Chapter Text
Tim woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t fall back asleep.
His comforter, while usually (as the name suggested) comforting, felt like it was suffocating him. It was twisted around his limbs like a net and damp with his sweat. Panting, Tim scrambled out of it.
Nightmares sucked.
Tim’s usually consisted of shapes and feelings rather than concrete forms; more blurs and vague understanding than spelled-out fears.
Tonight was the exception, and that was what made it feel so real.
Clear depictions of Dick and Bruce giving him condescendingly pitying looks; Oscar laughing and insisting that he was just a dumb, stupid kid and that they’d never been friends.
“It’s not his fault,” Dream-Dick had said to Dream-Bruce. “Sometimes kids just don’t pick things up like they should.”
“He’s Robin,” Dream-Bruce had responded, and that was enough for Tim to have to blink back tears when he recalled it.
He’d been stupid.
After thinking about it for a couple hours, Tim had come to the conclusion that maybe some of the things Oscar had said to him were a little weird in comparison to other teen-adult relationships. But it was so hard to equate Oscar, the guy who’d made Tim feel welcome for the first time in his life, with the perpetrator image Dick and Bruce were trying to paint of him.
Tim’s ceiling fan made a small creak every three seconds, and while normally he wouldn’t mind, he found himself unable to bear it after a couple more minutes. He couldn’t sleep anyway. Maybe a glass of water would help clear his mind.
He got up and padded over to the door, opening it as silently as he could. He winced when it groaned on its hinges, pausing to listen for any lurking Bats coming down the hall, but no one came.
Tiptoeing down the carpeted hallway, Tim made his way to the kitchen. He did his best to ignore the portraits framed along the walls, feeling the past Waynes’ judgement dripping down his spine like ice water.
It was a matter of minutes and lifetimes before Tim crossed the kitchen threshold. He grabbed a glass to fill it with water, then turned around—
“Dick!” he yelped, startling enough for the water to splash over the edges of his cup. He steadied himself before levelling a half-hearted glare at his brother.
Dick was clad in rumpled pajamas, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink. Tim guessed it made sense. He’d probably just come back from patrol.
“Sorry, baby bird,” Dick said before grabbing a paper towel to mop up the spill. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I wasn’t scared.” Dick raised a dubious eyebrow. “I wasn’t. I was just, you know. Startled.”
Dick just shrugged, but Tim felt like some of the casualness was forced. He bit the inside of his cheek.
After he threw away the wet paper towel, Dick went to sit on a barstool. He gestured for Tim to follow. After a moment’s hesitation, Tim sat down beside him.
“So,” Dick started, “what’s got you up at this late hour?”
Tim stared at the water left in his cup. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Dick hummed sympathetically. “Bad dream?” he asked softly.
Tim scoffed. “You make it sound like I’m a kindergartener.”
“I don’t mean to.” Tim didn’t have to see him to know that Dick was looking at him with one of those poor baby expressions. It made his skin crawl with invisible ants. “What’s going through your head, Tim?”
Tim had spent most of his life independent. Alone in a big house since he was eight years old, he’d had to teach himself how to make himself meals, get to and from school, redirect the school nurse’s attempts to contact his out-of-country parents when he caught the flu.
He’d thrown himself into schoolwork early on to please his parents, taking home blue ribbons and honor roll medals every year. His teachers praised him for consistently being at the top of his class.
Then, becoming Robin—Tim could solve cases as well as anyone else, if not better. Maybe he wasn’t as physically capable as Dick and Jason had been, but he was no wilting daisy in the field and he worked hard to prove it.
People thinking Tim was incapable, or even on the same level as the kids he knew (as pretentious as it sounded) made his hands fist and his stomach turn. He’d shown everyone how intelligent he was.
But sometimes he contradicted himself.
“Tim?” Dick prompted.
Tim sighed. “I’m not a victim, you know.” His grip on the glass tightened minutely. “I just made a mistake.” Dick was quiet, which Tim was thankful for. He wanted the opportunity to get all his words out. “I’m not like Nancy, who was coerced for her grade. I’m not an alley kid who thinks they don’t have a choice if they want food. Oscar didn’t even touch me! Maybe he was going to… to do something later, but he didn’t. All he did was…” Tim trailed off, humiliation sucking his voice away.
Dick placed a hand on his shoulder. “All he did was what?”
Tim’s water rippled as tears dropped from his cheeks to the cup. “All he did was offer to be my friend.”
