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Chapter Text

Febuwhump 2023 | Day #23 | You'll Have To Go Through Me

The Academy's tutoring program was Jack Drake's idea. One of the man's business associates has a son who is struggling in science class. Jack had called out the father for revealing such a weakness but spoke about what an opportunity it would be for young Timothy to network and for the Drakes to show off their prized son - all in the same breath.

Tim doesn't mind. He's always liked learning new things and he's found that teaching them can be just as rewarding. He likes the little looks of surprise that cross the kid - Jeremy's - face whenever he belatedly realizes that he actually understood something after Tim explained it in a different way than the teacher. He also sort of likes the way the boy looks up to him a bit.

Well, liked. To like something now would be to feel something and - 

The tutoring also will look good on future college applications and college means freedom and proud parents and he'll do anything to get both.

Would've, his stupid brain corrects him. 

He hopes maybe they're still proud, wherever they are. 

Tim flips through his Chemistry book as he walks. Maybe he will actually do some of the homework that's shoved in with the corresponding chapters while he waits for the student to show up to the session. They've been at this for months now and the other boy is always late. Tim should probably figure out why he cares more about helping a stranger raise their grades while he lets his own plummet. Why he can't seem to do any of his own assignments. 

The walk to the separate building for the library is short and Tim basks a little in the silence as most of the school has emptied for the day. 

"There he is!"

Most of the school. 

Tim turns a corner and almost collides with a small group of 8th graders. 

"Excuse us, we've got business with the freak." A red moppy haired boy with a sharp uniform and an even sharper Crest Hill accent steps forward.

They don't even look at Tim, just corral around their intended prey. 

"Call me 'freak' again and I will take your tongue."

"Did I say you could talk?" The ringleader rounds on the child.

Because, yeah. There's a child in the middle of the other boys. Well, they're all kids - Tim included, but this child can't be older than ten or eleven. He's crouched a little, but not in fear. Almost like his hackles are raised and he is preparing to pounce.

"I don't know, did you?" The kid shrugs. "If your brain is too small to remember what you did or did not say, I do worry for you."

"I'd be worried about yourself right now," one of the brainless sides of beef retorts.

Except - except Tim knows that brainless side of beef. Tim has been tutoring him for the entire semester. 

"What is it this time?" The child sighs. "Your father hit your too hard last night?"

Tim drops his jaw and forgets to pick it back up.

"What'd you say?" The mammoth plucks the kid up by his uniform collar and slams him against the wall.

"Now you can't even remember what I said," he shakes his head in mock pity. "Now, I suggest you remove your hand, before you leave here unable to remember anything, ever again."

"Shut up!" Jeremy shouts, shaking the kid. "I told you to have my paper done by yesterday."

"And I told you there was no possible way I could write it that would believably make myself sound as stupid as you."

“You -”

“Besides, you know my conditions. I only do others' work that I find interesting, and only for the right price. Now, put me down, mongrel, before I put you down."

God, the boy just can't stop antagonizing his attackers, can he? He seems like a bit of a cocky little jerk, but it's still five against one. No matter who this strange kid is, or what he says, that isn't fair. 

The child has done enough spouting off about the other boy's intelligence, so it is a little funny when Tim makes a pretty dumb decision of his own. 

He clears his throat. 

Tim is small for his age, but he's been in private martial arts lessons since he fell in love with Batman and Robin. He can probably take on five measly eighth graders. But he doesn't really want to. Mrs. Mac will never let him hear the end of it if he comes home with blood on his uniform - again.

"Jeremy Hansen, aren't you going to be late for something?"

Jeremy drops the kid, but the rest of him is sort of frozen. 

"Your last exam grade was a little, disappointing, so you really can't afford to miss any of our tutoring session."

Actually, Jeremy's last exam grade was great, in comparison to his previous. He has been doing so much better under Tim's guidance. God, Tim actually liked spending time with him. And this whole time, the kid was a bullying jerk. 

Tim should know better by now. Everyone from his world, his parents' world, are two-faced. 

"Why don't you go ahead to the classroom?" Tim says casually. "Review last week's study guide. And I'll meet you there."

He isn't going to do any such thing. Tim isn't going to tutor a bully. 

Jeremy doesn't move. His cheeks are turning pink but he is still glowering at the child. 

"Leave us alone," the redhead spouts up, "little shit deserves it."

"Maybe he does," Tim pushes forward, placing himself between the pack and its prey, "maybe he doesn't. Either way, you'll have to go through me."

Tim isn't large or thick muscled, but he is older and wears one hell of a mean glare. 

"Go," Tim drops his voice, turning toward Jeremy, "or I call your father and tell him exactly why I won't be tutoring you anymore."

Something cracks in Jeremy's expression. The very edge of his thin lips curls and his cheeks twitch. Finally, he turns to face Tim fully.

"You won't," he squints, mouth now smeared into a smile. "You need my father's money because your daddy's business is dying - just like he did." 

One moment, Tim's fist is curling. The next, his Chemistry book is no longer in his hands and he has the boy on the ground. 

The others hesitate but are on him after the initial shock, grabbing Tim's arms. He feels an elbow connect with his jaw. A shoe, his side. He can probably turn this around in his favor but there are a lot of hands and - 

“Release him.”

Tim glances up through blurry eyes at the dark-skinned little boy, who seems to be holding something in his closed fist. 

"Well, now, who is saving who, here?" The redhead laughs. 

"I never required saving," the child spits the words like they are acid on his tongue. 

Tim manages to roll his eyes.

"Are you two friends?"

"I don't have friends," the kid sniffs, sticking his nose in the air. "I don't need them."

Before Tim can catch what he is doing, the child throws the contents of his fist into Jeremy's eyes. Jeremy hollers and hastily slaps at his own face. Seizing the distraction, Tim shoots his leg out underneath two of the boys detaining him, jamming an elbow into the stomach of the third. The trio collapse into a tangled and grunting heap. The fourth boy is busy trying to help Jeremy.

Tim is a little surprised when the arrogant and antagonistic stranger reaches out a small helpful hand. Tim hesitates only a beat before taking it and allowing the child to haul him upright, a child with far more strength than Tim had imagined. Scooping up his book and bag - when did he lose that too? - the pair sprint down the side of the building and then inside. They don't stop until they're both leaning against the wall of the boys' bathroom.

"What did you throw at him?" Tim asks after taking the time to catch his breath, dropping his Chemistry book on the counter. 

"A week of a now wasted experiment," the child grumbles, flipping a small container over in his hand, "father will be most displeased."

"What?" Tim furrows his brow. 

"I was studying bee culture," the stranger gives a spectacular sigh.

Tim sputters. 

"You threw a bee at him?" Tim gapes, shocked, and maybe, no, definitely not, impressed, nor amused. 

The feelings are fleeting and something in him tries to reach out and keep hold. 

"Not just any bee," he rolls his eyes, "the Queen. I was examining the segregation of the Queen. Keeping her apart from her hive."

"You have a hive?" Tim asks, half incredulous, half curious. 

"Yes," he states, as if it is an obvious answer and all young boys do. "How else am I to conduct a controlled experiment?"

"And you just decided to throw it at him?"

"Father has made it clear that I am not to commit violence while in school - again. Which is absurd, because I could have had those Neanderthals on their knees with two fingers."

Tim cocks his head. There are so many things he wants to ask now. 

"Wait," he snorts, "you keep a bee in your bag?"

"Not anymore," he pouts. "She was perfectly safe. As was I, of course. I kept her close to monitor her behavior."

"So you just happened to have a bee cage or whatever you use in your bag?"

"Well, I wasn't going to put her in my pocket."

“Anything else living in there?” Tim eyes the backpack suspiciously.

“Just a venomous spider named Franklin.”

Tim blanches.

“A joke."

The boy frowns and Tim finds himself suddenly smiling, and then full-tilt laughing as he rests his head against the tiled wall. He thinks he sees the kid's mouth twitch a little. 

It's the first time his body has made such a sound in months and it startles him. The laughter is mostly just there on the surface, but it's trying to shake something else loose. Like if Tim just let himself go, let himself crack, he would laugh and laugh and cry and cry and -

"Well," Tim straightens, stretching, "guess I need to find something else to do for the next hour instead of tutoring that jerk. Unless you need help with -."

"My intelligence far outweighs those simpletons', and most likely yours as well."

"Gee," Tim rubs his neck, "you're welcome for saving your ass."

"As I said before," the kid bares his teeth, "I did not require saving. You merely got in the way and I had to save you." 

Tim grinds his teeth. He can see why this kid earned enemies. But he is so young. And the way he speaks? It's haughty and posh like a lot of the folks from Tim's upbringing, but there is an odd lilt to his phrasing, and the barest inflection of an accent that is trying to be concealed. Tim also hasn't seen him around before, and he feels like this kid would have made an impression. He is probably an exchange student or a transfer from another country. 

Tim takes a breath. 

"You must be crazy smart to be doing an eighth grader's homework," Tim shakes his head. "How old are you, anyway?"

"I am ten," the kid crosses his arms.

Tim whistles. He's been doing older students' homework since he was eight. He knows the loneliness of such intelligence. 

"That's really impressive."

The kid suddenly looks like a deer caught in headlights, a deer that is trying to hide his expression.

“Tt," he clears his throat, "I know it is, but father will not let me move ahead to a more suitable grade for my intelligence. There probably isn't one at this poultry excuse for a school. I tried to persuade him to let me continue homeschooling, as I have been doing just fine on my own, but he insists I need to 'socialize' with peers my own age, whom I find to be juvenile and dull."

Tim blinks at him for a long moment. 

"My parents wouldn't let me skip either," he hums, "same reason. Except they called it 'networking'. I was supposed to run the family business one day so, you know, connections, I guess."

"But you're not going to run it anymore," the child nods, "because your family is dead."

Tim whips his head round to glare at the kid. He didn't necessarily say it unkindly, just sort of, matter-of-fact. Like it didn't mean anything. Like they didn't -

Tim turns and stalks out of the bathroom without a word, or a glance, back at the boy. 

He is halfway home, later, when he realizes. 

Batman and Robin have been facing off against some sort of meta criminal who can control bees. 

And not just Batman and Robin. Batman, and his new, short, small, darker skinned, Robin. 

Oh, and Bruce Wayne recently announced his discovery of a bioligical son. 

"Shit." Tim breathes.

The kid who keeps bees in his backpack is Damian Wayne.

Robin.

And he's kind of an asshole. 

Chapter Text

"I'm sorry, Timothy. I just can't allow it."

Tim sits across from the STEM team coach, a frown so low on his drooping face that it is practically falling off his chin. 

"Please."

Tim isn't begging. He isn't. 

"We've already discussed this," the man sighs. "Your tuition is paid up through the end of the year, but that doesn't cover electives. And we've already given out all of the grants that we have. I would pay for you myself if the Academy wouldn't fire me over such blatant favoritism. You're my best student. It's going to kill us to lose you."

What about what it's doing to Tim? 

The man must read Tim's wince as something else.

"Oh, I am so sorry, Timothy. That was a terrible choice of words."

Tim blinks.

"Huh? Oh."

Sometimes Tim forgets what happened. 

"Look," the coach picks up some papers, "we can reach out to some other families, if you'd like. Perhaps someone's will -"

"No," Tim shakes his head, standing, "no thank you."

Everyone already looks at him like he doesn't belong there anymore. Like they know he's on borrowed time and will be gone next year. He won't become a charity case. He won't beg. Won't be a burden.

Drake Industries is going under. Mrs. Mac was given enough money to keep her incentivized to stay as Tim's guardian. They won't lose the house - probably. And there's some trust fund somewhere that Tim can't access yet so that is super helpful. 

"Timothy," the man grunts, "I know what's been happening with your grades. To be honest, even with the funding, I might not have been able to keep you on the team with how much they've been dropping. You are exceptionally bright. Don't waste that, alright? What - what happened - it's terrible, truly. It's unfair. But don't let it beat you. You can take some time, of course. You should. But don't stop fighting, okay?"

Tim doesn't respond as he shoulders his backpack and slinks out of the office. At least this guy is nicer than the old, crotchety, cursing STEM coach from his last boarding school who wore sweater vests and had an English accent and reminisced about the good old days of corporeal punishment in schools. Of course, Tim would take that short-tempered, troll of a man. Tim would take any coach, if it meant he could compete. 

He is still sulking when he pushes his way through the school's back doors, and right into the middle of a fight. 

Again. 

It isn't a proper rumble or anything. 

No, just another game of pack vs prey. 

Six on one, this time. 

And, in the middle, curled in on himself and bleeding, is Damian Wayne. 

He hasn't been able to scrub the boy's last words from his mind. They had even echoed in his nightmares that very evening. And yet, no matter what, Tim is still pretty sure six against one is just as unfair as five against one, even if the one in the equation is Robin. He might not feel much of anything anymore but the same moral compass that had steered him to protect the stranger the first time points him once more in the same direction.

Well, his teacher had told him to fight.

A handful of bullies isn't probably what he'd had in mind. 

Not to mention that Tim isn't in any shape to tangle with these testosterone filled preteens. He hasn't been sleeping, or eating. He would probably just end up in a heap on the ground too. 

His brains almost beat out brawn last time. 

He has to think, and he has to do it quickly.

