Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Damian al Ghul is raised in the mountains, with a mother and a grandfather and a hundred teachers for everything that hurts and nothing that warms. 

He grows in his rooms, in courtyards, in dojos and on training courses, a three year old with a practice sword and bruises for every mistake, a six year old leaping from pole to pole and falling almost never, because falling means pain not once but twice. Seven, grinding poisons, seven, shaking with a fever for not catching one of those same poisons in his breakfast in time. Nine, reciting a thousand countries he is taught in name and resource and armies, and isn’t given a hint of what they really are.

Four and he asks questions, a hundred questions, a thousand, and he learns to be silent instead. What he needs to know he will be told. He doesn’t need to know what that insect is, only that it isn’t dangerous. He needs to know how to balance. He needs to know how to kick in a knee, or at least hand-strike it, at his current height. 

Five and he climbs the mountain until he gets it right. Five, and when he reaches the top, his grandfather frowns, tells him, Again. Faster. An al Ghul does not cry.

Then Ra’s takes Damian up, skeletal fingers like steel pliers around Damian’s tiny rib cage, and throws him off the mountain to be caught by his lead rope after a long drop, trusting Damian to either turn himself properly before slamming into the mountain side or not. To be worthy or not. 

Damian twists, catches himself in time, kicks off the rock. Unclips himself from each carabiner he hooked into on the way up, removes every cam from where he’d lodged them as he mapped a route, and finally lands back on the sand, muscles fighting to seize from too much strain and too little water. He looks over to Ubu, standing silent and impassive with the other end of Damian’s rope looped through his harness, and thinks, for just a moment, of speaking. Of asking. 

The moment of weakness passes, and Damian turns away. No one will speak without permission. He knows. But Damian has a job, he has orders. He has to get this right.

So Damian climbs. His fingers bruised and raw, his knee bleeding from when he slipped, sweat stinging his eyes, and his mouth dry from thirst, and fifteen minutes shaved off his time now that he has memorized the way. He reaches the top—one hand scrabbling at the edge, then the other; white-knuckles and shaking wrists and two solid minutes of hauling, determined, elbow-elbow-knee-foot-roll, and—

When Damian stands in the flare of the setting sun against the world’s edge, panting and sore, chest rising with pride—I did it, grandfather, see—the crag is empty. He does not frown, and he does not bite his lip, and he does not complain. 

Damian takes up the slack of his rope and rappels carefully down to the first carabiner. He can make it back down, again. He knows the way. And he has no choice. 

He can. And he does. It is the way. 

He is al Ghul. 

He asks a tutor, in secret, the next day, of the creature he saw on one of the rocks he passed. Scaly, small, with a flicking tongue, he learns its name is lizard. He would like to see one again, maybe. He would like to know what else lives on the mountain. 

He asks many things in secret, with various tutors over the years, and sometimes he finds lessons of words and golden information to hide in his own mind, and other times he finds lessons of hands and scoldings and punishing trips to stand before grandfather and his mother as his crimes are recited for the compound to hear. 

It is all right. It is worth it for the times he finds a willing mind. He knows it is not very...proper, very good, but he can’t help it. There’s too much to know. It’s all worth it. He will take what he can, and it isn’t hurting his training, is it? He is still the best, just like they demand. He excels. 

Damian al Ghul is heir to the Demon’s Head, he is the best, he is a higher breed than the rest, and when the day comes for him to conquer, to inherit, to rule, he will not fail. 

And when he asks, in a whisper, when they are alone, why his mother stands, and bends, and kneels, and sits, all in a pattern, why she does this every night once they are finally left in peace and the moon is high. Why she does this when she thinks Damian is asleep, because he evens his breathing just so , so he can see it, this secret. 

His mother calls him habibi , calls him ‘umri with the shadow of something hunted in her eyes, and pulls him to his feet. 

Rak’ha, she whispers, even in their isolation, and she teaches him to pray, only in secret. Only in the night. 

He rises, in the dark, when they are sure the last chance for interruption has passed, and they unroll their mats from within their blankets, and together they praise glory be to a god Damian does not know. 

But his mother does, and it is their secret. So he listens, and he follows, and and he never breathes a word, and it is enough. 

Damian is kept away from the world. It is to be conquered, re-shaped, not known. He learns the limits of his own body, he learns combat, history, strategy, anatomy, the sciences. He learns poisons, weapons, and interrogation. He learns about balance. He learns the layers and intricacies of ecosystems. He learns of the plague of the Anthropocene, he learns to hate humanity for all the evil in the world, and he learns it is his destiny to right that. 

He is an al Ghul, his mother tells him. She combs his hair a hundred times before bed, straightens his robe, rubs ointment into his deep bruises that are from yet another failure. Another lesson. Damian does not make the same mistake twice.

He is an al Ghul, she says, and his destiny is the highest honor. He is special, he is chosen, he is better, and one day he will execute and win the crusade of his grandfather’s many centuries. He is born of the two greatest bloodlines and he will be the perfect vessel for the savior of the world. 

Damian does not ask what the vessel part means. 

He does ask about his other bloodline. Who is my father, he asks, in a hushed voice as they sit before the flickering candles on his shelf. Was he as strong as you? Is he as powerful as grandfather?

His mother’s hands freeze in his hair, and she pulls back. He knows better than to lean, than to follow her body, her warmth. 

So Damian stays still, and his mother, for once, actually answers.

Your father is a peak of the human species, she tells him. He is brilliant, strong, an unstoppable physical force and relentless in his pursuit of information. He was a student of your grandfather once.

What happened? Damian asks, hardly daring to breathe. 

He was weak, she says. The World’s Greatest Detective, and he could have been great. He could have been your grandfather’s successor. But he left, because he is weak, and could not do what was needed here. 

Damian stares into the flames, flickering gently, casting shadows across the walls and out the open window into the dark, cool night. 

I am the successor, now, he tells his mother. All eight years of determination rise full in his lungs, pressing against his heart. I am grandfather’s true heir, he says, I will not fail. I am better. 

Yes, she whispers in his ear, as she pushes him towards his cushions. You are, habibi, you will be better, stronger, able to do what your father could not. When the time comes, you will defeat him and take his place, and claim that line. And then you will be the bridge that will carry us all to a new world. 

But for now you are small, she tells him. For now you have to grow. Sleep. 

And so he sleeps, and wakes, and he fights until he bleeds, and learns ways to kill, to persuade, to plan and speak and reason. He grows, and he listens. And he asks secret knowledge and gets secret answers, and he prepares for the mission that he was born for. 

He is allowed to ask more, when he is nine. When moods are right. 

He asks a lot.

He asks about animals and learns their names, their places in the ecosystem, the importance of not killing them for more than need. He learns how to grow efficient crops and harvest no more than what is necessary, and he asks what is farmed in other climates and how it is managed and finds himself given a history lesson from thousands of years to the present, of the Indus River to the Mayan civilization to the sustainable farms in various modern countries.

He does ask, then, also—if some of the world is still working to protect the Earth, why must all be punished? 

He does not ask again. 

He learns of dogs and cats, in the modern age, and doesn’t say, but falls a little in love with the videos he sees. He asks why people keep them, now, if they don’t seem to have a permanent beneficial role in most ecosystems anymore, and they tell him because people are sentimental and greedy, and refuse to get rid of them out of weakness. They damage the natural order of things when turned loose, and cannot be allowed to damage the rest of nature. 

Damian doesn’t quite understand. The answer seems lacking. But he tucks it away for later, and listens to his instructors, and trains and bleeds and spits and rolls to his feet and wins. 

He has always eaten very little meat, because that is their way. Only what they need. No more.

But he steels his nerves and puts on his best clothes, one day, and straps his ceremonial blades to his waist and thigh and arm, and he steps before Ra’s on his own. 

He says, Grandfather . Steps forward. He says, I wish to be a vegetarian. No more meat. If I can sustain myself with less effect on the ecosystem, it is what is right. I do not want to cause more harm.

And that day, he sees his grandfather’s rare smile, as Damian stands four foot nine and at perfect parade rest. 

You are beginning to understand , he hears Ra’s say, approval lacing through words—rare enough indeed. You grow, Damian. You will make a perfect vessel, if you do not falter on the coming path. It is done. Go tell the kitchens.

Damian bows. 

And he walks just a little bit taller, head a little bit higher, as he leaves the room, even if he carefully keeps the smile off his lips. 

No weaknesses. No tells. But the warmth is his own secret to keep for himself, in his ribs, on his tongue, in the confines of his rapid-beating heart. He is good. He’s doing better. 

He’s finally making them proud. This, he will hold onto, for the cold nights of bruised restlessness, for the falls into mud and sand and icy lakes, for the days of shaking in pain after the doctors, when he still doesn’t know what they do to him, why they put him out and he wakes up with new scars and his mother singing and holding him close for a few beautiful, wonderful, worth-it days until his training resumes. 

He is succeeding. He will not fail. They are proud . 

He kicks the head off of a training dummy that evening, still riding the high, and it tests a delicate little muscle near his groin, from such a high snap up, but he doesn’t care. 

He is good. 

And now. Now Damian is ten. He is ten, he is double-digits, and this is a big year, because it’s time for the second phase of his training. 

War games. And slowly learning to operate with strike teams. Harder simulations. He can’t wait to prove himself, to tackle the new challenges. He’s not a little child. He wants more . 

Ten, he finds out suddenly, on the fourth day of his new year, means also first kill . 

And that’s when everything begins to fall apart. 

It is an Important Milestone, they tell him, he will Do Just Fine, they know it can be a very anxious time, but once the deed is done, Damian will suddenly Understand, he’ll see. It changes you. He will understand a new kind of power, and be ready for the next phase of training in ways he can’t understand yet. 

Damian nods. He makes agreeable sounds, he says the right words, and he forces his disgust and horror down as they line him up before carcasses of large animals on the training ground and call out, begin. Call out strike after strike, each sequence engrained, invisible wires of memory and conditioning leading his blades through hide, muscle, bone, and Damian. 

Damian wants to scream. He wants to vomit, he wants to throw his swords and knives over the edge of the mountain and never touch them again, not once, not these tainted ones, he wants to scrub his arms raw with pumice until they are clean and they bleed with blood only his and he can no longer feel the sensations of sinew and snapping bone rolling up the blade to the hilt. 

It is necessary to know how it feels, to learn the true force required for each layer, they tell him. 

Damian wants to scream. Damian wants—

Damian is not allowed to want . Damian is not for himself. He is a destiny, he is heir, he is the tool to be molded to save the world, he knows this, but Damian—traitorous and weak and tangled with horror—

Damian wants to stop . 

This is not a pain he knows how to breathe through, shake through, block and hide from and fight through until he can safely collapse. 

This is not right . He doesn’t understand. Why this waste? He thought—he thought they did not kill more than necessary, for food, but these carcasses, they do not go to the kitchens when he is done—he knows this, he hid, he watched —he doesn’t understand, what do they mean that he will understand?

Ra’s smells weakness. Damian’s tutors get restless. So they decide they’ll start him off small. Work up to it. Damian will learn.

Damian doubts it.

He is walked in front of a small pen of mammals, twitching noses and long ears and soft, soft fur. He read about them. Rabbits, he’s told. Easy prey, caught and trapped and hunted for food and fur for ages around the world. All he has to do is—all he has to do is—

Damian can only manage this once, because he has the element of surprise. He has never rebelled. He is the heir. He is the best. He is always to be perfect, and he has worked so hard to be. Every day, without fail. 

Damian lashes out, strike and kick and spin and one final jab to a throat, and then he turns on the ball of his foot in perfect form and runs . 

They catch him in hours, of course. Drag him back in the late afternoon, sun beating down like fire, and he has failed in more than one way. 

But he got far enough to see a city. There is a city, in the distance, or so he thinks. It may be a mirage. But he has to believe it is real. 

They’re talking at him, words words words, all spilling around his ears like grains of rice in an endless rush of pouring onto dirt. He sets his face in stone and keeps his head high, and they finish whatever scolding it was, and walk on in silence. It is not from these underlings that he will hear his punishment. They are irrelevant.

The gates shut in place behind them, like a single drum beat, and Damian allows himself one heartbeat of misery at the sight of his mother’s scornful gaze before he wraps himself up in his blankets of walls, walls, walls and tips up his chin before he is pulled before his grandfather’s throne and left alone in the center of the marble, not a single sound daring to break the silence of the room.

There are words, and Damian hears them, mostly fail, fail, fail. A true heir would not, worthiness, proving himself. 

Yes yes. Damian is weak. 

He’s figuring that out for himself, thanks. 

But his walls are strong, and none of his hurt shows. His mouth moves, and he crafts careful apologies, one part manipulation (a temporary moment of weakness, I should not have run, my place is here, I know my duty) and one part groveling (your word is law and I was foolish to disobey, I only want to be the vessel you deserve, I wish to do better than mere rabbits, you deserve more from me). 

Ra’s scorn weaves around every pillar and every one of Damian’s limbs. 

If you mean it, Ra’s says, his ancient eyes entirely inhuman, then you will have no trouble proving it here before us. I have prepared a demonstration now. 

Damian has no escape. 

They bring out a cage, a jar, and in the dim room with only half the candles lit to replace the setting Sun, Damian sees the fireflies he encountered only once, on one of the survival missions. Tests. This one in a river valley. He had almost drowned in an undertow, caught in a hollow against slippery underwater rock formations for one minute, two, the sun had set and it was dark and cold and full of rushing relentless power, too strong—he only broke free because a tree limb knocked him hard out of the space. 

When he dragged himself over to a shore finally, gritting teeth and gasping against his dislocated rib and bleeding head, he collapsed onto his back like a drowned rat and suddenly noticed that the air was filled with gentle flickers of light. 

He thought he was fading, falling unconscious maybe, before realizing that it was not his eyes but beings. There were little creatures glowing in the air. 

He had spent several minutes, later, gently catching them between cupped palms, and marveling at their coloring and glow. He had asked about the chemistry in their glow, when he was back with his tutors, several pounds lighter and with several new injuries from the trip. He was fascinated by the bugs, and had several pages of sketches in his notebooks to prove it. 

Ra’s knew. Of course he knew. 

You will do this, Ra’s says. He sits down to watch. Every eye is on Damian, now. 

He cannot swallow. No tells. No weakness. Damian takes a breath no deeper than usual, so careful. 

He can’t run here. He can’t talk his way out. There’s nothing to be done. He is no traitor, he is not—he can’t fail here. 

So Damian stands under a hundred hanging Swords of Damocles and as he reaches for the first lightning bug, small and flickering and buzzing gently, he lets go of his horror. He takes the part of him that is screaming, that is raging with tears and blood, he takes the part of him that is railing against the cage, the command, the horror, the shame, and he buried it down, down, down down. He buried himself in a cage in a cellar in a mountain, wraps himself up in layer after layer of tapestries and curtains until it is nothing but a tiny whisper in the dark. He takes the firefly in his left hand and lets go of the last string of himself with his right, and there’s no Damian anymore, just hands and ears listening to instruction and one wing, two wings, a leg, a bit, one piece at a time with nothing left to scream for the wrongness of it all. 

His hands are someone else’s, taking life piece by agonizing piece, and Damian is a thousand miles away, underground and above the world and far enough from them all that no one can touch him and hurt him until he’s ready to come down. 

Every wing, Ra’s says, emotionless. Every single wretched insect. 

Yes, Grandfather, the body that is not Damian’s says, even and emotionless to match, and Ra’s smiles, when he is finally done, when the Damian deep inside is too tired to scream anymore, when his mother is now giving the boy’s body a nod, when Ubu’s hand comes down heavy on the boy’s shoulder and leads the boy’s body to its room. 

His mother does not stay that night. Damian does not come down from the stars for a week. 

They all praise his efficiency, his precision, the sharpness of his strikes, and this body doesn’t scrub its arms at night, and it doesn’t hold back from the training carcasses, and it doesn’t shiver inside when walked before the rabbit pen and asked the question each day.

But it still says no.

Somewhere, somewhen, Damian is grateful for that. 

And when he comes back, he is a disappointment. He is weak. He scrubs his arms each night till they burn, and he shakes while they teach him one by one the weak points of the rabbits, guide his fingers over them, snap a neck in front of his face so he can hear the sound, and Damian runs three more times after that, and the compound changes around him and life changes around him and he is failing, he is failing, but he can’t understand how to succeed when it doesn’t make sense. 