Dick made a sort of wounded noise before Tim was abruptly pulled to his side, smooshed into a tight hug. Tim narrowly managed to steady his glass on the counter.
“I love you, Tim,” Dick said, and any protest died on Tim’s tongue. He swallowed. “You were my brother long before Bruce adopted you, and you always will be.”
“I know,” Tim said weakly into Dick’s chest.
Dick squeezed him somehow tighter. “You’re funny and kindhearted and a stubborn little shit if I’ve ever met one—” Tim huffed out a wet laugh “—and anyone who can’t see that is missing out.”
The remnants of Tim’s tiny amusement fizzled out as his brain conjured up memories of past interactions with his classmates, overheard whispers.
“Can I sit here?” an eight-year-old Tim had asked now nameless faces on the first day of third grade.
“There’s no room,” one had replied amidst snickers from the other kids. There had been at least three open seats.
When he was in fifth grade, a kid threw rocks at the wheels of the skateboard he was teaching himself to ride.
By the time he was eleven, people looked at him funny if he ever tried to join a conversation. Sure, most of them kept polite conversation, but he could see
In any case, Tim had learned early on that he was the outlier of his peers. He thought he’d made his peace with it.
Right now he was sobbing into his older brother’s shirt. “You don’t get it, Dick,” he insisted as he clung tightly.
“Tim,” Dick said, “I challenge you to think of one bad and true thing about yourself.”
Tim sniffed grossly. Could Dick have made that request any easier? “I’m weird.”
Dick brought a hand up to run through Tim’s tangled hair. “Well, sure you are. But that’s part of your charm. I’m weird, too.”
Dick wasn’t getting it. “I talk too much or too little with no in between.”
“You’re passionate. And sometimes you like a little socialization break. That’s not a crime.”
“I’m a know-it-all.”
“You’re smart.”
“Dick!” Tim pulled back, frustration tears licking at his eyes again, because apparently he couldn’t go two minutes without being a goddamn crybaby. “You don’t get it! I try to do things the right way, but it just doesn’t work. People don’t like me, and I can’t make that change.
“Sure, I’m smart, but I’m too smart to be relatable. I might be passionate, but it’s about things that nobody cares about. I’ve tried to make friends, believe me! I’m just not cut out for it!”
And great, now the waterworks were back with a new vengeance.
Tim scrubbed harshly at his eyes. He absolutely hated crying in front of people, and in the past twenty-four hours Dick had seen him do it more than he had in the two years they’d known each other. His parents would’ve had a conniption.
Just—how come everyone else Tim’s age could make friends normally? How come the only person who wanted to spend time with Tim was middle-aged?
Why was Tim so different?
Tim tore his eyes away from Dick’s, unwilling to watch his brother’s face fill with any more pity than it already held. He didn’t want to feel any more stupid.
“Tim,” Dick whispered, voice breaking. He grabbed Tim by the shoulders and put a hand on Tim’s wet cheek, turning his head so he’d meet Dick’s eyes. “Listen, baby bird. You’re different from your peers. But that comes with the territory of being a Bat.”
“Nobody liked me before I met you guys.”
“That’s not your fault,” Dick stressed. “People are just—teenagers don’t like people who don’t fit into their picket-fence mold. It doesn’t mean you’re less than them.”
The sentiment was one that Tim had seen on inspirational quotes posters his whole life, never meaning much to him and doing little to reassure him that he wasn’t the outlier.
Hearing it from Dick wasn’t that much different.
But… it chipped away the cruelest ice.
Tim lost it.
Intense sobs wracked his body, tears pouring out with no end in sight. His head started to throb to the beat of his cries, which only added to his distress. Dick pulled him into another hug and Tim clutched at his shirt, wails and whimpers consuming him. He was just so exhausted of everything.
“I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” he sobbed, tears and snot soaking into Dick’s worn shirt.
Dick rubbed his back gently and shushed him. “I know, Timmy. I know.”
“I don’t know how to stop.”
“Then we’ll help you,” Dick murmured. His hand ran soothing circles over Tim’s shirt, and eventually Tim cried his eyes dry.
______
“Here, Tim.”
Tim looked up from where he was at his desk, doodling on the back of a math worksheet. Ms. Parsons had told them to work on something quietly when they finished, and so Tim had been sketching the bat signal all over his paper for the past ten minutes while he waited for everyone else to finish.
