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Jason’s not sure why he agreed to show up at this gala. He’d stayed legally dead for a reason. But then Bruce had shown up with his usual nonsense—talk of family, of being his son, of belonging.
Still, there’s some comfort in the fact that he’s not the only miserable one. The rest of the Waynes are here too—even the unofficial ones. Dick, Damian, Steph, Cass, Barbara, and Duke are all huddled in a corner, doing their best to avoid the crowd. Bruce keeps throwing them looks, subtle signals to socialize, to act like Waynes . They ignore him, as usual.
Only Tim's playing the part.
He moves through the gala like he was born for it—polished, poised, and perfectly inoffensive. He’s been trained for this since he was a kid, and it shows. But to Jason, it’s always felt… unsettling. Like watching someone flip a switch, turning themselves off to become exactly what the world wants to see.
Jason, who’s been nursing a drink and loitering in the shadows, finally drifts over to the others.
“Don’t know how he does it,” Steph mutters, nodding toward Tim. “I tried talking to those people for one minute and already wanted to stab someone.”
“Well, he grew up in this,” Dick replies with a shrug. “Maybe it doesn’t bother him.”
They all seem to agree. But Jason doesn’t.
A year ago, he might’ve said the same thing they did. That Tim was some spoiled rich kid raised with a silver spoon and a trust fund. But now?
Now, he’s not so sure.
There’s something off about Tim—something too kind, too careful, too aware to have come from this crowd. Jason’s seen the people in this room. Self-important. Cruel in subtle ways. Not one of them could measure up to Tim’s pinky finger if they tried.
To them, Tim’s a diamond—cut, polished, flawless.
But Jason knows how diamonds are made.
He finds himself wondering what kind of pressure created someone like Tim. Someone who never falters, never breaks—but never lets anyone in either. Tim probably knows everything about them —every unspoken truth, every secret shame—but Jason doesn’t think any of them truly know him .
Tim’s a mystery. And lately, Jason's been trying to solve him.
A sharp clink of glass snaps him from his thoughts. Bruce stands near the grand piano—Martha Wayne’s, gleaming beneath the lights. He’s ready to make his speech. The event tonight is for a youth music program, and Bruce insisted his mother’s piano be a part of it. Sentimental bastard.
Bruce gestures for them to join him at the front. One by one, they move toward him. Jason watches the pride flicker across Bruce’s face as he counts his children.
Then he frowns.
“Where’s Tim?”
He glances around the room just as the crowd parts, revealing Tim standing still, hands at his sides.
“Tim, son—come,” Bruce calls.
And Jason sees it.
Just for a second, Tim’s mask slips—and it steals the breath from Jason’s lungs.
That look.
Longing. Raw and unfiltered. Like someone who’s been starving for something he never thought he’d have.
Tim walks over. Bruce pulls him into a hug, and Tim clutches at his coat like a lifeline—like if he lets go, Bruce will vanish.
Bruce turns back to the podium, clears his throat, and begins to speak.
Jason doesn’t hear a word.
He can’t stop looking at Tim—at the way his fingers are digging into Bruce’s coat, white-knuckled and unrelenting. Like he’s holding on for dear life.
And maybe he is.
Without thinking, Jason takes a step forward.
Toward Tim.
Jason moves slowly, instinctively careful like he’s approaching a wounded animal. Tim’s still got that faraway look in his eyes, his body rigid even in Bruce’s embrace. It’s the grip that gives him away. Not just tight—but desperate. Like Bruce is the only thing keeping him anchored to this moment.
Jason slowly puts his hand on Tim's. Tim startles looking behind him.
Jason tilts his head, voice quiet, just for him.
“Hey,” he says gently, “you okay?”
Tim’s eyebrows crease in confusion. “Yeah, why?”
Jason gestures with a slight nod. “You’re holding on pretty tightly, bud.”
Tim glances down—and freezes.
His hand is clenched tightly in the fabric of Bruce’s coat, the fabric now wrinkled and distorted in a small patch over Bruce’s side. It looks a little ridiculous, like someone ironed every part of the suit except that one spot.
Tim’s eyes go wide. Slowly, he lets go.
But the fear doesn’t leave his face.
He stares at the wrinkled patch like it means something. His hand lingers in the air, suspended, as if it aches to return to that grip.
Before it can fall, Jason gently reaches out and takes it.
Tim’s head snaps toward him, eyes wide with disbelief like Jason’s just said something completely unhinged.
Jason offers a small, calm smile. No teasing. Just steady, quiet reassurance.
And then—Tim smiles back. Hesitant at first, like he’s not sure this is real. But slowly, his fingers curl tighter around Jason’s.
He holds on.
Loud applause erupts, jolting Jason from his thoughts. Bruce’s speech is over, and the crowd has already begun to scatter, drifting back into their comfortable circles of polite small talk and expensive champagne.
Only one couple lingers—an older pair chatting amicably with Bruce near the piano.