"You little shit," Tim announces his presence as he stomps forward. 

"Drake? Thought I heard you liked to protect the freak?"

"Yeah," Tim scoffs, "that was before I realized he's an ass and deserves it."

"What'd he do to you?" A round boy grins a crooked-tooth smile.

"Little bastard talked about my parents." Tim doesn't need to lie about this part. "I was planning on catching him tomorrow. You guys mind if I join in?"

"Be my guest," the boy chuckles, his throat sounding like gargling thick soup. "The freak was muttering to himself in Arab or something. Little terrorist. Bet he's gonna blow up the school."

"Arabic," Damian mumbles, "how do you even attend this school?"

"Shut up," Tim plants a good stage kick to Damian's side before the other boy can get a decent one in. "You guys mind if I have a little one-on-one with him alone?" Tim lowers his voice. "I'll leave him in one piece for you."

"Leave him in ten for all I care," another voice snarls. 

"Yeah," the apparent racist shrugs, "this is getting boring anyway. We've got practice. Have fun. And freak, we'll see you later."

They are still stalking away when Tim hefts Damian up by the collar, dragging him around a corner and then shoving him up against the wall. He glances over his shoulder once, before releasing the battered boy.

Damian's look of genuine surprise and confusion isn't hidden this time. 

"You - you're not going to seek retribution for what I said?" He inquires with a curious cock of his head, as if studying the teenager.

"What?" Tim draws back. "Of course not. I just didn't feel like taking on all six by myself."

Damian still looks skeptical, but then he smooths the expression over to indifference. 

"I could've taken them."

Which, yeah, that's weird. He totally could have. 

"Look," Tim scratches his scalp, "they're right. You're kind of a dick. And you did technically talk about my parents. But no one deserves a beating like that. Or what they were saying. They're racist jerks and they're wrong."

"Tt," Damian sniffs, "of course I know that."

He wants so badly to ask Damian Robin why he even let them touch him, or even finish speaking such things. 

"I thought you said you didn't need anyone to save you."

Tim decides to taunt a little instead. That seems to raise his hackles and might get more information than finding a way to not suspiciously ask why a superhero sidekick didn't cream the whole lot of them. Yesterday made sense. Damian said he was trying to obey his father's wish for him not to fight. But would he really take it so far as to not even defend himself from getting hurt?  

"I don't," Damian's chest springs outward and upward, and if he had feathers, they probably would flourish, "normally. And I was in no real danger. If you remember, there were six, and they - they caught me by surprise." 

Tim hasn't been going out to watch the vigilantes anymore but he still keeps up with the news and blogs. He's watched this Robin take down ninjas and metas. How had prepubescents gotten the drop on him?

Damian grumbles when Tim doesn't stop staring.

"If you must know, they hit me over the head before I could fight back." Damian grunts. "Cowards."

"What did they hit you with?" Tim can't help the concern that seeps into his voice.

"This."

Tim glances down at Damian's hands, and the Chemistry book cradled in them. He hadn't even noticed it until then.

"Is that -"

"I was - waiting for you." Damian bows his head. 

"You were waiting - for me?" 

"Are you a parrot? Yes. You left your book after our - meeting - yesterday. I was simply going to bring it to the office, but I was told that it would be, considerate, to return it directly to you - and apologize."

"You - you didn't have to do that."

"I am perfectly aware of what I do and do not have to do, thank you. And, actually considering your terrible homework that was inside, I would say I did. I took the liberty of adding notes in the margins. I think you will find them helpful." Damian rushes to shove the book toward Tim. “I was merely wasting time in class.” 

Tim takes the book, shrugging off his backpack to put it away this time. 

He doesn't tell Damian that he's actually the top of his class, or well, used to be. Doesn't tell him that he hasn't been doing his homework because he can't concentrate on anything anymore. Can't be motivated to even care to try. 

"Uh, thanks."

Again, an odd expression crosses Damian's face. Tim wonders if he isn't used to being thanked. Or appreciated. Or complimented, based on their conversation yesterday. Maybe he isn't used to people showing him kindness at all. 

Tim can relate to all of those things too well. 

"And - perhaps - talking about your parents as I did - was not appropriate," Damian speaks slowly and Tim wonders if this is the closest the boy has come to apologizing before. "I was merely stating facts to - that is, I did not intend to offend -"

"Yeah," Tim swallows, shifting his backpack, "well, I should be -"

He is about to turn away when Damian sort of tilts to one side. Tim reaches out to steady him but pulls his arms back when the boy bristles. Tim leans his head closer, squinting. Damian's pupils are blown wide. 

So that's why Robin hadn't fought back properly. 

Tim looks down at his Chemistry book. It's hefty, but not concussion-grade. 

"Damian," Tim cocks his head, inspecting the kid, "did you hit your head on something else?"

"I think I would know if I had," he scoffs. "I am perfectly fine."

"Uh huh."

Tim furrows his brow, searching, until - there. A red bump, just at the kid's hairline, stretching up to be mostly hidden under the mop of black bangs. Tim ducks back around the corner quickly, scanning the wall until he finds the small smear of blood against the brick. He hurries back to Damian, who very not-subtly moves to hide the fact that he had been leaning against the wall in Tim's absence. 

"When they hit you over the back of the head," Tim starts, "it looks like you also hit your head on the brick wall. I think you have a concussion."

There's also that hit the kid took from Killer Croc last night through the bakery's window. Has he been hiding a head wound since then? It would explain a bunch of bullies being able to sneak up on a vigilante with a Chemistry book. 

"I am quite familiar with the symptoms of a concussion," Damian grunts, "and I can assure you that I -"

Tim takes a deliberate solid step back - right before the kid blows chunks all over the spot Tim's sneakers had just been. 

"You were saying?"

Damian swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, scowling. 

"How do you normally get home? Helicopter? Private jet?"

Damian's scowl only spreads. 

"I'm kidding. But I assume Bruce Wayne's son doesn't take the bus? Do you have a driver or nanny that picks you up?"

Tim knows all about Alfred Pennyworth, but he's got to play it cool. Even if the kid did talk about nerve-striking a group of preteens when they first met yesterday. Way to be stealthy, New Robin. 

"I never told you my identity."

Tim smirks. He knows more than one. 

"You do realize your father is, like, the most famous person in this city?" Tim asks flatly. "And I'm not as dumb as you think I am."

"Hm," Damian eyes Tim from head to toe, "perhaps not. And yes, I do have a driver, but as I had elected to stay behind today and wait for you, it was decided that, to spare Pennyworth two trips, I would be waiting and riding home with my - brother," he trips on the word, "as he has practice."

Tim doesn't remember Jason Todd being in any sports - apart from private karate and such. Then again, his semi-stalking has gotten a little rusty ever since - 

"Is he in the gym - or -?"

"Why would they be in the gymnasium for play practice?"

Oh. Practice. 

"Okay," Tim glances around for the group of boys from before, just to be sure, "we should head over there."

Damian pulls a face that's half adorable, half constipated. 

"And why would we do that?"

"Um," Tim wrinkles his brow, "because you have a head wound?"

"Tt," Damian sniffs, but is still notably leaning against the wall, "I am perfectly fine."

Tim just sort of points at the pile of puke next to his feet. 

"I can take care of myself."

Tim understands the sentiment. He's lived by it his whole life. 

He can't help but feel a little hypocritical. 

"Your pupils are penny-sized."

"It is nothing."

"Look, either we go find him together. Or I go get him and bring him here. And," Tim wags a finger when Damian goes to open his mouth, "if you run off or hide, I will find you. Even if I have to spend all night here looking."

Damian glances behind them. 

"Do you not yourself have a driver or pa - guardian waiting on you?"

Tim thinks of surly Mrs. Mac, probably sitting in front of one of her soap operas as she folds laundry or knits. She isn't as flighty or absent as his parents are, but Tim still has an hour or so before her shows end and he would need to call to get permission to stay out longer. Not that she would mind. Sometimes, Tim thinks she prefers it when he is gone. But she definitely notices when he hasn't asked or is late. It's more about respecting authority and rules or something than actual concern for his safety. 

"I catch a bus, or walk," Tim shrugs. 

If Damian notices him dodging the question, he doesn't say anything. He sort of just stands there for a long moment, frowning and Tim can almost hear some internal debate in the kid's head. Finally, Damian grumbles and stalks off toward the auditorium. He's stiff and taking longer than needed strides to stay ahead, and away from, Tim. So when Damian stumbles again, Tim doesn't try to help. He still keeps his hands free and ready, though, just in case. 

He should be more excited or nervous about going to talk to Jason. The second Robin. One of his idols. 

Tim is having a hard time feeling much of anything these days, though. 

It's not like he hasn't seen Jason Todd-Wayne around the school over the past couple years since he was taken in by the billionaire. And so what if he maybe extended some of his Batman and Robin stalking to the daytime hours, spying on the older boy here and there in the halls? Jason is just another student. 

It's fine that Tim doesn't feel - anything.

Really. 

The walk to the auditorium is silent, save for some birds overhead. 

They're robins and Tim should probably be laughing at that. 

If he ever meets Bruce Wayne properly, will bats just show up too? 

There are ravens that hang around his house. They sort of set up shop in a large tree in the front yard and haven't left, despite Mrs. Mac's daily shooing. In Gotham, bats have come to mean fear and protection, depending on who you are. Robins, are light and safety. Ravens, well, ravens still pretty much just signify death. Which is fitting, for how much his home just feels like a mausoleum. Large, cold, and the only body there practically dead inside already. Well, besides Mrs. Mac. But she's started looking like a corpse in her old age anyway. 

"-said no, Jason. You can't do a backflip -"

"But I can, technically."

"Fine then. You are not allowed to do a backflip in the fight scene."

"It would look awesome, though!"

"And when you accidentally break your neck in front of the whole school? How awesome will that look?"

Tim turns the corner, squinting against the lights to see the boy bouncing on the stage, as if he is about to do a backflip right then and there just to prove he can. 

"It can't be any more embarrassing than wearing tights in front of everybody."

He's rolling his eyes, but there's a funny little uptick to his lips and Tim weirdly feels like he is in on a joke he shouldn't know about. 

"I'm sorry, Jason, but -"

"Damian?"

Jason leans forward, shielding his eyes with his hands to get a better look at them. 

"What are you doing here? I still have another hour -"

"I am here against my will," Damian crosses his arms, but the loss of his hands against the auditorium chairs to hold him up causes the kid to wobble. 

"I think he has a concussion."

Jason's attention snaps to Tim, seeming to notice him for the first time, and then straight back to his brother. Hopping off the stage, without using the stairs, Jason vaults a row of chairs and jogs to meet them. There are some whispers from the other students and the teacher is now also hurrying toward the boys. 

"What happened?" 

Jason is examining Damian closely, but addresses Tim. There's a hint of accusation in his gaze that sets Tim on edge. 

"Some kids," Tim shrugs, "they got the drop on him. He hit his head."

"Got the drop?" Jason lifts an eyebrow. "On you?"

"He looked a little - off - earlier today when I saw him," Tim lies easily, "maybe he got hurt before too?"

Jason chews on his cheek, eyes going unfocused for a half second as he thinks. Tim sees the moment the memory slots into place.

"Shit," he huffs, "yeah, I think he did, maybe."

"There was a little blood," Tim reports, "but his head isn't still bleeding. His pupils have been dilated for around ten minutes, at least. He lost his balance a couple times, so probably dizzy. He's talking fine. He didn't lose consciousness. Memory seems fine. Oh, and he threw up. I didn't do a full concussion test, though. I thought it was better to bring him to you right away."

Jason stares at Tim for a long moment, his eyes go wide and then curiously narrow. 

"The nurse has gone home for the day," the teacher reports, holding her phone, "but I'll call an ambulance."

"I don't need -"

"That's not -"

Both brothers protest in unison.

"It's school policy. This could be serious."

"See what you did?" Damian scowls toward Tim, but the effect is lessened with the glazed eyes. 

"Mr. Peterson, really -"

"Jason, what is the problem here? Your brother is hurt."

"I am perfectly -"

"You don't get it," Jason lifts his hands, "he hates hospitals -"

"He has a concussion -"

"Do not talk about me as if I am not right -"

"We have our butler, he was in the service and has medical -"

"Like I said, it's school policy and -"

"No."

Tim hasn't spoken since giving his rundown of Damian's symptoms. The rest of them startle when he does and they must have forgotten he is there. That's alright. Tim is used to that. 

"Um," Tim scratches his neck, "it's not, technically, school policy. Teachers and staff are required to call 911 for head injuries, only when there is a loss of consciousness or severe bleeding."

Tim knows the school's handbook backwards and forwards. The knowledge has come in handy before. He couldn't have someone trying to call an ambulance or his parents when he got injured or sick. Tim's old school had included vomiting to that list of symptoms that require a call to 911, which is actually smart because it can be a sign things are bad. But Tim is pretty sure this is more than just Damian hating hospitals, even if he does. This could be worry over their secret identities. The new Robin hasn't been active long, but the gig has got to come with some questionable battle scars. Or maybe Damian's origins aren't just some one night stand and the kid is a clone or something. He looks uncannily enough like Bruce for it to be a possibility. Or maybe the boys are trying to keep it from Bruce, like Tim would from his parents. Bruce Wayne is an important man with two of the most important jobs in all of Gotham. He probably doesn't like to be bothered by something so simple as a minor head wound. 

