Chapter Text
Pain.
Everywhere.
That’s all Tim could feel.
The normally comfortable cot felt like spikes on his bruised back, the white blankets that were wrapped around him felt suffocating—collapsing his lungs as he tried to breathe—and the bright lights around him burned his eyes.
“...alright now…”
The words Alfred spoke passed through him. They were muffled and hard to grasp, even as Tim tried to reach out.
Alfred was moving him, turning him on his side so that the bruises on his back could be iced—at least, that’s what Tim suspected he was doing. He couldn’t tell.
He was drugged.
The air around him felt sticky and heavy, his tongue felt fat, and his arms were made of jello.
“Hurts,” Tim muttered, trying to move away from Alfred’s gentle hands.
Everything hurt.
It always hurt.
All he wanted was his mom.
He wanted her to hold him and tell him that everything was going to be okay, that the loneliness he felt and the bruises on his back would fade away, and that the next time he woke up, all would be well.
But that wouldn’t happen.
That would never happen.
He would never be held by her again. She would never be there to comfort him or hold him.
His father-
It was too painful to think about, even too painful to dream about.
They were both gone.
Forever.
And for what?
“Master Timothy… stay still… possible.”
The words meant nothing to him as he dozed in and out of reality.
He just wanted to go home.
—-----------
Bruce was lingering the second time Tim awoke.
That’s all Tim could focus on—not the pain, not the ache—just Bruce.
There was a sure scolding to be heard, words of caution hidden beneath the anger, but Tim didn’t feel like dealing with Bruce’s emotions right now. He didn’t feel like ignoring the hurt that the words always caused because Bruce never learned to express concern without letting anger tint his words.
The cave was empty, it seemed, besides the two of them. Tim couldn't hear another breathing person, but it was hard to listen given the ringing in his ears. Still, he listened—hoping for another.
Bruce was the only one.
He was pacing around Tim’s cot.
Watching.
Waiting.
For what, Tim didn’t know, but he expected to find out. If it was a scolding, he wanted it sooner rather than later.
Tim turned, slowly twisted his body even as pain shot through him, and looked at the older man.
“What do you want?”
Bruce stopped pacing but remained quiet. Tim bit back a sigh.
“Go be with Damian, Bruce-” Tim began, hoping to make the older man leave.
“Damian’s fine. I’m worried about you-”
Tim scoffed. He was tired, his body hurt, and he wanted to go home—he didn’t want to be coddled and lied to. He didn’t have time for mind games. “Whatever.”
“Tim,” Bruce stepped closer to the cot. “I- you could have-”
“Stop.”
Bruce looked at him, confused; Tim looked away.
This, none of this, was usual.
Bruce didn’t check on Tim.
Tim didn’t need to be checked on.
He wanted to be. He wanted to be important enough that when he got hurt it mattered, but now all he felt at Bruce’s concern was anger.
“Stop what?”
“Stop acting like-” Tim made a vague gesture in Bruce’s direction- “that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you care-”
“I do care-”
“I’m not your son Bruce,” Tim finally spit out, unable to keep the venom out of his words. “Stop acting like I am.”
“Tim-”
“Leave.”
“I-”
“Please,” Tim’s voice broke on the word, but he refused to let up. He wanted to be left alone. He turned away from Bruce as if to accentuate his point.
“Okay,” Bruce finally conceded.
The sound of quiet footsteps was all the confirmation Tim needed to know that Bruce had left him alone. The Batcave gave Tim little privacy, but he could pretend.
He wrapped the blanket tightly around his body and fell into an uneasy slumber.
—-----------
The third time Tim awoke, he was alone.
He needed to leave.
He wanted to leave.
He moved his arm, trying to detach the needle-
“Stop that,” Damian said as he slapped Tim’s hand.
Tim blinked.
He wasn’t sure where the younger boy had come from.
He must have been more out of it than he realized.
“Damian-”
“You’re an idiot.”
Tim groaned. The younger boy’s voice was too loud.
“You’re the one who was spotted-”
“Tt. I’m not talking about that.” Damian’s arms were crossed in front of his chest, his back was stiff, and his eyes were pinning Tim down.
“What are you talking about?”
Mind games. It was always mind games with the people he knew. They spoke in riddles he couldn’t decipher most times.
Damian’s eyes narrowed. The kid looked unhappy, then again, he hardly ever looked anything but.
“Even if father does not consider you,” Damian paused for a brief moment, rolling the words around in his mind like he couldn’t quite find the right one, “ a son... I consider you to be my brother, Drake.”
Oh.
Oh.
What?
“What?”
“Tt. I will not repeat it.”
The younger boy turned to leave before pausing. “I meant it, Drake.”
“Okay.”
—-----------
Two days.
He was put on bed rest for two days before he was allowed to leave the cave, during which time he briefly talked to Alfred, and Damian had stopped by twice.
It was weird.
Tim had to admit how weird it was.
He liked it.
He forgot what it was like to have someone around.
He had friends.
Lots of them.
Those in the hero community and those out of it.
But how could he go to Zoanne or Ives and explain all that had happened—all that was still happening?
Would they be able to understand?
How could he go to Bart, Kon, Cassie, or even Cissie and explain the pressure that kept building unrelated to the Red Robin identity?
Maybe they would understand, listen to him, help him but-
He couldn’t burden them.
He wouldn’t burden them.
“Leaving so soon?” Alfred asked, eyeing the keys in Tim’s hand.
Tim nodded.
Alfred frowned.
“I don’t think it wise to drive in your condition, Master Tim.”
“I’ll be alri-”
“I can take him.”
Bruce.
What the fuck was Bruce doing here?
Granted it was his house, but Tim had planned his exit. He knew when Bruce worked, he knew when Bruce’s meetings were scheduled, and he knew for how long the older man would be gone, yet here he was—decidedly where he should not be.