The first time, he makes it to the nearest city on the second day. He does it on foot, arrives exhausted and burned on every bit of skin his robe does not cover, but he is shaking with the thrill of having evaded them for his long and he asks someone—a stranger, a peon, chattel, a human, someone willing to help—where he can find information. He makes it to a library an hour later, lies through his teeth to a librarian with one of a thousand forged documents he’s gathered over the years, and he gets her to show him how to Google. He heard whispers of this on missions, like it was magic, like it’s forbidden, and his hands almost shake over the foreign keys, but he pushes on. 

Damian bites his lip here, he takes a deep breath here, and he asks why do people keep dogs and cats because he still wants to know . 

And he searches for industrial farming, because he's been taught how bad it is, how awfully it's often done, and he gets so angry. This is the rage Ra’s must feel every day, he realizes, and thinks he begins to understand, as he looks at the animals in pictures, as he reads about aquifers running dry, as he sees the news about waste lagoons in hurricanes, the flooding, the death. And maybe they are right, maybe this is the only way, he thinks, bitterly, but then he finds an article about sustainable farming, about sustainable towns, and he leans back in his seat and he sits staring at the 20th article thinking There are so many people who are honestly trying to do good. To be good to the world. What about them? What about these places? 

He gets eater, from a fountain, after watching children use it. He walks till his head clears. Then he sits down, looks carefully as he types it out, letter by letter, and Googles Batman. Because he knows who his father is, he knows he's a strong warrior and a genius and a failure, and he knows his father walked away from the life he was supposed to have, betrayed the cause. 

And Damian he wants to know why. 

He knows he has little time, and that this is forbidden, and that he will be punished. He’s beginning to find that he doesn’t particularly care. Damian ruthlessly shoves down the piece of him that cries out, that shakes, that whispers it will hurt more, if you make it worse, it will hurt, don’t make them more angry. He shoves it down and sets his jaw and opens article after article after blog, and he reads faster than he ever has in his life. 

What more could they possibly do? what more could they take away? They don't let him out anymore except under guard. They say he’s going through a Phase, they took his books and his nice cushions and his drawings and paper and charcoal and what more can they take . His mother will not look at him. She turns away. His teachers are gone, new ones in their place. Harder ones. Once who do not answer secret questions. 

He’s already being punished, he can take whatever beating they give him for breaking the largest rules. They taught him pain control and stoicism when he was still learning to run. He will be fine. 

He finds a page calling itself BatWatch. It is full of pages and pages, years of sightings, events, descriptions. There is an entire page of frequently asked questions about whether Batman is a good person or not, and what the proof is. It is cited by category, date, and cross-reference. Damian consumes it all . 

His mind is a tangled, tearing mess. By the time two of his grandfather’s agents spirit him off, a page still open on Batman’s work the previous night to rescue a group of immigrants from a trafficking ring, Damian’s lips are sealed and his heart aches so much it hurts, even with his training.

They punish him as befitting the crime, and Damian doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t misbehave, and he doesn’t kill any rabbits, and he is the perfect heir except that he fails. He takes and the isolation and his new ankle chain attached to the ceiling of his room, and he doesn’t kill . 

The second time, he doesn’t make it two miles away from the compound. He gets no sunlight for two weeks—his new room has no windows. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t, he is fine. He has enough light from the fluorescents each day to keep his eyes from getting sensitive, so it doesn’t matter. 

When he has worded a sufficient apology at last, they take him back to his old room, still gutted, back to his chain, and he trains when they take him out and he fights who they tell him to fight but he still doesn’t kill the rabbits. 

No matter, Ra’s says. I have been patient centuries longer than he has been living atoms on this earth. He will break. He is young.  

The third time he gets out, he makes it a country over. He’s been planning, he knows what to do, and he's very good at hiding. And they catch him, of course, but this time— 

This time, Damian sees the news online about a terrible thing that was done, to his father’s home, to that city, and Damian knows . Damian knows the traces, the signs, he knows who is behind it. He has known those particular bony fingerprints since before he knew how to speak. He sees the death count, the rising horror, and Damian thinks, why . 

So this time, Damian has left traces. He has left marks to be found, and he sent a message to BatWatch, through a form that maybe still works, he couldn’t tell, but he hopes. 

Isn’t that such a strange feeling? Hope is for the weak, those too powerless to do. To make things change.

Now Damian is one of them. He doesn’t know how he feels about it. But he knows he cannot do what the adults demand. Not unless someone makes it make sense . 

Damian goes back to the windowless room with new chains and more anger and no words, and not even Ra’s can make Damian speak this time. 

He holds his silence. He stands before the rabbit pen for hours with dry eyes and aching heels, and every day he answers no and goes back to his room—his cell. That is what it is. And he lies on the floor on his single thin blanket in the cool air of each night and feels the warmth of victory, large and swelling and big enough to drown out the bruises from training, the wounds of his mother’s averted eyes, the fear of no rescue. 

The warmth is enough. He clings to it like a rope on the side of a mountain, this new mountain he is climbing. He doesn’t know how high it is, in the clouds, and he doesn’t know if his rope is sufficient, and he doesn’t know if he has made the right choice. But. 

But he cannot kill the rabbits. He cannot hurt—he will not kill when it is not needed. These people speak one thing with their mouth and then hold another in their hands, and Damian will not be their fool. 

Damian holds onto the warmth. He smiles in his heart with every curl of his grandfather’s frown, and he lies in the night, and he whispers the prayers in his mind while his mother is gone, while his mat is locked up, while he cannot stand and kneel and move to the words. 

He holds onto hope, that strange medicine of fools, and weaklings, and his own tangled thoughts, now. He called Batman. He asked . He lies in the dark and tells himself tomorrow, maybe.  

Tomorrow, maybe, Batman will come. Tomorrow he will find the trail, he will remember the way up the mountain from a past life. 

Tomorrow, maybe, Damian tells himself, every night as he falls asleep. Tomorrow, I will not kill rabbits, and tomorrow, maybe, the Batman will come to the mountain again. One more time.

Chapter Text

So Tim is in a cult. 

Not—he didn’t join a cult, okay, he’s just in one. Temporarily. 

Also unwillingly —that part’s important, he’s pretty sure. He’s only here because of some deeply confusing events that he definitely did not instigate in any way, because listen, Tim is many things and will absolutely admit to his growing proclivity for Being In Cahoots. Hell, he’ll even admit to being currently allied with two separate sides of the most recent Justice League prank war. But he’s fairly sure he’d remember setting up his own disappearance. Especially if it involved being drugged with a tranquilizer gun, of all things, on the day before his history exam, during a very real surprise battle. Possibly involving ninjas? Tim’s memory is pretty hazy. 

He’s maybe, possibly, just a tiny bit kidnapped. Don’t tell Jason. 

The last thing Tim clearly remembers, he was spending a weekend with the other Young Justice members, training and hanging out. They were eating all the unholy amounts of junk food their mentors pretended they didn’t know the teenagers devoured every time they hung out, they were playing Wii bowling just for the hell of it—an alarm had gone off, attack on the region, and they’d bounced —just left everything on the floor and the couches, snatched masks and weapons and comms and run—

Tim’s memory starts to splinter after that. He remembers parts of the fight—martial arts left and right, no visible affiliations on the attackers’ clothing, but something familiar, he could hear Bruce’s voice in the back of his head telling him to think, Tim, what is it exactly? 

Superboy shouting something, Tim’s own voice rapping out observations, commands, sliding his friends through the delicate and dirty battlefield dance routine, everyone moving as the unit they’ve grown into. Tim remembers thinking that Dick would be proud of them, will be proud of them when he sees them work together for the first time since he left for his long overseas mission. And then Connor shrieked. And Tim’s spinning, his staff flies up in a defensive balance, and he’s trying to see, to find what he missed, and then—

Then that’s it. Poof. Which is kind of unfortunate. But there is definitely a puncture wound and bruise on the side of his neck. And it is sore, holy shit, Tim had no idea tranquilizer darts hurt this much. Wow.

He’s been on his own in this room long enough now to take stock of his current situation and the very, very weird past few hours he’s had since waking up in the middle of some throne room in the middle of. Well. A cult compound. 

Because this is his life. 

Focus, he tells himself, slumping down against one of the blank walls, thunking his head against it slowly, repetitively. Focus, focus, focus. What’s your evidence. List what you know. 

Fact 1: Tim is definitely not in North America anymore. He’s somewhere in the Middle East. 

Fact 2: He is maybe. Possibly. (Sorry, Bruce.) In Ra’s al Ghul’s personal creepy cult compound. Because Ra’s is mad that they wouldn’t, like...just let Gotham and a huge chunk of the population of, you know, the whole world die from his genetically engineered Level 4 pathogen. Because, oh yeah. Surprise! It was Ra’s. 

Apparently, Bruce knew this already. And Dick, too, probably. Definitely the Justice League. Since no one really likes talking about that whole...time...Tim still hasn’t gotten the details of the whole hunt for the cure, and he thought it would be fine to leave it alone for the past year since everything went down. But apparently it would not . 

Fact 3: Tim and Bruce will be having words when Tim gets back. A lot of words. 

Mostly Tim’s! And mostly about how it is extremely unacceptable for partners to keep important information from each other about ancient functionally-immortal enemies who might hatch revenge schemes involving, at minimum, the sudden kidnapping of high school vigilantes whose GPAs are already riding the struggle bus this year, Bruce . 

Fact 4: Tim was the only one taken, as far as he can tell. Which is great news. 

Fact 5: Tim has been cheerfully informed he will, at minimum, be moderately stabbed if he tries to escape. 

And okay, Tim is feeling cranky today. He’s feeling snarky . He’s just been kidnapped from a perfectly enjoyable weekend that was supposed to be his reward for studying five chapters of the AP World History textbook, which, he might add, is hellish, and instead he gets to wake up in front of a supervilain who has some longstanding beef with The Batman from like, before Tim was even born, and Tim has a headache and sore neck and a beef of his own at this point, so like, sue him. 

How is he supposed to not interrupt Ra’s with questions like, so in your organization—sorry, sir, it’s just—I know you’re all about precision and rules and everything, and I want to make sure I understand—what counts as a moderate stabbing? Is a light stabbing more along the lines of a shallow stab to the forearm or thigh, and moderate would be, say, deeper? Or does it have to do with the location, like a few certain abdominal or ribcage shots? Is a kidney moderate? Or would that be severe? Does a second escape attempt lead to severe maiming, like strikes in baseball, or is your policy more of a—

Tim currently sports several bruised ribs and a split lip for his trouble. But watching the vein start to rise across Ra’s’ forehead as the man very, very slowly turned maroon, shade by shade on a journey all the way from rose gold through apple red— so worth it. 

By the fourth day, Tim has somehow gained the respect of Ra’s al Ghul. By being clever, and having a refreshing proclivity for unpredictable behavior, and being the first person since Batman himself to amuse Ra’s this much intellectually, Timothy, it will be interesting to see how you develop with time. Tim mentally fills in the shorthand with being snarky, having inconsistent behavior due to extreme anxiety causing him to blank from panic and react in whatever way pops into his head first , and oh, his favorite, the classic unable to stop himself from infodumping aggressively about things he’s researched, even in front of a room full of trained assassins and Ra’s himself, oh my god Tim you’re gonna get yourself killed . Such a helpful feature. So glad it was installed in his genes way back when. 

Somehow Ra’s thinks he’s amusing . And not much of a threat. Tim tries not to let that part sting. 

But Ra’s feels so charitable towards him due to Tim’s general... Tim -ness...that he’s decided to keep the interrogation sessions down to once a day, maximum. And pretty pleasant, so far--Tim doesn’t think they’ve even used any tactics that count as torture under the Geneva Convention. Just a lot of questioning, and unpleasant noises-slash-lights-slash-late-night-wakings, and threats against his loved ones, yadda yadda, etc. 

As if Tim’s family can’t kick ninja asses six ways to Sunday any day of the week. What a laugh. 

But Tim plays along, like Bruce has taught him. He’s a good little hostage, offers the expected non-answers, bickers a little with Ra’s, and stays on the man’s good side, because Tim is really, really good at placating adults. And in return, since this is a world of tit-for-tat, transactional relationships all the way down, he gets to roam the compound, apparently! Anything that’s unlocked, he can see. 

So. He’s being patient, gathering observations, not using the code word yet. Unless he sees an opening to use it, and until he finds out for sure he wouldn’t be unintentionally calling Superman straight into a death trap, he’s just going to keep patiently waiting for Batman or whoever to show up. And in the meantime, Tim will keep himself busy. 

After the first night of Tim spider-crawling around walls and rooftops to peer in every window he can find, he figures Ra’s must be fine with him snooping locked rooms, too, so long as Tim doesn’t actually go in . At least, he hasn’t been attacked by anyone while doing it. Which seems like a good sign.

He finds the kid on day number seven. It’s a bit of a shock for them both. 

Tim has been silently working his way down one of the hundreds of empty corridors that lace through the mountainside like it’s honeycomb. He jimmies each handle, going room by room--empty. Empty. Locked. Sewing machines? Empty. Rug storage. Cleaning supplies. Empty, empty, empty, kid. 

Kid?

Tim stands in the half-open doorway, one hand on the handle, one hand on the wooden door frame, and his mouth opens slightly as his brain takes a few seconds to reboot at the sight on the floor. 

The kid was lying on his back near one wall when Tim had first poked his head in, and immediately scrambled into an upright sitting position so fast Tim almost blinked and missed it. The sound of metal scraping and clinking had followed the kid all the way up, because. 

Tim blinks. The kid starts to scowl, whatever brief flash of something that had been on his face already gone behind a mask. Tim knows masks. Tim’s business is masks. And this kid is throwing up a very angry mask, this kid sitting here in lotus position and scowling at Tim and clinking as he moves because he is chained at every ankle and wrist like some kind of--

“Who are you?” the kid snaps. 

Tim stares. “Are you a prisoner too?”

The kid sends him a look that would probably skin Tim alive, or something, if this was a book with magic in it. He scoffs. In the back of his throat, just like Jenny Reynolds did back in third grade. “A prisoner? I am the heir to the Demon’s Head, you insolent--”

“Heir?” Tim interrupts, feeling absolutely zero remorse as he shoves the door open more and steps all the way in. “You’re--what. Ra’s’ clone? His kid? Why are you in here?”

The kid narrows his eyes and practically snarls . “I am no clone of that--I am his grandson, and you will address me with the proper respect. Who are you, and how are you allowed to wander within this compound if you are so ignorant of our ways? If you do not answer within the next five seconds I will assume you to be an invader and shatter your knees.”

“I address people with the respect they earn from me,” Tim snorts. “In this case, that’s kind of none so far. What are you, eight? I could sit on you. There’s no need to be so aggressive, okay, I’m just trying to be friendly! Ra’s kidnapped me to make Batman mad, and I’m stuck here bored out of my mind while I wait for them to finish duking it out for this round of whatever they’re arguing about this year. So I was just exploring.”

“Exploring,” the kid echoes, flatly. Tim doesn’t usually like poking younger kids’ buttons, but this one just threatened to kick in his kneecaps, and Tim’s had kind of a terrible week, okay, and he’s on day three of no more than an hour of sleep a night. His temper is. Kind of thin. Which may be a conservative measurement. 

“Exploring,” Tim repeats. “Ra’s said I could. If you’re really his grandkid and the heir of all this, why are you in here? Is this some kind of messed up training exercise or something? Because I don’t think important people are usually kept in chains.”

And oh, boy. Tim can see the kid’s whole face screw up, turn white and green and finally red as he seems to struggle to find words at all. 

“I am,” the kid bites out. “They--it is not--” and then he snaps his teeth shut with a click. For such an angry-looking kid, he looks shockingly close to tears. 

This is so beyond Tim’s pay grade. God. Where’re Dick and Bruce when you need them. Or like. Any functioning adult. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Tim says, reaching one hand out from across the room as if that will help anything at all. “I’m sorry, don’t worry about it if you don’t want to talk, okay. I can just...I can go? Or like. We can talk about something else. Or I can try to find your grandpa or someone maybe?”

