Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim squinted as he stared up at the mobile that spun above him. You would think that being for an infant meant that it would be something sweet or cute – like baby ducks or bears or some other woodland creature. Instead it was some strange monstrosity with different colored and sized shapes.

The floor was covered with a rug that Tim recognized from his childhood bedroom as being from the 17^th century orient and had earned his parents’ months long ire after staining with a science project when he was ten. There were two large paintings on the wall that were easily in the hundreds of thousands of dollars, one he vaguely remembered as being from some famous impressionists. An ornately carved and delicate looking rocking chair was in one corner and just adjacent to it was a shelf full of antique toys and porcelain dolls; all things that probably cost more than most people’s cars. There was even one of the original teddy bears from the Ideal Toy Company, made in the early 1900s to honor Theodore Roosevelt. Of course, these toys were not for playing with – only for looking.

Which made absolutely no sense to Tim, filling a toddler’s nursery full of breakable things, but he could already hear his mother’s cold rebuttal in his head (it’s about the aesthetic, Timothy, honestly). Still, it seemed rather foolish to him as Tim knew from his own experiences that toddlers were basically just drunk little adults – constantly sticky or wet for one reason or another – and always one misstep from death. Because you see, Tim wasn’t always a two-year-old. In fact, he had no idea how the hell he come back here in the first place. The last Tim knew, he’d been a thirty-something man and had been enjoying his early retirement on a lovely private island he’d bought in the Bahamas. It was a retirement that had been a long time coming, one that he had earned. What hadn’t been burnt out of him from starting his CEO career (of both Wayne Enterprises, Drake Industries and all their incorporated affiliates and subsidiaries™) as a teenager, most definitely had been by being a vigilante throughout his youth (and later, a somewhat/maybe/perhaps blink and you miss it/occasional Rogue).

The business side of things had calmed down once he’d given WE to Damian, but that had still had to wait until Tim had been twenty-five and Damian eighteen respectively. It had been a long time coming, but it had been the right move to wait to release control to Damian when he’d come of age instead of at the kid’s proposed sixteen. It taken just that long for Tim to find someone he trusted to run DI for him. When Tim wanted to be done with the corporate world, he wanted to be done, thank you very much. He can’t really recall what had sent him here, though Tim rather thought it had something to do with his death. He thought there may have been a meta involved, he knew there was a storm. A great big one, with rippling purple clouds that had rolled across the afternoon sky like judgment day coming. He had watched it surround his little island from his dragon shaped pool floaty and he remembered just enough to know he'd begun to paddle to shore in alarm. He knew that had happened, he could even remember the limited edition Superboy bathing suit he'd been wearing. In fact, he often dreamed of the storm.

But other than that – nothing, nada, nichts. Tim wasn’t even sure how long he’d been back. He had come into awareness of himself and his bizarre predicament about a month ago, but some part of him wondered if he’d not been back longer, if he’d not been sent right back to the beginning and he’d only come to be aware now because his brain had developed enough to comprehend it. Tim sucked lazily on his pacifier, eyes heavy as he watched the slowly spinning mobile, and thought about the eldritch horror that was his current existence.

There was a roar of laughter below that startled him, making his small body jerk from the half-asleep state with a disgruntled sound. A glance at the clock revealed a set of blurry numbers, but Tim was fairly sure it was well after one in the morning; that meant Mother and Father and their guests would be well and truly drunk, and distracted enough to not notice much other than what was happening downstairs. Nodding Tim pushed himself up, grunting with the effort. His body was tiny - which in theory should make it easier to control, yet somehow was still so unwieldy, which was frustrating. Common thought was that you didn’t put a toddler in a child bed until three or four, but Jack and Janet Drake refused to subscribe to any such nonsense (god forbid their child be typical or worse; common) so Tim was already in one, just as he was already potty trained. Now, easy disregard for his baby-self’s health and safety aside, this actually worked in Tim’s favor. He carefully maneuvered himself down the drop from the bed to floor, legs wobbling somewhat before stabilizing.

Tim glanced around his nursery, eyes weary as he took in the dark room. There wasn’t a nightlight to be found, just whatever creeped in from under the door crack from the hallway. It cast just enough light to make the shadows in his room seem larger and somewhat ominous. Tim eyed the trio of floating shelves that held a handful of life sized French and Italian porcelain dolls.

And look, Tim knew intellectually that the dolls were just old, with their painted and cracked faces and glinting glass eyes, but he was also two, and that shit was creepy. He kept his eye on the weirdest doll (it was even bigger then Tim, with a bright red smile that revealed inlaid ivory teeth, shiny brown eyes that stood out sharply against the paper white of its skin and always seemed to be following him, eyebrows brushed on in sharp lines of dark paint, and a mop of curly black hair kept under a lacy bonnet) as his hand blindly searched behind him. It hit fur and he yanked his stuffed bear closer, clutching it to his side.

Even after all his years, Tim still remembered this bear. It had brown fur and black button eyes, fur so soft to the touch that Tim used to get lost in stroking it. It had come with several outfits – a solider, a sailor, a fireman, even a little business suit – and it had been Tim’s best friend until he’d been three years old and his mother had thrown it away for being too childish. There was no way in hell that Tim was letting Teddy go down like that this time. He already had contingencies that had contingencies in place. As nonsensical as it was, Tim did feel better with Teddy next to him, and he kept the bear clutched to his side, eyes facing the dolls to cover his six as he shuffled his way out of the room.

You know, just in case.

It was fair to say that while Tim’s future self was still in control of his body, it was not completely free from being influenced by his current age. Oh well, que sera, sera, and all that. Besides, no amount of toddler sensibilities was going to keep him from his goals. Tim had very rarely let anything do so as an adult and that certainly wasn’t going to change simply because he was practically an infant now. He made his way across the bright hallway, keeping a weather eye on his nanny’s suite as he did so, but the door remained firmly shut.

Tim tiptoed his way to his parents’ room, a careful maneuvering of throwing Teddy until the neckerchief on it's sailor’s outfit caught on the door knob and then twisting him to and fro, eventually got the door open. He slipped inside, careful to push the door shut behind him. His parents’ room smelled heavily of his mother’s perfume, a discarded dress still left spread out on the Alaskan king, with a empty wine bottle lying on its side at the foot of the bed. Tim’s goal was tucked far on the other side of the room though, where a nook revealed a 18^th century German writing desk. The stacking of shoe boxes gave Tim the leg up he needed to get into the wingback chair and another few minutes got him standing with enough support to reach his father’s laptop.

He wasted a few moments trying to guess the password, growing more and more frustrated when each guess proved wrong. He tried his father’s birth date, his mother’s (a long shot, for sure, but the two had to have liked each other at some point, right? They got married after all), the founding of Drake Industries, and a handful of others, but to no success. Tim let out a huff of displeasure, letting his tired legs give out so he could plop down next to Teddy. He needed to get on his father’s laptop in order to get his plans started. When he first realized what had happened, Tim had been struck with indecision. There were so many things he could do and Tim had so much time to do them now. There were dozens of things that Tim could change to make his life and that of his family’s – particularly his brothers’ – better. But had Tim wanted to? That question had left him in a quandary for quite a while. Tim had a bit of a rough time with his family over the last few decades. Really, since Jason reappeared.

A part of Tim never quite got over Jason slitting his throat and nearly beating him to death at the Tower, nor had he really ever forgiven Bruce and Dick for the way they’d just sort of…glossed over it all. Tim got it – he really did. Very little about Jason Todd had to do with Jason Todd. Which was actually pretty unfair to poor Jason when you thought about it.

Sure, Jason had an understandable chip on his shoulder. Being killed the way he was and being resurrected, then being found by Talia – well, that would mess anyone up. And Jason was always going to hate Robin on principle, because Robin was his and it was taken from him, and Jason was a deeply, deeply possessive man. Tim understood and respected that; Tim was just as deeply possessive, he’d just hadn’t had the balls to fight for it like Jason had when he’d been a teenager. Jason had grown up in an environment where death thorough physical abuse or neglect, or just a random incident on the street, was a very real thing.

He’d had to fight for everything he’d ever had – from food to clothes to love and affection. Now Tim’s parents were undoubtedly neglectful and certainly verbally abusive, but he’d never had his life on the line like that. Tim had to beg for every scrap of attention he’d ever wanted to experience as a child, but he’d never been bereft of his basic needs. It was probably why Jason had grown into a violent, tightfisted ass while Tim had gone the more obsessive, covetous route. Jason had serious issues with Bruce up until the day that Tim had passed, and given that both men had the emotional intelligence of a rock, that probably hadn’t changed after Tim had died. The disfranchised men had truly loved each other though and Jason had loved his brothers. There had even been a rough sort of affection between him and Tim at the end. Tim had always trusted Jason to have his back in the field if nothing else.

But again, very little with dealing with Jason Todd was about Jason Todd. Jason was the one that both Bruce and Dick failed. Even if some of the blame for what happened to Jason did lay with Bruce (with his impossible moral standards and snap judgements) and Dick (who had admittedly taken the road of ignoring Jason completely out of anger at Bruce for giving Jason Robin), it had been Jason's - and Jason alone - decisions that got him killed. Yet Dick and Bruce acted like they’d shipped the kid off to Ethiopia themselves. Again, not super fair to Jason. There was a strange kind of dignity that came with being respected enough to be held accountable to for your own mistakes.

But Tim wasn’t surprised by Bruce and Dick’s attitudes. The Wayne family was practically powered by guilt and unhealthy coping mechanisms.

Especially for Dick, who took after Bruce the most in all the best and worst ways. 

Which was just – a whole lot to unpack there. If Tim had held on to some resentment for Jason and his actions, there was an entire section of his soul he kept repressed for Dick, that harbored bitter, bitter feelings from the time Bruce disappeared. It was arguably the worst time period in Tim’s life; Kon was dead, Bart was dead, his parents – shit that they were – were dead, his girlfriend faked her death (not that Steph had even bothered letting Tim know that, because he wasn’t even worth – yeah, no, nope. Killing that there, he didn’t have time to go down that rabbit hole again), and the closest thing Tim had ever had to a real father figured died.

Between telling Alfred he was thinking of sending Tim to Arkham (and like, what even? Not even a therapist first? No talk of medication? Not even an inpatient facility? Just straight to Arkahm, Dick you over dramatic son-of-a-bitch) and discrediting him to the superhero community at a large, and giving Robin to Damian who had just tried to kill him, Jesus Christ, Dick what the actual shit.

Hell, Tim had been chiller with Damian at towards the end than anyone else, Dick included. Not that Dick didn't try, which had been appreciated. But Tim was a Drake; he may forgive, but it would be a snowy day in hell before he ever forgot. His odd friendship with Damian had been something he’d never seen coming, but to be honest the two of them were more alike them either wanted to admit. It was probably why they clashed so bad in the beginning; just two endlessly circling Tom cats, furious at each other's existence. Despite the fact that Talia was a de facto princess of a world-wide, well established and feared assassin cult, and Janet was a socialite, the two women were practically cut from the same cloth.

Neither Tim nor Damian had been chosen by Bruce, but rather forced their way into the family and into molds that had just never quite fit right. Both of them had been raised by exacting and cold women who had an image in their mind of just what their sons were to be, an impossible standard that had been dreamed up before either one of them had been even eggs in the womb. Both Damian and himself were inheritors of a great family legacy, one that took precedence over anything else, including personal preferences and wants and needs. And, well, nothing bonded you together quite like mommy issues. And daddy issues because – hello, Bruce Wayne. And you know what? Damian had the class to apologize, which was something that neither Dick or Jason had ever done.

Sure, it was a half-assed apology more action than words, but that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t like Tim was expecting some sort of miracle, the boy had been raised by Talia Al’Ghul and Bruce Wayne for god’s sake. As for his sisters…with the exception of Steph (who Tim had never been able to trust fully again) he’d never really had any issues with Barbara or Cass.

And the less said about his relationship with Bruce, the better. That…just hurt too much to even touch. Tim loved and despised the man in equal amounts. No one had ever made him feel so safe, so worthy, so wanted, as Bruce Wayne. And no one – no one – had ever made him feel quite so disposable. They’d reach a certain amount of peace towards the end of his time at WE, but they’d never regained the easy comfortableness between them that they’d once had before Jason had reappeared. A part of Tim would never forgive Bruce from not protecting him from his sons – from any of them; Jason, Damian, Dick.

But in the end, even with all the bitter feelings, they were Tim’s family. The one he’d chosen and bled for, for better or worse, and well…that was that. Besides, being as far back as he was meant that Tim could just, you know, make a few adjustments to the things he didn’t like. One of the most sensible things Janet had ever said to him was an inch of prevention was worth a pound of cure. So: what did Tim want from this second chance? He wanted to feel important to Bruce. He wanted to be Dick's favorite. He wanted Jason (his childhood hero) to think he was cool. He wanted Damian to need him.

And really, was a little bit of manipulation between family really all that bad? Especially when it was with a clan like the Waynes. It was practically saving them from themselves! And if that meant that Tim got to benefit just a little bit more than most - well, that was just the cost of doing business. Tim was doing all the hard work, after all, and it’s not like they’d ever know any different.

Tim tisked as his latest attempt failed. He itched at his chin, before his eyes narrowed in thought. “No,” he mumbled, “Teddy, he can’t be that basic.”

He hesitated before typing in ‘God’ and hitting enter.

“Oh my god,” Tim groaned as the computer unlocked, “what a narcissist.”

A half hour later and Tim had four slush accounts set up, which would slowly siphon money off from DI until it reached the numbers he wanted. One was just for himself for any unexpected expenses that may pop up, but the other three were for funding hits. Bruce’s no kill policy had slowly but surely been discarded by his children as they aged. It may be a moral foundation that Batman couldn’t ever shake (though Tim was still debating with himself if that was something he wanted to try and influence or not) but the world was a cruel place and it only got crueler.

The Joker had been taken out of commission by Dick for a second time when Tim had been about twenty-three, after he’d killed Dick’s pregnant girlfriend and unborn child. It shouldn’t have taken something so extreme, not after he’d already killed Jason, and not after the hundreds that had been maimed or murdered in between that act and the death of Dick’s family. Bruce’s moral high ground wasn’t something that Tim was willing to indulge in a second time around.

You could still treat killing as the absolute last resort and take out the trash. The police force did it every day.

One fund was for the Joker, another for Two-Face (this was the priority, given Dick was soon to become Robin and the man had nearly killed him), and one for Black Mask. Tim would do it himself but again, he was two. Luckily, a young Slade Wilson was making waves as Deathstroke and given how new he was to the game, Tim thought he’d actually be able to get him at some reasonable prices. It would take a bit to get the money saved up, a year (maybe more, maybe less) for Two-Face, another six months or so for Black Mask and at least three years for the Joker, but it was a worthy investment.

Of course, Bruce could never know. He would never know. After all who would even think Tim involved? He was a toddler. No, this was a nice, efficient, easy answer. Wilson would hardly bat an eye at a few Rogue requests as long as he got paid and it took out three of the most immediate threats to his family. Bruce got to keep feeling like he was living up to his ethical maxims, Dick, Jason, and Steph weren't killed and/or traumatized, and Tim had (technically) clean hands. Then, just for shits and giggles, he signed his father up for every golfing magazine and e-zine available. Jack hated golf, a hatred that had been fanned by how often he had to do so with the DI board members.

Work done, Tim locked the computer and carefully made his way off the chair. He let out an ‘oof’ as he hit the ground, legs half asleep and weak from standing so long. He let himself sit for a minute, Teddy resting by his side, before he made the long trek back to his room. He kind of had to use the bathroom and he was still working on getting his coordination perfected enough not to pee all over the toilet seat.

His second year of life passed fairly unremarkable and without issue. Well, that was if you discarded the looming horror and trauma that came from reliving your earliest memories with abusive parents with a fresh understanding of just how shit said parents actually were. As Tim had grown he’d come to understand just how neglectful Jack and Janet really were, but seeing it first hand was a fresh new type of hell.

He spent the majority of his year lightheaded from the constant judgment he experienced by observing his parents. They were home more than any other time in his life, yet Tim could count on two hands the amount of time he actually saw them outside of dinner. It was like Tim was a living party favor, trotted out to be ‘oohed’ and ‘awed’ at when needed, then trotted back up to the isolation of his nursery while his nanny dicked off to wherever she went. Where was Jason with an edgy but weirdly appropriate The Great Gatsby quote when you needed him? The only thing the Drakes were missing was a dock overlooking a stretch of desolate water with a green light on the other end. Dinner was hardly any better. They managed to have a family dinner at least once a week, if even that, and they were honestly the least favorite part of Tim’s week.

He was always dressed like he was going to a business meeting, in pressed khakis or trousers, a button up and tie. A tie! Not even a clip on, but a full tie that was more often than not tied in an Eldridge knot of all the godforsaken things. An Eldridge! Just when he thought Janet and Jack couldn’t possibly be any more pretentious. Tim voiced his displeasure by dumping as much of his food onto his parents (and eventually the floor when he’d disgusted them enough to earn him a permanent spot tucked away in a corner and away from the 'good rugs'), taking advantage of his tender age to get away with more than would normally be allowed.

Oh, his parents still voiced their displeasure at him in long, long winded rants about decorum and manners, to which Tim did his level best to just stare at them in blank confusion. This eventually morphed into them just grumbling at what a disagreeable child he was, which honestly – fuck them.

Just for that, Tim penciled in a time to escape his nanny each day and drag a chair up to all four thermostats in the Drake Manor and cranking the temperature in whatever direction was appropriate, bypassing his father’s stern sixty-eight degrees law. So far it had caused no less than eight blow out fights between his father and mother, including one that ended up with the rather dramatic death of a 15^th century Ming vase that Janet had thrown with startling accuracy at his father, and the firing of one nanny.

Nannies were a revolving door as it was. Janet loved to fire them, it seemed like she got some sick pleasure out of it. Tim half thought she did it to assert her authority or some such nonsense, but in all honesty it didn’t take much for either one of his parents to decide it was time to part ways with the ‘help.’ Tim had done his own part once, with a particular bitch of a woman named Tracey. She had a tendency to yank Tim around by his arm when he didn’t move quick enough. He’d made sure he’d waited until Janet had been shuffling into the kitchen, bleary eyed and hung over after one of their dinner parties (where Tim had played the part of darling, perfect Drake heir to a T, earning his mother a shower of praises for her maternal instincts and prowess) and glued himself to the nanny’s leg, looked up to her with the biggest, sweetest, gooiest eyes he could manage and lovingly called her ‘mommy.’

Tracey was gone before the coffee had finished percolating.

Was it petty? Oh absolutely, but it wasn’t like Tim had a whole lot of control in his life. He had to fight back how he could. He couldn’t solve things the way he normally did, with corporate sabotage or blackmail, or a visit from the shadows of the night to expose (or frame, depending on what was required) a rival from your local Red Robin. Tim would take what he could get. 

Overall, his second year passed in interminable tedium and boredom. He got his little revenges in where he could though, which gave him short lived but amusing moments of superiority, but for the most part it was just indomitable swathes of monotony. Tonight was one such night; Tim was so bored he was on the verge of doing something stupid just to shake things up. His parents were damned and determined to wean him off his pacifiers (jokes on them, Tim had at least five squirreled away up in his room) and Tim’s lips ached with the urge to suck. His mouth literally tingled, it itched, his tongue curling and uncurling desolately in his mouth. It was the worst addiction of his entire life; it even surpassed the time when Tim had tried to give up coffee in his twenties.

He kept catching his thumb gravitating to his mouth, only for his mother to inerrably catch his eye from wherever she was lurking about and give him a death stare. In short, Tim was irritated. He’d already flushed his bow tie in one of the downstairs powder rooms out of pure spite (to which Oliver Queen, in all his inebriated – and possibly pre-Green Arrow state, it was hard to tell with Queen; he wore his persona even more tightly then Brucie Wayne – glory had caught him, laughing loudly and saluting him with his wine glass and a cheery ‘I feel ya, little man!’) and was just eyeing the oh so preciously stacked champagne fountain with weighted interest, when a familiar voice thoroughly stole his attention.

Tim’s head snapped to follow it, mouth dropping at the sight of Bruce Wayne. His back was to Tim, but he would have recognized that broad form anywhere. Complicated feelings aside, Tim found himself drawn to the man like a magnet to a pole.

“ – just really took that time to find myself, you know? Have you been to the Middle East?” Bruce was saying, sounding every inch the spoiled livelaughlove travel groupie he was supposed to be, “oh man, Lillian, you’ve got to go. The history there, you can just feel it, it’s like seeped in the – woah.” Tim blamed his immaturely developed impulse control for the way he wrapped his arms around Bruce’s leg. The man tensed at the unexpected grab, and while the cut of his trousers did well in hiding the firm muscle there it could hide nothing from touch. “Well, hello.”

And there was just enough of the real Bruce (of Tim’s Bruce) in that tone that to Tim’s eternal horror, he heard himself give a wet sniffle, face pressed against Bruce’s thigh. Lacking father figure or not, Tim missed him.

“Oh my,” a woman simpered, “is that Timothy Drake?”

A seemingly giant hand rested atop his head, the touch gentle. “Something wrong, chum?”

Tim just shook his head stubbornly, fingers tightening on the smooth wool. There was a low chuckle. “Excuse me, Lillian, I think I should probably get this little guy back to his folks.”

“Of course,” the female voice agreed, her voice just above a coo, “it’s so late, he must be exhausted! I think I saw Janet in the billiard room.”

And then big hands were lifting him up and Tim squeaked as he was suddenly on a hip, legs curling instinctively around Bruce’s middle as his hands gripped at a starched tux collar. Blue eyes twinkled at him and oh, oh, Bruce was young. Younger than Tim had ever seen him. “Tim, right? I’m Bruce, let’s see if we can find your mom.”

Tim nodded dumbly, unable to look away from Bruce’s face. It was completely unlined save for small little laugh lines that came when he smiled, free even of that one scar on the bridge of nose that he’d had the entirety of the time Tim had known him. He looked young and free and unweighted. He was a baby, Tim realized, eyes wide. How old was he here? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? Tim had been older by over almost a decade and a half when he died. Was he even Batman yet? If he was, he must just be starting out.

A literal baby.

The shock of it had him laying his head limply on Bruce’s shoulder, thumb popped in his mouth before he could even recognize the reflex. A hand rested on his back, firm and strong, and Tim let his eyes flutter shut. He’d never been held like this, not by Bruce. He’d been too big when he’d become Robin and Bruce too hurt and guarded for anything like this. Even the hugs they had partaken in had been quick, usually from the side. This was…

Had Tim ever really been held like this? Had anyone ever done so? Certainly not his parents; Mother was a light pat on the shoulder kind of woman, while Father had always been a firm hand shake type of man. Tim all but melted into the hold, letting out a soft sigh of contentment. Bruce’s cologne was familiar yet still somehow different; a deep woodsy smell with an insert of something almost rich like vanilla, and lacked that smokey effect it'd once had. It felt like he was floating in place, kept safe from the world by the strength of Bruce’s hold, and the warmth that the man was emitting almost had him drifting off.

“Timothy!”

The sound of his mother’s voice was like a shock of adrenaline and Tim went stiff. Bruce’s reaction was instant if not subtle; the weight on his back increased slightly, pressing down for a moment before lessening. “Hey, Janet.” Bruce greeted, voice good-natured and amused. “I found this poor guy all tuckered out.”

“Oh my goodness, Bruce, I can’t thank you enough.” Janet fussed, “I could just fire that nanny, I told her to take him up to bed at eight.”

Which was a blatant lie if Tim had ever heard one, given that his nanny was currently drunk and off with one of Hadger boys and had been since dinner at six, and Janet hadn't even poked her head out of her room until nine. It was only the years he'd spent honing control over his willpower that kept him from shamelessly clinging to Bruce. Mother rested him on her hip, the hold awkward for both of them. Tim didn’t even think it was possible to hold a child so instinctively wrong, yet Janet was somehow managing it. He wanted to shift his weight to feel less like she was about to drop him or to keep her hip from digging into his crotch, but knew better to wriggle. Janet’s hands were already tight around his waist, the forefinger of her left hand tapping against his back.

It was tell he’d long learned to be weary of.

“For heaven’s sake, Timothy,” she hissed as she started off in a voice that would have been a whisper about five Maker’s Marks ago, but as it is was just below normal speaking volume, “get your thumb out of your mouth, are you a baby? And what have you done with your tie? Why are we even paying Sheila?”

Whelp, there was another gone. Technically, Tim's fault but also kind of not? True, Tim did abandon said nanny as soon as the guests arrived and preceded to avoid her with every inch of skill he had perfected from years as a vigilante, and had thus freed up her night exponentially. But she always smelled like sweat so that was hardly on Tim. And also, he was pretty sure it was Shelly, not Sheila.

From over her shoulder, Tim could just see the way that Bruce’s brows rose a minuscule amount (which for him, was pure judgment) but then Jack was laughing far too loudly, throwing an arm over Bruce’s shoulders as he thanked him for ‘being my son’s savior and oh, by the way, did you see the lasts numbers in the JPX?’ and Janet was sweeping him away.

What followed was one of the roughest changes of his entire life, with Janet putting him in a summer pajama set as if it wasn’t early spring and there was still snow on the ground. And if Tim had found himself crying silently into Teddy that night, sucking morosely on a prohibited pacifier and missing the manor so completely it was a furious ache? Well, that was no one’s business other than his own. His parents certainly didn’t notice.

The behavior at the party may have been a mistake, given that his parents struck back. That wasn’t a new thing in Tim’s life in general, but it was this time around. This was early. From memory, Jack and Janet has been content to just ignore him most of the time. He’d rather cheerfully assumed that would continue to be the case until he was a gala-approved age (here meaning four, which was just as absurd as it sounded) and yet he’d woken one bright Monday morning nearly a month after said party, to an empty house save for the latest nanny model, Cynthia, and to disaster.

Teddy was nowhere to be found.

Tim raged, already knowing who the culprits were and that they were currently on a plane to Tanzania and therefore outside of his reach, something which infuriated him to his tiny bones. He thoroughly destroyed his room (well, as thoroughly as you could when you were hardly two feet tall and still somewhat unstable on your feet), flipping his mattress and pulling it completely free of the frame. By the time Cynthia had been drawn to the commotion, Tim had managed to kill that damn terror doll with a well-aimed, fury enhanced throw of a model car, sending it crashing to its death.

“Timothy!” The young woman shrieked, hand flying to her chest in shock. “What on earth has gotten into you?”

“Give me Teddy.”

“All of this over a toy?”

Tim’s fists curled by his side and he funneled every inch of Janet Drake into his voice that he could. “Give me Teddy, now.”

“You’re parents have decided your too old for a stuffy Timothy, you have to respect that.” Cynthia said with a tisk. Tim stared at the woman. What kind of woman – what kind of human being – took a teddy bear from a baby? “Don’t look at me like that, Timothy, your teddy has already been thrown away. You can’t have it now even if your parents did let me go get it, it’s dirty."

Dirty?

His bear?

Tim let out a squeak bellow of rage. “You bitch!”

Cynthia gaped at him before her pretty (but not too pretty, Mother never hired the truly pretty ones) face hardened. “That’s it; you’re going to time out.”

Tim screamed as she started towards him, making a valiant attempt to escape her grasp. He dodged the hands, getting to the hallway before he was caught by the arm. He swung with the grip, ignoring how it made the pretty tame hold into something’s worse that made his shoulder ache, and kicked hard. Cynthia let out a curse as the kicks landed on her hip and thigh, and suddenly Tim was being held aloft and far from her.

“You are behaving terribly.” Cynthia said sternly, “your parents will be receiving an email about this. They’re going to be so disappointed.” She yanked open a nearby room, tossing him across the distance from the doorway to the bed. Incompetent asshole, Tim seethed as he bounced across the mattress, did she have any idea how lucky she was she’d managed to get him on the bed? And okay yeah, the bed was right next to the door but Tim was small, a throw like that could have broken something! “You stay in there until you cool off and can apologize.”

The door slammed shut, locking ominously. The Drake Manor had original doors, as Jack loved to point out, with the old locks that came with a fancy matching key that rested in the lock. Tim didn’t even bother to try the door to see if it was really locked or not. Today was Monday – it was trash day – Tim didn’t have time to bother with doors! And it wasn’t just about his teddy bear.

Tim wasn’t really two-years-old, he knew Teddy was a stupid comfort toy, something he’d at some point out grow and probably forget about in a closet as he aged. It didn’t matter if Dick still had his stuffed elephant in Bludhaven or Jason’s Pooh Bear had a place of honor in his room back at the manor. Tim didn’t need Teddy, he wasn’t a child.

It was the principle of the thing.

Teddy was Tim’s. It belonged to him, it was his, his only friend, and the only person who had a say in when and how it was disposed of was Tim. He hadn’t had the chance to defend Teddy in his first life, but in this one he was a thirty-eight year old man and no one – no one – was ever going to take anything from him again unless he let them, and then he wouldn’t want it anyway, because if he let them have it, it meant it was already trash. He let out a snarl as he fished out a pair of his mother’s bobby pins from the duck shaped pocket on the front of his overalls.

Cynthia was fucking gone.

Tim was going to see that bitch so fired.

It took longer than he’d like to jimmy the lock, but still easier than it would had been if the lock hadn’t been circa 1890s. He crept out, not bothering with shutting the door behind him. He could see that Cynthia was busy in his room, probably cleaning up the mess Tim had left behind. He stole down the hallway and the front stairs, bypassing the front door and its stupidly high door knobs and going for the oversized lever one on the kitchen doorway. He quietly pulled the door open and gentled it shut, before turning on his socked feet and tearing down the marble driveway as quickly as he could. Tim had never been grateful that his parents had a heated driveway before (he’d never thought about it, really) but he was now. The frost that iced the well-kept lawn and topiary bushes was completely absent from the drive, which was good because while Tim’s socks had no-slip grippies on them, he didn’t really want to test them.

He was winded before he even made it halfway, so begrudgingly Tim made the last half at a gasping stumble. The gates to Drake Manor were – like everything else – original, and had gaps easy enough for him to slip through. The sight of the brown trash cans were enough to given him a sudden second wind and Tim charged the closest one. Disappointingly it didn’t topple, nor did it rock. Tim let out a curse, glaring up at it. Given there was only Tim and the nanny, they hadn’t really generated more than two cans of trash, which was a blessing itself because the height of gala season saw them easily with twelve or more out. But that did little to help him now if he couldn’t knock the damn thing over.

Tim circled the indomitable thing as he planned, hands on hips. He could try jumping up to grab the handle, but he doubted he could reach and even if he did manage to grab it, Tim highly doubted his weight would actually be enough to pull it down. Finally fifteen minutes later, four bricks liberated from a garden bed border, a thorough application of basic machines and geometry, and Tim had the first trash can down. He descended upon the bags with fervor, tearing them open and digging shamelessly. Alas, it wasn’t to be and the first can was utterly empty of his toy. Tim seethed to himself, sucking his pacifier furiously (he always kept one or two in his pockets for emergency stress relief when his parents weren't home) as he set up the bricks around the wheels of the second trash can. If Teddy wasn’t in there at all, he and Cynthia were going to have words.

He was hallway through the second can, using a broken piece of a wine bottle as an impromptu knife so he didn’t have to keep using his (admittedly meager) grip strength to get the bags open, when a started “Good lord” caught him off guard. Tim glanced up, the rhythmic sucking of his pacifier coming to a still at the sight of a black Rolls Royce idling at the side road that lead to Wayne Manor. Alfred was staring at him from the over the car top, aghast. “Master Bruce, it’s not a raccoon.”

From the back seat, Bruce Wayne stared at him. Tim stared back. Slowly, the Gotham Times was neatly refolded and set aside. The door opened and Bruce stepped out, tie loose around his neck and blazer missing. The man’s mouth opened, before shutting soundlessly. He crossed the distance between them and crouched down, eyes flittering from the piles of trash around them, the fallen trash can Tim was waist deep in, and then to the piece of glass in his hand.

“Hey Tim.” Bruce said slowly, “do you remember me? I’m Bruce Wayne, I’m a friend of your parents.”  Tim nodded. “Can I have that?” He asked, gesturing to the glass shard.

Tim shook his head, using the improvised knife to cut open another bag. When he was done, he gestured toward Bruce with it. See? It was a tool, he needed it. But Bruce was already moving, snatching the glass in one fluid, quick motion. Tim stared at his now empty hand in shocked betrayal, before scuttling back into the shadows of the trash can.

Bruce’s brows furrowed even as his lips twitched up at the edges, tossing the glass into the piles of trash. “You want to tell me why you’re in the trash, chum?” Tim glared fiercely at him. “I see. Must be pretty serious then.”

Tim nodded in agreement, keeping a weary eye on his former father figure as he ripped open the new bag. He sorted through the trash at a snail’s pace, his previous efficiency all but lost as he needed to maintain the protection the trash can afforded him. Alfred was on the other side of the car now, his camelhair chauffeur’s coat draped over one arm, looking a mix between utterly exasperated and dismayed.

“Master Bruce,” the butler began, but Bruce just held up a hand, silencing him. Tim watched the interplay with a halfhearted interest. He knew that seeing a toddler wading through trash was probably violating Alfred’s – like – ethos or something, but Bruce stayed where he was, crouched and just watching, head cocked to the side.

Tim gave the man a nod of approval and then began digging again. He didn’t know why Bruce seemed content to let him fulfill his task, but then again Bruce had always been a little odd about some things. Curiosity was really Bruce’s Achilles heel; maybe he just wanted to see what would happen. In the end, Teddy wasn’t even in a bag. Tim was in the process of trying to drag another bag out when his foot hit something soft and squishy, and the toddler swung around, making a crow of victory as the dirtied brown fur of Teddy came into sight.

The second he’d turned his back on Bruce, the man struck. He barely had time to grab Teddy’s foot before he was being yanked free so suddenly he almost dropped his pacifier. He managed to save it at the last moment, shoving it back in his mouth regardless of his grubby hand or the way Alfred made a half-lurch in his direction. Tim let out a satisfied grunt, holding Teddy out to see.

“I see, did you lose your bear?” Bruce asked, maneuvering Tim carefully as he wrapped Alfred’s coat around him.

That was nice, he didn’t realize how cold he’d become. That was a bad habit Tim had his whole life; he just got so mission oriented, Steph used to say he had ‘blinders’ on. She insisted for the entirety of their relationship that Tim had agreed to their first date and then promptly forgot about it, because Steph had made the mistake of asking him out while he was going over case files. Tim let his weight rest more firmly on the arm supporting him, enjoying the near instant warmth the coat provided. He reached up for his pacifier again but before his fingers could grace it, Alfred had plucked it from his mouth. The butler’s eyebrow was twitching as he efficiently (yet with an air of quiet, dignified horror) began to wipe it off with his handkerchief.

“It’s trash day.” Tim announced, eyeing the way that Alfred had zeroed in on his toy with the same intense focus he used to get when he found a particularly upsetting stain, and deliberately pulled the bear closer to himself.

“It is,” Bruce agreed with a hum, “you speak very well, Tim. How old are you?”

“Two.” Tim did speak very well for a two-year-old, thank you very much, but given he was actually closer to forty than not, he had hoped there would have been less of a lisp to it. But he had been pretty verbose and advanced at this age from what he’d been told, and he had been considered a bit of a child prodigy by the time he was ten, so Tim didn’t think it hurt anything to get that ball rolling a little earlier. “Nanny threw him out. She threw me too.”

Which was a bit of an exaggeration, but seriously – fuck Cynthia.

Against him, Bruce went completely still. Tim frowned when a closer inspection of Teddy showed that his arm had a rip at the shoulder and Tim let out an irritated sound, carefully poking around the loosened seam.

“Tim, how did nanny throw you?” Bruce asked in what was most definitely his victim voice. Tim would know after nearly four years as the man’s partner and another ten or more working alongside him.

“Grabbed my arm and stuff. Locked me in a room.” Tim gave Bruce a toothy grin. “I got out.”

Bruce hummed, a hand running up and down his back. “Is your mom or dad home, Tim?”

He shook his head, holding a (coffee ground? A quick sniff confirmed it) coffee ground covered hand out to Alfred. “Pacy, please.”

The greying man ignored him, holding his gaze as innocent and clueless as the dawn of a new day, as if he hadn’t just pocketed the pacifier in question in front of Tim’s very eyes. Tim shook his hand a bit more demandingly, yet Alfred was unmovable. “I’m afraid that pacifier needs to be cleaned, Master Tim.”

Tim kept eye contact as he slowly brought his coffee ground covered thumb to his mouth, delighting in the way Alfred’s narrowed eyes followed it. Bruce let out a huff of a laugh, firmly pulling Tim’s hand away from his mouth. “Don’t do that, chum, your hands are a bit dirty right now.” Tim huffed, squeezing Teddy close just for the way it made Alfred twitch. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“No.” Tim denied, pushing very resolutely against Bruce’s cheek to underscore his point. “Put me down, gonna get in trouble.”

“Don’t worry, you won't get in any trouble.” Bruce assured as Alfred ushered them both into the heated car.

Tim gave Bruce a distrustful look, eyes wide with just a dash of hope. “Promise?”

“I promise, Tim.” Bruce soothed, and while he was smiling, his eyes were flinty.

“We will, however, be having a word with your nanny.” Alfred’s accent was practically sharp, it was so thick. Bruce just hummed his agreement. Tim ducked down so that neither man could catch the glee in his eyes. See if Cynthia ever got work in this town again. A short exchange at the front gate speaker got them entrance to the Drake estate proper and found a pale and visibly terrified Cynthia standing on the front steps, wringing her hands.

“Oh my god, is he okay?” She gasped as she took in Tim’s dirty clothes. “Tim, buddy, how did you even get outside?” She reached out for him but Tim shrunk away, hiding his face in Bruce’s shoulder – which conveniently hid the shit eating smirk that bloomed when Bruce all but angled his body away from her, keeping Tim firmly out of her grasp.

“I, uh,” Cynthia fumbled, clearly reading the move for the encroaching doom and professional death that it was, “I thought he was napping. Thanks for bringing him back, I’ll just – uh, he really needs a bath.”

“Indeed he does.” Alfred agreed, eyeing the nanny with open distaste. “If you would, Master Bruce, I will see to the young master’s needs.”

If possible, Cynthia paled even further. “No, that’s necessary. The Drakes don’t really like –”

“Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce interrupted smoothly. Tim found himself summarily passed over and whisked inside and away from the cold. He stared over the butler’s shoulder, resting his chin there as he watched the show.

“Seriously, Mr. Wayne, the Drakes really don’t like –”

“Why don’t we step in and we can have a discussion about ‘what the Drakes really don’t like?’” Bruce offered, voice as mild as milk. “In fact, why don’t we get them on the phone?” He flipped out a (massive, my god what year was it?) flip phone. “You can explain to them why I found their two-year-old digging through the trash.”

It took Alfred a shockingly small amount of time to locate Tim’s room, though the butler paused at the piles of broken porcelain and broom resting next to it, lips pursed. Tim didn’t bother to enlighten the man, let him think what he wanted about what had happened in his nursery. Hopefully, he’d think the worst about Cynthia and her tenure as Tim’s nanny.

Seriously, the bitch threw out his bear. She deserved everything coming her way.

Alfred set him down on the floor of his attached bathroom, looking very serious. “You must stay here, Master Tim. There may still be broken bits around and I don’t want you to cut yourself.” Tim nodded, moving Teddy to rest on his hip like a baby. Alfred eyed the stuffed toy critically. “I believe your friend may also need a bath.”

Tim shifted away until Teddy was out of reach, a total mirror of what Bruce had done with Tim and the nanny earlier, and Tim didn’t catch it until he saw the flash of amusement on Alfred’s face. Embarrassed, Tim itched his nose.

Alfred caught his hand before it could make contact. “I know it may be hard, but try not to touch your face, Master Timothy. Your hands are quite dirty.”

Tim shrugged, tightening his grip on his bear. “Teddy is broken.”

“Ah yes, he is a bit banged up, isn’t he?” Alfred agreed, reaching out and pulling the bear’s arm out as gentle as he would with a human infant. “How about after your bath, I patch him up and then Teddy can go for a spin in the washer? I’m sure he wants to be clean as well.”

Well, shit. Alfred could fix anything. This was a proven fact of the universe, like the fact that the sun rose and set each day. Tim agreed to let the butler take the bear and set it on the sink, but kept on hand shoringly on the bear's foot as he watched Alfred go through his dresser, pulling out clean clothing. In short order, Tim was stripped and in a warm bath – a bubble bath at that. Which was actually pretty impressive, as Tim hadn’t ever recalled having a bubble bath throughout his entire childhood (in either one) and honestly didn’t think they owned any.

The butler washed him with a military precision, yet one so tampered with gentleness that it made Tim’s heart hurt. He missed Alfred. The man had passed when Tim was in his mid-thirties, his heart had just given out. Stress, the doctors had said. He soaked in the gentle touch, leaning back in to the hands scrubbing at his scalp like a cat.

“Poor lad, you’ve had a day, haven’t you?” Tim nodded miserably because he had, especially if you changed out day with the seven months he’d been rotting away in toddler hell. “Well, the good news is the day’s almost done.”

But it wasn’t, Tim thought forlornly. Tim’s birthday may only be four months away, but he was still only turning three. Three! He bet he wasn’t even going to grow that much; Tim had always been depressingly small for his age. God, he just wanted to be able to reach a light switch without having to concoct a three point plan. By the time Alfred had him dried off and in his dinosaur sleeper, Tim was openly sniffling, wiping at his eyes. He made for his snotty nose, but found a soft tissue already pressed there. Man, Alfred was really the best. “Here, my boy, go ahead and give it a big blow.”

He obediently blew. It was a tossup at what mortified him more; the honking that came with it or the involuntary giggle he let out at the sound afterwards. But Alfred just seemed pleased with it all, so Tim pushed past him in embarrassment to pull the bottom drawer of the sink vanity open. He paused, giving the butler hard stare. “Don’t tell, k?”

Alfred’s white brows rose, but he nodded seriously. “You have my word, my boy.”

Tim gave him another hard stare just to be sure, then popped the candy box open and grabbed one of his coveted pacifiers. He let out a sigh of relief as he gave it hard suck, feeling his shoulders sink. Alfred had that half smile on his face like he did when he found something really funny, so fuck him. It was hard business being a toddler, alright? His parents kept trying to take away the few pleasures in life he had. And look, the internet said that you didn’t have to transition from pacifiers until like three or four, which meant that Tim wouldn’t be hopping on the wagon until July. Until then, he was going to bask in the one joy he had in life.

His entire inheritance for a cup of coffee, Tim didn’t even care if it was in a sippy cup.

He curled into the butler’s hold as they made their way back downstairs, stopping only for Alfred to grab the knit blanket off the rocking chair that Tim was positive was a ‘talking point’ and had never been moved before, and practically swaddled him in it. He let out a sigh at the soft touch of the wool. “M sorry.”

“Whatever for my dear?” Alfred asked. Tim shrugged, feeling terrible about his earlier thoughts and reminded himself to be nicer to Alfred, even if it was only in his own head. The kitchen revealed Bruce sitting at one of the bar stools, typing way on his work laptop. Cynthia was nowhere to be found.

The man gave Tim a smile. “You look all clean and shipshape.”

Shipshape. My god, even in his early twenties Bruce had the soul of a seventy-five year old veteran sailor. Good to know. Tim reached out to him and had one moment to observe a flair of fond surprise before Alfred was setting him in Bruce’s lap. Tim burrowed in, pulling his blanket closer as he rested his head on Bruce’s chest, right over his heartbeat. A hand came up to support his back, keeping him from squirming loose and falling. Not that Tim had any urge to do so, but Bruce didn’t know that so it was nice.

“I trust that the nanny has been handled.” Alfred said as he began to peer through the Drake’s refrigerator.

Bruce nodded. “Jim will be sending someone to interview her later. There isn’t anything fresh in there, I checked.”

“So I see.” Alfred said with a scoff as he pulled a bag from the freezer.

Despite the exhaustion closing in on him, Tim found himself perking up at the familiar logo. “Nuggies.”

“Indeed, Master Tim.” The butler squinted as he read the ingredients, before letting out a sigh that somehow managed to sound offended. “Needs must, I suppose.” Bruce’s chest rumbled with a laugh and Tim was so close to the source that it almost sounded like a cat purring. Maybe that was how he managed to pull someone with as much common sense as Selina. Tim petted his chest fondly at the thought. Careful fingers ran through his hair and Tim let himself lull into the touch, eyes closed. “Did you manage to get a hold of Mr. and Mrs. Drake?”

“No.” Bruce said, tone neutral but at the same completely not. Tim cracked his eyes open, catching the stern frown on his face. It was gone as soon as Bruce realized he was watching, giving him a wink as fingers itched at the back of Tim’s head. He went lax again at the touch. “I got a hold of Jack’s secretary though. She’s got a new nanny on the way, from a different agency.”

“I see.”

The scritches didn’t stop and even though Tim was deeply invested in the idea of having chicken nuggets (his parents kept them solely as bribery food, only giving them to Tim when he did really well at parties and events) Tim found himself drifting off, the familiar sounds of Alfred and Bruce bickering at each other in that polite way they did the most beautiful of soundtracks. Honestly, it was better than his old white noise machine.

He woke up some time later on the couch with a dark skinned woman sitting across from him. She introduced herself as Sophie, his new nanny, and went immediately to heat up his nuggets. Reheated nuggets never tasted as good, Tim thought sourly to himself as he glanced around, it was stupid of him to have fallen asleep and he drooped further when he realized that Bruce and Alfred were gone. He slept through their goodbye completely! Who knew when he’d get the chance to see them again?

But Teddy was waiting for him, sitting on the coffee table clean and dry, his shoulder expertly stitched.

Chapter Text

The thing was that Tim kind of liked Sophie. As far as nannies went, she was actually pretty good. She ate with Tim every day and let him sit at the kitchen counter for his meals. She read him to sleep and let him watch TV during his free hour. Sophie even let him pick the show, even if she seemed to think he was watching CNBC because he liked how colorful the graphics were (which, what?) and wasn’t keeping an eye on the stock market.

As an added bonus, she was already a grandmother and therefore widely outside of the age range of the nannies that Janet usually considered a ‘threat.’ Tim didn't quite understand the paranoia, it wasn't like Jack was ever around long enough to actually cheat on her with a nanny. But Janet’s misplaced fears and aggression aside, Sophie’s age was a good thing because it meant she was an experienced nanny, and that experience was needed almost immediately when his parents arrived the Friday following the ‘Cynthia’ incident.

As usual Tim had no idea they’d be coming and was caught totally off guard by the sound of the front door opening. Seriously, at least when Tom had been responsible for himself he’d had some kind of ballpark of when to expect them. A date range he needed to be careful around. As it stood now, no one told Tim anything. He froze in eating his blueberries, eyes wide and darting from a startled Sophie’s face to Teddy. It was too late to make a run for it though as Mother stormed into the room, her lips a hard line. To Tim’s surprise, she barely glanced at the bear, instead sweeping him up into her arms.

“Timothy, my poor darling! Thank goodness you’re alright!”

Tim, as startled as he’d ever been in his life by the show of rare affection and utterly panicked by the moronic and insecure grip she held him with, flailed. Janet let out a gasp – and dropped him.

In a shot Sophie was there, the sixty-seven year old giving the Flash a run for his money as she caught Tim right out of the air. Tim’s chest heaved, fingers locked in a death-grip on the nanny’s cardigan, bug eyed and shaking. Janet and Sophie stared at each other; Mother, stunned into silence, the nanny’s face carefully blank. If wasn’t for the ironclad grip she had on him, Tim would think that Sophie hadn’t been effected by his close call at all.

“He caught me off guard.” Janet said coolly, brushing her hands down her blouse. “He should know better than to squirm like that.”

“Of course, ma’am.” Sophie agreed, the consummate professional she was, “they do call it the terrible twos for a reason.”

The tension in his mother’s shoulders disappeared. “That they do.”

Huh.

Maybe Sophie would last longer than a few weeks.

“Hey, Timmy.” Jack greeted as he entered the living room. Tim gave him a small wave, eyeing the full glass of wine in his hand. A quick glance to the digital clock on the cable box revealed it just half past one in the afternoon. Either the flight or customs must have given them a hard time. Or both. “I heard about what happened with your old nanny, champ, and don’t you worry about a thing. We’re going to bury that bitch under so much litigation, she’ll be hoping for a prison sentence.” Tim nodded approvingly. “Remember Tim, no one touches a Drake and gets away with it.” Jack continued on, gesturing wildly with his glass, “and when they do, you hit ‘em back twice as hard. And where it hurts! Which is money, Timmy – I don’t care what anyone else tells you, it’s always the money.”

Jack continued on, growing more and more animated as he spoke, Janet nodding along here and there, but Tim checked out after a few minutes. Father’s rants could go on for hours if he felt particularly inspired or spited. Sophie was a good champ about it, holding him steady throughout, and he fought the urge to rest his head on her shoulder. He wasn’t in the mood for the lecture that disrespect would earn him. Even if Jack was mostly repeating himself at this point, Tim had to be attentive and engaged.

“ – any surprise, it is Gotham, which why we use Fitzgerald, Lockey, and Browne, because if you’re going to use a lawyer, you want the meanest sons-of-a-bitches you can –”

“Jack, dear,” Janet finally interrupted, checking her watch with a worried frown, “we need to switch out the wardrobes if we’re going to make our eight o’clock. The car’s going to be here any minute and you know what Tuesdays are like at the Gotham.”

Tim fought the urge to snort. The Gotham. Absolutely no one called it that, it was always Gotham International Airport or the GIA. 

“ – damn, you’re right. Anyway, good talk, Timmy.”

Janet hurried to follow him…sweeping Teddy up behind her as she went. Tim jolted forward, eyes wide, hands grasping after him. “Down,” he said sharply, “put me down, Mrs. Sophie.”

The moment his feet touched the ground, Tim was off. He skidded around the corner before backpedaling, ducking behind a display chest to peer into the kitchen. He just caught the lid of the kitchen trash can being closed. Sophie, who’d been following on his heels, glanced down at him before moving into the kitchen.

“The itinerary is on the fridge,” Mother said as she poured herself a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, “important numbers are next to the phone.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She pointed a manicured finger at the woman. “Timothy is too old for that bear. It stays in the trash.”

“…as you say, Mrs. Drake.”

Janet glanced at oven clock and sighed. “Timothy should be down for his nap by now. Did you even read his schedule?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll take him up right now. Have a safe flight.”

Tim clung tightly to Sophie as she picked him up, staring at the kitchen trash until they turned out sight. Tim let her tuck him without a fuss, rolling immediately onto his stomach and gripping his pillow tightly. Tim blinked back angry tears; he’d wait until they’d left and the nanny thought he was asleep to slip away and get Teddy back. It took forever but his parents did eventually leave, the sound of their excited laughter echoing down the hall as they passed his room. He waited until he heard the front door open and close to climb up and peer out his window, watching as the car they’d ordered drove them away. Footsteps in the hall had him scrambling back to the bed, the click of his nursery door opening a moment later. There was a weight on his bed as his nanny sat down, a hand brushing the bangs from his forehead.

“Tim, I know you’re awake. Can you look at me, please?” Tim opened one eye. Sophie gave him muted smile, something sad around her eyes. “Do you know what a secret is, Tim?” Tim nodded, wary. “Good. This is a secret okay? Just between you and me. Here.”

Tim bolted upwards as Teddy was suddenly in front of him, snatching the bear from her arms and hugging it close. “Teddy!”

“Teddy has to stay up in your room now, okay? And look.” Sophie took Teddy, showing Tim how he could squish the toy down between his bed and the wall. “Teddy can hide here when you go out to play.” She gave him a wink as she freed the toy, gently pushing Tim back down on the bed. “Just our little secret, you hear?”

Tim nodded, thoroughly touched. This might be the nicest thing a nanny had ever done for him. “Thank you, Mrs. Sophie.”

“It’s nothing, sweetheart. Go ahead and take your nap, we’ll have a snack when you wake up.”

“What do you want to make today, Tim?”

See, this was why Tim liked Sophie. None of his other nannies ever asked what him what he wanted to do during the hour Janet had scheduled for arts and crafts. The Schedule (yes, with a capital ‘S’ and all) was a matrix Mother had developed to make sure that Tim was ‘meeting his maximum potential.’

“I’m gonna make an invite to my party.”

“Your party?”

“My birthday party.” Tim said, already paging through the book of construction paper to find the right piece. “It’s soon.”

“In two months, isn’t it?”

Tim nodded, carefully pulling the paper free. This was another thing he liked about Sophie, she seemed to get that Tim wasn’t really a baby but actually pretty smart. And she didn’t keep talking about how smart he was – which Tim hated, because it always made him feel like some sort attraction. Sophie was also good at waiting for Tim to ask for help too instead of just stepping in. Well, usually. But Tim didn’t know if the banister thing really counted or not, considering Tim’s head had gotten stuck. After a month and a half together, the two of them had a hit a decent groove. Sophie didn't talk down to Tim and Tim rewarded her by actually talking back. Usually he just stared at his nannies in silence until they felt awkward.

“Can you write the words please?”

“Sure, honey. You’re going to need to get some more paper out though.”

Tim paused from where he was riffling through the bin of markers to look at her in confusion. “Why?”

“Well, you can’t just send one to your friends. They all need to get a copy so their parents will know when to come.” Sophie explained as she carefully folded Tim’s chosen paper hamburger style.

“Oh. No, just that one.”

Sophie paused. “You sure?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well okay then. Here we go, buddy. What do you think?”

Tim took the card from his nanny, taking in the playful multicolored Let’s Party! written on the front. “I love it, thank you Mrs. Sophie! Can you write the stuff inside?”

“I can but we may have to check the date of the party with your parents first,” Sophie warned, “sometimes it isn’t always on your birthday.”

“It is. July 19^th. We can have it at noon and have sandwiches and stuff.” Tim suggested as he was painstakingly trying to draw a birthday cake on the front. As it was, it was looking more like a misshaped square. Or a circle. A squircle. Man, having tiny hands with still developing motor functions sucked. “So you don’t have to cook.”

“Well, I like that idea but we’ll still have to check with your folks.”

“Nuh-uh. They’re in Tibet.” Which was true, Tim had made a copy of their itinerary one night when Sophie was sleeping and stashed it in his room. There wasn’t going to be any more surprise homecomings if Tim could help it. He wasn’t surprised to see the date blocked off. Tim had spent all of one birthday with his parents in his entire childhood and that was only because they’d had Drake Industries event the same week. 

From where she was drawing a flower, Sophie’s marker hovered to a stop over the paper. After a moment she capped it, setting it down. “I’ll be right back fella, are you thirsty?”

Tim shook his head, face so close to the paper his nose was almost touching it in his attempt to get a straight line. When she was gone, Tim leaned back until he could see into the kitchen. Sure enough Sophie was standing there, hands on her hips and glaring at the white paper stuck to the fridge. Shaking his head, Tim exchanged his red marker for a blue one. Sometimes he got nannies like Sophie, the good ones who actually cared. It was always sad to see them go through the various stages of disbelief when they came to understand just how little Tim’s parents cared about him. Honestly, they got more upset than he did. Those were also the ones who were usually gone the quickest. Tim kind of hoped Sophie kept her mouth shut though.

He was well into his masterpiece, eventually giving up on trying for perfection and just going ham on the card with whatever colors struck his fancy, when a sippy cup of apple juice was placed next to him.

“Just in case you changed your mind.” Sophie explained, setting her own cup of tea down. “So I could order us some pizzas for your birthday. That’d be a nice treat, wouldn’t it? I can grab some cupcakes from the grocery too.”

“Looks like we’re in luck, it’s a nice day out.” Sophie said as she locked the front door later that afternoon. “Now remember, you have to hold my hand the whole time we’re crossing the street.”

Tim nodded even if he thought that kind of pointless. The only people who came down their street were either Bruce and Alfred or his parents. And delivery people. And the mailman. And some people did use it as short cut to get over to Golden Oaks Street.

…okay, maybe she did have a point.

“You sure you don’t want me to carry you?” Tim shook his head, hand curling into Sophie’s. “You really sure? If you get tired I’m not going to carry you.”

“I’m good, Mrs. Sophie.”

“Alright then, we’re off.” Sophie wasn’t lying, it was a nice day out. The sun shown in sky, which was a bright blue color that was heightened by the streaks of white clouds in the sky. No – wait a minute, those were jet trails. A hand pushed his head down. “Don’t stare into the sun Tim, it’s bad for your eyes.”

“Oh yeah.”

Summer had soften the wrought iron gates of Wayne Manor. Ivy had crept up and over the fence, blooming with a pretty purple flower that hung from it like a cascading waterfall. The beds on either side of the gate had bloomed; tulips and roses and daisies bringing bursts of color. The giant bushes that lined the fence were rich and green, and there was a dead bird on the curb, half smashed flat, feathers rippling in the wind.

He pointed it out to his nanny. “There’s a bird.”

Sophie glanced at the carcass, face twitching in disgust. “Come on Tim, you don’t want to keep your friend waiting.” Tim stared at it, neck stretching to keep it in sight even as Sophie tugged him forward and when she hit the intercom, turned around completely to watch. A hand on his head directed him to turn back and face forward. “Don’t stare.”

“Wayne Residence, how may I help you?”

Sophie took a startled breath, eyes suddenly very wide. Tim stared at her as the silence stretched, then rolled his eyes. “Hi Alfred, it’s me Tim! There’s a dead bird!”

“…Master Tim, please do not touch the dead bird. You're not alone, are you?”

“Oh no,” Sophie blurted out, looking flatfooted and embarrassed, “sorry, I’m here too. We met briefly before, my name is Sophie Collins, I’m Tim’s nanny. He wanted to drop off a birthday invitation.”

“I see. Come right on in. I will meet you at the front doors presently, but I’m in the basement so it may take a moment.”

The intercom clicked off, the gates swinging open. Sophie shot him an exasperated look. “Is the reason you told me your best friend’s name was a secret is because it was Bruce Wayne?”

Of course he did, she'd never have believed him otherwise. Tim laughed as he broke free, darting down the drive. He swore he heard a ‘smart little shit’ under her breath before Sophie broke out into a trot after him, shouting “stop running, you’re going to fall! And where on earth did you get a binky?”

Tim just laughed again, rolling the illegal pacifier between his teeth as he loped down the driveway in a zigzag pattern. He glanced over his shoulder and gasped at the sight of Sophie sprinting towards him, moving with more speed than a grandmother of three should have any right too. Tim darted around the fountain, putting the fixture between him and his nanny. She came to a stop, pointing threateningly at him, panting. “Try that again mister and I’m buying you a child leash. Test me.”

Which, of course, was what Bruce heard when he answered the front door. Tim spun around, throwing himself up the stairs. He nearly face planted, catching with himself with a hand before skittering behind the man’s leg. “Bruce, help! Nanny’s crazy.”

Bruce, the jerk, offered no refuge. “Sorry, Tim. I’ll think you’re on your own with this one.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wayne.” Sophie said politely as she climbed the stairs at a much more sedate pace, and then proceeded to ignore the billionaire completely. “Timothy Jackson Drake, you look at me.” From where he was cowering behind Bruce’s knees, Tim peaked out. “You don’t run from me when we’re by roads or driveways.”