He hadn’t been expecting Drew, one of the boys who sat at his table (Ms. Parsons liked to keep them in groups). They weren’t friends, but Drew was always friendly enough, so Tim liked him.
Right now, Drew was handing him a small plastic card. Tim took it, looking curiously at what was written.
YOU’RE INVITED!
What? Drew’s 10th birthday party!
Where? Robinson Park!
When? February 13th at 4:00 P.M.!
(Allergy-friendly cake and pizza will be provided.)
Tim stared at the invitation in wide-eyed wonder. Most of his classmates had hosted parties throughout the year, but Tim hadn’t been invited to any of them before now.
“I’m having a birthday party,” Drew was saying, and Tim dragged his eyes away from the invitation to look at him. “You can come, if you want.”
“I’ll be there!” Tim said excitedly, then remembered his manners. “Thank you for inviting me.”
Drew shrugged, then returned his focus to his worksheet. “Yeah, sure.”
Tim couldn’t focus on the rest of the lesson after that, preoccupied with trying to stifle his grin. A party! He was invited to a party!
On his walk to the bus stop later, he realized he had to start thinking of a gift. He had a week to figure out the perfect one—hardly enough time, but Tim could manage.
When he got to his house, he made a beeline for his room. He sat down at his desk, pulled out a notebook and marker, and started brainstorming.
Drew didn’t talk to Tim very much, but when he did, he was very nice. Tim hadn’t thought that they were friends, but the party invitation definitely proved otherwise, and friends had an obligation to give each other good birthday gifts. Tim couldn’t mess this up.
Tim wracked his brain for something good. He thought Drew might have mentioned a book series once, but he couldn’t remember what it was. Besides, books were a lame gift.
Gift cards were off the table for obvious reasons. Concert tickets? No, Tim’s parents wouldn’t appreciate such a large sum of money missing from their accounts. Stuffed animals could be hit or miss; Tim wasn’t sure if Drew was one of the boys who thought they were too feminine.
Journal? Boring. Tablet? Expensive. Maybe—
Tim gasped, an idea bringing itself to the forefront of his mind.
Drew was the class’s biggest fan of the Beatles. He was always talking about theories and the intricacies of their music. After a quick Google search, Tim confirmed that they were definitely not all alive, but there was plenty of merch on eBay.
This was perfect.
An hour later, Tim had ordered two signed vinyls and a vintage Beatles t-shirt. They’d come in the mail before the party (he double-checked). He wrote a card, making sure it was genuine, and decorated its envelope.
Drew was going to love it.
______
It was the next afternoon when Tim finally broke.
He was working on a case in his room in an effort to take his mind off of the whole ordeal, but it wasn’t working. His thoughts kept drifting back to Oscar.
Tim glanced at his phone. He had to know.
Picking up the phone, Tim found Oscar’s contact. He stared for a moment at the contact photo—a selfie of the two of them that used to make Tim happy, but now made his skin crawl. He took a deep breath before typing out a message.
Can we meet up? I want to talk to you
Dick definitely wouldn’t approve. Neither would Bruce.
But Tim needed confirmation more than he feared their reaction.
It took less than a full minute for Oscar to respond.
sure Timmy! when and where?
Tim bit his lip, then responded, Just the library. He added the time and pressed send. Oscar gave the message a thumbs-up.
Something tightened in Tim’s chest, and he tried to tell himself it wasn’t dread.
______
Tim had been bouncing on the balls of his feet all week in anticipation for Drew’s party. It was tomorrow, and Tim couldn’t wait. He’d wrapped the gift in sparkly wrapping paper and carefully tied a bow on top. Drew was going to love it.
“Hi, Drew!” Tim said when he walked into the classroom on Friday. He’d been talking to Drew a lot more in the past couple of days. “I’m excited for your party tomorrow.” He slid into his seat.
Drew glanced at Tim out of the corner of his eye. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”
Tim grinned. Drew wasn’t very talkative, but that was okay. Tim could carry a conversation. “I haven’t been to Robinson park before. My parents don’t like to take me out to places. But now I’ll be able to!”
Drew kept his gaze on his desk. “Mhm.”
For the rest of class, Tim chattered to Drew about anything and everything. He didn’t mind that Drew was quiet. Friends didn’t care about that stuff, after all.
When it was time for recess, Drew quickly stood up and sped outside. Tim stayed seated, since he liked to stay inside with the teacher while everyone else played on the playground. It was calmer inside. He usually helped Ms. Parsons clean or stack papers.