His parents never liked to be bothered. Not at work. Not overseas. Not at home. 

Tim is living with the ghosts of his mother and father in that cold, lonely mausoleum. And it's funny. Because Tim had learned to be a ghost in that house a long time ago. 

Sometimes, when Mrs. Mac speaks to him, he startles. He forgets she can see him. 

Jason is looking at Tim again in that weird sort of way that makes Tim feel like he's a book and Jason is opening him up and flipping through all the pages. 

Jason and the teacher exchange a few more words, but the older boy just won't stop staring at him. 

Finally, Mr. Peterson leaves them alone, muttering something about finding an ice pack. 

"Are you okay?"

Tim doesn't respond at first, thinking Jason is talking to his brother. Because that makes sense. Because why is Jason still squinting at him and asking after his health? 

Tim blinks, swallows. 

"Me? Uh, yeah? Why?"

"You sort of," Jason cocks his head, looking Tim from top to bottom, "checked out for a second or something. You didn't hit your head too, did you?"

"Oh." Tim swallows again - why is his mouth so dry? "No."

Jason studies him for another second, seems satisfied, and then goes back to his brother. He is in the middle of running his own diagnostic and calling Alfred when Tim starts backing away. 

"-yeah, Alf and - hey, where you going?"

Tim stumbles into the seat next to him. Jason has already caught up to him in one stride, after maneuvering his brother into a chair.

"Uh, well, I was just bringing him to you, and here you are," Tim nods, "so..."

"Were you in the fight?"

"Huh?"

"Did you help fight off the guys doing this? You should be checked out, too, if -"

"Oh, there wasn't a fight. Well, there was the part where those jerks were beating him up, and then I stopped them."

"You - 'stopped them'?" Jason lifts a single eyebrow. "Without fighting?"

Tim just shrugs. 

"How?"

"Well," Tim rubs his arms, eyeing the exit, "yesterday, these guys - other guys - had Damian sort of cornered. They weren't hurting him bad like the ones today, though. Not yet, at least. I knew one of the kids so I sort of threatened to tell his dad some stuff but then - uh - it was working but he - he said - they jumped me and Damian threw a bee at them - which is really weird, by the way. So then, today, there were more guys and I knew I couldn't take them all. I pretended to join them, like I was mad at Damian for - something - and got them to go away, I guess? I didn't actually hurt him, though! Just said I wanted him, alone. So, yeah. I'm fine."

Jason's forehead is furrowed. 

"Yesterday - that was you?"

Tim just nods. 

"And you helped him again, today." Jason whistles and a smile blooms over his face. "You're one brave, and smart, kid."

Tim doesn't say anything to that. If he was brave and smart he would've figured out that his parents' plane hadn't just gone missing or down or something. That they'd been taken. He would've gone to Batman. He would've smuggled himself onto a plane and rescued them himself. He would've done - something.

"Well," Tim takes another step, "I should go."

"Oh?" Jason frowns. "Uh, okay. Thanks, for helping him. I know he can be - well - him. So, thanks."

"Yeah," Tim starts to turn, "no problem."

He hurries out the door before Jason can say anymore.

He wishes he could be angry with himself. Embarrassed. Anxious. He just met one his heroes and just - didn't care. Shoving his fists into his pockets, he tries to will the anger to come. 

It doesn't. 

Mrs. Mac had been there that day at the police station. There were hoards of reporters waiting like vultures outside. 

"Hold your head up high now," she had told him, "be strong, just like your parents. Don't let them see the tears, boy. Don't let them see anything."

Oddly, she had been trying to sound comforting. Or at least, her version of the sentiment. 

And Tim didn't let the reporters see. 

Didn't let anyone see. 

Until he didn't need to hide anymore.

Because he wasn't feeling anymore. 

Chapter Text

Tim should have really expected this. 

It is the rule of three's, isn't it? 

Except this time it isn't Damian on the ground.

It's Tim. 

Tim, who absolutely did tell Jeremy's father about the little bully his son is. 

Jeremy, who has an older brother a year ahead of Tim. 

Tim, who may or may not have hacked the school's security cameras to identify yesterday's attackers and sent their parents the footage. 

Yesterday's attackers, who figured out pretty quickly who had narced and came looking for payback. 

Who just so happen to run into Tim at the same time as Jeremy's big brother and his friends. 

The two groups are getting along quite splendidly together, kicking the crap out of Tim.

Well, at least he is bringing people together. 

Tim spits and stares at the little pool of blood in the grass. Something sharp - a sneaker maybe - connects with his stomach and he reels back. 

"I'm grounded for the rest of the semester thanks to you!"

Punch.

"My dad took my Xbox!"

Backhand. 

"My parents cancelled our trip to Paris for spring break!"

Kick. 

"My brother is being sent to summer school!"

Knee. 

"Are you sure your parents died? I heard they faked their deaths to avoid their business going under, but maybe they did it to get away from you!"

Elbow. 

"Leaving the country every month wasn't enough, was it?"

Kick.

For the first time, Tim is happy he can't feel anything. 

Well, his body sure can. 

There's a sudden crunch and then curse and whoever was planting their foot against Tim's chest is now crumpled in the grass beside him. The kid collapsed in Tim's bloody spit. 

"Back the fuck off."

A shape looms over him.

"What do you care?" 

"I care because you're hurting him," the voice is low, dangerous. "I care because yesterday, some of you hurt my brother and I haven't gotten a chance to thank you for that. Yet."

"There's one of you and all of us."

"Yeah, you're right, that's really not fair. For you."

"You're crazy."

"No. What I am, is someone who is pissed off because you touched my little brother. What I am, is someone who grew up on the streets of this city fighting off guys twice your size to survive. What I am, is now a kid with an adoptive dad who let me take martial arts lessons. And boxing. What I am, is in. Your. Way."

A throat clears somewhere nearby.

"Oh right, I don't just have a little brother. I have an older one, too."

"Hi there, Dick Grayson. Nice to meet you all."

There's a pounding in Tim's head and he can't tell if it's from the pain or the sudden scattering footfalls. The shadow standing over him draws closer, a second, taller one coming close behind. Tim blinks and Jason Todd and Dick Grayson come slowly into focus. 

First Damian, then Jason. Now, Dick.

The rule of three's. 

"Hey, don't sit up too fast. Easy." Dick holds his hands out, not quite touching Tim, but just - there.

"I knew I should've kicked their asses yesterday."

"Jay -"

"Yeah, yeah. No fighting at school. That's what started this whole mess, you know. Damian was too afraid to fight back because he thought B would be mad. You get that, right?"

"Bruce already talked to him," Dick sighs, nodding at Tim, "but I think there are more important things right now."

"Right, shit," Jason kneels down next to him, "you okay?"

Tim thinks about the question. About all of the answers he could give. 

He squints up at Robin 1.0.

"What are you doing here?"

Dick smiles, chuckling softly.

"I'm Jason's brother." 

"I know." Tim frowns. 

Tim's stubborn confusion only seems to amuse the young man even more.

"Well, seeing how Damian got the day off with our butler due to that nasty concussion, I volunteered to pick Jason up."

"Wouldn't need to if B would just let me drive," Jason huffs. 

"You're 15."

"Can't the old man just, I don't know, buy the DMV?"

"We're at a school right?" Dick glances around. "This is where you go, every day, isn't it? Do you know how laws work?"

"Oh, I know plenty about laws," Jason smirks and Tim almost snickers. Almost.

It's a flicker and then it's gone but it felt, it felt - it felt. 

At least Tim is pretty positive he doesn't have a concussion like Damian. Otherwise he might've accidentally said the errant joke about vigilantes and laws that popped into his head out loud. 

"Think you can stand?" Dick turns his attention back to Tim, not that the hero hasn't been giving him a subtle exam the entire time. 

Tim nods, using the wall behind him, and Dick's outstretched hand, to get to his feet. 

"Anything feel broken?"

Me.

Tim shakes his head. 

Jason was one thing, but this is Dick Grayson. Robin. Nightwing. The Flying Graysons. Tim's first hero. Tim's first hug that he can remember outside of his parents and some great aunt. The first person to make Tim feel special because he was going to perform just for him. He knows the sentiment is silly now, but there's a four-year-old somewhere inside of him that still wants to crawl into Dick Grayson's arms. 

"You should still get checked out. That cut looks like it might need stitches."

Tim searches his body for the appropriate amount of pain. His chest and stomach are sore. There's a throbbing along his back. His cheek is swelling and warm. Oh, and sticky. And - there it is. The hot, stinging strip cutting form jaw to ear. No wonder his face hurts when he talks. 

Dick cups Tim's chin with delicate fingers. 

"One of them had rings," he notes, voice pitching lower. "Man, I'd almost forgotten how much this place sometimes even made me miss juvie." 

"Rich pricks," Jason grunts. 

"Bruce already has a meeting set up with the principal, and the Board," Dick wiggles his eyebrows. "Bet that'll be fun. He threatened to pull his sizable donations when the same stuff happened to me, and then Jason."

Tim wonders if his parents would have done anything like that.

Knows they wouldn't. 

"B shouldn't have to wave his giant-ass wallet around every time just to get these jerks to grow some fucking manners."

"No," Dick shakes his head, "he shouldn't." 

The oldest boy pulls out his phone.

"Bruce's butler, Alfred, has medical experience in the service."

And in Batman's waged war against the criminal underbelly of Gotham.

"I'm fine," Tim waves a hand, "really."

"Weren't you the one dragging Damian to me yesterday?" Jason crosses his arms. 

"That was different," Tim mumbles, "he had a concussion."

"And you have open wounds."

More than these.

"I - I don't want to bother -"

"It's no trouble," Dick shrugs. "It's my night off. I am dropping Jason off and saying hi to Damian anyway. I think I can squeeze in taking you back home into my super busy schedule."

Liar, liar, tight pants on fire. Dick Grayson might take evenings off form whatever day job he is currently working, but Nightwing doesn't take night's off. 

"Look," Dick sighs, "we're not going to force you to come with us if you don't want to -"

"But," Jason stretches the vowel in the word, "it's this, or one of us shows up on your doorstep later tonight to make sure you're okay anyway."

It's ridiculous. Of course it would be Dick or Jason showing up, not Nightwing or the former Robin - who Tim still doesn't know why there is a new one and isn't that annoying not to have all the answers - but the image of the two vigilantes ringing his doorbell pops into his head anyway. 

Maybe Mrs. Mac's reaction to that sight would be hilarious enough to finally shake real Tim loose from whoever this hollow Tim is. 

Of course, dealing with Mrs. Mac finding Dick or Jason at their door wouldn't be funny. Because then she would find out about the fights. He didn't feel like getting scolded for an hour by the woman. Or grounded. Or - 

No, she hasn't done that in weeks. 

"Fine."

Dick's smile is warm, relieved. Jason's is cocky. 

They walk to the parking lot, both brothers hovering far too close than needed. Once at Dick's car, he digs in the glove compartment for a first aid kit and hands Tim a patch of gauze to press against his still-seeping face. Tim almost wishes he could tell them he knows the big secret. Then one of them could just sew his cheek up and he could be on his way. But high school kids and college dropouts aren't probably supposed to be qualified for that. Which is funny, because Tim took care of something like this once on his own, thank you very much. It wasn't his face, but his leg. And it wasn't a ringed fist, but a tree branch. Superglue had worked just fine then. Would it be suspicious if he asked them just to let him head to the shop or art room for some glue and leave him alone? 

The car is peeling out of the lot and it's too late. 

Jason prattles on from the backseat - he gave Tim the front for some reason - about Damian's verbal sparring match with Bruce and Alfred  that lasted from last night and into the morning. Apparently, the kid was not pleased about being kept home from school. In part, because it was shameful. In part, because he insisted he was fine. But mostly, because he wanted to spend the day plotting "harmless" revenge on his attackers. 

Tim shudders at what Damian's idea of "harmless" actually is. 

Jason moves onto something funny that happened in the cafeteria but suddenly Tim's missed the whole story and he's standing outside the car and staring up at the imposing Wayne Manor. 

The last time he was here was for a holiday charity event with his - 

"- and I'm sure Damian will be happy to see you."

"See anybody." Jason snorts. "Kid hates being cooped up alone all day."

Tim can relate. 

He wonders if being stuck with the butler is like being stuck with Mrs. Mac but then the door is opening and a kind faced older man with bright eyes and a soft smile is there to greet them and he doesn't even need to speak for Tim to know that this man is nothing like Mrs. Mac. 

He greets both brothers like his own kin and Tim feels warmth from just standing in the line of fire of the affection. But then he, Mr. Pennyworth - Alfred, please - looks to Tim and his expression doesn't change. His forehead crinkles a little in concern, but there is still care and kindness and if they're not careful, Tim is going to melt. 

Tim is led down a long set of hallways and through a few doors before he finds himself being sat down in a cozy looking kitchen. It's nowhere near the size of the dining hall he's seen here before. There is already an impressive first aid kit spread out on the counter. 

"Give me names."

Damian sort of just, appears, perching precariously on the stool next to him. 

"Damian," Dick rubs his forehead, "how about, 'how are you, Tim?' Or maybe, 'I'm happy to see you, big bro'."

