Chapter Text
The hits hurt.
They were quick and dirty.
Ruthless and harsh.
But Tim didn’t say anything.
He wouldn’t know what to say even if he wanted to say something—which he didn’t.
This was a lesson. A tough one to learn, it hurt his skin and bruised his bones, but an important one.
His defense was sloppy. The moves he memorized were like equations to problems—he knew them, but he didn’t always know how to use them.
Tim rolled over on the mat, dodging what would have been a brutal hit, and got on his feet. He staggered slightly, exhausted from the extensive workout, but quickly regained his balance. He took two steps back, stepping outside of striking distance—finally putting some distance between him and Bruce.
He wanted the man to let up some even though he knew how ridiculous the request was.
Bad guys won’t stop punching even when you ask them kindly; Tim needed to be prepared.
But...
Bruce was pissed.
Furious.
His moves against Tim reflected that anger tenfold.
Dick had stopped by the manor earlier in the evening, and as usual, it didn’t end well.
There was an argument, a shattered glass, and a frown on Alfred’s face when Tim arrived. He only caught the end of the heated fight, but currently, he was being burned by the aftermath of it.
It had something to do with a case.
Unimportant and simple.
Something that wasn’t worth arguing over, but Tim had seen them fight over stupider things.
“Again,” Tim urged, standing closer to Bruce when the older man didn’t make a move.
He didn’t want to continue.
Not necessarily.
But he didn’t want to stop either.
He wasn’t going to give up until he perfected the movements—until he could do them in his sleep with ease.
He wanted to be perfect.
He needed to be perfect.
“Tim-"
“Again,” Tim reiterated, moving even closer, unwilling to concede.
Tim knew Bruce didn’t understand why he didn’t take the exit offered to him.
Tim could’ve left. The pain could have ended.
But Tim stayed.
And urged Bruce to continue.
He didn’t think Bruce would ever understand.
Sometimes, Tim wasn’t sure he fully understood himself. The pain of the night didn’t lessen with daybreak. The bruises always remained and sometimes the lessons got muddied. But Tim kept coming back.
Truthfully, Tim wasn’t sure he wanted Bruce to understand.
Tim continued, even when hurt and beaten, because there was no one else.
Tim had to be able to save Batman if the man went too far—no one else would.
No one else could.
If Bruce endangered his life and the lives of others, Tim had to be prepared to act accordingly—he needed to be able to go as far as Bruce did, maybe further, to pull Bruce back into the light if a slip-up ever occurred.
That was his job.
His duty.
It’s why he became Robin and one bad day on the training mats wasn’t going to change Tim’s mind.
They ran through the move one more time.
Tim didn’t do better, but he had paid special attention to the moves Bruce did to counter his attacks—watching Bruce provided insight that Tim couldn’t afford to overlook.
He’d practice the moves later at home, try them out a couple of times, and then utilize them in the streets when the opportunity came about.
“That’s enough,” Bruce muttered, he was drained—not as much as Tim, but drained nonetheless. It wasn’t all from training, some came from patrol, some came from Dick, and some came from a sleep schedule that only ensured 2-4 hours of sleep each night.
“Okay,” Tim agreed, nodding.
He wanted to continue.
He always did.
But it wouldn’t be worth it.
It would do more harm than good.
He wasn’t going to be stupid—he wouldn’t over-exert himself.
Bruce nodded in his direction, turning away from the mats and towards the Batcomputer. Tim had no doubt in his mind that Bruce would start looking into that case again—the one he and Dick argued about.
It was unhealthy, but so was being a vigilante.
It was a stupid idea that would likely only make Bruce angrier.
Sometimes Tim thought Bruce intentionally tortured himself, but Tim wasn’t there to change Bruce, he was there to protect him and Gotham.
Tim sat down on the mat, resting his back against the stack of mats that were piled up.
Bruce stacked them for Dick—something about training an acrobat.
Tim’s eyes slowly darted over to Bruce’s hunched figure and then back up to the ceiling.
He liked to linger after training.
No one had ever asked him to leave straight away; staying became an established part of his routine.
After training, Tim would simply lay on the mat until he felt like moving once more.