“No!” The boy practically shouts it before Tim’s words even fade to silence, and Tim’s heart skips a beat at the way the kid’s eyes widen and flick to the side, his whole face tenses for a beat before his expression gets wrestled back under control. Tim’s seen that expression too many times, on the streets, in shitty apartments, in suburban McMansions, on his own face in the mirror. He’s not stupid. That fear was real. Tim holds his silence as he reaches out and shuts the door fully, careful to not let it make much noise as the latch snicks into place.

Tim very, very slowly crouches down into a kneeling position several feet away from the kid, and keeps his hands on his knees. 

“Okay,” he says. “Can we start over? Or at least try? Sorry. I shouldn’t have been so rude, and I apologize for that. My name is Tim. I’m…” he sighs, decides he’s already unmasked in an enemy base, what the hell, this is a scared kid, and he’s a Bat . “I’m Robin. And I’m a prisoner-slash-guest here until...whatever happens next, I guess. Hopefully Batman comes and gets me. It’s nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

But the kid is staring at him now, unblinking, and the intensity of his gaze is--really familiar. Something about the way his eyes don’t move, but his head tilts, just a little, so small you’d blink and miss it--

The kid is looking at Tim like he’s a spring in a desert after days of trekking and thirst, and things play across his face so fast, Tim tries to note them and just gets--shock, something open, hope maybe? And then just a breath later, the kid looks like he’s constipated, and Tim wonders what that’s about, and then there’s some brief moment of--maybe resolution, or determination, and then the kid nods once and settles his mouth and brows into grim lines and folds his hands in his lap. Like a proper highborn child. Like Tim learned as a toddler. Like Bruce did, like they all had to, to walk in their circles and smile their company smiles and uphold the lie and the social graces and the masks, the behavior, the propriety. 

He looks so proper. It makes the boy look very young. 

“I am Damian al Ghul,” he says, and his voice doesn’t waver. “I am the son of Talia al Ghul, heir to the Demon’s Head, and I am here because…” he trails off, then, and Tim is nearly shaking with the effort it’s taking to keep from shifting, from pulling his own knees up to his chin, wrapping up into a ball, looking away. 

But he stays focused on Damian, and the kid meets his eyes, flicks his gaze over to the door, then looks back to him again. 

“Are you really Robin,” Damian asks, so quietly Tim almost can’t hear. “Batman’s partner?”

“Yes,” Tim whispers back. 

“The real Batman?”

Tim frowns a little. “I mean. I only know of the one. Pretty sure he’s legit.”

Damian nods a little, but it’s more to himself than at Tim. 

“Rabbits.” 

“What?” Tim asks. 

“They want--” Damian, the kid, the person who was just threatening to shatter Tim’s knees and then almost cried and now is sitting here and saying rabbits like Tim’s supposed to know what that means, Damian practically chokes on his words before he closes his eyes, takes a breath, and goes on, “They require me to kill the rabbits . And I do not want--I will not--I do not want them to make me kill. A rabbit. Or anything else. They will not stop.”

“They want you to kill rabbits?”

“I sent a message,” Damian says, faster now, still whispering, words starting to rush out like his teeth have been a dam and his tongue has been a sluice gate and now that he’s opened a crack all the truths buried inside are determined to pour out. “In the city, I found libraries and there was a place called BatWatch, and I know Batman is my father, but I did not know if he was worthy--they said he is not, but they want me to kill the rabbits, even though they said we must not kill more than necessary, and he made me--he made me--” 

Damian cuts himself off again here, before his eyes lock with Tim’s again, and oh, god, Tim feels like he can’t breathe at those little revelations, because his brain is holding jigsaw pieces and they’re slotting into place and Tim’s absolutely, positively sure that he is WAY underqualified to deal with this--

“--and I read everything I could, and decided that The Batman is a strong warrior with a weakness for people who require his help, so I sent a message through that website, but I do not know if it reached him. He must return, if he could just speak with my mother, perhaps grandfather, if he could make them see--they respect his mind, still, although he betrayed the cause. I need help. I do not want to kill them. I do not know how to stay here among everyone who keeps lying to me. I want to live without harming anything else. I have kept telling them no and they took everything away and Mother does not come anymore, and every day they take me to fight again and I tried to refuse to attack the carcasses but they whipped me too badly, then, I cannot afford--they take me to train still but I tell them every day I will not kill the rabbits and they keep me in here until I stop my rebellion and accept their way. I cannot, please, you must have a way to contact Batman, you are his Robin.”

Tim stares. 

“I,” he tries, chokes for a second, and thinks, rolling through facts and implications and dates and little mentions he’s seen in records on the Batcave, and remembers the email he got a few weeks prior from BatWatch that he’d taken straight to Bruce, the letter that both of them had read warily, but that Tim could see setting off Kill Bill sirens in Bruce “I’d adopt every kid in Gotham’s foster system were it not for the laws of this land” Wayne’s head. 

The email that said help and Nanda Parbat and League and said please exactly once, and that led Tim and Bruce and Babs on a hunt through foreign surveillance systems that left them with exactly two stills of a blurry child-size figure and no other leads to follow. The letter that they haven’t stopped trying to work on anyway, ever since, all the way up till Tim’s unfortunate kidnapping at the hands of exactly the people in Nanda Parbat they’ve been investigating. 

Well. Tim is getting answers now, which is convenient. It would be helpful if he had, like, any communicator or tools at all, or better yet, Batman himself here to deal with this, because Tim is so not qualified, so over his head, because if what he’s hearing is right, then--this kid--

“Robin,” Damian nearly pleads, eyes wide and fierce and hopeful and too old all at once, and Tim snaps back into focus. 

Damian is staring at him like he’s the only remaining stream in a drought-slammed forest, with cracked earth and yellowed leaves and heat slamming so hard it becomes a physical force. Tim feels like he can’t breathe . 

“I don’t know exactly what we can do yet,” Tim says, finally, trying to pour every ounce of Robin into his voice. “But we are going to figure this out. Batman is going to help. I swear it. You and I are going to get out of here, okay, you’re never going to have to hurt any more animals, we’re going to--”

There’s a shout in the hallway, muffled, and the sound of footsteps hard and fast. Damian is frozen, his whole body angled at the door in seconds, tense and taut as a live wire, and his wide eyes snap over to Tim, who’s half-unfurled from his crouch, trying to take in the situation. 

“Hide,” Damian hisses, “you must hide--run, no one is supposed to be in here--if they catch you--”

“There’s nowhere for me to go,” Tim says, and he settles into the mindset of the field, because here is the danger and here is Robin. Tim gets tucked away to safety, still thinking, calculating, feeling, but a step away, and Robin rises to stand, facing the door properly, hardly even noticing as he shifts to block Damian from sight as much as possible. “Don’t worry,” he says. He’s alert, but not tense. Whatever comes, he can handle it. 

The door handle turns, and Robin throws one glance over his shoulder at Damian, who’s pressed back against the wall, arms and knees held tight and close. 

“This was my fault,” Robin whispers calmly. “That’s all I’ll tell them. I was curious, and we spoke about nothing except your status. I will be fine. We will get you out. Understand?”

Damian nods, though he doesn’t look like he believes Tim. The door is practically kicked open, and Robin doesn’t flinch. He grins. 

“Hey,” he says, brightly. “Boy, am I glad you showed up. I’m lost as hell. I’ve been trying to find the kitchen for like, hours. Do you think you can give me some directions, point me in the right direction?”

Two armored guards grab his arms hard enough to bruise and practically throw him through the doorway into the waiting arms of another high-ranking ninja, and he looks up straight into the unimpressed face of Ra’s himself once they get him steady on his feet. 

“Huh,” Robin says, with a genuine sigh as he feels thin ropes wrapping around and around his wrists and pulling tight, just this side of painful. “Guess that’s gonna be a no?”

“Timothy,” Ra’s says, and there’s a coldness there that Tim hasn’t seen yet. “I think it’s time we have a proper chat.”

“Over tea?” Tim pipes up cheerfully, while somewhere in his brain he kicks himself for pushing buttons again. “It’s been way too long since I had a proper cup.”

Ra’s looks him up and down for a moment. Then he looks to one of the guards on the side, snaps his fingers and flicks them at Tim as he himself spins in a swirl of embroidered robes and silk slippers and starts to walk off down the hallway. 

“Gag him,” Ra’s says, emotionless. “And teach him some respect. Nothing too harsh, I want him in decent condition and ready in the main hall in fifteen minutes. 

Then he rounds the corner and is gone. 

Robin grimaces. One of them is at his head, now, shoving a too-thick strip of cloth between his teeth, and Tim chokes, gags for a second, as they tighten it till it strains his whole jaw, but as they land the first strike behind one of his kidneys--carefully calculated, pain but no true injury, and he would be dropping to the floor if it wasn’t for the ninja’s arms--Tim gets one last reassuring glance at the door, and sees that it’s closed, all the way, fully, properly. 

He’s going to have an unpleasant rest of his day, he’s pretty sure. But they seem angry at him, not Damian, for now, and if there’s any way for him to keep it that way, he will. 

He can take it. He just needs to buy some time. He’ll find his way back here in a more safe way, he’s going to make sure Damian’s okay. And they’re going to figure this out. 

He’s Robin, after all. He’s BatWatch . It’s what he does . 

For now, he’s going to breathe, and hold, and hold, and irritate a villain until he can’t anymore. Always a fun time. If he’s lucky, hey--maybe he’ll even get Ra’s to throw him out early out of sheer annoyance, and then he can borrow someone’s cell phone and call Batman and--

A sharp slap across both cheeks snaps him fully present, and Tim sighs internally while they haul him down hallways and stairs and hallways again. 

Hey. A guy can hope, right? He’s Robin. He’s Robin . It’s going to be okay.

Chapter Text

By day two, Bruce has been reduced to few-word sentences, one-word answers, and not taking the cowl off for hours on end. When he has to talk with the police, he’s stoic and freshly dressed, courtesy of Alfred. And when they leave, each time they leave, he’s back in the suit in minutes. 

Clark doesn’t leave his side in the cave, and keeps a close eye on Dick and Jason via Conner while the two of them hole up in Titans Tower, trying to hunt down more leads on Tim from there. Bruce checks on them every hour on the dot, but Clark figures it can’t hurt to have someone less emotionally involved as backup too.

“Bruce,” Clark says, for the fourth time that day. “You have to take a break.”

“He’s captured,” says Bruce, voice scraped over coals even without him trying by this point. 

“Yes,” Clark agrees, “and he’s not going to be found any faster if you can’t think straight from sleep deprivation.”

“I’m trained for this.”

“Bruce.”

Clark swings the Bat-chair around, bracketing Bruce with one arm on each side of the headrest. Bruce glares.

“You’re his dad,” Clark says, more quietly. “You’re terrified. I get it. If someone took Conner, or Jon--” Clark shakes his head. “But you’ve got to let go and breathe a little bit. You’re not alone. You have teams. Let us help.”

Clark waits Bruce out for a minute. He knows how the man works, after all these years, and eventually, finally, he hears just the smallest change--his breathing, Clark thinks, and then Bruce pushes back the cowl with fingers that shake almost imperceptibly. His face is tired, haggard, split by red creases from where the edge of the cowl pressed in for too long, and as Clark takes in the sheer raw desperation on Bruce’s face, something in it seems to crack. 

“Children tend to be murdered within three hours of their initial abduction, if that’s the intention,” Bruce recites in a hollow voice. “Twenty four hours is less common. More than that is rare. If Tim had been taken as a civilian, I would assume this was a ransom case. But with no contact after over a day, and the fact that he was abducted as--”

“Tim is not dead,” Clark says firmly.

“It’s been over a day and he hasn’t used the--”

“He’s not dead.”

“You can’t hear his heartbeat, Clark, how can you--”

“He is not dead, Bruce. You have to keep trusting that.”

Bruce closes his eyes, and Clark closes his as well, leaning forward to very, very gently thunk his forehead against Bruce’s. 

“Bruce,” Clark murmurs. “You’re worn out. You’re stressed as hell. Alfred’s worried for you. Everything is more negative when you’re tired. Go get some sleep, wake up, and come back ready to find your kid. I promise I’ll be listening the whole time.”

Bruce is so tired he doesn’t even put up a fight when Clark hauls him out of the chair and leads him to the stairs, arm around his shoulders. 

“The whole time,” Bruce says. “You’ll wake me the second you hear anything relevant at all?”

“The very moment,” Clark promises.

“Okay,” sighs Bruce. “Okay.”

So he sleeps, and Clark listens, and the teams look, and look out for Bruce’s boys. Conner in particular does a good job of channeling Ma Kent and forcing them to sleep and eat and get outside for some recon instead of holing up with surveillance equipment indoors for days on end.

And Tim still doesn’t use the safeword. He still doesn’t try to make contact. Clark eventually starts hearing his heartbeat, every now and then, to Bruce’s massive relief. But it’s muffled and never lasts long--like it’s being blocked, like there’s interference. 

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” Clark says, as his whole body un-tenses after a half-minute of listening, hunting, trying to will Tim’s location to become clearer. “I just can’t find him, even when flying. Wherever he is, they’re masking him well.”

“It’s all right,” Bruce says, jaw set. “We know he’s alive. That’s what matters most. We just have to keep hunting until we find him. We’ve almost traced the ghost mercenary groups far enough back. Another couple of days, we’ll be there. Just...keep listening for him Clark. Thank you.”

“Always, Bruce,” Clark says, and then they’re both back to searching, and they don’t give up hope. 

But that’s the last time that Clark hears proof of life for four days. 

Tim. 

Tim may have miscalculated Ra’s al Ghul. 

He had felt like he kind of had a handle on the situation, though, in his defense. Yes, he was kidnapped. Yes, he was with, you know. The League of Shadows . Which was not ideal. But he was being treated surprisingly well, and honestly, he’d probably have given the place a solid three stars on Yelp if someone handed him a phone during that first week. 

Decent lodgings. Staff isn’t the most friendly, but service is prompt and satisfactory. Would appreciate some more communication with the outside world, but views are amazing. Would consider coming back with a camera and good wide-angle lens. 3/5 .

Yeah. Not the worst kidnapping Tim has had this year. There hadn’t even been any sewers involved this time. 

But after finding Damian? Things went downhill fast . The rest of that day turns into a chopped-up film reel inside Tim’s head, and he hangs from his brand-new, shiny, assassin-grade chains in the dark and tries to piece it all together while he shivers in the cold, unable to sleep. 

Soreness. A bruised kidney, maybe, he can’t know for sure, but Ra’s’ people got in some good hits before hauling him off. 

Stairs. A lot of stumbling. A quick glance towards the windows, as they sped past, Tim opening his mouth, realizing this is probably time to call for help, there’s a kid involved and also Ra’s is mad, and also I think. Maybe. I am no longer relatively safe. 

He gets out “Nine--” and chokes on a wadded-up scarf. 

“No speaking,” someone tells him, emotionless, and then Tim is being thrown through double doors onto dust and sand and dirt and wood shavings and oh, shit. 

Those are never good in combination.

Tim lifts his head trying to spit out grit around the gag, and as new hands grab him like vices, yank the scarf out to replace it with a proper gag so tight his jaw starts to ache, Tim sees a post with a ring and an ornate chair several feet away, already filled with green silk and gold thread and knees and knuckles too thin to be healthy. 

“Kneel,” says Ra’s. 

They have to kick his legs out from under him before he bows. He thinks he’ll count that as a win. 

Tim gets fifty lashes at the post, bent knees and hunched back and the leather whistling as it moves, and he thinks, I don’t like Selina’s whip anymore.

He isn’t making enough noise. They make him sing the language Ra’s wants to hear, and Tim thinks, I wonder who taught Selina to use it. I wonder if she’d tell me why. 

It hurts more than the books ever describe in the grand adventure novels. Tim feels the burn for hours, in the dark, in the cold, in the stretch of his limbs as his tip-toes struggle to hold his weight for eternity and his shoulders stretch out almost too far, almost too high. 

If this is how Damian has grown up, Tim thinks, as he shivers against metal and feels every welt flare, he’s going to burn this place down himself. And no one’s going to ever touch Damian again.

His muscles shake so hard, he can’t keep the pose after hours, or maybe minutes, or maybe days. It’s still dark. 

Tim floats with exhaustion and shivers more. 

They don’t let him sleep. They won’t let him sleep . 