"Pleasantries are redundant and pointless," Damian sniffs, "of course I am pleased to see you, Richard. That is obvious and does not need to be stated. I also assumed you already assessed Drake's well-being earlier and I needn't ask."

"Tim."

"Drake."

He realizes belatedly that he never introduced himself to any of them. But of course Damian came home talking about the boy who was going to run his parents' business but couldn't anymore because there were no parents anymore and they figured it out. 

"So you are happy to see me!" Dick bounds over, gently ruffling the kid's hair as he bats the older boy away. 

"Master Jason," Alfred speaks over the erupting argument next to Tim, "why don't you go change out of your school uniform, and perhaps fetch a change of shirt for our young guest here?"

Tim glances down at his own clothing, wondering why he would need - oh, there. The blood stain on the collar of his shit and the front of his blazer is already drying. So much for hiding this all from Mrs. Mac. Then again, he can probably get away with doing a load of laundry while she is sleeping. He got away with sneaking out to watch Batman a couple times until he realized he didn't feel the same joy or excitement from doing so. 

There are red flecks and spots on his arm and hand too from holding the bandaging and Tim squeaks, interrupting whatever the butler is saying. 

"Your car," he looks to Dick, who is currently being threatened with a wooden spoon by Damian, "I didn't get any on it, did I? I'm so sorry."

"I don't think so," Dick shrugs, "but don't worry about it. It's not important."

Huh. 

His father's leather interior had been pretty important when Tim had mud on his jeans. 

The ottoman in the sitting room was important when Tim spilled a juice box on it when he was five. 

The carpet was pretty important to Mrs. Mac that time Tim woke up in the middle of an exorcism-level vomit when he had the flu.

"Master Richard, could you please inform Master Bruce that Timothy is here? He's taking a meeting in his study but I know he wanted to talk to the young lad after you sent word of what happened."

"Sure thing, Alf."

"Wait!" Tim waves his hands, but Dick's already disappeared. "He's in a meeting? He won't want to be interrupted, though, right?"

"Master Bruce was already planning on reaching out to you," Alfred smiles, "to thank you for helping Damian."

"Again," Damian huffs, "I did not need -"

"And," the butler continues casually, "he'll most certainly want to know that you are, in fact, alright after what happened. Additionally, he might wish to ask you a few questions so he can bring this up at his meeting with the principle and the Board. Just another example of how poorly some of those students are behaving."

"Oh, no, no," Tim shakes his head, or at least, tries, as Alfred holds it steady to clean the wound, "that's - not necessary, really. He doesn't have to do that."

"And why wouldn't I?"

Tim's eyes - Alfred's got a firmer grip now - dart over to the doorway. Bruce Wayne - Batman - is standing there in a pair of slacks and a button down shirt. He's met him before, of course. Briefly and only formally. This is, different. 

"Uh," Tim clears his throat to find his voice again, "it - it'll just cause trouble and I don't want to do that. Cause trouble, I mean."

"It's no trouble, Tim, really" Bruce smiles easily and it's not the kind he uses at parties or for the presses. 

"But it will be," Tim mumbles. 

For me. 

"And - you've already done enough. Dick and Jason brought me here and Mr. Pennyworth - Alfred," he corrects after a sharp look, "is going to stitch me up and -"

"No needlework necessary today, actually," Alfred reports, placing a new bandage over Tim's cheek. "Thankfully, the wound isn't all that bad."

Tim frowns. Dick saunters in, typing something on his phone and going for a snack in the cupboard. Shouldn't he or Jason have been able to figure that out by looking at it? Why did they bring him here then?

"Tim, what those boys did to you, to Damian," Bruce comes closer, taking a seat across the table, "it isn't right and something needs to be done."

"I already took care of it."

The words rush out of him and he wishes he could reach out and scoop them all back in. Bruce is studying him now. Too closely. While the man's gaze is narrowed, Damian's is bright and wide. 

"What do you mean?" The boy asks, poorly masking the excitement. 

"Nothing," Tim shakes his head. "I didn't mean - I -"

"That's why they came after you today," Bruce hums. "Damian said that you were able to talk your way out of the fight the last time, which is most impressive for anyone to accomplish, by the way, especially someone your age. Most teenagers lack the emotional control."

Tim thinks about the missing moment between holding his Chemistry book and pinning Jeremy to the ground. 

Is that what happened? 

It would figure, the first time he has been able to truly feel in weeks and he wasn't even consciously present for it. 

"So you're clever," Bruce continues, nodding, "probably clever enough to try to punish the boys somehow even." 

"What did you do, Tim?" Dick asks, setting his apple down.

Tim shifts under their collective gazes. 

"Perhaps we should save the interrogation until after I have finished looking our guest over for -"

"I hacked the school's security cameras," Tim blurts, biting his tongue. "They always try to cover stuff like this up because it looks bad and it was after hours so no one would have known to go looking for the footage unless they were told to. So, I sent the video to all of their parents. I included a note that said that their sons needed to apologize to Damian or I would share it all over social media," he turns quickly to Damian, "which, you know, I wouldn't actually do because that's not fair to you."

"That is awesome."

Tim startles. He hadn't seen Jason standing in the threshold. 

"Jay -"

"Sorry, B, but that is cool."

"Hm." Damian hums beside him. "A good effort, Drake. Now we must visit upon them an even worse punishment for what they have done today."

"Now," Alfred clears his throat, "I need to finish examining young Timothy, alone."

"Huh?" Tim's head swivels. "But you already bandaged my face?"

"It would be remiss of me not to check for any further injuries, dear boy."

"No other injuries," Tim stretches, lips twitching as he hides a wince, "see? I'm fine."

They're all looking at him now. Half-calculating, half-caring.

"Dude," Jason cocks an eyebrow. "You took some seriously hard kicks."

He sounds casual. Too casual. Like he's trying too hard or something. Like he knows something. 

She hasn't done that in weeks, but they're still there. And then his heroes will see. He'll be sent away. He'll be - 

"I feel fine," Tim swallows, sliding off the chair, "really. Thank you, for everything, but I should be going home now."

"Tim, it's okay." 

Now Jason doesn't sound casual. He sounds serious. Somber. And that is so much worse. 

Are his hands shaking? Is the room?

"Boys."

Bruce doesn't say anything else, but the single word seems to be enough to have the brothers reluctantly filing out of the room. Tim thinks he can feel them looking back at him as they go, but he doesn't check. Alfred has taken several steps away from him and Tim doesn't quite remember when that happened. And then Bruce is in front of him. Not half-calculating. All-caring. 

Tim wonders what it must be like to feel so much. 

"Tim."

The man across from him suddenly sounds more like Batman than Bruce Wayne. Not Batman-threatening-criminals. But more, Batman-consoling-a-victim. Tim...Tim doesn't know if he likes that. He's not a victim. He was the one who helped Damian. Twice. He doesn't need...whatever Bruce/Batman is trying to give him. 

"You're safe here."

That jostles him and he squints at the man. Of course he is safe there. It's Wayne Manor. Batman's house. Probably the safest place in Gotham. 

"No one here is going to hurt you."

Another face scrunch. This time, he might even scoff. Why is Bruce just telling him things that Tim already knows? 

"But I need to talk to you about something." Bruce sighs. "Alfred and I were going to wait until we were alone, I'm sorry. I should have asked the boys to leave sooner."

Why is Batman apologizing to Tim? And why does he sound sad? And why is something stirring in the pit of Tim's stomach? 

"When Jason and Dick found you today, they saw something. On your back."

Tim is stiff. No, Tim is stone. 

"Oh." Tim blinks. "Oh? That. Right. Skateboarding accident a couple weeks ago. No big deal."

"There were bruises," Bruce continues, "in different stages of healing."

"Yeah," Tim shakes his head, starting to back away. "I know. It's dumb. I like to try tricks that I am so not ready for and -"

"Tim."

Just like the single word had the brothers falling in line before, it's enough to stop Tim in his tracks. The something in his stomach is growing. It feels, it feels, it feels - 

"Can Alfred take a look, please?"

Tim shakes his head ever so slightly. He's honestly not sure if it moved at all. 

"We just want to make sure that you're alright."

"I'm fine." Tim says it automatically.

He had just been trying to help a kid being outnumbered by some stupid bullies. How had it come to this? How had he let it? 

"We won't make you do anything you don't want to do," Bruce lifts his hands, "but it would make us feel a lot better if we could just check."

Tim doesn't think Bruce is lying, maybe. If he is, Tim can't exactly escape Batman. 

"Can I just go home?" 

He tests the man. 

"Of course, Tim."

He doesn't say goodbye to the brothers. He doesn't wait for Bruce to change his mind. 

He also doesn't let Alfred or anyone give him a ride when they insist. 

Tim wasn't left with a whole lot of money but he does enough homework for other kids  - how very Damian of him, no how very Tim of Damian, he's older so Tim was doing it first, thank you very much - that he can at least afford an Uber back home. He orders it as Bruce is trying to haggle with him about the ride. Since it's already paid for, Tim argues, it would be a waste of his money and the driver's time to cancel now. 

And then he's out the door and running up the driveway and no one stops him when he goes all the way to the street and sits in the grass to wait for the car. 

Chapter Text

He should have just gone home. 

But when the Uber pulled up and started toward his house, Tim had just blurted it out. 

Maybe it was coming face to face with Bruce Wayne. And not because he's Batman. But because he's a father. A father trying to protect his sons - and Tim. A father paying more attention to Tim than - 

Apparently, rerouting to a cemetery isn't anywhere near the craziest thing Gotham rideshare drivers see and so the guy just went with it. It's a shorter distance than to Tim's house but the driver was still getting the full fare so he didn't complain. 

It's dark now. 

Tim isn't sure when exactly that happened. 

He could've gotten away with the tardiness earlier, but this is something else. Even Mrs. Mac is going to notice Tim isn't there at some point during the commercial breaks. 

But he's here now. Might as well get on with it. 

Tim stands in front of the pair of gravestones, shoulders hunched as he stares at the names etched into the cold, gray slabs. Kneeling on damp ground, Tim reaches out, tracing a finger along the carved lettering, the stone smooth but distant under his touch. 

Jack Drake.

Janet Drake. 

The wind stirs leaves around him, the only sound, but even that feels far off somewhere else. His mind is a whirl of thoughts, but none of them seem to want to settle. He can't focus on any of it. 

It's not like the normal controlled chaos of his too-productive brain.

It's like the lettering on the tombstone. 

Jack Drake. 

He's trying to touch the thread of a single thought, trace it, hold it, but there are too many and they are all too far away. 

Janet Drake. 

His parents are dead. 

Gone.

Forever. 

Those words should hold weight.

They should be so heavy that they sink right to the bottom of his stupid brain and pull him under. 

They should be difficult, impossible, to carry. 

But Tim can't feel the weight of them. 

JackDrakeJanetDrake. 

The funeral had been a blur. Shadows and shapes of corporate acquaintances and old friends Tim's never even seen in pictures. They feigned sympathy, with their empty words and their appropriately solemn faces. It's okay that they weren't really feeling it. 

But Tim should have. 

Should now. 

He didn't look, when they were lowered into the ground. His parents wouldn't have liked being put in the dirt. They hated it in their home so much. 

He's looking now. Trying to force…something. Anything. 

This should hit him. This should shatter him. But it just - doesn't. He sits there, frozen, numb, as though a spectator in his own life. If anyone were to see him, they would never guess that the straight-faced, dry-eyed boy was kneeling on his own parents' graves. 

"Mom, Dad…"

He whispers and the sound is hollow. Like lines poorly rehearsed from a play. His voice should crack or the words should echo in the graveyard like a haunted desperate plea or cry of pain. They should feel . 

When Tim lowers his hand from the tombstone, his finger doesn't stop tracing. The letters loop and glide across his pant leg.

JackDrakeJanetDrake.

Over.

And over.

And over.

He's pressing harder now, digging the edge of his nail into his slacks. 

He wants to hurt. 

No, no - that's not right. 

Is it?

He wants to feel .

But hurting felt like something, back there at school, and something is just a teeny bit further away from nothing. 

God, Tim wants a fight. 

He could walk to the right, or well - wrong - parts of Gotham and find one easy. But there's an even simpler solution. One he's become familiar with. 

It's not like he's planning on fighting back. 

That's not the part that he wants. 

Not the part he needs. 

Tim stays with his knees in the dirt long enough that his legs grow tiny tingly spiders. And then he just, stands. He can't be sure how much time has passed. But when the wind picks up and a chill charges the air, Tim closes his eyes, turns, and walks away without looking back. 

It's a long walk back home and Tim should probably pull his collar up higher around his neck, but the cold wind is sharp and tangible. The fingers on his right hand prickle for the first mile or so until they're throbbing, still tracing those letters against his jeans. 

JackDrakeJanetDrake.

Jack.

Janet.

JackJanet. 

J.

J.

J.

M…

D…

When the house finally comes into view, it's dark. The only reason Tim can make out the silhouette from so far away is due to the strategically placed yard lights that perfectly and evenly line the walkways and drive. It's nothing new. Tim used to go out at night all the time to chase after certain caped vigilantes with his camera. There was hardly ever anyone home enough for a light to be left on. Sometimes, when his parents were in the country, he'd arrive back to find the first floor office dimly glowing. It's not an office anymore. Mrs. Mac turned it into her television room a while ago. Even if she is up and inside, the curtains are always pulled tight to avoid a glare on the screen. 