“That’s some pretty good advice, chum.”

“But –” Tim gestured to the clearly carless drive.  

Bruce hummed, but the sound was a negative. “Still a bad idea, Tim. Cars can move really fast, they can surprise you.”

Okay, looks like Tim wasn’t getting out of this one. “Sorry, Mrs. Sophie.”

“Thank you, Tim. Now do you want to give Mr. Wayne what you made?”

“Yeah.” Tim pulled it from his pocket, taking a moment to try and smooth out the wrinkle edges and held it out to him. Bruce took in the card, blue eyes softening and fingers careful as he held it, like it was something of value and not a smear of color and lines. Movement further in the manor caught his attention and Tim used his grip on Bruce’s pants to tilt precariously to the side to see inside. A hand dropped to his head, a counterpoint keeping him steady. “Hi, Alfred!”

“Master Tim,” the butler greeted, “a good afternoon to you. What’s all this about a dead bird?”

“It got squished.”

Behind him, Sophie sighed. “Sorry, a bird got run over by your gate. He’s pretty locked on. I’m Sophie Collins, the Drake’s nanny.”

"Alfred Pennyworth, butler."

“Alfred, I got to pee.”

Another sigh. “This is why I asked before we left the house, Tim.”

“It’s fine.” Alfred said, “I’ll show you the facilities.”

“He’s actually potty trained, does a pretty good job of it.” Sophie said and the pride in her voice made Tim stand straighter. "He likes to go by himself, but he needs help getting to the sink if you don't have a footstool."

“Well, then.” Alfred offered his hand. “Shall we?”

Tim didn’t actually have to pee, but he took the time to take a nice little break with his pacifier before shoving it back in that weird little inside pocket that pants sometimes had. Tim never did figured out why some pants had those, he should look it up sometime. When they returned from their visit to the facilities, it was to a hushed conversation taking place between Bruce and Sophie.

“ – understand if you can’t come, just let me know as soon as you can so I can plan a distraction. His parents are out of the country and you’re the only person Tim’s invited. I don’t want –” She cut off as she caught sight of him, calling out his name loudly. “Hey Tim, all better?”

The toddler gave her a disbelieving look. Subtle, totally subtle. Did she really think that was going to work? Did adults think kids were idiots or something? He'd expected more from her, she'd basically just –

“That bathroom’s my favorite actually.” Bruce offered. Tim paused in his approach, slowly craning his head up (and up and up) to stare at him. Bruce just smiled back guilelessly. “I like the way the soap smells.”

He liked the –

Wow. Okay then. He took back what he said about Sophie. This was worse.

Tim kept up his unimpressed stare, letting the silence grow a beat too long. Behind him, Alfred let out a low chuckle.

Sophie cleared her throat. “Well, it’s time for us to be heading back. I wrote both my cell and the home phone number on the back of the invite. It was wonderful meeting you. Say goodbye, Tim.”

Tim was this close from parroting ‘goodbye, Tim’ back. Instead he tugged on Bruce’s jeans until the man obliging crouched down to his level. He reached out, resting his hands on sharp cheekbones, and stared intently into Bruce’s ocean colored eyes. Tim waited until the glossy look he sometimes got as Brucie Wayne faded away completely, until it was just Bruce (the real Bruce, not Brucie or Batman, but something in between) looking at him. “Are you gonna come?”

“Yes.”

“Alfred too?”

“Yes.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay, good.” Then he let go, skipped over to where Sophie was waiting outside and took her hand. “I wanna see the bird again.”

Sophie waited until the door shut before scooping him up into her arms. “Tim, you can be a weirdly intense child.”

“I know.”

“I bet you do.” Then, “wait, where did your binky go?”

“What binky?”

That night, Tim sucked lazily on said pacifier as he ordered the hit for Two-Face.

It was almost refreshing to chat with Wilson over the dark web. They were using the website’s built-in messenger, which meant that Slade couldn’t see Tim sitting there in his Gengar onesie and he could act his actual age. He tried to keep from using too many words or too complex sentences when he spoke (though he was admittedly lax around the nannies – his parents would never believe the help anyway) but it was annoying to always be so self-aware of how he spoke.

RR: Half the funds up front, the rest when the job’s done.

RR: Proof of death confirmed by coroner before release of final funds.

DS: No action until first deposit clears.

RR: Fair.

DS: Confirming: No preferred day?

RR: Confirmed.

RR: Blacked out dates: anything on or before 7/19.

RR: No later than 10/1.

Because Tim wanted Bruce to come to his birthday party, damn’t, and if Two-Face was killed before he was going to get obsessive with the case and miss it. Tim just knew it.

DS: Confirmed. Blackout dates on or before 7/19, no later than 10/1.

DS: Any preference?

RR: Permanent.

DS: LOL

Tim’s fingers froze on the keyboard, staring at the computer owlishly. Did Deathstroke the Terminator just lols him?

RR: ROFL

DS is typing…

DS is typing…

DS is typing…

Apparently that was a step too far in the man’s text education.

RR: Don’t worry about it.

RR: Do well and I have another contract for you.

DS: Roger that.

RR: Payment sent.

DS: Acknowledged.

DS: Payment received.

DS: Pleasure doing business with you.

Feeling rather proud of himself (see Dickie, I do love you) Tim unplugged the laptop and shut it down. It was one of the first purchases he’d gotten after he’d stolen the nanny credit card about – oh, he didn’t know – two or three nannies ago. It was still ancient tech to Tim, but it was better than nothing. He slipped it away in the sweater box in his closet, then flipped his hood up. Tim moved silently down the hallway, careful to keep out of the crack of light coming from Sophie’s cracked door, and out of the house proper. It took him about ten minutes to get to the Drake gates and through them. He made his way along the brick wall for a few minutes before crossing the road.

There weren’t as many cameras along the Wayne fence line as there were would be in Tim’s time, when cameras were smaller and easier to set up, but there were still enough that he had to bide his time in a bush, waiting until the mounted thing slowly panned in the other direction. He crept forward to the next bush, keeping to the shadows. He leap frogged his way towards the front gates in such a way, both hyperaware of how much time was passing and willing to take as long as it needed. The two cameras on there were a little harder to time (not quite in sync with each other) but Tim figured it out. He pulled the plastic grocery bag from his pocket, shaking it a few times to get it to inflate and – now! He darted forward, scooping up the dead bird before throwing himself back into the bushes seconds before the opposite camera would have caught him.

Tim waited until he was back through the Drake gates before cackling. He opened the bag, nose wrinkling as he took in the rotting bird. It was perfect. Tim let himself back in through the kitchen, not bothering the lock the door; Sophie would probably think she just forgot to lock it.

Fifteen minutes later and Tim was in his mother’s massive closet, trying to find the right shoe box. The Chosen One was tucked far in the back, a few years old but of an expensive enough brand that Janet wouldn’t dare through it out in case it became a collectable. He opened it and tipped the shoes out, kicking them away until they were hidden under his mother’s furs. He dumped the bird into the box, closed and tucked it back away.

Sometimes he really felt like he was doing God's work.

"No."

"I warned you, Tim." Sophie said calmly, stretching out the length of the child leash to get a feel for it. "I warned you that if you acted up around cars again that this would happen."

Tim glared at her, arms crossed, and refused to budge. Given that it wasn't Halloween, the parking lot to The Party City was completely empty saved for a car that must have belonged to the employee working. Still, Tim felt like there were eyes on him from everywhere. Judging. Laughing. The backpack strapped to him was shaped like a tiger, which may have been cool if it wasn't being used to leash him like a goddamn dog. Tim's hands drifted down to the strap buckled around his chest.

"Do that and we're gong home." Tim's hands froze. "It's up to you, Tim. Do you want to get stuff for your birthday party or not?"

Tim's hands dropped away. "You're mean."

Sophie snorted. "Like I haven't heard that before."

"I'll get Mother to fire you."

"I'd like to see you try." I could so get you fired, lady, Tim thought mulishly, kicking at a pebble. "Tim, are we going shopping or not?"

Throwing his hands up in disbelief Tim stormed off towards the store - only to be stopped by a sharp tug of the leash. "I hate you."

"...Come on, Tim. I ordered you some Voltron balloons."

Tim snapped to attention. "You did?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." Well, crap. Now Tim felt kinda of bad. "I don't hate you, Mrs. Sophie."

"I figured, kiddo. You still have to wear the leash."

Tim scowled.

Sadly like almost everything in Tim’s formative years, nothing good ever lasted. It was only a few weeks later, nearly nine at night, when Tim found himself being woken up as he was lifted from his bed, blanket and all.

“Hush, baby,” Sophie soothed, picking up the pacifier from where it’d fallen from his mouth and pushing it back in. She had a duffel bag over one shoulder, “go back to sleep.”

Tim gave it a slow suck, letting his head rest on her shoulder as he eyed the bright blue bag curiously. They quickly made their way through the dark house and out the front door, where Sophie’s beige Toyota was waiting for them, engine on. Wait, was Tim being kidnapped? Wow, he’d totally misread Mrs. Sophie. He didn’t think she had it in her. He debated what to do as the nanny opened the front seat and tossed the duffel bag inside. Tim could scream, but he doubted anyone would hear him. He probably wouldn’t be able to escape on his own, Sophie was an adult.

Maybe she wasn’t taking him for money, Sophie was pretty nice. Maybe she’d just realized what shits his parents were and was taking to live with her family. She said she had a grandkid his age right? But if it was for money – oh, they’d just driven through the gates and Tim was buckled into his car seat, a sippy cup of water in hand and Teddy on the bucket seat next to him. When had that happened? Tim kicked his feet, then just for the hell of it did a few more times, liking the way it made the blanket balloon like a parachute. They didn’t go far though and Tim let out an inquisitive hum as they went straight instead of turning either right or left. They were on the Wayne access road. Why was Sophie taking him to the manor?

Sophie rolled her window, the movements stressed as she pumped the handle. She reached out and buzzed the intercom, waited a few moments, and then buzzed it again. “Come on,” Sophie said, voice harried, “come on, come on.”

“Can I help you?” Came Alfred’s voice, tinny over the speaker.

“Hello, I’m so sorry to bother you. It’s Sophie Collins, I’m here with Tim.” The camera mounted on one of the nearby fence palisade rotated to focus on them. Tim gave it a wave. “I know it’s late, but I swear it’s an emergency. Can you please buzz me in?”

“…of course, I will meet you at the front door.”

“Oh thank you.” Sophie breathed. She glanced in her review mirror, brown eyes highlighted by the reflection of the Drakes gate’s flood lights. “You doing okay back there, Tim?” He gave her a thumbs up. Sophie laughed, though the sound was hollow. “Okay, sweetie.” The gates finished opening. “Lord,” his nanny said under her breath as she drove forward, “still a big house.”

And it was.

Don’t get Tim wrong, the Drake Manor was a big house. It had sixteen bedrooms and double that number in bathrooms, four studies, and countless rooms that had been changed into show rooms that mimicked museum galleries. But Wayne Manor – Wayne Manor was big, big. It loomed over them like the stately, gothic manor it was, hundreds of glass windows – most dark – stretching across its front. As promised, Alfred was waiting for them at the front door. Sophie quickly got out of the car and Tim watched as she strode away. Her body language was tense and nervous, hands moving about as she spoke. Alfred looked stern but concerned, nodding along at whatever his nanny was saying. It was a short conversation, Sophie turning quickly and jogging down the steps and back to the car, Alfred on her heels.

“ – emailed and I tried every number they left, Mr. Pennyworth, I swear.” Sophie was saying as she opened the door, reaching in to unbuckle Tim. “Two of them were disconnected! I left several messages on the ones that had voicemail.” Tim was lifted free, cradled to a warm chest. “I even called the agency’s emergency line, but they just don’t have anyone free.”

He let out a noise of complaint, pointing back into the car, and the nanny was quick to reach back in, handing Teddy to him.

“I’ve never walked off a job before.” Sophie continued, a hiccup in her voice and Tim’s head snapped up. Sophie was leaving? He was even more alarmed to find her eyes glistening. Worried, Tim reached out and patted her cheek but his attempts at reassurance only made the tears cascade down. “He’s such a sweet boy, I hate to just leave him, but – if my son wasn’t in the ICU, I’d never – it’s almost been six hours, I just can’t wait any longer.”

Alfred let out a sympathetic sound. “It sounds as if you’ve done everything you can, Mrs. Collins.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Sophie said, voice rough. “There’s a couple of changes of clothes in the bag, just in case, and I put his toothbrush and toothpaste and some snacks in there too.” She passed the duffel bag over to Alfred but hesitated with Tim himself, visibly torn. “I put Mrs. Drake's schedule in there as well. You...do whatever you want with that. You’ll take care of him, right?”

“Of course, madam. You have my word.”

His nanny wiped at her eyes, gave him one last squeeze, and handed him over. “You be good for Mr. Pennyworth, Tim. He’s going to look after you for a while. Your parents will be home soon to get you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Tim clutched his bear close. “…bye, Mrs. Sophie.”

He couldn't quite stop his defeated slump as the car drove off. Shit. He really liked Sophie.

“There, there, Master Tim it’ll be alright.” Alfred consoled as he brought them into the manor’s foyer, “you heard Mrs. Collins, she’ll be back before you know it.”

“No, Mother’s gonna fire her.” Tim mumbled around his pacifier, “Mother always fires them.”

Which was a shame, because Tim had really liked Sophie. And honestly, you know better than that Tim. This is why you didn’t let yourself get attached to employees because they were always, always, temporary. He turned, hiding his face in Alfred’s neck with a wet sniffle. A hand rubbed a soothing circle on his back as they traveled through the manor. They made their way to a room located off the kitchen, a decent sized office with a bay window that overlooked the west lawn. The manor’s blueprints called this room the Estate Manager’s Office, but Tim had always known it as Alfred’s office. He’d never been in here before, only seen the butler enter and leave it.

The room was wrapped in wood paneling, a deep cherry color that almost looked black in the dim light. A wide window took up one wall, with curtains mounted on either side in a cheery hunter green and gold check. There was a narrow, unlit buck stove shoved in one corner, a safe and lock box in the other, and a wall of bookshelves that took up the wall opposite. A green glass banker’s lamp rested on the desk, the only source of light besides a laptop that waited there.

A small settee rested at angle in the back corner, just a few steps from the desk, with a warm looking throw resting over it. Tim was settled on it, Alfred reaching over to pull the throw free and tuck it over the blanket from his bedroom. “There we are,” Alfred said with a nod, “all tucked in. I shall be just over there, Master Tim, should you need anything.”

Tim nodded, taking sips from his sippy cup. It was embarrassingly loud in the quiet room, but Tim couldn’t help it. He hadn’t realized he was thirsty until he suddenly was and then he realized he was really thirsty. He popped off only after several long pulls, lips smacking together. He leaned over to put his drink down before pausing and leaning over further, setting the cup down on a waiting coaster.

“What a smart boy you are.” The butler praised from his seat and Tim preened because – yes, yes he was a smart boy. “And very well mannered.”

He nodded with a grin, because he was that too. He slipped his pacifier back in and settled down on the couch, the pillow a little stiff under his head but not terribly uncomfortable. Alfred watched him for a few moments as Tim pulled the blankets this way and that, making a bit of nest with him and Teddy at the center, and didn’t look away until Tim had stilled.

“Get some sleep, Master Tim.”

Tim nodded in agreement, but kept his eyes on Alfred as he slipped an ear piece in place.

“This is A. I have returned, but I shall be working remotely today so I fear my resources may be somewhat lacking. I apologize in advance.” The computer screen cast Alfred’s face in a white light, softening it. “Indeed, sir. It seems there was an emergency next door. No, nothing that dire, though it appears we will have a guest for a few days. Yes, he’s with me as we speak.”

He wondered what Bruce said to that.

“I haven’t the faintest.”

His eyes felt heavy and Tim blinked against it, trying to stay awake.

“Out of the country again, I’d assume.”

Tim woke next to pre-dawn light, in a room and a crib he doesn’t recognize. He did, however, recognize the unique style of the carved crown molding of Wayne Manor. He sat up, feeling somewhat disgruntled by the sight of the crib walls towering over him. The door to his room was open, but other than that room was empty. It was a nursery, something that Tim didn’t even think that the manor had. Maybe it had been Bruce’s? He called out a few times, hoping Alfred would hear him, and waited impatiently for someone to come. But when no one appeared instantly in the doorway, Tim let out a grunt and lay back down. It was probably really early; Bruce had likely only been asleep for a few hours. It might even be early enough that Alfred wasn’t up. It would be polite to let them sleep, Tim thought reasonably, and he was here technically as a guest.

Mother had always told him that anything before seven in the morning was Tim's 'Personal Meditation and Alone Time,' which basically meant he was supposed to stay in bed and wait quietly for a nanny to come and get him. Tim usually used it to plot or contemplate his life's failures and success, and sometimes to think about whether or not anyone would think to feed his fish back on his island bungalow. Tim wasn't really feeling any of that right now. He could just go back to bed for a little longer.

Decided, Tim rolled on to his side and closed his eyes. A minute later they flew open again. He rolled onto his other side, staring balefully at the empty door. No, you’re being polite, Tim. He ran his fingers over the sides of the crib, feeling the smoothed wood. No, go back to sleep. You’re not like other toddlers who keep the whole house up. You’re a guest. A polite guest. An amicable guest. He closed his eyes again. Just go back to sleep.

Five minutes later found Tim wedging his foot into the gaps between the crib spokes, annoyed when his socked feet refused to gain any traction on the polished wood spokes. Frustrated, Tim sank down and yanked his socks off, throwing them spitefully out of the crib. After a moment of thought, he tossed Teddy over as well. This time, his sweaty skin caught on the wood, letting Tim climb up the side. Now was the tricky part: hands gripping tightly, he swung a leg over the crib rail. Tim let out a laugh of triumph as he balanced on the railing. And they said Dick was the acrobat in the family. Actually, could he do that thing Dick always did when he did something impressive? You know, the thing where gymnasts, like, landed a flip or something and held both their hands out.

Cautiously, he extended one hand up into the air. Not too bad, a little wobbly but – yeah, there we go. Both hands in the air. Eat your heart out, Dick Grayson.

“Holy shit.” Tim jerked in surprise and he’d had just enough time to process Bruce standing there in sweatpants and a Gotham U t-shirt, morning newspaper tucked under one arm and a cup of coffee in hand, when Tim dropped like a rock. Bruce dove forward, cup tossed aside to smash against the wall, and landed with a loud thud on his knees. From the cradle of his arms Tim stared up at him, wide eyed.

“Whoops.” Bruce let out a startled laugh. Tim blushed. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Bruce said as he stood, shifting Tim until he rested belly to chest instead of in a princess carry. “I guess you’re too big for a crib, huh?”

“I’m in a big boy bed.” Tim agreed as he rested his hand over Bruce’s chest, fascinated to find that he could feel the man’s racing heart. He must have really freaked him out. Bruce always kept his body at height of athleticism and that had to be doubly true with how young he was now. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m just glad you’re not hurt.” Bruce said as he toed at the shattered cup with his slipper. “Alfred won’t be pleased.”

“What won’t I – ah.” Alfred looked from the broken cup to the coffee slowly dripping down the wall to join the small puddle on the floor. “And what happened here?”

“Found Tim halfway out of his crib,” Bruce explained with a shrug, “a tactical decision had to be made.”  

“I see. If you’ll take Master Tim downstairs for breakfast, I will tend to this.”

“Sorry.” Tim said again, with a little bit more feeling this time.

Alfred waved him off, “no harm done, my boy.”

Bruce started towards the door, but Tim yanked on his shirt to stop him. “Wait, get Teddy please.”

“Why is he on the floor?”

Because freedom, Bruce.

Tim shrugged.

Breakfast was fruit, eggs, and bacon, the meal spread out in the kitchen nook. The manor had several dining rooms, in fact they even had a breakfast room in itself. But the family always ate breakfast in the nook that was sequestered in the staff kitchen, the heart of Alfred’s dominion. The table was old and scratched, but wiped down with wood polish every night and had a 'U' shaped booth wrapped around it. Tim felt warmed by the sight of it. He was a bit caught off guard by the high chair waiting at the end of the table and he wondered if it was another holdover from Bruce’s childhood. Tim let himself be slid into place, watching as Bruce sat down on the edge of the bench closest to him. With a grin, Tim reached down and did the seat belt himself. The click was loud in the small space and when he glanced up it was to find Bruce watching him, somewhat abashed.

“I forgot about the seat belt thing. Don’t tell Alfred.”

“Okay.” Tim agreed easily, already happily making his way through the cut up fruit on his plate. “Secrets are fun.” Bruce made a noise of agreement as he sipped his orange juice. “Sometimes my nannies tells me secrets.”

“What kind of secrets?” Tim mused over what answer he wanted to give as he took a moment to sort his strawberries by size, even if he found himself deeply amused at the idea of Bruce trying to weasel secrets out of a two-year-old. For a moment he entertained the idea of him just blurting out the last five year plan he could remember of the Rosmakov gang, just to see what would happen. “Tim? What kind of secrets?”

In the end he settled for a shrug, because that would drive Bruce crazy.

Sure enough the man frowned, looking delightfully thoughtful and broody as he poured himself a new cup of coffee from the carafe. Sadly, he seemed to shake himself out of it pretty quickly. "So bud, what do you want to do today?"

Tim paused, a strawberry speared on each fingertip like claws. It was a Sunday, wasn't it? Bruce never went to WE on Sundays. Saturdays, sure, but never Sundays. After a moment, Tim shrugged. "Dunno. Mrs. Sophie left The Schedule."

"The Schedule?" Bruce repeated, capital letters and all.

"Uh huh." He pointed to where he could see The Schedule and the neon orange paper it'd been printed on sitting on a nearby kitchen counter. Alfred must have been looking at it.

Bruce snagged it, reading over it. As Tim watched, the man's eyebrows climbed higher and higher. "Well, that’s…something. It's a Sunday, so I think it's alright if we have a lazy day."

Tim wholeheartedly agreed.

He was almost done with his meal when Tim suddenly remembered his need to pee and he needed to go with a vengeance. “Bruce,” he called urgently, “I gotta go.”

Bruce looked at him blankly.

“Bruce, I gotta go.” Tim squirmed in the chair, releasing the buckle. Lord man, have you ever been around a child in your life? “I need the potty.”

“Oh!” He was immediately released from the high chair and Tim had already taken off towards the nearest bathroom before he remembered he shouldn’t know where it was. But the door was open and clearly showed a toilet, so Tim was pretty confident he’d gotten away with that little show of foreknowledge. He bolted inside, shoving the door shut and yanking his bottoms down.

There was knock on the door. “Need any help in there?”

“No.”

Tim let out a long sigh of relief as he emptied his bladder, rocking slightly on his heels as he hummed the theme song to the Teenage Ninja Turtles to himself. If there was one flaw that Tim could be honest with himself about, it was that he’d always had issues going to bathroom where people could hear him. Ever since he’d actually been a toddler, Tim found that if he hummed loud enough that you couldn’t hear the pee as much, it helped. It took a long minute (Tim really had to go) and there were some false starts and stops, but soon enough Tim was yanking his pants up with a satisfied hum. The satisfaction was almost immediately wrecked when he took in the toilet. Tim had peed all over it. It was everywhere, zigzagging across the seat, all the down the front of the bowl. Oh God, on the rug!

He tugged at his hair in horror as he took in the carnage. He'd been in so busy trying to remember the lyrics to the stupid Turtle song he hadn't paid attention! Mortified, Tim turned and began to pull the toilet paper from the roll, trying to clean up the urine as quickly as possible. A handful of sheets weren't cutting it for the rug though, the pee just seeping through the thin paper. Somewhat frantic now, Tim pulled a long line of TP free from the roll, balling it up in his fist before smooshing it against the rug.

(Make sure you dab, Timothy, Janet Drake’s voice warned sternly in his head, not scrub. If you scrub, the stain will set. Dab.)

There was another knock on the door. “Tim, buddy? I don’t hear anything.”

Tim began to dab faster. “It’s okay!”

“You sure?”

“Yeah! It’s good.”

“…I’m going to open the door, Tim.”

“No!” Tim objected loudly, but the door was already opening. Tim froze, handfuls of bunched up toilet paper in each fist. “Um.” His shoulders sank in defeat and he stared at his feet in shame. “I peed on the rug.”

“Happens to the best of us.”

Bizarrely, it was this unwanted picture into what Tim can only assume was Bruce Wayne's college days that made him burst into tears.

A hand appeared on the edge of his vision and Tim couldn’t help it, he flinched. Which was stupid, because he knew that Bruce wouldn’t hit him – hell, his parents rarely ever hit him. Tim could only remember a handful of times throughout his entire life that either had a laid a hand on him. But if Janet or Jack were going to hit him, destroying a rug would be one of the reasons they would. The hand disappeared, replaced with Bruce’s concerned face. Tim let another sob, embarrassed. “Sorry, ‘m sorry. I didn’t mean to!”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Bruce all but crooned, moves slow and telegraphed as he reached out, wiping at Tim’s cheeks. “It’s okay.”

Tim nodded, already pulling himself back together, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, chum. Can I give you a hug?”

Tim shook his head furiously. “I got pee hands.”

“Well, we can fix that easy enough.” Bruce said, “how about I pick you up so you can reach the sink?”

Tim considered it. “Don’t touch my hands.”

“I won’t.” Ten minutes later and Tim was watching as the rug rolled about in the washer from his position on Bruce’s hip, feeling kind of silly with himself. Of course it could just go in the washer; Alfred wasn’t stupid enough to stock antique and priceless rugs in the manor bathrooms, this wasn’t the Drake home. What a stupid thing to get so upset about. “How about we grab our drinks and go to the living room? We can turn on cartoons.”

That sounded like a pretty fantastic idea to Tim and he told Bruce as much. So after pit stop to the kitchen to pick up their drinks and Teddy, that’s just what they did. Tim climbed up on the couch, waving off an amused Bruce’s help as he did so, fingers digging into the cushion to get leverage. He waited until the man sat down before cuddling into his side. Bruce was clearly taken aback by the affectionate move, but seemed to get with the program quick enough, an arm curling around Tim.

As promised, they spent the morning and afternoon lazying about, watching a few movies once the cartoons went off. At some point they fell asleep and to Tim's delight, he woke up lying atop Bruce's chest, the tall man stretched out the best he could be on such a short couch. They had Alfred's spaghetti for dinner, which Tim hadn't even realized he'd been craving until the taste of it hit his tongue, and his enthusiasm earned him seconds (Alfred put his foot down on thirds though). He got a nice bath after that, with Bruce leaning on the door frame telling him lame jokes worthy of being printed on a Popsicle stick while Alfred bathed him. And then - !

Bruce read him a bedtime story.

The following five days passed in a similar blissful manner. Every morning they had breakfast together and Bruce would ruffle his hair before he left for work. And sometimes Alfred even let them turn on the kitchen TV and watch cartoons while they ate. In the afternoons he got to explore the Wayne grounds, climbing and running around under Alfred’s careful watch as the butler tended to the garden. He got to take a nap in Alfred’s office while he did paperwork in the late afternoon, and there were always homemade snacks ready whenever Tim was hungry, and every evening they had ate dinner together.

It was heaven.

Tim had never had this before, he never had anything even remotely like this before. Not with his parents and not at the manor. Right now, in this moment, Tim was the only child in Wayne Manor. And Alfred and Bruce doted. They were capable of doting! Where did this go? Was the doting another thing that Gotham ate up? Jason and Damian would've never believed him. Jeez, no wonder Dick grew up to be such a spoiled, happy sunshine little shit. If Tim had grown up in this, he probably would’ve had the emotional energy to worry 24/7 about how happy his brothers were too.

...who was Tim kidding, no he wouldn’t. Not only was Tim an introvert to Dick’s extrovert, the first time he’d had gotten a negative reaction from his hovering, Tim would have just disappeared to lick his wounds and never tried again. Young Tim probably would have tried to apologize for having the presumption of being worried. Dick wasn't like that, he could take a hell of a proverbial punch to the emotional face and get back up. That weird little ability of his was probably why Dick tried (often to his own determent) constantly to be a really, really, good brother. He was just…you know…a bit shit at the execution.

But, yeah; staying at Wayne Manor was like a dream come true.

In fact, it was so nice that Tim found himself considering what it would be like to have this full time. Sure, it’d throw a bit of a wrench in his plans but Tim was adaptable; it was one of his best traits. He’d even put in on his resume under ‘Strengths.’ He could make coming to the manor early work. He had a laptop, he could figure out the internet connection. He could totally make this work. Of course, there would be a noticeable uptick in competent adults paying attention to him...but Alfred also spent most of his nights down in the Cave. 

Baby monitors were a thing though. But Tim was really quiet and sneaky, so if he was careful…

Wait, video baby monitors were a thing.

Weren’t they? Shit, maybe they weren't a thing yet. Hold on - Tim had to google.

Chapter Text

“Tim, I don’t know if you should be watching this.”

From where he sat on the floor between the man’s legs, Tim waved the concern off. “I watch it at home.”

“Your nannies let you watch this?”

“Yep.” The frame behind him shifted doubtfully and Tim patted his shin in reassurance. “It’s fine.”

On the screen, there was a close up of a man’s face as he let out a scream of “Ahhhhhhhh! It’s a Gundam!” before exploding. Tim grinned as he watched the Deathscythe slaughter his way through the enemy mobile suits, green laser scythe slicing through them like butter. It’d been a decade or more since he watched Gundam Wing, he’d forgotten how much he’d like it. The sounds of screams echoed through the living room.

“…yeah, no.” Bruce said reaching for the remote, but Tim had already snatched it from the coffee table and rolled his way under and out the other side, using his momentum to spring up on his feet. Bruce stared at him, expression incredulous. “Tim, give me the remote. This cartoon’s too old for you.”

Tim audibly gasped, deeply offended. Angrily, he held the remote out towards the TV, finger smashing down on the volume button. The sound of battle increased dramatically. On the couch Bruce leaned forward, frame deceptively casual, hands hanging between his knees. Tim didn’t buy it for a second.

“Last chance bud, give me the remote.”

Tim locked eyes, than increased the volume again. He let out a shriek when Bruce sprung from the couch, sprinting full tilt out of the room. His small height finally came in handy in the adjacent dining room – he barely had to duck to make it under the table.

Sweat-pant clad legs shot past him, socked feet turning a skid into a clean maneuver as Bruce rounded the table and cut off his escape. Quicksilver hands reached down and under to catch him. Tim gasped, backtracking desperately as he grabbed the table cloth and yanked. There was a “crap” from above him, Bruce’s hands flying out to stabilize the cloth and keep the candlesticks on it from flying off.

Tim shot back out the way he came, his momentum carrying into the wall. Sputtering, Tim pushed away and took off. He darted through the halls of Wayne Manor, legs pumping hard. He couldn’t hear anyone following him, but that didn’t mean anything. Bruce was freaking Batman and – crap, from the left!

Fingertips brushed against the back of his shirt and Tim couldn’t help the trilling laugh that escaped him as he minutely avoided disaster. He glanced behind him, feeling his own smile grow giant at the grin on Bruce’s face. It made him look so young.

And then, without warning, his foot caught on something. For a split second he was airborne and then – crack.

“Tim!”

Tim let out a grunt as he hit the ground and rolled, pain arrowing from his left arm to his shoulder. A pale Bruce was there immediately, gently pulling him up into a sitting position. Tim didn’t fight him, letting the man take his weight as he tried to get his bearings. He took a deep breath, holding for a long count before releasing it, eyes watering. The pain in his arm was immense, but familiar. Broken forearm, Tim catalogued as he focused on his breathing, possible shoulder sprain.

Carefully he tried to shrug his left shoulder, letting out a nearly silent exhale as pain skittered up his neck at the move. Tim let out another slow breath, blinking the blurriness in his eyes away.

“Timmy,” oh, Bruce was speaking to him. Hands were moving all over his body; checking the back of his head, his neck, his back, “please sweetheart, tell me what hurts.”

A hand brushed over his arm and Tim inhaled sharply. It was immediately gone, replaced with a hand holding his, the touch so light it was barely there. His shirt sleeve was pulled up and Tim tensed, eyes snapping close at how much even that simple action hurt. Fat tears trailed down his cheeks, but Tim ignored them and kept focusing on his breathing.

“It’s alright, chum,” Bruce said softly, “you’re going to be fine.”

Tim was stiff as a board as has he was lifted, but Bruce cradled him so carefully he was barely jostled despite the straight-up sprint Bruce was moving at.

“What happened?” A voice demanded sharply and when Tim opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) it was to Alfred keeping pace besides them.

“He fell; broken arm at the least. I’m taking him to the hospital.”

“I’ll drive.”

Tim had no real memory of them getting in a car, just that suddenly they were there. He closed his eyes, feeling dizzy as the vehicle accelerated. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Tim shook his head and then went still as the move made agonizing waves erupt anew. He forced himself again to breathe; pain management was all about breathing. Why was he struggling with this so much? He’d been hurt far, far worse. “Was stupid,” he insisted, because he had been. “‘m stupid.”

The arms around tightened. “You’re not stupid, Tim. It was an accident, you don’t have to say sorry.”

“Don’t be mad, ‘m sorry.”

A mouth pressed against the crown of his hair, not quite a kiss but a reassuring weight all the same. “I’m not mad, chum.”

Tim let out a shaky breath, good hand gripping his dad tightly as he hid his face in Bruce’s chest, shuddering.

They had him on the good stuff. What did they even give toddlers for pain management? Morphine? This didn’t feel like morphine. Tim and morphine were old friends. Alfred was standing next to him, expression worried, Tim’s uninjured hand in own. That was nice. No one ever held his hand. He liked it. Alfred was good at hand holding.

Alfred’s expression was sad and the hand clasping his own tightened. “I’m glad you think so, my boy. My hand is always free for you.”

Oh.

So he was at the speaking out loud stage, better watch that. Tim pressed his lips together, but that didn’t work as he couldn’t feel them, so he settled for pressing his tongue as hard as he could against the roof of his mouth and the back of his front teeth. As long as he kept that up, he’d probably keep silent. He let his head lull to the side, watching where Bruce and an extremely young looking Leslie Thompkins talked.

He’d never seen Bruce’s godmother with hair any other color but white; it was actually a very pretty chestnut, cut in a graceful bob. She was dressed in scrubs, a Gotham University Hospital lanyard hanging around her neck. She must not have left to start her clinic yet. Tim wondered when she did that, the clinic had always just been there from his memory.

Did she get disenfranchised with big pharmacy and – huh. There was a dancing bear painted on the wall next to them, just next to the door. Why was it a polar bear? A polar bear would hate it here; Gotham got cold but not that cold.

“ – probably need surgery,” came from the doorway. “It’s an angulated fracture of the radius, we’ll need to go in and set it to eliminate the bend. But he’s a minor Bruce, I can’t do anything without parental consent.”

“Damn’t.” Poor Bruce, he looked stressed. “They’re out of the country.”

“For how long?”

“No idea. His nanny had a family emergency, she left him with us. We’ve been trying to get a hold of the Drakes for a week.”

Tim let his gaze move from the two back to the polar bear. It had a big, goofy smile. There was a bright red bowtie painted around its neck, which was stupid because bears didn’t wear human clothes. But its eyes – its eyes were a solid black.

Beady.

Watching.

“…they gone like this often?”

“Seems like it, why?”

“Non-verbal responses to pain like that – inaudible crying? Children this young cry out for help when they’re in pain, it’s instinctual. When they’ve learned to not do that? That’s not a good sign, Bruce.”

Oh, they were talking about his parents. Tim glanced from the bear to where Bruce was now running a hand over his mouth, looking unhappy. He wanted to pay attention, he knew this was an important conversation, but Tim found his eyes drawn back to the bear.

He didn’t trust it.

Why was it watching him?

“You’re fine Master Tim,” Alfred’s voice came floating from his right, “don’t worry about the bear.”

Damn, Tim thought as he pressed his tongue back against his teeth and kept his eyes on the shifty bear.

In the end, Tim had the surgery. He had to spend the rest of the night and the following day at the hospital, which was annoying because the hospital was boring. The only real excitement had been when he’d gotten a chance to choose his cast color (red) and when an overly cheerful man named ‘Dr. Mike’ gave Tim what was very clearly an IQ test. The questions started off small (what’s this color’s name? What number is this? What comes after it? What comes after that?) until they got progressively harder. It was still a child version though, because the one Tim had taken in high school before emancipating himself had been completely different.

He'd shot Bruce a suspicious look when the test was first introduced, but he’d just received a placid smile back. Tim decided not to sabotage it purely because he was bored (it was not because Bruce was sitting next to him, watching) and because he figured he may was well just commit to the whole ‘child genius’ thing if he was going to have to spend any type of extended time in Bruce Wayne’s presence. Watching what he said all the time was annoying.

Tim knew he’d done well on it by how excited Dr. Mike got and by the way he’d pulled Bruce out into the hallway. But other than that, there was a whole lot of nothing going on. Alfred had brought Teddy to him, so at least there was that, and Bruce kept him company.

“Tim, bud.” From where he was tapping his cast on the side of the bed bar repeatedly, Tim looked up. Bruce was watching him with a bemused expression. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

Tim shrugged. It did, but he’d had worse. “I’m bored.”

“Well, we can’t have that. Looks they’ve got the Disney channel, should we see what’s on?”

The answer was The Goofy Movie, which Tim had never seen before, so he was okay with that. It was actually well written, which was a surprise, filled with teenage angst and a father-son relationship fraught with betrayal. Max was such an ungrateful ass, Goofy was a good dad. A good dog dad. Er, cow dad.

“Hey B?” Bruce started at the nickname, looking up from his blackberry (probably answering work emails, it was a Monday after all). “Is Goofy a cow or a dog?”

Bruce’s brows furrowed then glanced up at the TV, head cocking to the side as he watched Goofy bellow out a song with a bunch of animatronic possums. “Dog, I think.”

That tracked; Goofy didn’t really look like a cow. “If Pluto’s a dog and Goofy’s a dog, why does Goofy get to own a house and drive a car and stuff, but Pluto is Mickey’s pet?”

It was a question Tim had been asking himself since he had been a child. What was the difference between the two? Where was the line drawn? Was Pluto another species? Or was he an enslaved member of Goofy’s race, perhaps even one with a disability, forced to act as a common dog while his fellows had a full life that apparently included having children and sending them to school?

Bruce opened his mouth, then closed it. Tim couldn’t help the crooked grin he gave the man, pleased with himself. Bruce huffed, “asking the hard questions, huh, chum?”

“It’s ‘cause I’m smart.”

“As a whip.”

Tim preened. Bruce’s lips twitched, clearly amused, and ruffled his hair.  They’d made it to the point where Goofy and Max had met their neighbors when there was a knock on the door. A woman stood there, hair pulled back in a modest braid and dressed in slacks and a shell sweater set. Tim clocked her immediately as a social worker.

Oh shit.

“Hi, my name is Candice.” She greeted warmly, “You’re Tim, right?”

Oh shit.

“I just wanted to ask a few questions if you were up to it?”

Bruce called CPS on his parents. Tim nodded, folding his hands together on the hospital bed table and gave Candice his best boardroom smile. “Sure. Can Bruce stay?”

“Do you want him to stay?”

“Yes, please.”

Candice nodded as she settled into the chair by the door, flipping open her notepad. “Okay Tim, I know you’re very smart, so I’m going to speak to you in a way I think you understand. But if you ever don’t understand the question, you’re allowed to ask me about it at any time. In fact, you can ask me anything you feel like, alright?”

“Okay.”

“Can you tell me how you broke your arm?”

“I was playing chase with Bruce and I fell.”

Candice leaned forward; her brown eyes locked on Tim’s face. “That must have been pretty scary. How did you fall?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t see.” Tim answered honestly.

“There was a roll in the hallway rug,” Bruce offered, “he tripped on it.”

“Mr. Wayne, it’s best if we allow Tim to answer.” The social worker said, firmly but politely. “Do you play games with Bruce a lot?”

“Uh huh.” Tim answered with a grin. The games were one of the best parts of being at the manor, just above bath time but below bed time stories. “We play chase and stuff, and Hungry Hippos, and I love that one cause Alfred is really slow at it and it’s funny.”

Candice smiled. “Do you like Alfred?”

“Yeah, lots. He’s better then my nannies,” which was 100% true, Alfred was a gift to all mankind. “He always has snacks ready when I’m hungry and he got me a Voltron nightlight even though Mother says I’m too big for those now. Do you know about Voltron?”

It turned out that Candice did and they spent a good chunk of time debating the virtues of each lion and their pilots, and which lion they liked best (Blue for Candice, Red for Tim, and Bruce – who’d been indoctrinated to the show over the last week – picked Black, because of course he did, the emo). Candice was a bit of an artist, or so she claimed, and she offered to draw a lion on his cast.

“So Tim,” she said casually as she inked it on, “do you like your nightlight? Wanna tell me about it?”

And wow, Candice was smooth because the conversation moved from the nightlight to other things Tim’s parents thought he was too big for, to which he relayed the common ones (pacifiers, his crib, diapers) to the somewhat more damning ones (asking for snacks outside snack time, waking his parents up at night, leaving his bed before nanny came), all of which Tim was careful to phrase in such a way to make them sound more nefarious and unreasonable then they already were. If Tim had actually been a two-year-old, even a smart one like he’d been the first time around, he’d have missed what she was doing completely.

“Do you like your nannies, Tim?” Candice asked as she carefully shaded in the lion – which looked freaking amazing by the way. He was happy with it. He’d agreed to get some brownie points with the woman but he’d half been afraid he’d end up with a misshapen monstrosity on his arm for six weeks. All Tim could manage was somewhat expressive looking stick figures, even when he’d been an adult.

“I liked Mrs. Sophie. She was with me for a while.”

“What about her did you like?”

“She didn’t follow The Schedule,” Tim answered, “like if I was sick she let me sleep. And she gave me hugs and ate with me at the table. Mother would be mad ‘cause she’s the help but I like it. It’s nice.”

“Do your parents eat with you?”

“Yeah, when they’re home. I eat in the corner.”

“In the corner, huh. Like at a kids table?” Tim just shrugged – let her read into that however she wanted. “Your parents are gone a lot I understand.”

“Their work is important and I’m expensive.”

“That’s a big word.” Tim sent her an annoyed look. Candice laughed. “Sorry, sorry. I know, you’re very smart.”

“I am,” Tim agreed, “you’re a good drawer.”

“Thanks, Tim. Want anything else on here?” Tim shook his head. Candice capped her pen and sat back down in the chair. “Do you miss your parents when they go?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Tim shrugged again as he played with Teddy’s ears, biting back his initial answer of ‘because they’re raging narcissists.’ “I like your bear.”

“Thanks, he has a lot of clothes.” Tim offered, then scowled. “I’m too big for him, but I don’t care. Mother had nanny put him in the trash.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Tim. He seems like a good bear.” Candice reached out, stroking Teddy’s paw. “He’s very soft. Did you tell your mom you wanted to keep him?” Tim nodded. “What did your mom say when you told her that?”

“Timothy Jackson Drake,” Tim drawled, imitating the crack-whip of Mother’s Bristol accent when she was angry, “you are not a baby, stop acting like one.”

“Wow, how’d you feel when she said that?”

Pissed off.

“Mad.”

“Do you get mad at your Mom and Dad a lot?” Tim made a so-so motion with his hand. Candice’s eyes brows jolted clear up to her hairline, before she jotted something down on her notepad. Tim paused, not sure about what he just did that brought about that reaction but aware that he’d done something. “Do they get mad at you a lot?”

An “Oh, yeah, tons,” slipped out before he could catch himself. In truth, Jack and Janet weren’t around enough to be mad at Tim, but that hadn’t been true in the other life. In that one, they were constantly disappointed in him.

“What happens when they get mad?”

“I have to go to my room and be quiet.”

“For a time out? How long do you stay in your room?” Another shrug. “Do they ever hit you when they’re mad? Or grab you really hard?”

Tim hesitated. Saying yes would launch an investigation for sure, if the fact that his parents had been unreachable for nine days hadn’t already. But they didn’t hit him, not really. But there had been times…a memory flared to life, fuzzy around the edges from the amount of time passed but still cemented. He’d been ten and it was one of the only times Tim had ever argued with his mother. He wanted to join the computer club at school, but he only had space for one elective and Janet wanted him to take debate.

To this day, Tim don’t know what about it made him so angry. Maybe it was because she hadn’t shown any interest in him outside what she wanted from him, maybe it was the way she dismissed him so easily. But it’d evolved into a shouting match in the garage (why they were in the garage, Tim couldn’t remember) and she’d reached out, grabbing his face with both hands. Her nails had dug in as she shook him.

It wasn’t even all the hard, but he could still remember the fury on her face, the way her eyes blazed, the disgust in her voice when she’d spit out ‘Sometimes I really can’t stand you.’ 

It wasn’t a hit, not really, not like what Jason had grown up with. But she’d shocked the hell out of him. There was some part of him that never thought that would happen – that it could happen. No matter what his history had been like with her, ten-year-old Timmy Drake had never thought his mother would actually put her hands on him. He had felt…betrayed.

Which was stupid, because this was his mother he was talking about.

“Tim?”

Tim looked up. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring, unmoving, at the blanket.

“I...not like that.” He croaked out and Candice’s eyes sharpened, their tawny brown still soft but…acute. Tim licked his lips nervously and – haltingly – told a slightly tweaked version of the story. He kept his eyes on the woman the whole time, studying her. He didn’t know what he was looking for; some sign that he was overreacting, validation that he wasn’t.

Fuck, Tim didn’t know.

Did anyone ever really get over the things their parents did to them?

But Candice’s face was nothing but sympathetic, to the point that Tim couldn’t see anything else but genuine care there. He swallowed; throat suddenly thick. A plastic cup nudged against his arm and Tim glanced over to see a stone-faced Bruce.

“Thank you.” He mumbled, taking it with his good hand and taking a sip. He let it rest in his lap, staring into the depths of it. “They don’t like me,” he confessed, low and quiet. They never had, no matter how hard Tim had tried. He handed the cup back to Bruce and rolled over onto his side, back to the woman. “I don’t wanna talk more.”

“Okay, Tim.” Candice said softly, “that’s okay. I’ll come visit you again soon, alright?”

Tim ignored her, feeling raw. That…hadn’t gone the way he’d thought it was. Was it too young to get a therapist? Shit he missed his, Cathy. It’d taken years of ‘dating around’ to find her, Tim wasn’t looking forward to repeating the experience. A hand carded through his hair and when Tim looked up, it was to Bruce standing over him, brows furrowed so deeply you could fit a coin between them and it’d disappear. “Can I give you a hug, chum?”

God, please.

He scrambled upwards, arms reaching up. Bruce practically swept him out of the bed and into his arms. He was cuddled close as they began to sway from side to side. “You were so brave, Tim. I’m so proud of you.”

And that was it, folks. That was the very edge of what he had left to give. Tim let out a wounded noise, pressing his head against Bruce’s shoulder, and burst into tears.

Later, curled up together in the armchair that Bruce had claimed as his own, the Disney channel playing softly in the background, Tim managed to pull himself together enough to go for the kill.

“B?” A soft hum of attention, “I wish you were my daddy.”

The hand in his hair slid down to cradle his nape, the move utterly possessive.

Chapter Text

So, small things Tim had learned about his hospital room in the three days he’d been there:

1. The TV remote was attached to the bed, which meant that Tim could swing it around like a sling. Alfred did not like when he did this because one time Tim knocked over his apple juice, but Bruce usually ignored it if he was around.
2. His window had a shitty view of another wing of the hospital, predominately featuring the window of the room across his own. And even though they were pretty far away, this made him paranoid enough to keep the blinds drawn all the time.
3. The room was cool throughout the entire day and downright cold in the evening, but if Nurse Ellen was working she would bring him blankets from the dryer. Tim could also get extra pairs of hospital socks, which were oddly comfortable and could be put on his hands like the gloves. As an added bonus, the grippy things on them let him still pick stuff up.
4. If he stood in his bathroom, there was a vent up top that let him hear everything that was going on in the hallway.

Tim was shamelessly taking advantage of this fact under the guise of using the restroom. Alfred and Bruce had both stepped out into the hallway to talk to Candice and – well, they were obviously talking about him. It only made sense that Tim would get to listen in. Tim stood balanced on the toilet seat (there was no lid), hand resting on the sink for extra stability.

“It’s not that easy, Mr. Wayne,” Candice was saying, sounding perfectly patient and polite, “you can’t just decide to take Tim home with you.”

“But Tim has been removed from his parents’ care, correct?”  

“He has. The case is still open and under investigation, but yes. Given that the Drakes have been completely unreachable and out of the country for nearly five months –”

“Child abandonment is sixth months of no contact in New Jersey.” Bruce interrupted, voice stern, and Tim could almost see the way he would be standing – arms crossed, face imperious and unimpressed; the classic Bruce Wayne ‘I Do Not Approve’ stance.

“I am aware.” Candice said smoothly but icy – and Tim frowned, biting his lip. Back it off, B, he thought, maybe telling the CPS worker the child laws isn’t the best way to endear yourself to her. “As I was saying, given the fact that the Drakes have been unreachable and have made no attempt to get contact with their child, nor did they assign anyone medical guardianship of their son is concerning. As is the fact that they had no plans set in place to care for him if his main caretaker experienced the type of emergency Mrs. Collins did. So yes, Tim is being removed from their care but that doesn’t mean he is just going to be released to yours.”

Tim gaped, because what, then promptly lost his balance. His foot slid from the seat and into the toilet, icy water soaking through his sock. Tim hastily climbed out, hopping on one foot as water dripped liberally from the sock.

“I have more than adequate resources to care for a child,” Bruce argued smoothly, “I have built-in childcare in the form of Alfred, who raised myself after my parents passed. I am also more than prepared to deal with a child of Tim’s intelligence. I can arrange for a child psychologist, a therapist, tutors if that’s what required to keep him engaged. My home is a similar environment to what Tim is used to. Hell, we live next door.”

“All valid points that will count in your favor, Mr. Wayne, if you were a certified foster parent.”

Silence reigned on the other side. From where he was hopping, pulling the wet sock off his foot, Tim froze. Because oh my god, of course. Bruce hadn’t become a foster parent until freaking Dick! He slapped his hand to his forehead, only to sputter when the wet sock he was holding went with it, smacking across his face.

“I see.” Tim froze from where he was frantically wiping at his face. “And what do I need to become certified?”

“Well, you fill out an application with the state to start off with. Then a background check, a drug test, then at least three letters of recommendation.”

“I can get that to you by end of day.” Bless Bruce, he was in pure business mode. Tim could already visualize him on his phone, typing away.

“That may be so, Mr. Wayne, but there’s more to it than that. You have to take a class – I believe its nine sessions – then do a home visit to ensure your home is up to standards.” Candice continued. “The whole process can take a month or two at the quickest and I can tell you already that the class for this month is already filled.”

“That’s unacceptable.” Bruce said, clipped. “I am more than willing to take Tim in, relieving an already stressed and burdened system and keeping it from using up a spot that could go to a child who doesn’t have the resources available to them that Tim has.”

“I understand your frustrations, Mr. Wayne, but I can’t just give Tim to you. There is a system in place and it’s there for a reason.” And to her credit, Candice did sound sorry. “And that’s to protect the child.”

“Ms. Rodriguz, you’ll forgive me if I don’t agree with taking a Bristol raised child, who has only ever experienced the kind of life that entails, and putting him in the system is the best way to keep him safe.” Bruce said sharply. “Who’s your department head? Stacey Hawthorne?”

“Mr. Wayne –” But the click of shoes moving away on tile caused her trail off. There was a pause, then a frustrated sigh. “I want to be so mad at the rich white male privilege but…”

“It’s probably what is best for Tim.” A third voice Tim hadn’t realized was there answered.

Who the hell was that? Another woman, maybe another social worker? The door to the bathroom opened and Tim turned, startled, to find Alfred standing there, brow raised. Tim glanced up at the man, soaked sock in one hand. He held it up. “My sock fell in toilet.”

Alfred’s brow raised as he reached down, pulling Tim up and onto his hip. “Let’s leave that here, then. However did that happen?”

Tim shrugged, leaning against the man. “Dunno, just happened.”

“I see.” He was set back down on to his bed, before Alfred gestured towards the row of socks waiting on a nearby counter. Tim had been asking the nurses for new ones every time they came in. He liked the socks, okay? They were fuzzy and warm, it’d be good to have a few at home. And in Tim’s experience, the grip began to fall off and they lost their softness after a few washes. “You are in luck that you have gathered quite the collection.”

“I want a green pair,” Tim said with a nod, “and one of the yellow ones.”

“Master Tim,” Alfred mused, “I could just bring you gloves if you’re that cold.”

“Nah,” Tim said as he let the man maneuver him to and fro, the butler pulling on the new socks on as Tim worked the yellow pair over his hands, “Alfred, look.” He made his hands open and close, like a beak. “They’re ducks.”

“So they are, Master Tim.”

Not to sound too much like the complete and utter son of the bourgeoisie he was, but Tim couldn’t believe he was going into care. He felt deeply betrayed by Candice and he refused to look at the woman, clinging to Bruce.

“Can’t I just go home with you?” Tim asked again, desperate this time, his mind lit with the thought of bed bugs and other petrifying horrors that could be waiting for him. “I promise I’ll be really good.”

From where was trying (unsuccessfully) to pry Tim’s arms off from around his neck, Bruce let out a quiet breath, the air brushing against his ear.  “Tim,” Bruce said regretfully, “can you look at me, bud?” Tim shook his head, tightening his grip around the man’s neck. The man sighed again, his hand resting against Tim’s neck and shoulders. “Sweetheart, this isn’t because you’ve been bad.”

“Then why?” He asked miserably, feeling a bit like a heel. He knew why, but a part of Tim had honestly just thought that Bruce would be able to magic money it away. He was feeling very put out by it all. He hadn’t even been able to grab his laptop, Candice and Alfred had gone to his home to pack a bag of essentials. What did they even know? His laptop was an essential, damn’t!

“Look, Tim – no, look at me please.” Bruce insisted, shifting Tim around until he could see his face. “You have to go with Ms. Candice because it’s the law. Do you understand what that means?” Tim pursed his lips, but nodded. “Of course you do, you’re such a smart boy.”

It was blatant appeasement, but Tim’s ego didn’t seem to care and he nodded again in agreement. 

“And I promise it won’t be for long. As soon as I can come get you, I will.” Bruce continued, “and Ms. Candice said I can come visit you for your birthday. That’s just two weeks away.”

He perked up somewhat, uncurling. “I can still have my party?”

Bruce looked relieved. “You bet bud, noon on the 19^th. I promised, didn’t I?”

Tim let out a gusty sigh. “Fine,” he agreed, “but I don’t like it.”

Bruce’s lips twitched in amusement, which Tim did not appreciate. Feeling disgruntled with the man, Tim turned to Candice, who had been watching the exchange with a kind look on her face, Tim’s puppy themed backpack thrown over one shoulder and his blue duffel bag over the other. He reached out for her, letting her take him.

He glared at Bruce imperiously from his new mode of transport. “Alfred, don’t let him be late.”

“I will not, Master Tim.” The butler agreed warmly. He gave the duo a slow, sad wave as Candice started to walk away, staring at them from over her shoulder and trying not to tear up. Candice did her best to soothe him as she strapped him into the car seat and started the car.

“Don’t worry, Timmy, you’re going to like the Hughes. Mrs. Hughes is a very kind woman, she’s been with us for years. She’s very friendly and she’s a wonderful baker. And her son, Noah, lives with her. He makes a yummy hamburger, do you like burgers, Tim?”

From where he sat in the back, Teddy clutched close and throwing an absolute fit in his mind at the twist his latest machinations had taken him, Tim took the highroad and ignored her.

The Hughes lived in the left side of a brownstone duplex, shabby but not terribly rundown. It was filled with signs of children; an amorphous pile of shoes in all sizes greeted them at the door, four coat racks at various levels were mounted on the wall, hung with so many coats it extended far out into the tiny entryway. To the left he could make out a dated kitchen with two highchairs lined up against a wall and two booster seats strapped to the kitchen chairs. The fridge front was covered with drawings of various skills and schedules.

To the right was the living room. A rectangular room that was flanked on three sides by couches and one lazy chair, with the last wall lined from end to end with cubbies filled various toys and games. It was covered in faded floral wallpaper, the carpet a dark burgundy that was probably in style in the seventies. There was a staggering amount of Barbie dolls pilled around one of the cubbies, which had two cubicles that seemed to have been converted and stocked with Barbie furniture. Two girls of varying ages sat in front of it, neither looking up as Candice entered and set him down.

Parked in front of a TV playing Sesame Street was a little girl, naked from the waist down, sitting on a portable potty. It seemed as if she’d been there for quite some time, bopping along with Count Dracula as he sang about counting. She turned to look at them, her short blond hair pulled into two antennas on either side of her head. The toddler waved a – Tim gagged – suspiciously shinny and wet covered hand at them. Was that pee? Jesus, it was probably pee.

Candice gave him a ‘go get ‘em, champ’ type of push forward and with a mounting dread Tim realized she wanted him to go make friends. Please God, Tim thought frantically as the girl stood and toddled towards him, mercy.

He scrambled away and up onto one of the couches, ignoring the startled ‘huh’ from the boy sitting there, and all but shoved himself between the boy and the couch. When he peaked over the boy’s shoulder, it was to find the toddler standing there, leaning heavily on the boy’s knee and staring at him with inquisitive grey eyes.

“Bear?” She peeped up, head cocking to side adorably, the monster, “I see bear?”

“No, thank you.” Tim said politely, yanking Teddy to safety behind the boy’s bulk.

The girl’s brows furrowed thunderously, lips pursing in a fierce frown. “I wanna see bear, please.”

Points for manners, but also hell no.

“No, thank you.” Tim repeated firmly. Firmness was important with children, right?

The girl puffed up and he braced himself for the coming storm, eyes closed in a wince – when a squeak caught him off guard. Tim opened his eyes cautiously to see the boy passing a stuffed lion to the girl. She examined it closely, turning it around in her hands, before giving it a firm squeeze. The squeak repeated. Her face blossomed, so bright and pure in its happiness that it gave Tim whiplash.

“Cat,” she said with all the incorrect confidence that a baby her age had.

“That’s right, Lizzie.” The boy said, patting her head. The girl, Lizzie, wandered back to the TV and was enraptured within moments, still utterly bare from the belt down. From his safe spot, Tim observed this masterful handling.

“Like a doggy,” he muttered to himself, watching as Lizzie’s head began to nod to the music again, like the world’s most petite heavy metal fan. In front of him, the boy let out a surprised laugh. Blue eyes turned to look at him, amused.

“Not up for making friends, squirt?”

Tim scoffed. “She’s sticky. And don’t call me squirt.”

“Always.” The boy agreed and Tim let out a squawk of disagreement as he shifted over to the other side of the couch, leaving him exposed. “And you sure look like a squirt, squirt.”