He hadn’t been sleeping much before, and his sleep schedule isn’t great in a good month, but he still slept . He rests. At home, he naps like a cat, curling up and recharging when he has spare time, and it may not be healthy but it’s enough . At the compound, he dozes through the night, getting a few hours at least. It wasn’t enough, and he started all this already sleep deprived, but not like--not like this .

They won’t. Let him. Sleep.

He shivers until he stops, and then they wrap him in a robe and the temperature climbs up, back and back to something normal, and then they switch the fluorescents on just as his muscles are starting to unwind, and Tim realizes what his life is about to become. 

Ra’s comes, Ra’s asks, Tim wraps his terror in bravado and cracks jibes until he can’t breathe. Ra’s leaves. The sound starts up, and the lights stay on, and Tim stays in the chair and he hears and he hears and he closes his eyes and there’s no darkness to be found, and he sits and he hears and he sees and he doesn’t fucking sleep.  

After seven eternities, after visits from Ra’s, after monologues about heroes and the condemned world and failed plans and Batman’s folly, after too little food and a thousand lifetimes of baby crying playing over the speakers, after questions and questions and refusal after refusal--Ra’s doesn’t want names, he doesn’t want identities, he knows more about Bruce than the Justice League does, what a laugh--he wants weaknesses, he wants secrets, he wants locations and whys and the mind of a man who protects what Ra’s calls Modern America’s Gomorrah--

After a million years, after Tim hating himself for starting to get grateful, excited, relieved, when the door opens to show Ra’s, because for some blessed period of time, it means the sound will stop--

Tim finally feels his body hit a kill switch. There’s his vision, going away, and sound fading, and he things, oh thank god, bye bye, good riddance, and then he’s screaming through the gag and dripping like a soaked rat and the air is cold and he’s more awake than he has been in hours . 

They won’t. Let him. Sleep.

Tim finally, finally starts to cry.

Ra’s questions him, and Tim scowls. He’s progressed today, tonight, this year, whenever it is in this hellscape of meaningless time, from coming up with insults and sarcasm to just cussing Ra’s out. 

Tim is so tired. He’s so tired. He can’t think faster than two miles an hour, he’s running on a lag that would put his old 2009 laptop to shame, and he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to keep resisting Ra’s because Tim likes to think that he’s a strong person who would die before giving in, but clearly most YA fiction is not written by people who have actually been prisoners. 

Tim is so tired. And Ra’s is really tall. And that’s not even what Tim had meant to think. He hears Ra’s speak and it’s like endless shrill sirens, and Tim hurts and he’s cold and he’s tired and he just wants to go home. 

As Tim tells him to fuck off in the fourth language of the day, because he has brothers and what are brothers for besides teach each other swear words in increasingly ridiculous foreign languages, obviously, Ra’s seems satisfied and amused rather than insulted. 

Somewhere, distantly, old smart Tim thinks that’s a bad sign. 

Today Tim just spits in Ra’s’ robes for good measure.

“Fascinating,” Ra’s tells him. “I had thought you’d last longer.”

“I’ll last as long as I want,” Tim slurs. “I’ll outlast fuckin supernova. Haven’t broken. Not telling you anything.”

“So loyal,” Ra’s says, gesturing something at the guards. “And so foolish. Time for the next stage.”

[TORTURE TW]

Tim is so tired he actually falls dead asleep while they haul him to some different room. He only wakes up when he’s rammed into a hard surface, something rough--he blinks, scrabbling, and it’s wood, isn’t it, that’s wood? But he’s--he’s at an incline, his head is too low--and then he hears splashing and Ra’s is standing a few feet away with a serene smile on his face, and Tim has just enough time to notice that his hands are still bound and his feet are being lashed flat and oh, god, hang on, he was supposed to be struggling--he needs to kick out, or twist--and--

A thin, scratchy black hood is yanked over his head, just as Tim realizes the gag is out, and he opens his mouth. His chance, here’s his chance, he can--

“Ninety--” he tries. His voice comes out as hardly more than a croak. He clears his throat, opens his mouth, and then there are weights dropping onto his face, and he’s so surprised he doesn’t speak for a moment. They aren’t heavy, really, but they’re there, and Tim doesn’t understand. They didn’t hurt him. He can still breathe, still twist his head side to side somewhat even in the restraints, so what--

“Who is Batman’s informant in Arkham Asylum.”

“Go to hell,” Tim says. “Get a real tan while you’re there.” Then he remembers, suddenly, after a second, oh, yeah. “Ninety-nine--”

Wetness floods the layers over his face, starts dripping into his mouth, his eye hollows, down towards his ears, and oh, god. Oh, god . 

Tim’s brain is a litany of fuck, fuck, fuck, oh, fuck, shit, please no, please no, fuck, and he snaps his mouth shut over grainy fabric, holds his breath, tries so hard, but eventually he doesn’t have a choice. 

Tim whistles out his air till the last of it bursts forth in a heave as his lungs spasm, and then he’s pulling in air on instinct, except air isn’t what comes. The water just keeps pouring. 

He chokes on water and air and the water runs down his nose, filling up his sinuses and windpipe with the burn from inhaling pool water but a thousand times worse, and it fills and fills and he thought he could logic his way through this. He knows the science of it, he’s read reports, he knows how this works, but the second the fabric sucked against his airways and the water started to force its way in, Tim lost the battle. 

He’s not Tim Drake, BatWatch, Robin, trained and clever and determined to resist. 

He’s Tim. Tim nobody, Tim nothing, Tim-can’t-breathe, scared and panicked and ready to do anything at all to stop drowning and breathe .

He’s Tim and he’s drowning and he’s dying and can’t breathe around what’s in his throat, his body is on fire with fever and his heart is twisting in his chest and there are machines and there is pain there’s pain pain pain and he can’t breathe and he’s going to die--

The fabric tears away suddenly and Tim is being hauled up, choking and spitting and there’s water everywhere and his eyes stream .

He’s alive. 

“Seventy-three seconds,” Ra’s says, sounding impressed. “Who is Superman?”

Tim shakes his head furiously, hacking and wheezing, but manages to shoot Ra’s the tiniest half-glare in the world.

Ra’s sighs, gestures at the people behind Tim with a wave. 

He gets in a few good breaths, and then he’s slammed back down, and this time he struggles, still choking on phlegm and leftover water, and when the water starts to pour he doesn’t even try to hold his breath and just screams . 

“Please,” he’s begging in a wheeze, the world blurry and gray at the edges and blurry and wet at the center and his ears are ringing and he’s shaking harder than in his whole life, and he asks Ra’s please , over and over in between choking coughs, as he heaves out water and his nose runs down his face. “Please, please--”

“Please what?” Ra’s asks him. 

“Please stop,” Tim gasps. 

“Again,” Ra’s orders, and Tim’s world narrows to water and suffocation and he just wants to go home . 

[END TORTURE TW]

“Were you born a bunny rabbit?” Ra’s demands, and Tim’s legs are freed. He throws himself sideways, rolling off the board to land in a heap on the stone. Scrabbling sideways, hacking, chest heaving. 

“Yes,” Tim nearly shouts. “Yes, yes.”

“Are you Robin?” 

“Yes!”

“Who is Superman.”

Tim pants. Tears are still rolling down his cheeks. 

“What did my grandson tell you?” 

“N--” Tim starts, and chokes. Ra’s waits patiently. 

Tim lifts his head, looks Ra’s in the eyes, from his sodden heap on the floor. “Ninety-nine b--”

“Gag him,” Ra’s orders. He tilts his head for a moment before smiling and walking over to stand before Tim. 

“Interesting,” Ra’s says. He pats Tim twice on his head--Tim hates how he almost leans into the touch, enough like his family’s that maybe it would be okay--maybe it’s close enough--and leaves.

Tim finally sleeps that night. They shackle him upright, and he’s sore, and still coughing, but at least they keep the room warm, and they have him seated on the floor. 

I want to go home, Tim thinks, blurrily, as he’s finally drifting off without the usual cold splash of water to keep him awake. I want to go home. Dad, please find me, please, I want to go home.

It occurs to him, after he gets the sleep--not enough, but so much better--that he ought to be worried about Damian. 

His throat is hell. He feels sick. He needs to know if Damian is okay.

But who is he supposed to ask? Ra’s? 

What a joke. 

And anyway, for the first time in an hour or an eternity or a week or who even knows, no one comes. Tim almost misses the guards. 

A few hours later, by his best guess, they come and haul him out of the fluorescents into the hallway, and there’s a hood shoved over his head--he panics, here, thrashing with energy he didn’t realize he had. They tie his feet together as well, and then just carry him, not bothering to make him walk. 

His knees hit dirt, again, and there’s sunlight through the hood, and he thinks, this could be very good, or this could be very, very bad. 

“Welcome,” Ra’s says, from his chair on the dais, as Tim looks on from the sidelines, blinking after the hood is ripped away. “I think you will find today’s entertainment...motivating.”

It’s Damian. It’s poor, pale, exhausted-looking Damian . 

If Tim weren’t overused silly putty right now, he’d throw Ra’s off the side of this mountain himself. They’re making Damian fight the largest, most brutal brawlers they could find, to the death. Winner goes free. But only if it isn’t Damian. 

“He has permanently failed his training,” Ra’s says coldly. “He betrays our cause. The punishment for betrayal is death.”

Tim sucks in a breath. Damian looks over, standing in the center of the arena with pants and bare feet and a bare chest and no weapons, and he looks so small. Tim can vaguely count ribs. Tim wants to throw up. Tim wants to take Damian home to the manor and shove him in a bed with all the dogs and read him stories and get Alfred to make him a thousand mugs of hot cocoa and never let the kid get hurt again. 

“Damian has received his sentence,” Ra’s says. 

Tim bet he has. The kid’s eyes look empty. 

“He will die today,” the most hated man in Tim’s life continues. “But you have a choice.”

Fuck. Here they go. Bruce has taught Tim about this. The false offer of choices, something Gotham’s Rogue’s love to try to use on Bats. Tim knows this. 

“You may remain silent,” Ra’s offers. “Damian will fight each enemy, and either die or kill. If he kills, he may live long enough to fight the next round. Of course, he is in no condition to survive this gauntlet.” The man waves a hand scornfully, as if he’s not the reason for that fact. As if he’s not saying the things he’s saying about his own grandson, about a child, about anyone in the world .

Tim wants to set Ra’s on fire. 

“But if you should wish to be forthcoming with information,” Ra’s tells him, “the boy’s death will be instant and painless instead. No minutes or hours of fighting through injuries and exhaustion before some final violent end. You can prevent his suffering.”

Tim glares, as hard as he can, and tries to speak around the gag.

“Hm,” says Ra’s. “That doesn’t sound particularly like what I want to hear from you. Perhaps a demonstration, first, and then we shall see what your view is afterwards.”

Tim’s heart is pounding. Damian braces himself, slides into a fighting stance, so small, somehow fiercely determined again, not sparing Tim a single glance as he focuses in on his opponent who is three feet and at least a couple hundred pounds stronger than him. 

Damian is going to be lunchmeat. 

Tim lets out a strangled shout around the gag, twisting against his bonds, but no luck. He can’t wiggle out, he has nothing to pick, he can’t run like this, he can’t--

“Begin,” calls Ra’s, with a short double clap of his hands, and Tim’s eyes flick over to the roped off arena in horror as the two figures charge each other, headed for disaster--

And someone slices off his gag. 

Tim is so stunned he doesn’t even make a sound as it falls out of his mouth to the ground, doesn’t complain about the slice now on his skull, a little behind his ear. He catches a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye, a black figure among black figures, and then he realizes. 

Tim takes a breath, making sure his throat is clear this time, and then shouts out faster than he’s ever shouted anything in his life: 

“Ninety-nine-Greeen-Lanterns-flying-in-space!”

Ra’s snaps around, face twisted in rage, and half of the ninjas in the area shift, sensing trouble, while Damian lets out a shrill war-cry and slides between the much larger man’s legs, punching upwards with all the tiny fury in his body. 

Ra’s roars, the brawler roars, Tim feels someone slicing his other bindings off and tries to twist, only to be shoved several feet forward, and then there’s a boom and a blur of color and Superman slams into the ground so hard that the dry dirt cracks. 

“I believe,” he says, slow and careful and deadly, “that you took someone who does not belong to you.”

“Superman,” Ra’s growls, sounding annoyed more than anything else. 

Fucking finally, Tim thinks inside his head, wishing for the thousandth time that he’d just used the code days before meeting Damian. But then he wouldn’t have met Damian, probably, or maybe Damian would have been killed--but if he had used it, then he wouldn’t have had to go through--

A few other figures pop into view, then, and Tim squints, thinking, is that--

There’s a blur of motion, and Tim blinks, even while Ra’s shouts something, and the courtyard explodes into motion, but there’s a dark blur and Tim’s heart skips sideways with a sudden flash of hope, and then the sun is blocked and Tim flinches away from an object headed right for him--

Batman lands in front of Tim, in full armor, cape shifting to fall down in a protective wall between Tim and Ra’s and everyone else in the vicinity. 

Tim feels every muscle in his body relax more than they have since he got hit with a tranquilizer dart days and days and an ocean and continent away. Batman. Maybe Tim’s naive, maybe Tim’s stupid, after everything he’s seen happen in the past few years, everything he’s been through, maybe Tim’s a fool, for believing, but in his experience, Batman always comes. 

Bruce always comes. Every single time. And it took a while, but he’s here again, when Tim needs him, and something in Tim loosens, and he chokes while Batman growls . 

There are twin thuds behind him, and Tim whips around, heart pounding, but it’s Nightwing and Flamebird, tucking and rolling and popping up in mirrored crouches. 

“Don’t fucking touch my brother, you asshole,” Flamebird snarls, and absolutely decks a ninja that was approaching to the right.

Nightwing doesn’t even speak, silent and serious and moving with precision and absolutely zero of his usual flair. He’s got three ninjas down on the ground in under thirty seconds, and Tim’s watching the two of them and Batman just slam through enemies like bulldozers of rage, and he’s kind of in awe, and Superman is in a tornado with Ra’s and his top warriors, and Tim can see Blackbird dealing with enemies on the periphery, clearing walls, blocking projectiles, and Damian--

“Oh, god, shit,” Tim says, “DAMIAN!”

He’s scrambled up to his feet and sprinting like a drunk moose around Batman before anyone can stop him, looking, searching, and there. There’s Damian. Backed against some stone stairs, snarling at the brawler who’s clearly decided that this fight is going to be finished regardless of interruption, and Tim is impressed that Damian’s decided to go down with honor still fighting but kind of determined that Damian doesn’t go down at all. 

“Hey ugly,” he shouts, and uses a bench, a table, and a staff he’s just snagged to vault up on top of the man’s shoulders, wrap his hands in greasy hair, and yank . 

The man howls, and his nails scratch at Tim’s exposed sides, scrape his legs through the thin fabric of his prisoner pants, but Tim just keeps yanking with one hand and scratching furiously at the man’s face with his other, his sore legs doing their best to squeeze the man’s neck. It’s exhausting, and Tim’s very quickly realizing that he’s not going to be able to keep this up. And then there’s a short little yell, and the body Tim’s riding buckles, suddenly, and the man howls . 

Tim is so unprepared for the man to collapse that he’s thrown backwards off his shoulders entirely, and hits the ground with just enough presence of mind to turn his landing into a backwards somersault, popping up into a crouch. 

Damian’s got a dagger with blood on it and a satisfied, angry little expression on his face as he stabs the man’s other thigh, too, for good measure. 

“You shall regret the day you tried to murder the Heir to the Demon’s Head,” Damian is hissing, and he raises the dagger one more time to slam it down between the other two wounds, but Tim catches his hand around the wrist and tugs. 

“It’s just me,” Tim rasps, when Damian spins and kicks out. Tim dances away, dagger in hand after disarming Damian through the sheer surprise--and the kid’s clear exhaustion dulling his reflexes. “It’s me. Leave him. We have to get out of here, like, yesterday.”

Damian nods. “Hand me the dagger,” he demands. 

“Only if you promise you’re gonna follow me and not stab him the second I give it back.” Tim glances over at the man and winces. “I think he’s been taught his lesson already. Or, enough, anyways.”

“Fine,” Damian says, impatiently. “The dagger. Now!”