That night, however, Tim wasn’t ready to move—he wasn’t ready to leave.
He fiddled with the long sleeves of his black athletic shirt. The ends were slightly frayed from one too many washes mixed with Tim’s habit of twisting and pulling on stray threads that had broken loose from the material.
Tim didn’t want to leave.
He enjoyed spending time at the manor—more than he ought to. But, there was something so lively about the place that didn’t exist at home. Something Tim longed for—something he didn’t know he was missing until it was given to him.
Silent company—the non-oppressive presence of others warmed his soul and hugged his heart.
Tim didn’t mind an empty home. Oftentimes, it was nice—convenient .
But, it was cold.
It was always cold.
Tim hadn’t realized the frostbite that nibbled at his fingers until he was in the presence of fire and warmth. Now that he knew what it was like to be warm, he selfishly never wanted to return to the ice.
Sometimes, selfishly, Tim wouldn’t want to be alone—slowly getting suffocated by the silence that penetrated every corner of the Drake home—he wanted to be with others.
Others like Bruce and Alfred, even Dick for whatever short period of time he would stop by, were what Tim wanted.
But that was selfish.
That was capitalizing on the death of someone who was a hero.
Tim didn’t want to be selfish.
Tim didn’t need another family, especially not one that he would be taking advantage of in their grieving state, he already had a family.
His parents weren’t around a lot, but they cared for him.
They loved him.
They gave him freedom presented as a double-edged sword that was slowly piercing Tim’s skin—but that wasn’t their fault.
He was independent.
They knew that. That's why they never stayed in Gotham for long. That had to be the reason.
Right?
Tim sighed, slowly standing up and shooting Bruce another look. Bruce was still hunched over; his jaw was clenched.
He made his way over to the older man, silently looking around the cave as he did.
Being Robin was a burden at times—something that Tim only noticed when it was late at night—but it gave Tim a purpose and came with some perks, such as the Batcave.
“Hey,” Tim greeted, leaning over to verify if his speculation about what Bruce was doing was correct.
It was.
The case, one that involved three women and a batch of off-brand fear toxin, was pulled up.
Bruce grunted in response, eyes narrowing as they briefly looked at Tim. Tim offered a small smile.
Tim was supposed to have left by now—that was an established part of their routine—a routine that Bruce was used to.
He needed to leave.
He knew he needed to leave.
He never came to Bruce after training.
But Tim was lonely.
Even if Bruce ignored him, it would be nice to pretend that someone in his life wanted to hear about how things were going.
And maybe, there was something else.
Something that Tim wanted to slip into the conversation but not directly ask.
It was stupid.
Tim knew it was stupid.
But his school was holding a photography competition, one that his teacher had entered him in, and it was going to take place on Saturday.
It would be nice if someone could make it—even if they would only be able to stay for a few minutes.
“So…” Tim trailed off, his eyes looking for any sign that showed Bruce was paying attention. There weren’t any. “You probably already know this, but I… I take photos sometimes.”
Tim cringed at the words. He didn’t know why it was so hard to ask the man to show up for the competition. The worst thing Bruce could do was say no. He took a deep, but silent, breath and continued.
“There’s a photo competition at school this weekend. It’s not really a competition,” Tim clarified quickly. “I- well, I don’t think it is. But, my teacher, Mrs. Arbus said I-”
Tim cut himself off.
He knew Bruce was hardly listening yet he couldn’t bring himself to fully open up about his passions. Maybe Bruce would think it was silly, maybe Bruce wasn’t paying any attention at all and wouldn't care. Tim didn’t know but…
It was hard.
It was hard for the stupidest of reasons.
He was embarrassed.
He’d never really told anyone about his photographs.
They were something personal—too close to home to be criticized by people he loved and cared about.
And he did care about Bruce.
More importantly, he cared about Bruce’s opinion of him.
But they were just photographs, right? And he was only talking about them, not showing them to Bruce… unless Bruce agreed to come. But right now he was just talking about them. What harm would it cause?
Tim swallowed the lump in his throat.
He was being ridiculous.