After a couple minutes, though, he decided he should go out today. He could hang out with Drew!
Tim said goodbye to Ms. Parsons and skipped outside, a giddy smile on his face. He found Drew near the swingsets, laughing with a couple of other kids from their class. Tim approached them from behind. None of them had seen him yet.
“—I don’t know why you put up with him,” one of the boys was saying to Drew. Tim paused. Put up with who?
Drew fiddled with the chain on the swing. “Well, what am I supposed to do? He doesn’t have any other friends.”
A bad feeling crept up Tim’s spine.
“Why’d you even invite him to your party?”
Drew shrugged. “My mom said I had to. She thinks he’s, like, on the spectrum or something. Whatever that means.”
Giggles from the other kids. “God, he’s so weird,” one said. Tim’s hands tightened into fists by his side. They couldn’t be talking about him.
“I’m pretty sure he thinks we’re best friends now,” Drew said. Any doubt in his mind about who they were talking about was slowly creeping away. “He talks to me all the time. He won’t take a hint.”
No, no, no. There was no way Tim had misinterpreted the situation so horribly. They had to be talking about someone else—
“My dad talks sometimes about how Tim’s parents are always out of town. Maybe it’s to get away from him.”
The first hot tear slid down Tim’s cheek.
“Maybe that’s why he’s so weird. He doesn’t have anyone to talk to.”
The cold February air did nothing to soothe the fire in his face.
“I don’t blame them.”
The group of kids laughed again.
To Tim’s horror, one of them spotted him, eyes immediately going wide. The other kids noticed and turned around, their laughter coming to an abrupt halt.
“Oh,” one of them said, and Tim wanted to hide in his parka like a turtle in its shell.
He swallowed. “Sorry,” he croaked. Nobody said anything.
For a moment, the only sound was the distant shouts of their playing classmates. Then Drew said, “Tim—”
“I’m gonna go inside.” Tim scrubbed his hands over his burning face. “Um. I’ll mail you your present.”
Without waiting for a reply, Tim turned and headed back to the classroom. Ms. Parsons raised an eyebrow at the state he was in, but he waved off her questions. He just wanted to forget about it all.
His phone buzzed, and he checked it to see it was from his dad.
Hey, Tim, it read, looks like we’ll be in Botswana for a bit longer than we expected. We’ll be home in April.
Tim ignored the droplets that fell on his screen.
______
“Well, Tim, what’s eating at you?” Oscar asked, arms folded on the table in front of him. He and Tim were sitting at their usual table in the library, but this time without any study materials. It felt several different shades of awkward and natural.
Tim stared at the table, too nervous to make eye contact. He had to get this right. “Do you… you don’t think…” Ugh, why couldn’t he just spit it out?! “Are we really friends?”
Oscar blinked. “Of course, Tim.” Tim let out a sigh of relief as Oscar’s brows folded in concern. “What makes you think we aren’t?”
Tim swallowed. “Well, I just—I’m annoying, you know? I don’t want you to think that you have to hang out with me.” He fidgeted with his hands in his lap, fingernails digging crescents into plush skin.
“Whoa, whoa.” Oscar left his seat to crouch beside Tim, grabbing Tim’s hands and keeping them still. “Don’t hurt yourself, Timmy.” He looked up at Tim with warm brown eyes. “Tim, it’s like I told you before. We’re in this together. You can tell me anything. I’m here for you no matter what.”
Tim couldn’t tell what he believed anymore, but Oscar…
He said he was Tim’s friend. It had to mean something.
“Okay,” Tim said, a small smile creeping onto his face. “I believe you.”
Oscar smiled back. Then he moved one of his hands onto Tim’s knee.
“It’s you and me against the world,” Oscar said, thumb rubbing back and forth over Tim’s jeans. Tim tensed. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
…Why didn’t that sound as reassuring as it did a minute ago?
“I’ve never known someone quite like you,” Oscar continued, bringing his other hand up to Tim’s shoulder. His voice got lower. “You’re special, Tim.”
Heat crawled up Tim’s neck. This was—this wasn’t good. What was Oscar doing?
“Oscar? Is everything—”
“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM!”
In the blink of an eye, Oscar was pulled up and away from Tim, Dick Grayson shoving himself between the two. Tim stood up as Oscar scrambled back, both of them shocked.