Still, something is different now. After. The windows aren't just dark - they're empty. Empty glass, gaping like missing teeth. A cold, bottomless black that screams so loud and so shrill Tim is surprised the glass hasn't shattered. 

He could just climb the trellis on the far side of the house and then scale his way around to his bedroom window. Or scramble up the tree that's only a short jump. 

But he's so tired.

And he...

...wants this.

Tim fishes the small silver key out of his pocket as he shuffles up through the yard. 

The house smells like it always had - old wood and cinnamon - but now there is something else, something Tim can't name. Or rather, the absence of something. 

There's a muffled, tiny sound of voices but that is quickly cut off. 

Tim just starts toward the stairs as the old office door opens. 

"And just where the hell have you been?"

Tim doesn't answer as he keeps walking. 

"Excuse me," Mrs. Mac bounds toward him, "I asked you a question."

Tim takes the stairs two at a time. He's not running. 

Tim doesn't have a lock on his bedroom door.

He never needed one before. His parents used the intercom system or texted to summon him. He honestly can't remember the last time either of them had actually set foot in there before -before. Which was fine by him, really. Tim could trade bedtime stories and kisses goodnight for privacy. Could research Batman and Robin and play fantasy roleplaying games that his parents would turn their noses up at in peace. He could slip out his bedroom window without ever worrying that someone would peek in to check on him in the middle of the night. Gaming online into the wee hours of the morning with teenagers and adults that were better friends to him than anyone in real life was never interrupted. Once, he even skipped a whole day of school while his parents were home downstairs. He faked the phone call to the administration from underneath his covers and spent his day in bed with a stack of comic books. Of course, he played hooky when his folks were away on business plenty of times, too.

Tim likes school.

Well, liked it, anyway.

Before it became difficult to like much of anything. Before debate team was stripped away. Before his classmates and teachers stared at him with pity or pain.

Sometimes, though, Tim found that he could learn more at home. Sure, there were the occasional comic book binges or movie marathons, but he also taught himself to code when he was supposed to be on a field trip to the zoo. Tim skipped multiplication tables to read about the applications of algebra in science. During dress-up day, Tim audited an engineering course at Gotham University, paying some student to pose as his older brother who was showing his sibling around campus. The professor might have started to suspect him when Tim stayed behind after class to ask a series of follow-up questions, but hey - it had helped him figure out the flaw in his own pet project.

So yeah, Tim spent most of his life up in his bedroom, but never because he was trying to run or escape or - 

"I wasn't finished with you, young man."

The bedroom door swings open. It crashes against the wall. Jack and Janet would have been appalled. The lack of decorum. The possibility of scuffing the paint. 

"You do not just walk away when I am talking to you."

It sounds cliche. Like the parent in some tearjerker coming-of-age movie. Tim wonders if she's getting her lines from the soap operas she sits at home all day and watches. 

It would be sort of funny, if Tim was anywhere emotionally near being able to find things funny. 

"The school called. I heard all about your little fight today." She waves her phone around like it offends her. Like she wants to throw it at his head. "I told your father they were being too easy on you. You were always such a wild, imprudent boy, but school fights?"

Tim's reached the middle of this bedroom and he's suddenly stuck. 

D…

"I didn't start it!"

Tim whirls around and the words are out before he's realized it, pushing their way past the odd lump that lodged there. 

God, is this the first time he's yelled at her? 

"I don't care who started it," she hisses, voice low and dangerous now.

"I was defending -"

"Your principal told me all about who exactly you were defending ," Mrs. Mac rolls her eyes. "As if the Waynes can't take care of their own problems without you getting in the way. And now Mr. Wayne is setting up a meeting with the School Board and wants you there to give some sort of testimony. Do you know how much attention this is going to get now? Do you -"

"But I -"

The force of the slap has Tim's head snapping to the side. Pain starbursts across his vision, going white and then multi-colored. 

She's never hit his face before. Never anywhere obvious. But then again, she's never had a swollen and bruised cut to cover it up before either. 

He feels the blood start to seep out through the bandaging, slow and warm. 

"What have I said about interrupting?"

And that's what this is, isn't it? 

She isn't punishing him for the fight. Or being out late. No, this is about control. It always has been. 

"You think you can do whatever you want, don't you?" Her breath is hot against his already burning face. "That's not how the world works, Timothy."

Mrs. Mac moves past him. He doesn't turn around to watch her just yet. He's too busy shoving all his focus onto that pulsing, stinging sensation spreading across his cheek. It beats in time with his heart, with the blood rushing in his ears. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, quiet but steady.

She scoffs. “Well, of course you wouldn’t think so. You’re just like your parents.”

Tim flinches.

“You think the rules don’t apply to you. You think you’re special.”

No. 

Not even a little bit. 

"After everything I've done for you? After stepping into this mess and keeping this house running when no one else could?" She spits, voice trembling with rage. "I put up with your sulking, your backtalk, your moping around like some little prince who lost his crown -"

His fists clench. His body is shaking. He’s too tired for this. His cheek still hurts. His ribs ache. His vision is fuzzy. And it won’t stop.

"I kept you from going to some group home or foster system." Her eyes narrow. "You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to play nursemaid to a moody brat who thinks he's smarter than everyone else?"

Tim feels a bit like he's on a merry-go-round. He's heard all of this before. The same weightless words. The same complaints and questions, spun round and round and round until Tim is dizzy. 

Or maybe that's just from the pain and exhaustion. 

"You didn't do this for me," Tim snaps. His voice cracks, coming out faster than he can stop it. "You did it so people would think you're some kind of hero. So you could get a free, nice house where you can sit around all day and drink wine and watch your favorite shows." God, what is he saying? And why can't he stop? He thinks about Chemistry books and blacking out and Jeremy suddenly on the ground. "But you don't even like me. You just like having someone around to punish for your life."

Silence. 

There's a shift in the air. 

Her eyes go still. Cold. Her mouth is a flat, disbelieving line. 

“What did you just say to me?”

Tim swallows. He doesn’t say it again.

He doesn’t have to.

She moves fast. The kind of fast you don’t expect from someone her age.

Her hand closes around his wrist and yanks him forward.

“Maybe this is the problem,” she says, voice calm in a terrifying way. “You’ve gone too long without discipline. That’s what’s wrong with kids these days. Backtalk and entitlement. I should have known.”

Tim could pull away. He's strong enough. 

So why isn't he?

“Let go.”

“You’re going to learn some respect tonight, Timothy.”

There’s the sound of the closet door opening. The creak of wood. The snick of a belt pulled off the hook.

It hurts. Of course it hurts. 

But that shouldn't be all he feels, right?

He wants to be angry that this is happening again. He wants to be embarrassed that he didn't see it coming. He wants to be frightened that this could too easily get out of hand and do real damage. He wants, he wants, he wants - 

He wants his parents. 

Which is weird. Objectively. They never were really there for him all that much before. He can't imagine they would have a helpful or comforting word or embrace for him now. They might chide him for getting involved with those bullies in the first place. They might lecture him about the family's image or not talking back. 

But he still wants them. 

Wants them to have been the kind of people who would have stepped into the fray to save him. 

Wants them to have been proud of him for helping someone else. 

Wants that the idea of them now would provide him comfort.

Wants them to be alive. 

Wants that they were different when they were. 

He sleeps on top of his comforter that night, curled sideways, shirt sticking to his back in places. The ribs that were already sore from kicks and bruises now throb with every heartbeat.

There’s a low burn beneath his shoulder blades. He wonders, vaguely, if the skin split this time. He can’t look. He doesn’t want to.

He drifts in and out of sleep, sometimes waking to the sound of the house creaking, convinced someone’s coming back up the stairs.

No one does.

In the morning, he’s stiff. He has to sit down to pull on socks, and his uniform shirt - one of the oversized ones - hurts like hell even with a layer of undershirt beneath.

He eats a single dry granola bar in the kitchen and leaves without speaking to Mrs. Mac. She doesn’t speak to him either. Just watches him go.

He’s halfway down the block before he realizes he’s shivering.

The cold should help. Should numb everything. But his vision keeps trying to blur, and there’s a weird buzzing in his ears.

Still.

He doesn’t want them to win.

Not Mrs. Mac. Not the bullies. Not the exhaustion creeping in through every crack in his armor.

He’s not going to break.

The sky is gray again. Not stormy, just indifferent. Gotham gray - flat and smudged like a dirty window no one bothered to clean. A colorless sheet hung over the city, as if Gotham herself had forgotten to care.

Tim’s steps are slow. He knows he’s going to be late. But he doesn’t hurry.

Everything hurts. He can feel the fabric of his undershirt rubbing the raw spots on his back, can feel the way his uniform collar pulls slightly on the edge of a shoulder he can’t quite lift properly. His ribs still throb. His cheekbone is a dull, steady ache.

But it’s fine.

He’s walking. He’s here. He’s not broken.

Not yet.

He rounds the corner near the student lot just as the last bell rings and the latecomers start sprinting. He doesn’t sprint. Just keeps moving.

That’s when he sees them.

Three figures leaning against the brick wall near the west entrance. One of them casually crushes a soda can under his shoe.

They’re supposed to be suspended. Or at least in an office. Or doing damage control while their parents and lawyers start huffing about Wayne meddling.

They’re not supposed to be here.

But they are.

There's only three. Not the whole pack. Maybe a few of them have a couple brain cells knocking around upstairs after all. 

“Hey, Drake.”

The voice is low and sharp and cold.

Tim freezes.

For just a second.

And then - he keeps walking.

He was looking for a fight last night. Or looking for - he's not exactly sure. 

But today? Today he just wants to get into the school before one the Wayne kids notices him and starts asking more questions. 

The trio steps away from the wall.

“Where you headed?” Jeremy's older brother asks, fake-friendly.

“You made quite the scene yesterday,” another adds. “Heard the Wayne kid practically cried about it. Maybe you should’ve filmed that too.”

Tim doesn't stop.

Doesn’t respond.

They fall in step behind him. Not close enough to grab him. Not yet. But enough that the air around him gets tighter.

“You know you’re real good at pretending to be brave,” the tall one says. “But you’re still just a lonely, little nerd with a death wish. Nobody actually cares about you. Not the Waynes. Not the teachers. Not your dead mom and dad.”

Tim turns.

Slowly.

The sound he makes is quiet. Not even a real word. But it stops them for a second. Like they were expecting fear, and instead they got...this.

It’s not strength. It’s something else.

Some terrifying, hollow place inside him that has nothing left to lose.

When they just sort pause there, stagnant in formation and not sure how to really respond to...whatever that was, Tim goes to walk away again. 

But his steps are slow.

The sidewalk wobbles under him.

There’s a strange hum in his ears. Not sound exactly. Just pressure.

His vision tilts. Like the world forgot where the horizon is supposed to be.

He can’t breathe. Not well. Every breath skims too shallow, too fast. His fingers twitch at his side, like they’re looking for something to grab onto. The letters - JackJanetJackJanet - start tracing against his leg again without him realizing.

One of them bumps his shoulder deliberately as they pass. The impact is light, but it sends Tim stumbling a step.

And suddenly, everything inside him tilts too far.

He drops.

Not dramatically. Not flailing.

Just…folds. Like a marionette with strings cut mid-step.

His knees hit the pavement hard.

Then his hands.

Then his forehead.

The cold concrete stings.

But it’s the silence that follows that’s worse.

“Uh - what the hell?”

“Is he -?”

“Did he faint or something?”

“What a freak.”

He can hear them shifting. Laughing, almost. Nervous.

But no one touches him.

No one helps.

He’s vaguely aware of gravel biting into his palms. His backpack strap digging into one arm. His chest working double-time for air that won’t come right.

He’s not unconscious. Just - can’t get up.

His whole body feels like static.

His vision cuts in and out like a dying screen. 

And then - something flits across his field of view.

A flicker of movement. Tiny. Golden.

A bee.

It floats lazily past his face, undeterred by the cold, by the chaos, by the boys who had just scattered.

Not buzzing in panic or threat. Just drifting. Calm. Free.

Tim watches it, eyes unfocused.

Is it…the same one? Damian’s bee?

He almost smiles. Almost.

But then the bee is gone.

And the cold tilts sideways.

That’s when a car pulls up.

And someone - calm, sharp, terrifying in the right way - steps out.

“Back away from him.”

The voice doesn’t shout. It doesn’t have to.

Tim knows that voice.

The footsteps scatter.

He can't see anymore, but he hears the doors of the car open. Hears fabric shifting. Someone kneeling.

“Oh, dear boy.”

A hand touches his shoulder. Gentle. Warm. Solid.

Alfred.

Somehow, it's Alfred

His voice doesn’t break.

His hands are steady.

But there’s a note in it, a single thin line of something buried deep beneath the years of practiced calm.

Concern.

Grief.

A sort of fury that only the quietest men know how to carry.

He checks for breathing, for a pulse. Finds both, faint but there.

“You're safe now.”

Tim doesn't response.

Can't. 

Because the gray sky has turned black.

And somewhere - soft, distant, impossible - he hears it:

A hum.

Buzzing.

Gentle, steady.

And then he’s gone.