He gave the boy the stink eye. “I don’t like nicknames. I’m Tim, Timothy Jackson Drake.” He held his bear up. “This is Teddy.”

He offered his hand. The boy eyed it, if possible looking even more amused, before taking it and giving it a serious shake. “Rory Regan.”

Rory looked like he was around nine or ten, still small and compact in that way that all pre-pubescent children were, and yet still his hand was unfairly large compared to Tim’s own, hinting at what was coming in just a few years. He had straight red-brown hair cut in that floppy hair cut that all little boys seemed to have, a knitted Superman themed kippah resting on top. He wore a Gotham Knights hoodie, well-worn and clearly meant for an adult, and had a band aid stuck across one cheek.

“You coming to stay with us then, Tim?”

Tim nodded sourly, keeping one eye on the dancing toddler. “Just until my dad can come get me.” It wasn’t until something acutely, profoundly sad crossed Rory’s face did Tim think about how that must sound to a foster kid. He fumbled, suddenly taken with a need to defend Bruce. “No, he is. He promised he was going to come and get me.”

If anything, the somber look in Rory’s eyes grew even more but he gave Tim a big smile, hands held up placating. “I believe you, Timmy. Say, how old are you?”

He rolled his eyes, letting out a disgusted sound. “I’m almost three.”

He was so tired of this –

“You’re very smart, huh?”

 – and there it was. Some of the exasperation he was feeling must have shown on his face because Rory smiled again, this one far more genuine. “Bet you get that a lot, huh? Hey, you want to go see your bed? There’s only one open, so I know where Mrs. H. is going to put you. Yeah, okay, cool. Can I pick you up?”

Tim eyed Rory, taking in his small statue, but nodded his approval because asking before touching should always be encouraged. To his surprise, the boy lifted him with absolutely no issue. In fact, he held Tim so securely, so easily, that it left him blinking at him owlishly. Rory’s grin could only be described as shit-eating. He gave Tim a wink. “I’m stronger than I look.”

Tim would say so, eyeing the deceptively narrow shoulders. “If you drop me, I’m gonna be mad.”

“Valid.” Rory acknowledged he took him upstairs. Candice was talking with an elderly woman who could only be Mrs. Hughes and a young man who appeared to be in his thirties, sitting together at the kitchen table. She gave Tim a wave as they passed by, that Tim returned distractedly. His eyes were still locked on the man who must be the son, Noah. Or more accurately, the way the man was staring at the two of them.

Going to have to watch that, Tim thought, unsure what was pinging his instincts but not really caring. He hadn’t survived as long as he had by ignoring gut feelings that had been honed and sharpened by nearly twenty-five years in the field.

The hallway the stairs lead to was narrow. There was a bathroom that was loaded to the brim with various implements to the direct left and a room next door to it that had the door open. Tim could see two pairs of bunk beds shoved inside, all four equipped with removable bed rails.

“This is our room,” Rory said as he nudged a door open with his foot, “right next door is Mr. H.’s, that’s Mrs. H.’s son. Her room is downstairs by the kitchen,” Rory explained, “don’t go into those rooms, okay?”

Tim nodded, fighting to keep the distaste from his face as he took in his new room. It wasn’t dirty, but there was as a scent to it, a mix of body odor and mustiness. Like the other room, there was a pair of bunk beds in here, though only one had bed rails. In between the bed was a dresser with four drawers, each labeled with a name on it in masking tape. The bottom had ‘Tim D.’ scribbled on it in slanted writing.

“When we get your bag, I’ll help you unpack. Your clothes go in here, see how it’s got your name on it?” Rory explained as he sat him down, kneeling and pointing to Tim’s drawer. “Make sure you don’t go in the other drawers, okay? The older boys won’t like it.”

“God damn straight we don’t.” A voice barked and Tim jumped, pressing closer to Rory as he squeezed his bear close. A teen with red hair appeared on the top bunk of the adjacent bunk bed, hard eyes glaring down at them. “Touch my shit and we’ll have problems, runt.”

“Chill, Andy.” Rory said, voice placating, “he’s not gonna. And he’s just a baby, be nice.”

Andy’s eyes narrowed. “You telling me what to do, Rory?”

Tim’s eyes darted from Rory to the teenager, nervous. There wasn’t a whole lot he could do to defend either one of them, but he could and would run to the hallway and scream for Candice if anything happened. Jason never talked about his own short stunt in foster care, but he didn’t have to. Tim had worked in Gotham long enough to know what dangers lurked there. He refused to become a statistic.

“Nah, man. Kid just got in the system, he’s like shiny new and he’s real little. I’ll keep an eye on him, I promise.” Andy’s nose flared and then he flopped back on his bed and out of sight. A hand gently patted his own – Tim hadn’t realized he’d latched onto Rory’s hoodie sleeve in a death grip. “That’s your bed, mine’s right above it. You can just poke at the mattress or call out if you need me.”

Tim nodded, not taking his eyes off where the (possibly hostile) teenager had disappeared. Rory clicked his tongue and then took Tim by the hand, leading him out of the room. He picked Tim back up before the stairs (which was thoughtful, but he could do stairs just fine. Even if sometimes he was still working on alternating his steps and it took a minute or two) and carried him down. They returned to the living room and Rory sat down again, Tim next to him.

“Hey.” Rory said quietly and Tim looked up from where was staring, unseeingly at the carpet, mind running through contingencies. “You okay?”

“Is he dangerous?” He asked as he searched the brunet’s face, watching closely.

Rory’s lips pursed, brows lowering. “…really smart, huh?”

“Yeah, I know.” Tim agreed sharply, “is he?”

“Not really,” Rory said slowly, “Andy’s been through a lot, just like Marcus. He’s at work, you’ll meet him later. Just…stay out of their way.”

Which meant Andy could be, and so could this Marcus. Wonderful, this was going swimmingly. Rory threw an arm around him, pulling him close. Tim allowed it, fiddling with Teddy. The hand on his arm squeezed. 

“It’ll be okay, just stay by me.”

Tim nodded, eyes drifting towards the kitchen.

Candice left after introducing him to Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Hughes in a typical, by-the-book warm handshake. She left him with her card, which Tim vowed to keep in his pocket at all times. If he’d thought it do any good, he’d play up the Andy angle, protest and play at being afraid, but Tim knew there were worse places he could have ended up. Gotham’s CPS never had enough space for the children that needed it and if nothing else, this place was clean (Tim still checked his mattress seams for bed bug poop though). Rory was the oldest kid in the house outside of Marcus – a hollow eyed, dusky skinned teenager, who wore the weight of his circumstances in the hunch of his shoulders – and the perpetually surly Andy.

Seriously, the teen managed to look pissed even as he was eating spaghetti-o’s.

The other four kids were girls, all under the age of seven if Tim had to guess. Tim and Lizzie were the only ones young enough to need the high chairs, while the girls he’d seen playing with the Barbies, Naveh and Danita, used the booster chairs. The other girl was Olivia, who everyone called Ollie, and who rounded out the household to an even ten.

As advised, Tim kept close to Rory’s side after dinner, sitting next to him as they watched the Hunchback of Notre Dame and then when they were taken up to the bath. Mrs. H. had insisted on helping them and Tim threw his first ever unprompted and unplanned tantrum while the woman was trying to tape on the garbage bag over his cast.

“No!” He shrieked, batting away the woman’s hands. “I won’t, they’re girls!”

Mrs. Hughes let out a mighty sigh, gesturing towards where Lizzie and Danita were watching from the tub, wide-eyed and intrigued, foam bath letters in their hands. “Look, Timmy. Can’t you see how much fun the girls are having? I’ll even let you pick out a bath color, hm?”

She rattled the plastic container of bath pellets as if that could be some kind of enticement. Tim glared at her, chest expanding as he prepared to let out a scathing and heartfelt dressing down on the woman, because Tim may be two, but he would never, ever take a communal bath.

“How about I give one tomorrow morning, Mrs. H.” Rory interrupted quickly. “I think he’s shy.”

Shy? Since when were the ideas such as consent and personal privacy held in such disregard to be cheapened in such a way? He glared at Rory, but the boy only grinned at him, looking incredibly entertained.

“Now, Rory…”

“Come on Mrs. H., I promise before breakfast. You know he’ll get up way early, so it isn’t like we’ll get in the way of everyone getting ready for school.” Rory wheedled, “it’s his first night and he’s probably scared.”

“Well alright,” Mrs. Hughes said, hands finally retreating, “but first thing, Rory, just as you said.”

Tim yanked his pants up with a glare, storming past the woman (which ended up being more like squeezing past her given the tiny space) and holding his hands up to Rory, his arms jerking and mechanical with his anger. Rory laughed, lifting him up.

“Demanding little guy, aren’t you?” He said as they made their way back to their room.

“It’s not funny.”

“Dude, it really is.” Rory assured as he sat him down, “guess you really are just a baby.”

Tim spun from where he’d been digging out his pajamas to gape him. Rory just threw his pajama shirt at his face. Grumbling Tim changed, ignoring how the boy hovered close by. Tim hadn’t needed help with his clothes since he’d come back, thank you very much. Of course, the moment he thought that his arm got caught in the space between his sleeve and the armpit section. He grunted, squirming to try and get it through. He hadn’t realized he had been spinning in place until Rory stopped him, tugging the shirt down.

Tim ignored him, embarrassed, and climbed into bed. He turned his back on the boy, curling into a ball and tugging Teddy close. He missed the old nursery, hell he even missed his room back at the Drake Manor.

…he missed Bruce and Alfred. He hated it here already and it’d only been ten hours. How was he supposed to be here for months and months and months? Tim let out a sniffle. A weight sat down on the bed next to him, a hand resting over his back, rubbing gently.

“Jesus Christ, is he going to cry?” Andy bit out, “cause I swear to God –”

“Andy.” The name was said blandly, the voice deep and one Tim had rarely heard throughout the night.

“…sorry, Marc.” Was the quiet response that had Tim immediately reassigning the threat level of his new roommates.

“It’s okay, Tim,” Rory soothed, “it’ll be better. If you get scared, I’m just right above you.”

At Tim’s continued silence he sighed, patting him once before the weight was gone, the bed rocking as he climbed up top. Mrs. H. stuck her head into the room, glancing at all of them. “Reading lights on, I’m turning the overhead off. All lights off by ten, you hear?”

The roomed dimmed, lit only by the clamp lights attached to each bunk bed’s headboard. Tim’s was off and he curled closer to Teddy. It was only eight o’clock but Tim was tried, the events of the day catching up at him. Still he forced himself to stay awake, reciting the periodic table in his head. Despite Mrs. Hughes’ warning and the enforced lights out rule, the rest of boys breathing didn’t fall into a real sleep until about an hour later.

Soundlessly, Tim slipped from the bed. The door to the hallway was kept cracked opened and though the light was on, it was empty. He made his way into the darkened downstairs, one hand clinging tightly to stair banister. It took him far longer than he would like, Tim pausing every time a stair creaked to listen and see if it’d brought any attention, but eventually he reached the bottom.

With far more effort than he’d wanted to admit, he managed to get a chair over to the counter, climbing on it. He opened the drawer he’d seen the utensils stored in, the child lock only keeping him at bay for a few seconds, and pulled out a steak knife. He held it carefully away from him as Tim erased all evidence of his presence in the kitchen. He slid back into his room, knife held pointed down towards the carpet and motions careful.

Knife safety had been drilled into him by Bruce from nearly day one of training, and despite how Tim liked to bluster; he knew he was small and clumsy. He eased the door back to the original position it’d been in before he left, turned, and froze. Marcus was sitting up in the bed, staring at him.

The teenager’s eyes flickered from Tim’s face to the knife in his hand. For a long moment Tim stood, waiting to see how this was about to go. But when the silence grew – when Marcus did nothing but watch – Tim cautiously made his way back to his bed. He climbed onto it, an act which made him deeply uncomfortable because he had to turn his back on the teenager, and Tim’s hackles didn’t smooth even when he was facing him again.

He began to put the knife under his pillow but froze when Marcus shook his head. The boy reached up, sliding his fingers between the slats on the bed above him. Tim’s eyes narrowed but slowly reached up, tucking the knife there. Marcus nodded, then turned his back to Tim and seemingly went back to sleep.

Tim stared at him for a long moment, before running a hand through his hair, huffing to himself. He’s still a kid, Tim, he admonished himself, no matter how much bigger than you he is. Just a kid or he wouldn’t still be here.

Why had he been so quick to type cast the other boy before doing any research? Experience told him that even the most violent men had lines they wouldn’t cross, one of the most common being children. Was it an unconscious bias? Fear borne from what he knew about the foster care system? Was he that afraid? He was, he could admit, everything was an unknown and out of control, which were two things Tim hated experiencing the most. Frustrated with himself, Tim pulled Teddy close and went sleep.

Morning found himself bathed just as promised and while Tim was still immensely unhappy about it and uncomfortable with the bag on his arm, he could admit that he needed one. And Rory was a better presence than Mrs. H. The bath was a brilliant blue, which Tim enjoyed, and then a nice purple when he wheedled a red tablet out of Rory. He may not be a natural born artist like Damian, but Tim did know his color theory.

Afterwards they engaged in a loud and thoroughly overwhelming breakfast, and then almost all the children in the house went to school. It left just Tim with Lizzie. Tim was carefully to keep at least ten feet between himself and the other, no matter how hard she tried to engage him. He’d taken to wearing Teddy in his backpack and the backpack on at all times, for safety reasons. If she couldn’t see the bear, she didn’t want the bear.

Still, she was annoyingly persistent.

Lizzie made another attempt to reach him, chasing him into the kitchen, where Tim was quick to use Mrs. Hughes as a barrier. “Tim,” she chided, a weathered hand coming to rest on his head, “she just wants to be your friend.”

“Too bad.” Tim said with a grunt, slipping around the woman’s front and back again as Lizzie gave chase, laughing hysterically the whole time. Why wasn’t she getting tired of this? She never caught him! Tim darted back into the living room, the one-year-old on his heels. Something hot was bubbling in his chest as he jumped up on the couch and ran the length of it – the second couch laid so close to it he could just step over the arm and onto it – and Lizzie followed.

They’d made another lap around the two rooms when it burst. He swung around on Lizzie, furious. “Leave me alone!” 

The girl reeled back, shocked, and burst into tears. Mrs. H. was instantly there, picking her up. “Tim! That wasn’t very nice, she just wanted to play with you.”

“I didn’t want to.” Tim spat back. “I want her to leave me alone.”

A heavy sigh. “Its okay Lizzie, Tim’s just a bit overwhelmed right now. How about you help me with dinner and we give him some alone time, okay? Tim, please go watch TV.”

Tim stomped back to the living room, sitting mulishly on the sofa as PBS played. Okay, so maybe yelling at the actual baby was a bit much but Tim just wanted her to stop trying to touch him! And talk to him. And play with him. And sleep near him. And – he’d never liked little children, not even when he’d been one.

Maybe Mrs. Hughes had a point about being overwhelmed.

Sighing and thinking he should probably be the bigger person given he was actually an adult, Tim went back into the kitchen. “Um,” he started, fiddling with the straps of his backpack, “I’m sorry I yelled.”

“You hear that, Lizzie?” Mrs. H. said with a smile in her voice, “Timmy’s sorry. Thank you for your apology, Tim. Do you want to keep watching TV or help me with dinner?”

“TV, please.”

“Okay.” Mrs. Hughes said, watching him. “You know Timmy, you can put your bag down. You don’t have to keep it with you.”

“No thank you.”

She looked sad at that, but tough luck. Besides Teddy, Tim kept a few other important things in there, like a change of clothes, Candice’s phone number, and the knife; a dog-themed bug out bag.

The week went on like that; a hectic morning filled with eight children of various ages getting ready for their day, a long (never-ending, eternal, endless) few hours of trying to keep Lizzie away from him, then hanging out with Rory when he came back from school. Tim was always the first boy to go to bed and while the teenage boys weren’t often in the room when he did, Rory always joined him, working on his homework in bed.

By the time Candice came that Friday to check how he was settling in, Tim thought he’d had a fairly good grasp on the dynamics of the house. Marcus was the oldest boy at seventeen and though he rarely spoke, his hierarchy in the household was one of authority. A look from him could have Andy tripping on his words and even the younger children gave him a wide berth. Despite this, he never did anyone any harm. He went to school, went to work, and went to visit his father in jail on Thursdays after school.

Andy was, and continued to be, a disagreeable little shit, something that Mrs. Hughes seemed to take with an astonishing amount of grace and Mr. Hughes ignored completely. He was also a budding kleptomaniac, who took unimportant and important things at random. Tim found himself begrudgingly giving the boy some allowance after he’d caught him changing one day and saw the patchwork of burns and belt scars on his back.

The girls were wild and uncontrollable as all little kids were, ranging in age from one and seven, and all bore their own tragic markers of how they’d come to be here. Danita didn’t speak despite being four, and she flinched at every loud noise and sudden movement. Naveh spent the majority of her time in Mrs. Hughes arms and the wild eyed look she got when the woman was out of sight screamed an attachment disorder. Ollie was the oldest and dressed with every inch of skin covered that she could, and had a shrewd awareness of Mr. Hughes whenever he was in the room. Lizzie was the most well-adjusted of the lot, though she had took a small pharmacy of drugs three times of a day.

Mrs. Hughes was a woman who thrived in chaos, that or she had a deep seated hole in her life she was trying to fill with children. Her son, Noah, was out of the house from nine to noon for his part time job. When home he was usually found in the lazy boy chair, ignoring the pandemonium around him.

Rory was ten-years-old and wore his easy going and submissive attitude as a shield. He was quick to placate and bow out of any conflict, even if it meant accepting blame for something that he didn’t do. Andy was the one who took advantage of this the most and more than once Tim had seen Rory getting chewed out by one of the Hughes over something he knew the boy hadn’t done. Just for that, Tim took the time each bathroom break to use Andy’s toothbrush to clean the grout in the bathroom. His first thought had been the toilet, but communicable diseases were a thing and Tim wasn’t that cruel. He wanted the jerk to have a mouth full of grime, not carry something with him for life.

Rory was also somewhat religious; something that Tim became aware of when he found the boy painstakingly making a Hebrew workbook for himself. He wore his kippah from the moment he woke until he went to sleep and said prayers quietly to himself in the morning and night. Tim had never learned Hebrew, but he recognized the language. He also noticed that Rory avoided some foods but not others, which seemed to imply some sort of practice there, though he couldn’t have possibly been kosher with Mrs. H. making all the food.

A few innocent questions (what do you have on your head? What’s Jewish? Do you go to church?) revealed that he’d been raised by his grandfather who was deeply religious and that Rory was trying to honor him by continuing his practices on his own.

He was a very kind boy, who always wore that same Gotham Knights hoodie, even to bed, and never seemed to wash it. He found validation (or perhaps a sense of control) in caretaking and went out of his way to look out for Tim and the other little kids. He wondered if Rory had a little sibling somewhere in the system. He was…nice. He would even say that Rory was his friend. His first real friend, at least this time around. Tim had gotten used to having the boy’s steady and unassuming presence by his side. Rory often was the only spot of quiet in the busy house and Tim, a child raised in virtual isolation, craved it. He supposed he’d come to feel a sense of security around him.

Which was why when it went south it rattled him so badly.

He and Rory were reading together on Tim’s bed (Corduroy and The Hobbit respectively) when Noah Hughes busted in, the man’s face beat red. Rory was off the bed in a heartbeat, his body blocking Tim from sight.

“Something wrong, Mr. Hughes?”

“Don’t you back talk me, Rory,” Noah snarled out and Tim’s eyes darted up to the backpack, thinking of the knife, and completely taken aback by the normally apathetic man’s anger. “I know you took it.”

“Took what –”

“My money, you stupid kike!” From where he was inching towards the side of the bed, Tim’s eyes snapped up to stare at the man. “Andy saw you take it.”

“Mr. Hughes, I swear I didn’t. I would never –”

“Bullshit, I know what your kind is like!”

“Noah!” A voice snapped from the doorway. Mrs. Hughes standing there with her hands on her hips. “What on earth is that language?”

“Stay out of this, Ma.” Mr. Hughes said, voice hard. “Go bake something.”

“Well!” Mrs. Hughes exclaimed, “I never!”

And then she left them with him.

Tim stared at the empty door in shock. What the fuck was this? Was the kindly grandma thing an act? What was wrong with her? Mr. Hughes was advancing on Rory, spitting out all of kind foul things, and Tim made for his bag only for Rory to kick it away with his foot, shifting again to cover Tim from view.

“What’s going on?” A flat voice asked, no inflection in it. The room stilled. Marcus stood in the doorway, still in his McDonald’s uniform. He took a step into the room, eyes never leaving Noah Hughes. The big teenager circled Mr. Hughes until he was standing between Rory and the man, body squared up. The moment he was cut from the line of sight, Rory deflated, a hand reaching back blindly for Tim. Tim caught it, holding on tight.

“This doesn’t concern you, Marcus.”

“That so? ‘s my room.”

“In my house.”

“Your mother’s house.” Marcus corrected without missing a beat and Tim goggled at the other boy, impressed. “And you know Mrs. H. don’t like yelling.”

Mr. Hughes visibly ground his teeth together, muscles on his jaw throbbing with the motion. “He stole from me.”

“How much?” Marcus asked, tone still flat.

“Twenty-five dollars.”

Marcus let out a ‘tch,’ digging out his wallet. He pulled out a twenty and a five, thrusting it against Mr. H.’s chest. “All fixed, yeah?”

Mr. Hughes fingers closed and opened repeatedly by his side, before he snatched the money and stormed out the room. Marcus shook his head, grabbing a pair of sweats from his bed and his shower caddy. He turned to them, head cocking to the side as he took them in.

“You good?”

“Yeah, thanks Marc.” Rory said quietly. The teen left and Rory sat weakily on the bed. “How about you Tim, you okay?”

“What was that?” Tim asked, voice just as low.

Rory winced but shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll just stay out of his way until he calms down.” Tim stared at the boy. “Don’t Tim, it’ll just make it worse.” He ran shaking hands over his face. “And Tim, don’t go for the knife again.”

Tim jerked back, shocked. He stared at the other boy, wide-eyed and blindsided.

“…you know about the knife?” He asked, voice small.

Rory’s hands dropped for his face, giving him a flat look. “Look you’re like – stupid smart – but you’re two, Tim. You’re not that sneaky.”

He winced, but acknowledged it. “Who else knows?”

“Just us boys.” Rory licked his lips. “Tim, if you pull a knife – that’s it, dude. You’re gonna be labeled unstable, dangerous, and more and stuff, because you’re so young. Bad things happens to kids who get that. Promise me you won’t try and that again.”

Tim couldn’t promise that, so he didn’t. The atmosphere in the room was tense that night. Something must have happened between Andy and Marcus, because when the two came in the room, the red headed teen was cowed. Or maybe he just felt guilty, because he wouldn’t look at either of them.

As Tim laid in bed that night, staring at the bunk above his own, he wondered if Rory wanted to eat kosher, if he wanted to attend temple on Saturdays. He wondered if he’d asked in the past. He arms tightened around Teddy in a vice like grip, furious.

Fucking anti-Semites.

This couldn’t stand.

The morning was Friday and Tim had a plan. His birthday was rapidly approaching and Tim was going to find a way to fix this. He wasn’t sure how to do it just yet, still framing how he wanted the conversation to go, what he could say to make Bruce look into it, but he’d get himself and the rest of the children removed from the Hughes.

Noah Hughes could rot in hell for all Tim could care, and if he wasn’t a toddler he’d handle that himself. And Mrs. Hughes? Fuck her. It was clear the situation last night was escalating, there was no way she’d not heard what Mr. Hughes had called Rory. So that meant either she didn’t mind it, didn’t believe it, or was choosing to ignore it. All of those options were real grim.

Anyway, his birthday wasn’t for another week and Tim wanted to do something now. He knew that his intellect was something Candice had briefed the Hughes on and so he used that, pressing up against Mrs. H.’s leg and resting his head against her thigh. The older woman practically cooed at the touch.

“What’s this now, sweetie. Not feeling well?”

“No, I’m good.” Tim said with a sigh. “Mrs. H. I miss my mommy and daddy.”

“Oh sweetie,” she said with a sigh, “that’s totally normal. I’m sure they miss you too.” What a two-faced bitch, Tim thought as he leaned in the gentle stroke of his hair. “Everybody gets homesick at first, honey.”

“Can I go to the library with Rory? Mommy always took me to the library and the books made me happy.”

“Well, I don’t know…”

“Please?” Tim asked, lip wobbling. “I…I just miss them.”

What followed was fifteen minutes of tearful crying, letting himself be consoled by the witch of a woman, feeling like his skin was crawling as she gentled him. From where he was balanced on her hip, Mrs. H. humming and rocking him, Tim stared at the opposite wall as he sniffled, eyes cold. What kind of person was this? She had such deep maternal want, yet stood by and let her racist piece of shit son threaten her foster kids?

In the end, Tim got his way. When Rory came home from school, Tim met him with his backpack and shoes on. “We’re going out!”

“We are?” Rory asked, looking bewildered.

“Tim is feeling a little homesick today.” Mrs. H. said, her voice soft as she stroked Tim’s forehead. He’d kept her at a distance for most of his stay before now and it was clear that she was soaking up the chance to give him affection without Tim shying away from her. She probably thought she’d had a break through with him.

Repulsive woman.

“I thought you could take him to the library and use your card to get him a few books.” She tweaked Tim’s nose and he gave a giggle. “How does that sound, sweetie?”

“Thanks so much, Mrs. H!”

The woman gave him a beaming smile. “Our little genius.”

“Okay then.” Rory said, watching him with a strange look on his face. “Come on, Tim. Hold my hand the whole way. What books were you thinking of?”

They chattered as they walked the six blocks to the library. When they entered, Tim bypassed the children’s corner completely, dragging Rory towards the religious section. “Here, I’m going to work on the computers. Right over there, you can see me. Let me have your library card so I can log on. You can stay here and study.”

Rory blinked before his eyes widened, drifting to the aisles of books around them. “Tim…”

“Don’t.” Tim said sharply, incapable in the moment to articulate just how pissed off with the situation he was. Rory’s snapped back to look at him, eyes narrowing. “We can come here a lot and then we won’t have to see Mr. H. and you can study.”

He held out his hand.

“Library card, please.”

Rory handed it over.

Getting onto the dark web from a library computer was considerably harder than from his home one, though not because of any fail safes or security the actual computer had. It was more the shitty internet speed and the fact that he had minimize his screen so that it showed ABC mouse instead. That required an attention to his surroundings that was currently not his forte as a two-almost-three-year-old boy.

Still, he made it work.

RR: Will be limited contact for next few months.

It was almost an hour before Deathstroke got back to him.

DS: Confirmed.

RR: Continue as we previously agreed upon.

RR: Limited access to computers.

RR: Will contact you again with burner phone number if necessary.

Which meant he now had to get a burner phone, but that was a problem for future Tim.

DS: You good?

RR: Do you care?

DS: When my paychecks involved I do.

RR: Mean.

DS: Literally a hitman.

Tim doesn’t know why he does it, maybe because he was still so frustrated from the night before. If he had his adult body, he’d – but he didn’t, and down that path lay the way of madness. So instead of focusing on any of that, he sent:

RR: I always wondered if your name was a dick joke.

A librarian passed by and Tim had to minimize the screen, happily trying to match the lowercase letters with its uppercase equivalent while a mouse spun nonsensically at each match in the background. When she finally left, Tim pulled the chat box back up.

DS: What

RR: Sorry.

RR: Intrusive thoughts for the win.

DS: Its because I kill

DS: In one stroke

RR: That’s what she said.

DS: That doesn’t even make sense.

RR: I think it’s the stroking bit that’s misleading.

DS: Wth

DS: I have shit to do.

DS: Signing off.

RR: Bye.

Tim scrubbed the computer, then matched up the letters quickly and logged off. He dutifully went to the children’s section and picked some books he remembered liking, then settled into a bean bag chair as he waited for Rory to finish.

The following week continued like this. It seemed that once Mrs. Hughes saw them return whole and healthy from the library, Rory with his homework done and Tim overly affectionate to her and with a new book, she was more willing to let them go. The library became a haven for the pair and Rory seemed to perk up, content. Tim felt somewhat soothed that he was able to do anything to help his friend.

Still, the main show was about to happen.

Because it was Saturday; Tim’s birthday. He was waiting on the front steps, shoes on and backpack in place, from the moment breakfast had ended. He insisted that Rory wait with him, wanting him to meet Bruce. He had greater intentions than that, but Rory didn’t know that. Tim was sure that Rory thought Tim was going to be disappointed and was waiting to console him.

Which, understandable, but Tim had faith in Bruce.

…he better show up.

The shit Tim was going to do to that man’s life if he missed his birthday.

It noon on the dot when a sensible, newer model Toyota pulled to a stop in front of the Hughes house, Alfred at the wheel. Tim threw himself forward the second Bruce cleared the car. The man crouched down, catching him and pulling him into a hug. Tim clung. He wrapped his arms and legs as tightly around Bruce as he could and it couldn’t possibly be comfortable, but Bruce didn’t seem to mind. He just shifted Tim’s weight to be more comfortable as he stood.

“Hey, Tim.” He greeted, voice soft. At the sound of it, Tim shuddered, pressing his face into his neck. A hand cupped the back of his head. “Tim? You okay, chum?”

Tim shook his head, digging his fingers into cotton. “…missed you.”

Bruce rested his head against his own and Tim let himself just breathe, feeling safe. “I thought we could go to the zoo for your birthday,” Bruce said after a moment, cheek still pressed against Tim, “since we can’t go to your house.”

Tim nodded, pulling himself together, and regretfully left the sanctuary of Bruce’s neck. “Can Rory come? He’s my best friend.”

Bruce blinked in surprise, looking from Tim than to where Rory was standing awkwardly on the steps. Rory’s beat up sneakers shuffled slightly. “Uh, Tim, you don’t – I don’t want to invite myself.”

“It’s fine with me.” Bruce assured. “We’d love to have you and it is Tim’s birthday. Do you want to go ask Mrs. Hughes?”

When Rory hesitated, Tim turned in Bruce’s hold, giving him a beseeching look. “Please, Rory? It’s my birthday.”

The brunet sighed. “Yeah, let me ask.”

It turned out Mrs. Hughes had no problem with it, coming to the door and gushing over the ‘special birthday boy’ while subtly trying to interrogate Bruce about who he was. Tim knew that the outing had been approved by Candice, but it seemed like she’d kept most else from the women. It was clear that Mrs. H. didn’t recognize Bruce as Bruce Wayne, which made sense given the common car and the fact that the man was dressed in a threadbare t-shirt and jeans, a baseball hat pulled low. Bruce navigated the conversation with the same skill that made him so good at manipulating Gotham society and soon they were in the car.

They stopped to get lunch at a restaurant that served chicken nuggets (!) and a delighted Tim got a double order. Even Alfred joined them, which was amazing because he hardly ever ate with them. But it was Tim’s birthday and so he’d begged and Alfred had folded like the wet blanket he secretly was. Rory shyly ordered himself a burger and fries, trying to both answer Bruce’s questions and disappear at the same time.

“Hey, B?” Tim asked, taking the interrogation off the boy – Bruce would be Bruce, he’d always been kind of intense with all of the Robins’ friends. Tim wouldn’t be surprised if he ran Rory’s name that night. “Did you know what Jewish is?”

Bruce crooked a brow. “I do. My parents were Jewish, though I don’t practice myself.”

“Rory can speak it really well.” He explained as he mixed his sauces together, ignoring the repulsed look on Alfred’s face. Hey, ketchup and mayo was a perfectly acceptable dipping sauce.

“Do you mean he speaks Hebrew?” Bruce clarified, then turned to Rory and launched into the language. Rory looked overwhelmed at first but began visibly calm. Tim had no idea what they were saying, but he was too focused on his nuggets to care, plus he felt pretty good about the way Rory’s shoulders had relaxed, something like ease in his frame that Tim was starting to realize he’d never seen before.

For how calm the boy always seemed, it appeared he rarely actually was.

“Master Tim,” Alfred said, leaning over to wipe at Tim’s mouth with a paper napkin, “don’t play with your food.”

From where he was making his nuggets walk across the table, Tim bore the action with ill grace and pouted. “But they’re my nuggie shoes.”

“All the same.” Alfred said dryly, “we’ll have to leave for the zoo soon or it will close, and we will have to throw away anything you don’t eat.”

Which was a total lie, since the zoo was open until like nine from his memory, but Tim still doubled down on eating his nuggets. By the time lunch ended, Tim was feeling fat and sluggish, holding his arms up for Bruce. The man picked him up with a shake of his head, “too many nuggies, Tim?”

“Never.” He replied with feeling as he rubbed his rounded belly.

Rory laughed at him and then gave him the toy from his meal. “I know it’s not much, but happy birthday Timmy.”

Tim held the mini-Pound Puppy aloft, taking in the drooping eyes and flopping ears. He gave it a soft pet on its brown head, before tucking it close. “I love it.”

And then he stuck his thumb in his mouth – because all his pacifiers were back at the house and he was technically three now – and promptly fell asleep. It was the deepest he’d slept since going into care, some part of him instinctively trusting Bruce to keep him safe. He woke when they were in the zoo, in the penguin exhibit to be factual, snorting himself awake from a snore. He lifted his head sleepily from Bruce’s shoulder.

“Ooh,” he said in amazement, finding himself face to face with a Macaroni Penguin. It stared at him before swimming off and Tim instinctively leaned as if to go after it. Bruce’s grip tightened on him, the man chuckling.

“Back with us, chum?”

Tim blinked and looked for Rory, worried that he may had made him uncomfortable by abandoning him with a stranger while Tim slept – and found the boy looking as happy as he could be, talking with Alfred as he dipped his hand into a tide pool exhibit to touch some sea creature. He glanced back to Bruce. “I fell asleep?”

It came out more of a question than he meant it to. Bruce gave him an indulgent smile. “You sure did, I was about to wake you though. I got a special gift for you.”

Tim perked up. “You did? What is it?”

“We’ll go see after Rory and Alfred are done.”

Tim nodded, then set his head back down on Bruce’s shoulder. After a moment he blearily mumbled out a, “Hey B?”

”Yes, Tim?”

”Do some people not like Jews?”

The hand rubbing his back paused. “Some don’t.” A stretch of silence, Bruce clearly picking out his words. “People can be different colors, they can be tall or short, big or thin, and they can believe in different things. Like how my parents were Jewish but I’m not, or how your parents were Catholic. There’s no wrong way to be, we’re all right just the way we are. But Tim, why do you ask?”

Tim fiddled with the collar of Bruce’s shirt. “When I come home, can we take Rory?”

He had more to say, but Rory was rushing over to him, a huge grin on his face. “Tim, you’re up!”

“Master Bruce, it’s time for our appointment.” Alfred announced, following a pace behind, and the moment was lost. Still, the contemplative look on Bruce’s face boded well.

He could slip in a few comments about how scary Mr. H. was before the day was done and - oh my god the special gift was a chance to pet a penguin. Tim got to pet a penguin! This was the best day of this life – either one of them. It felt incredibly smooth under his hand and very soft. It tolerated Tim’s touch for about as long as it took for the handler to stop giving it fish, then it turned to him, gave him a thoroughly unimpressed look, and waddled off.

“Rory,” Tim breathed, tugging at his friend’s shirt from where he had just finished petting his own bird. “I touched a penguin.”

“You sure did, Timmy.” Rory said, laughing. “Did you like it?”

“So soft.” Tim murmured, staring at his hands in awe. He swung around, wrapping himself tightly around Bruce’s legs. “B, I touched a penguin!”

A hand ruffled his hair. “I’m saw, chum. How about we go see the Big Cats? I heard they have some tiger cubs.”

Tim stared up at him, momentarily struck silent. “I can pet a tiger?”

Bruce smirked and lifted him up, Tim settling naturally. “Sorry, chum. They’re too small, but they’re very cute.”

They spent a wonderful day at the zoo, taking a break to have cupcakes that Alfred had brought and ice cream from a stand, and finished with a visit to the gift shop. Tim walked out with a brand new otter plushy to join Teddy and the newly named Brownie, the mini-Pound Puppy, in his backpack.

“I keep it with me, so people can’t steal it.” He explained distractedly to Bruce as he carefully rearranged his bag so they would all fit and still have space to breathe.

From where he was crouched next to him, Bruce’s jaw clenched, then relaxed. He reached out, running a hand through Tim's hair. “You have a good birthday, Tim?”

“Yeah!” He exclaimed happily, “you came and Alfred came, and Rory, and I got nuggies and to see a penguin, and we got ice cream and I got my otter and my dog, so it was really good.”

“I’m glad, bud.” Bruce said softly, taking Tim’s hand. “What are you going to name your otter?”

Tim considered this as they walked to the car before shrugging. Why complicate it? “Mr. Otter.”

“A fine name.” Alfred said as he steered Rory through the exiting crowd by the shoulder, “and what about your wolf cub, Master Rory?”

His friend flushed at the title, ducking down. He held the stuffed cub close though, fingers moving over its soft fur.

“Um, I don’t know yet. Eyal, maybe.” Rory said. But despite his meekness, Tim could tell he was happy.

Tim fell asleep in the car. He didn’t mean to, he meant to finish the conversation from before, but Rory wouldn’t leave them alone. He stood next to them as they said goodbye at the car, Bruce promising he’d come visit next weekend if Candice okayed it, and held Tim’s hand the whole time from the car to the door. And Rory was so happy in a way he hadn’t seen before, that Tim found himself hesitating to bring it up and ruin the mood.

It was all for naught, because the happiness faded abruptly even before the door shut. Tim’s first instinct was to bolt back out and try and flag the car down before it left, but he had knew they were already gone. Still, the tension in the house was so thick he didn’t think he imagining it. From the way that Rory was still and alert next to him, Tim knew he wasn’t.

Rory took his hand, tugging him towards the stairs. Mutely, Tim followed. A glance to the living room as they passed showed the girls sitting calm and still on the sofa. Another red flag, and he cursed himself for getting so distracted at the zoo. Tim quickly swiveled his head around to see into the kitchen. Mrs. H. had her back to them, cooking dinner at the stove.

“Tim,” Rory said quietly, “come on.”

Tim let himself be led up the stairs, eyes flickering about as he catalogued everything he saw, trying to understand what was causing the prevalent fear that hovered over them. Despite their wariness, nothing happened in the following hours. They ate a quiet dinner, one that Tim barely picked at as he eyed Mr. Hughes’ empty chair. A glance at the family schedule on the fridge showed that Marcus worked late, which made him even more nervous. While still an unknown, Marcus was someone who had shown he’d stand up to the adults if needed.

After dinner, Rory lead him up to take a quick bath at Mrs. H.’s insistence. Rory tried to deny a shower for himself, but Mrs. Hughes was firm, stating that he was filthy from walking around the zoo. Tim waited for his friend tensely in their bedroom, backpack on over his pjs and eyes locked on where Andy was sitting on his bed, reading a book.

A book that he hadn’t turned the page on in ten minutes.

“What did you do?” Tim asked, voice calm. The boy stiffened. “Andy,” he repeated, “what did you do?”

A crash from the hallway stole whatever answer he could have gotten. Tim shot to his feet, yanking the knife from its spot and darted out of the room. Noah Hughes had Rory pinned against the wall, forearm against his neck.

“ – fifty dollars goes missing and suddenly you go to the zoo?”

“Tim’s dad took me!” Rory managed to croak out, hands hovering awkwardly over the arm, as if he wanted to grab it but didn’t dare.

“And he bought you that fucking toy too? You goddamn thief!”

Tim’s emotions, already easily tipped in any direction on a good day, derailed into rage. He felt every inch of Red Robin as he stalked silently across the hall, ignoring the way Rory’s face paled at the sight of him, and dug the knife into Mr. Hughes’ upper thigh, conveniently at Tim’s height. 

“This is your femoral artery, you ignorant fuck. Do you know you can bleed out in two minutes if it’s cut?” He seethed and the threat sounded ridiculous to his own ears, high pitched and slightly slurred from youth. It worked though, the man freezing. Tim pressed the knife harder, but not hard enough to penetrate his khakis. “Let him go.”

The arm dropped from Rory’s neck and Tim jerked his head to the side. Rory slipped free, hands rubbing at his neck even as his eyes were locked on Tim.

“Move and I will stab as hard as I can. I’m really strong for a three-year-old.” Tim warned. “Andy, he hit me after he hit Rory. You saw that, right?” From where he stood in the doorway, gaping, the teenager stared at him. “Andrew.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he hit you and choked Rory.”

“Good, lock the door and don’t come out until Marcus comes home. Rory, come on.”

“You little shit –”

“Try me,” Tim said sharply, pushing the knife in again. “You are a racist, mean, little man, who leaches off his mother. You’re nothing and the only way you can possibly feel important is by abusing kids.”

“You’re a demon.” Mr. Hughes breathed out, staring down at Tim from over his shoulder, whale-eyed.

“I am. And if you ever lay another hand on Rory or any kid in this house again, I will come back and drag you to hell with me.” Tim agreed with a sneer. “Rory, go to the stairs.”

Tim waited until his friend was on the landing before pushing the man away. He held the knife out threateningly as he back away and down the stairs, following a silent Rory. They didn’t bother with shoes or even a jacket, just unlocked and then retreated out the front door. Tim flashed the knife at a stunned Mrs. Hughes.

“You are the worst type of mother.” Tim announced hotly, ignoring the way Rory was trying to pull him away. “What kind of mom sits by and lets her own kid hurt her other kids? And I never liked your hugs.”

“Damn it, Tim.” Rory swore, scooping him up and darting off into the night. “We gotta go, they’re gonna call the cops. Do you always have to the have the last word?”

“Yes, now put me down this isn’t comfy.”

“Fine, but get on my back.” His friend said, dropping Tim to his feet and crouching. “You don’t have any shoes on.”

“You don’t have shoes on.”

“Yeah but I at least got socks.”

Tim conceded the point and moved the knife to his non-dominant hand, before striking himself across the face as hard as he could. He gasped, blinking the stars from his vision.

“Tim!” Rory said sharply, “don’t hurt yourself!”

“He hit me, remember.” Tim explained briskly, “now turn around so I can get on your back.”

“What are we gonna do now? We can’t go back.”

“Find a phone – a diner, a gas station, something. We’ll call Bruce, he’ll fix it.” He answered as he climbed on, conviction unwavering in his voice.

“I don’t know, Tim.”

“He’s Bruce Wayne.”

Rory paused in his walking. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Well. Okay then. Phone it is.”

They’d barely made it a block from the house when a man began to follow them. Meeting a man this late at night in their neighborhood was bad news just by itself, but the fact that he crossed the road to meet them made it even more alarming. Underneath him, Rory tensed and began to walk faster.

“Hey.” The man called. Rory ignored him, his pace picking up again. Tim’s grip tightened on the knife. “Hey, kiddos.” The man came up even with them, giving them a bright, winning smile. “What are you doing out so late? It’s dangerous out here. Do you need any help?”

“No, thank you.” Rory said firmly, keeping his gaze locked ahead. “Our parents are waiting for us.”

“Oh, really? Where do they live?” The stranger pressed, easily keeping pace with the boy’s quick steps. “How about I walk you there, just in case? Can’t help but notice you don’t have shoes. Do you know your shoe size? I’ve got some spare shoes at home.”

Freaking Gotham, Tim thought disgustingly, was it too much to ask for some respite after what’d just happened?

Rory shook his head. “No thank you, thank you though.”

“Come on,” the man cajoled, “that little guy looks heavy, how about I –”

The second – the very second – the man’s hand reached towards Tim, a blur of movement erupted from Rory. It was too fast for him to see what it was, only that it seemed to coil and flow like water from underneath Rory’s hoodie. It wrapped around the man and the stranger didn’t even have time to make noise before he was gone, the tips of his sneakers just visible before they disappeared into a dark alleyway on the opposite side of the street.

Tim stared.

A few seconds later and the (cloth? Was that cloth?) flowed back out, as if drifting on the wind, before floating back to Rory. It separated into pieces that slipped back under his hoodie and pant legs.

The man was nowhere to be found.

Tim stared some more.

“I…” Rory started, then cleared his throat. “You showed me yours, so I thought you know…I’d show you mine.”

“What?” Tim asked blankly.

“I mean,” Rory shrugged, “you’re a meta, right? A metahuman? It’s why you’re so smart – like beyond super genius toddler smart. Intelligence is one of the most common mutations, right? Just under enhanced strength.”

What.

“Uh.” Tim said, demonstrating that intelligence his friend had just been lauding. “Yeah, I’m a meta. You got me.”

Rory nodded to himself and began walking once more. “I knew it.”

“Are…you…a, uh, meta?”

“No.” Rory said after a moment, “at least I don’t think so. The suit – we call it the Ragman – it’s been in my family for like ever. My grandfather brought it over with him when he fled the Nazis.”

Okay.

Okay, so not a meta. That sounded occult to Tim.

“What, uh, happened to the man?” Rory shifted uncomfortably. “Rory? Is he dead?”

A shrug. “I don’t understand it all, but I think the suit sort of…um…ate him.”

“It ate him?” Tim asked, voice pitched up and deeply disturbed.

“It won’t hurt you!” Rory said quickly, “I promise Tim, I’d never let it hurt you. It only likes the taste of bad people, but I can control it. I have to be…careful, but I can control it.” Which, ominous. “I didn’t let it hurt Mr. H.”

“Why didn’t you?” Tim asked, curious despite himself, and then after a moment let himself relax back against his friend’s back. The show of trust was the right move, because the tension in Rory disappeared completely.

There was a sigh. “And out myself? Besides, where would I go? I’ve been in worse homes and I… you know, could just let Ragman do its thing if it got real bad.” Fair points, all of them. “You can’t tell anyone, okay Tim?”

Tim pursed his lips, but nodded. “Okay. But you can’t tell anyone I’m a meta.”

Because that was what he was rolling with now apparently. Well, it worked better than ‘time traveler who is actually a displaced grown man in a toddler body.’

Rory gave him a disbelieving look. “Do people not know?”

“What do you mean?”

“Tim, come on. Sometimes you act your age for sure, but then you can be way too adult.”

“Well, around you.” Tim defended with a sputter, “or Mr. H. but that was ‘cause he made me. And I am a toddler, just like – tweaked.”

“Tweaked.” Rory said with a snort, “that’s one way to put it. I can’t believe you pulled a knife on him.”

“Duh, he hurt you.” Tim retorted, then rested his head on his friend’s shoulder. “Where’s the phone?”

“There’s a twenty-four hour diner up ahead,” Rory said, “we’re almost there.”

“Good,” Tim said with a sigh, “I want to call B.”

“…hey, Tim, is he actually your dad?”

“I want him to be.”

There was a thud behind them and Rory swirled around so quickly that he was almost dislodged. Tim gawked at the sight of Batman standing there, in all his caped glory.

Chapter Text

Tim felt the rippling under his hands, but was a split second too late to understand what it meant. The Ragman flew from Rory’s form just as quickly as it had with the man, wrapping around Batman like some creeping horror from a story. In the time it took Tim to register what was happening, Bruce’s arms were already pinned to his side, the fabric tangling tightly around his legs and forcing them closed.

“Rory, no!” Tim cried out, “don’t eat him, he’s Batman!”

The fabric stopped short just of covering Bruce’s mouth and nose. Tim’s eyes darted from Batman’s pinned form to the side of Rory’s face he could see, because the Ragman had ceased its spreading before his shout. Rory was staring at Bruce, lips parted and eyes confused.

“You’re…” The brunet started, brows drawing lower and lower.

“Rory?” Tim asked hesitantly when his friend didn’t continue.

Rory tongue darted out to lick his lips and when he spoke next, his voice was so low it was a whisper. “…Mr. Wayne? Is that…you?”

Tim jolted, staring at Rory in shock. Because how? How the hell had he figured that out? Tim hadn’t even gotten it that fast, not until Dick has tipped him off all those years ago with his bone deep need to be a show off. His gaze shot to Bruce, whose eyes were almost comically wide behind his mask.

Blue eyes darted to Tim and Tim couldn’t help but give him a supportive look in return. God, poor Bruce. He’s what – one, two years on the scene? – and he’s got a ten-year-old outing him. Wait a minute, Tim realized abruptly, I’m not supposed to know either. Well, nothing to do about it; this wasn’t how Tim had been planning on having this reveal play out, but waste not. Tim squirmed, pushing against Rory’s shoulders and kicking his feet.

“Timmy, what are you doing?”

“Put me down.” Tim demanded and poked the other boy hard in the side. Rory grunted, but loosened his hold. Tim wobbled as he landed, arms wind milling before the boy’s hand reached out and rebalanced him. He darted out from behind Rory and to Bruce, pausing just in front of him. He stared up into the masked face, roving over features that were as familiar to him as his own.

The grease paint around Bruce’s eyes was different then the type they’d used by Tim’s time, a bit more reflective and oilier too. Tim wondered if it was uncomfortable. Maybe it caused some skin irritation and that’s why he’d changed it? Tim would have to find a way to introduce the brand they’d used. It was a darker color though and it made the blue of Bruce’s eyes positively pop. Bruce was clearly unnerved, an edge of well-hidden franticness to his eyes that Tim had rarely ever seen there. Even still, his gaze softened as he watched Tim approach.

Tim felt himself choke up at it, eyes watering. He reached out but faltered before actually touching the fabric enshrining the man’s form, still weary of the Ragman. He tried to keep his voice as low as Rory’s, overly aware of the danger they were in having this conversation outside even if the street was empty. “B?”

A miniscule nod.

The Ragman retreated, parting around Tim like a river flowing around a rock, so quickly that it caused a breeze to ruffle his hair. The moment it was free, Tim wrapped himself tightly around Batman’s thigh. The armor should be uncomfortable but after the type of night Tim had just had nothing had ever felt so comfortable, so secure as the feel of the hard plates under his cheek.

“Tim,” the voice was gruff, gravelly, and Tim had never been so happy to hear the Batman voice in his life – he’d had no idea how much he’d missed it. He didn’t even try to fight it when Bruce took the knife from him, “what are you doing out here?”

“We ran away.” A gauntleted hand cupped his head, the hold proprietary, and Tim didn’t even have to fake the sobs. “P-Please, can we go home with you? I'm ready to go home now.” He was picked up and Tim latched on, wrapping his arms tightly around Batman’s neck. There was a gentle touch on his chin, tilting to display his red and bruising cheek. “He hit me and he hit Rory – he hurt Rory a lot!”

There was the sound of an awkward shuffle. “Tim, buddy, I’m okay.”

Bruce’s eyes snapped from where he was glaring at Tim’s cheek to the other boy. Tim’s followed his gaze and Rory seemed to shrink under them. It had been maybe twenty minutes or less since they’d left the house and already Rory’s neck was a mass of bruising; a reddish bar across the delicate flesh that was already darkening to a livid maroon at the center. Tim’s face crumpled.

“No, you’re not!” He wailed, than he hid face in Batman’s neck. “Don’t take us back, please. He’s gonna hurt us again!”

The arm not holding him twitched, as if Bruce had wanted to reach out to but thought better of it. “You’re not going back.”

And yikes, that was a level ten on the pissed off Batman rumble scale. And then – because Bruce was nothing but drama at any age – the Batmobile drew to a silent stop next to them, the doors to the back seat popping open on their own.

Rory eyed it nervously and Tim eyed him nervously when his hoodie gave a threatening twitch. Which, wow. What was even his life now? Tim was unnerved by clothing. A totally valid thought though, Tim thought as he watched the Gotham Knights hoodie grew an even darker black before his eyes, the hood draw strings drawing tighter, bunching the fabric up to hide some of the terrible bruising.

That was…something.

“Where are you going to take us?” Rory asked, still staring at the Batmobile as if it was the biggest threat in this scenario. Which, fair, because it probably seemed like one to Rory. He doubted the suit could eat a car. Tim’s was torn between a deep sense of alarm and dread, and a burning curiosity to know how that worked. Did the Ragman respond to Rory’s subconscious thoughts? Was it sentient? It had clearly somehow picked up on how uncomfortable the boy was with his injuries being on display and reacted to it.

“To the cave.” Not the Batcave, Tim noted and if he wasn’t so busy wiping his nose on Batman’s cape he would have grinned. He knew that Dick had been the one to name it. “We have things we need to discuss.”

Well, that was a terrible way to gain a skittish kid from the system’s trust. Sure enough, Rory had gone as tense as a live wire and the hem of his hoodie most definitely hadn’t been quite that long seconds ago.

“It’s okay, B,” Tim reassured, “the suit only eats bad people.”

“What.”

Ah. Whoops. Now Bruce was tense, too.

Rory’s hood began to climb up the back of his head. “Stop it,” he hissed, tugging the hood down, “you’re embarrassing me.”

Tim opened his mouth, because that demanded some sort of explanation but then –

“Is it sentient?” Bruce practically barked, tucking Tim close to him, the heavy armor of his cape slipping over Tim like a shield. Oh shit, this was going south fast. Tim blurted out the first thing that came to mind, desperate to regain some sort of control over the situation.

“I’m a metahuman!” The shout echoed in the alleyway. The hoodie stilled abruptly, the white drawstrings twitching before falling flat. Tim felt his cheeks flush with warmth, feeling oddly judged by the fabric. “So I’m really smart, okay? I know things. So it’s okay, okay?” He could feel the weight of Bruce’s attention on him for all the man hadn’t taken his eyes off of Rory. “Batman isn’t gonna hurt Rory, Mr. Ragman,” Rory groaned into his hand. Whether it was at Tim using the suit’s name so liberally or second-hand embarrassment from him addressing it so formally (which was very appropriate with a piece of fabric that may or may not be sentient and eats people) Tim wasn’t sure, so he just hurried on, “and its Rory, he isn’t gonna hurt you either Batman. Right?”

Rory – in what Tim could only assume was the boy’s trauma peaking its ugly, paranoid head or else a moment of truly misplaced bravado – chose to say: “Ragman only eats bad people, but I can make it hurt you. And I will, if you take us back there.”

Bruce shifted in an extremely alarming way and Tim did the only thing left that he could; he burst into loud, angry tears. “Why aren’t you guys listening to me? I wanna go home!” He battled uselessly against Batman’s hold, beating his impractically small fists against Bruce’s shoulders. “Put me down, I wanna go in the car! I wanna go in the car!”

“Tim –”

“Timmy –”  

“No!” He howled, vaguely aware he was being moved, “no, no, no! I wanna go in the car!”

He was being pressed into something soft. There was a tugging feeling and Tim was startled into silence at the sight of a strap being pulled up between his legs. His right arm was lightly maneuvered out and to the side, then his left. A click sounded throughout the Batmobile as the harness was secured in place. Tim felt his rage disappear as he burst in a new round of tears, these ones much quieter.

Bruce had installed a car seat in the Batmobile.

A hand ran through his hair and another appeared with a water bottle. Tim wrapped his hands around it, but it was too big for him and he couldn’t get a good grip. Bruce supported the bottle for him, bringing it up to his mouth and carefully tilting. He drank greedily even as he trembled and let out hiccupping gasps. When he had his fill he pushed the bottle away, leaning his cheek heavily against Bruce’s arm. “B,” he managed to croak out between shuddering breaths, “I wanna go home.”

“I know, bud.”

“Here, Tim.” He turned, view somewhat blocked by the car seat’s sides. Rory was in the car on one knee, pulling Teddy out of his bag. Tim let out a deep sigh, pulling the bear close. The door to his side of the car closed and he heard the sound of the Batmobile’s trunk being opened. Normally, he’d be curious about that but as it was, Tim just buried his face in Teddy’s soft fur. He’d be terribly embarrassed about his melt down at some point, but right now he was three years old and he’d had a rough night, okay?

“Step out for a moment.” He glanced up at the sound, feeling his lip wobble and his eyes water all over again at the sight of Batman sliding a booster seat in. Rory climbed on it, looking very pale as he clicked his seat belt in place.

Bruce got in – signaled – and then pulled away from the curb. Tim buried his face in Teddy again, completely overwhelmed at the sight of Bruce following traffic laws. They drove in silence, Tim watching the streets go by. It was only once they were on the highway that Bruce broke it. “I’m going to need an explanation.”

“Yeah,” Rory said, sounding utterly exhausted, “I figured.”

Wordlessly, Tim reached out and offered his hand in solidarity and gave Rory's a hearty squeeze. He let his head rest against the side of the car seat, his lids feeling unbelievably heavy. He was asleep before they even hit Kane Bridge.

He woke up to the feeling of being lifted. There was a familiar echo, a sense of chilly air, and he grumbled at the feel of it, curling tighter into the warmth holding him. Something warm was wrapped around him and a hand pet soothingly up his back. Tim sighed and shifted so he wasn’t resting on his aching cheek.

“Mm, daddy?”

A breath hitched against his ear. “Go back to sleep, Tim.”

“Mm.”

“Tim, buddy.” Tim snuffled, turning away from the voice. “Come on, chum,” the voice cajoled, “I know you’re tired, but I need you to wake up for a bit.”

“No.” Tim whined, rolling his face in the opposite direction, hiding from the bright light he could see even from behind his closed lids. “Don’t wanna.”

“I have chocolate milk.”

That did it. Grumbling, Tim pulled back from where he’d been hiding his face in Teddy to rub at his eye. He took the sippy cup from Bruce, taking a deep drink. When he was done he let the cup rest in his mouth, teeth chewing on the spout. He started to shift so he could look around the room, but paused when he took in his legs. He was wearing a completely different pair of pajamas. Before he’d been in a two-piece dinosaur set (one of his favorites) but now he was in something blue. He stared at the dark navy of the pants in confusion, before his eyes widened at the sight of the white, stylized Voltron written on the leg. Bruce’s hand shot out, catching the sippy cup before it could spill as he let out a delighted gasp and pulled the bottom of his shirt out so he could stare at the print of an assembled Voltron on it.

Tim didn’t own these ones!

Which was obviously a gross oversight on his and the stolen credit card’s part, because they were awesome. There was a huff of amusement had Tim’s head snapped to look at Bruce, still holding the shirt out in awe. Bruce’s lips twitched, his eyes fond. A chuckle from behind him had Tim jerking around, shrinking back into Bruce’s chest when he found a room full of people staring at him. Candice was there, as well as two police officers and an extremely young, red headed James Gordon. Rory was sitting just to their left in an armchair, looking like he was about to vibrate right out of it from nerves even with Alfred hovering like a protective shadow behind him.

Tim’s fingers curled into the cotton of Bruce’s sleeve, eyes wide. The hand resting on his tummy pressed in just enough to remind Tim of the man’s presence. From her seat, an extremely stressed looking Candice gave him a gentle smile before gesturing to Jim. “Tim, this is Detective Gordon. He wants to ask you some questions, but only if you feel up to it, okay?”

Tim nodded woodenly, mind racing, thumb finding its way to his mouth. Had they already questioned Rory? What did they know? The knife was gone, Bruce was too smart to have brought it up from the cave – but what had Rory said? What had the Hughes said? Andy? God, he wanted a pacifier.