Tim hands it over, and in half a second Damian has snatched it by the blade and flung it straight past Tim’s ear before he can even shout with surprise. Tim whips around to see the blade embedded in the shoulder of a ninja who he hadn’t even realized was behind him. 

“Shit,” he breathes. 

“You are welcome,” says Damian. “Batman is here.”

“Yes,” Tim agrees, trying to process while he reaches out and catches Damian’s hand and tugging him along, close to his side. He almost misses the way Damian stares with narrowed eyes at their joined hands before seeming to accept it. 

“He is here to take us away?”

“I sure fucking hope so,” Tim tells him. “Duck!” A ninja flies over their heads, another casualty of the fight between Ra’s and Superman. 

“ROBIN,” Batman bellows across the courtyard, and Tim straightens, taking off at a sprint. He doesn’t have to pull Damian along, the younger boy matching him almost stride for stride even with their height difference. 

“BATMAN,” Tim shouts back. “Batman--”

“Kon-El,” Bruce shouts, looking past Tim, “get them to the plane, get them out of here.”

What?

“What?” Tim nearly shrieks. He’s almost to Batman, he’s so close. “No, hang on!”

There’s a whisper of air at the back of his neck, and then a large arm is wrapping securely under his armpits like an unbreakable vise, and he hears Damian shriek in outrage next to him, winces from a kick to his ribs as the boy flails, and the world becomes nothing but a blur until it resolves into breathable air and hard metal under his butt and a indescribable squawking noise from Damian next to him. 

Superman hovers half a foot in the air in front of them, scanning, making sure they’re all right for the moment after that lightning-fast trip, and Tim fights through the disorienting nausea for half a second before he manages to frown and start speaking at the same moment as Damian.

“Superman--”

“How dare you--”

“Our first priority is to get you out,” Superman says, staring Tim down. “Let us do our jobs. I promise I’ll get him back here as quickly as I can.”

He’s turning and about to blast back out, and in slow motion, Tim hears Damian hiss quietly, Mother, eyes wide, and then lunge for Superman’s cloak. 

Oh, no. No no no.

Tim lunges for Damian in turn, hands closing around his ankles, and then they’re off . 

Tim and Damian tumble in a jumbled heap over and over and over and over across the courtyard while Superman shouts in surprise, and Tim sits up, blinking as he tries to reorient himself, pats around for Damian, searching. 

“Batman,” Superman gets out, before grunting as he takes dual blows to his sides from a couple of the highest-level assassins. “I swear to god I tried.”

Bruce grunts back, sending a ninja flying, then whipping around in a swirl of boots and cloak to clip another one that was trying to dart up in Nightwing’s blind spot. A whole new wave of Ra’s people flood in from three open gates, and Ra’s himself stalks forward with a sword in each hand. 

“It won’t matter if Ra’s has all of us killed in the next thirty seconds anyway,” Bruce growls. “They’ll just have to fight with us. Robin! Catch!” 

Tim’s hand snaps up on reflex at this point to snatch the object out of the air, and it’s one of his collapsible bo staffs. He shakes it out, scrambles up on his knees. 

“Damian?” he asks, reaching out to help the boy up. 

“A sword,” he says, simply. Tim tosses him one from the nearest fallen ninja. 

“It’ll be too big--”

Damian waves at him dismissively. “I can handle it. I have used worse.”

Well. Tim doesn’t want to think about that particular sentence at the moment. 

“Right,” he says, because there’s nothing else to say. “I’ll watch your six?”

Damian mirrors his stance, shifting around till he’s almost back to back with Tim. He nods. “And I will...watch yours.”

Tim grins. They both blur into motion, into action, into the zone where thought becomes reaction, planning becomes movement, and while they fend off enemies, the other Bats slowly work their way into a defensive square around them, Tim and Damian in the middle. Eventually, Tim and Damian are both flagging so much that the others are having to block blows from reaching them anyway, and the fight turns into a game of pass-the-Tim-and-Damian-hot-potato, with the two boys being tugged and pushed to and from whoever is currently the least-attacked member of the family. And everything is going surprisingly well. 

Ra’s pulls out a kryptonite dagger, because of course he does. Tim should have known. 

Superman manages to get it out, but he’s still down for the moment, and Ra’s and his fighters get the upper hand--just for a second, just for a moment--

Tim gets yanked backwards out of the grip of two ninjas, and then half his vision turns black as he’s blocked by the heavy corner of Batman’s cape. Batman turns, and Tim with him, to attack, to fight, but then everything falls still, Batman’s hand going up in the air in the signal to halt. 

“Detective,” Ra’s says, victory in his voice. 

He holds Damian in one bony arm, the other pressing a knife into the boy’s neck. Damian’s eyes are wide, but there’s something in his face, something that says I knew this would always happen, that says no one is going to save me because no one ever has, that says it was a nice dream. 

Tim is shaking with rage. 

Damian tries to twist, to hit Ra’s away just once, and Ra’s digs the knife in deeply enough to draw blood, and force Damian’s head up. 

Batman is frozen, the whole family is frozen, Superman groans and slowly pushes up onto his elbows on the ground. Talia steps up to the right, just behind Ra’s, disheveled and regal and chin up and proud, jaw set in a way that is almost, sort of, not quite a mirror of Bruce. 

Ra’s’ men gather back into formation, surround them. 

“Surrender,” Ra’s says, calmly. “Or the boy dies.”

“He’s going to kill him anyway,” Tim whispers. But what can they do? Batman can’t endanger a child, can never risk a child’s life like this, but surrendering risks his childrens’ lives--

“My patience,” adds Ra’s, “wears thin,” and he presses the knife in just a little more. 

Tim feels Bruce shift, sees him opening his mouth out of the corner of the eye, and then they all sense it. He hears it before he sees it, feels it before he comprehends it, and two seconds later the whole air has shifted because Talia al Ghul has stabbed her father from behind, and Wonder Woman just dropped out of the sky, and the core of the Justice League is suddenly in the courtyard, mowing through ninjas like they’re holding up the line at an Old Country Buffet and it’s lunchtime after a morning of hard work.

Talia’s hair whips out in a fan as she spins and bodily heaves Damian through the air at Bruce, who catches the boy and only staggers back a few inches. Damian is frozen, stunned. 

“Take our son and get out!” Talia shouts. “Get him out, keep him safe, my beloved. Go!” 

Bruce stares for all of two seconds. 

“Batman,” Dick prompts. “B!”

“We need to get out of here,” Flamebird nudges. 

Batman nods. 

“Right,” he says, firmly, snapping back into action. He hauls Damian into a better position in his arms, and the boy doesn’t protest once. “Superman?” 

“I’m good,” Superman says with a smile, still paler than usual. “Threw the dagger over the wall, so I’m not perfect, but I can fly you.” 

“All right,” Bruce nods. 

“I will help,” Diana pants, appearing almost out of nowhere. She tucks her sword away. “Just tell me who.”

“Flamebird,” Batman orders, in the voice they all obey on instinct. “Grab Robin. Wonder Woman, take them. Superman, can you take the three of us at one time? Or do you need two trips?”

“I can make it,” Superman says. 

Tim is blinking, trying to catch up, and there’s a brief moment where Batman, Bruce, Dad, safety, is staring hard into his face through the cowl, one strong hand on his cheek, and Tim opens his mouth to say something, anything, really, but he’s too late. Familiar arms are sliding around him and under him, and Tim still hasn’t managed to find his words by the time he’s on his back, cradled tight, barely feeling his body and staring up at the masked face he’d know anywhere. 

“Hey, Baby Bird,” Flamebird says, more gently than he’s said anything all day so far. “Been a hot minute. Missed you at the weekly Smash tournaments. You would not believe how boring it is to try to eat all of A’s cookies by ourselves.”

Tim almost grins. 

“All aboard,” Superman says, and he takes off with Batman and Damian in his arms, and Dick wrapped like a koala around his back. 

“I have you,” Wonder Woman says, and then Jason’s face lights up in a way he still can’t manage to hide, and there’s a swooping feeling as they take off, and then air is passing and Tim is scrabbling to hold on to the tenuous threads of reality, and then they land and Jason stands and Tim is moving, Tim is being passed off, and there’s something firm under him that makes him tense and choke up for a moment before his scrabbling hands find cushion and fabric. 

“Thank you, Diana,” someone is saying, and then Wonder Woman is gone and the hatch is rising, and someone’s pulling straps tight across Tim’s chest, his legs, and their voice is gentle but Tim was on a board with the ropes and his legs and the water and--

“Let him up,” comes the voice Tim trusts to hell and back. 

He flips his head frantically to the left, spots Damian on his back, strapped down too, with Dick crouched over him speaking quietly while Damian leaks tears, and Tim’s legs are still tied up and he knows he’s in the plane and he knows he’s on a cot but there’s the terror of the ropes and the hood and--

His legs are free, suddenly, and Tim’s being pulled up into arms, realizes he’s gasping, can’t hear, and he slowly starts to tune back in while he’s rocked side to side as someone walks. 

“It’s all right, Robin,” he hears. “It’s all right. I’ve got you now. Come back, Robin, it’s safe. Timmy. It’s safe.”

“Bruce,” he rasps. “Bruce. Bruce. Bruce.” 

“I’m here,” Bruce promises cowl down, and he sits, and leans down and presses a kiss to Tim’s forehead that lingers. 

“Bruce!” Tim gets out, and he takes several deep breaths and finally checks back in with his body. 

That’s a mistake. He hurts . His lash marks hurt, his muscles hurt, his joints hurt, his head hurts, his stomach hurts, his heart hurts, his eyes even ache. How can eyes ache? 

But mostly, he’s exhausted. He’s more exhausted than any all-nighter has ever left him, than any fight has left him, more exhausted than he’s been after strings of nightmare-riddled nights. The only thing that has ever left him this exhausted was the Clench, was his own body dissolving and failing and giving up from the inside out for weeks and--

His breath catches in a little shudder, once, and he squeezes his eyes shut before blinking them open again when one hand vanishes for a moment. He looks up just in time to see Bruce pushing down the cowl, revealing dark circles under his eyes, messy hair, tired eyes, and a few tears just lurking at their edges.

Tim starts to cry. 

“Oh, baby,” Bruce murmurs, and he tightens his arms around Tim, pulling his knees up and leaning them around a bit while someone does some magic to strap them in somehow in a way that doesn’t make Tim panic. 

“Dad,” Tim gets out, hoarse and barely audible. “I’m so tired.” In a wrung out, frustrated, distressed whine at the end, like a little kid at the end of a too-late wedding reception at night. Tim would be embarrassed if he weren’t so shattered. 

“Then sleep,” Bruce says, simply. And it’s calm and low and firm and warm and everything Tim had missed. “I’ve got you. We’re going home. It’s okay to sleep, now, Robin.”

Tim nods furiously, scrubs at his eyes too hard with clumsy, swollen hands until someone--Jason, mask off, emotional face on--bats them away and catches them gently in his own, and tackles Tim’s face with a cool baby wipe instead.

“Sleep,” Bruce repeats, burying his lips in Tim’s gross hair for a few seconds, while Tim’s eyes close. “You’re safe. We’re all safe. I promise we’ll wake you when we get home.”

“Love you,” Tim slurs, almost unintelligibly, while he starts to go properly limp. 

“We love you too, Tim,” he hears, from at least one voice. “So much. Sleep.”

And so he does.

Chapter Text

“Tim,” a voice says softly. “Tim. Timmy.” 

Tim’s hazy, but he hears it. There’re the sounds of engines, maybe? Some shaking?

“Tim,” he hears. Ah. Right.

Tim blinks, squinting for a moment as his eyes adjust, and rolls his head to track the sound, looking over into Bruce’s face. Tim’s not in his arms, anymore, apparently, and he can feel the firm surface of an emergency fold-down bed under him, and a few straps on top of several layers of blankets, but it’s not terrifying anymore. He just feels secure. Safe. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” Bruce says, and smiles. 

“Dad,” Tim croaks. He swallows a few times, trying to get rid of the dryness of his throat. “What…”

“Sorry we have to wake you up,” Bruce tells him. “I know you need the sleep. But we’re about to land, and I need you up to speed on the plan.”

Tim nods. Wow, his neck. His shoulders. His everything. He opens his mouth to ask something, starts to draw in a breath, but it catches hard. The next thing he knows he’s coughing almost as hard as he had been before Ra’s finally let him nap, and he coughs and wheezes in air and there are Bruce’s hands constantly, one in his hair, one on his chest, and a steady stream of reassurance from Bruce’s mouth that Tim can’t really hear. Finally Tim stops coughing, and after Bruce holds a straw to his lips from one of their mission-grade tumblers and Tim swallows enough water to make his throat feel less like something died, he focuses back on Bruce. 

“Damian,” Tim demands, more than asks. “Cass? Where’s Cass? She was fighting--”

“Fine,” Bruce assures him. “Cass is fine, she got in and out undetected, she’s been in the League before. She was picked up by Wonder Girl a bit down the mountain and is already back in Gotham with Alfred.”

“Oh,” Tim breathes out, relieved. 

“Damian’s right over there,” Bruce adds, and points off to the right. “He’s napping too. We’ll wake him in a minute.” Bruce’s worry lines come back, then. “He hasn’t said a word since we left the compound. I think having you there when he wakes up might help.”

Oh, boy, Tim thinks. Poor Damian. He tries to imagine it--growing up in that place, spending who knows how long isolated in chains except for when they want him to do something, dealing with everything alone, having strangers crash in and just rip him away from everything he knows and is used to, his own mother shoving him at a father he doesn’t know, his grandfather and terror of his life being stabbed, his mother left behind to who knows what fate--

“Talia--” Tim starts, and Bruce shakes his head. 

“The Justice League knows she survived. Ra’s is furious, but incapacitated for now. We’re keeping an eye on the situation. Talia is currently in control of the League.”

Tim frowns. If Talia’s in charge, then maybe she could change things? Or she could finally leave and come with Damian, have a different life? But then who would run the League? Or maybe if she made it safe enough, Damian could come home some of the time, if Bruce or someone tagged along to make sure everything stayed okay--

“Tim,” Bruce says. “Stop thinking. You’re going to give yourself a headache if you stay so tense.” His thumb brushes over Tim’s forehead a few times, rubbing between Tim’s eyebrows, and Tim takes a deep breath and relaxes his muscles one group at a time like Bruce and Dinah have taught him. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

“Nothing to apologize for,” Bruce says, firmly. “You ready for the quick run-down?” 

Tim nods against the mattress. 

“Clark finally was able to just barely pinpoint your location when you shouted the code. The compound was very, very well shielded by mechanical and magical means, or we would have found you much earlier. I’m sorry it took so long. I’m so sorry, Tim. We never stopped searching. Not the family, not the Justice League, not Young Justice or the Titans. I’m so glad we found you.”

They both just breathe for a minute, while Bruce closes his eyes. When he opens them, the extra moisture is gone, and his voice is steady. 

“You and Damian are in rough shape, and need medical attention,” Bruce says. “I’m most worried about the low grade fever you’ve got, but we’ll just have to wait and see for now. We did the equivalent of what a field medic could for you two, but because you had to be reported missing to the authorities and your school, we have to do this through official channels. So it’s mostly been hands off during the flight, aside from some quick dressings and starting an IV for fluids.”

Tim glances up, then, and yep, there’s a bag of saline zip-tied above him onto some of the netting that lines the plane’s side. 

“We’re landing the plane at one of the pads near Gotham,” Bruce continues. “The rest of us will Zeta over to the cave and change into plainclothes while Superman takes you and Damian to Gordon and Bullock at the precinct and gives them the story we came up with, and then as soon as we get the call, we’ll meet you two at the hospital. Promise.”

“What’s the story?” Tim asks. 

And suddenly Jason pipes up, walking into view. “You were kidnapped by a powerful enemy under investigation, tangled up in a feud with the Justice League and the work Wayne Enterprises has been trying to do to help Gotham after the epidemic and all the injustices and system failures it helped blatantly expose. They wanted to use you as leverage and also to get information on anything they could use against Bruce and the company.”

“Kind of the truth,” Tim muses, and then spends several more seconds in another coughing fit.

“That’s what makes a good lie,” Bruce says, not for the first time. “Jason, aren’t you supposed to be helping your brother fly the plane?”

Jason rolls his eyes. 