Chapter Text

The world comes back slowly.

First, there’s the buzzing.

Soft. Constant. Right behind his ears.

For one wild moment, Tim thinks it’s bees again - swarming under his skin, in his brain, filling the air.

He flinches.

Or tries to.

But his body doesn't quite respond. Every muscle is heavy. Wrapped in static.

Then the buzzing resolves - changes - as his awareness inches forward.

It’s not bees.

Just the low hum of a car heater.

Just warm air blowing steadily from the vents.

The aroma of leather and old cologne settles in next. Not familiar. But still safe.

There's a faint scent of antiseptic, too.  

Then - another sound.

A voice. Gentle. Steady.

British. 

“…he may experience some disorientation when regaining consciousness. Besides, he was already quite guarded about the bruising yesterday. I would advise we hold off on informing the boys until he’s steady on his feet.”

Alfred.

Tim’s eyes twitch open.

The car interior is dim, golden-gray from the light outside. They’re moving. The low rumble of the engine beneath them. He’s lying stretched out along the back seat, something soft beneath his head. A blanket draped over him.

Alfred is in the passenger seat, turned slightly, one hand holding a phone to his ear, the other resting gently on Tim’s knee.

“I’d already dropped them off when I found Tim,” Alfred continues, his voice measured but tight at the edges. “Thankfully, the drop-off line is dreadfully slow and long, otherwise I wouldn’t have spotted poor Timothy on the sidewalk. He was on the ground. Alone. Pale as parchment -”

He cuts himself off.

A breath.

“I’ve already stopped by Dr. Thompkins. She performed a thorough examination. He was unconscious for - well, longer than I would have liked.”

Dr. Thompkins? Tim thinks dimly.

...Who?

How long…?

His fingers twitch under the blanket.

Alfred notices immediately.

He doesn’t miss anything, apparently.

“He’s waking.”

A second later, Alfred is beside him. The phone is gone and a warm hand touches his cheek - the good one. The injured one, Tim realizes now, is carefully avoided, and re-bandaged. 

“Ah,” comes the voice. Not surprised. Not panicked. Just warm and low and unmistakably Alfred. “There you are. Welcome back, my boy."

Tim blinks. Everything aches. His mouth is dry. His chest hurts when he breathes. His ribs feel like they’ve been individually replaced with gravel.

“What…?” he croaks.

“You collapsed,” Alfred says, adjusting the blanket slightly. “You were already nursing bruised ribs, significant dehydration, a mild fever, and - as Dr. Thompkins observed - a nasty combination of stress fatigue and an adrenal crash. Your system had quite simply been pushed past its limit.”

Tim swallows, unsure whether to laugh or pass out again.

“That's…dramatic.”

He thinks about saying something more, trying to explain, but his lips feel heavy, stitched shut by exhaustion and pain and something else - something deeper.

But maybe he doesn’t need to speak. Not with Alfred.

So he just stays still.

Letting himself be small. Letting himself be seen.

Letting himself be saved.

At least, for now.

It’s too much. His body is still locked in place, floating between cold and pain and something softer.

The man doesn’t ask questions.

Doesn’t push.

Just waits.

Finally:

“Where…” Tim's voice is thin, rasped.

“Master Bruce is on his way. But we are en route to the manor now.”

Not a hospital, then.

That's at least a relief. 

But apparently he might have already been to one? Where this "Dr. Thompkins" was. Whoever she is. 

Tim closes his eyes again.

There’s something grounding in Alfred’s presence. Like the eye of a storm. He could drift off again just to avoid the looming weight of what comes next, but then - 

The car’s speaker system crackles. A phone call coming in. Alfred could move and retrieve his discarded phone, but that would mean letting go of Tim. 

So he doesn't. 

And god, Tim wishes he could smile. 

Alfred sighs and presses a button. “Yes?”

“Alfred, it's me. Don't hang up - I'm fine, I'm at school, but Tim’s not here, and I know that might not sound weird yet but listen -”

It’s Jason.

He’s talking fast. Tripping over words like he doesn’t trust time to wait for him.

“He’s not answering his phone, and I know I should have gone over last night but I didn’t and that’s on me, I just - I saw his back, Alfred. You didn’t see it. You didn’t see how bad it looked. And I wanted to go check on him, because I know - I know. But, shit, I don't know why I didn't.”

Tim exhales slowly. His hand curls a little tighter beneath the blanket.

Alfred’s jaw is tense, but he doesn’t interrupt.

He doesn't actually get a chance to. 

Jason keeps going:

“And then I got to school today and he wasn’t here and the school secretary said he didn’t show up, and I was going to give it another hour but Damian’s already halfway across the city on someone's bike because we both got this bad feeling and - yes, I skipped class, and yes, you can ground me or yell at me later, I don’t care, because I just -”

His voice hitches. For just a second.

“I just didn’t want to find him too late.”

There’s silence.

Tim feels it in his chest like an echo.

“Jason -"

"Shit, Alf. Shit. Shit. Damian's at Tim's house. He just texted. Tim's not there, but - but there's blood on the bed. Damn it! I knew it! I should've -"

Tim swallows. He knows better. He should've cleaned that up. It says something about his current state of mind, and body, that it didn't even occur to him this morning. 

"Master Jason -"

"I'm gonna get B on comms. Dick too. He said he was going to stay in town today. We need to -"

Comms? B? As in Batman? As in Jason thinks Tim going barely missing is worthy of assembling the vigilantes of Gotham?

"Jason."

It isn't a shout. His voice is hardly even raised. 

But something in the tone causes the panicking older boy on the other end of the line to take a breath. 

“Yeah?”

“Young Timothy is with me. He is safe.”

A pause.

And then, very softly - 

“...Oh, thank God.”

Tim exhales shakily, eyes still shut.

The amount of weight that lifts off Jason's voice - the sheer relief that replaces it - it's staggering. Or, well, it would be if he wasn't currently already lying down. 

But it doesn’t make sense.

He doesn’t know these people. Not really.

Sure, he knows of them. He’s followed them. Studied their movements. Tracked their alter egos and pieced together their stories like a puzzle he was never supposed to solve. But they don’t know him.

Why is Jason Todd-Wayne feeling more for Tim being found alive and okay, than Tim does about his own parents dying?

He feels the car turning. The weight of Alfred’s hand grounding him again.

"Rest, Master Timothy," Alfred murmurs, not unkindly. "There is nothing else to be done right now. You are not alone."

And for the first time in a long time - Tim lets himself believe it.

He’s already sinking too far beneath the blanket of unconsciousness to breach the surface again when a thought flickers - sudden and sharp:

...who was driving the car?

The first thing Tim notices is the warmth.

It’s soft and enveloping - too warm, almost - like he’s been wrapped in something heavier than his usual sheets. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and lemongrass, with something deeper underneath: old wood, maybe. Something that reminds him of libraries and old money.

The second thing he notices is that he’s not in his room.

The pillow beneath his head is plush. The ceiling is a light cream color. The light filtering in from the window is a hazy winter gray. Outside, everything is still.

He blinks slowly. The blanket shifts when he moves. There’s a distant ache pulsing from his ribs, and something stings along his spine - a sharp, papery pull. Bandages. He’s bandaged.

He pushes himself up on one elbow. It takes effort. His body protests in slow, leaden pulses.

This isn’t the hospital.

This is a guest room in Wayne Manor.

Tim’s heart jumps, but weakly. His body can’t panic, not properly. He’s too worn down.

There’s a soft knock. Then the door opens.

Alfred enters with a tray - tea, toast, a glass of water with condensation beading on the sides. Nothing too hot. Nothing too heavy.

He sets it down on the nightstand without a word. Tim just sort of stares at it for a moment. It's the kind of thing people bring sick kids in stories, not in real life. 

The silence is careful. Not awkward - respectful. Measured. Like Alfred knows the exact weight of every second he leaves empty.

He sits in the chair nearby, hands folded.

“You gave us quite a scare,” he says gently, eyes never leaving Tim’s face.

Tim’s throat works around a swallow. His voice cracks.

“How long was I out?”

“Almost a full day.”

Tim blinks.

“I'm not certain if you remember our brief conversation on the drive over here, but Dr. Thompkins examined you thoroughly,” Alfred continues, as if this is normal. “You were showing signs of acute exhaustion, compounded by internal bruising and - well, she explained it better than I can. You passed out from a combination of pain, shock, and dehydration. Your body simply - shut down.”

Some of that sounds...vaguely familiar. But the whole car ride is sort of fuzzy, fading in and out of memory like a dream Tim can't quite hold onto. 

Tim leans his head back against the pillow. “Cool.”

Alfred’s mouth twitches. Just slightly.

“I’m told that’s not the technical term.”

Tim exhales through his nose. 

“I already stopped by your home to collect a few things. I also let your...guardian...know you’ll be staying with us for the time being.”

At that, Tim stiffens. His eyes flick over to Alfred’s face.

“You told her?”

“I didn’t tell her anything untrue.” A pause. “Merely that you are unwell. And that your condition requires supervision.”

“…Oh.”

Another pause. This one is heavier.

“Timothy,” Alfred says gently, “we’re not sending you back there.”

The way he says it - we - catches Tim off guard. It shouldn’t. It’s not like Alfred would keep this from Bruce. But still…it settles somewhere deep in his chest. Warm. Heavy. Confusing.

Tim doesn’t answer. Just stares down at his own hands.

There’s a clatter downstairs. Muffled voices.

Alfred glances toward the door. “I believe you may be getting visitors.”

“Do I have to?”

“I can send them away.”

Tim hesitates. Then shakes his head. “No. It’s fine.”

Alfred nods and stands. “Ten minutes, then. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, I’ll step in.”

As he leaves, Tim sips the water and winces at the way it pulls through his ribs.

He hears them before he sees them. Jason’s voice - low and frustrated. Dick’s - too chirpy, overcorrecting for the mood. A pounding of footfalls. And then, as they reach his room, they all drop quiet - taking softer steps and whispering. Someone swears and then someone else gets smacked. 

Tim isn’t asleep when the door opens.

He’s just still. Breathing slow. Eyes closed. Hoping, maybe, that if he stays quiet long enough, they will go away.

But the hush that falls over the room isn’t the kind that leaves.

He likes the brothers. More than he'd care to admit. And something buried inside of him wants this. Their comfort. Their presence. Their protection. But he doesn't know where to start. Doesn't know how to do any of this. 

Doesn't want to be on the receiving end of the care and concern of some of the people he's most looked up to his whole life, without being able to feel it. 

But he's laying there, in their house. It wasn't like he was going to tell Alfred no. 

Soft footsteps. A door gently shut. The faintest rustle of fabric.

Tim peeks.

Dick’s the first one in his eyeline, standing near the dresser with his arms crossed too tightly across his chest, a nervous but kind smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Jason leans in the doorway, a looming figure with his arms relaxed but his jaw set. Like he’s trying not to look too worried and failing miserably.

And Damian is hovering at the foot of the bed, frowning with laser-focused intensity. Like he’s trying to puzzle Tim out the same way he might a crime scene.

“…Hey,” Dick offers softly. “How you holding up?”

Tim blinks. “I’m okay.”

Jason makes a noise like a scoff tried to escape and got caught in his throat. “Yeah, you look it.”

Tim doesn’t respond. His fingers curl under the blanket.

The silence that follows is thick. Not quite comfortable. Not quite tense. Just…waiting. Until Damian breaks it.

"Are you a clone?"

Dick sputters, eyes widening. “Damian -!”

Huh. Well this is an interesting point in favor of Tim's own conspiracy of Damian's origin. 

“I’m merely asking,” Damian says, tone entirely too casual. “He looks like him. The hair. The jaw. The brooding eyes. And he's intelligent, except in Chemistry, so -"

Jason groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh my god.”

Damian isn’t done. He takes a step closer. "Did you ever run a DNA test on yourself against your parents when they were living?"

He's still covered in so many blankets - and yet, Tim feels suddenly very cold. 

He knows the kid isn't saying it to be mean. Just "stating facts", as Damian had put it in his awkward apology after their first meeting. 

Talking about Tim's parents' death with the same amount of detachment as Tim feels. 

Jason backhands his younger brother's shoulder and it sounds fairly similar to what Tim had heard before the boys had entered. 

"Damian," Dick hisses. "I'm sorry, Tim, he -"

"I'm actually good at Chemistry," Tim interrupts. He's not sure why he says it but there it is. "Those were Jeremy's notes, not mine. I was tutoring him. I was in A.P. Chem, but, uh, I got transferred when I - when I sort of...stopped doing homework?"

He doesn't need to be telling them this. He doesn't need to explain himself. He didn't that day when Damian returned his textbook.

So why is he now?

No one asks why he stopped doing homework. Jason is eyeing Damian, daring him to speak. And Dick is looking at Tim now with a sad sort of expression that makes Tim itch.  

The silence hangs. 

Jason is still glaring like he wants to throw his brother out a window. Dick shifts like he wants to patch things up, but doesn’t know where to start.

Damian stares at Tim for a second too long.

Then, without warning - like the question’s been sitting at the back of his throat all day and finally claws its way out - he says:

“You knew how to fight.”

The words land sharp, but not cruel. Just…confused.

Tim’s stomach tightens.

“Even if you're not a clone,” Damian adds, quieter now. “You knew how to move. I saw it. Why didn't you fight back?"  