“You don’t have to answer if it’s too scary,” Candice continued, “or if you’re too sleepy.” The social worker sent a heated look to Gordon, “it’s very late after all.”

Tim nodded again.

“Hey Tim,” Jim said, giving him a warm smile. “My name is Jim. I heard you had quite the night. Today was your birthday, right?” Another nod. “And you got to pet a penguin?”

“It was soft.” Tim mumbled around his thumb, eyes roving over the young face. He couldn’t be older than thirty-eight or nine, Tim reasoned, and the fact that he hadn’t yet taken on the mantle of commissioner showed. Jim had always worn the stress of the job on his face, aged too young and too soon, with a seemingly permanent frown. But here his face was unlined, skin clear and tanned, with only the hint of dark circles under his eyes. He was clean shaven, displaying the strong cut of his jaw, and his ever present mustache and glasses were missing.

“I bet it was. I’m jealous of you, I never got to pet a penguin.” Jim said as he gave Tim a wink. Oh my god, no, Tim thought, nearly breathless with horror, he’s hot. Tim felt his cheeks burn in mortification and dropped his eyes, fingers picking at fuzz on Bruce’s sleeve. This couldn’t be happening, he wasn’t supposed to notice these things – he was too young!

Lian had a crush on Jason from nearly the moment she was born, a voice whispered unhelpfully in his mind. He stomped on that thought with ruthless humiliation. He refused to acknowledge that Jim Gordon – Bab’s father – could ever, at any point, have been young and attractive. He refused.  

“Can you tell me what happened when you came home from the zoo?” Jim’s voice brought him out that spiral thankfully, and Tim let himself glance over at Rory. His friend was in fresh pajamas as well, though it looked like an old pair of Bruce’s; he was swimming in the sweatpants and whatever t-shirt he was wearing was long enough to stick out past his ever-present hoodie. He was also staring intensely at his hands, which was little help to Tim.

“We had little ravioli.”

“Little ravioli?”

“Chef Boyardee.” Rory mumbled. “It’s Tim’s favorite that Mrs. H. makes, the mini-raviolis.”

“I like that they’re small.” Tim said in agreement. “We had to shower ‘cause Mrs. H. said we were dirty and then…”

“And then?” Jim probed gently.

“Mr. H. got mad at Rory again.”

“What happened when Mr. Hughes got angry?”

Tim shifted, fingers skating from the fabric to play with Bruce’s thumb instead. “He started yelling a lot. I ran out ‘cause I didn’t want him to hurt Rory again.”

There was a muted sound from where Candice was sitting and when Tim looked up, she was staring down at her notebook, fingers white-knuckled around her pen, jaw clenched. He felt for her; being a social worker was no easy job, doubly so in a place like Gotham. Social services was underfunded everywhere, but no one gave it money in Gotham. Gothamites had a general belief that if you were too poor to take care of your own, that was your own fault, even with the children. It was as if they’d never quite escaped the industrial revolution. Well, the Wayne Foundation did start investing eventually. Maybe he could nudge Bruce into that direction earlier this time around.

“Did you see him hurt Rory before?”

“Yeah.” Tim said, ducking his head so he could discreetly check on Rory. The boy was staring hard at nothing, face blank and distant. Well, that didn’t bode well. Tim squirmed from Bruce’s lap, pushing at the heavy hand until it released him. It took leaving Teddy behind to get up on Rory’s chair, but it was worth it from the way those blue eyes snapped back to light, focusing on him.

“Clingy squirt.” Rory muttered as he helped Tim up the rest of the way, and Tim pinched him at the nickname. A jolt of static electricity ran under his fingers, causing Tim to jump slightly at the shock. Tim bit back a snarl and yanked harshly at the hoodie in retaliation. Next to him, Rory just sighed. He bullied himself under Rory’s arm, curling both of his own around his waist before turning to face the police officers again.

“He said Rory stole and stuff, but he didn’t.” Tim explained indignantly, “he didn’t take nothing, I was with him and Bruce bought him his toy. Oh no, we left Eyal!”

How had he not thought to put the wolf stuffy in his backpack?! His jerked to stare up at Rory, but his friend didn’t look disturbed or upset. The hollowness of dissociation still haunted the edges of his eyes, mouth a lax line. Tim found this incredibly upsetting; Rory had been so happy when he’d gotten Eyal, so few things made Rory happy.

“Bruce,” Tim called desperately, turning bodily to look at the man, “we need to go get him!”

A confused Jim was watching the interaction, brows furrowed. “Eyal?”

“A stuffed wolf, we bought it for Rory at the zoo.” Bruce explained as he stood, his hand coming to rest comfortingly on Tim’s head. “It’s okay Tim, we can go get him the morning.”

“But –”

“It’s fine, Timmy.” Rory said quietly.

“No, it’s not.” Tim said sharply, head snapping back to stare at his friend. “It’s not okay. He yelled at you all the time, he took your stuff. He hurt you.” A listless shrug. “Rory,” Tim snapped, hands flying out to pull his face to look at him. “He called you a kike. None of that is okay.”

There was a hard look in those eyes now; Rory was angry.

Tim didn’t care.

It was probably easier to avoid it all, to not acknowledge what had happened to him – to lessen it all, to compartmentalize – but no one said doing what was best for you was easy. There was a time to avoid conflict, a time when minimizing and fading into the background was appropriate. This was not one of them.

There was a sharp gasp from behind them and when Tim looked back, it was to find a horrified and teary eyed Candice staring at them. “Oh, Rory. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Rory, who followed him to look at Candice, immediately dropped his eyes back to the floor, looking guilty of all things. Jim exchanged a look with Bruce, before his frame shifted as he leaned forward, becoming smaller. “You didn’t mention this when we talked, Rory.”

“It’s not like I haven’t heard it before.” The older boy shrugged. “…I didn’t want to go back to someplace worse.”

Now Candice really looked like she was going to start crying. She cleared her throat. “I understand and I’m sorry, Rory. You too, Tim. Neither one of you should have been exposed to that.”

“Did he call you slurs often, Rory?” The muscles on Rory’s jaw jumped and flexed. He nodded. “And he took your belongings?”

Another stiff nod.

“My Hebrew books; I didn’t care about those but,” Rory answered quietly and Tim felt his brows jump up at the quiet fury on Rory’s face, “he took my family Torah, my grandfather smuggled it out of Nazi Germany. It was all I have left of my family.” A rough swallow and Tim eyed the hoodie wearily. There was no sound, but Tim could feel it vibrating under his touch, “I think he sold it.”

Bruce’s hand rose to cup the boy’s nape, squeezing lightly. “I’ll find it.”

Rory’s head snapped up to stare at him, eyes wide. Hope, so brittle it hurt to look at it, stole across his face before disappearing behind doubt. “Don’t lie to me.”

Bruce met the disbelieving stare resolutely. “I’m not.”

As they stared each other down, the vibration slowly faded off into nothing. Tim felt a tension he wasn’t aware of leave him, leaning back into Rory’s side. “Okay.” Rory breathed, his hand reaching up to rest on Tim’s back. Tim dug in deeper into his friend’s side at the slight tremor he felt in those fingers, “okay.”

“I’ll add the location of your family Torah to the list of questions we have for Noah Hughes.” Jim added. He sounded and looked perfectly composed, but Tim knew him well enough to spot the anger hidden there. Tim was pleased; it looked like it would be an even rougher night for the Hughes than it already had been. “Tim, can you tell me what happened when you heard Mr. Hughes yelling?”

“I ran out of my room ‘cause Marcus wasn’t there,” Tim explained, “Marcus can make Mr. Hughes stop, but he was at McDonalds. Mr. Hughes had Rory like this,” he demonstrated on his own throat, “and he was yelling at Rory and stuff. I tried to make him stop and he hit me.”

“And what did you do to try and stop Mr. Hughes?” Jim asked, head cocking to the side and eyes sharp as he watched Tim. The arm around Tim suddenly pulled taunt, tucking him even closer to Rory’s side.

“I already told you Tim didn’t have a knife.” Rory said sharply, “Mr. H. is lying, Tim’s three, he can’t even reach the knife block.”

“Um,” Tim managed, utterly taken aback by the aggression in his normally docile friend’s voice.

“I think that’s enough for tonight.” Candice said sternly, flipping her pocket notebook closed. “We have already verified with Andrew Pierce that there wasn’t a knife involved. It’s late and the kids need sleep.”

Jim nodded, apologetic as he stood. “Of course, thank you for speaking with me Rory, Tim. I know that was hard. If you’ll step out with me for a moment, Mr. Wayne, Ms. Rodriguez, we can talk about next steps.”

Bruce gave Rory a pat on the shoulder before running his hand gently over Tim’s head before following the police out. Tim shifted in Rory’s hold to look up at Alfred.

“Alfred, can I have some water please? I’m thirsty.”

“Of course,” the butler said immediately, “would you like something as well, Master Rory?” Rory looked visibly uncomfortable at title, but nodded. “Very well,” Alfred said as he scooped up a pile of ice packs, the plastic melted and limp, “I’ll bring back some fresh ice packs as well. Please remain here.”

“Okay.” Tim agreed with a happy smile. The moment the side door that lead to the butler’s walk closed, Tim was sliding free of Rory’s lap.

“What are you doing?” Rory asked, leaning heavily on the armchair’s arm, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. Tim ignored him as he skittered up to the door. “Tim,” Rory groaned, “you’re going to get us in trouble.”

He waved the concern off, squatting down to press his ear to door.

“…custody. Just emergency for now, until I approve the placement. I don’t know how you got Stacey to wave the last two classes, but I’m not impressed.” Candice was saying, sounding both amused and cross at the same time. “Are you sure you’re prepared to take them both? The agreement was originally just for Tim.”

“I’m sure.”

A sigh.

“Alright. Here, this is Rory’s write up. He’s had a rough time of it and he’s slow to trust. His mother passed when his sister was born,” Tim jerked, eyes wide. A sister? Rory had never mentioned a sibling. Suddenly he felt guilty, overly aware of his friend watching him. Rory was a pretty private person, maybe he shouldn’t listen in.

…but Rory couldn’t hear all the way over there and…well, curiosity wasn’t only Bruce’s bane.

“Is she in the system as well?”

“Sadly no, she’s passed. Father’s passed too. He lived with his grandfather until he died, then entered into care. He’s been in three other foster homes. The first two were before my time, but they were…bad.”

“I see.”

“Read the file,” Candice advised, “I’ll be by to visit tomorrow to answer any questions you have.”

Tim hurried quickly back to the sofa, ignoring Rory’s snort as he fought and clawed his way up. He sat Teddy onto his lap and tried to look innocent as Bruce opened the door. The man paused, eyes zeroing on Tim immediately. He gave the man a clueless smile. Bruce’s eyebrow quirked. “What are you up to?”

Tim cocked his head to the side (in what he hoped was) a cute way. “Huh?”

From where he sat Rory let out a laugh and then slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. A smile curved across Bruce’s lips as he crossed the room, lifting Tim up and settling him in his lap as he sat. “Alfred’s gonna bring us snacks.”

“Is he?” Bruce said, sounding amused.

“Uh huh.” Tim rested his head against Bruce’s chest as he looked up at the man. “Thanks for not telling them about Rory, B.”

Bruce chucked his chin. “No problem, chum. But we do need to talk about that.”

Tim winced at Rory’s sigh. Sorry, buddy. “We do?”

“We do.” Bruce affirmed. “Me being Batman is a big secret Tim, one that no one can know. Rory’s already agreed to keep it,” the door opened and Alfred reappeared with a tray. Bruce was still talking, going on about secrecy and such, but Tim’s eyes had locked on the cookies displayed in an attractive circle. “Tim,” Bruce said with a sigh, “are you listening?”

“Yeah,” Tim answered distractedly as he reached over to grab at the cookies.

“Master Tim,” Alfred admonished, “please do not grab from the plate when I am walking, wait until I’ve set it down.”

“Sorry, Alfred.” Tim apologized, but still shoved the stolen cookie into his mouth. “‘m not gonna tell anyone,” Tim promised as he crunched at the Oreo, God he was so glad he and Bruce shared the same favorite cookie. Dick’s was cinnamon sugar cookies and Jason’s had been fig rolls – because he was a freak like that – and he doubted Alfred had any of those lying around. “I’m good at secrets.”

There was another sigh from Bruce.

Tim paused from where he was mouthing at the chocolate, turning to look at the man. As always, Bruce’s face was calm and collected, but Tim could see the worry in his eyes. He took the cookie from his mouth with a frown. He reached out, wrapping his fingers around the curve of Bruce’s thumb and palm.

“B,” he stared up at the man steadily, eyes serious. “I’m good at secrets.”

Bruce’s gaze was conflicted as it stared down at him, but he gave a slow nod. “I know you are, Tim.”

He reached out, a thumb brushing at the edge of Tim’s mouth and Tim balked when it came away covered in black cookie crumbs. He flushed, shoulders hiking up. Damn’t, what does a man have to do to have some gravitas here?

“I really am,” Tim continued on as he spun around, talking quickly in his embarrassment. “I’m all wrong and no one ever found out till Rory.”

Which was true, not even his nanny’s thought something was off with him other than just being ‘really, really smart’ or a ‘little genius Drake.’ Only Rory really figured out there was something more going on, even if he was pretty far off the mark. But to be fair –

“Hey,” Bruce said, something sharp in his voice, and Tim paused in where he was carefully deconstructing an Oreo to get at the middle to look at him. Bruce was staring at him intently, a mix of emotions in his eyes too muddled for Tim to read. He blinked when a large hand reached out, cupping his cheek. “There is nothing wrong about you, Tim. Do you understand? You’re perfect how you are.”

Tim dropped the cookie.

He stared at the man, stunned silent. That wasn’t true, Tim knew that wasn’t true. “But…” Tim fumbled, “I’m…weird.”

He was annoying, was what he was.

He’d always been that way, even before being thrown back in time. No one had wanted to be friends with him; the weird little kid that had been skipped a few grades; always younger, always smaller, always smarter, always too other. It hadn’t gotten better as he aged. He annoyed people all the time; even the others on his teams, even the other Robins. How many time had a snappish, frustrated comment been thrown his way about being a know it all, or for finishing other people’s sentences?

(Tim tried really hard not to do that and he’d gotten better with age, but it just that everyone was so slow sometimes, it was hard not to when Tim already knew what they going to say.) Even his own father had grown to resent him at the end, overshadowed by Tim’s successes with on DI’s board and with his projects, long before he’d even taken the CEO spot.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, a thumb running gently over his cheek. “You’re not. There’s not a single thing about you I’d want to change.”

Tim blanched. He wanted to make a joke that Bruce just didn’t know him yet, but his throat felt all clogged up, his voice stolen. He gaped like a fish up at the man instead.

“He’s right,” Rory said quietly from where he was sitting. Tim turned to his friend, who was watching him with a fierce frown on his face, his blue eyes hard. “You’re not weird at all, Timmy. And even if you were, I like your weird. You’re my friend.”

Oh no. Tim felt his lip wobble. He tried to force it back, but felt his breath begin to hitch. He hid his face in Bruce’s chest instead, fingers curling tight into his sweater. Bruce’s arms folded around him, holding him tightly.

“It’s okay, chum.”

Life at Wayne manor slipped into a regular schedule pretty quickly for Tim. Of course he’d lived here before, both in his old timeline and this one (for however short) and so maybe that was to be expected. Rory settled in with a little less grace, but still with the unnerving ease of a foster kid. Their stuff was brought over from the Hughes’ house, which was kind of depressing given that it was two small duffle bags each. 

He had a ton stuff over at his house, but to think that was really all that Rory had made him sad. Bruce seemed to think so too, as one of the first things he did was take them shopping. They were in disguise again, Bruce in a t-shirt and jeans, a black jean jacket thrown on over top and a Gotham Knight’s hat pulled low over his face, and in one of the more reasonably priced cars Bruce owned.

For shits and giggles, Tim made Bruce buy him and Rory matching caps at the first sports store they saw, and he keep tugging it down to hide his features as he hummed the Mission Impossible theme to himself. A hand popped the brim of his cap, making it smack into his nose. Tim squawked in outrage, yanking it up to glare at the offender. Rory was walking next to him but turned away, looking at the mall store fronts. His head whipped to look at Bruce, only to find him typing away on his phone, one hand in his pocket.

At his attention, Bruce paused in his typing, looking down at him. “Yes?”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “I know it was you.”

“Hm?” Bruce blinked down at him. “Something wrong?”

Tim’s eyes narrowed even further.

“You got something in your eyes, bud?” 

Tim threw his finger at him in a violent point of accusation – only to yelp as his brim popped back down again – from behind this time. Tim spun around, hand yanking the hat back up. Rory was standing before a kiosk, seemingly enthralled by the price list.

“You – You!”

Rory’s turned to look at him, expression innocent. “What’s up?”

Sputtering, Tim’s head whipped from Rory to Bruce – who were both looking at him in puzzlement. “Mean!”

Bruce laughed and Tim gasped as he was swung up into the air, stomach swooping as he free fell for a few seconds before he was caught. “Just a little fun, chum,” Bruce soothed as he settled Tim on his hip. He nodded to a nearby (designer) children’s store. “How about we go in here?”

“I don’t care.” Tim said with a huff, resting his head on Bruce’s shoulder and stuck in his thumb in his mouth, sucking it with a petulant air.

Rory was less sure. “It, uh, it looks expensive.”

Bruce gave the boy an amused look. “I promise you I can afford it.”

His friend blushed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I know, Mr. Wayne –”

“Bruce.”

“ – but I feel bad.” Rory finished, ignoring the interjection. “You don’t have to – I mean, I’m fine with what I have.”

“I know I don’t have to,” B said, wrapping an arm around Rory’s shoulder and guiding him into the shop, “but I want to. So don’t worry about it, okay?”

Rory let him usher him inside, though Tim could tell he wasn’t sold on it. As he watched, Rory meandered through the store, Bruce and Tim a few paces behind him. He bit his lip to keep from snickering as Bruce deftly grabbed anything that the brunet paused or even looked at. By the time Rory turned around, a single shirt from the clearance rack and still looking somewhat disturbed by its price tag, a store employee had been wrangled to start carrying the excess.

Rory eyes went as round as dinner plates, staring as Bruce plucked the shirt from his hand and handing it to the employee. “And this please, ring it up.”

“Of course, sir. Would there be anything else?”

“We still need to get underwear –”

“I’ll get that! I can get that on my own!” Rory said quickly, his blush growing even deeper. Bruce just gave him a wide grin.

“Grab some socks too, alright? At least ten pairs, each.”

If possible, Rory’s eyes grew even larger as he mouthed the word ‘ten’ to himself, before wandering off to the intimates, looking stunned. By the time they left the store Rory was nearly the bright red, stuttering through of a series of ‘thank yous’ and ‘you’re really didn’t have tos.’ Bruce just ruffled his hair.

“Are we done now?” Tim asked, feeling somewhat sleepy as he nuzzled into Bruce’s collar.

“Almost done.” The man said as they strolled through the mall. They stopped in front of a large bookstore, a religious one. “You want to step in, Rory? I called ahead, they have several Hebrew primers.”

Rory paused, staring at the store cautiously. “…they do?”

“Yeah, for all stages. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to brush up a bit before we get you enrolled in cheder.”

The older boy’s head snapped over to stare at him. “You’re enrolling me in a cheder?”

“Sure we are.” Bruce said, seemingly unaware of the way Rory’s entire expression had lit up or the way his eyes had grown glossy. Seemingly, of course, because Tim doubted that anything got past the man. “I thought about a local yeshiva, but you said you went to a regular school when you lived with your grandfather. I was looking at Gotham Academy for you – and Tim, too, once he starts pre-school. A cheder is a good way for you to keep up with your studies. I went to one when I was younger, too, you know. It’s been a while since I’ve practiced, so I’m probably a little rusty. What do you think, Rory?” He sent the watery eyed a boy a wink, “willing to help an old man like me sharpen up my own Hebrew?”

Rory stared at Bruce, seemingly at a loss. Then he seemed to come back to himself, looking away quickly as he ran a sleeve over his eyes. “Yeah, B-Bruce. I’d like that.”

The smile that lit up Bruce’s face was practically luminescent. Seriously, Tim was almost blinded by it. He let out a huff, smiling to himself as he lowered his head back down. Not for the first time, Tim mused over how Bruce seemed to be made to be a father. Sure, Bruce was a hell of a businessman, a shark in the water, and WE had always been Top Three when it came to company profits globally. And he was brutally efficiently as Batman, a true legend for all non-Metas to live up to by Tim’s time. He was a social adept as well, capable of wooing and threatening all types to get what he wanted. But none of those things seemed to make him actually happy. The only thing that Tim had ever seen actually make him happy was being a parent.

You could see it now, with how hard he was trying for Rory, a boy he wouldn’t have even met if Tim hadn’t forced it into being. Alfred had begun cooking kosher in the second kitchen, keeping and preparing Rory’s food in a separate place from the rest of theirs, and Rory had only mentioned in passing that he’d grown up kosher. Tim had even caught Bruce on a call with Lucius Fox this morning, asking what synagogue he went to. He wouldn’t be surprised if the whole family ended up at it one of these Saturdays. Bruce was staunchly an atheist. Tim didn’t think he’d even been in a place of worship outside of business or funerals since his own parents had died. He’d also already bullied Rory into ordering new sheets and a bedspread he liked, as well as picked out a color for his room’s walls. Tim had picked his out, too. The painters were at the house now, actually.

They’d been at the manor three days.

He wondered if it’d been like this for Dick and Jason as well. He’d gotten some version of it, as had the kids who’d come after him, but this was…different. Lighter. This was Bruce at twenty-six, young and unbroken, and much freer with his emotions than Tim had ever seen. He nuzzled into Bruce’s shoulder, humming contently when Bruce’s cheek came to rest against his head. Tim loved it when he did that.

“Mr. Wayne!” A voice shouted at them as they exited the book shop, Rory holding the bag of his newly bought language books close to his chest. Bruce stiffened then shifted, rolling the bags in his hand down his arm before grabbing Rory’s hand and walking calmly, but quickly in the opposite direction.

Tim peeked over Bruce’s shoulder, eyes widening at the young red head all but trotting after them. Holy shit, it was Vicki Vale. Tim hadn’t thought about that bottom feeder in years. She was wearing a tight pencil skirt with an even tighter blouse, her purse flopping about her as she closed the distance between them at an impressive rate given the height of her heels.

“Keep your head down, Tim.” Bruce instructed briskly and Tim obediently ducked his head back into Bruce’s shoulder. “Rory, can you take the bags?”

“Y-Yeah,” Rory stuttered, looking wide-eyed and nervous. “Um, is she gonna hurt us?”

Bruce inhaled sharply, head jerking over to stare at the ten-year-old. He let go of Rory’s hand to wrap around his shoulders, tugging the boy into his side. “No, she’s just annoying.”

“Oh.” Rory said shakily, but looked relived.

They’d made it outside the mall by the time she caught up with him. “Mr. Wayne, Mr. Wayne!”

Bruce cursed, picking up speed as they made their way to their car. “No matter what she says, don’t answer. Just keep your head down.”

“Mr. Wayne!” Vale said breathlessly as she came up abreast to them, her chest heaving in a way that seemed just a little too quick for how little she’d actually run, unless the woman was just that out of shape. It did make her breasts pop, which Tim was sure was the intended effect. “And just who are these charming young men?”

“No comment.”

“Oh come on, Bruce!” Vale almost sung, her eyes gleaming, “your adoring public wants to know. How about you, handsome? What’s your name?”

From his hiding spot in Bruce’s neck, Tim heard Rory’s give a quiet choked sound. He yanked free so fast he smacked Bruce’s chin with his head, but he ignored the fleeting pain to check on his friend. Rory had shrunk into Bruce’s side, face hidden in the folds of Bruce’s coat. Vale’s arm was frozen mid-reach, Rory’s baseball cap in her grip. Bruce’s hand was wrapped tightly around her wrist, keeping it still.

The man looked furious.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you to keep your hands to yourself, Ms. Vale?” The ice in that tone would have caused even the Supes to shiver. It took every inch of Tim’s willpower to keep from cackling at the sound of it; maybe Vicki Vale wasn’t going to grace the top of Bruce Wayne’s ‘You Put Your Dick in That?’ list this time around. It was a hard tossup between her and Talia, but while Talia may be batshit, the woman at least had class.

“Oh my,” Vale breathed out, sounding delighted, “is that little Timmy Drake?”

Tim froze.

Fuck, should have kept his head down.

Bruce was already moving, unlocking the car and tossing their purchases carelessly in the space between the front and back seat, clipping Tim quick and efficiently into his seat. Tim winced when he heard the click of a camera. Vale said nothing more, but she didn’t have to. She got her scoop already. When Tim craned his head to look at her as they reversed out their spot, she was already engrossed in her reporters pad.

“Who was that?” Rory asked, sounding winded.

“A reporter, Vicki Vale. She writes for the Gazette, does the society page.”

Rory chewed on that for a moment, his hands brushing over and over his hoodie, as if self-soothing. “How did she know we were there?”

“She’s a society reporter, that’s what she does.” Bruce explained. “She follows the rich and famous of Gotham around, reports their lives. People are interested in it. Damn if I know why, we’re a boring lot.”

The boy bit his lip, looking thoroughly weirded out. “She followed you? That’s...”

The ‘scary’ went unsaid, but Rory didn’t need to say it. Tim reached out and Rory gave him a small smile, reaching back to take his hand. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” Bruce said as they pulled up to a red light, “I’ll do better at keeping her away from you, but she wouldn’t hurt you. Just tell her ‘no comment’ and find me or Alfred.”

Rory nodded, though he still looked extremely disconcerted. Bruce was watching them in rearview mirror, brows furrowed.

“Rory.” The boy looked up, still chewing on his bottom lip. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

Rory nodded again, slower this time, and Bruce’s brows furrowed even deeper. The light turned green before he could say anything else though and Bruce neatly pulled them onto the highway. The ride home was mostly silent – or at least Tim thought it was, he drifted off not long after that conversation. Damn car seat, it was like some sort of black magic. He never fell asleep in cars like this that he could remember, yet the moment he was placed in the back of Bruce’s car and into one of those contraptions he seemed to drift off.

The fall out hit the next morning.

He was in Bruce’s arms, dressed for the day but still rubbing the flakes off his eyes, feeling lazy and sleepy as he sucked on his thumb, when Rory came flying out of the kitchen. The boy slammed into Bruce and bounced off, smacking hard into the door frame. Bruce’s hand shot out to steady him but froze before making contact. Rory’s face was flushed, tears flowing freely. The boy stared at them before darting off.

“Rory, wait!” Bruce shouted, half turning to follow.

“Master Bruce.” Alfred called from the kitchen, voice tight. He approached with a newspaper in his hand, lips flat and dark eyes glittering with anger. The Gotham Gazette was handed over and Tim gasped. The front page had a blown up picture of a shot up pawn shop, blood stains visible on the cracked glass windows. An EMT was leading a tiny boy out of it, a shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The boy’s face was splattered with blood; eyes hollow even from the distance the photo was taken. Just under that was the photo of the three of them together at the mall and a smaller one of Tim with his parents. The article title read ‘Bruce Wayne Adopts Drake Heir and Slaughter Survivor?!

The newspaper crumbled under the force of Bruce’s grip.

“Forgive me, Master Rory enjoys the comics. He got to the papers before I had a chance to check.” Alfred said quietly. Bruce inhaled harshly through his nose, before releasing it.

“It’s done.” He said flatly and Tim winced. He handed Tim over to the butler and Tim went willing, curling around Alfred. He could practically taste the self-recrimination coming off the butler. “Make sure Tim gets his breakfast.” Bruce said as he turned on his heel, making his way towards were Rory had disappeared, calling a sharp, “from now on, the papers are delivered straight to my room,” over his shoulder.

Alfred was quiet as he moved back into the kitchen and Tim went without his usual fight into his high chair, sitting meekly as the man buckled him in. “What kind of juice would you like this morning, Master Tim?”

“Apple, please.”

He picked at his dinosaur shaped toast as he watched the butler wipe down the already immaculate counter, lips pursed. Bruce was always a bit of dick when he was upset and while he didn’t mean to take it out on those around him, he did more often than not. He’d gotten better when he’d gotten older – not by much, but better all the same. It had taken until Tim was an adult himself to understand why Bruce was like that.

Most of it, naturally, came down to losing his parents so young. But it also came from Alfred, from the strange relationship that he and Bruce had to be more blunt. Alfred was both a father-figure to Bruce and not. While he’d definitely guided Bruce into adulthood and had done more than the Wayne’s had a chance to do (and done a hell of a fine job of it at that) he was also Bruce’s butler. There were some lines that Alfred would – could – not cross. If that was because of loyalty to Bruce’s parents, or to the fact that his father (and his grandfather, his grandfather’s father, and so on) had all been butlers, or just because he was very, very British, Tim wasn’t sure.

But that line was there none-the-less, even if Alfred sometimes wished it wasn’t. Even if Bruce sometimes wished it wasn’t. It had been the same for all the Wayne kids; most, if not all of them, were orphans. Alfred was a grandfather to them; even if the older man would never agree or demur away from it when one of them said it.

Stupid, if you asked Tim, to hold onto something like class and station in the modern age, in something like the Wayne family. But whatever – no one ever did ask Tim’s opinion and it was a battle that not only did he have no idea how to tackle, he didn’t even know where to start to do so. For all that Alfred loved them; he was a deeply private man. Still, Tim felt terrible watching the butler so dejected. Oh he seemed perfectly put together, but the sparkling state of the kitchen and the way he still was cleaning it spoke enough of the truth.

“He’s not mad.”

From where he was scrubbing away at a light switch, Alfred paused. “I assure you, Master Tim, he is quite mad. But not at you, nor at Rory.”

“He’s not mad at you either.”

The scrubbing paused a second time, then began to scrub again. “Eat your toast, Master Tim.”

With a sigh, Tim shook his head. Well, he tried. Breakfast ended with no sight of B or Rory, and the moment his feet touched the tile floor, Tim immediately took off to look for them, Alfred following behind them at a much more sedate pace. His first thought was to check Rory’s room, but a door open when it rarely was had him changing his direction abruptly. He found them in one of the small music rooms, the one that was done in emerald greens and cream, a trio of sitting areas framing a baby grand piano that rested in the middle of it.

Rory was shoved in a corner, half hidden behind a potted plant and the hang of a curtain. Strips of fabric hovered around and over him, a mantle of cloth that definitely weren’t a part of his pajamas draped over his shoulders. Bruce sat next to him, close but not touching, back against the wall, head tilted back and eyes closed.

Tim hesitated at the door, taking in the sight. “…Rory?”

His friend shuddered with a sob and Tim rushed forward, dropping to his knees in front of him, unease forgotten. He wrapped his arms around his friend, hugging him tightly. Rory let out another ragged sob, arm curling around Tim and pulling him close.

“We should make the Ragman eat her!” Tim announced hotly, furious and hurt.

“We will not.” Bruce said sharply, blue eyes snapping open to look at him. The Ragman seemed to hum with it’s own opinions, strips pulling free from Rory to swirl over his head like a little storm of fabric. “We will not.” Bruce repeated, firmer. “I will handle this.”

The low hum died down, the strips fluttering down to stroke at Rory’s hair like a caress. “It doesn’t matter,” Rory said miserably into his knees, “the Ragman doesn’t want to eat her. She’s not bad.”

Tim fucking begged to differ. A warning look from Bruce had the words dying on his lips though and Tim scowled, pressing his face into Rory’s shoulder. “We should sue her.”

There was a huff of a laugh from Rory. “Rich people.”

“I am very rich.” Tim agreed, and then paused. “I was very rich. B, am I still very rich?”

Bruce gave him an exasperated look. “You are still very rich, Tim.”

“Oh, good.”

“Why…” Rory started, voice hitching, “why did she have to bring that up?”

Bruce jaw clenched, fury flashing across his face before disappearing. “Reporters are like that.” He said, voice careful, “the freedom of the press can be a double edged sword.”

“I didn’t want to think about it.” The boy said, voice wretched, “I didn’t want people to know. Everyone knew in my old neighborhood, they always used to stare at me and my saba, like – like we were some kind of freaks. Kids at my school used to ask me about it.”

Fuck, kids were cruel, Tim thought as he tried to squirm even closer.

“I should have died.” Rory moaned, “I was there when they robbed us. I should have died with them.”

“I’m very glad you didn’t.” Bruce said very, very quietly.

Tim’s head popped from Rory’s side, thoroughly alarmed at the tone. The look on Bruce’s face was – was – and shit, shit of course. This has to be triggering as hell for him; Rory’s family had apparently been gunned down in front of him, just like Thomas and Martha Wayne had been in front of Bruce. God, what he could do? Tim was too small to hug both of them!

“Y-You don’t understand,” Rory choked out, curling tighter in on himself. The Ragman wove around them, parts of it swirling in agitation, the other tightening around Rory’s limbs. “Saba – Saba went to go see a friend’s grandbaby. He wasn’t there and he should have been! Because the Ragman could have stopped it! And then papa and Rosie – ! I was so angry, ‘cause he should have been there and I was so mean to him and then he died! He thought I hated him; I never got to tell him I didn’t! That’s why – that’s why I – I should have died!”

The last words were an anguished wail; a terrible, wounded thing. It was too much for Bruce, even with his own wariness for the Ragman. His foster father scooped Rory up and into his arms, Ragman be damned, shushing him as he rocked in place.

The fabric swirled around before wrapping tightly around them, encasing the two. But it wasn’t aggressive, instead it almost seemed like a hold in itself; a cradle. Tim shook in place as he stared at the meltdown, tears and snot running down his own face. Hands lifted him and Tim immediately turned into the hold.

“I don’t wanna go,” He managed to get out, even as he clung desperately to Alfred, “please, I don’t wanna go. I don’t want to leave them.”

“We aren’t going to.” Alfred said, voice firm. He cradled Tim to his chest with one arm as he crossed the small space between them and Bruce. His foster father looked up at their approach, expression devastated. He physically felt the butler hesitate, then Alfred reached out, his hand resting gently on the back of Bruce’s neck.

Bruce’s eyes widened before he ducked his head, hiding himself, and focused once more on Rory, whispering something too quiet for Tim to hear in the boy’s ear.

That afternoon found them all bundled up on the couch, under what was a truly excessive amount of blankets. Fussing was how Alfred showed his love though, so Tim knew better to object to it. It was practically a furnace under them all, with Bruce in the middle and Tim and Rory on either side of him. A movie was playing in the background, volume low. A spread of snacks and hot chocolate rested on the coffee table, Rory’s and Bruce’s cups (but not Tim’s, though Alfred did let him get away with a second cup before cutting the toddler off) being topped off whenever they went cold.

Rory had drifted off to sleep almost immediately, exhausted from his outburst. The Ragman had retreated, seemingly a hoodie once more. Tim just didn’t understand it; the body of the suit itself seemed to be so much larger – perhaps even larger than Rory himself. He’d seen both the hoodie react as if sentient, and seen the strips of fabric flow from Rory’s body, underneath his clothes. It didn’t seem to matter what type of clothes he was wearing either. Case and point; Rory had been in a t-shirt all morning, arms bare and free from any fabric.

And when he’d pulled his shirt up to wipe at his face earlier, just when he’d finished crying, Tim had seen only a handful of disturbing scars but no fabric. Just where the hell was the suit hiding? How did it work? Were there actually any rules or limits it had to follow?

It was these thoughts (and most definitely not his own feelings on what his best friend had just gone through or the startling amount of vulnerability from his ever-stoic father he’d witnessed) that kept Tim from drifting off into his own nap. Alfred had done his damnest to facilitate one though, giving him warm milk and tucking Teddy in with him, even going as far as to give Tim one of his nighttime pacifiers – which he sucked soothingly on now.

Tim was even tired, yet sleep evaded him. Still, he stayed curled up in a ball against Bruce’s side, eyes closed, and just tried to enjoy the man’s presence. The hand that had been resting on his back, stroking up and down every now and then, or foraying into his hair at whim, lifted away. The act brought Tim from the half-asleep state he was in and away from his sluggish thoughts about the Ragman. He watched through tired eyes as Bruce dialed a number on his cell phone and brought it to his ear.

“Lucius. I want you to buy the Gazette.” A pause. “It would.” Another pause. “I don’t care what it looks like. Just do it. And fire Vicki Vale.”

Tim grinned around his pacifier.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Rory? Can I ask you a question?”

“Huh? Sure.” Rory grunted, distracted from how he was lifting Tim up by one arm to help him stand over a fallen log. They’d taken to exploring the Wayne property in their free time, the massive property large enough to keep them occupied for huge swathes of time. Alfred hadn’t been terribly keen on the idea and there was no way that Tim could have gotten away with it on his own, but Rory was considered old enough to keep them out of trouble. Plus – as Bruce had pointed out – he had the Ragman to keep them out any danger. Rory had also been entrusted with a cell phone, preprogrammed with the manor’s home line and Bruce and Alfred’s personal numbers.

Tim had subtly introduced the idea at the start of their second week in the manor. Rory had been enrolled into fifth grade at Gotham Academy, but school wasn’t scheduled to start until the second week of September which left them with a ton of free time on their hands. Rory had started going to temple on Saturdays with Bruce and the Foxes, and Tim (guiltily) was extremely relieved he wasn’t expected to attend. Don’t get Tim wrong, he would have gladly gone if Rory had asked him to but – well. Tim was about as religious as Bruce.

So they didn’t really do a whole lot during the week save for Saturdays. Sure, Alfred had his own version of Janet’s Schedule, with structured time for learning (which had added a whole new level of monitoring on Tim’s part, because it took him way too long to realize that the sneaky Englishman had been upping the difficulty of the workbooks he’d been giving Tim) and play. Tim got to take more naps as a part of the schedule, which was a massive plus. Bruce took them out to do something fun on the weekend after temple, usually to a nice lunch and then to some attraction. They’d hit up the aquarium so far and gone on a nice hike, which had been a novel experience. Tim had never been in a child back carrier, but it’d been pretty fun. He’d felt super tall.

But still, they were growing boys with a whole lot of time on their hands, so it’d only taken a few nudges here and there for the powers that be to allow them to explore. Tim was slowly guiding them towards the property line with the Drakes, timing how long it took his baby legs to get there. He had to go get his laptop at some point, after all.

“How did you know that it was B?”

“What, back in the city?”

“Uh huh.”

Rory shrugged, looking uncomfortable. That was his go to anytime that anyone brought up the Ragman, though. “Ragman can usually recognize, uh, I guess people’s souls, if he’s touched it once before. It’s not like it tells me who they are or anything like that. I recognized Bruce because of the zoo.” He let out a breath through his teeth, cheeks puffing. “...there’s a lot I don’t know or get about it. My grandpa had a heart attack, it was really quick. He didn’t get a chance to tell me a lot or train me. My dad – he knew everything. It was supposed to go to him.” He admitted quietly.

“That’s part of why I need my Torah.” He continued, just as quietly. “It’s got a lot of information in it, from those who had it before.”

“Bruce will find it.” Tim said confidently, even as he pursued his lips together. He hoped he did, because the Ragman was a hell of weapon to not know how to use. He let out a sigh of relief when stone wall that separated the two properties came into sight. Almost an hour and Tim was exhausted. There was no way he could make it here, cross the wall, make it back to his house, and then back to the manor on his own in a timely manner. Alfred would definitely notice.

Sighing in frustration, he turned to his friend, arms up. “Rory, I’m tired. Can you carry me for a bit?”

Rory snorted, but leaned down and picked him up. “Sure, squirt. I told you we should have taken more breaks.”

August came to Gotham; Tim’s cast finally came off, Voltron had been replaced by Ronin Warriors on Cartoon Network (Tim had been on the fence about it, but quickly came around – he was totally the Sage of the group), and a record breaking heatwave struck. Even with the manor’s multiple air conditioning units going full blast, the house was stifling, which had led to Tim’s current predicament.

“Come on, Tim,” Bruce said, lips quirked, “I promise it’ll be alright.”

From where he stood on the edge of the pool, Tim eyed the ornate Wayne pool suspiciously from underneath his yellow ducky swim hat. It was a striking thing, lined almost completely in black and white Vermont marble in stripes and arches, crystal blue waters reflecting the sun like a crystal.

Rory was bobbing happily on a pool noodle, hanging off of it by his armpits, legs splayed long and floating out behind him, and looking far, far too amused as he watched. Bruce stood at the bottom of the pool stairs; hands held out. Just out of the corner of his eye, Tim could see Alfred watching from underneath a pool umbrella, looking practically naked in only a cotton button up and waist coat.

“Come on, Timmy!” Rory called out, “don’t you want to try out your new floaties?”

Tim glanced down at the shark themed pool floaties on his arms in consideration. They apparently changed color in the water and Tim did kinda want to see that. He pursed his lips together; he was being silly. He’d swum in this pool a hundred – no a thousand times. He had pool wings on. Bruce was right there. He just didn’t remember the pool ever seeming so…big.

Deep.

What the hell, Tim, he thought, feeling a flair of irritation with himself. He was Red Robin. He once dismantled a bomb with no working fingers and a creative use of his tongue – he wasn’t afraid of the fucking family pool! He just had a second to catch the alarm on Bruce’s face before he was throwing himself off the edge. The water felt like ice on impact and Tim gasped on instinct, flailing as momentum took him under even as the pool floaties tugged him up.

Chlorinated water filled his mouth and Tim had a moment of blinding terror before strong hands were yanking him up. He was coughing the second his head breached the water and even though he’d only been underwater for seconds his nose burned as water poured from it. Tim’s fingers slid against slick skin before hooking over broad shoulders, blinking blearily around the sting of his eyes.

Terry cloth was suddenly wiping at his eyes and then his nose - Alfred was crouched at the edge of the pool, a towel in hand. The butler gave an owl-eyed Tim an admonishing look. “I believe the idea was for you to use the stairs, Master Tim.”

“That’s one way to get over your fears.” Bruce said, sounding a mix of amused and weary. Tim glanced up at him, finding the man staring down at him with fond expiration.

Tim blushed and looked away, feeling deeply offended and called out. “‘M not afraid of the pool.”

“My mistake,” Bruce said dryly, “do you want to get out?” Tim shook his head. “Are you sure? That was quite the dunk you took.”

“I’m sure. Feels nice.”

And it did. The sun was baking down on them, the air so hot that it drifted in visible waves off the concrete, and the pool water felt like a panacea.

“Here, Timmy.” Rory said as he waded over on his tip toes to keep his head above water. He held out the goggles and sun hat Tim had been wearing. “That was a huge splash you made; they made it way over to me!”

“Thanks, Rory.” Tim said as he tried to pull the goggles on. Bruce gently tugged them from his hands, dumping the pooled water in it before helping the plastic fit over his hair. The hat was returned in place, feeling pleasantly cool against his head. He watched as his friend slid onto his back, floating pose perfect. “You’re really good.”

Rory’s middle dipped immediately, concentration lost. “Nah, I just used to do swim at our JYMCA, but it’s been a real long time.”

“Would you like lessons?” Bruce asked, slowly swirling in the water.

“Oh, I – I mean, you don’t have to Mr. – Bruce.” Rory said weakly, but even Tim could tell that he wanted them. “They cost money.”

Bruce shrugged, reversing direction of their spin. Tim grinned; releasing the death grip he had on the man to let one hand trail after them in the water. “Luckily for all of us, I have a truly obscene amount of money.” He switched directions again, this time spinning a little faster and Tim giggled, letting go of Bruce’s middle so his legs dragged behind them. “And Rory, I do mean obscene. Honestly, you’d be helping me out.”

Rory ducked his head, but Tim could see the grin there. “…yeah, I mean, if it’s not a bother.”

“I’d let you know.” Bruce assured, switching directions again, Tim held out at arm’s length. “Don’t ever worry about that, I’d let you know if you were crossing any lines. I want you kids to be happy here and I know they say money doesn’t buy happiness, but really – have you ever seen someone upset on a jet ski?”

Tim knew one hundred percent that joke was stolen from something, but Rory clearly hadn’t heard it before, erupting into giggling laughs. “No.”

“Well, there you go.” Bruce said and then rolled onto his back. Tim let out a small eep of surprise, legs tightening reflexively around Bruce’s middle as cool water slid over his now submerged back. He felt some of his tension lessen when he realized he wasn’t going to go under – he was basically sitting on Bruce’s chest – but he still glanced around nervously.

“Um…don’t – don’t let go.”

“I won’t.” Bruce reassured and didn’t take them any deeper in the pool either, just doing slow laps around the shallow end. Eventually Tim relaxed enough to test out his new goggles, holding his breath and tilting his head under the water. His hat kept trying to float away, but it was kept in place by a strap that Tim loathed. It tugged at his neck like a leash with each of Bruce’s strokes but no matter how many times he tried to free himself of it, Bruce just pulled it back in place. “Sorry bud, Alfred’s rules. Sun’s too strong right now, hat says on.”

Sure enough, the butler was watching the exchange with a hawkish expression and Tim finally gave up, leaving the hat be. Eventually, Bruce coaxed Tim into an actual swimming lesson. Towards the end of it they made their way to the shallowest end, Rory following underwater like quicksilver and circling around them, before he popped up, his brown hair plastered to his forehead.

“Gonna try, Timmy?”

Tim nodded, chewing on his lips. “Yeah.”

He was an excellent swimmer before, this should be a piece of cake. Bruce let him drift away and Tim swallowed, gripping his hands tightly. “Alright, chum, I’m going to let go.”

“Um.”

“You ready?”

“Um.”

“Here we go.”

Bruce let go. Tim held his breath as his head started to go under even as his arms were held afloat, but Rory was there – his hands lifting him up. “Gotta kick your feet, remember?”

Of course, he did. That was swimming 101! Jesus, why was Tim like this? Stupid baby brain. “Let me go,” Tim said, determined, “I’m gonna do it.”

“You sure?” Rory asked.

“Yeah. I’m gonna do it.”

“Kick your feet.” The brunet advised and let go. Tim kicked his feet, staying afloat this time, and while it was the most ungraceful set of movements of his entire life – he crossed the distance between him and Bruce.

Rory let out a cheer as Bruce swept him up. Tim instinctively wrapped his legs back around foster father’s hips. He glanced up, ready to tell Bruce he wanted to try again because that monstrosity could not be left to stand as his only attempt – only to startle to find the man beaming down at him, as if crossing that miniscule distance between them with all the grace and finesse of a beached fish was somehow noteworthy.

“Good job, Tim.” Tim’s breath caught, chest aching. Straight forward praise like that had been…had been really fucking rare from Bruce in his time. From any point of it. Bruce bopped him in the water, still grinning at him. “I knew you could do it.”

Tim let out a ragged breath, suddenly grateful for the stupid hat when he could duck his head and hide his crumbling expression behind it.

“Hey,” Bruce said quietly, “hey bud, can you look at me?”

Tim shook his head frantically, pressing his forehead flat against the man’s pecs. Water glided around them, then pulled away like a weighted blanket.

“Everything alright?” He heard Alfred ask just before a sun warmed towel was wrapped around him.

Bruce hummed his affirmative, “I think we just need a break for a bit.”

“Just so, sir. Perhaps the young master would enjoy some water or juice? The cooler is full.”

“Not a bad idea.” Bruce agreed. Tim ignored the interplay, keeping his face hidden. They tilted as Bruce sat in one of the pool chairs, Tim tucked against his chest.

“Is he okay?”

“Just taking a small break, shall I throw the rings for you, Master Rory? I’ll time you.”

Tim ignored the conversation, trying to pull his trembling emotions together. Bruce let him have his moment, sitting in silence together, his hand a securing weight against his back. With the towel over his head, the world seemed small. Safe. There was nothing but the sound of Rory’s splashing and Alfred’s calm calls of times, the sticky-warmth of Bruce’s skin against his own, the pink of the towel, back lit by the sun.

After a moment, Tim poked his face free of his sanctuary. Bruce was watching the action in the pool and he took a moment to just observe the man. How could someone change so much? No, that was a stupid question. Life did what life wanted; no one was free from it, you just tried to keep yourself moving long enough that it stung less by the time you finally had to stop. Tim could hardly claim to be a well-adjusted adult. Hell, he’d basically been – and still was if he was honest – just a basket full of trauma hoping he had a nice enough bow on that no one would notice.

Just look at how he ended up here; well-adjusted thirty-eight-year-olds don’t buy a tropical island and go full blown hermit. It was just – God, he wished he could have had this from the start. He felt his lip wobble, blinking hard as he teared up. Grief threatened to swallow him up and what was worse was that he didn’t even feel like he had a direction to point it. Bruce didn’t ask to lose this part of himself, the part that gave hugs so easily and was so proud over something so pathetic as managing to doggy paddle an inch.

No one had forced Tim’s parents to give birth to him. Fate had just aligned that he’d be born to a man and a woman who were so self-involved and neglectful that something this simple could knock Tim straight on to his ass.

“Tim?” The gentle call had him blinking and he realized that Bruce was watching him, brows creased in concern. “Want to tell me what you’re thinking in that big brain of yours?”

“…I…” Tim faltered. “I’m bad at swimming.”

“You’ll get better.” A hand reached up, knuckles brushing over his cheek. “I’ll help you.”

Tim’s eyes fluttered shut, leaning into the touch. He wanted to keep this Bruce forever, he just didn’t know how. “…I really want you to be my daddy.”

Tim let out a sigh as he was gathered close, snuggling into the firm hold. He felt rather than heard the deep inhale Bruce took, the man’s nose nestled against the crown of Tim’s head. “I know, Tim.”

No promises, no guarantees. The papers may have said Bruce had adopted them, but in truth it was still a foster placement. Tim pursed his lips. The silence was bizarre; Jack and Janet had to know he’d been removed from their care; his placement with Bruce may have been regulated to page seven and beyond of the papers by now, but the public were still talking about it. They should have responded by now. Interviews and statements of defense in the press – the PR department at DI should have been running itself ragged trying to pump out a counter narrative.

Tim needed his laptop.

Or – well, a laptop.

Tim gently eased his closet door shut. It wouldn’t close completely due to the laptop cables; damn thing had to be plugged in constantly or it would die and Tim had nearly lost his life liberating an ethernet cable long enough to reach from the outlet to the closet, but he didn’t want to risk anyone seeing the light and coming into investigate considering he had, technically, stolen said laptop.

Honestly, he doubted that either Bruce or Alfred would notice; the thing was ancient even by current standards (decrepit, by Tim’s) but a laptop was a laptop, and the thing had been disregarded in what the Wayne kids had always called the ‘computer graveyard’ (one of the spare closets a few doors down from B’s office) and therefore absconded with by Tim during an extremely harrowing escape from nap time.

And no, Tim wasn’t bleary eyed and tired from missing his last naptime and staying up so late. Nor was he going to acknowledge that nine at night was now late for him. Still, he wished he had some coffee with him. Nothing went with digital breaking and entering like a solid cup coffee. Nonetheless Tim embarked on his digital warpath, cracking his knuckles (which did not, in fact, make any sound or achieve the desired results, but Tim like routine and he’d always done that before he really got into hacking something and thus – it had to be done) and set about sneaking his way into the DI network.

He logged onto the broker website while he was at it and begun the laborious process of downloading the chat messenger, before minimizing it and pulled up the DI website. It was so easy to clone an employee ID and get into the mainframe that Tim almost felt robbed of a challenge. He definitely had to fight the urge to fix the security holes he found. It took him less than an hour to be able to track his parents movements (they were in France) and get into Jack’s email account.

He brows furrowed in confusion as he stared at the emails of hotel reservations, flight bookings, car rentals, permit requests and negotiations – just…pages of stuff that had nothing to do with Gotham, with Tim. He’d scrolled through three pages before he finally found an email dated from a week before from Alex Fitzgerald, his father’s personal lawyer. The subject line read Re: Wayne. Tim clicked into it, eyes darting to the most recent email. It was from his father to Fitzgerald.

Alex,

Calm down.

It doesn’t matter what he, or this Batman character, threaten. They won’t find anything. I have no idea why he wants him, but tell Wayne he can have the boy if he signs the NDAs. They’re iron-clad. No edits.

If he signs, run the press campaign. We’ll give it a few months for me to recover, and then announce Janet’s pregnancy. A good old ‘miracle baby,’ they’ll eat it up. Move forward with the surrogate in Brussels; Jan won’t budge about another pregnancy. She wanted a girl this time, but I put my foot down. Can you imagine?

JD

Tim stared at the email for a long moment in incomprehension, then took a sudden, shuddering breath. Then another. His parents had been so quiet because…He’d – He’d thought…if for their public image if nothing else…they’d…but they weren’t even planning on trying to get Tim back. They…

Numbly, Tim closed the laptop. He stumbled from the closet, pushing the stolen laptop underneath his mattress. He blinked when he met with resistance, glancing down at the taunt power cord. He walked over to the wall, unplugging it, then further over to where the Ethernet cord was, tugging it free too. He shoved them under the mattress and then just stared at it.

‘Move forward with the surrogate in Brussels.’

His parents were going to have another baby.

At least this time, he wasn’t the replacement.

That’s…that’s something.

He let out a hiccuping giggle, then another, then suddenly they were just pouring free. He shoved his hands against his mouth, trying to silence the sound. He sank to floor, curling into himself, forehead stinging where it pressed against the fiber of the nursery rug. Tears burned at his eyes, falling fat down his cheeks as he wheezed behind his hands.

Tim had always thought they’d at least fight to keep him. Honest, he did! How many times had he thought about it as Robin, how many times had he debated and dismissed the idea of telling Bruce about how he lived, about that fucking lonely house, because he’d been so worried about how the press would put a spotlight on Bruce? How naïve of him to think they’d even care enough for that. He really never meant anything to them, did he? Just a placeholder for a surname; a duty, a requirement. God, and here he was thinking he was too old for them to hurt him anymore! His throat ached as he howled into the rug, the sound a pitiful mix of a laugh and a sob.

The door to his nursery flung open, the floor beneath him vibrating as feet pounded towards him. From the corner of his eye, he could see a baby monitor clattering on to it’s side, it’s half-circle of lights blinking red in tune with the cries he could hear pouring out of it. Calloused fingers jerked the volume knob hard, silencing the queer echo.

“Tim,” Bruce was practically breathless, sounding as if he’d come at a sprint through the whole manor. “Timmy, sweetheart,” big hands were trying to get him to uncurl, but Tim refused to be moved, “please baby, are you hurt? Did you fall out of bed?”

Eventually he was just lifted, still curled in a tight ball, into B’s lap. Bruce’s hands were everywhere; sweeping over the line of his spine, tracing up neck, fingers probing into his hair, stroking down his arms and legs. When fingers were pressing under his chin, gently but insistently prying his face free, Tim finally let his hands drop. Relief and concern warred on his foster father’s face when he seemed to realize that Tim hadn’t hurt himself. Hands slid around his chest, tugging him up and into Bruce’s arms.

“Tim, what’s wrong?”

Tim shook his head before burrowing into Bruce’s shirt, pressing against the broad chest as if he could just slip in and disappear there. A hand rubbed his back, the other coming up to cup his head, fingers threading through his hair. They rocked slightly, sitting in silence save for the sounds of Tim deep, gulping breaths. It seemed like it took forever before Tim felt confident enough to release his death grip on Bruce and emerge from his hiding place. He pulled his face free, letting his head rest against his foster father’s shoulder in exhaustion.

The air of the room felt wonderfully cool against his flushed face and Tim took a deep breath through his nose, wincing at how congested it was. He pursed his lips in distaste; he could feel the snot hanging from his nose. He leaned back, bringing his arm up to swipe at his nose, only to still at the sight of his bare arms. He turned his head, thinking to wipe it on his shoulder – but Bruce’s hand came up, covered with the sleeve end of his shirt, and wiped his nose clean.

Tim stared at the man in front of him like he’d never seen him before in his life.

Bruce just rolled his sleeves up, flipping the now snot laden portion so it was hidden in fabric. Tim shut his eyes, letting out a shaky breath, and wondered when he was ever going to stop be blind sided by this soft version of Bruce Wayne. When he opened his eyes again, it was to find a matching – if slightly darker – pair staring down at him worriedly.

“Hey chum,” Bruce greeted, voice low, “there you are.”

“My mom and dad aren’t coming for me, are they?” The hand on his back froze. Bruce’s lips pursed, the skin around his mouth and eyes growing tight. Tim nodded to himself, eyes dropping to stare at where his hands were still hooked onto Bruce’s shirt. “They,” deep breath; steady on Tim, this isn’t a surprise, don’t act like it is, “don’t want me.”

“I want you.” Tim’s eyes dragged up to meet Bruce’s eyes again. The man was staring at him, more serious than Tim could ever recall seeing in civilian life. Big hands reached up, cupping his face. “I want you, Tim.”

Tim took a shaky breath. “Y-You do?”

A kiss was pressed to his forehead, featherlight, but the pressure stayed. Tim leaned into the contact. “I do.”

“Even if you adopt or - or have another baby? You won’t s-send me away?”

“Never,” Bruce murmured, his lips dry but so soft against his forehead, “I’ll never send you away, Tim. I want you here with me, I –” a hitched breath, “– I want to be your daddy. I want you to be my son.”

Tim let out a sob, arms snaking up to wrap around B’s neck. “You promise, daddy?”

Bruce shuddered, curling around Tim’s smaller body. “I promise, sweetheart.”

Tim’s eyes fluttered shut, nuzzling into the warmth of B’s neck, trembling. It was everything that Tim had ever secretly wanted to hear; a balm over aching scar tissue, the promise a reassurance to every fear that had haunted him throughout his childhood and teenage years.

Tim’s fingers tightened their hold on his father.

It was a promise he’d hold Bruce to.

It was September when the adoption was finalized. It was followed by a flood in the gossip and human-interest corners of Gotham’s newspapers and websites. There was no mention of CPS or that the Drake’s lost custody of their son, only a sob story about how Jack had been diagnosed with cancer, which was being treated by cutting edge science in France. Janet had opted to remain by her dying husband’s side.

‘Bruce has been a close family friend for ages,’ Janet was quoted as saying tearfully, ‘and with us being out of the country for the foreseeable future, it just was in everyone’s best interest for him to stay with him.’  It only made sense, she stated, that Bruce adopt Tim. The Drakes had no idea when they’d be returning to stateside – or even if both would be returning alive – and this way Bruce would be able to legally look after all of Tim’s needs. Janet herself was simply too overwhelmed caring for her dying husband.

Public opinion was mixed.

Tim had decided he didn’t give a shit and in his meaner moments, wished good old Jack would get the surprise of his life and actually develop cancer. So; September came and Tim was officially no longer a foster. In what Tim could only assume was a spiteful act against his parents given the literal book of NDA’s Bruce had signed agreeing to keep hush-hush about some of the less than legal dealings of DI and the custody case, Bruce had announced Tim as Timothy Wayne. His middle name, Jackson, was conspicuously absent from such a formal announcement. Tim had initially balked when Bruce had first asked him if he wanted to have his last name, but considering it was looking more and more like he was never going to get Drake Industries back if another baby was on the way, he’d decided it – fuck it, why not.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Are you mad that B didn’t adopt you, too?” Tim asked from where he was sprawled out in the game room, head resting on his hands. Rory glanced up from the puzzle they were working on, head cocking to the side in an a way that made him look utterly adorable.