“Mrs. Arbus,” Tim started, voice not as confident as he would have liked. “She thinks I’m pretty good at it... says I could maybe even do it professionally.”
Tim waited a brief second, a beat of a pause before he continued. “That’s pretty… cool, right?”
He cringed, once more, at the words as they left his mouth.
Bruce still hadn’t looked up.
“Anyway, this not competition thing, it’s- well, it’s taking place on Saturday around 3 at the High School. My parents aren’t going to be able to make it and I was wondering if maybe you would be willing to-”
“Not my son,” Bruce muttered quietly, cutting off Tim’s question. He barely caught the words, and even as he held them in his hands Tim couldn’t quite figure out how they fit the conversation.
Maybe he’d misheard Bruce. He stepped closer.
“What?”
Bruce turned and looked at Tim, dark blue eyes bore into his lightened ones. He looked furious.
Tim felt his skin bristle in response. He wanted to back up, but he was being ridiculous.
Bruce wouldn’t hurt him.
Still, the way Bruce looked at him was unnerving.
“You’re not my son,” Bruce bit out again, this time louder.
The words shouldn’t have hurt.
They did.
But they shouldn’t have.
It was established early on—the dynamic between the two of them.
They weren’t father and son, and they didn’t need to be father and son.
Tim had parents. They were absent at times, but they cared.
They cared like how every parent cared and they loved how every parent loved. Tim didn’t need to be at the center of attention. He never needed that.
He had friends, great friends, and others he could turn to in times when his parents weren’t able to be around for him.
But he never expected anything from Bruce.
He was there to help Bruce, not the other way around. Tim wasn’t the one dancing with danger each night, gambling with death, Bruce was.
So why did the words make his heart hurt and his chest feel tight?
Why did the words need to be said out loud in the first place?
“I-“ Tim cut himself off, confused and taken aback. He pushed away the hurt, Bruce had only stated the truth—Tim had no reason to get choked up about it—even if he couldn’t figure out how it fit into the conversation. “I know.”
Bruce pushed away from the Batcomputer, not looking at Tim or even in his direction. His hands were clenched into fists; his back was stiff.
“Then stop acting like you are.”
Tim’s hands awkwardly grasped at the sleeves of his own shirt. He wasn’t sure what to say or do. He didn’t know if he should apologize or simply excuse himself.
“Unless what you do in your free time,” Bruce began, back still turned. “Brings about something relevant to your work as Robin or mine as Batman, then I don’t believe we need to discuss it.”
“Right- yeah,” Tim nodded quickly, even though he knew Bruce wasn’t looking at him.
He had been stupid.
He knew it was stupid and yet he still brought it up.
It didn’t matter.
Tim wasn’t focusing on his screw up.
The only thing he could focus on was holding his tears back.
He wasn’t going to cry.
Not in front of Bruce.
Not because something as stupid as hearing the truth said aloud.
“Go-“ Bruce took a long deep breath. His back still turned and his posture was somehow more tense. Tim braced himself for the words—the threat of the termination of his tenure as Robin. It never came. “We’ll resume training tomorrow.”
Tim nodded again.
It was moments like these where Tim didn’t know if Bruce still wanted him as a partner—if he ever did.
But it didn’t matter.
Robin would live another day.
Maybe Bruce knew, and it was likely that he did, that taking Robin away from Tim would do little. The world would have to be a better place before Tim willingly gave up Robin—it was the one thing he was willing to fight Bruce on.
It didn't matter; it wasn’t something he had time to ponder.
He left the cave, a small chill in his bones as he did, and didn’t look back
—-----------
The rest of the week passed in a blur.
Patrols were short.
He didn’t linger in the cave after training.
Things had changed—something had shifted that night, something small but important.
It was like a piece of the puzzle had finally clicked and Tim was able to see the full picture.
He knew he was not Bruce’s son, he had never deluded himself into believing otherwise, but the reminder was needed. It was needed in a way Tim hadn't realized. He had gotten too close, too comfortable, over the last few months.
He did that a lot.
Unlike Bruce, Tim didn’t want to be alone. He never did.
“Where was this one taken?” Mrs. Arbus asked, pulling Tim away from his thoughts.