“It’s a shame it never gets played,” Bruce says with a laugh, resting a hand on the polished surface. “None of my children took to music. Not one of them. It’s a shame, really. I think my mother would’ve loved to hear her piano used again.”
He trails his fingers over the keys, a fondness in his voice that Jason’s never heard before. A soft ache in it.
“Oh, that can’t be right,” the older woman—Mrs. Phillips, maybe—interjects with a gentle smile. “Tim, dear, don’t you play piano? I distinctly remember Janet bragging about how gifted you were.”
The air stills. Everyone turns to look at Tim.
Tim freezes too—but only for a heartbeat.
“That was a long time ago, Mrs. Phillips,” he says smoothly.
“Oh, come now, Timothy,” she insists. “Janet used to go on and on about how you were a prodigy. Play something for us, won’t you?”
“I really don’t remember much anymore,” Tim replies, shaking his head. “It’s been years.”
Mrs. Phillips turns to Bruce. “Surely he’s played for you? Is he truly as rusty as he says?”
Bruce doesn’t answer right away. He’s watching Tim—carefully.
“Do you play, Tim?” he asks, voice quiet.
“My mother made me take lessons when I was younger,” Tim replies.
“Would you play something? Just one piece?” Bruce’s tone is light, but there’s something hopeful in it. A softness Jason doesn’t hear often.
Tim starts to refuse—but then he looks at Bruce.
And that’s his mistake.
Whatever he sees in Bruce’s face makes the words die in his throat. Instead, he nods—just barely—and lets go of Jason’s hand. Jason hadn’t even realized he was still holding it.
Their siblings do, though. Jason can feel the weight of their curious stares.
Tim walks with slow, deliberate steps and sits on the piano bench. For a moment, he just stares at the keys, motionless. Then, with a breath so soft it’s almost imperceptible, he raises his hands.
The first note rings out like a whisper in a church.
Everyone goes still.
The second note lands heavier—pulling all attention toward him like gravity.
Then the music begins.
And Jason doesn’t have words for what follows.
Tim plays like a man possessed. The notes are sharp and raw, like open wounds. It’s not clean, not gentle—he attacks the piano with desperation, with something barely held together beneath the surface.
He’s hunched over the keys, fingers flying—digging into the ivory like it’s a fight, like the piano’s the only place he’s allowed to scream.
It’s beautiful in a way that feels wrong.
Too personal. Too much.
It sounds like an empty house. Like a child calling into silence and never getting an answer. Like longing carved into melody.
Jason’s heart clenches as the music swells.
This isn’t something anyone should be hearing.
But no one dares to stop it for fear of missing it.
The music ends so suddenly it feels like the air gets sucked out of the room. It’s like time folds in on itself—forever and a single heartbeat passing at once.
Tim sits frozen at the piano, his hands limp at his sides, staring at the keys like they’ve betrayed him.
The crowd gathered around seems just as paralyzed.
No one dares move, like even breathing too loudly might shatter the fragile spell Tim has woven around them.
Jason isn’t sure how long the silence lasts—seconds, minutes, maybe longer—before someone starts clapping.
It’s slow at first, hesitant.
Then more people join in.
Until the whole room erupts in a thunder of applause.
The noise snaps Tim out of whatever far-off place he’d disappeared into. He blinks rapidly, forces a small, polite smile onto his face, and stands up. His steps are careful, almost wary, as he makes his way back to Jason’s side.
When Tim looks up at him, Jason knows without a doubt that he’s still somewhere else.
Lost.
Haunted.
Whatever Jason’s face is showing must give it away, because Tim looks startled, a faint blush creeping up his neck.
He ducks his head quickly, breaking eye contact.
Jason catches the way Bruce is clapping—hard, almost desperately—and blinking furiously against the tears standing in his eyes.
His face is soft in a way Jason has seen only once before. When they buried him.
“Thank you, Tim,” Bruce says, voice raw and thick.
“That was... beautiful. Your grandmother would have been so proud of you.”
Something inside Tim shatters at those words.
The careful mask he’s been wearing all night slips away like broken glass.
Tears fill his eyes, but he doesn’t hide them.
He just stands there, trembling slightly, smiling through the pain.
Later, the family piles into the den, weighed down by the emotions of the night.
The gala is over, but the heaviness still clings to all of them.
Jason deliberately takes the seat next to Tim.
Everyone notices—he sees their glances—but he doesn’t care.
Especially not when Tim leans against him, resting his head so lightly on Jason’s shoulder it’s like he’s afraid he’ll be pushed away.
Jason doesn’t move. He just leans a little closer, anchoring Tim there.
“Tim, dude, that was incredible !” Duke says, his voice breaking through the hush. “I didn’t even know you could play like that!”
“None of us did,” Dick agrees, shaking his head in amazement. “You had that grand piano in the manor this whole time and you never said a word?”
Tim just gives a half-shrug. His fingers toy with the hem of his sleeve, like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
“Never seemed like the right time. Besides, it was a long time ago. My mom forced me into lessons. It wasn’t anything serious.”