“Nah, I’m good with being a Regan.”

“He did that ward thingy, though,” Tim pointed out, “that’s kinda the same thing.”

Rory gave him a small smile. “Kind of. He said it’s like, a step below adoption.” The brunet shrugged. “I’m okay with it.”

Tim bit his lip, before pushing a piece into place. The puzzle was one of Superman in flight, arm out in a fist and reaching towards the viewer. Tim had insisted they buy it just to fuck with Bruce; the two superheroes were just starting out on their journey of ultimate broship, still butting heads more often than not alongside an exhausted Wonder Woman. Seriously; one of the Metropolis’ newspapers snapped a photo of Superman and Batman mid bicker, Wonder Woman standing behind them, fingers messaging her forehead. Tim had cut it out and stuck it on his bedroom wall. There were several others up there; mostly of Batman, but there were a lot of Superman. Bruce took to Tim’s played up worship of Superman with a sort of horrified bemusement, which only inspired him to ham it up more.

Thus, the child sized Superman cape Tim was wearing - over his Batman shirt, of course. Tim wanted to tease B, not actually make him sad. “Do you want B to be your dad too?”

From where he was clicking a piece in place, Rory’s froze. “…no, I had a papa.”

“Oh.” Tim winced. Shit, that was insensitive; Rory had actually liked his father. “Sorry.”   

“No, it’s –” Rory huffed, running a hand through his hair, “I like B, a lot. Staying here has been…it’s been the best home I’ve ever had since I lost mine. I just – I could never call him papa. Papa was papa, you know?”

“He could be your uncle.” Tim offered, rolling onto his back, spreading his hands wide as he stared up at the ceiling. “Uncle B.”

Rory laughed. “Yeah, maybe.”

Tim let his hands fall to rest on his tummy, clasped. “Uncle Bats.”

Rory snorted. “Uncle Bats, you’re too much Timmy.”

“I’m really funny.”

“You are.”

“I know.” Tim rolled back onto his stomach, “still you gotta call him something when he’s smacking you around on the mats.”

In the absence of the family Torah and any type of guidance it could have provided, Bruce had taken to trying to explore just what the Ragman was down in the Cave. This included everything from picking up heavier and heavier things (both with the rags and by Rory himself), to figuring out just how high Rory could jump, to how fast he could run. A lot of it was touch and go since Rory had a hard time stopping the Ragman from reacting to him subconsciously, especially if he was in danger.

This naturally led to Bruce rolling out a detailed training regime that Tim was calling ‘Robin Lite™’ since it was rather light in offensive and incredibly heavy in defensive, as the goal was not to actually participate in vigilantism, but to avoid situations where Rory felt out of control enough for the Ragman to interfere. Whether or not the suit itself realized this was training was up for grabs, considering it responded to Bruce’s attacks with a vengeance.

Tim figured that had to do with Rory’s comfort level with Bruce though, because as the days and weeks passed, and Rory and Bruce began to find their feet around each other, the suit seemed to be reacting with less violence each time. Bruce could now reasonably get Rory in a hold so he could practice escapes without being punted away by infuriated strips of fabric on the regular. Still, if Bruce was upset by the instinctual responses, he didn’t show it. If anything, he seemed pleased by it. Tim snorted at the thought; a kid he adopted that came with a built-in self-defense system. That probably spoke very deeply to the paranoid man’s sensibilities, just as much as it put him on edge about Rory and the Ragman being discovered.

But even that was apparently less of a threat then feared, seeing how the suit seemed to react to Rory’s understanding for the need for secrecy. The boy had no way to explain it other then the ‘suit doesn’t do that, B, it’s never done that – not unless one of us has been in really, really, really big trouble.’

“Smacking me – you’re the most violent three-year-old I’ve ever met.” Rory said, sounding almost impressed.

“It’s cause I’m a meta.”

“You’re smart because you’re a meta.”

“It came with the super-smarts,” Tim argued, flicking a puzzle piece at his friend, “it was like, super-smarts, super-violence.”

“Tim, no.”

“Tim, yes.”

“Tim, no.”

“Tim, yes.” Tim shot back, grinning. “I pulled a knife once.”

“I know, I was there.” Rory said with a laugh, before pouncing on him. Tim shouted as he tried to wiggle away from the fingers tickling him, pushing away. He kicked with his foot, catching Rory in the side with a loud ‘ooph’ before desperately trying to crawl away. Fabric wrapped around his ankle, yanking him back into the tickles.

“That’s cheating! Powers are cheating!”

“Too bad, sucka.” Rory exclaimed, yanking up Tim’s shirt to blow a loud raspberry on his stomach.

“Noooo!” Tim screamed, trying to push Rory off his stomach, giggling as another loud raspberry was unleashed on his tummy. “I’m gonna pee!”

The pressure let up instantly, Rory rearing back in alarm. “You need the bathroom?”

Tim smirked up at him. “No.”

Rory clicked his tongue, annoyed. “Little shit.”

Then he dove back down, sending Tim into another series of squeals. “Stop, stop! I’m really gonna pee!”

“Not falling for that again, buddy.” The brunet warned, fingers digging into his sides. “Say uncle. Do it, Timmy, say it.”

“Uncle,” he managed to get out, “uncle, Rory!”

Rory rolled off him, looking terribly satisfied. “That’s what you get.” He pointed threateningly at him, “we don’t joke about potty time around here.”

“Sorry,” Tim managed, chest heaving. He rolled over, throwing an arm around his friend. Rory’s arm came up around him in response, tucking him close. “I’m really happy you’re here, Rory.”

Fingers brushed through his hair. “Me too, Timmy.”

And Tim was; he really, really was. He had never heard of Rory in the future he’d come from. Not as Rory Regan and not as Ragman. That thought terrified him, the thought that maybe Rory had never made it out of Gotham’s foster system or that he’d been eaten up by the city. The stats for young adults coming out of foster care were abysmal. He nuzzled further into his friend’s side, fingers running over the decal on his shirt. He felt caught on that grim thought, on all the what-ifs and could-haves.

“Hey Rory?”

“Yeah?”

“Um, can I – I mean, can you be my brother? Even if B isn’t your daddy too?” The hand in hair stilled. Tim waited with baited breath; he knew that Rory had once had a little sister. Even before he’d known that, Tim had just known that Rory had been a big brother. He’d had that same energy that Dick had always had. It was a selfish thing to ask, really. It was selfish to go around poking at where he knew Rory had weak spots. But Tim wanted and maybe – maybe Rory also wanted? He was fine with Uncle Bruce if that’s what Rory wanted, but maybe it’d be healing for Rory, to be a big brother again. And…Tim wanted it; Tim wanted Rory.

That was it really, that's what it came down to.

“Yeah,” Rory said, his voice choked and Tim felt a tension he wasn’t even aware of melt away, “I’d love to be your big brother, Tim.”

Tim threw himself up on top of the other boy, wrapping his arms tightly around the older boy’s neck. “I always wanted brothers.”

A hand came up to stroke his back, Rory’s eyes were squeezed closed, and when he spoke his voice was so full of grief it felt thick. “…I’ve never had one. I had a sister.”

“I love you.” It just popped out of him, completely free of thought or planning, but it was true. The moment Tim said it, he knew it was true. He loved this little boy who come into his life, loved him with every inch of his three-maybe-thirty-eight or was it forty-one body. “I love you, Rory.”

“Love you too, squirt.”

They rested in the silence of the game room, the beam of light that came from the window shifting slowly along their backs, both boys content to just to sit and absorb the warmth. Tim may have dozed off a bit (Rory too, but he wasn’t certain) when there was a soft knock on wood that made him jerk awake. He looked up from where he was drooling on the older boy’s shirt to find Bruce leaning in the arched entryway, watching them.

“Hey, kids. Dinner’s ready.”

Tim launched himself to his feet, ignoring the explosion of air from beneath him and the ‘Jesus, Tim, watch the elbows’ from a sputtering Rory.

“Daddy!” Tim shouted, “you’re – woah!” Almost face planted – but caught himself, all good, “Daddy, you’re home!” He threw himself at Bruce, arms wrapping tightly around his leg. He grinned up at his father, chin resting on the man’s thigh. “Hi, daddy.”

Bruce chuckled, expression devastatingly fond. Tim could never get enough of that look. A calloused palm brushed his bangs from his forehead. “Hi, Tim. Did you have a good day?”

“Uh huh. Rory said he was gonna be my big brother. You’re gonna be Uncle Bats, ‘cause you beat him up and stuff.”

There was a groan of his name from behind and when he glanced back, it was to find Rory’s pale features bright red. “He doesn’t beat me up, don’t say that. Dude, don’t say that to Candice.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Seriously, Timmy.” 

“I won’t!”

“Tim knows not to mention anything that happens in the basement, don’t you Tim?” Well damn, there went Bruce, making it all serious in stuff; takes the fun right out of it.

He huffed, leaning his head against B’s leg. “Yeah, I know. I was just being funny.”

“Alright,” Bruce agreed, “as long as you know. Anyway, dinner’s ready. Best not to keep Alfred waiting.”

“Okay, I’m coming Alfred!”

“Tim, don’t run.”

Obediently, Tim slowed his jog to a walk, kicking at the air in annoyance. “I’m coming slowly, Alfred!”

He heard Rory snigger “smart ass” softly behind him, but Bruce had ears like a bat – heh – and sure enough, there was a gentle, disappointed clearing of the throat.

“Language.”

“Uh – yeah, sorry, Uncle B.”

There was a split second of silence so heavy it had weight, which translated from Bruce-speak meant he was somewhere between startled and pleased. “Rory, you know you can call me whatever you’re comfortable with. You don’t have to cave to Tim’s whims.”

Whims, hah. Like Tim was some kind of tyrant.

“Yeah,” Rory said quietly, “I – I kind of like it though, if that’s okay with you?”

“Of course it is, Rory,” his father said, voice warm.

“It’s not – I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful.”

“Hey,” Bruce said gently and when Tim glanced back, it was to the sight of his father tucking the nervous boy close to his side, “of course not. I get it, I don’t think I could have called anyone dad but my dad. You call me whatever you want, it’s just a name. I’m just happy you’re here with us.”

Well, if he hadn’t been sure that Alfred had been listening through the baby monitor when they were in the room earlier, Tim was certain now. He probably retold that whole conversation between him and Rory word for word to the old man. Tim was gonna have to do something about the baby monitors. But what? Alfred would just buy more. But still – invasion of privacy much?

“Tim, buddy,” Bruce said, sounding exasperated as the duo easily caught up with him, “I don’t think you have to walk that slow.”

“Don’t wanna trip.”

“Well, okay then.”

“Boys,” Alfred appeared at the end of the hallway, looking distinctly unimpressed, “dinner is on the table – daily – at five thirty on the dot.” He then made a show of checking his watch. “It is now five fifty-five.”

Oh shit.

Tim picked up the pace.

Chapter Text

With some distance from what Tim’s mind had begun to refer to as ‘The Email,’ Tim began to untangle his parents reasoning. Tim was only three-years-old; they’d barely put any real work into him. Tim hadn’t debuted at any galas or parties, he hadn’t been enrolled in school, and the money they’d spent on his nannies and tutors were practically chump change at his point. He was basically a write-off. Another child was an easy do over at this point. And as Jack allowed his COO, a shark of a man named Pat Hubbard who was DI’s real CEO in all but name, to run his company so he could play in the dirt, there was no real reason they needed to be in Gotham. Sure they preferred to participate in Gotham’s social life just enough to not be forgotten, but being absent a few years like – oh say, five or more, which was just the amount of time it took for the statute of limitations for New Jersey to kick in – wouldn’t be that big of a deal. In fact, it probably would help them; time and distance would give the negative press and rumors time to die down. 

They could spend said years galloping around the world, living their dream as amateur archeologists while Tim’s younger sibling was raised in a completely different country – probably shipped off to the first boarding school they could find that would take them in at the youngest age possible – and having the time of their lives. So yeah, the play actually made perfect sense from a Drake point of view.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t just a teeny, tiniest bit, pissed about it.

From where he sat under his blanket (it was a really nice one, super soft and warm with a repeating pattern of puppies on it) Tim hollowed his cheeks as he tried to get every inch of Hi-C from his juice box. It was a little warm considering it was left over from lunch, but as he no longer had access to coffee anymore, raw sugar would just have to fill the gaping chasm in his soul. He hit the enter key with relish, giggling to himself as he deleted the last of all twelve of Jack and Janet’s credit card numbers from existence.

He let himself flop back, head resting on Teddy’s stomach as he grinned, trying to imagine the looks of his parents face when they tried to charge anything on one of their black or platinum cards and found out it didn’t work. He could see his father’s insulted bluster, his mother’s embarrassed titterings, their faces growing more and more red and furious as card after card failed to work. Jack would start threatening the staff, demanding that they fix whatever incompetence was causing the issue and don’t you know WHO I AM? Janet would go full Karen without a doubt, demanding the firing of the entire crew.

He didn’t realize how loud he was being until his door opened. Tim’s cackle cut off into a choke, leg flying over the laptop and forcing it closed. God damn baby monitors!

“Tim?” A concerned Bruce called out, undoubtedly noticing the empty room, and Tim scrambled, pushing his stolen laptop underneath an oversized platypus that B had gotten the last time they’d been at the aquarium. He jerked the closet door open and immediately tripped on the end of his blanket, hitting the ground with a thud. There was a pause, then polished dress shoes entered his view as Bruce crouched down next to him.

“Were you in the closet, chum?” From where he laid face down on the floor in a starfish, Tim nodded. “Mind if I ask why?”

“Dunno.”

A hum. “You know you bud, here you don’t have to wait in your bed if you wake up early. You can come find me or Alfred. Or just shout out for us and we’ll hear you." He bet they would; Tim’s life was downright Orwellian now. "Are you going to get up?”

He just huffed, turning his face away from the man. “…just leave me to die.”

Bruce chuckled, lifting him up. “Dramatic.”

“I’m not.” Tim mumbled, but let his father place him on his feet.

“Come on chum, let’s get dressed for the day.”

Tim grumbled uncharitably to himself as he opened the pirate themed chest of drawers, pulling a pair of pants and shirt out at random (though still color coordinating; he had been raised by Janet Drake for the first seventeen years of his life). His irritation only grew as he fumbled with his pajama zipper, the metal teeth caught on the fabric. “No,” Tim snapped when Bruce moved forward to help, “I can do it myself.”

Bruce’s eyebrows rose, hands up in placation. “Pardon me.”

Tim yanked at the zipper, frustration growing when it only moved down a few inches. He yanked again - again, the pull tab only moved a few inches before lodging firmly. He huffed, yanking harder.

“Tim –”

His head jerked to glare at the man. “I can do it.”

“I know you can,” Bruce said, voice even, “but if you let me help, it’ll go faster. Don’t you want a chance to see Rory off to school? It's his first day.”

Tim grit his teeth, but forced himself to take a deep breath. He could admit to himself he been a little on edge lately, though he wasn’t sure why. He thought that torturing his parents would help him perk up (and it did) but a fog of anxiety still hung persistently around him, but again, he didn’t understand why. Everything was going according to plan. Deathstroke was getting ready to move forward with Two-Face’s hit, Rory was settling into the manor beautifully, Haly’s Circus was due in just a few weeks, and none of Tim’s generally dickering within DI had been discovered. His funds continued to accumulate in his accounts to the point he’d felt confident enough that he’d opened a fifth one - you could really never have enough money. He’d been adopted by Bruce, he was being spoiled by both Bruce and Alfred to a degree he’d never experienced before, and just the other day he’d finally made some headway in understanding what type of hell Luthor disguised as a security system for his corporation.

So why was he so...His hand was starting to hurt now, palm aching as he stressed muscles that were practically unused, weak. Or, Tim thought as he forced himself to take another breath, maybe it’s because it takes him a half hour to do a simple goddamn task in this infant body.

“Help, please.” Tim finally muttered, turning to Bruce. His father leaned forward, rocking the zipper side to side before drawing it down and then back up. He zipped it almost up to the end of the tape before smoothly unzipping the entire thing. Tim offered a somewhat ungracious thanks, pulling his jammies off and accepting the new pair of underwear and socks Bruce offered from the top drawers. He looked at the ducky socks before crossing his arms with a huff. “I want my Batman socks.”

Tim pursed his lips, strangely irritated when Bruce plopped the duck socks back in the drawer, fishing out the grey and black pair without comment. He changed in a mulish silence, but didn’t object when Bruce picked him up. He let his head rest on his father’s shoulder, trying to shake off the hot ball in his chest. He tried to rally and be cheerful when he saw Rory, looking unsure and like he felt out of place in GA’s uniform. He’d already gotten the Alfred First Day Special, if the way the older man was gleefully looking at his camera was any indication. Tim thought he looked quite smart and told the other boy so. The brunet shrugged, brand new backpack over one shoulder. “Thanks, Tim. Still can’t believe I’m going to school with the rich kids.”

“Technically, you’re a rich kid now.” Bruce offered as he set Tim down.

“Somehow I don’t think they’re gonna care about that.” Rory muttered.

“You’ve got your cell, give me a call if anyone gives you trouble.” Bruce offered as he took his coffee thermos from Alfred, sipping it as the butler helped him into his blazer.

“Oh yeah, cause that’ll make me popular.” Rory said, hand tightening on his backpack strap.

Bruce eyed him. “I think you’ll be surprised, being Bruce Wayne’s ward alone is going to open a lot of doors for you.” Rory just shrugged, accepting his own thermos of tea from Alfred. “Come on, we’ll talk strategies in the car.”

Tim almost snorted, because that was such a Bruce thing to do, to act as if the first day of school was a move into enemy territory. Though remembering his own time at Gotham Academy, that may not be far off. Tim found a kiss pressed to head from where he was resting on Alfred’s hip, Bruce stroking his hair.

“I hope you have a better day, Tim.”

“…bye, Daddy.” Tim returned, before leaning back against Alfred. “Bye, Rory. Have a good day at school.”

Rory gave him a weak smile. “Bye, Timmy.”

Alfred being Alfred, he seemed to sense the storm gathering around Tim and was blessedly quiet during breakfast. Though he may also have been tipped off by the absolutely murderous look he gave the man when he cut up his breakfast. He could cut his own food, why did they always – it was waffles, Tim could manage waffles. He even turned on Cartoon Network while Tim ate, which was a nice gesture, but what Tim really wanted to see the latest Dow Jones numbers. He really hadn’t been getting his CNN time since coming to the manor. Tim shuddered to think of how his current stock portfolio faired. Tim’s foul mood continued to nap time, only growing as the baby monitor was positioned on a high shelf – out of Tim’s reach. Alfred smoothed the blankets over him and Teddy.

“I hope you have a good sleep, Master Tim.” Alfred pointed to where a clock was mounted on the wall, “I will return to you at eleven, that is when the big hand is on the twelve and the small hand on the eleven.”

“…yeah. Thanks, Alfred.” Tim said flatly, trying to keep his irritation from leaking into his voice. Because yes, normal three-year-olds couldn’t tell time, but Tim could. Was that something he failed to show B and Alfred? Good lord, did they think he couldn’t read either? Tim rolled on to his side with a huff, arm wrapping around Teddy. His toes curled in his socks and he closed his eyes, trying to get some sleep.

Fifteen minutes later (which Tim knew, because he could tell time) he gave it up as a bad job and climbed out of his bed. Snack time had been clementines, which – delicious – but now his mouth had a foul taste in it. And seeing as Tim wasn’t getting any sleep anyway, he trudged over his ensuite. He used his step stool to go to the bathroom, careful to hold his shirt up and out of the way as he peed. He moved the stool over to the sink so he could wash his hands, then reached for the Superman coffee mug that had his tooth brush. It was a bit of a reach but he managed it, running the brush head under the water before reaching out for the Lion King themed tube of toothpaste.

His fingertips just brushed over a smiling baby Simba’s face. Grunting, Tim stretched out further. He had just established his grip on the tube when the stool abruptly slid backwards. He let out a startled sound as his lower body went with it, chin snapping hard against the bathroom counter top before he hit the floor. Tim laid there, blinking up at the ceiling in a daze. As if in slow motion, Tim saw his Superman mug appear on its side, rolling steadily towards the side. His eyes widened and he jerked forward – but he was too fucking short to reach the counter and his hands slapped by it.

The mug hit the tile, shattering.

Tim stared at it, toothbrush still clutched in one hand, the other pressed against his aching jaw. He could feel the tacky wetness of blood slipping between his fingers, pain dancing up from the impact site. He felt his chest rise and fill, vision going blurry with furious tears. He liked that mug, goddamn it. He was like, almost completely sure Clark had given it to Bruce to bring back to him, which meant - to Tim's everlasting delight - that at some point Bruce must have complained about him and his 'obsession' to the Kryptonian. It was the pinnacle of a months long con, the laurels to his wreath, the reward to a dedicated effort to emasculate his father, and now it was in pieces. The door to his room burst open, Alfred practically materializing in the bathroom doorway, baby monitor clutched in hand.

Alfred sucked in a sharp breath “Tim –”

“It’s fine.” Tim ground out, squatting down to pick up the biggest part of the cup, and he started shoveling the smaller pieces in it.

“My boy, don’t do that. Your hands –”

“It’s fine.” Tim barked, “I got it.”

“Master Tim, I must insist –”

Tim wasn’t particularly proud of what happened next.

“I said it’s fine!” He shouted, slamming the remains of the mug onto the ground. The half that had managed to stay together shattered even further.

“Master Tim,” Alfred said sternly, “that is enough of that behavior.”

“Oh, is it?” Tim sneered, even as a part of him was shocked by his own behavior; he’d never dared to speak to Alfred like this before. He slapped the hand reaching for him away, swiping the baby monitor from the butler’s grip and throwing it as hard as he could against the tub’s tiled wall. It exploded in a pile of plastic and batteries. A stunned sort of silence settled between them, Tim staring dumbly at the destroyed monitor from where it lay in pieces in the tub. Porcelain crunched as Alfred approached him at an even clip and Tim was meek when he was lifted. He said nothing as he was set back down in his bedroom. His face was lifted, the butler’s own unreadable as he used his handkerchief to clean Tim’s bloody jaw. He could already feel that the bleeding had stopped and the even, calm strokes verified that it wasn't something to be worried about.

Tim couldn’t bring himself to meet Alfred’s eyes.

His hand was brought up to hold the handkerchief in place, then he was guided by his shoulders until he was facing a corner. “You will remain here, unmoving, until you have calmed down. I will return for you. You will not enjoy it if you leave this spot without my say. Are we in perfect understanding, Master Timothy?”

Oh god, full name.

Tim nodded timidly. The butler left him, leaving the door to his room open. He heard him retreating down the hallway – to Bruce’s room? And when he dared a glance at his return, he found another baby monitor clipped to Alfred’s waist as he walked past. Tim quickly pulled his face back to the corner. Alfred returned a few minutes later, a cold pack wrapped in a towel in hand and a broom under his arm. “Place this against your jaw; I will let you know if you need to move it.”

“Yes, Alfred.” Tim agreed quietly.

The butler disappeared behind him. Tim could hear the sound of him cleaning up the bathroom and then leaving to toss out the remains of his cup. He did his best not to fidget as he waited for Alfred’s return, already aware he was on thin ice. The whole event probably took less than five minutes – which was way too short, if you asked Tim, because soon he was being turned and facing the disappointed tilt of Alfred’s mouth.

“Such behavior isn’t acceptable, Master Timothy. I’m disappointed.”

Tim winced, opening his mouth then bit his lip, twisting on the hem of his shirt with one hand. “‘m sorry, Alfie.”

He glanced up from behind his lashes, hoping the nickname would sweeten things. Nope, Tim dropped his gaze, no luck there. “And what are you apologizing for?”

“Yelling at you.” Tim said quickly then, voice heavy with shame and embarrassment, “and for throwing the...”

God, he couldn’t even bring himself to say ‘baby monitor.’

“Thank you for your apology. Does your jaw hurt?” Tim quickly shook his head. A single eyebrow rose in disbelief.

“A little bit.” He admitted, eyes still downcast. The ice pack was pulled away, his face tilted to be examined.

“Keep the ice on for a little longer, you’ll have a jolly big bruise I’ll imagine.” Alfred instructed, gently guiding his hand to bring the ice pack back up. “The cut is very small, we were lucky. I was very worried when I came in and saw you, can you tell me what happened?”

“My mouth tasted bad,” he explained, staring at his socked feet, “but I couldn’t reach the toothpaste.”

A hum. “I would have helped you, I hope you know. I would be pleased if next time you asked for help. I can hear you quite well through the baby monitors, Master Tim.”

Tim felt his eyes well up in frustration. “I don’t wanna ask for help.”

“And why not? We all need help sometimes.”

Yeah, with big shit. Not with things like zippers or reaching his toothpaste or turning on a goddamn light switch. Tim felt his brows curve down in a frustrated line, teeth clenching. “I’m too small.”

“You’ll grow.”

He shook his head. “You don’t – I’m too big.” He explained, shuddering. Alfred cocked his head to the side in question and Tim gestured angrily at his head. “I’m too big in here and too small and....I just – I know how to do stuff! I just can’t do it!”

The ramble ended in a frustrated shout, because Tim knew the words he wanted to say but they seemed to just slip through his fingers like sand right now and Tim dropped the ice pack, bringing both hands up to swipe at his eyes angrily. Alfred reached for him and Tim went into his arms eagerly, letting the aging man sweep him up. He cried angrily into the butler’s shoulder as they settled into his rocking chair, the man’s hand rubbing over his back. “I know, my dear boy, I know,” Alfred soothed as they began to rock, “you’re so very bright, I imagine there all sort of things you’d like to do but can’t.”

There was. Tim had so much he wanted to do and couldn’t. How was he supposed to get anything done when he still couldn’t even – “I hate it, I hate being small.”

Alfred tutted softly. “You’ll body will catch up with your brain soon enough, lad. You just have to be patient.”

“I don’t wanna,” Tim moaned around a particularly heavy sob, turning to hide his face in Alfred’s shoulder, “I wanna be bigger now. I just,” another shuddering breath, “wanted to brush my teeth.”

He didn’t know how long they rocked, Alfred hushing him, Tim wrapped up in his warmth, before he cried himself into a fitful nap. He woke up some indefinite time later to Alfred gently cleaning his face with a warm rag, then the butler lead him into the bathroom and back up onto the stool. Alfred’s sensible work shoes never left the edge of it, one foot pressing firmly down, keeping it secured as Tim finally brushed his teeth. That night, Bruce came home with a brand new Superman mug – the exact same one as before, complete with Eccentricities of Metropolis! stamped on the bottom – and a packet of enrollment information for Gotham Academy’s Preschool program.

His father swept him up, pressing a careful kiss to Tim’s bruising jaw, and didn’t put him down until dinner. Tim blinked at the absence of the high chair, then blinked again when as he was set down on his feet. He stared up at his father, but Bruce just gave him a small smile and motioned to a brand new, bright red booster seat. Tim stared from it to B, then to Alfred, but both were just watching him expectantly. Then slowly, he began to climb up on his own. He sat in the chair, then when Bruce and Rory began to scooch in opposite of him on the bench seat across from him, slowly reached down and strapped the seat belt himself. A plate of lasagna and asparagus was set in front of him, followed by a set of child sized utensils. Tim glanced around the table wearily, almost expecting Alfred or Bruce to interfere. But Alfred was fussing in the kitchen, Rory and Bruce deep in a conversation about Rory’s first day, and Tim felt the last of the tension that hadn’t been released by his tantrum finally fall away as he lifted the small knife and fork.

He cut up his asparagus into bite sized pieces, all on his own.

The day that Harvey Dent was found murdered in his warehouse hideout was a bright, sunny Friday. It was also the day of Rory’s first swim meet. Sadly, Rory was still finding his feet making friends at GA, and Tim knew that Bruce talked to him about it a lot, coaching the older boy on how to deal with the snobs he went to school with, how to avoid or handle bullies and sycophants alike. Tim was grateful for it, it’s not like he could step up and teach the things he’d learned under Janet Drake’s ironclad rule.

Bruce had also suggested joining the swim team a couple reasons. It would look good on a college application for one, he explained, and it was a bit of an unwritten rule that GA kids were expected to be enrolled in a couple of extra circulars (three, three was the magic number to get the guidance counselor and teachers off your back as Tim recalled). What went unsaid was that Bruce saw it was a chance for Rory to make friends and Tim desperately hoped that it would prove to be the case. It would be a rough few years for his brother if it wasn't. Rory was already eyeing a few other clubs and Bruce had not so subtly nudged him in the direction of the mixed martial club. Rory was into it, but he was also pretty interested in the fencing club. Whether or not that one would stick was yet to be seen in Tim’s opinion – he was an A rating himself, but that had been purely due to Jack’s pressure. The man had been desperate that Tim be good at some sort of contact sport. Wisely, he never pushed for the rugby or soccer teams that he himself had been on, that would have been a disaster. Tim had never particularly enjoyed the sport, he had found it boring and to be honest, he got enough of that sort of crap when he went out at night, even before becoming Robin.

Anyway, the point was it was Rory’s first competition and though his brother would never admit, he was excited about it. Rory was really superstitious, which meant he was refusing to hype himself up in any shape or form, or make a big deal about the meet, or mention it in anyway other than a completely neutral way. It's like he felt getting too excited about it would doom it. And yeah, maybe had a point to be – he was basically wearing a living supernatural creature at all times. But Rory had asked, shyly and not meeting anyone at the table’s eyes, if they would come and cheer him on. Actually come to think of it, how would the Ragman work in the water? Would it be Rory’s swimsuit and top? Rory always wore a top to hide those awful scars he refused to talk about (and if Tim ever found out who had put out cigarette butts on his big brother’s back he was going to fucking end them), so maybe…?

Tim frowned from where he was waiting by the front door, before checking his Wonder Woman watch. Alfred had got it for him when Tim had primly informed him he could read a clock, thank you very much, and didn’t need any of this ‘big-little hand’ nonsense. They were starting to cut it kind of close. Concerned, Tim wandered towards the kitchen. He poked his head in, but found it absent of life. The sound of the TV drew him to one of the many entertainment dens that dotted the downstairs area and Tim frowned, ready to call out to where he found both Alfred and B standing in front of the television.

“ – the end of Harvey Dent, better known as of the criminal Two-Face. Truly, the closing of a chapter in Gotham’s history.”

Oh.

Tim’s mouth snapped shut. Was that today? Shit, this was Tim’s bad. He hadn’t even thought to check the date with the family calendar when he’d given Slade the go ahead on his proposed date. Bruce was staring at the TV, jaw clenched tight and hands balled by his side. Alfred stood by his side, one hand on B’s shoulder. “I’m terribly sorry, Bruce.”

Tim mouth pursed, lips shifting side to side in indecision, as he shoved his hands into his shark hoodie pocket. Dent had been Bruce’s friend for – well, a long time. He may have even been Bruce’s first friend, his best friend once. His father had never gone into detail about his relationship with Two-Face, but he hadn’t had to. Bruce always said more than enough with what he didn’t say. Tim had known that this death would hurt him; until Dent’s death in his original timeline, Bruce had never given up on trying to reason with the man. He went as far as to show up as Brucie Wayne at clubs and restaurants he knew the rogue would be at, sharing dinner or a drink together. He could see them together in his mind’s eye, sitting at a table in Fredo’s Fine Dining, one of Two-Face’s favorite haunts.

There’d be a red and white check table cloth on the table, dim save for the light from a single table candle. The two enemies (one aware and one not) sitting next to each other as they dined and sipped a nice Sangiovese or Cabernet Sauvignon – maybe even a glass of Zinfandel if the meal called for it – and spoke about a gentler, kinder time. He imagined them talking about their summer camping trips or going over drunken escapades and dares from high schools, recalling long dead promises and hopes. Bruce usually returned late on those night, emotionally drained and terribly sad.

My father, Tim thought as he rubbed at his forehead, the eternal optimist.

He could appreciate where his father was at this moment; shattered from a broken hope, a lost dream of reconciliation. Bruce always thought that there was just one more thing to try, just one more approach waiting to be found, that could pull someone back from the brink. And maybe it was the advantage of knowing the future and seeing who had and hadn’t been capable of being rehabilitated, maybe it was just that he’d lived too long in the life, seen too many people die or had their lives regulated to something worse by the rogues of Gotham. That Tim had seen people – civilians and criminals alike – who didn’t deserve what had happened to them struggle with life and death and disability.

He just couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty. Sure he was sad that B was hurting, but he was not that Dent’s life had been snubbed out. Sometimes, enough was enough - it had to be enough. And he could appreciate that Bruce may never be able to see it that was but – it was also forty-five minutes from Rory’s first fucking swim meet and Harvey Dent was a man who had the death of over two dozen lives on his hands – some deserved, some not – and a literal mobster. If Tim let this go on, Bruce was just going to sink deeper into himself, circle harder into self-loathing and grief, just like he did every time he ran into something that overfilled the teaspoon that was Bruce Wayne’s emotional cup. From where he stood out of sight, Tim bounced on his feet a few times, shaking out his hands as he cracked his neck, and flipped up his hood so that his shark fin was standing straight up, teeth framing his face. Then he barreled into the room.

“Daddy!” Bruce’s head snapped to stare at him and for a moment Tim almost retreated, so unused to seeing that particular expression on the man’s face. Instead he let his legs continue carrying him into his father, wrapping his arms around his leg. “Daddy, are we going?”

“Tim –”

“Rory’s gonna be so happy we’re came, he’s gonna win I know it.” He blabbered on, ignoring the rock like tension in Bruce’s body. “We shoulda made a sign – we can make on next time. I wanna make it say ‘Go Rory – you’re the fastest!’”

“Tim –”

“Do you think the Ragman would make him swim faster? I don’t think it’s cheating – not really and –”

“Tim.” Bruce said sharply and Tim went still, lips twitching at how fast his mouth clicked shut. That was all muscle memory, that was. “Alfred will take you to the meet, I have to work.”

“What?” Tim asked, brows furrowing as he cocked his head back up to stare at him. “Work is closed.”

“Not that type of work.”

Tim’s hands flexed from where he was gripping Bruce’s trousers, releasing and re-securing each finger one at a time, tightening his grip. “…it’s not late, though.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he stared at the TV. “Something came up.”

“But Rory wants you there.”

“I’ll have Alfred record it.” And then, the motherfucker just lifted him up and away, like some sort of toy, and sat him down. He made his way quickly towards the exit of the room - towards his office.

“Bruce.” Tim called shortly. The sound of his name, so rarely said by Tim these days, stopped his father’s retreat. “Look at me.”

“Tim –”

“No.” He said, moving past a silent and watching Alfred to place himself in his father’s path. “Look at me.”

Steel blue eyes finally made contact; an iron curtain had drawn over them, the gaze almost blank they were so hard. Bruce had the battlements up, his focus already locked on the Cave. Too fucking bad; that look may have worked when Tim had been thirteen and barely filling out his Robin suit, but he’d had twenty-five years of a hard won, traumatically extensive course in understanding Bruce Wayne.

“Why did you even adopt me and Rory?”

Bruce blinked, startled into seeing him once again. “What – Tim, because I wanted to take care of you, because I care about you, both of you.”

“Do you?” Tim challenged sharply. His father’s brows pinched in concern now, hand reaching out towards his head. Tim danced back, out of reach. “When has Rory ever asked for something? When has he ever asked you for something?”

Bruce froze. “Tim, I…”

When he didn’t continue, Tim yanked his hood down, and he waved his hand towards the where the TV anchor was still droning on, a picture of a young Harvey Dent – looking bright eyed and sweet – was being shown alongside a brutally honest photo of Two-Face. “Is it because of that?”

And I’ve lost him again, Tim thought, watching with a morbid type of fascination as B’s eyes glazed over as he took in the screen. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, before eyeing an infuriatingly placid Alfred. The man was standing with hands tucked neatly behind his back, but he was eyeing Tim in what he could only call a speculative manner. He didn’t like that, he didn’t like that at all, but – Tim glanced at his watch again, letting out a harsh breath through his nose.

Fuck it.

“Do you know what my first memory is, B?” Tim asked coolly, hands clenched in his hoodie pocket once more. “It was my birthday, my nanny talked about it for weeks and weeks. ‘Mommy and Daddy are coming home, Timmy! You’re gonna have so much fun!’ Nanny helped me make this big sign, I wanted to do so much stuff. We were gonna eat pancakes – Ms. Collie made the best pancakes – and we were gonna sing happy birthday and have cake. Maybe,” Tim’s chest hitched. This wasn’t even a lie, this was his earliest memory from his first life, “maybe if I was really good mom and dad would let me sleep in the big bed with them.”

Bruce had turned back to stare at him and Tim blinked hard, ignoring the sting to keep eye contact.

“I waited and waited by the door with my sign, but they never came home. They called later, and mom said sorry, there was just too much work. And my dad – my dad said ‘don’t worry about it, he won’t remember it.’ But I did. Every time they didn’t come, I remembered.” Tim nodded once, sharply. “I won’t wait for another daddy. I won’t make Rory wait. Let’s go, Alfred.”

Alfred followed behind him silently, leaving the equally silent den behind them. He held his head up high until he was at the car, letting Alfred lift him and buckle him into his car seat. The butler paused when he finished the chest strap, hand resting on Tim’s chest. “Well done, Master Tim.” The butler said softly and Tim looked up, lip wobbling, because this sure as hell didn't feel like a win. But Alfred wasn’t looking at him, his gaze directed behind them. “Well done, indeed.”

Tim blinked and then slumped back in relief as a pair of fat tears trailed down his cheeks. Bruce was moving quick down the stairs, shrugging on his jacket, wallet held between his teeth. The driver’s side door opened and then closed. And when Tim finally allowed himself to look up, it was to find Bruce watching him in the rear-view mirror. “I won’t make you wait, Tim, either of you.”

“You better mean it,” Tim said wetly, running his sleeve over his eyes, “cause I’ll remember.”

Haly’s circus settled into Gotham in October. Tim’s days until then was busy with preschool (and damn it all, if he had forgotten how much he disliked being in a school uniform – even if he did look pretty damn cute. He had to look cute, with how many pictures Alfred had taken of him in his uniform) which was an…experience. He appreciated that Alfred and Bruce thought he wasn’t being stimulated enough at home and they’d obviously had quite the teacher’s meeting with Mrs. Vanita, because Tim’s course work was leagues above his classmates. No, Tim feared the bigger plot was much worse than just fear of an overly bored child genius. No, it was socialization.

God, but Tim had forgotten how noisy children were. And sticky. And gross. One of his classmates, Alexander Fernwright the Third – a man who would one day grow up to be one of most pompous individuals to ever grace the Gotham social sphere – had dug deep into his nose, all while making direct eye contact with Tim, and proceeded to eat his booger. It wasn’t even an isolated case! Despite his growing horror of his age mates, he could tell that Bruce was somewhat desperate for him to have a friend. Even Rory had begun to make hesitant overtures in friendship (with Cordin Bettencourt and Andrew Baldwin, which were – acceptable, for now) and the fact that Tim’s end of the day worksheet reported how often he spent alone was starting to make the man a bit desperate. When his father began talking about play dates, Tim decided something Had to Be Done.

Eddie was a small boy for his age, with strawberry blond hair and a pair of expressive, soulful brown eyes. He was the quietest child in class, preferring to spend most of his time finger painting or drawing, and thus the only possible candidate for ‘friend’ status. He was also the only child that Tim could spend time around and statistically not want to murder after five minutes. After a cautious approach (“What are you doing?”) and an equally cautious reception (“I’m draw’n. Why?”), a polite request (“Can I draw with you?”) and a gracious reply (“Uh, yeah. You want the blue?”) a friendship was born. 

It got Bruce to stop fretting over his end of day report at least, his father looking inordinately pleased when they started to come in with ‘Timmy and Eddie spent the day together! They played chase for recess and made a wonderful sunflower, as we’re learning about plants this week! Timmy received FIVE good-boy stickers today!!’ or some other such nonsense.

(Tim did, admittedly, like the stickers.)

The tedium of preschool was only broken up by the little ‘xs’ he made on his calendar, counting down each day until the weekend arrived that would bring Haly’s to town. The commercials had stared at mid-September, building and building until Tim swore he saw it on every channel. This was the excuse for annoying the living hell out of Bruce and Alfred, following them from room to room as he begged and pleaded to go to the circus. The men who controlled his life promised he could go if he was good; they’d already bought season tickets according to Bruce’s debit card statements. Tim wasn’t surprised, though he was thoroughly smug about it. Bruce had put himself in the doghouse in a spectacular act of unnecessary self-flagellation, considering he not only had gone to Rory’s swim meet instead of down to the Cave (like Tim had one hundred percent expected) but preceded to take them out to Chuckie Cheese after Rory won second place. He’d been careful to be attentive to both boys, but especially to Tim, who (may or may not) have had his new found trust in the man rocked by the encounter surronding Two-Face's death. Oh, B still went out of his way to investigate the murder, but he found nothing. Wilson was a pro after all, even if he was just starting out.

Tim almost wondered just how new the assassin was, because the gleeful, preening chat he’d engaged in with Deathstroke while transferring over the final payment had been – well, maybe it was just youth. The Wilson from his time certainly would never have used emojis.

And so the days passed in such a manner: morning started with rides to school with Bruce behind the wheel, Rory dropping him off at his classroom, giving him a hug for good luck before heading off to his own educational purgatory. Tim played with Eddie, which was more like sitting next to each other as they occupied themselves, and Tim could admit it - Eddie wasn’t bad company. The kid was clearly smart, and yes, it was still just regular old toddler smart, but Eddie never ate his boogers in front of Tim. He could also read pretty well, often settling in with whatever copy of The Magic School Bus he hadn’t read yet, which Tim thought was pretty impressive for a three-year-old.

In the afternoon Alfred would come get him after naptime and lunch, and Tim would go home. He still had chores he had to do at home, but they were easy. He mainly helped Alfred collect up the dirty laundry and put it in the machine. Tim liked it best when Alfred let him pour in the detergent (it was almost like weight lifting) and sit on the machine while he did whatever take home work Mrs. Vanita assigned. In the afternoon they would go together to get Rory, Tim bopping along with the music from his car seat with his snacks (Alfred had a thing for David Bowie, Tim wasn’t going to say no to that), and then sometimes they got to have ice cream.

Bruce was almost always home for dinner and he liked to watch a movie with them or play a game before he put Tim to bed. Rory got free reign of the house after Tim went to sleep, because Bruce usually went into his office to either finish work for WE or prep for the night’s patrol, but Rory seemed to mostly stick to his room or the main entertainment room. Tim would either go to sleep or abscond with his computer depending on the need, and then the day started again. And so it was with no small level of excitement and sense of achievement that Tim went to sleep with the final night crossed out before Haly’s opening day.

The fundraising for Gotham’s New Year’s bash was in full swing, the room decorated heavily in golds and silvers, sparkling brightly and as sequined as a room could possibly get. From where he stood, Tim took a sip of his champagne, leaning against one of the marble pillars that dotted the opera’s ornate entryway. To his left he could just see Bruce’s head from where he was chatting up the Millards, undoubtedly trying to get the ancient couple to commit to a donation. Tim observed him for a moment in amusement, knowing that if he managed to get a meager few thousand from the cheapskates it would be a miracle. He let his eyes drift away as he scoped out the crowd. He paused on where an incredibly awkward looking Duke was standing – looking quite elegant and put together in his tux even among the high-society age mates he stood with – and completely out of his depth.

He was just debating about going to save the poor kid when someone cleared their throat. “Tim.”

Dick looked good – he always looked good, damn him – in a tailored tux in such a dark blue it was nearly black. He did look healthier then he had been at the last few family encounters, though. Quitting the police force and opening his own gym had done wonders for him.

“Dick.” He greeted coolly. He gave the man a nod as he pushed off the column. Duke wasn’t going to save himself.

Dick shifted, lips pursing. “…Tim, it’s been three years.”

It had been. Three years since Dick had taken Robin from him, had threatened him with institutionalization, had stripped Tim of every inch of security he’d had. Three years since Damian had tried to kill him twice, three years since he’d had himself emancipated, lost his spleen, and barely escaped being trapped at the whims of Ra’s al-Ghul's terrifying interest. It had been two years since he’d brought Bruce back, moved into the Nest, and took over as CEO of both WE and DI. Two years since he started patrols again, mostly solo but sometimes paired with a sibling. Usually with Orphan or Batman, or the rare nighttime patrol with Signal. Rarely with Robin, never with Batgirl or Nightwing. It had been a year and seven months since he started once again attending Sunday brunches, unable – as any of Bruce’s strays – from escaping Alfred’s machinations. A year and seven months of Sunday brunches in which he had sat as far away from Dick and Damian and Steph as physically possible. It had been a year and five months since he consented to attending the occasional movie and game night; only when Dick and Stephanie had previous engagements. It had been a year since he’d begun tutoring Damian on the role he’d inherit.

He paused, eyebrow raising. “And?”

The muscles on Dick’s jaw jumped, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Tim, please, I want to fix this. I miss you; I miss my brother. I don’t want to go another year of never seeing you, never talking to you. Just – Just tell me what I need to do.”

Tim observed the painful earnestness on his eldest brother’s face, the desperate twist of his features. He took a sip of his drink, enjoying the way the tartness of the champagne burst across his tongue. It was a good year.

“I would like it if you left me alone.” Dick inhaled sharply, the sound ragged. Tim set his empty flute down on a passing waiter’s tray, replacing it with a full one. He nodded to where Damian was watching the exchange a few steps away, expression weary. “Your brother’s waiting.”

And with that, he excused himself from the whole damn gala, escaping to an empty balcony. The cool air felt wonderful after the crowded room and he let himself take a deep breath, enjoying the way it made his lungs fill and his chest feel cold. The door behind him opened, nearly silent feet moved across marble before a lanky figure came to join him. Damian stared out at the Gotham night, green eyes shrewd, boyish features just starting to loose their roundness and gain a jawline that was all Bruce. They stood next to each other in a comfortable silence that Tim had never once thought they’d be able to achieve. But Damian had grown, changed. So had Tim.

“I was unkind to you, when I first came to Gotham.” Damian said stiffly after a while, as the host’s muffled voice began counting down the minutes to the New Year behind them, and it was just such a – such an understatement of everything that Tim couldn’t help but give the boy a hapless smile.

“You were.”

Damian shifted, fingers twitching on his left hand in frustration; one of the few tells that Talia hadn’t beat out of him. “I…misunderstood many things about you.” Damian took a deep breath – as if steeling himself – and those sharp eyes turned to look him in the eye, gaze steady. “I know better now.”

Tim stilled, recognizing the words for what they were, and he searched the boy’s face, never letting his own gaze drop. Damian held his eyes steadily, unfaltering. After a moment he gave the boy a quirked smile. “Thank you, Damian.”

Damian nodded once, firm, and turned his searching eyes back to Gotham’s skyline. His expression was troubled though. “…Grayson is honest in his attempts of reconciliation.”

“I know.” Tim said calmly, lips quirking down when he saw that twitch of fingers again. He leaned against the railing, letting his hands dangle loose before him. “You know that has nothing to do with you, don’t you?”

Another finger twitch. “I fail to see how.”

Tim sighed, knocking his shoulder gently against the boy’s. A part of him didn’t want to deal with this, but…Damian was trying, had been for a while actually. He leaned back, fingers curling on metal to keep him on his feet, head craned back to stare at the cloudy sky. His eyes swept back down to Damian, pausing at the shadow he could just see behind the frosted glass of the balcony door, where a sliver of light crept out from where it’d been pushed open a crack. He could just catch sight of a dark blue sleeve before it pulled from sight, and he let his gaze float back to the boy next to him. “Do you know he’s never once apologized?”

“That is a lie.”

Tim shook his head. “Not for taking Robin and not for trying to send me to Arkham.” Damian jerked, head snapping to stare at him, aghast. Keeping secrets, Dickie? “Oh yes, that was his first, knee-jerk reaction to me coming to him about Bruce being alive. I honestly don’t know what would have happened if Alfred hadn’t been there to talk him down. Do you know there are some folks that still won’t work with me? After what he said at that meeting? He practically burn noticed me, D.” He pulled himself back in, leaning on the iron railing once more. “Dick had been the closest thing to a big brother I ever had for six years, up to that point.” He murmured softly, “you’ve been here long enough to know what that means.”

Damian let out a low sound, one that came from the back of his throat, brows furrowed and looking like a miniature clone of Bruce Wayne for all that he had Talia’s coloring.

“And he tried to commit me, sided with a boy he barely knew and who hated me, took the one good thing I had - do you know I actually thought I was going to be his –” Tim caught the word ‘Robin' before it could escape, “ – work together? I was so relieved, because after everything that had happened, I was so happy that I’d be able to be by his side. I thought, ‘my god, at least I still have Dick,’ some sort of stability, a safe harbor. And then,” he shook his head, chuckling quietly. He didn’t need to say it. “I always found the whole thing painfully hypocritical considering he didn’t speak to B for six months after he agreed to take on Jason; he was pissed Bruce didn’t ask his permission to pass it on.”

Damian took a deep breath, jaw tight.

“My mother used to say ‘if I’ve cut you out of my life, you’ve given me the scissors to do so.’” Tim said with a sigh, tossing the rest of his drink back. “I may be a Wayne now, but I was raised a Drake; we entrust ourselves to very few and we never do it twice.”

“…I am somewhat relieved our mothers never met.”

Tim laughed, the sound loud, startled free from him.

The shadow behind the door was gone.  

Tim awoke with a gasp, tears prickling at the edge of his eyes and heart heavy in his chest. Dick had really been on his mind for him to dream of that. Tim let out a sigh as he sat up, tugging Teddy closer and wrapping himself around the bear. He thought of Dick – of the Dick of his own time, twisted and bitter with loss. He thought of the way Dick had looked at the funeral, the fragile way he’d looked at Tim when he’d breached the distance between them for the first time in seventeen years and tugged his shattered big brother into a hug.

Let it not be said that Tim was anything but what he was; Janet Drake’s son. When Janet cut you out, she cut you out. Oh, she’d be perfectly professional and polite if the situation called for it, capable of working and planning with those she absolutely loathed, but there was no mistaking it when you were on the outs with her. There was no action that could be done that would earn her forgiveness. One of his mother’s favorite quotes had been from Malcolm X: To me, the thing that is worse than death is betrayal. You see, I could conceive death, but I could not conceive betrayal.

Tim had taken her lessons to heart. No matter how much Dick threw himself at his walls, Tim never again lowered the drawbridge. For almost two decades he’d kept his eldest brother at a distance, kept an unconquerable gulf between that no one else in the family faced. Not Damian, not Jason, not even Bruce. Eventually, Dick had stopped trying. It wasn’t until that terrible service, where a woman Tim had never bothered to get to know outside of passing pleasantries and a tiny coffin that held what should have been his niece had been lowered into the ground, that Tim had finally relented. And by then, Dick was…

It was enough, seventeen years was enough. Tim missed his brother. He hugged Teddy closer. He wanted Dickie, he wanted his big brother back. Sniffling, Tim slipped from his bed and made his way down the hallway. He paused before Bruce’s door, unsure if his father was even home. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, deliberating, before knocking at the door. In true Bruce fashion, the man answered just a few moments later, fully awake and aware, even if his bed head and the bleary set to his eyes spoke of a deep sleep moments before.

“Tim?” Tim mutely held up his arms. His father lifted him up and Tim curled gratefully into him, breathing him in, taking strength from that broad form. Bruce couldn’t have been home long; even though his hair was dry, his father still smelled of the tea tree oil he showered with. “Bad dream, chum?”

“Uh huh. Really bad.”

A kiss was pressed to his head. “Want to sleep with me?”

“Uh huh.”

“Let’s try to go back to sleep then,” Bruce soothed as he settled them in his massive bed, “we don’t want you tired for tomorrow, it’s the big day.”

He tucked Tim against the side of his chest not currently wrapped in a huge bandage, pulling the sheet up as if to hide the stark white from view. Tim shifted up, small hands pushing the fabric off as he frowned at it. No blood had seeped through, but the thing covered nearly the entirety of the left side of Bruce’s ribs. A hand rested heavy and tired against his back, slitted eyes watching him as Tim carefully ran his fingers over the adhesive. “It’s alright, bud. It doesn’t hurt.”

Tim gave him a look of disbelief, because he recognized that type of support and it meant at least a few bruised ribs. Bruce gave a low chuckle in response. Rolling his eyes, Tim leaned down and gave the bandage a light kiss – just like B had a tendency to do to Tim when had roughed himself up. He ignored the utterly floored expression on his father’s face before curling into his side, thumb gravitating to his mouth. “Goodnight Daddy, love you.”

A hand brushed down his back. “Goodnight Tim, I love you too.”

The next day Tim found himself sitting in the backseat of Bruce’s BMW, heading to Haly’s Circus, nine days before the death of the Flying Graysons. He was going to see Dick! B was out tonight as Batman, though Tim had a feeling he was probably going to swing by to see them in one form or the other. But Alfred and Rory were with him, and Rory at least seemed excited too. Well, not as excited as Tim - but excited!

“ – and there’s gonna be an elephant and she has a baby – did you know she had a baby, Rory? And we can play games and – and I could win something! And they’ve got some yummy snacks and I could give some to the baby elephant!”

“I don’t know if that’s good for the elephant, Timmy.” Rory said from next to him, watching as Tim nearly vibrate out of his car seat. From where he was carefully pulling into the crowded parking lot, Alfred agreed, explaining that elephants had a different diet than humans.

“I’ll get peanuts!” Tim corrected quickly, waving his hands in glee. He was going to see Dick! “Can we get peanuts, Alfie?”

“We shall see what can be done, Master Tim.” Alfred said as he parked the car. He glanced back at them and even through the mirror, his expression shrewd. “You will both stay within my sight at all times. If I say no, it is a no - there is not a discussion to be had. If I say we are leaving, we are leaving. If not, we will not be returning for any further nights. Are we in agreement?”

“Yes, Alfred.”

“Yeah, let’s go!”

“Master Tim,” Alfred said sharply, pausing from where he was unbuckling himself, “you will wait for me.”

From where he was inches away from freeing himself from his car seat’s hold, Tim froze. “Whoops, sorry.”

Alfred made his way around to him, deftly undoing the straps and setting Tim onto the ground. The butler leaned down, retying Tim’s new sneakers (they were Superman themed that lit up when he walked, B was still firmly in the trying-to-bribe-my-way-out-of-mistakes-phase) before reaching up and straightening the fleece Tim was wearing. He stood, gave Rory a once over and when he seemed to meet muster, nodded. “Alright then, we’re off.”

“Yay!” Tim shouted, swinging both Alfred and Rory's hands from where they clasped his. “Today’s Friday Alfred, that means the show’s gonna be about pirates. And tomorrow it’s about the space and aliens. And next Friday it’s gonna be about pirates again and then the next day it's gonna be about – about, um –”

“The circus.” Alfred said, voice dry.

“Yeah, and it’s gonna be the biggest one!”

“Please walk, Master Tim.”

“Yeah, okay.” Tim agreed and immediately stopped trying to drag them faster. Already his eyes were scanning the crowd of circus workers, taking in the brightly clad performers, trying to find Dick. His big brother was here, Tim just had to find him - but he was here! He couldn’t wait to see him again, to see his Dickie. The first hour passed and there was no sight of him, and Dick was still absent by the start of the second, but Tim was really enjoying himself. The circus was fantastic all around; ten out of ten, would recommend.

Tim had a freakishly accurate memory – he always had, pretty much from the moment his mind was able to form and hold them – but he didn’t remember it being like this. Maybe it was because he’d only gone that final night, when the high priced tickets had been sold and the sales split evenly between Haly’s and some charity for retired circus animals, and thus had been overshadowed forever in his mind with the sight of John and Mary Grayson plummeting to their deaths.

It had been one of the few times Tim had ever found comfort in his father; Jack had nearly yanked him from his seat, shaking hand clutching Tim’s head to his chest, bulldozing a path outside the tent and away from the chaos. But it had been too late by then; by the time his parents had gotten over their horrified shock at what they’d just seen, Tim had already witnessed the fall – and the landing. The image had been seared into his mind, filling his nights with a morbid replay that kept him in the arms of whatever nanny he had at that moment.

It was a shame it had to happen again. Tim loved Dick; he loved every part of him – from his irredeemable sense of fashion to his terrible puns. He’d loved him when he emulated the worst of Bruce’s habits, when he followed paths of his own creation that made Tim want to smack him, he'd even loved him when he’d taken Robin. He loved him still when Dick had torn the Joker to shreds with his hands, coated nearly head to toe in blood and viscera after the beating he’d subjected the Rogue to, lost in fevered grief. He knew just what heights Richard Grayson could achieve under Batman’s wing; he would not deny him – or the world – of it a second time. Nor would he allow Dick to become a Talon, some wretched creature forever enslaved to the whims of others. Dick would hate that with every inch of his being.

But above all, Dick was his big brother and Tim wanted him back.

Rory had tried – and failed – his luck at a shooting booth and was glaring at a rather smug looking worker who was sorting a stack of bills in front of him, licking his finger every now and then holding eye contact with the brunet white he counted. Alfred, never a man to allow a slight of any type to take place around those he consider his own, slapped a ten down rather aggressively. The smug look on the booth worker’s face faltered when Alfred nestled the BB-gun onto his shoulder, sight aligned. Tim snorted, glancing around as he wondered if he could convince Alfred to get him some cotton candy. He’d seen a booth back by where some of the performer’s caravans could just been seen. Sure, he’d have to make them doubled back and time it right so they weren’t next to any of the several other cotton candy stalls and – wait a minute.

Tim blinked at the sight of something sparkling in the neon lights. He glanced back at where Rory was now giving the booth worker a shit-eating grin as Alfred made slow but steady work of the targets before shrugging. He wandered over towards the sparkly thing, ducking his head to avoid the bright purple plastic boundary tape that had been put up – which…he probably didn’t need to do given how short he was, but oh well. He crouched down, head cocked to the side as he took in the toy. It was a windmill, made out of sparkly gold plastic and with a long, white handle. Why would someone abandon it here? It was perfectly fine. He picked it up, brushing some grass cuttings from it and gave it a blow. It spun, the gold becoming almost multicolored in the flashing lights of the circus. Their loss, Tim thought gleefully, it was his now.

“Hey kid,” a gruff, accented voice boomed from behind him, “you’re not supposed to be here – hey wait!”

But it was too late. Tim had looked up, seen clown – and like any good Gothamite, bolted.