“Please,” he says. “You know the autopilot on this thing is world class. And Dickie’s been flying since he turned 15. He can handle it. I just popped back to see if you needed any help.”

“We’re good,” Bruce says. “The rest of the story is that Damian was also captured as leverage, a sort of second layer of bargaining chip in case you failed to sufficiently motivate me and the heroes. Apparently, long-lost children are potentially very emotionally impactful. A line of communication for negotiations opened yesterday finally, and the League stepped in today and rescued the two of you. Then Superman brought you to Gotham.”

“That’s got a lot of holes,” Tim mutters. 

“It’s an ongoing case,” Bruce says, pushing up to stand fully, and Tim hears his knees both pop. Bruce shrugs. “So much confusing information initially. Lots of anonymous sources, conflicting eyewitness reports. Trauma affects memory as well. What can you do?”

Tim snorts. 

“So,” Jason says, leaning one arm on the narrow mattress Tim’s bundled onto. “Think you’re up for a few minutes of standing?”

The plane thunks gently onto the ground, and there’s the customary clunk as the gears lock into place. Tim glares at Jason a little bit. Just on principle. 

“I’m not helpless,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“You’re absolutely not,” Bruce tells him. “But I do think you’ll be able to walk a little with us supporting you, just until Damian is safely awake and you’re both ready to go.”

“Are you both forgetting that I was definitely walking at the compound before you got there, or got us out of there?” Tim asks, pointedly, while they quickly start undoing straps and blankets. “Also running. Fighting, even. Ninjas.”

“Well below your normal level,” Jason chides. “And hopped up on a shit-ton of adrenaline.”

“Language,” Bruce sighs. 

“Pretty sure I’ve still got two functioning legs,” Tim grumbles. 

“Pretty sure you just laid still for several hours and are conveniently forgetting that inflammation and lactic acid exist.”

“Boys,” Bruce growls. He pulls Tim up to sitting, and, hm . Maybe. Perhaps. They have a point. Tim may have miscalculated this one, too. That seems to be becoming a habit lately. 

“Ngh,” Tim groans out, clenching Bruce’s large hands a little too hard. He takes a couple deep breaths and shifts a little--left, right, twist of the lower back. 

“Sore?” Jason asks him, in the classic I-told-you-so tone.

“Shut up,” Tim says, but he’s still so grateful to see Jason at all that it comes out with absolutely zero bite. 

“Love you too,” Jason sighs.

Tim has given himself enough time. This isn’t getting him anywhere. In half a second, he slides off the mattress and gets his feet under him, hanging on to Bruce, letting Jason slide one arm under his left elbow. He breathes five times exactly, straightens his neck, and twists to look over at the anchored cot several feet away. 

“Damian,” he says, firmly. 

Bruce gets him close, with a pause for Tim to cough into his elbow a few times, and then Tim slowly, cautiously crouches down, groaning quietly the whole way. He braces both hands on the metal edge, and then calls, quietly. 

“Damian.”

The boy scrunches his nose for a heartbeat, then stills again. 

“Damian,” Tim says, louder, putting a little more intensity into it. “Wake up, bud. Damian.” He tries not to worry that the child raised by literal assassins and running on probably a 24/7 hair trigger is taking this much effort to wake. And then Damian’s eyes shoot open, and he jerks forward against the nylon straps with a soft cry. 

“Damian, it’s okay!” Tim says quickly. “It’s fine, you’re safe, we’re safe, calm down for a second and we’ll get you out of that. Damian, it’s me.”

Damian’s eyes fly around for a moment, trying to take it all in, brushing over the plane’s belly and Jason and Bruce, lingering for just a moment, and then he lands on Tim, and they practically see him deflate. 

“Robin,” Damian rasps. 

“Geez louise,” Tim tells him. “You need some water.” He reaches out to start undoing straps, but Jason bats his hands away and starts deftly releasing them before he can make contact. 

“I would not be opposed,” Damian admits. 

“Would you like a sealed bottle,” Bruce interjects. 

Damian narrows his eyes, staring Bruce down hard for a moment. He must accept whatever he sees there, because his neck relaxes down against the pillow after, and he nods slightly. Bruce turns in a flutter of the cape and pulls a mini water bottle from somewhere, label still on and cap sealed from the factory. 

Jason silently lets Damian sit up on his own, and the boy scoots just a hair closer to Tim while he pulls his legs up underneath him and cracks the seal on the water bottle with only a moment of difficulty. Tim thinks he probably isn’t even aware he’s done it, but Damian’s clear comfort around Tim is making his heart do something stupid, and god, this must be what Dick teases Jason about. Tim’s part of the club now too. Damn. He did not start this month expecting to be a big brother, but he can’t say he doesn’t like it so far. Imprisonment and danger aspects aside. 

“Where are we,” Damian demands. 

“My Bat-plane,” Bruce answers. “We’ve just landed in the United States of America, in New Jersey. Not far from Gotham City proper.” 

Damian nods, sharp and bird-like. It reminds Tim of Cass. “And what will you do with me?”

Bruce blinks. 

“What will--” he starts, confusion coloring his voice.

Damian’s soft jawline is as set and hard as he can make it, all ten years of him, and his fingers squeeze the bottle hard enough that the plastic crackles loudly. Bruce’s face shifts into something Tim doesn’t have a name for, and he squats next to Tim and Damian and balances his hands on his knees, in full view, radiating stillness. 

“We’re going to get you medical attention,” Bruce says, matter-of-fact and never looking away from Damian. “You and Tim will go to the police and then a hospital, and we will meet you there in our civilian identities. And then, when they let you go, I am going to bring you home.”

Damian is as still and frozen as if he were made of blown glass. As if he’d shatter if one of them did more than brush against him with a feather-light touch right now. Tim wishes he could just hug him already. 

“Home,” Damian says, and his voice is so hollow and flat they all wince. 

“My home,” Bruce tells him. “Wayne Manor. I’m going to make sure you’re all right, and I’m going to keep you safe, and I’m going to bring you to our home.” Bruce shifts, then, knees fully hitting the floor as he kneels, and his hands rest on them still, palms-up, settled into his lap. “I am so sorry,” he says softly, “that I never knew you until today, Damian. I’m Bruce. I’m so glad you’re here. It’s my honor to be your father.” 

Tim shifts just far enough to be able to see Damian’s face, and he watches for the seconds while Bruce stays silent, while they all watch, even Superman who’s just hovered up the open ramp, and then something very young, and very raw, and very soft wins out all across Damian’s features, and he practically throws himself off the cot at Bruce. 

Bruce’s hands fly up and catch Damian when the boy tips forward, IV line and blanket and all, and he wraps Damian up in his strong arms as if they boy’s always belonged there. 

Tim’s own eyes well up while he watches, and he feels Jason tugging him into his own side, and turns and buries his face in Jason’s jacket, smells tea and the chilli dog stand on 4th and Grand, smells garlic and coconut conditioner and Jason, and he thinks, if Damian can still hug like that, if Damian can still try again like this, I think--I think we’re going to be okay . 

They sit Tim next to Damian for a few minutes after that, to ask the boys for a few-sentence summary of what details Superman would need to feed the police about what they’d been through. 

Damian sullenly tells them restraint, isolation, and deprivation, and it takes both Bruce and Tim prodding him for half a minute to get him to elaborate further. Light, and contact, he finally adds. And food, on and off for weeks. As if that wasn’t already obvious to all of them, after seeing him in the compound before Bruce and Dick got him into too-big sweats from their supplies. 

“I’m gonna throw Ra’s into a snake pit,” Tim hisses. 

“Baby Bird,” Jason says, softly.

“Tim,” says Bruce. “No.”

“He spent--”

“I know,” Bruce cuts him off. “But it’s not for us to decide right now. This is a complicated situation, and you have every right to be angry. I am too. I’d love to punish everyone there for what they’ve put Damian and you through. But right now we need to focus on getting you both safe and treated.”

Tim scowls.

“Tim. We need to know what to tell them happened to you .” 

Tim knows he needs to tell them. His family, standing around him, Bruce and Dick and Jason, solemn and waiting, and Clark, even, silent and patient, and Damian, who has been through about a thousand times more than Tim, fuck--if Tim is this upset from what turned out to be only a few days of being under Ra’s’ thumb, how can he ever talk about it in front of Damian, who’s grown up in that place, who’s been--Tim can’t . 

“Beating,” Damian speaks up. “A flogging. Imprisonment.”

Tim shoots him a slightly frantic look. “It wasn’t--for the first several days it was fine, they just let me kind of wander around as long as I didn’t cause trouble. It was fine. I just--I just messed up a little, and then it was. You know. The usual…”

“The usual,” Bruce echoes, quietly. Dick steps forward and folds himself onto the foot of the cot behind Tim, wrapping him in one arm. 

“Yeah,” Tim says, miserably. “We all get captured sometimes. You know.” He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to think about it. Just. Why can’t we just drop it for now. 

“Flogging?” Jason asks, voice tight.

Tim glances at him for half a second, then has to stare at the floor. “Ra’s, um. Didn’t like my attitude. And I poked around and found Damian. So.” 

“He means,” Damian sighs, sounding frustrated, “that he antagonized my grandfather after already on his bad side, and Ra’s increased his punishment. They made me watch the footage, as I was the reason for it all.”

“You were not,” Tim says, hotly, head snapping around as he stares at Damian. “None of that was your fault! None of anything that happened there was your fault. You and I were just talking, it’s not your fault Ra’s got mad, it’s not--it’s not your fault, okay, any of it, I can handle it, and I’d do it again if it was the only way to get you out, Damian, you have to believe that you’re not responsible for the--for--” Tim chokes, suddenly, and he feels his eyes widen. 

“Damian,” he breathes, gaze locked on his little brother, this small kid, this hurt and strong and wary little human being on the cot with him, who’s been through just. Way too much, Tim doesn’t even want to think about it, and oh, god, no, please tell him Ra’s didn’t--tell him that he wouldn’t--

“Tim?” Bruce asks, reaching out, and he sounds so worried, but Tim’s breath is almost frozen, and he’s a statue in Dick’s hold, and he’s too busy to try to reassure them right now. He has to ask. 

“Damian,” Tim says again, voice a creaking tangle of emotions he doesn’t have the energy to pick apart right now. “Damian tell me they didn’t . Please tell me they didn’t make you watch everything. Did they--did they--they stopped after the whipping was over, right? That was my punishment, and then--”

“They…” Damian says, warily, clearly trying to figure out what’s right in this situation. How much of the truth is safe. Whether he should upset those around him in a foreign land. What is safe to speak aloud when Tim is having a minor nervous breakdown two feet away, well within kicking range. 

Tim’s mind is a jumble of crying in his cell and shaking with cold and mindless agreement with whatever Ra’s said just for more moments of air, of hours of reciting every song lyric he could remember and every poem he learned from Jason and every science fact he could dredge up from the last several years of school, and of Damian chained up without escape being forced to watch and listen in--hell, probably high definition, this is the League--to all of it, day and night and eternity, being told Tim’s suffering because of him, having to watch someone be--

“Damian,” he says, voice cracking, and then there’s Bruce, too, wrapping an arm around them both, and Tim see’s Damian’s face shutter, then break, and then his lip tremble just once, and it’s all over. 

“I saw,” Damian mumbles, unable to meet Tim’s eyes. “They did not stop. I am sorry. I am sorry . I watched.”

“Oh,” Tim breathes, unable to come up with any other response. “Um. Oh.”

“Timmy,” Dick is saying, and Tim starts to cry. For Damian, mostly, because, god, no kid should have had to go through what Damian did. Or be forced to watch something like what Ra’s did to Tim--Tim could take it, because he had to, and he’s made it through pretty okay, right, he clearly could handle it, but Damian had to sit and watch and couldn’t leave and. And and and . 

“Tim,” Bruce says, in the voice he uses when he needs control but doesn’t want the harshness of Batman. 

“Nope,” Tim says, as he forces the tears to stop. 

“Robin,” Batman demands. 

Tim has to look. 

Bruce’s eyes are full of pain in the corners, but warmer than anything Tim’s seen in days . They just say, it’s safe. It’s awful, I know, but it’s safe. Trust me, Robin . Tim sees his other arm wrapped firmly around Damian, curling the boy partially within the cape. 

“One sentence,” Batman tells him. “Just a sentence of summary, and then we can get the two of you on your way and meet you at the hospital as quickly as possible. Just one sentence. Then you can stop for now.”

Tim can’t look at Jason, or Dick, or Damian even. He definitely can’t look at Superman, remembering how he’d caved so easily, wishing Ra’s would come more often, wishing for the return of his rare touches, spilling answers and agreements and yes, yes, yes to whatever Ra’s asked because he was too weak to hold out as long as he should have. 

Robin looks back at Batman, eye to eye, and takes a deep breath. 

“Hits,” he starts quietly, “whipping, sleep deprivation, no food, and--and...” and he can’t say the actual word. It’s too ridiculous to be real. It doesn’t make sense, in the light of day, in the Bat-plane in Gotham, for him to say this word that he heard vaguely on the news as a child, that they brought up in school classes, this word that they’ve had detached debates in government class over, the word that belongs to different lands and islands and certain groups of people and the weird distant world of political debate. This word that is real as a concept and distantly horrible, but never real in life. Never close enough to comprehend more than as a vague wrong.

“And,” Batman prompts, too gently. 

“Water,” Tim gets out. 

“No water?” Batman frowns. 

Tim shakes his head. “No,” he says. “They. Ra’s made them…I was tied up and they...”

“Waterboarding?” Jason asks, suddenly. Except it’s not much of a question, and it’s Flamebird’s snarl. Tim shivers, squeezes his eyes shut. Dick is frozen behind him, then suddenly squeezing him tighter than before, and he hears a sharp intake of air from the direction of Bruce. 

“I’m sorry,” Tim gets out, because there’s nothing else to say. And then he’s wrapped up in Bruce’s cape too, smelling kevlar and a bit of cologne that’s never too strong, and sandalwood from that lotion Bruce always likes to use, and Bruce just presses his face into Tim’s hair and Tim’s face into his chest armor and murmurs, “My boys,” in a voice Tim doesn’t want to ever be the cause of again, and then Tim snaps himself together, because this is what they all need . 

“I’m okay,” he says, pushing back after several seconds. “I’m fine, we need to go, right, can we get this over with.”

Bruce frowns, glancing between him and Damian. “Are you sure--”

“Yes,” Tim says firmly. “B. Please. I just want to go home.”

Bruce searches his face with his piercing, clear eyes, reading too much, as always. But in the end, he nods. 

“All right,” he tells them. “Clark, we’ll have each of the boys hold their IV bags. When you get to the GCPD, just follow what Gordon tells you. Tim, Damian,” he adds, looking at each of them in turn, “speak as little as possible, do what the ambulance staff say, and let Superman and Gordon handle the situation and get you on your way. If traffic isn’t blocked, we should get to the hospital almost at the same time you do, coming from Bristol. Just a little longer, and you two stay together, and then we’ll be right there with you the whole rest of the time. Okay?”

“Yes, father,” Damian agrees. 

“Okay,” Tim says. 

Bruce kisses them each on the forehead, one at a time, slowly, so that Damian has time to prepare and relax into it, even if he still looks a little surprised, and then they’re being lifted like they weigh nothing and tucked securely against Clark’s sides. 

“Sorry,” he says, gently. “I know this must be hurting you. Just another minute, and then I’ll set you down, all right? Have to go slowly enough to make sense for carrying injured civilians.”

“It’s fine,” Tim promises. “It’s fine, Clark, you’re always super gentle.”

“Been a while since we did this,” he remarks to Tim, lifting off the floor of the plane and already picking up speed as they head down the ramp and out, up over the tree line. “Superman Express, back in business. Everyone buckled in, belongings stowed, seatbacks locked in the upright position?”

Tim actually laughs. 

“I do not understand the joke,” Damian admits, quietly, after a few moments of quiet flying. 

“He’s pretending to be a flight attendant on an airplane,” Tim explains, coughing again on and off while the wind whips past. “That’s part of what they say for takeoffs and landings on normal flights.”

“Oh,” says Damian, looking thoughtful. “I have never been on a civilian plane.”

“You will,” Tim promises. “Bruce has been talking about not using the private jet except when totally necessary anymore, to reduce carbon emissions. Honestly, Damian? If you tell him you want to go on vacation somewhere, he’ll probably buy us tickets in five minutes flat.”