Tim stiffens.

Dick’s mouth parts like he wants to stop it, rewind it, erase it from the air. Jason exhales hard through his nose and mutters something under his breath that might be “Jesus Christ.”

“W-What?”

"Mrs. Mac," Damian says plainly. “You’re capable. You flipped one of those boys that was in your way and then took down Jeremy Sanders with one strike to the knee."

Is that what Tim had done in the moment he'd blacked out during that first fight?

"But you let her do that to you.”

The room freezes. 

And then Jason is on him in an instant. “Outside. Now.”

“Why?” Damian’s face is unreadable. “I want to understand. He let—”

Jason physically grabs the front of his shirt and starts hauling him backwards. “You’re lucky he’s too injured to hit you, because if you said that to me -!”

“I’m just trying to figure it out!” Damian snaps, digging his heels in. “It just don't understand!”

“Out.”

The door slams behind them.

Tim stares at the ceiling.

He’s not angry. Not even offended.

Because that’s the worst part.

He doesn’t really understand either.

After a long beat, Dick sighs and sits gently on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle it.

“…We also brought you a milkshake,” he says, voice light. “Vanilla. With sprinkles.”

He sets it carefully on the nightstand.

“I’m sorry about him,” Dick adds after a moment. “He... cares. In his own way. Just doesn’t have a mute button.”

Tim doesn’t answer. Not really because he doesn’t want to. It’s more that he doesn’t know how.

He just stares at the ceiling, the weight of the blanket pulled up tight over his ribs, a faint buzzing still ringing behind his ears.

Dick shifts beside him, arms now resting on his knees, head bowed slightly.

“I should’ve asked more questions yesterday,” he says quietly. “When I saw - when we saw your back. I mean, I knew it looked bad, but I didn’t think - I didn’t want to think…I hoped maybe it was from the fight at school or - and we told Alfred, I'm sorry. And Bruce. But, we told them and you didn't know me so I figured you wouldn't want someone - and Bruce said he was going to look into your situation and - God, I don’t know. I just didn’t ask.”

Tim’s throat works. He doesn’t look at him.

Jason returns, stepping back into the room with slower, quieter steps this time. He folds his arms, leans against the wall again, but he doesn’t try to pretend he’s relaxed anymore.

Dick glances over. “Is he still breathing?”

“Unfortunately,” Jason mutters, deadpan. “Alfred’s with him. Gave him that ‘I am not mad, just disappointed’ look, so I expect he’ll be emotionally wrecked by dinner.”

Dick snorts under his breath, but the sound doesn’t carry far.

That gets the smallest twitch from Tim. Not quite a smile. Maybe a muscle remembering how.

Jason looks at Tim for a long moment. Then sighs.

“I should’ve said something too,” he admits. “When I saw your back. Shit, Tim. It made me so angry."

Tim looks away, pulling the blankets up tighter around his shoulders. 

Jason runs a hand through his hair, rough. Like the words itch under his skin.

"When I was a kid," he says, voice lower now, "I saw a lot of kids like you. On the street. At school. In my own damn mirror sometimes. And I got good at looking away. Because once you really see it - once you let yourself feel something about it - it stays."

He hesitates.

"I didn't say anything to you, and I didn't go check on you last night even though I thought about it a dozen times, because I didn't want to feel it. Didn't want to think about it. So yeah. I was a fucking coward."

His jaw tightens. 

"And I'm sorry."

Tim still doesn't look at them. He swallows once, hard. How is he supposed to process people feeling things about him, when he can't feel anything at all? 

When no one has ever felt these sort of things for him before anyway? 

Sure, his parents gave obligatory apologies when their trips ran late and they missed holidays. His STEM coach and some of his teachers felt sorry for him, yeah. But this isn't shallow pity. 

This is real, raw, tangible guilt and care and concern and - 

“It’s not your job.”

It comes out so flat, so final, it lands like a stone dropped into a lake.

Neither Dick nor Jason says anything at first.

Probably because they both know - so does Tim - that it is.

Tim knows about kids both Robins have pulled out of worse places. He's followed their work. Read about it all. He knows they don't walk past kids in pain. That they don't just stop robberies and metas.

They save people. 

Dick swallows.

“You’ve been trying to carry way too much by yourself for a long time, haven’t you?”

Tim doesn’t answer. But the lack of denial is an answer.

Jason, quieter now, says, “For what it’s worth…I think you’ve done a damn good job keeping it together. But even the strongest people -”

“Don’t say it,” Tim mutters. “Don’t say everyone needs help sometimes.”

Jason pauses. Shrugs. “I was gonna say, even the strongest people deserve a break.”

That earns a breath from Tim that might’ve been the start of a laugh - or a sob - but doesn’t become either.

They try for a bit longer. To talk to him. Comfort him. 

Damian doesn't come back. 

And eventually, Tim just sort of...stops responding. 

He's not trying to be mean. He's not trying to be anything really. 

Eventually, Dick pushes himself up with a quiet sigh. “We’ll give you space,” he says gently. “But we’re around. Just so you know.”

Jason hovers a beat longer near the door. He opens his mouth, then shuts it. 

And then they’re gone.

Tim lies still, cocooned in too many blankets, staring up at the ceiling. His muscles ache in that dull, low-battery kind of way. His chest is quiet.

Too quiet.

He doesn’t feel anything. Not anger. Not relief. Not even confusion.

He just exists.

Until - 

There's a pang in his abdomen that has nothing to do with emotions or bullies or Mrs. Mac. 

Apparently, spending almost a whole day unconscious really makes a person have to pee. 

Moving feels like a very big ask of his body right now, between the bruising and the blankets. He could probably call out and someone would come running to help. He suspects the butler or one of the boys aren't very far. He's a stranger in their house. Who knows what sort of ridiculous secrets he might uncover if left to wander around on his own. There's also the fact that they actually seem to care. 

There are four doors in the room, apart from the one to the hall. Across from the bed, the bathroom door has been left propped open and Tim can see the tiles and sink inside. He wonders if that is for his benefit. Just so Tim doesn't have to spend an extra embarrassing minute opening what are probably three different closets before finding the toilet.

With a groan and a stretch, Tim slowly shucks off the bedding. He has to use his elbow more than he would have liked to leverage himself upright, but he does it. His feet come down off the bed and onto a plush rug. He wiggles his toes against it. Ahead, where the edge of the rug ends, the bare wooden floors look cold and he's wondering where his socks are when he notices a pair of sleek slippers, poised right next to the bedside table. They are new and look soft and just his size.

Did Bruce send Alfred to the store while Tim was resting?

Or does he have other people for things like that?

Can the guy just send out a text for slippers midday and have them here within the hour? Probably.

It's only now that Tim glances down. Because in that same moment he realizes something his brain should have definitely clocked awhile ago. 

He's in different clothes. 

The bottoms are familiar - the threadbare flannel pair from home, the ones with the fain checkered pattern nearly rubbed smooth. Alfred must have grabbed them when he stopped by the house. He has stacks of folded pajama pants in his dresser there, but these are his favorite. 

His parents wouldn't know Tim's favorite foods, let alone be able to deduce which clothing he preferred most from a single visit into his bedroom. 

The shirt isn't his. The fabric is too soft, the sleeves too long. The neckline is cut wide to avoid the bruising across his shoulders and bandaging along his back. It doesn't cling. Doesn't pull. It just...fits. Loosely. Gently. 

Like someone thought about it. 

His mom had a habit of bringing sweaters and hats and things home from their travels for Tim that were almost always in colors he hated. For his 11th birthday, he got a gaming system that he already owned. They'd gifted it to him when they forgot him across town at a charity auction for nearly five hours. For his past two birthdays, Tim had received packages straight from Amazon. He picked them up off his doorstep himself, in the cardboard box with no trimming or attached card. The receipts were still inside and listed the purchaser. 

Jack's assistant.

Well, at least those were the first birthdays where he got gifts that weren't days or weeks late. SuAnne was punctual and organized, but boy did she have zero clue what preteen boys were interested in. Tim had donated the toys both years. 

The year before they died, his parents had given him a credit card for Christmas. So he wouldn't have to ask them for the things he needed, wanted - liked. Especially since they were away so much, they said, it made perfect sense. Practical. It felt like it was more a gift for them, not him. Less distractions. 

Less Tim. 

Tim stares at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. The shirt smells like a linen closet and something herbal - maybe Alfred's laundry soap. He shifts slightly, the fabric sliding like water across his skin.

It's such a small thing.

And yet, it unmoors something in him more than all the rest.

He doesn’t know what to do with kindness when it’s silent. When it asks nothing of him. When it just is.

So he closes his eyes again.

And pretends - for a moment - that it’s always been this way.

But then there's pressure on his bladder again and Tim shambles his way over to bathroom.

At least his body hasn't forgotten how to do these basic functions, even if it's somehow shut off everything else.

"I still kinda wish he'd decked Damian."

The words are muffled, but there. He almost doesn't catch them, but Jason's being loud.  

And apparently is right on the other side of this wall. 

"Or, I don't know, done something," Jason continues, "Anything. Did you see him? It's like there's nothing there."

The responding voice is quieter and Tim has to flatten his ear against the plaster to make anything out.

" - protecting himself. Or maybe, it's because there's too much there. All piled up in one place."

Jason says something to that, but it's low. Their voices fade into the woodwork.

But the words linger. 

Tim swallows. 

It shouldn’t matter. They’re wrong. Or maybe they’re not. But they don’t know him. They don’t know anything about what he’s been carrying.

Still…

“Nothing there.”

It sticks.

It echoes.

And for the first time, he wonders what they see when they look at him. What anyone does. If he really is that empty. That absent.

Or if maybe - just maybe - he’s gotten too good at hiding.

Even from himself. 

Damian doesn't come back to the guest room but it doesn't quite matter because Tim hasn’t let anyone in for two days.

Not Dick, who continually leaves cookies and treats outside his door like he's trying to bait a stray animal and who asked once - and only once - through the door, “You okay in there, buddy?” and left when Tim didn’t respond.

Not Jason, who doesn't bother knocking, and just leans against the wall in the hallway for twenty minute stretches of time every six hours or so before muttering, "You know where to find me" and disappearing again. 

Not Bruce. He brings plates of Alfred's meals, like clockwork. Tim waits for retreating footfalls to reach a single arm out into the hall and drag the food in. 

The only one who makes it past the threshold is Alfred, with trays of tea and pain meds and new bandages and that maddeningly gentle voice. (And that's only because the butler insists, threatening to take the door itself down so he can come check on Tim.) He never lingers afterward, though. 

Tim hears the others. He's not unaware. He's just - 

He’s just not ready.

It’s strange. For so long, all he wanted was to feel something. To cry, to scream, to break something - to hurt the way he thought he was supposed to.

And now?

Now that something real is starting to crack loose from under the ice?

Now that these people and their warmth and care and persistence and presence have started chipping away at the hollow?

He’s terrified.

Because what happens when it all rushes back?

What if it hurts - really hurts - more than he can handle?

What if the grief drowns him, or the anger makes him into someone he doesn’t recognize?

What if he’s too far gone to come back from it?

He turns his face toward the pillow, jaw clenched.

It was safer, in the silence. Easier to manage.

But safety never felt like living.

And now there’s a voice in the back of his mind — one that sounds maddeningly like Dick’s gentleness, or Jason’s sharp concern, or even Damian’s unfiltered honesty — that keeps whispering: You don’t have to do it alone.

And maybe - just maybe - that’s the scariest part of all.

Not the pain.

Not the mess.

But the possibility that someone might actually stay to help him through it.

Tim curls deeper into the nest of blankets, shivering even though the room is warm. His thoughts are loud now. His heart’s too quiet and too fast at the same time.

He presses the heel of his palm to his chest, like that might keep whatever’s shifting inside from spilling over.

Because numbness is simple. It's easy. It's clean.

You can keep functioning while numb.

But if he lets himself feel, really feel - then what if it swallows him whole?

He finds Damian by accident later that afternoon.

Tim had just wanted some air. The grounds outside seemed big enough to avoid anyone who actually lived here. 

The younger boy is sitting cross-legged in the greenhouse. There’s a bee crawling around on his knee and he’s watching it like it might reveal some ancient secret if he just stares long enough.

Tim stops in the doorway.

Damian stiffens.

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t speak - but every part of him goes tense, like he’s bracing for a hit. Like the day he was surprised when Tim didn't want payback for what Damian had said about this parents. 

And Tim, instead of demanding an explanation or giving him one, just walks inside and says, quietly:

“I don’t know why I let her do it.”

Damian lifts his head. His mouth opens - an apology, probably, or some awkward tangle of half-formed words.

But Tim just sits down beside him.

Not close enough to touch.

Just enough to share the silence.

And for a long moment, neither of them says anything at all.

The bee on Damian’s knee twitches its wings and lifts off, buzzing in slow, lazy circles before settling on a leaf nearby.

Tim watches it without speaking.

Damian breaks the silence first. He doesn’t look at Tim.

“...You obviously don’t want to talk to any of us.”

He says it with a scoff, like it doesn’t bother him. Like it’s a fact, not a feeling.

“I don’t blame you,” he adds after a beat. “Grayson tries to fix everything with hugs and feelings. Todd is incapable of entering a room without making it worse. And Father -” Damian rolls his eyes. “I think my brothers refer to him as 'emotionally constipated'.”