He darted between the startled clown’s legs, windmill held close to his chest, small legs pumping as hard as they could. He glanced behind him, eyes widening to find the clown in close pursuit - closer, in fact, then Tim would have liked. He streaked across the circus grounds, desperate to get away, when to his horror - another, identical clown, popped out in front of him, crouched low and arms out. Tim let out a shriek and threw his windmill at it’s face. This, to no one’s surprise, did nothing, the windmill floating limply to the ground. The new clown stepped on it, crushing the delicate plastic as he tried to reach for him, and Tim mournfully abandoned it. He turned on a dime, new shoes slipping on the cut grass and sending him sliding. He dug his fingers into the soil, using the momentum to launch himself forward and to the side, just managing to avoid a meaty paw from grabbing him, still shrieking.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

A young voice interrupted the fray, and Tim’s head snapped to the side, eyes wide as he took in the boy stepping out of a bright green caravan. Dick. He was young – so young – but – Dick!

“Oh my god, hi?” Dick blurted out, hands scrambling to catch Tim from where he was frantically trying to climb his big brother like a tree. Deceptively small hands caught him around the thighs, hauling him up with a not-so-insignificant strength. Tim immediately locked his limbs around his brother, shoving his face into the soft velvet of his uniform. “What – oh for the love of – Artur, Davyd, C.C. said no clowns!” Dick snapped, “we’re in Gotham!”  Tim was bopped slightly - well, as well as a nine-year-old could bop a three-year-old clinging to him with every inch of strength he had. “You okay, little guy?”

From Dick’s shoulder Tim shook his head, distraught. “Chased me,” he choked out, the sound muted by the fabric, “broke my windmill.”

Dick gasped loudly, head snapping to up to (presumably) glare at where the twin clowns who were now arguing about the ‘long, proud history of clowning’ and drifting in and out of English. “You broke his windmill? You monsters.”

Chapter Text

From where he sat in the cradle of Dick’s lap, Tim sipped at his hot chocolate and eyed the fussing elderly woman from where she was busy making…something. Whatever it was, it looked delicious. She’d come swinging out of her caravan just a few moments after he’d met Dick, her hair up in curlers and wrapped in a brocade scarf, took one look at the situation, and begun to smack the clowns with a nearby broom. The trio had erupted into a language that Tim only vaguely recognized (definitely Eastern European, though), the twin clowns ducking and whining as the enraged woman brought her broom down with frightening accuracy. Tim had watched the whole thing, enthralled, from the safety of Dick’s arms.

The woman had sent the clowns skittering off before coming to coo over Tim vocally. And so handsy. Honestly, he didn’t know if his cheeks were ever going to recover. Dick had introduced her as Nëna Drita, grinning with a wild type of amusement as Tim had squirmed, trying – and failing – to avoid those boney fingers. Still, the old woman had brought him a cup of hot coco nearly smothered with marshmallows, so Tim it could be forgiven. Dick brought them to a folding camping chair just in front of Nëna Drita’s caravan, his big brother so skinny with youth that there was easily enough room for them both to sit comfortably.

“So, little guy –”

Tim’s head jerked around to glare up at him. “I’m not little!”

Dick snorted. “You sure about that?”

“Yes,” Tim said seriously, eyes narrowing as the smile on Dick’s face just grew larger, “I’m three and I go to school and everything. I’m Tim.”

“Well Timmy, I guess you are pretty big. You’ve got a mustache and everything.” A…Tim felt his cheeks burn, a hand coming up to scrub at his top lip. The ridge of his hand came away covered in melted marshmallow. “My name is Dick. Are you here with your parents?”

“No,” Tim said mulishly as he scrubbed at his mouth with his sleeve. Dick’s hand came up to steady his mug, keeping it from tipping over. “I don’t live with them anymore, they were bad.”

Dick stiffened behind him. Whoops, too blasé? Tim turned to glance at his brother, feeling a flash of guilt at the way Dick’s face had grown all concerned. He felt his own expression soften; he really did miss Dick. It was remarkable; he had such a natural paternal streak. Even here at nine, Dick was working himself up in concern for a little boy he’d only just met. It reminded him of the kindness that Tim had first seen in Dick when they’d met in his first life. Dick couldn’t have possibly known what Tim’s home life was like, yet he seemed to sense how much that meeting (and that hug) had meant to Tim nonetheless.

He reached up (with his sticky hand, naturally) and patted the older boy’s chin. “It’s okay, I got a new daddy now. He’s great.”

Dick relaxed, the motion almost sensuous – like a snake, one slow slide of release – letting the two of them settle further back into the chair. “That’s great, Timmy. Everyone deserves a good mom and dad.”

“Do you like your mom and dad?” Tim asked, eyeing the older boy.

“Yeah, a ton!” Dick said enthusiastically. Tim hid his wince in his cup, taking a big drink, savoring the way it burned on the way down. Like this, he could almost imagine it was coffee. “Are you here with your new dad, then?”

Tim shook his head. “I came with my, um – my grandpa. And my brother – I got a brother too, isn’t that cool?”

“Wow, a gramps and a brother.” Dick said, voice only just over the top with awe. “Do you know your grandpa’s name?”

“Uh huh, Alfred. And my brother is Rory. Do you have any brothers?” Tim asked, eyeing the way a man who had been standing just out of sight started walking away, speaking into a radio as he went.

“No, but I’d love a brother,” Dick said wistfully, “or a sister. My mom and dad said it isn’t that easy, so what can you do?”

I can be your brother, Tim almost said, biting back the words at the last moment. Then - a flare of mischief had him eyeing the older boy. “Do you know how you get one?”

From where he was watching Drita make her food, Dick froze. His head snapped back to stare at Tim, bug eyed. “Uh…I mean –”

“I’ll tell you so you can get one,” Tim said with a nod, shifting on Dick’s lap until he was sideways, “when a mommy and a daddy –”

“Oh wow, Nëna! Those look great!” Dick interrupted quickly, his hands reaching out to take a folded bun from the old woman. “Here Timmy, try it!”

Tim gaped as the pastry was all but shoved into his mouth. He reached up, grabbing the end and giving his older brother a glare. He bit into it, eyes widening when jam and cheese erupted in his mouth, all surrounded by a soft, warm breading. He lost interest in teasing Dick, focusing on inhaling the treat. He was halfway through his second one when a pair of identical young men stepped back into the lit clearing.

One of them made his way towards him and Tim watched his approach wearily. His face was clean of paint, but Tim could still see a streak of white or two that had been missed. The man bowed, holding out a pristine toy windmill, this one a sparkly silver. “For you,” the man said, “I am sorry we scared you.”

Tim glanced from the toy to his hands – one full of pastry and the other his coco – and frowned. Then he shoved the entirety of the remaining pastry in his mouth. “Whoa, careful baby bird, don’t choke!”

Tim froze in his chewing, staring at his brother wide-eyed. Dick didn’t notice, too busy pulling Tim’s hot chocolate free and putting it on a nearby plastic table. Baby bird. How many times had he heard Dick call him that? Jason had always been ‘little wing,’ Damian ‘baby bat,’ but only Tim had been –

He blinked, eyes blurry, and forced himself to swallow his treat. The pastry felt heavy in his throat, his mouth overly sweet. All at once, he felt overwhelmed – as if he was drowning in grief, the strength of it enough to make him breathless. He leaned forward abruptly, burrowing his face in Dick’s chest, arms wrapping tightly around the older boy’s neck. Dick’s arms came up and around him instantly. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Tim shook his head, sniffling, unable to explain even if he could find the words. Why had he been so stubborn? Why had he pushed Dick away for so long? Why had it taken until Dick had become a broken shell of the man for Tim to finally just let it go and forgive? Trust issues had been one of his greatest faults Tim knew, built from years of neglect and abuse from his parents, and furthered worsened by Bruce Wayne’s…everything, and his years as a vigilante. It had been a frequent conversation in therapy, one they seemed to circle back to every few months. Tim was self-aware enough to realize that his greatest fear had been becoming Janet Drake, but it wasn’t until that awful ceremony that Tim realized just how close he was to fulfilling that fear.

He regretted it.

Tim regretted it with every inch of his being. He wanted to go back, back to those first few months when Dick had really, truly begun to try and fix the chasm between them. He wanted to pull Dick in, wanted to hold him close, to tell him that he understood he was only human; that he’d been young (so, so young – because twenty-three was nothing in the scheme of things) and lost and just as traumatized as the rest of them. He wanted to tell him how much he meant to him – how much he still meant to Tim – and show why Dick’s actions had hurt him so much, then show him how to fix it.

But he couldn’t. That Dick was long gone.

Tim let out a sob, fingers tightening on the soft uniform. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Dick said, voice devastatingly gentle, “don’t be, better to get big feelings out then keep them in, as my mom always says.”

Tim shuddered.

“I did not mean to make little boy cry more.” A stilted voice said from behind them, sounding put out.

Dick’s shoulders moved as he shook his head, one arm wrapped tightly around Tim, the other still rubbing his back. “I think he’s just overwhelmed. Can you see if my mom is nearby? Or my dad? And maybe check on where we are with finding his family. Thanks, Artur.”

He was nudged from his hiding place.

“Hey, Timmy. Look.” Tim shifted so an eye was visible. Dick blew hard, making the windmill spin. “Pretty, isn’t it? You want to hold it? Artur and Davyd brought it for you.”

Tim slowly reached out take the windmill, keeping one arm wrapped tightly around Dick’s neck. His brother blew on it again, making the fans spin quickly. When it slowed down Dick reached out, his larger hand wrapping around Tim’s. He gave their joined hands a shake and the windmill spun slowly. Sniffling loudly, Tim gave it a wave on his own, watching it spin lazily. “You wanna see else something cool? Look over there, at Davyd.”

Tim peeked over his shoulder to find the other twin, Davyd, standing close by. He wiggled his fingers at Tim, before pulling out a long string of blue rubber. Davyd gave Tim a wink. “What is your favorite animal?”

“Um,” Tim let his arm slide free from Dick, but kept himself pressed against the older boy’s chest, rubbing at his eye. “Elephant?”

“Oooh,” Davyd hummed, long and loud, “tricky one. I like!”

He blew into the balloon, fingers moving with a dexterous speed as he twisted and yanked the balloon animal into shape. He pulled out a second balloon, wiping at his forehead dramatically after inflating it, before going back to add the new balloon in. He presented the elephant to Tim with a low bow. “For you.”

Tim took it carefully, fingers pushing in lightly to feel the give, and gave a small smile.

“There we go,” Dick crowed, his grin bright enough to light up a circus tent all on its own, “there’s a smile!”

Dick took the balloon animal, making it dance to and fro, before making it dart up to kiss Tim’s nose and all over his face while making loud elephant sounds. Tim giggled, pushing the elephant away before cuddling it close.

“Whatcha you gonna name it, Timmy?”

Tim considered, staring at the balloon, “Bluey.”

Because that show was awesome. Had Tim watched the entirety of it despite being in his mid to late thirties when it came out? Yes, yes he had. And not always with his plethora of nephews, nieces, and godchildren either.

“That’s a good name for an elephant.” Dick said with a serious nod.

“It sure is.” A light, accented voice agreed. Tim’s head snapped to the new comer, finding a pretty blonde approaching. She, like Dick, was dressed as some sort of pirate (if pirates wore a lot of velvet and spandex), with soft brown eyes that crinkled as she took them in. “Gives our Zitka and Dušan a run for their money.”

“Hi, Mom,” Dick greeted, bouncing slightly in his seat, “this is Timmy, he’s lost.”

“There were clowns.” Tim explained gravely, a phrase he had a feeling he was going to be repeating quite a bit tonight. And a phrase that he hoped would save him from Alfred’s not inconsiderable wrath.

“I heard.” Mary Grayson said, eyes narrowing as they flicked over to where Davyd was standing, looking very uncomfortable. “That must have been very scary, I’m sorry for that, little bird.”

Tim blinked, thrown by the affectionate nickname. “Uh, yeah.”

“Why, to think someone could be so silly, dressing as clowns in Gotham.” Mary said with a tsk and Davyd swelled up like one of his balloons, red creeping up his neck. Nëna Drita raised the rolling pin she’d been using on the pastries threateningly and the man fell silent, grumbling to himself under his breath. Mary chuckled, leaning over to pull a few wet wipes from a container waiting on the table. “I see we’ve already had our snacks.”

“I didn’t eat much, I swear mom!” Dick defended quickly and he made a mighty displeased face when Mary went at his face with the wet wipe, but ultimately just tilted his head back, accepting the cleaning.

“I’d hope not, we don’t want a repeat of Detroit.” She said knowingly.

“We said we wouldn’t talk about Detroit.” His brother grumbled sullenly.

“You said we wouldn’t.” Mary corrected mirthfully, throwing Tim a wink and Tim gaped at her as she turned to Tim’s face with a fresh wipe. “You’re Tim, right? I’m Mary, Dick’s mom.”

“Uh huh.” He mumbled then winced when he tasted the cleaning agent on his tongue. Tim squealed out a ‘ew,’ wiping at his tongue with his hands.

Dick laughed, pulling his hands from his mouth. “Oh yeah, that’s the worst. Here.”  

He took the hot chocolate desperately, draining it one go. He was panting when he let the cup drop – it had been fuller than he thought. He made a face, nose wrinkling. Now his mouth tasted too much like chocolate and – He blinked when a water bottle appeared in his face, the spout already pulled down. He glanced up at Mary, who was watching with an amused expression. “Go on, no one’s had any yet.”

Gratefully, Tim cradled the large bottle in his hands. He let himself relax back into Dick as he pulled on the spout, head coming to rest on his brother’s shoulder. He let go after a few more pulls, but cradled the bottle against his chest. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Grayson.”

“Oh my, what a polite boy.” Dick’s mother said softly, while Drita all but cooed in the background. The old woman approached with a well-loved quilt in hand, rambling in her native language as she tucked it loosely around both boys. “Why don’t you stay here, my robin? I’ll go check with security.”

“Okay, Mom.” Dick agreed and Tim yawned, suddenly feeling tired and resentful about the fact. His arms curled in, head rearing back as he smacked himself in the face with his windmill. “How about I put this and your elephant over here, Timmy?”

“No, they’re mine.” Tim grumbled, tightening his hold on his toys. His brother chuckled, but worked the toys free, Tim only just managing to keep a hold of the very bottom of the plastic windmill stem.

“I’ll make sure you get them back.”

Tim let out a sigh and nodded, finally releasing the toy. His eyes suddenly felt incredibly heavy and he tucked the water bottle closer to his chest, mouthing limply at the spout and getting a few more sips in as his lids slowly began to lower. Wasn’t sugar supposed to reinvigorate kids? It was completely unlike Tim to fall asleep out in the open like this, even in his baby state, especially if Alfred and Bruce weren’t with him.

But he felt so warm, Dick’s arms a comforting weight from where they were wrapped around him and the quilt, and even the sounds of the circus and crowds were muted as far back as they were. Tim nuzzled into Dick’s shoulder, pressing his forehead against the heated skin of his brother’s neck, and surrendered. He felt the water bottle being worked away, the pressure of the spout disappearing from his lips.

“Dickie?” He mumbled around his thumb.

“Yeah, baby bird?”

“No…um, no clowns.”

“Yeah, Timmy, I promise. No clowns.”

Tim’s eyes slid shut.

“ – I would say so,” a voice was saying, sharp for all that it was hushed, “clowns in Gotham, what a foolish idea.”

“Again, I can only extend my deepest apologies, sir. The workers in question will be disciplined.” Another male was saying, voice deep but somewhat nasally, “please, accept a complementary upgrade for tonight’s show.”

“We will not be staying for the show, I fear.” Tim was shifted, “…we may be returning for tomorrow’s show, however.”

“Then, please, allow me to bump you up to front row seats for the Planetary Bonanza, sir. And of course we’ll comp your entrance fees for tonight and tomorrow.”

Tim lifted his head, blinking. “Alfie?”

“Master Tim.”

Alfred’s head turned to look at him, quite close, and Tim leaned back to put some space between them. He was in the butler’s arms, Alfred’s brown leather coat wrapped around him. He rubbed at his eye as he looked around blearily. Rory was standing next to Alfred, looking awkward about the confrontation taking place. Or it could just be that he was holding a stuffed dog that was nearly size he was. Half one, a dozen of the other.

“Hi, Rory. I like your doggie.”

Rory gave him a small smile. “Thanks, Tim. Alfred won it for me.”

“A hell of an eye, to win that.” The other male voice announced and Tim turned to find a somewhat portly man standing there, dressed lightly for the weather in a button up and suspenders, a page boy hat on his head. He swept his hat from his head with a flourish, “and hello to you, young Master Tim.”

He said the name with a relish, tossing a wink at Alfred.

Alfred did not look amused, eyes narrowing slightly.

The man chuckled, the sound uncomfortable. “My name is C.C. Haly, the Ringmaster of this fine circus.” He gestured to the young couple and Dick standing next to him. “And I believe you’ve already met most of the fabulous Flying Graysons; John, Mary, and of course – our star, Dick.”

Tim perked up at his brother’s name, giving the boy a wave. “Hi, Dickie.”

“Hi, Timmy, did you have a good nap?”

“Uh huh.” Tim said, “can I go down, Alfred?”

“No. I’m afraid we’ve all had enough excitement for one day, my boy.” Alfred said sternly, shifting Tim until he was resting on his hip.

Tim sighed, fingers curling lightly in the short hairs by the butler’s neck. “Do we have to go home? I waited for the circus forever and ever. I didn’t even see the baby elephant or the pirates.”

He felt rather than heard Alfred sigh. “…perhaps you may see them when we return tomorrow.”

“Really, Alfred?” Tim exclaimed, throwing his other arm around the man and giving him a fierce squeeze. “Thank you, Alfie! Thank you!”

“Yes, yes.” Alfred said drolly, patting his back. “It’s very exciting.”

Tim pulled away, grinning widely. “Dickie, do you want to come play with me when we come back? I can bring some toys from home.”

“Sure, if I can.” Dick gave him a cheeky grin. “You wanna know something really cool?” Tim nodded eagerly. “I know the baby elephant – I picked his name.”

“Woah.” Tim breathed, appropriately impressed. Even Rory looked fairly impressed from behind the massive dog head.

“Say your goodbyes, lad.”

“Bye-bye Dickie! Bye-bye Circus People!”

Alfred snorted. “Master Tim.”

“Uh, I mean – Bye Mr. and Mrs. Grayson. Bye Mr. Ringmaster.”

“Better.”

Saturday found Tim raring to get back to the circus. They were going a little later then they had before, with Tim getting a longer afternoon nap then he usually got. At Tim’s instance, he was wearing an elephant onesie that Bruce had bought for him around the same time he’d bought the circus tickets. Tim hadn’t been sure how much he’d like it before it came, but it was really soft and warm, and a size too big which meant that it could go over his jeans and sweater and still have plenty of room. To match the grey suit, Tim had opted to wear his black and yellow Batman sneakers. He liked to think they looked like elephant feet. 

“Now, Tim,” Bruce said sternly as he finished zipping the onesie up, “you remember what we talked about this morning, right?”

“No more running off.”

“And?”

“I have to hold someone’s hand all the time.”

“Very good. And what else?” Tim stared at his father blankly. Bruce just shook his head with a smile and the crooked thing seemed to erase tiredness from his face. He must have gotten in really late last night. “If you see clowns…?”

“I run to you or Alfred!”

“That’s right, chum.” Bruce said, mussing his hair before accepting a grey torque from Alfred and tugging onto his head. “You ready to go, Rory?”

“Yeah, Uncle B.” Rory said, emerging from the coat closet, zipping up his own jacket. “Can we get some of the funnel cakes? They were solid last night.”

Bruce mouthed the word ‘solid’ to himself, before shrugging. “Sure.” He lifted Tim up, Tim’s legs curling around his waist. “Then onwards, the circus awaits.”

Rory snorted, jogging down the stairs after them. “Dork.”

“Hi, Dork. I’m Bruce.”

“Oh my god, dad jokes already?” Rory groaned, though he was grinning as he slid into the backseat. “Such a nerd.”

“Wow, downgraded already.” Bruce said with a chuckle, buckling Tim in. Alfred was remaining behind today, seeing them off from the front stoop. Tim hummed to himself as he kicked his feet, hands slapping against the plastic of his car seat.

“Geez, you’re not excited or anything Tim?” Rory asked, leaning over as far as the seatbelt would let him and poking him in the stomach. Tim let out a gasp and tried to retaliate, but the car seat limited his reach. He settled for sticking his tongue out, to which Rory was quick to return.

“I’m gonna see Dickie and the elephant,” Tim said as he stared at his hands, fingertips pressing together in random patterns, “and we’re gonna get funnels and maybe I can get another windmill. And we’re gonna stay for the show.”

“We sure are.” Bruce agreed. “You really like this Dick, huh?”

Rory sniggered, ignoring the frown Bruce threw him the mirror. “What? It’s not my fault that’s the kid’s name.” Rory giggled to himself again. “Dick.”

“Rory.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, B.”

Slyly, Tim swung wide eyes to stare at his brother. “What’s funny about Dick?”

Rory nearly choked on his water, the bottle jerking away from where it was mid-tilt. “Nothing,” he gasped, curling over as he giggled, “nothing’s funny,” another series of breathless giggles, “about Dick.”

Up front, Bruce just sighed. “I hope you don’t do that in front of the boy, Rory. Honestly.”

“I won’t, I won’t.” Rory managed to choke out, waving Bruce’s worry away. “I swear. Wow, that was great.”

Tim let his lips curve into a pout. “I still don’t get it. I like Dick.”

Rory let out another wheeze.

“Okay, we get it.” Bruce said dryly. “I was surprised you didn’t want to invite Eddie, Tim. Don’t you want to hang out with your friend?”

Tim let out a full body sigh, drooping back into his seat. “He’d just cry and stuff.”

His father’s clicked his tongue, “still, you two could have fun.” Well, damn. Looks like he still wasn’t completely free of the dreaded ‘play dates’ ideas. Sure enough, “it’d be good for you to spend sometimes with kids your own age. In fact, why don’t we –”

“We’re here!” Tim crowed loudly, interrupting the man. “We’re here, Rory, look!”

“Yeah, I see.” Rory said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You really think we’ll get to meet the elephants?”

“I think so,” Tim said, excited. “We can ask Dick.”

Bruce opened the back door and an eyebrow slid up, unimpressed. From where he’d freed himself of the harness, Tim gave him an innocent smile. “Help me out, daddy?”

“Sure, Tim.” His father said, shaking his head. “You know, just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should.”

“Sure, sure.” Tim agreed, bouncing on his feet when he was sat down. “Let’s go find Dickie!”

“Tim.” Bruce called out, voice sharp. “What did we say?”

Sighing, Tim doubled back, curling his hand into his father’s. “Sorry, daddy.”

His hand was squeezed once. “Good job, chum. Should we see about those funnel cakes? Rory, you got the tickets?”

His brother held up the tickets, nose already in the air and sniffing like a dog. “I want to get deep friend Oreos, too.”

“We’ll see.” Bruce said neutrally, “we need to get actual food into you at some point, not just desserts.”

That might have been what he said, but by the time they’d stopped at a hotdog stand, Tim had already had a funnel cake, some cotton candy, and half a deep fried Oreo that he’d split with Rory, and was munching on some caramel corn. He only managed half the hotdog, he was so full, and he was practically vibrating from all the sugar. Bruce was looking like he was regretting his life choices with Rory on his right – rambling a mile a minute, talking about what rides he wanted to go on, swinging Bruce’s hand so high it almost went up to the man’s chest – and Tim – spinning in a circle over and over as they walked, twisting up their arms until Bruce had to let go and re-grip Tim’s hand, only to repeat it all again seconds later – on his left.

“Hey!” A voice called out, cheerful and light, “is that my dear old pal Timmy, I see?”

Tim’s entire body whipped towards the sound, so quickly that his balloon hat flew off his head. He shot off towards the boy with a scream of “Dickie!”

He slammed into his brother, sending the tall boy stumbling back even as he instinctively course corrected and kept them from tumbling to the ground. Dick laughed, his hand ruffling Tim’s hair. “Heya, buddy.”

“Hi, Dickie!” Tim greeted and launched into a replay of everything they had gotten into or seen so far, particularly the fire juggler – who Tim found really impressive, especially when he’d done it blind folded.

“Woah.” Dick said with a grin, “that sounds like fun. Did you have a lot of snacks?”

“Oh yeah,” Tim said, hanging from the boy, arms locked around his waist, “daddy got us a lot of snacks. We had a lot of candy!”

“Couldn’t tell.” Dick said teasingly, before looking over to where Bruce and Rory were approaching. Tim noticed that Rory was no longer holding B’s hand, his own hands shoved in his pockets and looking blasé about everything. He cocked his head, taking in the unimpressed look before grinning. Oh my god, was Rory trying to impress Dick?

“Tim,” Bruce said with a friendly grin, “why don’t you let him breathe a bit.” Regretfully, Tim let his feet slid back to touch the ground, stepping back. “Good job, chum.”

“Hullo,” Dick greeted, holding out a hand, “I’m Dick Grayson. You must be Tim’s dad.”

“Yeah, I am.” B agreed as they shook, and Tim had to bite back the instinctive ‘aw’ at the ruffle of pleased pride he saw flash across Bruce’s face when he said it. “Bruce Wayne.”

Dick blinked. “Huh. You’re kind of famous.”

Bruce sent the boy a roguish grin. “So are you.”

Dick blushed and Tim cooed, reaching out to stroke the boy’s leg. Dick eyed him. “Wow Tim, you’ve had a lot of sugar, huh?”

“You have no idea.” B said dryly, ruffling Tim’s hair. “You wouldn’t have any idea where we could work some of that out?”

“Oh do I,” Dick said with a wink, “come with me, my fine, fine gentlemen, and I’ll give you the Dick Grayson special.”

What proceeded was the coolest behind the scenes tour ever. Dick took them in a loop around the general circus, guiding him to what he swore were the best games (even if Tim did notice that they all were geared towards kids his own age or slightly older), before taking them towards a giant man-made hill. It had metal sheets all down the slides and kids and adults of all ages were going down on folded blankets. A quick conversation between Dick and the man working it got them unlimited rides, Tim whooping and hollering as he rode down in front of Rory, and they raced an equally loud Dick. Rory swore up and down that riding with Tim was making him go faster, so he ended up being passed between each boy every other ride.

When they finally called it quits (which was right about the time that Tim saw B putting the moves on a young lady who had been walking around with shaved ice in a tray – it didn’t matter how many times he saw his father do his manslut thing, it was always so gross) all three boys were pink cheeked from the chill. A brief stop at the port-a-potties and a cajoling conversation from Bruce in order to get Tim to use the dirty thing, and Dick was guiding them back behind the boundary lines with a wink.

“Now, you gotta keep this secret.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Rory agreed easily, “this is really cool. You live in these?”

“Yup.” Dick said breezily, picking their way through the campers and caravans. “The big green one is mine, we get a bigger one ‘cause we’re a headlining act.”

“That is pretty cool.” Rory said, “you get to take your house with you when you travel.”

“I know, right?” Dick agreed, throwing a grin over his shoulder. “We even flew them with us when we went to Europe.”

“You got to go to Europe? Like where?”

Tim tuned the boys’ conversation out, tugging at his father’s pant leg. “Daddy? Daddy, will you carry me? My feet hurt.”

“Sure, bud.” Bruce said lifting him up, “do you need to take a break?”

“No, I wanna see the elephants.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, just carry me.”

“I’m not going to carry you forever,” Bruce warned, but he seemed utterly content to let Tim hang from him, carrying him easily one armed. Tim was bouncing in his hold when they finally approached the elephant pen, but stilled when Dick warned them all that they needed to move slowly and talk quietly.

“Dušan is pretty young,” Dick explained as he approached the fencing, “so Zitka can be really protective. Hold on, I’m gonna call them over.” He clicked his tongue a few times, calling out the elephants names and a few words in another language. The train car at the end of the enclosure shifted, rocking under the weight, and Zitka’s large head peaked out. Her trunk rose in a greeting as she ambled her way down the ramp. And then, tiny and so freaking cute, came the baby.

“Oh my gosh.” Tim breathed, hands curling tightly in Bruce’s jacket to keep still. It was nearly the height of B, but its trunk was so small and cute! It wrapped it’s trunk around its mother’s, mouth opening and closing as it vocalized.

“Wow.” Rory breathed, “they’re beautiful. You really got to name the baby?”

“Well, they had a list of them, but I got to pick what they were going to use.” Dick said, as proud as any new parent. “Zitka is twenty-two, aw – good girl.” The elephant had reached over the fencing, trunk feeling clumsily around Dick’s head. His brother reached up, gently stroking her trunk. “And Dušan is about a year and two months, so he’s still a baby-baby. Elephants can live to be really old, like sixty-five or more. Zitka wasn’t supposed to have a baby, but in Chicago we did a double show with the Ringling Brother’s and –”

Dick peeked over his shoulder at the two of them, before leaning in and whispering to Rory.

“Oh, ew!” Rory said and then quickly lowered his voice. “Nasty.”

Dick snickered. “And then twenty-two months later, we had Dušan. You should have seen C.C.’s face when he realized Zitka was pregnant. He was like, ‘who dared to knock up my baby! I’m too young to be a grandfather!’”

Both boys erupted into giggles and then suddenly Zitka’s trunk swept over to Rory. His brother went as stiff as a board. “Uh, Dick?”

“It’s okay,” Dick said with a grin, grabbing Rory’s hand and helping guide it up, “just be really gentle.”

“Wow,” Rory said, breathless, fingers stroking up the trunk, “she’s so soft.”

“You wanna feel, Timmy?”

“Yes, please!” Tim whispered-shouted, squirming out of B’s hold. His father obediently set him down, but kept a tight grip on the back of his elephant onesie. Tim glanced back at his father, reading the minute twist of his lips for the nervousness it was. He patted his father’s hand, before pulling it into his own. Dick guided his other hand through the small square openings that quartered the enclosure fencing and Tim felt his heart stop when a much smaller trunk felt around his fingers, then bumped against his palm. “Hi, Dušan. I’m Tim.”

There was a sound of clicks behind him and Tim could just see that Dick had taken the disposable camera that Bruce had bought earlier at one of the stands and was taking pictures of them.

“Woah, hey there girl.” Bruce greeted, brows furrowed as Zitka explored his face. “Yes, you’re very pretty, aren’t you?” Zitka gave a loud exhale of sound and air, blowing Bruce’s hair back. It sent all three boys into laughter, Bruce’s face grimacing as he wiped at it. “Hello to you, too.”

They spent some more time with the elephants, Dick lugging out a sack of hay that made Zitka and Dušan sway from side to side in delight, their tails whipping about behind them. Tim felt like he was going to faint from it all when he got to feed the baby, Dušan’s little trunk scooping the hay from his hand and into his mouth. Eventually they were shooed off by the elephant handler, who seemed to be giving an extremely uncaring Dick the riot act for feeding them.

“Well, only one place left to show you.” Dick said cheerfully, hands locked behind his head as he walked backwards in front of them, easily avoiding workers and obstacles alike.

“Where’s that?” Rory asked, head cocked to the side in curiosity.

“Where I work!” Dick crowed, leading them into the big top.

“Holy shit –” Rory breathed, head darting around.

“Language.”

“ – you work here?”

“Yeppers! Two shows every weekend and sometimes a matinée on Sundays! We do really cool holiday shows too, like for Halloween and Christmas and stuff. You should come if you can.” Dick exclaimed, before he darted off and towards the main ring. He flipped and twisted across it, a complex number that ended with him doing a twist-flip mid-air, landing smoothly on one foot before he slid down into a deep bow, hand curling against his chest. Tim clapped loudly, Rory and Bruce joining in.

“I can do a flip.” Rory said suddenly and Dick perked up like a flower, blurting out, “dude, really? Show me,” at the same time Bruce said a quick, “Rory, wait a minute –”

But Rory was already off, getting a few good paces in before launching himself into a flip. It was low, but he landed it. He turned to Dick with a grin, “I only just learned it, so I can’t get really high yet. I can do back flips too.”

“You gotta arch more,” Dick said seriously as he skipped up to Rory’s side, a hand pressing on Rory’s lower back, “and make your center of gravity be above your feet. Can you show me again?”

From where he was holding Tim’s hand, Bruce sighed. Technically, they weren’t really supposed to show what they’d been learning in the Cave outside of it and Tim glanced up at his father, sucking on his bottom lip. Luckily, Bruce didn’t seem angry, just watching the two with a fond amusement. “Guess I should have seen that coming, huh.” His father glanced down at him, catching Tim’s gaze. “You wanna go over?”

“ – see, that’s part of the problem. You’ve got speed, but no control.” Dick was saying, flittering around Rory as he adjusted his stance. “I’m gonna spot you this time, but go slower.” He froze when Bruce appeared before them, eyes wide. “I mean, uh…if this is okay, Mr. Wayne?”

“Sorry, B.” Rory added, blushing, “I guess I should have asked first. I know you don’t like us practicing outside of the…basement.” Dick gave Rory a weird look at that. “We have a gym in the basement, Uncle Bruce’s has been teaching me stuff there.”

“I don’t mind,” Bruce said, “though I’d feel better if there were some mats down. You’ve just started Rory, and you know your brother’s going to want to try now too, right?”

Fuck yeah, Tim did.

“Oh, I can fix that.” Dick said, darting off. He returned a few minutes later, dragging a bunch of soft mats behind him. Rory jogged over, taking a handful from him. They spread the mats out together, chatting animatedly about Rory’s flips. “ – really, you’re doing pretty good for a beginner. Do you think you’re gonna keep it up?”

“I mean, I could? B’s like really good, but he’s not an acrobat like you.”

“You should see if there’s any gyms in Gotham,” Dick encouraged, “then when I come back you can show me how good you’ve gotten.”

Tim winced at that, before making his way over to the mats, Bruce a shadow behind him. “No flips for you, chum.”

Tim paused from where he was fixing the Velcro straps on his sneakers. “But daddy, I wanna try!”

“I know,” Bruce soothed as he crouched down next to him, “but how about we work on your handstand? See if you can beat your last time?”

Tim huffed, eyeing where Dick was demonstrating a proper flip, Rory’s hands on his hips like a forty-year-old instead of a ten-year-old. Fine, Tim would do the stupid handstand. It was gonna be the best damn handstand he’d ever done, just you watch. B’s hands hovered on either side of him as Tim careful went down on all fours, pushing his butt into the air. He kicked up, large hands grabbing his ankles.

Tim glared at his dad. “Let me try on my own!”

“Okay, buddy, we can do that. But you have to ask nicer.”

Tim let out a truly bereaved sigh. “Daddy, let me try on my own please.”

“Thanks, Tim, much nicer.” Bruce said, leaning back on heels. “Alright, remember – one foot in front of each other and – kick! Good try, try again. Kick, nice and hard – remember, arch your chin up, don’t look down – and kick.”

Tim got up on his own, arms wobbling before a hand caught his ankles, another resting on his lower back. The hand on his back nudged gently, forcing Tim to pull his spine straight, pointing his feet up.

“Okay, bud. I’m letting go – I’ll catch you if you fall, okay?” Tim nodded, biting his lip. The hand on his ankle let go. “And, watch is started.”

“Hi, Tim!” Dick chirped and Tim lost his balance as his head craned up, watching as Dick walked by them on his hands. Bruce caught him, lowering him back down.

Rory was trying to follow, though he was way more unsteady. “Jeez, Dick. How are you are so fast?”

Dick walked his feet over his head, landing smoothly up into a walk, making his way back to where Rory was tilting to the left. “Practice, you wouldn’t believe how much practice. You gotta have really strong core and arms.”

Tim let out a huff as he watched the bigger boys, feeling a flare of jealously as Dick went back onto his hands, back to back with Rory. “Show-off,” Tim grumbled, before going back down on his hands, “again, daddy.”

It wasn’t long before Tim was tired, hot and sweaty in his elephant outfit, and he let out a sigh of relief when Bruce unzipped it and peeled it from his top, letting it hang around his waist, and pulled his hat off. He settled in his father’s lap, leaning against Bruce’s broad chest as the man pulled a backpack off, stuffing the torque inside as he fished about and dug out their water bottles. He handed Tim’s Superman one to him, before pulling Rory’s Batman one out and setting it down next to them and sipping from his own, simple matte black bottle.

They watched as Rory tried to chase Dick around on his hands for a bit, before they went back to flips and backflips. At some point they tried to get Bruce to approve going up with on the wires (which was a hard no from B, even with the safety net extended and raised pretty high up) and Dick settled for teaching Rory how to do handsprings. Their fun ended around the time Rory was pretty regularly – if wobbly and somewhat crookedly – pulling them off, Dick cheering him on from where he sat next to them, Tim watching curled up in B’s lap. The Ringmaster – C.C. – came walking in from the back of the ring, pausing as he took in the sight of an off balance Rory landing a handspring and dancing backwards on one foot, trying to maintain his balance.

“What’s all this?” The man asked sharply, eyes narrowed and Dick shot up like a live wire.

“Hey, boss! Just me!”

The terseness in the Ringmaster’s frame relaxed. “What’s going on, Dick?”

“This is Mr. Wayne and his kids, Rory and Tim. You remember Tim from last night, right?”

The Ringmaster’s face instantly morphed into a winning smile. “Of course, I do! Young Master Tim! Welcome back. And good evening to you, Mr. Wayne.”

“Mr. Haly.” Bruce greeted, handing a panting Rory his water bottle before tucking Tim’s and his own back into the bag. He slipped it on over a shoulder, before standing with Tim in his arms. “I hope you don’t mind, Dick was just teaching Rory a few tricks. Fantastic place you have here, by the way.”

Tim rolled his eyes from where he was plastered on B’s chest, arms hanging over his shoulders as he watched Rory and Dick talk. Brucie Wayne slid into place, flattery flowing from his lips until C.C. Haly was all but exploding with bluster behind him.

“Probably time to start set up,” Dick explained with a regretful smile and shrug, “too bad, that was fun. You guys are staying for the show, right?”

“Yeah,” Rory affirmed, closing his water bottle and moving behind Bruce to unzip the backpack. Bruce shifted to the side slightly so the brunet could have an easier reach, never once interrupting his conversation with Haly. “We got really up close seats, I guess?”

“You sure do,” Dick said, rubbing his hands together, “you’re gonna be front row to see me and my awesomeness.”

Rory snorted, shoving the other boy lightly. “I’ll believe it when I see it. What’re you going to be, a spaceman?”

“I’ll have you know I’m Flying Blue Alien Number Three, thank you very much.” Dick said primly, brushing the sleeves of his t-shirt off. “I’ll wave and everything. You guys coming for tomorrow?”

“Nah,” Rory said with a frown, “Sundays are like – home-time and stuff. Alfred insists.”

“It’s weird you call him by his first name, isn’t he your grandpa?”

Rory blinked in surprise, eyes darting up to Tim and Bruce before back to Dick. “I mean, yeah. He’s our butler too, but – he raised B, so yeah.”

“You should come over.” Tim chirped, “we’re gonna go swimming. Rory’s really, really fast.”

“I’m not that fast.” Rory muttered, itching at the back of his neck.

Dick’s brows furrowed. “You guys are going to go swimming in October?”   

“We got an inside pool.” Tim explained, tugging lightly on Bruce’s shirt. “Daddy.”

“Hold on Tim, I’m talking.”

Tim let out a gush of breath, collapsing back onto Bruce’s shoulder. “It’s warm and stuff.”

“We do have an indoor pool; it’s pretty big.” Rory said slowly, looking like he was trying to be cool, but clearly was pretty into the idea. “It feels like a bath.”

Dick hummed. “Yeah, maybe. I’d have to ask my mom and dad, but if they say yes I’d love to. And you could show me your gym!”

Rory visibly blanched, eyes wide as they darted up to Tim’s. Tim snorted, fiddling with Bruce’s collar, flipping it up and down, tucking it under his jacket collar only to pull it back up again. “Nah, the gym’s boring. Our house is really big, I wanna show you my room.”

“Sure, Timmy. I’d love to see you room.” Dick said and yeah, maybe it was a wee-bit patronizing. Just wait until Dick say the manor though, Tim thought with a giggle, let’s see how dismissive he was then. A large hand reached up, stilling his fiddling.

“Tim, buddy, can you leave my collar alone?”

“But I got somethin’ to ask you.”

“Well, you –” Bruce checked his watch, “ – made it five minutes, alright. What is it?”

Tim perked up. “Can Dickie come over and play tomorrow? We wanna show him the pool.”

Bruce hummed. “Maybe; we’ll see.”

Tim cheered, hands flying up. “That’s basically a yes!”

“That’s a maybe, chum.” His father snorted, Tim squealing as he was abruptly flipped, hanging over Bruce’s shoulder just by his legs. “Let’s find our seats. Dick, why don’t you see what your parents have to say first.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Wayne!”

Tim giggled as Bruce made his way towards the stands, Tim still hanging from his legs. Behind him he could just make out Rory’s “it’d be cool if they said yes,” and Dick’s “heck yeah it would, I haven’t swum since summer.”

“Rory!” Bruce called over his shoulder and his brother jolted away from Dick with a wave, trotting after them. They were the first guests in the tent, but if anyone seemed to mind no one said anything. Whether that was because of Bruce being Bruce Wayne or because of their little hiccup with Tim, or both, Tim wasn’t sure. They did get to see everyone start to set up for the show, which was cool, and a nice teenager came to them directly to offer snacks and refreshments.

Tim got a popcorn that was nearly as big as him – he didn’t even have to reach in! He could just curl his tongue out and snag a popcorn – and water in a collector’s mug that said Haly’s Gotham Tour on the side. Rory and B got giant sodas and another hot dog, and they chatted happily as they ate.

“I like Dickie, daddy.” Tim announced as he crunched away.

“That’s nice, Tim. Chew with your mouth closed, please.”

Tim obediently swallowed his mouthful. “I think he’s really cool. Don’t you think he’s cool, Rory?”

“Yeah, he’s pretty neat.” Rory said, eyeing the way a group of men were dragging a large pool of water on wheels towards the center of the wheel. “Wonder what’s that for?”

“It’s not as big as our pool.” Tim announced, eyeing it as he racked his memory for any aquatics he’d seen last time.

“Nope.” Bruce agreed, then to Tim’s outrage reached into his popcorn and stole a handful.

“Daddy!”

“What?” B asked, sounding shocked, “you don’t want to share with your dad?”

“You can have some.” Tim finally relented, leaning back into his father. “But you gotta ask. Manners first.”

Bruce snorted at the repeat of one of Alfred’s favorite phrases, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to his head. “You’re right, chum. Manners first.”

“Can I have some popcorn, Tim?”

Tim made a show of holding the popcorn bucket out to Rory, but it only really succeeded in causing the overflowing thing to drop a wave of white corn like snow. Tim stared at the popcorn in dismay. “Uh oh.”

“Don’t worry about Timmy,” Rory advised wisely, “you can’t feel it, but the floor is like super sticky already. My feet are glued!”

The crowds were really starting to come in now and Tim shifted nervously as he eyed them, pushing back into his father’s chest. “…lots of people.”

Bruce’s arm wrapped around his middle, weighty and steady. “Sure is.” Then, “if anybody has to use the restroom before the show starts, now’s the time.”

Tim thought about it, than thought again. “…yes.”

Bruce stood, Tim held in his arms in deference to the narrow aisle. “Rory?”

“I’m good,” the boy said, shaking his head, “I’ll watch the seats.”

Bruce frowned, visibly not liking the idea, but Rory was already waving them away, leaning against the ring siding so he could watch as a series of workers set up a ramp just in front of them. “Okay,” B said slowly, “stay here though.”

“Gotcha.” Rory said distractedly.

The line for the restrooms were long and it took a long time for them to get inside the room, then they had to wait some more for a stall to open (Bruce never used urinals if he could avoid it, because people were terrible, especially after cell phones became more prevalent). Bruce kept checking his watch, which was starting to make Tim nervous even though he was like – a hundred percent that Rory was probably fine. He had a man-eating suit, so you know. He was fine. Probably. Okay, now Tim was getting anxious.

He let B crowd him into a stall and lift him up so he could rest his feet on the seat, going first and then following Bruce’s instructions to stand just outside of the stall, back pressed against it so his father could see his heels through the gap as he went. There was another line just to wash their hands and by the time they got back out into the hallway that surrounded the tent proper, Bruce was moving as a pretty quick gait back towards their seats. Tim had pushed himself up on his chest to try and see further, eyes searching for the familiar mop of brown hair.

The tension in Bruce’s frame finally loosened when they spotted Rory in the seats, steadily making his way through Tim’s popcorn. Tim was so relieved that whatever spooked Bruce hadn’t happened that he didn’t even care. The second Bruce sat down, Tim crawled over and onto his brother’s lap, making Rory pass the bucket over to make room.

“What’s up, Tim?” Rory asked, arms raised so Tim could settle on his lap.

Tim just shrugged. “Missed you.”

“Oh jeez, squirt.” Thin arms wrapped around him, a pointy chin resting on his head. “Now I feel bad I ate all your popcorn.”

Tim let out a sigh. “You’re a jerk, Rory.”

“Ouch, right to the heart. I just couldn’t help it, I was just so hungry. In fact, I’m still starving.” The older boy teased, then darted in and mimed eating Tim’s neck. Tim cackled, hands pushing fruitlessly against his brother’s face.

“Come on kids,” Bruce said with a chuckle, an arm looping around Rory’s shoulders, “shows starting.”

Rory let go with one last play bite to his shoulder, Tim still giggling as he leaned back into his brother’s chest. “Oooo,” Tim breathed as the lights flashed one and off and then faded into a bright, neon blue.

“The year,” a voice announced, deep and crisp with dramatics, “is 3021, and our peerless explorers are on a journey through space. We, here at Haly’s Amazing, Fantastical, Fabulous Circus, invite you, our very special guests, to join us on our voyage!”

C.C. Haly appeared in the center ring in a flash of bright smoke, laughing wildly and wearing a futuristic top hat, and then with a crack of his whip – the rings were alight with movement.

Tim yawned from where he was resting in Bruce’s arms, holding a stuffed astronaut tightly, a glowing blue ring hanging loosely from his neck. Next to him Rory was making slashing movements through the air with his own toy, a baton/lightsaber looking thing that glowed a shamrock green. He had similar glow-ring on his forehead, like a crown.

They were waiting by the back doors of the tent, Bruce talking with C.C. and a series of performers about the show. Even with his extra-long nap, Tim was feeling drained. He bet he was out the second they got in the car. He was determined to stay up and wait for Dick though, so he settled for clinging to his father tiredly while watching Rory get more and more adventurous with his baton.

He was swinging it in a big circle now, occasionally making it do figure-eights or zigzags, just far enough behind Bruce not to smack him. He was really getting into it, adding a few spins for flourish, when Dick finally popped free of the tent, John and Mary appearing more sedately.

“Oh sweet,” Dick exclaimed, “I love those things!”

“It’s really cool.” Rory agreed with a nod, “look what I can do.”

He spun the baton up and over his hand in a series of quick wrist flips, making the baton spin in a tiny circle, like a shield. Dick gave him an impressed double thumbs up. Behind him, Tim could just register Bruce introducing himself to the Graysons, but he only had eyes for Dick. He slid bonelessly off Bruce’s shoulder, the man letting out a surprised noise at the move. But Dick was already reaching up, a crooked grin on his face as Tim dropped down and into his arms.  

“It’s okay, Mr. Wayne. I got him.”

Tim let out a deep breath as he nestled into Dick, arms curling around his neck. “Hi, Dickie.”

“Hi, baby bird.” Dick greeted, fumbling slightly as he shifted Tim into a better hold. “Tired?”

“Uh huh.”

“Did you ask?” Rory asked in what – hilariously – he must have thought was a quiet voice.

“Yeah.” Dick said with a nod, just as not-quiet. “They’re talking about it now.”

Behind them, Bruce snorted.

“You were cool.” Tim mumbled, thumb already in his mouth.

“What was that?”

“I think it was ‘you’re cool,’” Rory translated, his fingers brushing down Tim’s back, “he doesn’t really do baby talk unless he’s tired.”

“‘m a big boy.” Tim grunted, annoyed. The boys laughed.

“You were cool, though.” Rory said quickly, “I had no idea you could even make your body twist like that! And when you guys were up on the wires and the trapeze – holy sh – snack,” he caught himself quickly, “that was crazy. You have like, no fear.”

“You get used to it.” Dick brushed off, though Tim could hear the naked pride in his voice. “I was up on the wires when I was Tim’s age.”

“So…as a baby?” Offended, Tim found the energy to pull his head up and glare at Rory.

“Rory, don’t tease your brother.” Bruce admonished, plucking Tim from Dick’s arms.

“No,” he whined, even has he nuzzled into his father, “wanna stay with Dick.”

“You’ll see him tomorrow.”

There was a moment of stunned silence; then: “Wait – really? Man, you aren’t gonna believe our place –”

“Oh wow, thanks mom, dad! I can’t wait to swim –”

“We have three media rooms and an N64, and a Dreamcast and a Playstation!”

“ – you have all three?”

“I know! I don’t even know why, B never plays them!”

From where he was laying limply in Bruce’s hold, Tim gave a weak little ‘yay.’

Rory chuckled. “Sorry, it’s like two hours past his bedtime.”

“Aw, poor Timmy.”

Tim groaned, rolling his face into Bruce’s neck with a whine. “Daddy.”

Bruce ran a soothing hand up his back, pulling the hood of his elephant outfit up and over his head, blocking out the lights. “Come on Rory, time to call it a night. Mary, John, Dick, it’s been wonderful meeting you. Truly impressive work, you’re amazing artists. We’ll see you tomorrow at noon – don’t bother eating, my butler’s only passion in life is feeding people. I’m being completely serious; expect to leave with left overs.”

There was the tittering of laughter, but Tim was already drifting, surrounded by Bruce’s comforting scent.

Chapter Text

Tim had always known there was something about him that made him just a bit different from his brothers.  He had a, hm, how to put it…a limitation on how much he could care? Or perhaps in how he deeply could get invested in other people? Take Dick for instance; Dick felt everything so deeply, he was a naturally empathetic person and he could take on other people’s hurts like they were his own. He cared about almost everyone he got involved with, from parental figures to siblings to team mates and coworkers alike. He even had (to Tim’s great frustration) empathized with his own enemies. Jason was fairly similar, believe it or not. Sure, he had always been the family member quickest to kill – at least out in the open – but they weren’t random murders or acts of some twisted mind. Jason killed those he felt had harmed others, for those who had been hurt in a way he’d either experienced himself or was adjacent enough that he could understand it. Like a solemn Minos draped in mortal flesh, Jason delivered the justice he felt he’d been deprived.

Tim just...wasn't like that. He didn’t think of it as a flaw or a deficiency or anything like that, it was just a part of who Tim was. He didn’t want bad things to happen to people – after all was he not a Robin, sweeping out into the night to save those who found themselves in danger? He felt pity for those who had tragedies in his life, he was capable of empathizing with them, he just…didn’t get too moved by it. Not unless it happened to someone he well and truly considered his own. And it wasn’t like Tim wasn’t capable of love. When Tim loved someone, he loved them totally. Fiercely. Completely. Look at the depths he’d fallen after Connor. He just never had it in him to be able to spend that kind of emotional currency flippantly. His cup was always as big as it needed to support those he cared about, but it never was large enough to offer everyone a sip. But he would do anything for those he loved and considered his. All Tim wanted was for them to be healthy, sane, and happy – in that order.

Tim’s very own hierarchy of needs.

Perhaps that’s why he could sit here, floating on a foam platform in the shape of sea turtle that was large enough to fit two men of Bruce’s size, and watch as John and Mary Grayson sipped wine with his father as Dick and Rory chased each other around the pool. The Graysons had arrived around lunch time and enjoyed a full spread offered by Alfred. They were polite and a cheerful, and funny too. Afterwards, the boys had retired to one of the dens to play Diddy Kong Racing – which had started out well only to devolve into madness when an infuriated Tim realized he wasn’t actually winning because his controller wasn’t plugged in.

Dick had laughed himself hoarse while Tim had tried his very best to suffocate Rory with a throw pillow. Alfred had come in to investigate all the noise, taken a few short moments to access the situation, then plugged in Tim’s controller, restarted the track, thrown a stern ‘don’t tease your brother, Master Rory,’ and walked out. After an hour had passed and their lunch was considered digested enough that it was safe for them to swim, Bruce had come to fetch them.

Tim was allowed to swim only once he’d had a life vest strapped on (at least Tim’s distrust in the viability of swim wings had been noted) and Bruce had received multiple promises from both Dick and Rory to keep an eye on him. Even with all of that, Bruce still watched Tim at all times. Tim didn’t really see the need for it; the life jacket ensured he could do nothing but bob around like a cork in water. Even now Bruce had forgone sitting on the bar stools to stand behind the bar and lean as he talked, even though he wasn’t making any drinks. The spot did gave his father a clear view of the indoor pool (one much smaller and cozier than the outdoor one, done up to look like a mix of Roman baths and a grotto, complete with a waterfall) and while he appeared engaged and attentive to the two visiting adults, he rarely looked away from it.

The float Tim was on was rotating slowly, spun by the currents that the older boys were making as they chased each other around the pool. Dick was a good swimmer but not as good at as Rory, and Tim rather thought his brunet brother was enjoying having the chance to show off his own skills. He huffed as the float spun his gaze away from the action and back towards the adults. Mary gave him a wave with her fingers, one that Tim returned grumpily. He wanted to be playing too, but Rory had slapped him down on the float with a stern order to stay put, he’d be back to play with him later, and gone off to engage in the type of roughhousing Tim was considered too little for. They seemed like a nice couple, Tim thought with a sigh. It was clear that the Greysons loved their son and that Dick adored them. Tim just couldn’t understand how they’d gotten to where they were.

If they loved Dick so much, how could they agree to let the Court of Owls take him at the end of their Gotham performances? Or did they not know? Were they not aware that C.C. Haly had all but sold their son? Tim would like to think so, he would very much like to think that was the case. But…Tim had seen enough in his lifetime that he knew he couldn’t bank on that. He’d seen parents, siblings, family – that utterly loved each other and done terrible things to each other: mothers whose children were everything to them, yet were not enough for them to quit drugs, to stop leaving their child alone and unattended in crack houses. Fathers who were just as quick to beat a man down for speaking ill of or even looking wrong at their progeny as they were to turn that violence onto said children.

Love could be – was – complicated.

As he watched, John Grayson leaned over onto the bar, saying something to Bruce that made his father startle – only the slightest bit, a slight hitch in the travel of his wine glass to his lips, while Mary Grayson gave his father a wide, flirty grin. Tim blinked once, then again – but no, that was definitely –

Nope.

Nope.

That was not happening, at the very least it wasn’t happening where Tim could see it. He knew that his father enjoyed physical intimacy more than most (he’d always kind of thought that Bruce used it to supplement that lack of emotional intimacy in his life, like slapping on a band aid over the large gash that came about from having so few adults in his life that knew him outside of Batman or Brucie) and that his list of dalliances covered every type of gender, sex, and combination possible. But come on, Dick’s parents?

But why wouldn’t he, Tim thought with disgust, he didn’t know the Graysons were about to die. All he saw was an attractive couple in front of him, acrobats at that, which meant they were flexible – and ugh, stop it brain. Tim gagged as he leaned over the side of the float, determinedly trying to paddle the water with his hands, trying to get it to turn around so he wasn’t having to watch B lean forward himself, lips quirked dangerously and no, Bruce please, your children are right here!

Abruptly, the float slid out from underneath Tim with a sudden jerk of movement and he had just enough time to think an empathetic ‘shit’ before he went face first in the water. In an ironic twist, the bright orange, fish themed life jacket was proving to be the cause of his possible doom, as Tim found himself floating upside down, feet kicking wildly above water. Tim had managed to hold his breath before he’d gone under, but his lungs were apparently tiny because they were already burning and none of his flailing was doing anything to right himself and –

A mighty splash sent him rocking back a few paces, before he was suddenly being flipped in the water and pulled up. Tim gasped as he breached, fingers wrapped tightly around wet cotton. He blinked to find a worried looking B in the water before him, soaked to the bone in his nice button up and slacks. He coughed a few times, wiping at his eyes as Bruce brought them quickly to the pool edge. Tim was set down on the concrete, blinking water from his eyes as he watched Rory and Dick cross from the other side of the pool, both sporting giant eyes and concerned looks.

“Is he okay?” Rory asked, hands twisting nervously under the water.

“You were supposed to be watching him.” Bruce practically growled and Rory wilted as Dick grimaced.

Frowning, Tim pushed at B roughly with his foot. “It was my fault, don’t be mean.”

Bruce blinked at him, before glancing over his shoulder and doing a visible double take at both boys. The fierce line in his father’s shoulders disappeared all at once, like a candle being blown out. “Sorry boys, I didn’t mean to snap.”

Dick nodded, floating closer. “You okay, baby bird?”

“I’m okay.” Tim reassured, but he didn’t take his eyes off where Rory was standing stock-still, the boy’s own eyes still locked on Bruce.

“Why don’t we take a break?” Bruce suggested as he pulled himself up and out of the pool “Alfred brought some snacks out and I have to change.”

“Sure, Bruce. Whatever you want.” Rory said, voice quiet as he began swimming towards a ladder – the ladder on the opposite of the pool, instead of the one closest to him, but also close to Bruce. Dick bit his lip, glancing from Tim to Rory, before swimming off after the brunet. 

“Let’s get you out of that jacket, chum.” Bruce said, fingers already moving to the clips. Tim nodded, but kept attention on where Rory was wrapping himself up in a towel on the other side of the pool, Dick standing next to him and clearly trying to figure out what was up with his friend.

“Here, Bruce.”

“Thanks, John. You mind checking with the boys and showing them where Alfred left the snacks?” Bruce said, taking the towel and wrapping Tim up in it.

“Sure thing. Hey, boys!”

“Daddy,” Tim said, his voice slightly muffled by the vigorous drying off his head was getting.

“Yes, Tim?”

“You scared Rory.” The towel paused in his hair. Tim reached up, pulling the fabric away from his face, staring at where his father was crouched in front of him. “Go tell him you’re sorry.”

“Tim –”

“If you don’t, I won’t ever hug you again.” Tim warned with a fierce glare then spun around, towel wrapped around him like a burrito, and stalked off towards the bathrooms.

“Tim, where are you going?” His father called after him, sounding bewildered.

“I have to pee!”

Behind them, Mary’s light laugh lit up the air. “You better get to it Bruce, he sounded serious.”

Tim grumbled about Bruce being an asshole under his breath as he made his way around the pool and towards the changing rooms/bathrooms. His bad mood – probably augmented by the embarrassment of almost drowning – was only worsened when he scrapped his toe on the concrete, hissing as he felt the skin on his big toe rip open. The changing rooms were set up similar to what you’d find at a public pool (not that Tim would ever know, he’d only ever been in privately owned ones) with a large room filled with tall lockers, towel warmers, and benches, before a second door opened into the bathroom proper. Tim let himself into the nearest stall to do his business and when he found he couldn’t reach the sink, bypassed washing his hands.

Instead he made his way over to where the first aid kit was mounted on the wall, pushing one of the plastic chairs scattered about the changing rooms into the bathroom so he could stand on it. It took some work, but he managed to get the kit free and up onto the counter by standing on his tippy toes, before he dragged the chair back to the sink. He took a moment to wash his hands before drying it on his towel, and clambered up on the counter so he could look at his foot. He had just put a glob of the antibiotic on the bleeding scrape when the door to the bathroom swung open. His father paused there, taking the sight of the chair and the open first aid kit. “Are you hurt, Tim?”

