Chapter Text
Tim is on top of a chandelier.
Wait, no. Not enough details.
Tim is on top of the Wayne family chandelier. With Dick Grayson. He'd consider testing himself for drug consumption if he wasn't, well, ten.
Dick had—very seriously, in fact—told him that they had exactly fifteen minutes to get on and off. Alfred was making his rounds in the garden and would be outside for at least half an hour. The fifteen minute cushion was so that the chandelier would stop shaking by the time he came back inside. It also gave them time to get far away from the scene of the crime, just in case he noticed something amiss.
"It's Alfie," Dick had said, "you can never be too sure. He'd make a good fortune teller."
From up top, Tim can see the heavy bolts screwed into the ceiling. The chandelier has clearly been reinforced due to Dick's antics, which is a relief. He doesn't know how long his parents will be gone; if he breaks his arm he's not sure he'll be able to hide it. Of course, between breaking the chandelier and himself, his body is preferable. He cringes to even think about how his parents would react to the news of his involvement in ruining an antique. In a perfect world, he's aiming not to do either.
Though, now that he's looking closer, he can see where the metal structure has been changed for something more robust. The crystals are definitely old—albeit well taken care of—but the fixture itself is decidedly not. That puts him a bit more at ease.
"Come on," Dick urges, already climbing down from the top to find handholds near the bottom. "It's fun, you'll see!"
Well. Tim has hung from fire escapes for less.
He's slower as he climbs down the chandelier. He doesn't have the training Dick does, having grown up in the circus. Everything he's learned has been through online videos and practicing by himself.
He settles on the other side and peers through the fixture. The lights aren't on, but it still feels like he needs to squint against the brightness of Dick's grin.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready," Tim confirms.
It's like being on a swing. They both drop down to let their feet dangle in the air, bodies working in tandem to shift the chandelier from side to side.
The ceiling itself is tall; it's about thirty feet on its own. The chandelier dangles less than five feet from it, which means even hanging from the bottom they're still at least fifteen or so feet above the ground. If they fall, it's enough height to cause injury.
Still, Tim finds himself giggling. There's moments of weightlessness when he reaches the peak of the swing that feel like flying.
"Watch this!" On the backward swing, Dick jumps. He flips through the air, clearing the staircase railing and landing on his feet on the other side with a flourish. His grin is wide; for a moment, Tim can almost see the glittering circus costume from the night they met.
"You too! Minus the flips." Dick pats the railing. "You can grab on and I'll help you over the side."
Tim swings his body through the air, gaining the momentum he lost when Dick leapt. He lets go at the highest point, heart in his throat. His fingers close around the railing.
There's a moment, when he meets Dick's eyes and they're both grinning, where he understands how he could have become Robin. If Dick is the one teaching him, if he looks at him like that—with so much pride and happiness it doesn't seem possible—then Tim thinks he could do anything, be anything so long as Dick doesn't look away.
Then his socks slip.
His legs go sideways and out into open air. A cry falls from Tim's lips as his hands tighten around the rail; except it's polished instead of rusty metal and his suddenly sweaty hands can't seem to keep a grip.
Dick lunges forward to grab him by the wrists. He yanks him bodily over the railing and onto the other side, leaving behind what will surely be bruises when his stomach collides painfully with the top. They collapse in a heap on the landing; safe.
"No socks," Tim says, still wheezing from having the air punched out of him. He looks over at Dick when he doesn't respond. Dick, who is shaking, face pale and eyes haunted.
When Tim met Dick Grayson at the tender age of five, Dick felt larger than life. When he met him again in the cave and was scooped up into his arms, he felt just as large and just as safe. Here and now, it's almost shocking how small he is when Tim wraps his arms around him.
At just twelve years old, Dick isn't much bigger than him. He's taller by a few inches, and getting broader already, but Tim can still fold him into his arms.
"It's okay," he tells him, "you caught me."
Dick lets out a broken sound. He latches onto Tim and buries his face in his neck. The collar of Tim's shirt grows wet as he shakes with silent tears.
Tim has never really comforted someone like this before; but he remembers the way Dick and Jason held him when he was upset, and the way Jason said you don't leave someone who's crying alone.
The minutes tick down in his head as he pets Dick's hair and mumbles what he hopes are soothing words. Finally, when they can't wait anymore, he pulls away and takes Dick's hand instead.
"Alfred will be back soon," he says softly, "come on, we'll go to your room."
Dick doesn't say anything. He follows quietly, hand clinging tight to Tim's as he leads him through the halls and to the family wing. He knows where Dick's room is because when Dick was older he brought him there a lot. It's messy and full of photos and colors, unlike Tim's room.
They slip inside quietly.
"Stay here?" Tim asks.
Dick holds tighter to his hand for a moment before letting go with a miserable sniffle.
He hurries across the room to throw open the closet. It's as messy as the rest of the room and he silently hopes Dick won't mind him moving things when he's older again. He shoves shoes and old clothes to the side, making a fairly decent space on the floor. Next he drags pillows and blankets off the bed and makes a nest. Then comes Dick.