“But…” Damian asks, as they slow and dip down towards the roof of the GCPD, and Superman leans slightly with one elbow to nudge the bright yellow call button without setting either of them down. “Why?”

“Because he loves you?” Tim says, glancing over, making sure Damian knows he’s serious. “He wants us all to be happy, and you don’t seem like you’ve had a lot of that, and Bruce is just...so weak for helping kids.”

“This is very true,” Clark says, with a small snort. “I think he’d steal Conner right out from under my nose if the kid ever gets mad enough at Lois and me for us to have a proper row.”

Tim squints up at Clark. “Row?” he asks, incredulously, as the door to the roof bursts open and Gordon runs through with several staff members Tim vaguely recognizes. 

“Ma’s been spending too many video calls talking with Alfred,” Clark whispers, with a tiny smile. “Can’t help but pick some things up.” Then he picks up his head, all Superman, all business, and smiles wide at the commissioner. 

“Hello, Commissioner!” Superman says cheerfully. “I think I have a couple of boys that you’ve been looking for around here.” 

“A couple?” Gordon asks, eyebrows lifting. 

“Hi, sir,” Tim says tiredly, twisting to look over Clark’s enormous bicep at the man, taking this as his cue. “I’m alive. And I brought my brother, too.”

Gordon’s brows, impossibly, rise even higher. “Your brother? We didn’t get any report about one of your brothers going missing as well--”

Damian, in a moment that would make Jason weep a single dramatic tear of joy, doesn’t even need prompting. He just stretches himself up, hands on Clark’s broad shoulder, and stares the commissioner right in the eyes as he says, “I am Damian Wayne. My brother and I require medical attention. You will call our father, Bruce Wayne, immediately, and appraise him of our safe return. He should be informed of my existence as soon as possible.”

Gordon looks from Damian, to Tim, to Superman, back to Damian, and to his credit, only runs a hand through his hair once. His staff, well-trained to handle all the insanity that Gotham throws, don’t even make a peep. 

“Well,” Gordon says, shooting Tim a look. “I hope Wayne is feeling generous with his donations to the city this month, because I’m about to file so much overtime it isn’t even funny. Jesus fuck. Okay. Lee, get Bruce Wayne on the phone, will you? Secure line? The rest of you, get those kids on the spare cots and call EMS. And the FBI. And--you know what, you know what you have to do. Scram.” 

As hands reach to take both Tim and Damian from Superman, Tim has the presence of mind to snap, “We stay together!” while Damian scowls at the strangers. 

“Okay,” says Gordon. “You stay together. I think we can make that work.” Once the kids are through the door and his staff are hopping to it, he shoots Superman a sharp glance. “You’re sure that this is true? Wayne’s got a surprise kid?”

Superman grimaces. “Quite sure,” he tells Gordon. “The kid’s telling the truth.”

“Gonna be a hell of a shock for the man,” Gordon says with a long whistle. “Well. Better go break it gently. I’m betting he has about two hours before it leaks to the vultures.”

“Best get cracking,” Superman says with a smile. “Scrambled eggs are better when they’re not made in a rush.”

“That was terrible, farm boy,” Gordon hisses, already turning to head back in. “Where do you get these .”

“Have a nice day, Commissioner,” Superman says, laughing. “And good luck.”

The next several hours are a whirlwind of half-truths, keeping an eye on each other, ambulance rides and breathing exercises and stressed-out staff, painkillers and tests and the massive relief when Dr. Thompkins storms her way in with rarely-used hospital privileges to take over care. 

The family marches through the gauntlet of medical staff and a conga line of law officials, and the complete frustration on Tim and Damian’s parts when they were told they had to stay for observation (“Bruce, you can sign us out! You know we can get better care at home!” is met with a firm, “Tim, you don’t have a spleen. We’re doing this above the table, especially with Damian, and you two are getting watched by Leslie and professional staff, and you kids are all going to sleep.” ). 

And finally, that evening, the city goes dark outside their window slats as Tim and Damian finally are left in relative peace and get to settle down into their side-by-side beds. Damian’s digging into the wide array of food that both staff and family have brought in, and Tim’s sandwiched in with Cass on one side of his mattress and Jason on the other, so relaxed between the company and the painkillers that he can finally forget the all-encompassing soreness and exhaustion and comedown from the last couple of weeks and sleep . 

“Damian,” Bruce says, from off to Tim’s right. “Slow down on Alfred’s tomato soup a little bit, okay? I know it’s good. But your stomach is going to take time to get used to having much food again, and that particular recipe has a lot of heavy cream. I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Yes, father,” comes a little sullenly from over on Damian’s bed, and Tim grins when he hears the clink of Damian’s spoon slow down and Bruce’s concurrent grunt of approval. 

“Do they really think ‘m gonna get pneumonia,” Tim mumbles in the direction he last spotted Leslie. 

“It hasn’t been two full years since you lost your spleen,” she replies, from somewhere underneath the window, “and god only knows what bacteria was in the water they used on you. So yes, Timothy, you have a higher post-torture chance than average of contracting pneumonia. But,” Leslie goes on, “I don’t particularly think you will, no. Since we’ve already got you on precautionary IV antibiotics for the rest of the night, and then a two week course once you’re home, I don’t think you need to worry. Okay?”

“‘Kay,” Tim says. “Can everyone stop...looking at me so much.”

Dick slides guiltily down off the railing of his bed and out of sight, reappearing next to Damian and throwing the kid a grin as he hops on the mattress to curl up next to him. The dip and bounce causes Damian to clutch his soup cup and snarl something mildly irritated, which makes Dick laugh.

“Sorry, Tim,” Bruce says, with a tired smile, from where he’s parked himself between the two hospital beds. “We’re just relieved to see you again.”

“Just want to sleep,” Tim sighs, trying to shift around and find a position that won’t leave something sore and uncomfortable, even with the edge taken off via painkillers. 

“Are you certain you’re not up for eating, Master Tim?” Alfred asks, nudging the door shut behind him with his foot. “I picked up a milkshake on my tea run, in case that might change your mind.”

Tim blinks himself more awake again. “Strawberry?” he asks, voice full of tentative hope, and he almost pushes up on one elbow before Cass’s hand closes gently onhis skin, right below the edge of his bandaged wrist, and Jason tightens his arm that’s thrown across Tim’s torso. 

“No,” Jason mumbles. “Settle down.”

“I thought you wanted me to be healthy,” Tim says. 

“The bed is literally already at an incline,” Jason says. “You can drink with a straw like this.”

Tim doesn’t argue. 

“Strawberry indeed,” Alfred confirms, stepping over to the bed with a styrofoam cup, straw, and pile of napkins. “Do you think you can manage some?”

“I know you’re nauseous from the antibiotic,” Bruce chimes in, “but even just a few mouthfuls would be good. Your call.”

“I’ll try, yeah,” Tim says, and he would hold the cup himself, except that both of his arms are currently pinned by clingy siblings, and so he stomps down the embarrassment of needing Alfred to lean over the railing and hold it for him like he’s an invalid. 

“Well done,” Alfred says, after Tim manages to drink about an inch. He pulls the cup away and tucks it into the minifridge under one of the the room’s cabinets. 

“Good job, Tim,” Bruce tells him, warmly, and stands for a moment to brush a hand over Tim’s now-cleaner hair a few times. “I know it’s hard. I’m proud of you.”

And Tim’s feeling about--about six different things right now, he’s worried about Damian, and he’s so tired his eyeballs hurt, again, and he’s feeling on edge and relaxed at the same time. And after Bruce and Alfred saying that--being proud of him for just. Sipping at a milkshake, in a hospital that he doesn’t even really need to be in, it’s like--Bruce really meant it, just now, that he was proud of Tim, that he thought drinking the milkshake was hard. And some part of Tim feels a hysterical laugh trying to bubble up, because literally this morning he was just--over in a different country, not knowing he’d be rescued, like, hours after being--being tortured and now he’s in a stupid pediatric hospital room with space decals on the walls and his whole family in the room almost and everyone’s safe and making the whole nightmare of the past few days seem like just that, like a dream, sort of, but it wasn’t, and Bruce is standing here telling him he knows it was hard, just now, for Tim to drink a milkshake . 

And. And it was . It’s--he made it through interrogation by an enemy in a world full of danger and alone-ness and desperate ripping fear, and now he’s safe with his family again, suddenly, and in this world, things like drinking milkshakes can be hard and that’s just. 

It’s. 

Tim lets out this awful, squeaking, ugly sound, half a wet laugh and half a distressed cry, and wrenches one arm free on instinct to clamp it over his mouth. Jason’s halfway to upright in a second, concern all over his face, while Tim tries so hard to breathe, and breathe, and tamp down the feeling that makes him think his chest is going to explode. 

Cass brushes Jason’s reaching hand away, with a single shake of her head, as she sits up too. 

“Dad,” she says simply, and then Jason nods, and they both slide off the mattress. 

“Tim,” Bruce says, quietly, as he twists around and finagels and somehow manages to cram himself up onto the bed next to Tim and tug . 

Tim sees Leslie herd Jason and Cass onto the fold-out sofa and start forcibly tucking them in with only mild complaining, and glances over to check on Damian, suddenly worried that he might have scared him, but…

Dick has a soft half-smile on his face as he gently works the cup of soup out of Damian’s grip with one hand, while the other rests on Damian’s forehead, loosely holding the boy slumped against his chest, where Damian has apparently crashed for the night. Dick has him. Tim doesn’t know what happened on the plane before he woke up, what Dick must have been saying to Damian while the boy cried on their way out of the country, but clearly Damian has already started to trust Dick, and Tim’s just. Tim’s so glad that Damian’s got this good of an older brother, this patient and kind and selfless and warm of an older brother, because he deserves every bit of the way Dick hands the cup off to Alfred and shifts gently, inch by inch, to get Damian tucked in the bed, cradled on Dick’s own chest and wrapped up in strong arms, Damian deserves all of this, and Tim’s just so glad he’s still alive--

Bruce’s arms slide around Tim, now, as Tim shakes a few times and presses both his hands so hard against his mouth that his teeth make the inside of his lips hurt. 

“I don’t know what exactly you’re feeling right now,” Bruce whispers close to his ear, as he shifts Tim gently, trying not to hurt him while he still pulls him close enough to cradle, all lanky limbs and tense, sweaty muscles of him, wrapped up in strong arms. “But I want you to know that it’s all right to feel it. This is going to pass, just like always, and we’re here with you for as long as it takes. It’s okay, Tim. You’re safe, and Damian is safe, and we’re never letting Ra’s take you again. That’s a promise.”

A Bruce promise. A Batman promise. A family promise. 

Tim doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t even think this is--that this is a need to cry, exactly, it’s not hot behind his eyes, it’s just pressure, everywhere, all in his chest, a shaking in his whole torso, tight shoulders and squeezed-shut eyes and Bruce holding him together so it’s safe for Tim to take a few minutes and fall apart. 

He never cries. But he presses against Bruce while he shakes, while they listen to Cass and Jason’s breathing slowly even out into sleep. While Tim clings to Bruce so hard he’s sure he’s leaving Bruces, and so hard it makes Tim hurt in more places than he has fingers and toes to count on. His lash marks and welts burn from the strain, and his neck hurts from how hard he’s tensed, but Bruce doesn’t let go, and Tim shudders in breaths one at a time, one at a time, and breathes in against Bruce’s old soft hoodie that smells like sandalwood and safety and him . Tim counts the seconds in thirties and counts his breaths in tens and Bruce has got him and it’s good enough . 

And when Tim has shaken and breathed and counted his way into a slump, going limp foot by leg by stomach by shoulder, Bruce shifts them around one last time, checking in with Tim quietly to make sure the position doesn’t hurt, and tugs the kicked-away blankets back up over Tim’s shoulders. Presses a kiss to Tim’s forehead, then another, and then when there’s a quiet, coded knock at the door, half an hour too early for another vitals check, Bruce whispers to a half-asleep Tim that he’s going to like this, wait just a moment, hang on, he’ll see. 

Tim lifts his head just high enough to see a familiar shape in the dim light from the nighttime hallway, watches her twist in through the door holding something in her hand, and there’s a sound that doesn’t make sense, a sound that’s--

And Nova pads quietly around the corner of Damian’s bed, right over to Tim’s, and when Bruce gives her a quiet command, she hops right up and settles over Tim’s legs and stomach like he never even left. 

Tim rubs her ears and scratches her neck. He holds her like she’s the only thing real left in the world while Bruce holds tight onto him . 

Steph settles into the recliner that Dr. Thompkins vacates with a quick hug and hushed words, and then she and Alfred slip out the door down the hall, somewhere, and Dick and Tim and Bruce and Steph all settle into the quiet of the night. 

It’s been a hellish couple of weeks. Tim’s not okay. He knows Damian’s not okay. He doesn’t think any of them are totally okay, really, but just like every time, every single thing they’ve been through before, they’ve got each other in a tangle of love and help and filling in the gaps. Tomorrow sounds impossible at the moment. But tomorrow isn’t his problem yet. He just needs to worry about tonight. His family is safe, and Damian is taken care of, and Tim’s selfishly, desperately grateful that out of everyone in the family, he’s ended up with Bruce tonight. He’s pressed under Nova and curled against Bruce, he’s got his family and his dad and his dog and his life, and tomorrow isn’t here yet, and for right now, this moment is okay. 

Chapter Text

The night passes with Damian dead to the world and the rest of them startling awake every time a nurse or tech comes in quietly to re-check vitals or change out a bag of fluids or antibiotics. A hospital room full of Bats and their butler is a hospital room that doesn’t get much sleep. 

Tim’s exhausted enough, crashing enough, that even though he wakes up almost every time, he actually dozes off again within minutes. Bruce asks him if Tim wants him to leave so there’s more room, just once, and when Tim, half-asleep and forgetting his injuries, practically jerks sideways to grab onto Bruce more tightly, the issue quickly gets settled for the rest of the night.

Tim finally wakes up for real to the shutter slats letting in light around their edges, the smell of warm tea, and the sound of the original recording of Rockin Robin playing loudly from someone’s phone speaker. 

Tim groans. 

“Good morning, kiddos,” Dr. Thompkins says, cheerfully, and she’s leaning against the air vent over by one of the rolling tables when Tim cracks his eyes open. “Rise and shine.”

The room starts to come to life in a domestic chorus of sullen grunts and shifting fabric, and god, Tim missed this. Normal sounds. People just being around each other quietly. Family. Waking up with real sunlight. Getting to watch people he loves just...be alive, wake up, exist nearby. Jason’s head is the first to pop up into view. 

“Leslie,” he grumbles. Half his hair is sticking straight up. “Did it have to be this song.” 

“Couldn’t resist the opportunity,” she tells him, smiling way too cheerfully for someone who probably got even less sleep than they did last night. 

“It’s a good song,” Dick says defensively, voice still a little gravelly. Damian, somehow, is still asleep on top of his arm, lips parted slightly and bangs flopped over one eye. 

Stephanie hops off the couch with messy hair, squinting eyes, and a lot of grumbling, yanking the waffle-knit blanket behind her and straight off of Jason. Jason’s stream of offended sounds are muffled by the sudden thermos of tea that appears in his hands, courtesy of Alfred, and then someone throws the window shutters open, letting in orange sunrise, and the whole room stirs into a bee hive of activity. Bats they may be, with all the nocturnal proclivities that entails, but once the family is up, they’re up . 

“Morning, sweetheart,” Bruce says, voice rumbling, and he finally pushes himself upright and stands up off of Tim’s bed, stretching high enough to pop his spine. “How’re you feeling?” 

Cass materializes behind him, watching Tim from over Bruce’s shoulder. Tim offers a smile.

“Way better than when I woke up yesterday morning,” Tim tells them. 

“Not funny,” Jason scolds, as he carries over a second thermos. “Answer the question, Timbo.”

“Fine,” Tim says. “Gimme.” He reaches out for the second thermos that’s clearly labeled Timothy , but stops halfway with a noise of pain and jerks his arm back. 

“Tim?” Bruce asks, worried. 

“Fine,” Tim tells him, tightly. 

“I do not think that word means what you think it means,” Jason quips, and shimmies his way up to sit on the end of the mattress by Tim’s feet, his lower back against the plastic footboard. 