“Did you say you’re sorry to Rory?”

“Tim,” Bruce said with a sigh as he crossed the small space, “that’s not what’s important right now, you’re bleeding.”

Blue met blue as he leveled his father with the most unimpressed look his toddler body could muster. “It’s important to me.”

“I did.” B said evenly, “now, will you please let me look at your foot?”

Tim eyed him suspiciously before nodding – he’d confirm with Rory himself later. “I scraped it on the floor, see?” He pointed to where the fat, round part of his toe was sluggishly bleeding. He frowned. “Alfred was right; I shoulda warn my pool flippies.”

“Alfred usually is.” Bruce said in agreement, his hands carefully taking his much smaller foot and tilting it up.

“I put the cream on it,” Tim explained as he reached for the band aid, “so now I gotta put this on it and it’ll be okay.”

“How did you get up on the counter?” Tim pointed to the chair and B let out a low hum, before gesturing to the band aid. “May I?”

“Huh? Sure.” Tim handed it over, eyes slightly narrowed as he took in the look on Bruce’s face, trying to discern what he was thinking.

“Tim,” Bruce said slowly as he pulled the plastic off the band aid, “I’d like it if you came to me,” the band aid was wrapped carefully around his toe, “or Alfred, for help with things like this – especially if you’re hurt.”

“It’s just a little cut. I can still play.”

“I know.” A thumb brushed over the arch of his foot. “Even if it’s just a little hurt, I still would like to know.”

Tim’s brows furrowed, head cocking to the side. “But why? I can do it.”

“You can,” Bruce agreed, tone thoughtful, “but just because you can, doesn’t mean you have to. I know that you’re used to taking care of yourself, but if you told me you’d hurt your toe I would have gotten you a band aid and then you wouldn’t have had to walk on it or use the chair.”

Tim frowned. “If you know all that, you shouldn’t have been mean to Rory.”

“Tim.”

“You know he gets scared with grownups,” Tim powered on, undetermined by the exasperation in his father’s voice.

And Bruce should know better. Tim had ordered him several books (The Grieving Child, Understanding CPTSD and PTSD as it Presents in Children and Adolescents, Trauma and the Life-Cycle: A Compassionate and Comprehensive Look, and then – just because he felt just a little bit guilty for putting his father and brothers on blast like that, threw in The Absent Parent: Narcissism, Neglect, and Childhood. Let it never be said that Tim wasn’t fair) from one of Bruce’s many cards and then addressed it to him. Alfred had opened it (as he opened all the packages that came to the Manor) and had assumed that Bruce had ordered it himself.

The butler had been so proud of what he saw as some sort of great emotional awakening in Bruce Wayne, that he’d delivered them personally to Bruce in his office, along with his favorite drinks and snack foods – even the junk food he usually only allowed on very special occasions. Not wanting to make Bruce awkward, Alfred hadn’t mentioned anything about the books at all and just placed them on B's desk. Bruce, startled by the genuine and obvious satisfaction and approval, had hilariously assumed that Alfred had bought him the books to help him step into his new role as a parent and that Alfred was feeling proud of himself, and hadn’t wanted to let his pseudo-father figure down. They were sitting on his bedside now, bookmarked with folded up pages of notebook paper, and with a four different highlighters resting atop them. Knowing Bruce, each color probably represented a different subject or thought he wanted to revisit.

“And you’re deflecting.” Bruce pointed out as he set Tim back down on the floor. He tugged Tim's wet towel free, before tossing it into the dirty clothes hamper and grabbing a nicely warmed one from the warmer. He paused in wrapping it around Tim. “That means –”

“Deflection,” Tim interrupted flatly, following the man back into the changing room, “noun; a turning aside or off course.” His father gave him a wry look and Tim shrugged. “I read the dictionary once. I was bored.”

“Of course you did,” Bruce muttered under his breath as he opened one of the lockers, pulling out boxers, a simple polo and dark slacks, “but here I meant it more like using a defense mechanism to redirect a conversation away from a challenging topic to one less emotionally charged.”

Tim forced himself to take a deep breath. He was kind of regretting getting B those self-help books now.

He watched silently as Bruce changed, chewing on his bottom lip. Look, it wasn’t like the fact he had a tendency to avoid asking for help hadn’t been pointed out to him before. It just…hadn’t always gone well for him. In fact, it usually went poorly him. Why bother asking for help if he could just do it himself? He didn’t inconvenience anyone that way and he could always count on it getting done right away and correctly if he was the one to do it. And…well, no one could let him down if he never asked in the first place. Tim was still steadily battering his lips as he watched Bruce dump his loafers into the waste bin, writing them off as a lost cause before slipping his feet into a pair of shower shoes. Now mostly dry and with a towel around his neck, Bruce crouched down in front of him, blue eyes earnest.

“What I’m trying to say, chum, is that I worry about you. A lot.” Tim shifted uncomfortably but before he could interject, Bruce held up a hand. “I know how smart and clever you are, Tim. Do you think other three-year-olds read the dictionary because they’re bored? Or are capable of putting together the kind of plans you do? They aren’t, just in case you were wondering.” A hand gently chucked his chin. “I’m so incredibly proud of you. You’re so very bright, you have so much potential, I have no doubt you’re going to do amazing things when you get older. And I know how much you’re going to hate me saying this – but Tim, you’re very young right now.”

Bruce was right, Tim hated being reminded of that. Mulishly he crossed his arms, pulling his towel tight around him like a shield. “I’ll get bigger, Alfie said so.”

“You will,” His father agreed solemnly, “and it’s going to happen sooner than you think, but that’s still some time away. What if you’d fallen like you did in the bathroom, Tim? What if the chair you were on slipped on the wet floors in here and you fell and broke something? You remember how much it hurt when you broke your arm? What if you’d broken something even more important? What if you hurt your spine or your head? The counter and the tile in here are marble, your poor bones wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“…I guess.”

“Hey buddy, look at me.” Bruce entreated quietly and Tim reluctantly pulled his gaze up from where he’d been studying the band aid on his toe. “You’re not in trouble, Tim, I want to make sure you know that. It’s important to me that you know that you can always come to me – no matter what time of day or night – and I’ll come if you need me, okay?”

Wow, Bruce really had been reading those books, huh? Tim eyed the man in disbelief. “Even if you’re out being – even if you’re working at night?”

“Even then,” his father promised steadily, “Alfred can always get a hold of me and as soon as I safely can, I’ll come home.”

“But –” Tim started, utterly bewildered and somewhat floored. “Your work is important.”

“It is, but you’re important too.” A hand reached out to stroke his cheek. “I don’t ever want you to be afraid to ask for help because you think you’re bothering me, or that you think it’s being whiny or dramatic, or whatever else your parents have told you.”

Tim blinked around his thick throat. He felt called out, uncomfortably so, and was sure he looked just as startled as he felt. Bruce looked sad as he watched him, before pulling him into his arms.

“But I also see that this hard for you, so I was thinking we could put some ground rules in place. How does that sound?” Tim nodded, unable to speak but feeling relieved at the idea of having a list or something to guide him. “If you get hurt at all, even if you can fix it yourself or you think it’s not a big deal, you come to me or Alfred. Or Rory. Same if you’re feeling sick. And if you need to reach something and you have to climb on something or – I don’t know, invent a simple machine – to reach it, same rules apply. Think you can do that, chum?”

“Okay.” Tim agreed, voice very small.

“My dad,” B started then paused, audibly swallowing, “once told Alfred that raising me was the greatest adventure and achievement he’d ever have. I never understood that until you and Rory came into my life. I know that sometimes I can be – can be mean, like in the pool, and I promise I’m going to work on that, but I care very deeply about you both. It’s very important to me that you know that.”

A kiss was pressed overtop the towel on his head and Tim shivered at the feel of it, wrapping his arms as far around his father as he could. “I love you too, daddy.”

He said it with as much positive emotion and passion he could muster up (which admittedly ended up being just a tad too loud for the changing room) because emotional competence like that had to be encouraged and rewarded somehow. He felt B grin against his hair. “That makes me very happy, chum.”

“…make sure you tell all that to Rory, too.”

A stark laugh was ripped from Bruce and he was still shaking with it as he lifted Tim into his arms and headed back out to the pool. “Yes, sir.”

The week passed in a blur of anxiety and nerves for Tim. He knew that his family had noticed it; Bruce hovered just a little bit closer than normal (if that was possible), going so far as to come home early from patrol several nights in a row, just so that Tim could find sanctuary in the comfort of his bed. Alfred made his favorites for dinner more than a few nights in a row and even Rory was hovering, taking extra time to play with Tim like he thought his little brother was feeling left out from all the extra time he’d been spending at practice as swim geared up for the bigger meets.

He was pretty sure Bruce and Alfred thought he was depressed about Dick leaving the following weekend to go to Miami. They spoke a lot about how Tim could write Dick letters or have phone calls, and that maybe they could even invite Dick to stay with them for a while if his parents were interested in it. The dark irony of it all just made Tim even more uncomfortable. They weren't completely wrong - he was worried about Dick. So much had changed, he had changed so much. What if the timeline veered completely off the rails? What if they didn't fall? What if they still did? Dick was going to be so devastated.

Healthy, sane, and happy, Tim reminded himself firmly as they made their way towards the Friday show at the circus, healthy, sane, and happy. If Dick remained with his parents and the circus, he’d be shipped of the Court of Owls and made into an undead assassin, sleeping his days away in the hold beneath the Court until he was called upon do their bidding. He would be mindless, unable to object or emote anything, a finely tuned weapon sent out to slaughter any and all that crossed the Court or simply stood in their way.

Dick would hate that. If it was possible for something to be the antithesis of Dick Grayson, a Talon would be pretty damn close. And he’d be terribly miserable until he was converted to a Talon as well, his days filled with harsh training and psychological warfare until he was a broken, mismatched version of the boy he’d once been. There would be none of this, Tim thought darkly as he watched Dick do a series of cartwheels and flips to a cheering audience. Dick did an impressive quadruple flip, landing lightly on the high-wire and gave a bow, practically glowing as he ate up the adoration of the crowd.

Dick spotted them down in the stands (it would be hard not to, with the way Rory was all but standing in his seat, waving frantically with both arms and ignoring a stern Alfred who was attempting to get him to sit back down) and ran deftly across the wire. He had a short conversation with his father before he was launching himself off the platform and into the air, his mother catching him by the feet and allowing him to soar fast and low over them. Rory screamed in joy when Dick passed over them and gave them a cheeky salute. Tim watched as Dick swung back, his mother releasing him as he flew across the divide only to be caught by his father. The two swung back up and into a flip, each landing neatly on the platform and posed. Dick was leaning just slightly into his father’s side, looking as proud as peacock as he waved down at them.

Healthy, sane, and happy.

He’d be killed eventually, as a Talon. The Court who inject him or do whatever mystical ritual was required to transform their assassins into the living undead, and then whatever was left of Dick Grayson would disappear completely. Tim couldn’t let that happen, even if it meant he had to sacrifice the happiness of Dick’s now. He'd fix it, however it went. If the Greysons survived and Dick was taken, Tim would find a way to get Batman on the case. If they didn't, Tim would spirit Dick back home as soon as he could. He could do this, he had to. He owed that much to Dick.

The pirate show was even more elaborate then the space one, just the right amount of artsy and circusy to balance out the competing ideas. It was all around a solid show and Tim felt like he barely remembered any of it. He kept his eyes on the Graysons for most of it. He couldn’t do anything to change their fates, but he could do this. He owed them this; to watch, to observe, to imprint the joy he saw into his mind. He had to see how they fit so well together, the genuine love and care they put into their performances, the genuine love and care they showed for each other – visible even through the acting. Tim would see and remember; as penance to a choice that no one else would ever know was activity being made. Because no matter how bad Tim felt about what was coming, no matter how guilty he felt about the pain that Dick would soon experience, Tim was set on his course. He would protect his big brother and then, once he was back in the sheltered harbor that was the Wayne Manor, he’d help Dick however he could.

“You okay, Timmy? You’ve been pretty quiet today.” Dick asked, his voice soft but quite loud since it was right next to Tim’s ear.

They’d come later than usual to the circus that Friday, squeezing in one of Rory’s swim meets before they’d headed out to the show, and they hadn’t really had a chance to hang out with Dick because of it. The cheerful boy had invited them back to his family’s caravan area because of it and they sat in folding chairs now, a fire in a metal barrel crackling happily before them. Tim nodded against Dick’s shoulder. “I got up early today.”

“Aw, are you a sleepy bird?” Dick cooed, wrapping his arms tighter around him. “I know how to fix that. Rory, why don’t you make up one for Timmy?”

From where he was carefully rotating a marshmallow on a metal prong, Rory nodded seriously. “Sure, I know how he likes it.”

Across from them, Bruce burst into laughter at something Mary had said, the sound increasing when John added to it – the acrobat grinning roguishly – and whatever he said sent Bruce into an actual snorting laugh, leaning back in his chair as he did so. Tim let his eyes drift shut, sucking on his fingers.

Healthy, sane, and happy.

Saturday found Tim in mission mode. The guilt from the days before was a muted thing, pushed to the back as he began to make plans. His mind was going a mile a minute and never before had Tim missed his laptop and thought board so much (and it was a thought board Jason, not a conspiracy board. He was not Charlie from it’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, he wasn’t). There were so many things he had to do; Dick wasn’t nabbed from the circus the first night last time – but was that because Bruce had gone down and comforted him or because the Court wanted Dick to be broken down by his time in Gotham’s foster care?

Dick hadn’t stayed in the circus that night either; Tim remembered from his older brother’s story that he’d been forced to spend a traumatizing amount of time in a police station before being asked to identify his parents bodies. Why Dick had to do that and not some other adult from the circus, he had no idea (because he was the only blood relation?) but he wanted to try and stop that if he could. Afterwards, Dick had been taken to an emergency placement and spent the night in some home just outside Park Row. He’d bounced around a few foster homes after that and had been facing a group home – which were universally fairly terrible in Gotham – when Bruce had swept in and taken him home. It had been a horrible handful of months for Dick and something that Tim saw no need to replicate. Bruce was already a foster parent now, he could just take Dick in. And why not? Dick was already friends with both him and Rory, it made perfect sense. Now he just needed Bruce to see that and –

“Tim, if you stare at your nuggets any harder I think your brain is gonna explode.” Tim blinked and looked up, finding his brother watching him in confusion. “You okay, squirt?”

“I’m good.”

From where he was eating his steak, Bruce set his knife and fork down. “You’ve been a little off all week, chum. I know you’ve been looking forward for tonight, but if you’re not feeling well perhaps it’s best if –”

“No!” Tim shouted and then winced at the way that earned him the undivided attention of everyone in the kitchen, including Alfred. He rubbed at his nose, embarrassed by how loud it was. “I’m not sick, I promised to tell you remember?”

The concern on B’s face softened. “I remember, you’ve done very well so far.” In which he meant that Tim had finally gone to Alfred to ask for help getting something out of the pantry instead of just shoving one of the bar stools over like he used to. “Still, I think Dick would understand if you don’t feel up to going tonight.”

“I wanna go,” Tim said stubbornly, biting into his chicken nugget aggressively, “I want to be able to see Dickie.” Then, to seal the deal, added a sad, “he’s leaving tomorrow.”

“You’ve got his email address,” Bruce comforted, “Alfred and I can help you send an email whenever you want.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I know, chum. But Dick’s family works for the circus, he has to go where they do.” A hand reached over, brushing his bangs off his forehead and Tim leaned into the touch. “…you need a haircut.”

Tim sputtered, hands slapping up to cover his bangs. Sure, they were a little long, but a haircut? “I don’t need a haircut.” Bruce just hummed, sipping his drink. “B, I don’t need a haircut!”

“It’d just be a trim,” his father assured, “just a bit off the front and the back to make you look less like the Shaggy Dog.”

Tim sputtered, not knowing if he was more offended by the comparison or the fact that he knew what the Shaggy Dog was. Tim’s parents only ever had a handful of VHS despite their wealth, bought for Tim after some strategic begging, and the titles were random and varied, and he’d watched those tapes many a weekend on repeat. Some were super popular titles like The Lion King (always a first choice with Tim) or The Little Mermaid (less of one – Ursula was scary when she got all big and was speared by the ship) but also things like The Shaggy Dog and Herbie the Love Bug. There’d been one ancient film called The Moon-spinners that Tim loved to watch, but he never told anyone about that because it was a romance.

“I don’t look like a doggie.” Tim said with a huff, smashing his half eaten nugget into ketchup, “I don’t.”

“I dunno,” Rory disagreed with a giant grin, “I can kind of see it, like around the eyes.”

“You!”

“Master Tim, we don’t throw food.” From where he was about to lob his nugget, Tim froze before peeking nervously at where Alfred stood. He let the nugget drop to his plate. “Wise choice.”

“I’m not a doggie.” Tim repeated sourly, sipping at his milk.

“To be fair, you’d be a very cute dog.” Bruce offered slyly and Tim threw his hands up in frustration. He was surrounded by children.

It hadn’t struck Tim that Rory was coming with them until they were sitting in their seats. To be more succinct; Tim hadn’t fully conceptualized that he was bringing a young boy who had a deep trauma revolving around witnessing the extremely violent and bloody death of his family with them until they were sitting in their seats. The full weight of it hit him all at once as the lights began to flicker, indicating the show was about to start. From where he was resting on the hard wooden benches, Tim turned to stare at his big brother in horror.

“Oh fuck.” He breathed, nails digging into his legs. Luckily Bruce didn’t hear him, but Rory sure did, his head snapping to stare at him, eyes wide.

“Wow, squirt. You kiss your teddy with that mouth?” He whispered, scandalized. The incredulous smile Rory’s face faded somewhat when this failed to get any type of reaction from the toddler. “Tim?”

“I have to pee.” Tim whispered back, swallowing harshly. This was going to suck, but it was too late now. He closed his eyes in resignation, silently berating himself. In the future, he was going to have to be more careful with planning things. He hadn’t meant to prioritize Dick over Rory, honest he hadn’t. Tim knew what the felt like, to be the brother picked last, and never wanted anyone in the family to feel that way if they didn’t have to. He’d just gotten so laser focused and – damn’t! Tim was usually better at this! This would never have escaped his notice if he was still his proper age.

“You want me to take you?” Rory asked, looking concerned.

Tim just shook his head. “No, I can hold it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Rory didn’t looked convinced, which was fair, but it was too late now. It was too late now for a lot of things. He curled his hand around Rory’s, tugging it into his lap. He’d just – he’d just have to try and minimize this as much as possible. He could – yeah, that would work. It was better than nothing. Tim would have to be quicker to try and escape, but it’d put Rory closer to Bruce. “Daddy?”

From where he was checking his phone, B looked up. “Yeah, chum?”

“Can I sit in your lap?”

“Sure, bud.” He pocketed his phone, patting his lap. “Climb on up.”

Tim did so, not letting go of Rory’s hand and forcing the other boy to slide up close to Bruce. “Now we’re all together; snug as a bug.”

“You are so weird.” Rory said with a snort. “Don’t pee on B.”

“Wait, what?”

“I won’t.” Tim promised, ignoring his father. “I don’t have to go that bad.”

“Sure squirt, whatever you say.”

“Wait a minute,” Bruce interrupted, sounding harried, but Tim just slapped the arm around his waist.

“Quiet daddy, the show’s starting.”

“Tim –”

“Sh!”

The Graysons flew.

Until they didn’t.

A wave of screams erupted as the trapeze wires gave way, John and Mary hurtling towards the ground. The wires snapped back and to the side with a vengeance, one slicing through the tent roof while the other caught a performer in the wings in the trunk, causing a splash of brilliant red against the tent top. They fell quickly; John had just enough time to instinctively put his arms up to protect his face but Mary was falling back first, face upwards.

Bruce was quicker than his parents.

He felt the man’s chest expand in a startled breath at the first sign of catastrophe, then suddenly Tim was being flung around, his face pressed into his father’s chest as Bruce’s arm shot out, yanking Rory close – practically into his lap, his hand covering the horrified brunet’s eyes. Tim didn’t see them hit the ground this time, but he heard it; a sharp, yet somehow still dull sounding smack. A horrified silence had predated it, the screams and cries abruptly cutting off as everyone all at once seemed to really grasp what was happening, allowing that morbid sound to ring in perfect clarity.

Then a scream – high-pitched and young – broke the stunned silence. The yells and screams sounded again, louder and more in volume. He felt Bruce expand in place, arms and legs bracketing out, making a physical shield as the crowd around them panicked and tried to escape the grizzly sight, pulsing and pushing against them.

“ – it’s okay,” Bruce was repeating, strained but controlled, “don’t look, keep your eyes closed, you’re safe, I won’t let anything happen to you, I have you.” Tim closed his eyes and breathed, trying to erase the haunting echo of Dick’s scream. The arm holding him shifted, moved in a way that would keep Tim protected from the crowd but allowed Bruce more movement. His father dug out his cell phone, texting rapidly. “Alfred is pulling the car around, we’ll be out in a just a moment. As soon as it’s safe, I’m getting you out, I promise. Hold on to me, breathe – Rory, breathe. Big, big deep breaths, in through your nose, count to three, then out through your mouth – there you go, you’re doing so well.”

Tim followed the prompt as well, even though he didn’t really need to. The crowd around them was finally starting to thin out, Bruce’s head already turned towards the nearest entrance, muscles tenses in preparation to bully a path and whisk them away. Tim pressed his forehead against his father’s chest in apology, because he knew that Bruce would prioritize getting them out before going to Dick and Tim wouldn’t – couldn’t – leave Dick sitting there alone, then used the moment Bruce shifted to stand up to slip away.

A frantic ‘Tim!’ erupted from Bruce, but Tim was already darting through the crowd, determined. He knew that Bruce wouldn’t follow him – he couldn’t, not with the way Rory was clinging to him, glassy eyed and completely shut down. Tim squeezed through the mass of bodies as best he could, trying to keep to the benches to avoid the bottle necks that were happening in the aisles. Someone’s elbow caught him in the side of the head and Tim stumbled, frantically clawing at the bench below as he almost tumbled off, trying to blink the stars blooming across his vision away.

A cry of his name had him jerking up and when Tim looked back, he was astonished to see that Bruce had followed him, advancing quickly and with a determined look on his face. He had Rory in his arms, balanced on his hip like he was a small child and not a boy of nearly eleven as he jumped from bench to bench. Blanching, Tim took his chances and jumped down the benches until he reached the ring side. He froze at the sight there, unable to look away from the bodies and the blood and the –

Tim shook himself, grabbing the cloth covered ring wall and launching himself over it. He hit the ground with a stumble, barely registering the complaints of his shins as he caught himself with his hands, managing to keep his feet.

He ignored Bruce’s shouts behind him, ignored the still screaming crowd, and kept his attention on the small figure kneeling in the dirt, blank eyed and still, just outside the splatter of blood. It seemed like time was moving in slow motion the entire time that he crossed the massive main ring; C.C. Haly was shouting off to his left, gesturing wildly as he tried to calm and instruct the stampeding crowd through a megaphone. Performers rushed by him, some sobbing, all grim faced. A man (one of the strong men) tried to grab him, but Tim dipped around his grasp as smooth as running water.

And then – all at once – time seemed to slam back into place. He crashed into the floor in front Dick, hands flying out and pushing the boy’s head into his shoulder.

“Don’t look Dick, close your eyes,” Tim begged, “I got you, I have you, big bird. I’m here, it’s Tim, I’m here – you’re not alone.” He clutched the unresponsive boy closer, “you’re not alone, I won’t leave you.”

The wiry frame in his hold gave a mighty shudder, a moaning gasp escaping it. “Timmy.”

Dick seemed to fold into himself, rolling forward until his head touched his legs. Tim went with the move, curling protectively over his big brother the best he could. “I’m here, I’m here, I promise. I have you, you’re not alone.”

He didn’t know how long he stood like that, his small form practically wrapped around Dick’s head and back, just repeating himself over and over again, until his throat hurt and mouth felt dry. Someone tried to pull him away at some point and Tim lashed out with a punch, catching a chin with enough force his hand ached. He snarled at a stunned looking C.C. Haly as the man pressed a hand to his jaw, before curling back around Dick, trying to gather him impossibly closer. Dick was weak, vulnerable, and Tim was determined to protect him from everything; well-meaning circus folk and paparazzi included.

No one was going to touch Dick, no one was even going to see him if Tim had his way. He could see the scumbags that called themselves journalists from where he was curled, the flashes of their cameras going off hard to miss. It was too late to keep the paramount photo from being taken and immortalized – that of Dick Grayson, kneeling numbly as he stared at the bodies of his parents – that his big brother had always loathed, but Tim was going to do his damnedest not to feed those fuckers anything else. Tim’s lips curled as he ran his hands down Dick’s sides in a gentle pet, keeping his elbows spread in a way that hid the boy's face.

When this was over, he was going to find each and every one of them and get them fired or – fuck, ruin their credit score or something. God help them if they had so much as one unpaid parking ticket, Tim would see them in jail, the fucking vultures. He was aided by the circus performers themselves, who had formed a tight circle around he and Dick, blocking them from sight, standing shoulder to shoulder, arms linked. It was a kind gesture, but the presence of so many unknown people only made his hackles rise higher.

“Tim.” The sound of his name shocked him out of the vicious place his mind had gone and Tim’s head turned to see Bruce making his way towards him, Rory absent. The sight of Bruce – Batman – safety – made some of the tension leak from his form.

“Daddy.” Tim greeted flatly, but didn’t move from his spot on top of Dick. “Where’s Rory?”

“With Alfred.” Bruce’s eyes were quick as he catalogued everything. He moved slowly as he approached, before dropping down to a crouch next to them, positioned in such a way that he blocked the bloody scene behind him. “It’s okay Tim, you can stand down now. They’re gone.”

Tim blinked, head craning up as he realized that the circle of people around had them had dispersed, the press had been cleared from the tent, and blankets had been spread over the Greysons’ bodies. C.C. Haly was speaking with the police off to the side, running a handkerchief over his face repeatedly.

“I won’t leave him.” Tim warned, tightening his grip on his still unmoving brother. “He’s not ready.”

Bruce just looked at him, a swell of grief enfolding his face. “I don’t think he ever will be, sweetheart.”

There wasn’t much Tim could say to that, so he settled for nestling his head back into Dick’s back. “I’ll stay here forever if I have too.”

There was a nearly silent sigh from behind him. “I have some water here, can we try giving it to him? It’s been almost thirty minutes, Dick must be thirsty.”

“Give it to me.” Tim instructed and took the uncapped water bottle, gently settling back down on his heels. “Dickie, I got some water.” He gently worked his brother until he was sitting up, Dick letting him move him about like a doll. “Come on, Dickie, just a sip. For me?”

Glazed blue eyes flickered to him, still unseeing with shock, but Dick obediently opened his mouth. Tim was careful as he could be with his brother, only letting him have controlled sips; just enough to wet his throat but not enough to give him something to vomit. With each sip, life seemed to return to Dick’s eyes. It was better, but not by much. Instead of blank-eyed, the boy just looked lost, devastated.

The bottle was a third of the way gone when Dick finally pushed it away, hand shaking. “…Mr. Wayne?”

From behind him, he could hear B shifting his weight. His voice was soft when he spoke. “I’m here, Dick.”

Dick looked incredibly young and small; clad in his richly colored uniform that would become the foundation for Robin, black hair plastered with sweat and blue eyes so terribly wide. “Mr. W-Wayne...my…my,” he blinked once, sending a cascade of tears down his cheeks, “my p-parents are – my parents are d-d...w-what am I s-supposed to do?”

Tim crawled into the other boy’s lap, wrapping his arms tightly around Dick and felt a shiver escape him when Dick did the same to him. He didn’t know why he’d thought – but Dick was holding on to him just as tightly, tears soaking through the shoulder of Tim's sweater as he hid his face once more. After a moment, big arms encircled them both, so strong but so terribly gentle.

When Tim glanced up, it was to find Bruce staring forward, eyes determined and jaw set. “Don't worry about that now, Dick. I’ll handle everything.”

Chapter Text

“Alright, Master Tim,” Alfred said gently as he smoothed the blankets over Tim’s form, “I know it’s been a rough night, but if you need anything I will be just down the hall in the Green Sitting Room. If you need anything, come find me or call out.”

From where he lay, Teddy clutched to his chest, Tim nodded. The ride home from the circus had been silent and tense, Rory curled up in a small ball in his booster seat, practically hidden from sight by Alfred’s jacket, face tucked into the collar. He was no longer unresponsive, but it was arguable if it was any better. Rory was utterly silent, even his breaths (quiet, stilted things he let out through his nose) and he was almost grey in pallor. The tension had followed them into the manor, through the short attempts of Alfred to get them to eat something before the butler had given up and ushered them both to bed.

Bruce had remained behind with Dick, immovable by the grieving boy’s side, and the first officer who had tried to separate them had been sent away with a glare and a dressing down – all but slinking away with his tail between his legs. Bruce hadn’t even left Dick’s side to take Tim to the car, only releasing the toddler to Jim Gordon, who had then carried him to a waiting Alfred. It was what Tim wanted (he never wanted a repeat of before; of Dick sitting in a bustling police station then a cold morgue by himself) but he couldn’t deny that it had grated on every instinct he had to leave Dick alone.

Only the knowledge that he’d be making everything far more difficult for Bruce or Dick probably had kept him from throwing the tantrum that was itching under his skin when he’d been taken from the scene. Tim still hated it.

He only realized that Alfred was still waiting for an answer when a calloused hand swept his bangs from his face before coming down to cup his cheek, a pair of brown eyes staring down at him worriedly. Tim gave the man a weak smile before turning to nuzzle into the touch. “…okay, Alfie. Can…can you go check on Rory?”

“I will,” Alfred promised, his thumb brushing gently across Tim’s cheek, “he is my next stop.” Then – to Tim’s complete surprise – Alfred leaned down, brushing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Remember my boy; I’m only a few steps away.”

Tim nodded, before curling around his toy and closing his eyes. The lights clicked off, leaving the room illuminated only by his nightlight and Ronin Warriors action figure light that Bruce had bought him a few months. Tim listened as quiet footsteps moved across the hall and into Rory’s room. He waited even longer, fingers running over Teddy’s soft fur over and over, until almost two hours later he finally heard Rory’s door click soft, and Alfred headed down the hall to the sitting room.

He waited another fifteen or so minutes to be sure, before Tim threw off his covers. He slipped silently from his bed and disappeared into his closet. He reappeared seconds later, power cord and Ethernet cable in hand, and deftly plugged them in. He crept back into the closet and carefully eased the door shut. He let out a silent but deep breath as he powered up his laptop.

He pulled up the chat window and paused, staring bewildered as he noted the slight shake of his hands. Tim’s head cock to the side as he stared at them, flexing them a few times. When he returned to the keyboard, they were steady.

RR: Are you still in Gotham.

Tim leaned back against Paul, the giant platypus plushie he kept in his closet for just a thing, as he waited. He clasped his hands together, lips pursing as he stared up at the row of clothes hanging above him. He felt stretched thin and far too heavy all at once, conflicting feelings of knowing a plan had come to fruition clashing with a welling grief and worry for both his brothers. These were the nights Tim had come to hate the most – where on paper a plan had gone successfully and yet nothing felt like a win; Pyrrhic victories and all that. His eyes fluttered shut as the image of the Graysons death. He took a moment to organize his thoughts, categorically viewing and then carefully setting down each emotion.

When he opened his eyes once more, Tim felt far more put together and there was a waiting answer to his quarry.

DS: Yeah, actually.

DS: Got a job for me?

Tim’s fingers flew across the keyboard as he typed out Anthony Zucco’s information and an amount. A million would eat into his funds, but Tim didn’t even hesitate as he typed out the payment.

RR: Same as before; half now, half after completion.

DS: Confirmed. Date preference?

RR: How soon can you do it?

DS: By the end of November at the latest. A rush order like that gonna cost you extra though.

Ruthless; Tim could appreciate it. He typed in another half a million.

DS: That’ll do. Any preference?

RR: Drop him off the Drake Industries Building roof. Alive.

There was a pause on the other side of the screen, not even the floating dots to tell Tim that Wilson was typing. Then:

DS: Sounds personal.

And nope, Tim wasn’t having that. Sure, having Zucco dropped off of the building he once owned was an unnecessary connection to himself, but he was fucking petty and pissed and he felt so helpless. Tim had never done helpless well. Tim wanted to avenge Dick, wanted to personally hunt down Zucco and squeeze his life out with his own hands, wanted to take the battle to the Court, wanted to show them early just what he’d done to them in the future – but he was three. This was the best he could do.

RR: I don’t pay you to ask questions.

RR: Just do it.

He barely waited until he got Wilson’s acknowledgement of the funds transfer before disconnecting and slamming the laptop shut. He tucked it back away and after a moment of consideration, grabbed Teddy from his bed and crossed the hallway to Rory’s room. He pushed door open without bothering to quiet the sound, not wanting to startle his brother. As he suspected Rory was still awake, pushing up on his elbows to stare at him in the dark room. After a moment his brother pulled his blankets aside and Tim scurried across the room, shoving Teddy up on the bed before climbing up himself.

Rory arm was still up in offer and Tim took it without hesitation. The covers were lowered back around them, an arm wrapping tightly around him, tucking him close. Tim burrowed into the older boy’s side, fingers curling around Rory’s shirt.

“…love you, Rory.”

A hand came to rest heavy on his back. “Love you too, Timmy. Try to sleep, okay?”

Tim was just on the edges of dozing off, feeling comforted and oddly safe between the heat of Rory’s body and the omnipresent hum of the Ragman, awake and aware as it stood guard over them. Tim heard the door ease open and close again, the sound of footsteps so silent he almost missed it as Alfred crossed the room and settled himself in a chair by the window.

Under the butler’s and Rory’s Eldritch horror’s protective watch, Tim finally slipped into sleep.

Dick came to the manor the next morning, haunted and silent, seeming having aged in some immeasurable way overnight. He had a backpack over one shoulder, fingers gripping it so tight his knuckles were white, and his stuffed elephant – Zitka – clutched tightly to his chest. Bruce followed him closely up the stairs; an over packed duffle bag in one hand while the other rested firmly on Dick’s shoulders.

Tim let out a shaky breath of relief when his brother finally entered the foyer, before running forward and wrapping himself tightly around him. Dick tensed and Tim almost wondered if he’d made a mistake, then the backpack was hitting the ground with a plop as both arms wrapped back around him. A hand touched the back of his head lightly. “…hey, Timmy.”

His voice was hoarse, empty in a way that Tim had never heard it before. He glanced up in worry, but before he could say anything Rory had entered into his line of sight. The brunet had a complicated look on his face, something terribly knowing and empathetic, but at the same time held a hardness to it that Tim couldn’t quite name.

“Hey, Dick.” Rory greeted evenly, leaning down to pull the duffle bag from Bruce. His hands were gentle but firm as he pulled Tim away from Dick, Tim’s brows furrowing when the tension in Dick’s form finally lessened. “Come on, I’ll show you your room.”

Dick nodded woodenly, reaching down for his backpack, and then they were just gone – walking up the stairs side by side. Tim stared after them, puzzled, and then made a move to follow. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. Tim glanced up to find Bruce watching both boys leave.

“Have you had breakfast, Tim?”

“…no…but, I wanna –” But he was being swept up into his father’s arms and lead towards the kitchen. “Wait, Daddy – I want to –”

“I know, chum,” Bruce hushed, pressing a kiss to the side of Tim’s face, “but let’s give them some space for right now.”

“…Rory hasn’t had breakfast.” He said in defeat as he was set down into his booster, “has Dickie?”

“Alfred will bring them up something.” Bruce soothed as he brought over Tim’s cereal, “you just focus on you for right now.”

Bewildered, Tim could only nod.

The following two weeks were quiet ones. Dick floated about the manor like a ghost, spending almost all his time in his room or in one of the many bay windows that dotted the manor. Tim did his best to help, bringing Dick snacks and drinks, or toys and books he might like. Dick always thanked him and he never turned Tim away, allowing him to cuddle with him as much as Tim liked.

But it was…detached.

More often than not, Tim would find Dick and Rory sitting together in total silence. Sometimes they talked in low tones that Tim couldn’t bring himself to ease drop on. Sometimes Bruce joined them, both in the silence and the quiet conversations. Just as often he would find Bruce with just Rory, talking. But whenever Tim tried to join whatever combination he found, they always stopped whatever conversation they were having. Bruce had taken him aside after the first few times he’d witnessed it, telling Tim gently to give the boys space to process.

And Tim got it, okay?

The three of them had something in common that Tim had never had; he’d loved his parents, sure but…there’d always been that distance between them, enough that while their deaths had hurt him they’d been manageable. He knew that Bruce had loved his parents – it was clear in the way he had shaped himself from that loss, molded his entire being around it. It was the same yet totally different with Dick; his brother had loved sharing stories of the circus and his parents, had loved talking about his time with them, and the strength of emotion he’d felt for his mother and father had bled through in every word. Rory was far more like Bruce with his silence, a refusal to speak of his family at all outside of a few emotionally charged conversations or references that seemed to slip out or were forced from him under the tide of heightened emotions.

Tim had never had that, could never understood that. The grief he felt at Bruce’s death had been complicated by his own relationship with the man, and heavily influenced by his staunch refusal to admit that Batman could possibly be dead. When Tim’s parents had died, Tim had felt saddened, sure, and he’d grieved them. But…

It hadn’t ever felt like what he had seen with Bruce and Dick, or with Jason and his mother, or now what he saw from Rory. Janet and Jack had been practically strangers by the time of their respective deaths, the secrets between them too wide and deep for anything else. So no, Tim couldn’t understand what Dick was going through, he couldn’t resonate with it the way that Bruce and Rory seemed to be. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want to help too.

Perhaps a part of it was his tender age (Tim felt things so strongly now) but he was desperate to help. He wanted to help shoulder Dick’s burdens, help navigate him through the grief that was making his tan skin leach of color; the bruised bags under his eyes grow even darker as each day passed. He had sworn to himself that he’d take better care of Dick this life and yet here he was – useless.

He hovered over Dick when Rory and Bruce were gone at school and work respectively, snuggling up to the older boy whenever he could and trying to distract him with video games or toys, or by showing him around the manor. Dick always made time for him and never turned his hugs away, but Tim could see that he was absent from their interactions. Tim was being accommodated. Dick saw him as a child, a three-year-old doing their best, and went along with it. The only time he seemed present – really present – was when Rory came back from school and returned to his side.   

It made perfect sense that Dick would gravitate to the brunet; Rory was close in age to Dick, neither a toddler nor an adult, with barely a year and a few months between them. The two shared a common and rare loss to bond over. And Rory just had that kind of presence – a steady, calm energy that came from his years of handling the Ragman and a seemingly unending well of kindness and patience. Isn’t that what had drawn Tim to Rory in the first place?

It all made perfect sense. But, a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his much missed former therapist, Cathy, pointed out, emotions don’t have to be logical.

Tim was horribly – monstrously – jealous of the relationship that was blooming between the two boys. He did his best to contain and ignore it, even as a part of him bristled like a wronged cat when he’d go looking for Dick only to find him huddle up next to Rory yet again. It was stupid, Tim knew it was stupid. Dick didn’t have thirty years of memories of brotherhood that Tim had.

But Tim wanted to be the one Dick turned to for comfort. He wanted to be the one who eased the strain that haunted the other boy’s features. He wanted to be Dick’s rock, not Rory, who wasn’t even in the family originally and – Tim cast that thought away ruthlessly, shaking his head at his own pettiness as he slammed his toy Superman down with a relish onto the Lego robot he’d built.

Take a fucking breath Timothy, he seethed at himself, you’re a full grown adult, my god. He threw the Superman doll down in disgust, stalking over to the bay window seat and draping his upper body on it, letting his feet dangle. There was a creak from Bruce’s computer chair as it moved.

“Alright there, bud?”

“I’m fine, daddy.” Tim grumbled into the cushion.

Footsteps treaded towards him, a large hand brushing his hair. “You sure, Tim?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Remember, it’ll be just you and Dick for dinner tonight.”

“Oh yeah, your dinner date with Rory. Not taking Dickie too? You can, I’m fine here by myself. Like usual.” Tim snapped as he shrugged the hand off, unable to stop the waspish tone in his voice even as he recoiled in shame from it. There was a prolonged moment of silence behind him but Tim refused to look up, keeping his face hidden, utterly appalled at his own actions. He knew he wasn’t being rational or fair, but that didn’t stop the tense ball of emotion from sitting like a rock in his stomach.

He let out a yip of surprise as he was suddenly plucked up; Bruce settling into the window seat with Tim balanced on his lap. Tim refused to look up at his father, staring at the man’s shirt buttons instead.

“I know things have been…tense this past week, chum. This is a big change for everyone.” Bruce said carefully, his hand coming up to rub at Tim’s back. “I know that I haven’t had as much time to spend with you lately, Rory and Dick have needed my attention a bit more than you’ve been used to and I’m sorry about that. There’s that new dinosaur exhibit opening in Metropolis next weekend. How about we go, just the two of us?”

Tim hated the way that made his shoulder’s ease down. He let out a defeated sigh, leaning into his father’s chest. “I like dinosaurs.”

There was a soft chuckle, a kiss pressed to his head. “I know you do. I’ll do better Tim, I promise. Just – give your old man some time. I’ll figure it out.”

“No, you don’t –” Tim started, feeling even more guilty at the sort of hapless frustration in Bruce’s tone.

This had to be a hell of an adjustment for Bruce too. He’d basically gone from being a bachelor to a father of three in less than six months. It spoke volumes about Bruce’s character that he’d even stepped up to do it. He didn’t have to, in either lifetime. Bruce could have just walked way, left Tim to his parents, left Rory and Dick to the whims of Gotham’s foster care system, and no one would have blinked an eye. Instead, he hadn’t hesitated in taking Rory in alongside Tim nor in fostering Dick. The idea that he didn’t have to probably hadn’t even crossed Bruce’s mind. He had the means, so of course he’d taken three random children into his home, guaranteeing them the safety and monetary support the type that other foster kids could only dream of. Outside of skipping those last few classes, Bruce had been the model foster parent. Tim wasn’t surprised at all that Candice had all but leapt at the chance to get Dick placed at the manor and added as an easy addition to her caseload.

“You’re a good daddy,” Tim settled on, instead of saying any of that. He leaned back, pressing a kiss to Bruce’s chin to emphasize the point, “a really good daddy.”

There was something almost fragile in his father’s eyes as he stared down at Tim. “Thanks, sweetheart. Rory and I will be back from his birthday dinner by seven thirty, so how about I give you a bath tonight? And we can start your new book.”

Tim opened his mouth to reply (today was not a bath night and Tim wasn’t about to – ) and froze. “…birthday…dinner? It’s Rory’s birthday?”

Bruce winced. “Well…we actually kind of missed it. It was on the ninth, but with everything that happened with Dick, Rory felt it was – ah, poorly timed. Candice was actually the one who told me about it. He didn’t want to make a big deal about it, so instead just the two of us are going out.”

Tim stared at his father in horror. They’d missed Rory’s birthday? His first birthday with them? The ball in his stomach dropped like a stone, turning instantly into anxiety. This whole time he’d been jealous of a ten-year-old (eleven now, his voice corrected mercilessly) and Rory had just been – what? Sitting quietly on his own birthday? Taking one for the team so that Dick wouldn’t feel awkward? No. No, what’s worse was Rory probably didn’t even see why missing his birthday was a big deal at all.

Birthdays were so important to kids, even when you knew better than to expect anything. Tim would know, he’d always felt miserable on his even when he never expected anything to come about it.

“Daddy,” he said sternly as he cupped his father’s face, staring into his eyes with all the intensity his small body could manage, “take Rory to the pier. Have him play all the games and ride all the rides, even the big kid rides”

Bruce’s expression softened as mirth danced in his eyes, lips twitching up. “Got it.”

“He has to have a lot of fun, okay? Buy him all the toys and ice cream and stuff that he wants.”

“Sure thing.” Tim nodded, determined, and practically dove off his father’s lap in his haste, with only Bruce’s quick hands saving him from an untimely meeting with the floor. “Careful, Tim.”

Tim waved him off, sprinting out of the room and ignoring the sharp ‘don’t run!’ that followed him. He skidded into the kitchen, a quick look around revealing it empty of anyone save for a startled Alfred, who was staring at him from over a cooking magazine.

“Alfie,” he squeaked out, gasping around a heaving chest, “Alfie, you – you gotta make a cake. A birthday cake. A green one, cause green is Rory’s favorite color. And, um – chocolate. It’s all gotta be chocolate. Green chocolate. And candles. We need candles!” He tugged on the butler’s pant leg, eyes wide, “do we have candles?”

Alfred chuckled as he closed his magazine, setting it down on the counter. “We do indeed have candles, Master Tim. I take it this is for Master Rory?”

Tim nodded, “can you do it?”

A whitened eyebrow rose imperiously. “Of course I can.”

“Even the green chocolate?”

The butler was already moving, strapping an apron on. “Where there is a will, there is a way, my boy. Leave it to me.”

Tim lunged forward, wrapping his arms tightly around the old man’s leg. “You’re the best, Alfred!”

He turned on his heel and darted out of the kitchen and nearly directly into Bruce, wrapping a hand around his thigh to swing him out of his path at the last moment, and headed towards the stairs. As he stumbled his way up, half-running and half-crawling, he could just hear a bewildered Bruce asking Alfred ‘what was that all about?’

He abruptly slowed his run into a casual stroll, giving Rory a nod as he passed his open door, before breaking back into a sprint once he passed it towards the upstairs media room. He slammed into the back of the couch Dick was currently playing Nintendo on, causing the whole thing to shake. He ignored his brother’s puzzled look as he climbed up and over the back of it, sliding down next to Dick and ignoring the hands that hovered to help him.

See, Tim could see how Rory thought he was being considerate by hiding his birthday in lieu of Dick’s parents’ death, but Tim knew better. He knew Dick better. “Dickie, you gotta help me.”

Dick gave him a strange look, but paused Majora’s Mask. “Sure thing, baby bird. What’s up?”

“It’s Rory’s birthday.” Tim hissed, omitting the fact that it had been almost more than a week past, “I didn’t make a card! Can you come help me? Daddy said I can’t do arts and crafts on my own after the glitter thing.”

Confusion flashed across Dick’s face before it melted away into something guilty, then – as Tim suspected – the emotion morphed into determination. “Of course, come on. We’re gonna make the best birthday card he’s ever seen.”

Tim nodded. “Good. Alfie’s making a cake and he’s got candles, and we can give him our card, and – oh. I don’t have a present.”

Dick’s brows furrowed, chewing on his lip in thought. “…I have something, it can be from both of us, okay?”

Tim lit up. “Okay! We got to hurry; he and Daddy are going to dinner, so we gotta get it done before they come home.”

Rory and Bruce got home closer to eight then seven thirty, but that was all the better because it turned out Dick had a plan. Tim didn’t even know why he bothered to be surprised, Dick really only had two modes in life – lazy or over-the-top. By the time Rory was lead into the kitchen, pink cheeked from the autumn air and looking quietly pleased, a N64 game box tucked under one arm, the family dining room had been completely redecorated.

Streamers cut from construction paper and crooked from where they’d been glued together hung everywhere, a banner with ‘Happy Birthday Rory’ had been made and hung over the entryway arch, and balloons were tapped haphazardly everywhere, and even more coated the floor until they were stacked high enough to nearly dwarf Tim’s small frame. Even the glitter had made an appearance (much to Alfred’s chagrin and the butler had watched as they applied it liberally to the fake cake center piece that Dick had insisted on making, hawk eyed and with a hand vacuum in hand). The cake was indeed green, with eleven multicolored candles stacked around its center in a circle. They’d dimmed the lights so that it was the only light in the room, Dick and Tim jumping out with loud cries of “Happy Birthday!” when the boy appeared in the archway, gob smacked and stunned, a grinning Bruce standing behind him.

Rory’s ears turned a bright red, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “Thanks,” he mumbled, staring at his shoes, “you guys didn’t have to do this.”

“Sure we did,” Dick said, voice light but with an edge to it, and he slung his arm around the taller boy’s shoulders, “it’s your birthday, nerd. Now come on, come blow out your candles.”

That night was the lightest one they’d had in the manor since Dick had come, filled with laughter and cheer as they sung and cut the cake, Alfred giving everyone hearty servings of homemade chocolate ice cream to accompany the chocolate cake. Rory had been gifted with a Flying Grayson’s zip up hoodie, which Rory accepted with both reverence and quiet delight, putting it on immediately. Tim thought his handmade popsicle box wasn’t nearly as cool (and to be honest, he had no idea what Rory would even do with it but it was the only thing Tim could think to make on such short notice) but Rory claimed he loved it, insisting it’d be perfect for his pens and pencil and that he’d been thinking about getting something like it for his desk for ages, so Tim felt a little better about it.

When Tim went to sleep after the festivities were over, he really thought they’d turned a corner in the Wayne home. He should have known better; grief was never that simple.

Dick’s listless depression did fall away in the weeks that followed Rory’s birthday party, but it was replaced with an even harder emotion; anger. As October passed into November and Dick was enrolled into fourth grade at Gotham Academy, the boy was a tightly compressed ball of tension, ready to go off at any moment. He sat with Bruce less and less, even going so far as to spend less time with Rory and more time hauled up in his room alone.

It was clear to see he wasn’t happy. He seemingly hated school, his expression dark and almost dangerous when Tim and Alfred would come to collect him at the end of the day, climbing into the front seat and sitting in a stone cold silence the entire ride. Rory seemed to know what was up, if the way he’d cast Dick covert, worried looks from the back seat, but Dick refused to speak about it.

It wasn’t that Tim wasn’t used to Dick Grayson’s anger. Dick had been around more often when Tim was training then he had been with Jason (driven by guilt at how he’d treated their middle brother, Tim had figured) and it had almost always ended in long and loud shouting matches between him and Bruce. It was just – that type of rage looked different on a nine-year-old boy’s face. He had a hair trigger, one that seemed to grow even thinner the closer they got to the holidays. From Tim’s memory, very few things outside of Bruce (those two just knew how to push each other’s buttons in a way no one else could) or a direct threat to those Dick considered family could make him loose him composure so quickly. Dick’s anger had always been a slow burn kind of thing; cold and ruthless, building like a snow storm until when it finally peaked it was a blizzard you may or may not have seen coming.

This – This was not that.

Tim got to experience this new type of anger first hand one night. Dick had refused to come down for Thanksgiving dinner, only giving in when Alfred had gone up to get him himself, and even then he’d barely touched his food, choosing to glare at it until he’d been dismissed from the table. They were setting up to watch The Mighty Ducks, they usually only did movie nights on Fridays but were able to do tonight given that it was a holiday, but Dick still hadn’t come down.

Tim had glanced at where Rory and Bruce were setting up the pull out bed (it wasn’t odd for the kids at least to conk out on it before the movie was over, spending the night in a pile in the den) before deciding that some socialization was just was Dick needed. The Mighty Ducks was a good movie from Tim’s memory and Dick had always liked anything Disney, so – yeah.

He made his way up to Dick’s room, only to be greeted with an irritate – ‘you’re supposed to knock, Tim’ – and obediently he retreated, knocking on the door twice before pushing it open again. Dick sat sprawled on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“Um,” Tim started, eyeing the ridge he could see between the boy’s brows even from his spot by the door, “we’re gonna start the movie.”

“Cool.”

“Are you coming?”

“No.”

Frowning, Tim padded into the room and stood by the side of the bed, and tugged lightly on Dick’s hoodie sleeve. “Come on, Dickie. It’ll be fun.”

“Just leave me alone, Tim.” Dick said sharply, tugging his sleeve away.

Tim blinked, slightly stung from the tone. “…but…I wanna hang with you.”

A blue eye opened, shooting him an annoyed look. “Just leave me alone.”

“But –”

“Go, Tim!” Dick barked.

Tim swallowed hard, even as he rationalized with himself. Don’t take it personally, he’s grieving. It’s been less than two months, he doesn’t really mean it. “I…just – um – I thought –”

“Jesus, Tim!” Dick shot up onto his elbows, sending Tim stumbling back a few steps. “Do you have to be so damn clingy all the time?”

Tim’s lip wobbled.

“Don’t talk to him like that.” A sharp voice cut in. Rory stood in the doorway, a hard expression on his face that Tim had never seen before. “Tim, come here.”

Chewing on his lip, Tim gave a furious looking Dick one last look before practically fleeing across the room. A thick blanket was pressed into his hands (the one Alfred had made Rory for a belated birthday gift), “can you take this to Uncle B for me?”

“Yeah, but –” but Rory was already pushing him into the hall, the door clicking shut behind him. Tim stared at the closed door, then down at the blanket in his hands, before dropping it and falling to his knees, one eye staring under the crack in the door. Tim couldn’t see anything but the back of Rory’s slippers and the carpet, but that didn’t keep him from huddling closer.

“What?”

“You don’t get to talk to him that way.” Rory repeated, “I get that you’re going through a lot, and like – feeling a lot, but –”

“You don’t know shit about what I’m feeling.”

“Really.” Rory’s voice was cold, devoid of emotion, and it was such a contrast to the sharp, hateful tone Dick was using it made a shiver run down Tim’s back. “That’s what you’re going with? What, like you’re the only person in this house with a dead family?”

Tim sucked in a breath, clutching the blanket to his chest tighter.

“You wanna compare dead daddies now, Rory? Wanna talk about who got it worse?”

“No,” Rory said, voice somehow even colder, “I want you to get over yourself.”

“Excuse me –”

Rory’s feet were moving away from the door and towards the bed.

“Everything hurts right now and I get it. Bruce gets it. Alfred gets it. Even Tim gets it – but Tim’s a baby and he loves you. All he wants is for us to be a family and –”

“I had a family.” Dick snapped, suddenly on his feet as well, “I had a family and I’m not going to replace them!”

“No one is saying –” 

Dick was practically squared up in front of Rory now. “I had a dad, John Richard Grayson! I don’t need another one!”

“Back off.” Rory warned, voice sharp.

“Maybe you and Bruce are fine with letting your parents’ murders walk, maybe you’re fine playing new family but I won’t! I can’t just replace my parents like you did, Rory! I know my parents were killed and I won’t –”

Rory’s stepped a few feet backwards. “Dick, back off.”

He sounded harried now - concerned.

Tim scrambled to his feet, hand reaching for the door knob, ready to intervene – but suddenly he was off his feet. He barely had time to register Bruce behind him, resting him on his hip and then the door was being yanked open. Both boys jerked to stare at them. Dick was mid-push, both hands raised and directed towards Rory’s form. Rory’s hoodie was alarmingly a darker color than before, the hood hovering slightly off his back.

“What’s going on in here?” Both boys shrugged. Bruce didn’t look impressed. “Try again; I could hear the yelling from downstairs.”

Rory exhaled loudly through his nose and then – to Tim’s utter shock – said, “Dick was being a little bitch.”

“You shithead!”

“Enough!” Bruce’s voice ripped through the space, whip-sharp. “We don’t talk like that to each other in this house.”

“Oh fuck off, Brucie. What, you think just because you fucked my parents you get to play dad with me?”

Silence.

Total silence.

From his perch in Bruce’s arms, Tim stared owl-eyed at his brother. Even Rory was staring at Dick, stunned.

“What,” Dick sneered, “nothing to say? The Great Bruce Wayne struck sil–”

“I won’t speak on that,” Bruce interrupted, voice void of emotion and ice-cold, “firstly because my personal life is just that, personal, and secondly because it’s incredibly disrespectful to your parents. And because Tim is three.”

Dick startled and stared at Tim, as if he was only just registering his presence. Then remarkably, after everything, he seemed to blush.

“Movie night is cancelled.” Bruce continued. “Rory go to your room, you’re both grounded for the rest of the night – take the time to cool off. Alfred.”

“Here, Master Bruce.”

“Please take Tim downstairs and let him pick a new movie if he wants.”

“Wait,” Tim started as he was handed off to where the butler had been waiting out of sight in the hallway, “wait – I –”

“Not now Tim, Dick and I need to have a chat. Rory, what are you waiting for? Go on.”

“But!” Tim sputtered, squirming as he was carried off.

“Now Master Tim, shall we pick out a new movie? Perhaps we can watch the Lion King again,” Alfred said as he casually flipped the squirming toddler into a tighter hold, “I’ve made quite a bit of popcorn, I wonder if you would be up for helping me eat it all?”

“Well, yeah – of course, but I wanna –”

“Perhaps I shall make us some hot coco as well.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t say no to – wait, don’t distract me!”

“It does go so delightfully on such cold nights, after all.” Alfred continued, as if Tim hadn’t said anything at all.

Giving up Tim went limp, hanging from the butler’s grip like a disciplined puppy. “…I want a lot of marshmallows.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The mood the following morning was best described as chilly. Tim decided that discretion was the better part of valor here and ignored it completely, chattering away to Bruce as he ate his oatmeal. It was kind of difficult to do, as he’d only just managed to convince Alfred he didn’t need to wear a bib when he ate and his coordination wasn’t the best, so he kept half his focus on getting his spoon to his mouth and the rest divided between Bruce’s answers and the stony silence of the two boys sitting across from them. They were sitting as far apart that they could and still be at the table, refusing to acknowledge each other. Tim could only be optimistic that time would soften the harsh words from the night before. Children were fickle, he told himself hopefully, they fell in and out of fights all the time. Rory and Dick had practically been glued at the hip for the last two months, surely this couldn’t last.

The following cold war proved Tim very wrong. Nearly two weeks had past – they were all the way into December now! – and Dick and Rory were still avoiding each other like the plague. Tim was doing his best to try and breach the gap, but the way two would play together with him when he asked was so awkward and uncomfortable that Tim couldn’t bring himself to force it often. Bruce seemed just as at a loss as Tim did, often just staring at the two boys with his brows furrowed from behind his newspaper in the mornings.

But it couldn’t last forever (nothing really ever did, Tim reminded himself, no matter how hard you may try to make a moment last or hurry past it, emotions often moved at their own pace) and it was a cold, snowy day in December that it finally came to a head.

Tim had started staying later and later at school each day, which was a part of the kindergarten programing to help them prepare for first grade, and by mid-December he was at school for almost the full day. This meant he’d been able to have recess at the same time as his brothers. That was awesome; both boys always took time to play with him, even if it was just giving a push on the swings, and Tim loved the chance to see Dick and Rory during the day.

They were playing together in a quiet part of the playground, a ‘v’ shaped garden that was formed where the pre-school and elementary buildings that made up Gotham Academy’s Early Childcare Education Campus met. It was not usually considered a viable place to play in other seasons, but the snow here was piled high enough that Tim was nearly waist deep and it made an excellent winter playground. Tim, who was working hard on his back making a snow angel, didn’t see them approaching trio of boys. But he would have to have been blind to miss the way that Dick went completely tense from where he was standing next to him.

