. It’s the painkillers, he tells himself. The lingering fear in his stomach. “Both of you.”
Bruce stares, for a long moment. “Okay, Tim,” he says, finally. “I’ll stay.”
Dad shifts closer, wheelchair aligned with Tim’s bed, so he can swing an arm around Tim’s shoulders. Bruce turns back to the book he was reading.
“Dana will be by soon,” Dad says. “And some of your friends. Ives, and some of the others.”
Tim leans back against the pillow. “Alright.”
“Dick will be coming over as well,” Bruce says. “And Alfred, of course. Perhaps Spoiler, too.” Dad makes a noise, at that last one.
“Alright,” Tim says. “Thanks.”
“We’ll talk about Robin later,” Dad says, and Tim can tell Bruce is pretending not to listen. “And Batman.” His eyes glance at Bruce, who doesn’t react. “Once you’re healed,” Dad says. “And I’ll, uh - I’ll get the house fixed up,” Dad says, more awkwardly. “So it’s back to normal.”
“Back to normal?” Bruce enquires.
Dad doesn’t respond. “I’ll let you sleep, Tim,” he says, instead. Then, to Bruce: “Visiting hours are only eight to eight, Mr. Wayne. And we do have a shotgun in the house.”
Tim snorts. “Stop threatening Bruce, Dad.”
“I can threaten him all I damn well want, son; he's not a good role–”
“It’s fine, Tim,” Bruce says. “I understand. I want what’s best for Tim, too. Right now, that looks like rest.”
Dad clears his throat, eases his arm out from under Tim’s shoulders. “Get some sleep.” Dad’s voice is uncharacteristically soft.
If there’s one thing Tim’s learnt in fourteen years, it’s to cherish moments like these when they come along. So he closes his eyes, and lets himself sink into warmth, into safety, into family. Into the current of discord between Dad and Bruce, now that Dad knows about Robin - now that the weight is off his chest, now that he can breathe again - that Tim knows will fade, because Dad mutters another thank you, under his breath, and Bruce says something about care. Into the buzzing of his phone with what Tim can guess are texts from Dick and Ives and everyone else. And Ives might have figured it out, but Tim is starting to think that’s alright, too. He's Robin. He's Tim Drake. He can handle it.
Into that thought, loud and crystal clear: he’s not alone.