"I like smaller spaces when I'm upset," he explains, as he leads Dick to the closet. He doesn't say that it's as close to a hug as he can get when he's alone in his house.
He crawls in with Dick and closes the door. It's dark inside and just big enough for them to lay together, limbs tangled. Dick latches back onto him as soon as he's settled.
He thinks they drift off to sleep at one point because he wakes up to a knock on the closet door. Dick whines when Tim moves but doesn't wake. Tim crawls forward to open the door just enough to peak out.
Bruce is on the other side, holding a tray of food and drinks.
"Hey, chum," he says, "is Dick in there?"
Tim hesitates. If this were his parents, they'd be upset he made a mess just to hide in the closet like a child. But Bruce is Dick's dad and he said that Tim could come to him for anything.
"He's upset," he finally says.
Bruce gestures to what little of the nest he can see. "Did you make this for him?"
Tim nods hesitantly.
He gets a warm smile for that, the kind that makes Bruce's normally solemn face appear years younger. "Thank you for taking care of him."
"Always," he whispers, before he can help it. "Do you—do you want to see him?"
"Only if he wants."
Tim turns around. He leans down to shake Dick's shoulder. "Dick," he says, when he gets a soft questioning sound, "do you want to see Bruce?"
Dick blinks sleepily before giving a small nod. He crawls towards the door and straight into Bruce's arms as soon as he sees him. Bruce scoops him up, big hand nearly spanning the entirety of Dick's back.
"Bad memories?" he asks.
Dick nods silently.
Bruce catches Tim's eye and smiles that same gentle smile from before. "You were in good hands, I bet. I see Tim's been taking care of you."
He nods again, peeking back at Tim almost shyly; Tim blushes.
"Do you want to come watch a movie in my room?"
Dick mumbles something.
Bruce chuckles. "Of course Tim can come."
Another nod.
"Would you like to join us?" he asks Tim.
"Oh, I—I wouldn't want to intrude."
Dick reaches out to grab his hand. "Not."
"He tends to get nonverbal after an episode like this," Bruce explains, at Tim's bewildered look. "But he's saying you're not intruding and I agree."
"Okay," Tim says quietly. "I can carry the tray."
"Don't worry about it, I'll come grab it." Bruce holds out his free arm. "Can I carry you?"
Oh.
He stares at him with wide eyes. He hasn't interacted with Bruce much, considering how much time he's spent with Dick the past few days. The part of him that sounds like his parents says to refuse but the part of him that just wants to soak up as much affection as possible desperately wants to say yes.
Dick tugs on his wrist.
Tim nods.
Bruce scoops him up like it's nothing. He balances them both on one hip each, keeping them secure to his side. Tim rests his head against his shoulder and laces his fingers through Dick's. It feels safe in Bruce's arms, the way it feels safe in Dick's.
He can just relax and close his eyes as Bruce carries them to the master bedroom, where the bed has already been arranged into a similar configuration of pillows and blankets, like Bruce was expecting this all along. He sets them both down in the center of it and promises to be right back with the snacks.
Sure enough, he's back in moments, handing them both bottled waters and containers of crackers, fruit and cheese. He settles in the center, where they can both lean against his side. Tim is tense for a while as the movie starts, afraid of dropping crumbs or spilling water. Eventually, the warmth of Bruce's body heat is too much to resist. His eyes get heavy as he leans his head against Bruce's shoulder. One of those big hands rubs gentle circles into his back and Tim is gone.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Tim whispers.
"'course," Dick says, as he leads him through the Batcave, to a big metal door. He stands up on his toes to let the scanner get a look at his eye before it clicks open to let them in. "They're our suits."
The lights click on as they step through, illuminating mannequins wearing different kinds of suits. Most of it is for Batman but there are other sections. Dick heads for the Robin one.
"This one says your name," he says. "It's got pants."
"Thank goodness," Tim mumbles.
The colors are less bright than Dick's. The legs and body are black with green accents on the knee high boots and short sleeves. The torso is mostly red with the signature yellow on the inner lining of the cape. The fingers of the gloves have green accents too. It looks… cool. He can't imagine himself wearing it.
"It's okay," Dick decides, "the accents are cool but I still think the leotard is better."
He makes a sound of triumph as he pulls out his own suit. Tim looks away when he immediately begins to strip.
The suit Dick pointed out is clearly meant for Tim when he's bigger, which means there's a smaller one somewhere. Tim looks at the rest of the designs and finds a suit a bit more similar to Dick's. It's still got pants, but the outline of the leotard is in red. He hides behind a mannequin as he changes and emerges feeling a bit silly.
He doesn't feel like Robin. He feels like a kid playing dress-up.
"Alright!" Dick cartwheels to a stop in front of him. "Operation: Robin Party begins. Are you ready?"
Tim opens his mouth, but a voice interrupts them.
"What are you two doing?" Damian asks from the doorway. "You're not supposed to be down here."
"Scatter!" Dick shouts.