“Well, well,” a snide voice called out, “if it isn’t the charity cases.” Tim stood, turning to stare at the boys. A dark haired boy was smirking at them. “What’s wrong, circus freak? You got something to say?”

Next to him, Dick’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck off, Jerry.”

The boy, Jerry, scoffed. “Yeah, should have figured.”

“My dad was right,” another boy – a blond this time – added, “you can take the rat out the street, but not the street out of the rat.”

Dick’s head cocked to the side, eyes narrowing even further, but Rory put a hand on his shoulder. “Ignore it, it’s not worth it.”

“Oh what,” Jerry spit out, “you got something to say, Gory Rory?”

Tim blinked, thrown by the insult. Gory? Why would he call Rory 'Gory' – and suddenly it clicked. That awful picture, of Rory being taken out of his family’s shop covered in blood – it’d been everywhere a few months ago with the adoption. To his left, Rory had gone as white as a sheet. Tim sucked in a breath, seething. That little, fucking pissant –

Besides him, Dick went deceptively lax and Tim’s eyes widened, snapping to stare at his brother, well aware of what that tell meant – and then Jerry was one the ground, Dick a blur atop him. The other boys skidded away in shock, before the blond lunged forward. Tim darted to meet him, catching the blond at the waist and bowling him over. A hand yanked him off and Tim’s head hit the ground hard (honestly, Tim barely felt the impact between the snow and his snow suit being so fluffy) but before Tim could really react to being bodily thrown, Dick was throwing himself off Jerry and into the blond with a scream of pure rage.

“Don’t you touch him!”

Jerry sprung up, looking dazed and pissed, and launched himself at Dick’s back. Rory jumped over Tim’s prone body, tackling Jerry to the ground.

Tim crouched, eyes narrowed as he took in the seething mass of limbs that was his two older brothers and the bullies, and kept his eyes locked on the third boy. This boy – a brunet – was staring at the fight with considering eyes. Tim hand slid searchingly into the snow, flying about until he found what he was looking for.

He’d felt the rock when he’d been playing earlier – there were a ton of them scattered around the garden, small and round, decorative most likely – and it fit perfectly in his palm. Would Tim really brain a child with a rock over a petty playground rumble? Normally he’d say no, but Tim couldn’t say he was feeling particularly charitable at the moment.

Tim lifted the rock, staring the other boy down, and felt his name slip into place as he registered the half-moon birthmark on his face. “Try it, Hughes. See what happens.”

The other boy paled, taking a half a step back.

A sharp whistle pierced the air, blowing hard and in short, sharp staccatos, a veritable herd of teachers streaking across the playground towards them. The boys skittered away from each other, all four bloody and ruffled, chest heaving. Tim let the rock slip back into the snow, unseen. He stood, pressing himself against a stiff Rory’s side even as he slipped his gloved hand into a quivering Dick’s.

“Let me do the talking, okay?” Dick gave him an incredulous look but echoed Rory’s jerky nod when he saw it. Tim took a deep inhale through his nose and by the time the first teacher reached them, was sobbing. He ran to her, clinging tightly to her coat. “Mrs. R-Roberts,” he blubbered, “my head h-hurts.” He flung an accusing finger at Jerry. “He hit me!”

“Oh my goodness, Tim!” Cool leather cupped his face, “what on earth happened here! You better start talking!”

“W-We were just p-playing,” Tim stuttered, “and they came up and they – they were really mean! They called Dickie a b-bad name, they said he was a dirty gyp, so I told them to stop being mean and – and – and they,” Tim took a shuddering breath, tears cascading down his cheek, “they called Rory ‘Gory Rory,’ they were,” another sob, “they were m-making fun of his dead daddy and mommy! A lot!”

“Oh my god.” Mrs. Roberts gasped.

“Please tell me that isn’t true.” A male teacher – Mr. Redman, the gym teacher – snapped out, turning to glare at the boys. “Not a single student at Gotham Academy would be that tasteless and have so little class.”

“No, wait –” Jerry was tried to interrupt, but Tim barreled on.

“They did!” Tim whimpered, “and then they said – they said…” Tim trailed off, tugging on Mrs. Roberts coat. She leaned down and he said an old, but familiar taunt. It hadn’t been said to him in this time, but – eh, semantics. Tim had heard it thrown around in his last life enough times to bet that Rory and Dick had probably heard it before. “They said that daddy was doing bad touch stuff to us.”

Mrs. Roberts went rigid.

“We didn’t – we never – he’s lying!” The blond sputtered, eyes very wide now.

Tim rubbed at his eyes, whimpering. “He doesn’t, my d-daddy is the b-best daddy and he – he doesn’t…”

“It’s okay, Timmy.” Mrs. Roberts hushed, lifting him up and cradling him, her hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. “No.” She suddenly snapped, “not another word out your three. Mr. Redman, take them straight to the principal’s office. We’ll join after the nurse checks on Timmy.”

“What?” Jerry shouted, “I’m hurt too! My lip is bleeding!”

“And it’s already stopped. Tim is little,” Mrs. Roberts said sternly, “he gets checked first.”

“My father will be furious when he –”

“Yes, I bet he will be,” Mr. Redman said, ushering the boys towards the closest side door, “once he finds out you beat up a three-year-old. I’m sure all your parents are going to be pleased to get that call.”

Tim just hid his face in Mrs. Robert’s coat, still crying. He caught Dick’s wide eyes from over her shoulder, giving him a discreet wink.

It was less than a half hour before Bruce came storming in the school, flanked on one side by Alfred and the other by Lucius Fox, and followed by at least a (Pride? Colony? Aggregation? Ooo, murder) a murder of lawyers. Seriously, there were at least six. It was an old trick of Bruce’s, striking the first blow through a demonstration of force. It worked too by the way their principal went completely white, practically scrambling to his feet from where he’d been knelt in front of a still sniffling Tim.

“Mr. Wayne, I –”

Bruce just held up his hand, cutting the man off. “Boys, are you alright?”

“Daddy,” Tim breathed, scrambling off the seat and towards him. Bruce lifted him up immediately, a hand rising up to brush his bangs from his face. His eyes narrowed at the red mark on the side of his forehead (it was barely a bruise, but that didn’t matter – it was the principle of the thing) before he ghosted his lips over it in a light kiss.

Tim sighed at the touch and rested happily on his father, watching as Bruce reached out with his free hand, gently tilting Dick’s face up to get a look at his bruised eye. His fingers twitched against Dick’s chin in silent displeasure as his head turned to take in Rory. The brunet just sent him a wry smile. “Not a scratch on me, B.”

Bruce’s hand pulled back from Dick’s chin, cupping his cheek tenderly before pulling away completely. “Tell me what happened.”

“Mr. Wayne, if we could just step into…my…office…” Their principal’s words faded off under the weight of the slow stare Bruce was giving him. B let the silence go on a moment longer – just long enough to make everyone uncomfortable.

“I’d like to hear it from my children first.”

Dick and Rory exchanged a look before Rory cleared his throat – and bless him, repeated the same story almost word for word that Tim had told. It was all he could do to keep from beaming at him, the smart little bean. It was strangely fulfilling, the way that Bruce seemed to go so stiller and stiller at each word.

See if anybody ever said shit to any one of his brothers again.

“Alfred, take the boys home.” Bruce said, voice furious but his hands so very gentle as he handed Tim off to the butler. “Susie, you heard all of that, correct?”

A woman with a sleek bob cut nodded, a finger pushing her glasses up. “Indeed, Mr. Wayne. Now, Mr…” The lawyer paused, taking a moment to squint down at her pad of paper, “…Wainsworth, was it? I believe now would be a good time to retire to your office and have that talk.”

They were all sent to bed early that night after being thoroughly pampered and fussed over by Alfred (he even made his chicken alfredo! He never did that unless shit had really hit the fan and they all needed serious comfort food) and an equally fussy Bruce, and Tim gleefully tucked himself with the knowledge that at all three of the bullies had been suspended and Jerry’s (Jerry Eten, Tim would remember) parents were now ‘in talks’ with Bruce to avoid legal action.

He woke much later, late enough that the shadows had crept long across his nursery floor. He yawned as he made his way into his closet, unearthing his laptop and setting it up. He checked in on Deathstroke’s movements with Zucco (Tim was feeling a little antsy with the lack of progress, even if he knew that such things took time and planning. There just wasn’t a lot he could do for Dick, but he could do this. He had just gone ahead and expanded it to add a hit on Black Mask after Zucco, since his stock shares had been exceptionally fruitful and he had the money to spare, and Zucco was technically was a Caporegime under Sionis anyway. He thought about adding Falcone to it, but it wouldn’t do to completely upend Gotham’s underbelly. That would just throw the mob into a chaos not even Tim could predict) and afterwards Tim had paused by his cracked door at the sound of low voices.

He quietly pulled the door open further, the hallway lit only with the low light of the crescent moon outside. Dick’s room was next to Tim’s but Rory’s was right across the hall and he could see the brunet sitting at the threshold of his room, legs crossed. Tim carefully maneuvered himself to hear better, careful to keep out of sight.

“ – haven’t forgotten, how could you even think that, Dick?”

A strained sigh. “I’m sorry, okay? That was a mean thing to say. I…I didn’t mean it. I just don’t think you get it. My parents were murdered.”

Rory scoffed; an ugly, dismissive sound. “So were mine, so were Bruce’s.”

“It’s – you don’t understand,” Dick whispered harshly. “I saw them – they f-fell.”

“Dick, my father’s face was blown off.”

There was a little, choked off sound of horror from Tim’s right.

“A man came into our shop with a shotgun. My baby sister was in pieces – half of her was just gone. She was only two. I was standing right next to them, the blood got in my eyes, in my mouth. Bruce’s parents were gunned down in front of him when he was eight. He gave his mom CPR alone for almost an hour before someone found them and pulled him off her. Your parents fell from seven stories in front of you. This…it isn’t a competition, Dick – this is – it’s all horrible, just horrible things that happened to us. They all suck.

Everyone in this house knows what you’re feeling, okay? I’ve been right where you are, so I meant it when I said I get it. The first few years after it happened, I used to dream about them, you know? Sometimes it was that day and those were – they sucked. But sometimes I’d dream I was in my kitchen and everyone was there. My dad and Rosie and even my grandpa and momma – which was weird, ‘cause my mom died way before and my Saba way after. And those hurt worse, you know? Cause I didn’t ever want to wake up.”

Dick was still making that horrible choking sound, which – no, they weren’t chokes, they were sobs. Tim’s hands curled into tight fists by his side, but he didn’t dare interrupt. Rory was staring across the hall, features washed out by the moonlight. Like this his eyes seemed almost colorless, pale and haunting – and painfully empathetic.

“And I was so pissed right after it happened. I was so mad at my grandpa. I just thought if he’d been there with – that if he’d been there, he’d somehow have stopped it. My Saba was just like that. And then he had a heart attack and died. I never got to tell him that I wasn’t really mad at him, that I was just mad at everything, and I regret that so much Dick. So, you can be as shitty as you want to me and Bruce, but you can’t do that to Tim.”

“…I know.”

“I mean it,” Rory said, voice rising before he quieted himself. “Tim’s not like us, but – look, at least we had parents that loved us. His mom and dad were…they were bad, okay? I don’t know everything, but you don’t get taken from a rich family like that and put in the system unless it’s bad. You should have seen him in the foster home; it was like – like he was a little adult. He was so grown up. And yeah, he’s super smart but that’s not – it wasn’t like that, it was like he didn’t know how to play with other kids at all. And whenever you hugged him he’d be so startled and then he’d just melt.”

Tim swallowed around a dry mouth, suddenly entirely embarrassed but unable to move. He didn’t want to hear this, but found himself rooted in spot.

“We had these two little girls at one of my old homes, Hope and Alia. It was really messed up; their mom kept them locked in the closet most of the time. And like they weren’t potty trained and didn’t really know how to speak despite being four and five – but you’d pick them up or hold them and they just clung to you. Just…imprinted, like a baby duck. Tim’s kinda like that, I think. I don’t think his parents ever, like, touched him. I bet they didn’t even hold him when he was a baby.”

“Oh.”

“It’s gotta be why he locked on to me – and you and Bruce – so hard. He told me he always wanted brothers, and well, here we are.” Rory just nodded grimly before pointing across the hallway. “So, don’t be mean to the baby duck. He adores you, man.”

There was a watery laugh. “Yeah, he kind of does, doesn’t he?”

“He does. And if he’s being a little…sticky, just let me know, okay? I’ll get you some space.”

“…thanks, Rory. I’m sorry I said all that stuff earlier. I didn’t really mean it.”

“I know.”

“It’s just…if what happened to you happened now and not when you were so little, wouldn’t you want justice? Wouldn’t you want to go and find out who did it?” There was the sound of weight shifting, the creak of a door. “And I know you’re all hiding something from me, too.”

Rory hands froze from where he was picking at the place his carpet met the metal divider, head snapping up and looking the very picture of shifty. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Dick said dryly. “You think I wouldn’t notice Bruce sneaking back in every night? Or that your ‘hoodie’ has moved three times on its own while we’ve been talking?” Rory’s hand flew to his chest, pushing the fabric flat incriminatingly. Dick huffed out a laugh. “Did anyone ever tell you can’t lie worth shit?”

“Mind your own business.” Rory grumbled, smoothing his hoodie down. “No, Dick,” he held up a hand in a stalling motion, “I really can’t tell you, cause it isn’t just my secret. I’ll ask Bruce, okay? But I can’t do much else.”

A dismissive sound came from Tim’s right. “Whatever. I’ll find out. I always find out.”

Tim made a face, because even though Rory didn’t look convinced he knew just how true that was.

Dick did always find out, the bastard.

The next morning felt very early to Tim – and no, it didn’t have anything to do with the fact he’d spent half the night staring at his ceiling, utterly gutted by that conversation – and everything to do with the fact that he’d gone to bed too early. Tim had always functioned just fine on less sleep than the average person, it was when he got too much sleep that he had issues.

He felt groggy and out of it as he made his way through his fruit and toast, leaning heavily on his hand as he ate. They didn’t have to go to school today – which, score – and it seemed like Bruce may be taking the day too. He certainly wasn’t dressed for work, sitting in sweatpants and a sweater at the table, paging through the newspapers and picking at his waffles. It seemed that between the fight yesterday and the talk that night, the cold war between Rory and Dick had finally found a ceasefire, the two boys sitting next to each other at the table and talking sleepily to each other about the upcoming Christmas show that GA held every year.

It wasn’t until the table was cleared that Tim cottoned on to the fact that something more was going on. Bruce folded the paper and set it down, hands clasped over top of it.

Tim eyed that pose wearily, because that pose almost always meant –

“Boys, we need to talk.”

 – yeah, that.

All three boys froze, watching Bruce unenthusiastically. It must have been a sight to see because Bruce huffed out a laugh, his shoulders drifting down. “Relax kids, you’re not in trouble.”

“…okay.” Dick said slowly, disbelief naked in his tone. “What’s up?”

“I know that these last few months have been tough, on all of us, and I know that being around the holidays isn’t helping either. I know from experience that holidays can be…rough, especially early on.”

Dick blinked, before dropping his gaze to stare at the table. Rory just stared at Bruce intently.

“I can see that everyone has been struggling and I can’t say that has made me happy.” Bruce leaned forward, resting his weight more heavily on his arms, eyes skating from all three boys, trying to catch all of their eyes in turn, “so I’ve been talking to Candice and –”

“Are you sending us back?” Rory interrupted, voice barely above a whisper and eyes shuttered as he stared at his hands.

Bruce physically startled, jerking in alarm.

“No. No, Rory, never. I would never – Rory, hey, look at me, please.” He reached out slowly, giving the brunet more than enough time to pull away, but Rory was as still as a statue. B’s eyes closed for a moment and when they opened again, his face was still neutral but Tim knew him well enough to see the self-recrimination written all over it. “I’m sorry,” he said evenly, “I should have phrased that better. I know I’m not the best with my words, so I’m going to be very transparent – very clear – with you. I will never send you, any of you, away from me. Never. Tim may be the only one I’ve adopted but I…” Bruce swallowed, “whether it’s as a father or foster father, an uncle or just a caretaker – it doesn’t matter. What you call me doesn’t matter to me, just know that I care about all of you, very deeply.”

Rory’s head jerked up too look at him, eyes searching as he studied his face for any deceit. Bruce just gave him a tiny, vulnerable smile that made something Tim’s chest turn over almost painfully.

“All I want is for the three of you to have the very best lives I can provide you. And I don’t feel like I’ve been doing a very good job of that lately. I did speak to Candice, but only to ask for resources. She suggested therapy – that’s where you go and talk to someone who is trained to help handle grief and anger and other big feelings – and I agree with her. I know that it will be hard and challenging to open up and talk about what’s happened in the past, with your families, but I honestly think it’s the best for everyone.”

“Even me?” Tim asked, trying not to sound as aghast as he was. Bruce Wayne. Suggesting therapy. Had he…was he in another timeline? Had he crossed realities? Was this real life?

Bruce reached over to stroke his face with the back of his fingers. “Even you, Tim. Candice has given me a list of names and after I’ve run a background check on them, we can meet them together or one on one – Alfred and I are more than willing to sit with you for first meetings or however meetings you’d like before you decide – and you boys can pick whoever you feel the most comfortable with.”

It was going to be a tough sell; Tim was all for it, but he could see the narrowed set to Dick’s eyes, the disgruntled twist to Rory’s lips.

“Okay.” Tim agreed, hoping to help pave the way for Bruce a bit. Tim didn’t think he needed therapy and it’d be a real pain to keep a trained professional from picking at him and his secrets – actually that may be a fun challenge. And well, Tim was never going to say no to the idea of the Bat clan getting therapy.

Therapy.

Years and years and years and years in his past life, sprouting its virtues to his father and brothers only to ever be shot down with some variation of ‘that’s great it’s working for you Tim, but I’m good,’ and now – !

His father gave him a brilliant smile. “That’s great, chum. I’m glad.”

“You said everyone,” Dick said, head cocked to the side and eyes bright with a wicked gleam, “does that mean you’re gonna go too?”

At the head of the table, Bruce froze from where he’d been reaching for his coffee cup. “Well,” he said, tone every inch of diplomacy, “Candice only brought me the name of child therapists. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to see them given that I’m an adult.”

“But she said everyone would benefit from it, right?” Rory agreed, his own eyes locked onto Bruce now too. “You’re a part of everyone.”

“Boys,” Bruce started.

“You said it’s supposed to help us,” Rory pressed, “and you just said that you were having a hard time too.”

“Yeah,” Dick continued, tag teaming in smoothly, “and you could find one for grown-ups, right? I’ll go if you go.”

“Me too; I’ll go if you go.” Rory agreed, an amused grin curling at the edges of his lips and spoiling his earnest expression.

Then – Dick went in for the kill. He leaned across the table, small hand gripping Bruce’s large one as he gazed up at the man with big blue eyes. “We care about you too, B.”

The nickname stopped the excuse Bruce was preparing cold, the man staring at Dick with a charmed, almost dazed expression. Tim couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped him. The sound seemed to snap his father out of it, Bruce clearing his throat before patting Dick’s hand. “Alright boys, I’ll find a therapist as well.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Master Bruce.” Alfred announced, voice slicing through the bubble that had formed around the kitchen table and reminding them of the butler's presence. He was leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed as he stared down his eldest charge. “I’ve had a list waiting for just this very moment, in fact. For years.”

From where he sat, Bruce cursed lightly under his breath.

Chapter Text

Tim’s favorite person in the entire world to be carried by was Dick.

B was a close second, but…yeah. It must look incredibly ridiculous; Dick may have been the third tallest member of the Bat family (and boy, had it annoyed the living hell out of Dick that Jason had grown taller than him) but right now he was just a nine-year-old boy and even with Tim being on the smaller side for his age, it probably looked pretty silly to outsiders.

But outsiders didn’t know that even at nine, Dick was a solid wall of muscle. Dick had always kept himself in top shape, but Tim hadn’t realized just how young that habit had started. It was probably the only reason why Robin had ever been a success in the first place. Unlike Jason and Tim who admittedly had brought some talents of their own to their training – mainly the type of brawling and survival instinct that had been honed in Jason from growing up in Crime Alley and the many, many years of parkour and stealth training Tim had developed from following Batman and Robin around the city – Dick had an extremely solid base to build off of.

He’d been in endurance, strength, and agility exercises of some kind since he’d been able to stand, training for his life as an acrobat almost from birth. Dick may only be four feet and some change right now, but he could (and would) carry Tim around on his hip or back for hours at a time. When Tim had been a teenager – before everything went to hell following Damian’s arrival and the Robin fiasco – he’d done his damnest to try and avoid Dick’s smothering hugs, but had suffered through them to make his brother happy. Afterwards, well. There were no hugs. But here and now? Tim was couldn’t get enough.

And all it took was him turning his baby blues onto Dick and making grabby hands up to his brother, murmuring a plaintive ‘Dickie?’ and Tim would be swept up. Undoubtedly some of it was just Dick’s tactile personality (he had never seen the man turn down a hug, ever) but Tim thought the conversation with Rory he’d overheard influenced a lot of it too. It seemed like Dick had taken it as a challenge to make up three years of touch starvation in just as many months. Tim may have caught him calling him his ‘little sweet baby’ a few times, though Tim’s Romani was admittedly a little bit rusty.

It got so bad that Bruce had started to joke that’d he been replaced, but he seemed so fond whenever he said it that Tim didn’t take it seriously. He did, however, make sure his father got cuddles just for him. Tim knew that Alfred took many, many photos of Dick lugging him around in all sorts of positions and that at least one photo (of him on Dick’s hip, sleepy and somewhat grumpily watching while Rory quickly and deftly did up Dick’s school tie for him, explaining the process as he went) had ended up framed and on B’s desk.

He was in Dick’s arms right now in fact, sucking tiredly around his thumb as he watched Rory disappear over Bruce’s shoulder with a high pitched yelp. Weekend mornings had ended up being reserved for training. They were already doing something or the other on Sundays with Rory, but Dick was used to doing training every day, multiple times a day. He struggled with that at school actually, since he was used to doing his school work sporadically throughout the day with his classroom time scheduled around training and show practices like most of the circus kids did. It had taken until December for Dick to voice the irritation he’d felt from the lack of physical activity and Bruce had promptly led him to the west gym which (coincidentally and totally unrelated to Dick, as B just felt it needed a ‘refresh,’ as if redoing an entire gym on a whim was totally normal) now included gymnastic stations, a trapeze that flew over a foam pit, several climbing walls, the installation of several wall and ceiling perches, and other basics to turn the entire place into a free runners heaven.

It also been safety proofed to hell and back, with new floors and padding and safety lines run everywhere. Dick used the gym every morning before school watched over by Alfred, the only other member crazy enough to get up at five in the morning. Bruce had also moved their self-defense training from the cave there, explaining it off to Dick that any of Bruce Wayne’s children were a kidnapping risk, even fosters like Rory and Dick, and that it was all the same training that Bruce himself had gotten from Alfred as a child.

There were a ton of SAS exercises that had to have come from the butler, but there were just as many from the League as well. Not that Tim pointed that out, being three and all and therefore not in the ‘know’ about the League of Assassins, but he’d learned under Lady Shiva and later on Ra’s, so you know. He noticed. Luckily Tim didn’t have to fake being bad at the exercises, since the ones he were given were extremely altered and tailored to his tiny frame. Dick took to the training like a duck to water, the stupid natural athlete he was. He was so flexible that he looked like he was made out of rubber, twisting and flowing easily out of grasps and holds. Rory was getting there himself, his flexibility increasing day by day. It was harder to tell with his strength, as the Ragman seemed to augment a lot of it, but Bruce had him training hard regardless, so Tim was sure the brunet was also building up muscle the natural way as well.

Dick was still in the dark about Batman and the Ragman, but knowing him Tim didn’t believe that was going to last long. Dick had taken the kidnapping thing at face value, but Tim didn’t miss the evaluating way he seemed to watch Bruce as they trained, nor the way his eyes narrowed each and every time B showed up at the breakfast table with a new scrape or bruise. Tim was sure it was only a matter of time.

“You okay, baby bird?” Dick’s asked, voice sweet and childishly high by his ear. Tim only grumbled, turning to bury his face in his brother’s shoulder, sucking harder on his thumb. Dick laughed, readjusting the blanket it so it was tighter around him. Bundled up, Tim almost began to drift off again.

Logically, Tim knew that he was old enough to no longer need naps and that three was a perfectly acceptable age to start phasing those out of a toddler’s schedule. Emotionally, Tim didn’t like it at all and felt a little ruffled that no one had bothered to consult with him about it. Tim loved his naps. He loved being able to curl up on his father or one of his brothers and slip off. Tim never liked change in routines at any stage of his life, but it didn't help that he still needed to wait pretty late into the night to sneak his laptop out and check in on things, and his naps had been a great way to make up for his late night excursions onto the web.

“Come on, Timmy,” Dick cooed encouragingly, “let’s practice too!”

From where he was correcting Rory’s grip around his neck (they’d been trying to get Rory capable of throwing bigger opponents for the last two weeks) Bruce paused to crane his head back to look at them. “Dick, remember –”

“I know, I know,” Dick said, waving the concern off, “just the super basics. I’ll be careful.” Tim grunted as he was set on the mats, bare toes flexing against the cold fabric, glaring up at his brother. Dick just laughed, ruffling his head. “Come on, buddy. Some exercise will help you wake up.”

Pouting, Tim let his brother lead him over to a mat shaped liked a triangle where he lifted Tim up and sat him at the highest point.

“Let’s practice our rolls. Okay,” Dick coached from where he was squatted down next to him, his hand resting on Tim’s back and keeping him from rolling down the incline. “Remember, hands up and flat like you’re holding plates – there ya go. Ready? We’re gonna roll.”

Tim let himself fall backwards and down the incline, tucking his legs up to his chest as he went, the palms of his hands catching his weight as he rolled down, pushing off with them until the roll completed and he was rocking unsteadily on his feet, arms held askew for balance.

Dick made a congratulatory noise even as he corrected Tim’s arm placements, guiding them up above his head. “Good job, Timmy! You’re a natural, buddy!”

Tim wasn’t. Tim really, really wasn’t. He’d been born with the Drake sense of balance and grace – which was none. They were not a naturally athletic gifted lot, no matter how much Jack liked to pretend otherwise. But Tim had lived through this training once before and even if it was all new to his current body, his mind knew what to do. He was too young to really start any type of tumbling, so most of what Dick showed him was establishing good foundations and flexibility. They usually trained for three or four hours on the weekend (which was both way more than most kids their age did and extremely short for how Bruce trained his Robins.) Tim had been nervous about Rory being introduced to this all, as he hadn’t had any frame of reference from his past life on whether or not this type of thing interested the brunet at all.

But Bruce made it fun. Maybe it was because it wasn’t Robin training and didn’t have the same stakes, but it was fun. Bruce incorporated all kinds of games into the training, things like games of tags that were slowly but surely becoming more and more intense as they went on – going from ground based to incorporating the climbing walls and nets. Or little competitions with silly prizes like what dessert they got to pick for after dinner or rights to picking the night’s movie that seemed to egg both of the older boys on.

Bruce was careful too; careful in a way Tim hadn’t ever really seen before, making sure that everyone had a chance to win. Even Tim, who arguably did the least amount of training out of all of them. He liked to stay the full time while they were in the gym, but there was no denying the bean bag chair and low table that had been sequestered in one corner, boxes of drawing supplies and books nestled underneath it. Tim got a break every thirty minutes for thirty minutes, no matter if he wanted one or not. There was a cheer and Tim looked away from where he was hanging from a low set of parallel bars, toes curling around the bar from where they were squished between his hands, Dick’s hands firmly around his back and thighs, helping him hang and rock slowly back and forward. Rory was dancing from foot to foot, hands punching the air in celebration.

“I did it,” Rory crowed, “I did it! I flipped B!” He spun to face both of them. “Guys, did you see that? I finally did it!”

Tim – now firmly on the ground once more – watched as Dick streaked across the gym. “I saw it!” He skidded to a stop before Rory, hopping up and down on his heels in excitement. “Dude, he got so much air! You flipped him hard.”

Rory, already red from exertion, blushed even harder, smile stretched so wide it looked like it hurt. “Yeah?”

“Yeah! I knew you could do it! It was awesome – you’re awesome!” 

Dick Grayson, Tim thought fondly as he watched his brothers celebrate, professional hype man. His attention drifted from where the two boys were chattering excitedly to each other to his father. From the floor, resting half up on his elbows, Bruce was watching them prance about with a satisfied air and a smug little smile.

Tim liked his therapist.

His name was Jonas McClusky, aged thirty-six, a graduate of Gotham’s very own Gotham U, and had been practicing for six years. He was highly awarded (like Bruce would have allowed anything but award-winning child psychologists around his kids) and had written several very well received books and peer reviewed articles. He had a scruffy beard and kind brown eyes, and wore really funny sweaters with cartoon characters on them. Jonas was just the perfect amount of smart; enough to tell that Tim was bullshitting him but not smart enough to catch it reliably. He’d often call Tim out for his avoidance, but rarely caught when he diverted their conversations into the safer areas of trauma he was willing to talk about.

“So, Bruce told me he was going to give each of you boys an activity room. Have you thought about what you want to have it be?”

Tim shrugged from where he was sitting on his cushion, leaning on a brightly colored floor table as he colored. “I dunno. I don’t really need a room.”

“Why do you think you don’t need a room?”

“Rory wants a place to read his comics and manga and stuff, and Dickie wants a place to put all the video games so he doesn't have to go to different rooms to play them. But all my stuff fits in my room.” Tim explained with a shrug. “I don’t really need anything.”

Well, that was a lie. What Tim would like is unfettered access to the Bat computer and its network. Either that or a computer room with an espresso machine. One day, Tim thought wistfully, already imaging the coffee bar spread he'd set up. Jonas made a soft sound of understanding from where he was working on his own drawing. “You remember how we talked last week about the difference between wants and needs, and how it’s okay to say what you want?”

“Mother told me it was rude to ask for stuff.”

“And it can be, but it is okay to ask. I want you to keep reminding yourself that sometimes your mother didn’t give you very good advice.”

“Like when Mother said I shouldn’t interrupt even if I was really, really hungry?”

“Just like that.” Jonas agreed, tilting his paper to get a better angle. “You can always ask and if it’s not appropriate or right, your father will tell you.”

“Oh, okay.” Tim’s crayon paused, a thought striking him. “What if I don’t want a room?”

“Well, that’s an idea. What would you want instead of a room?”

Tim smirked down at the puppy he’d been steadily coloring blue.

Tim’s appointment always ended first; Rory and Dick’s were scheduled at the same time with their respective therapists and it started about a half hour after Tim had already begun his. It usually meant that he had some down time to wait after his appointment was over, but he didn’t mind. While the toys in the waiting room were for babies, Alfred always made sure he was kitted out with all kinds of activities in his backpack. As Jonas lead him out, Tim brightened in surprise to see Bruce waiting in one of the seats, head cocked back and eyes closed.

In typical Bruce fashion, they opened the moment there was any motion in the waiting room, giving Tim a smile. Tim rushed over to him. “Hi, daddy! I didn’t know you were coming to get us.”

His father scooped him up to sit in his lap, hands curling to rest just under his backpack. “My meeting ended early. Good surprise?”

“Yeah,” Tim assured, leaning against his father so he could work his backpack free, “look at my drawing, daddy. See? It’s a puppy. It’s blue and I know real puppies aren’t blue, I just did it because I wanted artistic license.”

Bruce snorted. “It’s a very nice dog, Tim.”

A kiss was pressed to his cheek. The man sounded – and looked – exhausted. The whole month of December had been a busy one for the Wayne household. While Dick still sometimes had pretty extreme mood swings, he’d calmed down a whole lot. It helped that he’d been swept up in Christmas fervor when he’d been made the star of GA Early Childcare Education's annual Christmas play. This year they were doing How the Grinch Stole Christmas and while Dick wouldn’t have to sing, he’d be doing a lot of dancing and he’d managed to convince the theatrics department to let him include circus tricks. Tim didn’t even know Dick had been a theater kid, but not a part of him was surprised. Dick thrived when he could perform. Tim thought the whole thing was serving as a good distraction for the mourning boy.

Rory had been looped in as well, though the brunet had fiercely denied any acting part, more than happy with helping with the props and decorations as a stage hand.

Alfred was busy with what they had all collectively called ‘The December Blitz’ in the future, which meant decorating every room in the mansion with Christmas décor. This included everything from changing all the linens in the house to holiday themed ones (from bedding sets to bathroom towels to napkins and placements) to watching the landscaping crew put up the Christmas lights with a discerning eye. Wayne Manor had always committed to Christmas hard.

It probably didn’t help that Alfred was pulling late nights – extremely late nights – as he provided back up to Bruce. Batman had been out in force to handle the crime wave that was rocking Gotham. That…was kind of Tim’s fault, but kind of not! When he’d thought to add Black Mask to Tony Zucco’s contract, he hadn’t thought that much beyond the ease of access for Wilson. After all, the two met frequently as Zucco was Sionis’ underling and he may have mentioned to Deathstoke that it made more sense to do a two for one, as killing one without the other would only cause the Sionis family to close ranks and beef up security – maybe even go into hiding.

He hadn’t expected for Wilson to just really commit and bomb the Italian restaurant where Roman Sionis, his underboss Andrew Fitzareli, Tony Zucco and three other Sionis capos where eating. In the space of an hour, the largest crime family in Gotham had been, for all intents and purposes, wiped off the map. Even the fierce cold of a Gotham winter couldn’t restrain the bloodbath that followed; every crime family, gang, and rogue that could scrounge up enough man power fighting to fill the vacuum battle royale style. Wilson had even added a message to consider the others as a thank you gift for the good business and a happy holiday, the cheeky ass.

…maybe Tim shouldn’t have sent that holiday bonus, but he prided himself on being a good boss. Not once had Timothy Jackson Drake failed to send out a holiday bonus to his employees. Not once! Servant leadership was a thing!

Still, he couldn’t help but feel a little bad as the shadows under Bruce’s eyes grew deeper and darker. He made sure to give his father extra cuddles and sometimes begged him to lie down and take an illegal nap when Alfred (the real anti-nap enforcer) was busy. It worked some of the time, but even if B was just sitting around on his Blackberry working at least he was lying down for an hour or two. “B,” Tim said seriously, reaching out and smoothing hands over the lines on Bruce’s face, “you need to take more naps.”

“Thank you for caring about me sweetheart, but please don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking.”

Whoops, Tim hadn't even noticed they were talking. “Sorry, daddy.”

“No problem, chum. Just try to remember for next time, okay?” From where he was watching the interaction, Jonas nodded approvingly before the two picked up where they were talking. Tim frowned and then sighed bodily, fingers reaching out to fiddle at the strings that were hanging off Bruce’s scarf. After a moment, he gave up and squirmed his way free. His father’s hands caught him, slowing his decent into something more graceful.

He ignored the talking adults as he made his way to the activity table, before stopping and returning. The two paused in speaking and Tim looked up at Jonas with a pout, waving the puppy drawing about. Jonas chuckled. “I remember, Tim.”

Nodding, Tim carefully tucked the drawing into Bruce’s hand before going over to set up his dolls. He had almost the whole league now; he had Batman and Superman and Wonder Woman and Aquaman – but Tim didn’t really like the Aquaman one cause he didn’t think it looked anything like Arthur and – the sound of a door opening had his head snapping in the direction.

Dick emerged, eyes and nose red. Tim abandoned his toys, shooting to his brother’s side. “Dickie!”

The dark haired boy caught him mid-charge, swinging him up into his arms. “Hey, Timmy.”

Tim gave him a bright smile, leaning and pressing a kiss to his brother’s cheek with a loud ‘muwah!’ “I missed you!”

The tension in Dick’s shoulders melted away, his grin growing as he leaned in, rubbing their noses together. “Aw, baby bird. I was only gone for an hour.”

“But I still missed you,” Tim insisted, “you’re my favorite brother.”

“Ouch,” Rory said with a snort from where he was appearing through the double doors, “what am I, Swiss cheese?” Tim flailed, eyes wide in horror. Rory laughed, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “Relax, Timmy. I was just kidding.”

“No.” Tim gasped, mortified, and desperately reached, nearly falling out of Dick’s hands. Rory caught him swiftly, shaking his head as Tim hung between the two of them – legs wrapped tightly around Dick’s waist while he slung his arms around the brunet’s neck. “You’re my favorite oldest brother!”

Tim nearly blurted out ‘favorite surprise brother’ but managed to bite it back at the last moment. “Tim, you’re going to fall,” Rory admonished with a laugh, even as his hands came up to support him, “let go, dummy.”

“Never.” Tim swore, tightening his limbs, “you both have to hold me forever and ever, cause then I can - erk!” Tim was swiftly lifted free, twisted and balanced on his father’s hip. Tim pouted as he instinctively clung, glaring up. “B, I was talking! Don’t you know –”

“How about we get McDonalds on the way home?”

"I want the nuggies," Tim was already switching gears, tugging his dad towards where they'd hung up their coats. "Daddy, let's go."

Before Damian, there had been no pets in the Wayne household. Tim’d just assumed that they were a no pet family, seeing as there had never been one before and hadn’t dared ask for one. Janet would have lost her shit if he had asked her for a dog or cat, that was for sure. And yeah, okay, he’d never asked Bruce for a pet but – boy, had Tim boiled with jealousy when Damian had basically turned the Manor into a petting zoo. Not this time; hell no. This time, Tim was getting a pet first. Damian could take his stupid cat and dog and fish and freaking cow and eat it. From where he sat on the front lawn, the three-year-old practically vibrated amongst the snow. Dick and Rory were taking time to launch themselves into the snow piles while Alfred sipped his tea and supervised, but Tim’s eyes were locked on the end of the driveway.

The sight of Bruce’s BMW pulling in had him jumping to his feet and only a firm grasp on the back of his snow suit kept him from running towards the car. “Patience, Master Tim.”

“But Alfie!” Tim sputtered.

“Patience,” Alfred reaffirmed firmly, “or I will find that child leash Mrs. Sophie left with us.”

Tim pouted, appropriately cowed as he hung petulantly from the butler’s grip. The black car came to a stop, an amused looking Bruce stepping out. He gave Tim a wink as he made his way towards the back passenger door and –

“Puppy!” Tim shrieked, launching himself forwards the moment the pressure on his back disappeared. He smacked into Bruce’s legs, staring wide eyed at the wiggling chocolate lab in his father’s arms and tugged desperately at his jeans. “Down daddy, down!”

Bruce chuckled, kneeling obediently. Tim squealed as the dog craned over to meet him, a wet tongue flashing lightening quick across his face. Tim fell flat onto his butt as Bruce guided the puppy into his lap, giggling as he pet the silky soft fur, trying to hide his face and neck from the dog’s attentions. Tim and the puppy rolled around on the snow, the puppy’s tail wagging so hard it made his butt sway side to side. It was a little boy, a nine week old puppy with bright blue eyes.

Dick and Rory had made their way over, Dick hanging off Rory in a piggyback, chin resting on the brunet’s shoulder with a grin. “Happy, Timmy?”

“I love him.” Tim breathed, hands almost shaking as he stroked the smooth belly on display.

Dick slid off Rory’s back, the two boys sitting on either side of Tim and the puppy. “Can we pet him, Timmy?”

“Yeah!” Tim agreed with a nod, grinning so hard as his cheeks hurt. The puppy seemed ecstatic at the increased attention, pink tongue darting out to try and get all three of them, only to be distracted by a rope toy that Bruce was waving enticingly in front of it. Sharp milk teeth dug in, paws peddling in the air as if seeking traction as their father gently shook the toy.

“He’s so cute,” Dick breathed, “we’ll help you walk him, Tim!”

Rory gave their brother a side eye. “We will, huh?”

“What? You don’t like dogs?”

“They’re fine, I guess.” Rory said, though Tim didn’t miss the way his eldest brother’s grin grew when the puppy’s head rolled over to look at him, panting around his rope. “What are you going to name him, Timmy?”

“Kevin.”

“Kevin?” Bruce repeated, a laugh in his voice.

“Kevin.” Tim repeated firmly as he took the puppy’s face in his hands, stroking the downy ears. “Your name is Kevin Wayne now,” he told the dog seriously, “and you’re my puppy, so that means you’re gotta be my best friend.” A hand cupped his neck and when Tim looked back, Bruce was watching him softly. Tim leaned back in the touch. “Thank you so much for the puppy, daddy.”

A kiss was pressed against his forehead. “You should be thanking Alfred.”

“That he should,” Alfred grumbled, eyeing the puppy like it was a bomb.

“Thank you, Alfred!” Tim lifted Kevin up, barely managing the few steps to the old man with how heavy Kevin was and how the puppy was excitedly looking around. “I really love Kevin a lot.”

Alfred sighed, uncrossing his arms as he crouched down, offering his fingers to the pup to sniff. “I can see that. Perhaps you and the other young masters should try out that new collar and leash? Take the lad out to explore. But only a short walk – it’s quite cold after all.”

That seemed like a hell of an idea to Tim and he rushed over to where Rory was already working a leather collar open. Kevin broke free of his grasp before he made it though, sprinting off with a loud woof. Tim let out a shout as he took off after the dog, his brothers a step behind him.

Why hadn’t Tim asked for a dog before?

Kevin was amazing, Tim loved him with everything he had. Kevin seemed to understand that he was Tim’s dog and he followed him everywhere. He even followed when he technically shouldn’t, like when Tim took baths and drink the bath water, which Kevin seem to love (Alfred, not so much). Kevin was always waiting for Tim when he came home from school and Tim got to take him for a walk with either Alfred or one or both of his brothers before he did his homework. And whenever everyone was too busy to pay attention to him, Kevin was always willing to play with Tim.

And Bruce and Alfred were helping him teach Kevin all kinds of tricks (Kevin already was sitting most of the time, such a smart puppy) and Tim was working on high five right now, because how awesome would that be? A high-fiving dog? And he’d seen it on Youtube at some point as an adult, so he knew there was a way to do it.

Bruce and Alfred insisted that Kevin had to sleep in a crate in his room at night until he was potty trained, but the puppy was allowed to stay in bed with Tim during story time and that was just the best. He loved curling up with Kevin and Teddy, his favorite two things together. And when Tim did his hacking at night, now Kevin would curl up in his lap or right next to him and put his head on Tim’s knee or thigh.

Tim even got to bring Kevin to school for show and tell (which Tim definitely won, even if Mrs. Vanita kept insisting it wasn’t a competition) and all of his classmates were so jealous. Kevin grew pretty big surprisingly quick, but Tim didn’t mind. Thanks to Bruce, they didn’t even need a leash anymore – Kevin just followed along, coming back when called – which meant that Tim could take him for walks by himself without worrying about having to be dragged along. He still had to stay in the garden and where Alfred or dad or his brothers could see him, but it was still nice to have some freedom.

Before Kevin, no one ever let Tim walk around the property alone even if he was still in eyesight.

So yeah, Kevin was his best friend. Well, his best dog friend. Tim still loved his brothers most, but it wasn’t really fair to compare dogs and humans like that. Christmas was rapidly approaching and things had gotten busy at for their household.

They kept up with their training (Rory had even started joining Dick in the mornings) and Tim was positive that the brunet was still getting specialized training with the Ragman by Bruce, but he was unsure when it was. They had to be pretty sneaky about since Dick and Rory were almost always with each other. School inched closer and closer to holiday break, Alfred deep cleaned and decorated the manor with increasing ferocity with each passing week, every day bringing another inch of the manor ‘holiday-fied.’

Life at the manor started to gain a rhythm, a consistency that Tim felt was doing everyone good. And not for just the kids, Bruce seemed less stressed too, even if he was busy almost every night trying to minimize the damage from the crime war that Tim may or may not have started on a revenge filled whim. Things settled, is what Tim was trying to say.

He woke in the mornings to either one of his brother’s flopping onto his bed – Rory liked to steal his covers right off the bed, the jerk, but Tim could usually get Dick to cuddle with him for a little bit and get some extra sleep. He had breakfast and dinner at a full table, Alfred flittering in and out as he served dishes, the low chatter of the five of them filling the kitchen. In the evenings Bruce was reading them Lord of the Rings in his bedroom before bed, Tim curled into his side with Dick and Rory spread out on B’s monstrous mattress, Kevin usually at Tim’s feet.

On Friday’s they watched a movie, on Saturday’s they usually went out somewhere like the zoo or the aquarium or a museum, and on Sunday’s they all slept in and had a real big brunch.  He liked it. Living on his own for so long – first in his pent house in Gotham and then the eventual retreat to his private island – Tim hadn’t realized how much he’d missed being a part of a family, of being a part of so much life and activity. Being alone could be tricky like that; before you knew it, it became the norm, comfortable even. But just because you were no longer lonely didn’t mean you weren’t missing something.

Which was why even though Tim felt bad about the late nights Bruce and Alfred were pulling, he didn’t regret being the cause of it. This was everything Tim had wanted and never gotten as a child, something that he’d had the shortest of tastes of as teenager. And now that he had it Tim was going to protect it with everything he had.

The smallest ballroom in Wayne Manor – called colloquially in the future by all the Wayne Kids as the ‘Checkers Room’ due to the wooden parquet floor, even if it the pattern was technically called a ‘versailles’ – was decorated heavily for the Christmas holiday with tasteful greenery, ribbons, and bows, the décor picked out under Alfred’s discerning eye to be perfectly seasonal yet utterly ambiguous and void of anything that could be equated to any religion. It matched the rest of the manor, which had seen the arrival of no less than four teams of professional cleaners the day before – including two carpet cleaning teams.

Potty training Kevin was a work in progress.

Outside, Christmas lights lit up the lawn from the various bushes and trees they were wrapped around, forming bright islands of white. For as long as Tim could remember Wayne Manor had only ever had white Christmas lights outside; Martha Wayne had never liked color Christmas lights – she thought they didn’t have any class. The inside of the house was much the same with warm, golden lights peeking out from an abundant of garland and wreaths.

The Checkers Room was the sole outlier; it was an explosion of noise and color. Multi-colored lights were strung everywhere, even wrapping around the branches of the chandeliers. A massive Christmas tree – nearly twenty feet in height and with space left before it brushed against the gold leaf ceilings. A third of the ballroom was covered with layers of plush rugs, all sorts of bean bags, ottomans, and even a few sofas placed tastefully. A large TV had been wheeled in with a VHS, children’s Christmas movies stacked on the shelf below, and the Claymation figure of Jack Frost flew around the screen. Two other TVs were set up to the side – one with a N64 and the other a Playstation.

The massive fireplace was unlit, but had been thoroughly cleaned and instead of a roaring fire behind it’s ornate screen held a toy village, lit up from the inside and complete with little figurines, nestling amongst white table clothes to make it appear as if snow laden. The far end of the dance floor had been turned into a buffet; staff dressed up as elves complete with little felt hats and pointed ears served up food and desserts a like, including one slightly disgruntled teenager attempting to defend a chocolate tower from certain death and who Tim rather hoped was being paid a lot.

Only the middle of the dance floor was being used as its intended purpose. A DJ had been set up just to the side, playing kid friendly pop songs. It was only going to play Christmas songs, but Tim had seen Dick press hard for a wider playlist and Bruce had (bemusedly) agreed. As Tim watched the children of the who’s who of Gotham’s society dance wildly, Tim could agree it had been a good chance. Tim felt his lips twitch at the sight of Dick leading a conga line in a wide circle.

In short – the Wayne Holiday Gala was in full swing. Bruce had originally been on the fence about having it all, with Dick being so newly settled and everything so fresh. But Dick had told him not to cancel with a shrug.

“We’re spending actual Christmas just us, right?” Dick asked from where he was painstakingly making sure each tiny square of his waffle was filled with syrup. 

“Yes, the party would be the weekend before. But boys, we don’t have to have it all. The Wayne’s have hosted it for the last sixty years,” Bruce pointed out, a wry look on his face, “I think Gotham can handle one year without it.”

“I really don’t mind, B.” Dick had assured, “a party could be kind of fun.”

“Yeah,” Rory mused, adding his own two cents, “and like – we don’t want to make any trouble for you. I know you rich people can be really uptight about this kind of stuff.”

Gotham's elite would, Tim knew, make a really big deal about Bruce cancelling the Wayne Holiday Party. It would be talk of high society for the entire season.

Bruce laughed. “Ouch, chum.”

Tim had never been to something like this before – they had parties at the manor of course, but they’d never had a kidzone like this. He had no idea what had made Bruce come up with it, but he suspected it had been Rory’s influence. The boy had wondered off hand if it’d be okay if he and the other kids went to play video games if they got bored during the Holiday Party, and Bruce had paused, his expression becoming calculating. Tim’s eyes drifted from Dick to where he could just see Rory – standing and looking intense – as he played Mario Cart.  

Yeah, this was fun.

Feeling satisfied with the sight of both his brothers having fun, Tim took a long chug of his chocolate milk before setting it on the table. “Another, please.”

“I dunno, kiddo.” The staff member said from where she was wiping down a glass with a rag, “you’ve had quite a few. You don’t want to give yourself a stomach ache.” Frowning, Tim tapped the glass on the table with a frown. The woman held her hands up in surrender at his glare, “excuse me, sir.”

Tim smiled as he sipped his milk, head bopping along with the music. His gaze drifted lazily around the kids, before focusing on a small figure standing alone just a few feet to his left, tucked almost behind one of the curtains that framed the massive ballroom windows. Lips pursing, Tim took in his classmate.

Eddie’s head was slightly bowed; fingers tangled in front of him, a thumb rubbing over and down the skin of his other thumb repeatedly. He looked cute in his reindeer sweater, a shiny red button that flashed pinned on its nose. His blond curls were slightly squished under a pair of glossy, blue headphones. They – like the autism diagnosis that Tim strongly suspected came with them – had appeared just before Christmas break. The teachers had been hush-hush about it, but Tim had overheard one mother complaining when Alfred had been running late once that ‘kids like that one’ shouldn’t be in the classroom with ‘regular children’ and couldn’t Mrs. Vanita just do something about it?

Never mind the fact that autism was hardly some disease that could be caught, or some sort of death sentence, or that Eddie was the best at maths in the entire class (never mind Tim, he didn’t really count) and reading on a second grade level and – even just remembering it now made Tim’s teeth grind together in fury. And the other kids definitely emulated their parents; who the hell knew that three-to-four year’s olds were capable of shunning? They loved making fun of Eddie for wearing his headphones all the time, even though Eddie had put all kinds of cool stickers on them.

The negative attention had only made the quiet boy even quieter, and while Tim may have just started a pseudo-friendship to keep Bruce off his back, that didn’t mean that he was heartless. He spent literally 6 hours a day with the kid, of course he cared about him. Tim set his milk down and made his way over. Eddie’s face turned to look at him, though his eyes were still on the dance floor. “Heya, Eddie.”

“Hi Timmy.”

“Wanna go dance?” Eddie hesitated, thumb pausing mid-stroke, looking sorely tempted but unsure. Tim held out his hand. “Come on,” he wiggled his fingers, “let’s boogie.”

Eddie licked his lips, eyes darting from Tim to the dance floor, and then his small hand slid into Tim’s own. Tim bounced their clasped hands as he wove his way around the catering staff and child-minders that’d been hired to keep an eye on them, and the occasional grouping of teenagers who hadn’t been too cool for the kid’s room. The song playing came to an end, the rhythmic, thumping beats of The Scatman starting. On the dance floor, Dick let out a wide whoop of excitement, hands thrown up and almost violently rocking back and forward with the beat, legs kicking up in a strange little jig that had the children around him cheering.

Tim shook his head at his brother’s antics, before spinning around and grabbing Eddie’s free hand in his own and launched their clasped hands into the air, swaying their whole bodies and proceeded to cut a rug.

“Ah hell, Bruce. If that isn’t the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” was the first thing Tim heard as he drifted back into consciousness. He lifted his lids just enough to see, though he was mainly greeted with a pile of blond curls.

Blearily, Tim remembered being lead out of the ballroom by one of the babysitters with Eddie – sweaty and tired – and being taken to one of the nearby parlors that Alfred had kept referring to as ‘the Quiet Room’ in the days leading up to the holiday party and being handed some waters and carrots to snack on. He wasn’t quite sure how that ended up with him and Eddie being curled up together on an oversized beanbag chair and apparently asleep, but waking up in a position or place he hadn’t been before was sadly not out of the norm for Tim’s life now.

“Shame we gotta move them, I almost wish we had a camera.”

A snort of amusement, “I’ll sell my Porsche if Alfred hasn’t already taken a dozen. I’ll get you a copy.”

“Much obliged, Bruce.” A suited pair of arms appeared just in line of his vision, gently lifting Eddie up. Tim had just enough time to register the lack of warmth before he was being just as carefully picked up. Tim let himself be positioned on his father’s chest, nuzzling his cheek into the blazer’s soft shoulder.

“Being a dad’s a good look for you,” the voice that must belong to Eddie’s father said, “I got to admit, I never saw it coming – much less three.”

“What can I say,” Bruce all but purred and even though he couldn’t see it, Tim could envision the Brucie smirk, “I like to commit.” A hand came to pet his back. “…to be honest, I didn’t see it coming either. But I can’t imagine not having any of the boys now.”

Tim felt his eyebrows quirk somewhat in surprise; it really wasn’t like Bruce to share these kind of things with just anyone.  

“I know what you mean. I think being a dad is the only thing I’ve ever actually wanted to be good at.” There was a sigh. “…Bruce, I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know for what.” A scoff. “Don’t give me that babe in the woods act Bruce, that stopped working on me in junior high.” They were moving now, the manor quiet around them and the windows dark. Then, quieter and from their left, “I don’t know what you said, but you got those shits to back off my boy. I appreciate it. You’d think with how much money I pay that damn school, they’d –” A frustrated sigh. “Ed’s had such a hard time of it lately, but he loves Tim. He talks about him all the time, he’s…he’s Eddie’s only friend, you know? Eddie’s always struggled with making friends. Before all of this, the doctor’s thought it was because he was so advanced.”

“He’s still advanced,” Bruce admonished, though it was without heat, “a label doesn’t change that.” A kiss was pressed against the side of Tim’s head. “And you don’t have to thank me for that; I’ll gladly put some bigots in their place for Tim’s friend.”

Aw, Tim thought, curling his fingers into Bruce’s suit, big softie.

“Still, I won’t forget it.” The voice said seriously. They’d stopped walking in the foyer, Alfred materializing from the ether with coats draped over his arm. “I was actually wondering if you’d be willing to take Eddie for sleepover sometime soon. Susie and I – well, we need some time to ourselves.”

“Sure, just let me know. I’m sure Timmy would love a sleepover.”

“Thanks, Bruce. You’re a lifesaver.” Tim was jostled somewhat when a handshake was exchanged. “You know, it’s been great seeing you again – can’t believe the way we all just drifted apart with college.”

“Same here, maybe we can catch lunch sometime.” Bruce agreed. “Be careful getting home, Floyd.”

“Will do. Ah, Alfie, you mind taking Eddie for a moment while I get my coat on?”

“It would be my pleasure, Mr. Lawton.”

From where he was drifting, Tim’s eyes snapped open. He jerked back, head popping up and nearly sending himself sprawling if it wasn’t for Bruce’s reflexes – and stared. From where he was shrugging on a black woolen duster, Floyd Lawton gave him a grin.

“Oh sorry, buddy. We wake you up?”

Edward ‘Eddie’ Lawton, age three, had been born at eight thirty-three in the evening on September twenty-eighth in the Martha Wayne wing of Gotham General to Floyd and Susan (nee Winlon) Lawton. According to the doctor’s note he’d been a smaller than average baby, delivered via C-section once the labor had stalled, after an unremarkable pregnancy. He stayed in the hospital for two days before being released home with his mother.

None of this information should be surprising, but it was and that was…not great. Dressed in his new Superman outfit (complete with fake fabric muscles) Tim ignored Dick’s excited babbling in the background and Bruce’s calm replies as he ate his French toast robotically. None of this should be a surprise, because Tim should know who the fuck Eddie Lawton was before he joined his pre-school class.

Floyd Lawton came from new money, an investment banker who had inherited his family’s successful broker business. He’d gone to GA with Bruce, which must of been how the two met. He was at work and answering emails by eight every morning and left by eight or nine each night. Receipts put him out on the town after that at least once a week – bars and casinos mostly. Unsurprisingly, his marriage was on the rocks.

The Lawtons had been in marriage therapy for the last year and while Tim may have drawn the line at reading his own family’s session notes, he’d willingly dived into the Lawton’s. The notes stated that Susan was feeling neglected and at odds with her husband’s long work hours while Floyd felt that Susan wasn’t understanding of the effort he put into maintaining their finances and lifestyle.

Susan was apparently an extreme introvert (the therapist noted a possible horror mix of an undiagnosed social anxiety disorder and autophobia) who preferred to remain at home, preferably with her husband by her side, at all times. Floyd on the other hand was an extrovert, who felt stifled by his wife and marriage, and preferred to spend their evenings or at the very least the weekends out and about Gotham. The therapist was of the opinion that neither parent was particularly mature for a twenty-six- and twenty-seven-years-old respectively, out of their depth in their marriage, and that divorce was on the quickly approaching horizon.

Three nights of research all to tell Tim that Floyd and Susan Lawton were unhappily married, Deadshot had yet to be created, and he still didn’t know why he’d never heard of Eddie Lawton before.

As an age mate, Eddie should have been a classmate of Tim’s throughout his entire tenure at Gotham Academy and yet – Tim had no memory of him. None. How was that possible? Did he move away? Tim wracked his mind, trying to remember anything he could from Deadshot’s profile. But he was sure he would have remembered if it had mentioned an ex-wife and son. And that just – that just didn’t bode well.

Well.

There was only one thing to do, really. Tim was just going to keep an eye on Eddie Lawton. “B?”

“Yes, Tim?”

“Can Eddie come play?”

“We can ask, but not today bud, it’s Christmas. Dick, stop feeding Kevin under the table.”

“But he likes bacon.”

“I’m sure he does.” Bruce agreed, gently pushing the puppy’s face from where it was nosing at his napkin, “but human food is bad for dogs; it can give them pancreatitis."

"Ohmygod no," Dick breathed, “I'm killing Timmy's dog."

Next to him Rory snorted, looking up from his cereal blearily. "Relax, Dickie. One piece of bacon isn't going to kill the dog."

"But I've given him so much bacon!" Everyone at the table paused, glancing at where the once full bacon plate was empty save for a soggy paper towel. Almost on cue a hacking noise filled the kitchen, followed by an ominous splat. Dick paled, clutching his hands to his chest. "I'm a murderer."

"I don't think we'll be sending you off to the gallows just yet, chum." Bruce said with a dry sigh. Tim leaned as far as his booster seat would let him, nose wrinkling as he took in the - mostly completely whole - gooey strips of bacon that covered B's house shoes. “Alfred, could you bring me a paper - no, just bring me a plastic bag please." Then, under his breath,  "that's the second pair of slippers, Kevin. I'm starting to take it personally."

"Daddy," Tim said quickly, eyes widening with disgusted fascination, "daddy, Kevin's eating it again."