Dick’s hands were in trembling fists, body language much more than tense. Tim couldn’t see his face—Dick had his back to him—but he knew enough about body language to know the vigilante was furious.
Oscar raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Whoa, hold on—”
“You’re going to leave right now, and you’re never going to lay an eye on my little brother again, much less a hand.”
Oscar scoffed. “I’m his tutor—”
“And you’ve been let go," Dick interrupted, cold as the frigid winter. “Now leave.”
The standoff lasted less than ten seconds before Oscar turned and left. He didn’t look back.
Dick, however, did. “Tim,” he began, mouth set in a firm line.
Tim suddenly felt very small, still sitting on the wooden library chair. “I’m sorry.” He bit the inside of his cheek, letting the pain distract himself from tearing up for the bajillionth time and making an even worse fool of himself.
He shouldn’t have texted Oscar. He should have believed Bruce and Dick when they told him Oscar wasn’t his friend, he should’ve—should’ve—
Suddenly, Dick’s arms were wrapped around Tim’s shaking body, holding him tightly to a broad chest.
“You don’t need to be sorry,” Dick said, muffled by his face being buried in Tim’s hair. He pressed a kiss to Tim’s head. “I’m just glad I got here in time.”
Oh. Because if he hadn’t, Oscar would’ve…
Tim didn’t want to think about it.
“I’m sorry,” Tim said again, because he didn’t know what else to say. His heart was beating like a chased animal’s. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, Tim,” Dick whispered, and Tim didn’t know if the water dripping down his face was his fault or Dick’s. “I love you, bud, and I’m just happy you’re okay.”
Tim sniffed, hands twisting into the fabric of Dick’s shirt. “I love you, too.”
______
There wasn’t enough proof of intent to get Oscar arrested, much to Bruce’s and Dick’s dismay. Tim couldn’t find it in himself to care if Oscar served time or not. Part of him wanted him to, part of him didn’t. It was a precarious balance of indifference.
Mostly, he was just tired.
All of them, even Alfred, were in the batcave. Tim and Dick were sparring on the mats while Bruce watched and Alfred made idle chatter.
Dick leapt at Tim with a glint in his eye. Tim feigned left and bolted right, turning around quickly in an effort to sweep his opponent’s legs, but he was no match for the acrobat.
Dick grinned and lunged forward, snagging Tim’s shirt and pulling him over. Tim scrambled, catching on to what Dick’s mischievous expression entailed, but he was too slow.
Quick as lightning, Dick jammed his fingers between two of Tim’s ribs, making Tim squeal and squirm away with new incentive. Dick loosened his grip and allowed it, giggling himself.
“Aw, baby bird,” he said, “you’re too fun.”
Tim rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “You play dirty.”
“Well, you left yourself open. The criminals won’t be as kind as I was.”
With a scoff, Tim said, “I’d much rather be punched by a criminal than tickled.”
Dick tilted his head for a moment in thought, then shrugged. “Yeah, I guess that checks out.”
“Get some water, boys,” Bruce called, picking up a scone from Alfred’s tray. “Whoever’s still up for patrol is rolling out in half an hour.”
“Right away, B!” Dick answered with a playful salute. He and Tim scampered off the mat toward Alfred, whose tray also bore two water bottles. The butler really did have all the essentials.
Tim had thought that Bruce wouldn’t have let him patrol tonight, but he’d been pleasantly surprised when the man had answered his nervous inquiry with allowance. He suspected that Bruce knew Tim needed some escape from the regular world right now.
As Tim and Dick made their way to the locker rooms, Tim’s eye caught on the display in the center of the cave.
A red and green suit sat inside, each tear carefully stitched, bloodstains washed away with gentle precision. Tim often found himself gazing into the memorial on hard days; days when he wished he was a better son, better Robin, better anything and everything.
Would Jason have been his friend, had everything been different? If the Joker had shown any small mercy, would Tim have even found his way to the Waynes?
God, he wished it had been like that. A perfect world; one where Jason Todd still roamed the halls of Gotham Academy with Austen tucked under his arm, where his melodious laugh on Gotham’s streets could make Batman smile on the darkest midnight. Maybe he’d have run into Tim on the streets, camera bag slung over his head, and asked if he needed a home.
Tim had pictured that particular fantasy an endless amount of times.
Dick noticed him staring and stopped beside him, placing a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “He would’ve loved you,” he said softly.
Tim’s eyes traced the broken domino that his hero once wore. “You think so?”