Jason snorts softly. “Yeah, right, Timbo. You didn’t play like it was ‘nothing.’”
He reaches up and pokes Tim’s nose, smiling when Tim instinctively scrunches it.
“You played like your soul was on fire. Gave me goosebumps.”
Bruce, still emotional, leans forward slightly. “Yes, Tim. It was truly magnificent.”
Tim hums in response but doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
Jason studies him carefully. “Why’d you stop?”
The question hangs heavy in the room. Tim is so still Jason wonders if he’s even breathing.
Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, Tim says, “It made my parents come home.”
The warmth drains from the room.
“They were so proud of me,” Tim continues, smiling sadly. “Or, well, proud enough to brag to their friends. But I didn’t care. I just... I just wanted them to like me.”
He laughs bitterly. “They came to recitals, concerts, competitions. They’d fly back just to say they'd been there. Until they didn’t. Until it stopped being worth the trip. Missed one event. Then another. Eventually, they stopped coming altogether.”
Tim picks at the edge of his sleeve, his nails digging into the fabric.
“I started playing for them. But somewhere along the way, I loved it for myself too.” He stops. Breath hitching.
“I would’ve kept going, I think. Pursued it, maybe. If—” He cuts himself off, like the words hurt too much to say.
Jason nudges him gently. “If what, Tim?”
“It’s nothing.” Tim’s voice cracks.
Jason leans closer, trying to catch his gaze. “Please. Tell me.”
Tim lets out a breath like he’s crumpling inward.
“I would have pursued it if... if you hadn’t died.” The words drop into the room like a bomb.
Jason freezes. Everyone freezes.
Tim keeps talking, voice so quiet they have to lean in to hear him.
“After you died, I couldn’t even touch the piano. I fell apart. Everything felt wrong.” He clenches his fists. “And then... I became Robin. There was no time for music. No time for anything. I just—” He swallows hard. “I just stopped.”
Jason feels like the floor tilts beneath him. Guilt and grief war in his chest.
“The last time I played,” Tim says, voice shaking, “was at your funeral.”
All the breath rushes out of Bruce like he’s been punched.
“That was you,” Bruce says, voice breaking completely, tears spilling freely now. “My God, Tim—that was you.”
Jason’s head snaps toward Bruce, confused.
“What? What are you talking about?”
Bruce wipes his face, trying to pull himself together.
“At your service,” he says hoarsely. “The church had a piano upstairs. Someone played during the funeral... something so beautiful, so full of love and pain. I thought the church had hired someone. But when I asked, no one knew who it was.”
Bruce turns to Tim like he’s seeing him for the first time.
“It was you.”
Tim nods.
“I played it for you,” he says, meeting Bruce’s eyes with devastating honesty. “Funerals are for the living, after all. I wanted you to know Jason was loved. That he mattered. That he was... everything.”
Bruce looks at Tim with so much appreciation it’s almost overwhelming. His voice is thick with emotion. “Thank you, Tim. I—you don’t even realize—God, I was so lost. But you saved me, son. You’ve always saved me. Even when I didn’t know I needed it. Even when I didn’t deserve it. You are… you’re incredible. I’m so lucky to have you as my son.”
Jason watches as the words land. He sees the way Tim’s arms break out in goosebumps, how a shiver runs down his spine. He sees Tim try to hide the small smile tugging at his lips, sees the flush rising on his cheeks, the tears gathering in his eyes.
Tim has needed to hear this for a long time. Jason’s seen it—the raw, aching need behind Tim’s eyes. A need that’s only grown with the years. But now, for the first time, Jason sees that need soften. Fade. And God, he hopes it disappears entirely one day.
“Tim,” Jason calls gently.
Tim turns toward him, still blinking back tears.
“Thank you,” Jason says, his voice tender. “For taking care of Bruce. For always looking out for us—even when we didn’t deserve it. I don’t think I’ve ever told you how sorry I am. For everything I did to hurt you.”
Tim's eyes widen. “No, Jason. Please, you don’t have to. We’re good. I forgave you.”
“I still need to say it,” Jason replies. “Even if you’ve forgiven me. I regret every single moment I made you feel unwanted or alone. I want to make it right, Tim. I promise—I will never, ever hurt you again. Not if I can help it. Okay?”
Tim chokes on a breath. “Okay,” he whispers, and this time the tears fall freely.
Jason doesn’t hesitate—he pulls Tim into a tight hug, holding him like he’s anchoring them both.
One by one, the rest of the family joins in, wrapping Tim in warmth, in apology, in love. They each offer their own words, their own regrets, their own pieces of healing.
Tim stays at Jason’s side long into the night. They sit and talk until their voices are low and tired, until the noise fades and comfort settles in.
And when Jason looks over, he doesn’t see longing in Tim’s eyes anymore. He sees peace. He sees something soft and real—joy, maybe. Hope.
Jason leans in and presses a kiss to Tim’s temple as he drifts off to sleep, safe and surrounded.