Tim huffs - not quite a laugh. But something. Damian glances sideways at him.

"I have a cow."

Tim blinks, head shaking. He's followed this family long enough to know that they all have scary good skills when it comes to sneaking up on people. But Damian - Damian has a way of catching Tim completely and entirely off guard with just a few words. 

There’s a long pause, and then he says, quieter:

“I prefer animals. They’re honest. They don’t pretend not to be angry. Or scared.”

Tim doesn’t respond. But his shoulders ease. Just slightly.

Damian takes that as permission and keeps going.

“You know,” he begins, “there was this…peculiar mourning ritual in some parts of Europe. Also in America. Eighteen-hundreds. Maybe earlier.”

Tim blinks at him. Damian shrugs, casual — or trying to be.

“I read. Try not to look so surprised.”

He clears his throat. Focuses back on the bee.

“When someone in the household died, they believed you had to tell the bees. Tap on the hive with the house key. Cover the boxes in black. Actually talk to them. Tell them who died. Or they’d leave. Or die themselves.”

Tim tilts his head.

“They thought the bees would die…of grief?”

“No,” Damian says. “They thought the bees would die of being left out.”

That lands heavier than it should. Damian shifts, suddenly fidgety.

“It’s…symbolic,” he adds. “Probably.”

He glances at Tim. Still no mockery. Just soft interest.

“Some Celtic traditions thought bees could carry messages. Between this world and -” he waves vaguely skyward “ - the other one. So Foolish, obviously. But maybe it wasn’t about telling the bees. Maybe it was about making sure the person who died got the message. That they were missed.”

Tim looks down. His hands are curled in his lap.

“I visited my parents the other night,” he says quietly. “But I didn't go for them. I went to see if it would make me feel something. Anything.”

Damian doesn’t answer right away. Just sits with that.

And then, simply:

“Maybe you weren’t telling the bees the right thing.”

Tim finally turns to look at him. Damian doesn’t flinch.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” Damian says, softer now. “Or to Alfred. Or any of us.”

He gestures to the greenhouse, to the bees lazily orbiting above the plants and clover.

“But maybe you’ll talk to them.”

Tim looks back at the hive, where a few bees are slipping in and out through the small opening. Busy. Constant. Unbothered.

Rooted.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, the numbness cracks - not into pain, not yet - but into possibility.

Chapter Text

The sun is beginning to set when Tim finally slips outside again.

He doesn't tell anyone where he’s going. He doesn't leave a note. Doesn’t ask permission.

He just walks, slow and aimless, hands buried in jacket pockets that aren’t his. The coat is too long in the sleeves - Jason’s, maybe. Or Dick’s. It doesn’t matter.

The greenhouse is warm when he opens the door. Humid. Quiet.

The bees are still.

Not asleep. Not yet. Tucked into the comb, gently humming. That low, ever-present song. The sound of movement and purpose and life.

He stands in front of the hive.

Doesn’t tap the wood yet.

Doesn’t speak.

The lump in his throat has been there for days. Weeks. Months. Since the funeral. Since before it.

He swallows.

Then, quietly - as if worried even now he’ll be overheard:

“Damian said I should talk to you,” he pauses, sighs. “So…”

A breath. Slow.

A heartbeat. Heavy.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The words fall like gravel. Scratchy. Dry.

“They're dead. My parents. And I should - I should feel something about that. But I don’t. I haven’t. And for a long time I pretended that was okay, that it just made me strong or smart or functional -"  

His voice breaks. He pushes forward.

“ - but the truth is it’s terrifying. Because if I didn’t feel anything when I lost them…how do I know I’ll ever feel anything again?”

The bees hum louder. Or maybe it's just the blood rushing in his ears.

"And then - I tried. To feel. Something. Anything. And I - I couldn't." 

Tim wipes at his face, frustrated. His hands are shaking.

"Damian thinks I'm a clone," he says, almost trying for a laugh, manufactured and brittle. "At least that would explain not being able to feel."

He looks away, voice going to a whisper. 

"At least that would explain why my parents didn't lo-"

He clears his throat, shaking his head. 

"They weren't good parents."

The words come out flat. But they hang in the air, real and steady. 

He waits, but no one disagrees. 

He keeps going. 

"They weren't…good at being parents. They didn't hit me, or starve me, or scream. But they were never there. Not really. And the times they were…it was like they wanted me to apologize for it."

He presses his fingers to the hive's side. Feels the vibration, faint and alive. 

"I didn't call for help. I could have. When they went missing. I knew. I know who Batman is. I knew he'd come if I asked. But I didn't. Because I didn't want to be a burden. Didn't want to interrupt something important. Because they taught me not to need anything. Not to ask." His chest shudders. "And it killed them."

The heat behind his eyes is rising fast. His shoulders tense, something warm and electric running down his spine. 

"I thought if I called, and they weren't dead - if I was wrong - it would be embarrassing. Inconvenient."

He turns away from the hive. 

"They always left. For conferences. For retreats. Meetings. I stayed home. Or with some new housekeeper. Or tutor. Or - no one. I didn't ask for more. I didn't get more. And I thought that was fine. I thought that meant I was doing okay."

A bitter sound leaves his throat. Almost a laugh. 

Almost. 

"And this time - they left me with her," he grinds his jaw. "When they went missing, they just - left her in charge. Someone who hated kids. Who hated me. And made sure I knew it."

His breath hitches. It feels foreign. 

"I don't understand why I let her hurt me," he admits. "Why I let her yell and hit and control me. I'm smart. I know I am. I could've told someone. Could've run. I'd be okay on my own. I could've -"

He breaks off, teeth clenched. 

He thinks about the files on his computer. About the fake uncle he constructed, complete with paper trail and a list of applicant actors that would fit the job. About the recordings he secretly made of the abuse that he could have turned into the police. About the green backpack in the very back corner of his closet with everything he would need to survive on the streets of Gotham at a moment's notice. About the online job offers made to his false identity that could have kept him comfortable - as long as no one discovered he was actually a child. 

"But I didn't. I stayed. I let it happen. And I. Don't. Know. Why."

The buzzing hasn't changed. It's still calm. Still steady. 

"I'm angry," Tim continues, "or - I think...I want to be. At them. For not seeing me. For not being there. For leaving me behind, again and again, and then forever. For making me think that staying invisible was the best thing I could do."

He closes his eyes. The bees are under his skin now. Filling up his insides. 

"And I want to be angry at me, too."

His shoulders quake. A thousand tiny wings are beating throughout his body. 

"But after - after all of - that - I still thought - I thought it would mean something. That losing them would break me. But it didn't. Most of time, I just feel…nothing. Like I'm playing a video game of someone else's life. Like I'm not even in it."

His fists curl at his sides. 

"And I hate that. Or, I'm trying to. Want to. I want to hate that I've been waiting for it to hurt. For something to snap. For grief to show up."

His knees give out. He sinks into the mossy floor, clutching the front of the too-big coat like it might hold him together. Might keep the bees in. 

"I tried," he chokes. "I went to their graves. I waited. I begged."

He presses his forehead to his knees, arms wrapped tight around himself. He mentioned this part already, didn't he? God - he can't think straight. Not will all this buzzing. He's already lost his heart. What is left of Tim if he loses his mind too? 

"I miss people I never really had. I miss the idea of them. I want to scream for parents I'm not sure ever really loved me. I wish they were different. I wish I was. I wish someone had wanted me enough to stop all of this from happening."

Fingers tug at the ends of his hair. Maybe they're his own. Probably. It doesn't make sense for them to belong to anyone else but he can't feel his own hands. His heart, his mind, his body - it's all just...going away. 

But the bees still buzz.

In the hive.

In him. 

"And I hate that I still want them to have been better. That some part of me still wants them to be proud of me. Still wants to matter."

His head whips up, staring up at the hive like it might offer answers. Can't they hear the other bees inside him?

He's shaking now, whole body tremors that have nothing to do with the night air. 

He knows he's repeating himself. Talking in circles. He's always had a bit of a problem with the connection between his brain and his mouth, both moving too fast to stay in sync. 

He hopes the bees don't mind. 

"And I'm scared. Or - I think I am. I don't feel it. But in my head - it - I wanted to feel for so long and now? Fuck. Now - there's something - being here, the way they all see me. The way they all care."

He exhales, the pressure hurting his ribs. But it's not physical pain that concerns him. 

Something's changing. It's been changing since Damian Wayne returned his Chemistry book. Since the brothers dragged Tim back to the manor. 

Small. Not even a feeling, really. Just...flickers. Like a lightbulb twitching before it turns on. Or a wingbeat.  

Their faces flitter through his hazy, distant mind, pulling it back out from where it's been coming unmoored. Damian's righteous anger, for Tim. The concern that so often settled just below Jason's brow. How kind Dick's smiles could be. Alfred's gentle voice and touch. Bruce's solid presence that felt more parental in less than an hour at the manor than his own mother and father ever did. 

His fingers twitch. And he feels them this time. 

He swallows, and the air stings his throat - dry and sharp, like he's breathing for the first time in weeks.

It’s like he can feel his body remembering itself - nerves reconnecting. Breath deepening. The edges of things sharpening back into focus. The weight in his chest isn’t gone, but it’s heavier now. Realer. Like it belongs to him again.

The numbness isn’t gone. But it’s thinning. Cracking.

The hollow space is still there, but it’s no longer empty. It’s filling.

Not with joy. Not with comfort. But with truth. With something closer to grief.

It leaks through, not flooding him. Not yet. Trickling in slow and sharp. That pulse behind his eyes. The catch in his lungs. That odd heat crawling up the back of his neck like he's about to cry, even if no tears come. The kind of feeling that makes your hands ache and your spine itch and -

The kind of feeling. 

God.

Fuck.

A feeling. 

It's not much. 

But it's more than he's had in weeks. 

And it hurts. Not a lot. Just enough to remind him what hurting feels like. 

Just enough to know this is real.

It’s terrifying.

But it’s something.

And beneath all that - buzzing.

A quiet, constant hum. Low in his chest, behind his ribs, under his skin.

The bees are still there. They never left. But they've been moving - not angry, not loud - just...building. Preparing. 

"I think it might be coming back."

The words hang there. Like a thread he's afraid to pull, in case the whole thing unravels. 

"And I don't…" He shakes his hed, staring at his knees. "I don't know what that means. What it's going to do to me."

His voice is steadier now than he feels. 

...than he feels. 

"I've been…hollowed out for so long. I think - I think before they - before it happened. I built my whole life around not feeling. Around surviving. Around keeping it all quiet and clean and locked away where no one could get to it. Not even me."

He laughs, short and bitter. 

Real. 

"If it comes back - if all of it comes back - I don't know if I'll survive it. I don't know where to start. What's safe to feel first. If anything is."

Fingernails bite into his thighs. Like stingers fighting for purchase. 

"I'm scared it'll crush me," he admits. "That I'll fall apart and never come back from it. That I'll feel everything and it'll be too much."

He looks up again, eyes burning now even though they haven't yet shed a single tear. 

"But I'm scared not to feel it, too. Because that means it wins, right? The numbness. The silence. Them."

His voice softens on the last word. Not Mrs. Mac. Not his parents. Not the kids at school.

Just… them. 

There's a long silence. 

A single bee drifts free of the hive, slow and lazy, as if unsure whether it wants to leave or stay. 

Tim watches it absently, barely breathing. 

It lands on his wrist. 

He doesn't move at first. Doesn't even flinch. 

But when it crawls closer to the sensitive skin near his palm, where his hands met gravel on the sidewalk of his school not three days ago, he startles. A sharp inhale, a twitch of muscle - and that's all it takes. 

The sting is instant. 

Tim gasps, the pain sharp and precise, a pinpoint blaze in the fog that has been slowly clearing. He stares at the bee, still clinging to him, its stinger buried deep, abdomen pulsing with instinctive finality.

It's going to die.

Because of him. 

Because he flinched. Because he couldn't stay still. 

Because it was just trying to defend itself. 

Because that's what they do. 

Neither of them meant to hurt the other, but here they are. 

It's not fair. It doesn't make sense. 

And it still hurts. 

Tim's chest rises, too quick, too tight. His eyes blur. 

The bee falls away. The stinger stays. 

And Tim...

...breaks. 

The tears hit fast. Ugly. Hot.

A sob. Loud and tearing and halfway to a scream. He buries his face in his arms.

And for the first time since the world ended - 

Tim Drake cries.

Not because he thinks he should.

Not because it’s expected.

But because the weight finally lands. And the dam finally breaks.

Because he’s tired. And hurting. And he misses them. Or the version of them that never existed.

And that still counts as grief.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps until they’re close. Doesn’t lift his head when someone kneels beside him.

And then - carefully, quietly - Damian sits down next to him.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t make a joke or offer advice or ask any more questions.

He just…stays.

The bees don’t buzz louder. The air doesn’t shift. 

But something in Tim does. 

Grief is still there. The weight hasn’t lifted.

But now - for the first time - it can land. 

It hurts. God, it hurts. 

But he feels it. 

And that's where the healing starts. 

Not with a scream.

Not with a grave. 

Not even with the truth. 

But with the sting. 

And the choice to feel it.