“I’m okay, Bruce,” Tim muttered, clutching his keys. “Thank you.”
“It’s no trouble, Tim,” Bruce replied easily, pulling his keys out. “You can get your car another night.”
“I-”
“And it’ll ease some of Alfred’s worrying," Bruce stated before Tim could finish his sentence. Alfred coughed, sending a look to Bruce that screamed really.
Tim conceded nonetheless.
“Okay.”
—-----------
It was uncomfortable.
Silence penetrated every inch of the car. A clear want from Bruce to discuss something and a clear intention from Tim that he would not be letting that conversation take place.
He wanted to fall asleep. The ride made the tiredness that still clung to his bones ever more present.
Normally he would have.
But the last few weeks…
Nightmares.
Every night. Always the same one but with different people.
At first, it was simply a memory that never faded—he would dream of holding his father’s lifeless corpse as the blood tainted his skin—now it had been warped by his fear.
He dreamed of Damian’s blood on his hands; a pit of green and Ra’s leering over them, a small smile on his face.
He felt the last breath Jason took; heard the Joker’s laugh come from Captain Boomerang’s mouth.
He heard the strangled gasp of Cass as she held onto him, wide eyes slowly becoming empty as the dream continued.
He saw the hurt on Dick’s face as he struggled to hold onto the man, unable to get a good grip on a body covered in blood.
He saw them all.
Bruce was always there.
Standing beside Tim, but never looking at Tim. A broken and defeated look on his face as Tim clung to the corpse of one of the man's children.
“Do you mind if we make a quick stop?” Bruce asked, drawing Tim out of his thoughts.
Yes.
“No.”
He just wanted to be home. The longer he remained in the car, the more uncomfortable he felt.
He needed to clean his apartment.
Damian was going to come over later that week.
It was strange.
He never, in a thousand years, imagined a day where Damian would willingly come over to his apartment to spend time with him .
Tim could have never imagined inviting the younger boy over in the first place.
Technically, he didn’t invite Damian over this time. Instead, he was given a warning that if the apartment was not clean when he stopped by, Alfred would be getting involved.
The car stopped, and Tim’s mind moved on from Damian focusing instead on the man next to him.
Bruce didn’t move, he didn’t speak, he didn’t say anything—he did absolutely nothing.
He just stared.
Tim leaned forward, eyes adjusting to the brief moment of sunlight before it was covered by the clouds.
This was-
No.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
“Bruce.”
Bruce looked at him briefly before looking back outside. “Do you know where we are?”
Tim remained silent for a beat.
“This is-”
“Where I took that photo,” Tim interjected, finally finding his voice.
Bruce nodded, his eyes following the skyline that was framed against the small building in front of them. “When your teacher asked you, you paused- like you couldn't remember-”
“Everything looks the same after a while,” Tim muttered, a great sense of sadness overcoming him as he remembered that day—more specifically the event that happened before that day, in the cave when Tim had asked Bruce to come. “Why did you come?”
“What?”
“To the competition,” Tim clarified. It was a question that always silently lingered in the back of his mind. Even after all the years that had passed, Tim still remembered the confusion, the hurt, and the anger.
Bruce frowned.
He shifted, once then twice.
He was uncomfortable.
“You don’t have to-”
“I’m not,” Bruce began, “a good man, Tim-”
“Bruce-”
Bruce raised his hand, cutting Tim off. “It’s alright.”
The car grew silent once more.
“That didn’t answer my question.”
He was still confused, more so now than he had been only moments before.
“You met me at a bad time.” The words were choked and shaky as if Bruce was struggling to express himself properly. Knowing the man, he probably was. “I…was lost. I regretted what I said to you as soon as I said it…I didn’t mean it—any of it.”
“Why did you say it if you…didn’t-”
“Didn’t mean it? I didn’t- don’t,” he clarified quickly for Tim. “I was scared.”
“Of?”
“Caring.”
“Bruce-”
“People I care about die, Tim… or I end up hurting them. I thought-”
“So you pushed me away,” Tim muttered, as the events finally began to make sense. Even still, the words Bruce said didn’t explain one thing—the thing he asked. “But…what made you come?”
“I didn’t want you to be alone…and I couldn’t convince myself to stop caring-” Bruce turned and for the first time that car ride, he looked at Tim. Right at Tim. “I’m sorry-”
“It’s okay.” The words came out quickly.
Bruce chuckled, it was small and sad. “No. I don’t think it is.”
Tim could feel the prickle of tears threatening to spill.
“I have something else I wanted to show you,” Bruce muttered, finally removing his eyes from Tim. The older man leaned into the back seat and Tim watched as the sun moved back out of the clouds.
It was a beautiful day.
“Here-” Bruce handed him a manila folder. “For you…whenever, if ever, you want.”
Tim opened it cautiously-
Report of Adoption .
He closed the folder. “Bruce-”
“There’s no rush-”
“There’s no point,” Tim corrected. He was emancipated now, legally considered an adult, there was no changing that.
“Tim,” Bruce was looking at him again. “You’re my son, no matter what. These papers-” he gestured at the folder Tim was clutching- “do nothing but make it official again.”
There was a beat of a pause before Bruce continued.
“I’d like to make it official again.”
He pulled out a pen from his jacket and handed it over to Tim. “You don’t have to sign them…now- or ever-”
Tim cut him off with a hug.
It was awkward and uncomfortable. The console dug into his stomach and Bruce’s hands were painful on his bruised back, but Tim didn’t care.
He was happy.
“Thank you,” Tim whispered. Tears were quietly running down his face, leaving tiny spots on Bruce’s jacket, but the older man didn’t seem to mind. He just held Tim tighter.
He was happy for the first time in a long time.