It was Saturday.
Close to the end of the competition.
No one came to see Tim’s photos—no one he knew at least. Others had stopped by and looked, some even wrote kind words on the notebook left in front of the display, but they were all strangers in a sea of people he would never remember.
He could have invited his friends.
He thought about it—asking Cissie, who was hanging out around Gotham, or Bart, who could easily make the trip, to come, but it was too much.
It was trusting them in a way he wasn’t able to. He still limited what he told them, but sometimes he wanted to show them—all his friends he had made in the hero community—who he was outside of the mask.
Sometimes, Tim didn’t know who he was outside of the mask.
“I,” Tim looked closer at the photo. For some reason, the location escaped him. “I think it was taken-”
“Near the Bowery, it looks like,” a voice from behind them interrupted.
Tim froze.
He turned slowly.
“Bruce,” he whispered, mostly to himself.
It felt like a dream.
Somehow, in a good way and a bad way.
Bruce was there, standing in front of him, looking at his pictures, and that’s exactly what Tim had wanted.
But-
He didn’t understand.
Confusion clouded Tim’s mind.
Why did Bruce come?
The whole outburst in the cave—where he made it clear about Tim’s place in his life—what was it about? Bruce had re-established boundaries in their relationship only to tear them back down himself a few days later.
“The Bowery?” Mrs. Arbus repeated, still looking at the photo—inadvertently ignoring Bruce’s presence.
“Yeah,” Tim said, eyes still on Bruce.
The man was dressed down, or as dressed down as Bruce Wayne ever was. He was looking at the photos, ignoring Tim’s confused stare. There was a faint smile on his lips—not the fake Brucie Wayne smile he used for tabloid photos, but the genuine Bruce Wayne smile that would, only on rare occasions, grace his face.
Tim didn’t know how to feel.
Part of him was over the moon with excitement at the fact that Bruce showed up to see his photos.
The other part of him was confused and…
Mad.
He was mad even though he had no right to be mad.
Maybe he did.
Tim couldn’t decide—he couldn’t rationalize his feelings.
He was mad that Bruce had hurt him in the cave that day—yet all Bruce did was state the truth. It wasn’t fair, and Tim knew that it wasn’t, to get upset about the truth.
Feelings were irrelevant when it came to the truth anyways.
He just didn’t understand.
Maybe something was wrong and Bruce wanted Tim—well, Robin… Bruce didn’t want Tim, but sometimes he needed Robin.
“What are you doing here?” Tim asked.
His tone was sharp, his words were filled with venom, but it didn’t eclipse the confusion that clung to the words.
Bruce turned to him, his eyes softened slightly when they caught the confused look on Tim’s face, and he cleared his throat before speaking.
“I wanted to see some of your photos-”
“They’re great, aren’t they?” Mrs. Arbus said, turning around and away from the display. She stilled when her eyes landed on Bruce. “You’re Bruce Wayne-”
Bruce held out his hand. Mrs. Arbus took it.
“And you must be Mrs. Arbus?”
“Yes.”
Tim watched the interaction with a pit of anticipation in his stomach. He didn’t know why it was there, but it curled as the seconds dragged on.
Mrs. Arbus shot Tim a look, confused and amused. Tim just sent a small smile back.
“Well,” she began, eyes landing on another student’s display, “I want to take one last look at the other displays.”
And with that, she was gone.
Once she was out of earshot, Tim leaned in closer to Bruce and lowered his voice. “Is something wrong?”
“What?” Bruce’s eyes were back on the photos.
“Why are you here?” Tim asked again. Maybe he was overlooking something, some clue or hint about why Bruce was actually there. “Is it Bat-”
“No,” Bruce said, quickly, stopping Tim’s question before it could be asked. “I- Where are your parents at?”
Tim frowned. “Do you want to talk to them?”
“No-” Bruce shook his head- “that’s not why I asked.”
He didn’t elaborate further.
The two of them stood in silence for a moment longer.
“They’re going to announce the winners in a minute,” Tim muttered, fiddling with the end of his sleeve, “I don’t know how long you were planning on staying, but-”
“I’ll stay.”