He throws something down on the ground at Damian's feet and smoke explodes out into the room. Tim bolts for the door. Something crashes behind him as Damian curses. He emerges from the smoke to find Dick already waiting for him. Together, they bolt for the elevator.
"Hey!" Damian shouts. "Get back here, this instant!"
He staggers out from the room, coughing into his arm. His eyes zero in on the two of them as the elevator doors start to close.
"You'll never take us alive!" Dick shouts back.
Tim shudders at the look of fury in Damian's eyes. He's glad when the doors cut them off from his glare. "He looked really mad."
"Rule number one of Robin: be prepared for anything." He shrugs, looking all too smug. "Not my fault he wasn't ready for smoke pellets."
"Do you think he'll tell Bruce?"
"Nah. If he tells Bruce he has to admit that we're better than him. Did you know he turned the Robin suit almost completely gray?" He huffs. "Robin isn't supposed to be gray!"
Tim gets the feeling it's about a lot more than the colors. No one told either of them how anyone was given Robin after Dick. Tim only knows that when he asked Dick when he was older, he said that he gave Tim the name. Maybe that's why Dick isn't taking offense to him now but is taking offense to Damian. Either way, it's a loaded topic.
"Did you still want to go to the gardens?"
"Yeah!" Dick enthuses. "I asked Alfred to set up a tea party! He makes these really good cucumber sandwiches and strawberry cakes."
They pass by Cass on their way out, who doesn't say a word about their choice of dress. She just smiles at them and mimes zipping her lips.
Outside, there's a blanket laid out under a tree with a stacked tray of food and a thermos of tea. They each take their own spots and dig in.
It's surreal to sit across from Robin. It only gets worse every time he catches a glimpse of his own body. His cape pools around him and his gloves are thick but maneuverable. He can feel the domino resting against his face, though the lenses are down.
"What's wrong?" Dick reaches out a leg to nudge his knee. "You're staring."
"I just didn't think I'd ever end up here," Tim admits. "I've never—I don't really do these kinds of things."
"Wear a Robin suit, picnic outside or all of the above?"
His eyes drop away from Dick's knowing gaze. "All of it. I, um. I don't really have friends? I skipped two grades, so. The older kids don't really talk to me."
"And I'm normally older than you. Older than this, anyways." Dick's head tilts to the side. "You must be lonely, huh?"
Tim's eyes widen. He doesn't really know how to answer that; his cheeks flush as his shoulders hunch beneath his cape.
Dick leans across the blanket to place a hand over his own. "Well, we'll both grow up soon, right? So let's be friends now. We'll speed run it."
"…Speed run…?"
"Yeah! Like, what's something you've never told anyone else? Friends tell each other their secrets."
He chews on his bottom lip as he thinks it over. "I take pictures of Batman and Robin?"
"You do?"
He nods shyly. "I follow their—your—patrol routes."
"I never noticed you," Dick says, stunned. "No way B did either, otherwise he would've kidnapped you sooner."
Tim clears his throat. "Isn't it your turn?"
"Oh, right." He leans back on his hands as he thinks it over and then says all too casually: "Sometimes I still dream about killing the man that killed my parents. I know I'm not supposed to, Bruce said it isn't really justice, but. Why does he get to keep living when they don't?"
Mary and John Grayson were somewhat eclipsed by Dick when he went to the circus, but he can remember how alive they were. All three of them seemed to radiate their own suns. They were so happy, so eager to give the world a bit of wonder through their own talents.
"Different cultures follow different rites for the dead," Tim says quietly. "I don't think you're wrong for being angry."
He tries to picture what he'd do if someone hurt Robin. If they killed him. The thought is so gut wrenching he feels nauseous. He doesn't know that he would be satisfied knowing someone who took Dick Grayson out of the world was just sitting behind bars.
"Thanks," Dick murmurs.
They return to what's left of their spread in thoughtful silence.
"Tag!" Dick shouts, somersaulting past Alfred in the hallway.
Tim follows several moments after, cape flapping behind him. "You cheated!"
"Did not!"
"Stay out of the antique room!" Alfred calls after them. Two sounds of agreement filter back to him before they're gone around the next corner.
He shakes his head fondly and continues on.
"Was that the boys?" Bruce asks, popping his head out from his office door.
"Indeed. It seems they found their old suits and are playing tag."
His eyes crinkle. "That explains what Damian was muttering about earlier."
"Master Damian is unused to seeing Master Richard this way." His lips twitch. "I believe it's been an eye opener."
"That's one word to call it. Oh well, call me if they end up breaking anything."
"Of course."
"They're so cute," Steph whispers, eyes wide in delight as she takes several dozen pictures of the two sleeping vigilantes in the library.
Sometime during their chase they flipped over a couch and ended up laying on the cushions. Dick is missing a boot and his cape, while Tim is missing both his gloves and his domino. They're sharing Tim's cape now, curled up beneath it with their arms wrapped around each other.
"I'm sending these to everyone," she says reverently. "Tim will thank me later."