Chapter Text
Five days ago
Bruce knocks on the door, the gold letters ‘5S’ hang onto the wood with rusty nails and prayers and swings back and forth every time his fist meets the hard, painted surface. Green carpet, institutional-grade that’s manufactured to hide stands and be mass-produced is under his feet. The toe of his boot is directly over a suspicious brown-red mark.
There is no welcome mat. Bruce vaguely understands that there is no deeper meaning to that fact.
When the door swings opens, the face that greets him is round and healthily flushed. Clear skin and blue eyes, clean hair and fresh smelling clothes. Tim has always been so good at taking care of himself – it’s the best part about Tim, Bruce often thinks.
The boy-man-teenager doesn’t let him in. The door stays half-way closed, and he’s blocking the space with his body so that Bruce can’t see inside of the apartment, can’t hear anything going on inside, but he's distracted by the quiet breathing of Tim. There is no echo of another person, a radio or a television creating dissonance in the rooms.
It’s just Tim, holding his ground as he’s so oft to do, not caving into Bruce’s whims and wishes and he vaguely wants to step further into the boy’s space. Threaten and loom and try to get him to take a step backwards.
Instead he lets his fingernails bite into the fleshy part of his palm when he squeezes his hands into fists and takes a deep breath.
“Tim-“ He starts; pauses, but he’s surprised how easy the words come out, “Tim, I’m so sorry.”
White knuckles bloom on Tim’s hand, the one curled around the doorframe. It’s a strong, pale forearm, dusted in fine, sparse black hairs. A silvery occasional scar shines at him, caught in the incandescent light that illuminates the foyer. Pride swells in his chest, flutters behind his sternum, because he only half helped sculpt those muscles, the power there. The memory.
(Tim did a lot of the work, he’ll give the boy that much credit. A work ethic like Tim’s, like Bruce’s, it’s a thing to marvel at, really.)
Bruce has to linger on those smart, thin fingers. Precise and dangerous on various different objects.
“I’m so sorry, Tim. I just..." Bruce pauses for a beat, "I just wanted you to know that.” He’s sorry; he’s sincere about it. He is. He swallows again, mirroring Tim’s throat that lines up to Bruce’s chest.
And Tim’s shoulders are pulled in and rolled over a little, protecting his center, his heart. He’s seen those arms, lanky and corded, wrapped around Tim’s own shoulders dozens upon dozens of times.
Tim gives himself surrogate hugs a lot, he wonders if Tim realizes what he’s doing, where the boy learned that habit.
“Of course, Bruce. Of,” Tim has to swallow something down again. Emotion or stress or maybe he had been mid-bite before he answered the door, “Of course, it’s okay. You have- had every right-”
“So, do you forgive me?” Bruce bullies his way into the kid’s sentence.
Tim's voice is more tenor then alto, it matches his body, his face and stance. “You’re always forgiven, Bruce. You know that.”
And that’s what he was banking on, if he does know that he doesn’t quiet deserve that sort of devotion.
“Thank you,” Bruce smiles, small and quiet and turns and walks back down the five flights of stairs. Leaves Tim standing there, listens for the sound of the door shutting, but it never comes, even when he reaches the bottom of the steps.
-tbc