Cass glances from Tim to Dr. Thompkins. 

“About that,” Leslie interjects. “More results got processed last night. On the upside, neither Tim nor Damian have any drugs in their systems besides what Tim’s been given here. On the downside, Tim’s got a grade three kidney laceration that looks like a compounded injury.”

“What,” says Tim.

“Timing?” asks Bruce. 

Leslie shrugs, taking a sip of her own to-go coffee that must have come from the hospital cafe downstairs. “Based on what the boys told us, our guess is that there was an initial minor contusion within the past few days--probably when Tim was first beaten--and then sometime during the escape yesterday, he must have taken another hit to that side with enough direct impact to re-injure the kidney further.”

Bruce hns, flicking a concerned look over at Tim, who’s doing his best to melt into the pillows and slither through the earth until he’s safe in his normal bed at the Manor. 

“Are you kidding me,” Tim groans. 

“Not even a little, buckaroo,” Leslie tells him. “Sorry. That’s probably what’s causing most of the significant pain when you try to move right now, if it’s any consolation. The rest of your injuries are mostly at skin level.”

“Prognosis?” Bruce demands. He takes his own thermos of coffee and a change of fresh clothes from Alfred with a grateful nod.

“Good,” Leslie tells them. She gently thwacks the back of Stephanie’s head while the girl tries to sneak a drink of Leslie’s coffee, and points her towards Alfred’s drink carrier instead. “It’s pretty minor as far as kidney injuries go. Tim, you should heal up fine as long as you’re careful for a while--monitoring at regular intervals, no contact sports, no roughhousing with your siblings.”

Tim frowns. He knows that look on her face.

“But?” he asks, wary. 

“But,” Dr. Thompkins says, folding her arms, “you stay here in the hospital on strict bed rest for the next two or three days.”

“No,” Tim snaps, instantly. 

“Yes,” Bruce tells him.

“Bruce!”

“You’re staying here, Tim,” Bruce repeats. 

“Please,” Tim begs, both frustrated and a little grateful that his voice is already shaky. “I just want to go home . I can rest better there. I’m safe there. I’m clearly stable, I promise I’ll stay in bed, I won’t sneak out--”

“Tim,” Bruce says, hands landing on Tim’s shoulders. “We’re not going to leave you alone while you’re here. We’re going to guard you and keep you company. But if Leslie says you need to stay instead of going home, after you’ve been missing for days and she knows you want to be home, then you need to.”

Tim stares back at him, trying not to let his surging frustration take over. He doesn’t particularly want to cry or shout right now, and if things continue down this road, he’s liable to do either. 

“I know you’d rest at home, Tim,” Dr. Thompkins says. “I know you don’t want to stay at a hospital. No one does. But we have to do frequent checks for levels of certain things to make sure you stabilize fine after a kidney injury so we can make sure it’s safe to send you home.”

“Couldn’t we just...assume it will be? And I come back if something seems wrong?” Tim pleads, even though he knows he won’t win this. 

“Sorry, bud,” Bruce says, running his hand through Tim’s hair. “I’m gonna follow Leslie on this one. Above the board, remember? And we just got you back.” His jaw tightens, and Tim sees Cass’s hand come up to squeeze the back of Bruce’s neck. “I’m not willing to take any risks with your health right now.” 

Tim closes his eyes, opens them, and finally takes his thermos from Jason, sliding the lid open. 

“Fine,” he says, subdued. “Okay. I just.”

“Home,” Cass finishes for him, quietly, pinched fingers tapping by her mouth and ear while she smiles. 

“Yeah,” Tim sighs. 

“Cheer up,” Jason says, bumping one of Tim’s feet with his knee. “We’ll bring your Switch and you can catch up on all the Animal Crossing days you missed while you were over there. I have about seventy gifts waiting for you in your mailbox.”

“And,” Dick adds, trying to shove a pastry in his mouth while still lying almost flat on Damian’s bed, “we can bring extra controllers and have a Smash tournament. That should keep us all busy for a while.” He frowns. “Um, actually, also, maybe we need to pencil in some time for visitors. I’m pretty sure your team is about to absolutely smash down the door to the hospital sometime today if we don’t invite them ourselves.”

“You’ll let them in Gotham?” Tim asks, significantly more cheerful than a few moments before.

“I think this situation can be one of the exceptions,” Bruce tells him. 

“Yes,” Tim hisses, then freezes. “Um,” he starts, much more quietly. “Did anyone happen to bring my phone? I don’t know if I brought it with me to the Tower that weekend or--”

“It was plugged in on your nightstand,” Alfred tells him. “I took the liberty of packing you a bag before I left the Manor this morning, and it is in the left side pocket. You may have it after you eat breakfast.”

“Thanks, Alfred,” Tim says, smiling. “You’re the best. We don’t tell you that enough. Also can I please give you a hug.”

“It would be my pleasure,” says Alfred, and the corners of his eyes definitely crinkle while he leans down and gently hugs Tim back. 

There’s a startled sound, suddenly, from over to the right, and Tim’s head whips around to see Damian jolt upright, shoving off of Dick and over to the other side of the mattress, only stopping once he’s wedged against the bed rail. His eyes are wide, trying to take in the scene, the sounds, all the movement going on.

The room freezes, more or less. 

“Morning, Lil’ D,” Dick says calmly, while he slowly levers himself upright and scoots down the mattress, giving Damian space. Damian doesn’t so much as shift one rod-straight arm. His knuckles are white where they rest splayed against the thin hospital sheet, and his hospital gown is twisted around to the point that the neck tie is digging into his skin. 

“Damian,” Tim calls, from his own bed, and he firmly ignores the pain as he pushes off the mattress and sits up. “Hey. We’re safe, remember? We’re in America now.” Damian locks eyes with him, now, properly. Tim can see his little frown from here. “Remember falling asleep in the hospital last night, after the soup? We’re still here.”

“I remember--I remember the soup,” Damian says, slowly. Then, “Father?”

“Here,” Bruce says, quietly, carefully not moving. 

Damian nods, looking around the room more calmly now and taking in the jumbled assortment of people, pastries, drinks, and blankets, staring out the window, checking over the door, and then his gaze makes it back to Tim’s bed, the rest of it this time, and for the first time, Tim sees his jaw drop. 

Just a little. Just a smidge. But with his little mouth open, and his eyes big, one hand reaching out just an inch or two before he catches himself...Damian looks a whole lot more like a kid, all of a sudden. Before, he mostly just looked small . And wary, and tired. Now...Tim thinks he really looks young . It’s a good look.

Dick takes a spare plate from Alfred, with an assortment of pastries on it, and sets it on the mattress a couple of inches from Damian’s knee. 

“Is that…” Damian starts, quietly, then trails off, eyes flicking up to Tim’s, then back down. Back up, and away towards the wall. Like he’s not sure if he can ask . 

“What?” Tim prods. He’s stiff as hell, while his whole back from shoulders to knees is screaming at him, but this is Damian, and he’s got to do this right . It’s not like he’s going to hurt himself any more by just sitting. It’s just pain. He can ignore pain. And if this is the first thing that’s gotten Damian to seem a bit more like the kid he damn well ought to be right now--

“Is that a dog?” Damian asks, sounding hesitant, and isn’t that a strange thing? In the times Tim’s been around Damian so far, the kid has sounded arrogant, authoritative, angry, urgent, even afraid--but never hesitant. Whatever he’s thought or felt, he usually projects complete decisiveness in whatever he actually says. Tim doesn’t know if this is anything like progress, he doesn’t know about How To Deal With Brainwashed Cult Children You Just Found Out Were Baby Brothers Like A Week Ago, Bruce would probably know way better--but it seems like maybe it might be. You probably don’t get much chance to be hesitant in a militaristic cult. So this is probably good.

“Yeah,” Tim tells him, grinning. He reaches down, ignoring the way his lash wounds are screaming even louder, and rubs Nova’s head, laughing when she licks his hand once. “This is Nova.” 

Damian’s hardly breathing, watching Tim and Nova touch. Watching Tim’s face, even the pain tightness, loosen a little. Watching him smile at Nova, and Nova lean into his hand. 

“Do you want to pet her?” Dick asks. Damian looks over at him, startled. Bruce finally takes a few steps forward over to Damian’s bed and holds his hand out, just part-way, far enough from Damian that the boy won’t feel like he’s encroaching on his personal space. 

“It’s all right,” Bruce says. “Nova loves everyone. She’s Tim’s dog, but she’s very calm, and will take pets from anyone willing to give them.”

Damian leans forward just a tiny bit, but stays in his spot, still crouched, still watching, and then he looks up at Bruce, and something about his expression, the way there’s a hesitant question holding him back, even though part of him clearly wants to--

“Have you ever petted a dog before?” Bruce asks, voice very, very carefully even. 

Damian stares at him for a few seconds, while the room stares at him, and then quietly tells bruce, “No.” 

Bruce moves his hand an inch closer, the rest of him completely still. “Come. I’ll show you how, if you want.”

And Damian reaches up slowly, fumbling for a second as he tries to figure out how he’s supposed to slot his hand into Bruce’s larger one, finally getting his small fingers wrapped around Bruce’s, and then he scoots his way across the mattress with more dignity than anyone should be able to manage in a hospital gown and pads quietly across the floor behind his father. 

“Come on up,” Tim offers, gritting his teeth as he shifts over on the mattress. His legs wiggle out from under Nova, who pushes herself up to sitting, but otherwise waits for his command. Bruce perches on the edge of the bed while Damian slowly climbs up onto the mattress and settles a couple inches away from Tim, glancing up at him to check that it’s okay. Tim make sure he doesn’t stop smiling, and reaches out to ruffle Damian’s hair without even thinking about it. 

Damian stiffens, looking both confused and wary. Then he leans into Tim’s hand, just a little, and Tim feels like he just about won the whole damn lottery and the college admissions process and the name-that-song contest on the alternative station and the annual family Nerf gun war all at once. 

“Here,” Bruce tells Damian, slow and gentle and keeping both his hands in view at all times. “Dogs like to be petted, scratched, and rubbed.”

“I know that,” Damian says, a little bit haughtily. His chin lifts up slightly. “I read that. On the Google.” 

Tim sees Jason lock eyes with him and mouth the Google with both eyebrows raised comically and a shiteating grin. Tim’s own face twists up in a desperate attempt to both scowl at Jason and try not to laugh. Cass and Steph both quietly whack Jason’s shoulder and thigh out of Damian’s line of sight.

“You looked it up yourself?” Bruce asks, sounding impressed. 

Damian nods. “At a library. I went to the city. I wanted to know--” he cuts himself off, suddenly, and shoots Bruce a wary look. “Show me how to pet this dog,” he demands. “Nova.” 

“Right,” Bruce says, evenly, nodding. “Like this, see?” He runs his fingers lightly over the fur on Nova’s side a few times. “There are several ways, but this is what people usually start with. Unless you know a dog very well, you should not reach for their face, because it can startle them.”

Damian nods seriously. 

“So you stroke them gently, here,” Bruce says, demonstrating, “or here, by their ears, or by their back, or flank. If they want you to, sometimes they’ll roll over and invite you to scratch their belly. But only if they initiate.”

Damian eyes Nova, leaning forward a little from where he sits cross-legged. Tim breathes through pain, keeps his eyes on Damian, on Bruce, and counts in sets of six and steady inhales and exhales while he slowly leans back towards the mattress, millimeter by millimeter. 

“How do I…” Damian starts and trails off, frowning at Bruce while he moves his hand just a few inches towards Nova. 

“Palm up,” Bruce instructs, one hand steady on Nova’s back, and the other loose on his knee. “Nice and slow, not too quickly, and come in under her chin, let her sniff you.”

Damian reaches out, letting Nova sniff and nose around his palm and fingers for a second, then actually squeaks when she gives his hand a couple quick licks. 

“It is wet,” he says, looking like he’s unsure whether he ought to scowl or laugh. 

“It’s a tongue,” Dick laughs around a mouthful of apple danish. 

Tim takes a couple sips of tea and manages to get out, “Dogs will lick your hand sometimes. She likes you, she’s telling you she thinks you’re okay.”

“Oh,” says Damian. “Hello,” he tells Nova, very seriously. She looks up at him with her steady eyes. “I am going to pet you now.”

Bruce very gently guides Damian’s hand to stroke along Nova’s soft fur a few times, then teaches him how to scratch behind Nova’s ears, and then lets Damian do what he wants. Tim’s leaned back against his mattress with closed eyes, breathing carefully, and carefully not moving. But he loves this, having Damian safe next to him, clearly enjoying petting Nova by Tim’s feet. Having quiet city noises out the window instead of unfamiliar sounds and echoes against stone and--

“The attending is ready to discharge Damian this morning, with plans for follow-up care and nutrition instructions,” Dr. Thompkins says. “Bruce, the forms are at the nurse’s station for you to sign, and then you can take Damian back to the Manor--”

“No,” Damian almost snarls, head snapping up. “No! I stay with Timothy.”

“Damian,” Tim says, opening his eyes and lifting his head a little. “You don’t have to stick around here for days. It’s better to go home when you can. You can pick out what room you want, and see the Manor. Have a break. You can always come back and see me, anyway, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I do not want to go without you,” Damian insists. 

“Hey,” Jason says, gently. “It would really help Tim out if you did, Damian.”

Damian eyes him dubiously. “How?”

“Dogs need exercise,” Jason tells him. “Nova’s been here since last night, kinda against the rules, but--well, Bruce is Bruce Wayne. We bend the rules a little sometimes for things like this. Anyway, Nova needs to go home and run around outside a bit, and we all have to go home and feed the fish and cat and other dogs--”

“There are more dogs?”

Jason grins. “Oh, yeah. Mine is named Peanut, and there’s Nova, and then the family dog is Ace, he’s older but still plenty awesome, you’ll love him. And Cass’s cat is named Teacup, and then we have a couple of fish, too, but they stay in our rooms.”

Damian stares at Nova, then glances at Tim. 

Tim gives him a serious smile. “I’d love it if you took Nova for a walk while I can’t,” he says. “Jason can show you the best path around the Manor, if you want. Nova’s a herding dog, and she needs to run a lot. She’s not supposed to be cooped up in a bed with me all day. You think you could do that till I’m home again?”

Damian nods. “I will take care of her,” he tells Tim. “She will be safe with me until you are free.”

An interesting choice of words, and not the ones that make Tim remember the happiest stuff right now, but hey. Progress. 

“Thank you, Damian,” he says. “Jason and the others can show you how we feed the dogs and stuff, too, and you can feel free to grab whatever toys you want for Nova out of my room if you want to play fetch or something outside.”

“What is fetch?”

“Oh, boy,” Steph says. “We’re going to have a lot of fun today. Fetch is awesome, little dude.”

“Do not call me little dude,” Damian tells her, scowling. 

“I’m going to go sign the papers,” Bruce says, slipping out the door. 

“But you are,” Steph says, grinning. 

“I am not.”

“I shall help Master Damian prepare to leave,” Alfred tells Bruce. “And the rest of you,” he says, to the room at large, “gather your things and fold your blankets. I expect you to be ready to get in the van in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes sir,” Dick says, with a loose salute and a grin, and Tim laughs a little before dropping his head against the pillow again. Cass leans down to kiss his ear.

This is his family that he’s with. And it may be unusual, and a bit broken, and a whole ball of chaos on a good day, but it’s his, and it’s good, and he’s almost, almost home. 

“Timmy,” Bruce says, once the rest of them have trooped out the door with a chorus of goodbyes and last-minute comments and threats and promises to be back relatively soon with things to do and some bubble tea.

“Bruce,” Tim mumbles. 

“How are you actually feeling.” And it’s an order, not a question. 

“Shitty,” Tim admits, voice a little rough. 

Bruce’s hand lands on his forehead, and the cheap metal chair next to his bed squeaks a little as Bruce sits down. “Must be pretty lousy if you’re admitting it so quickly,” Bruce says. 

“Don’t make fun of me,” Tim tells him. “I’m--it didn’t hurt this much before. I was okay. I don’t know what--”

“It wasn’t safe before,” Bruce says. Infinitely gentle. “Your body got the memo that it’s okay to not be okay, now. It happens. How bad, kiddo?”

Tim opens his eyes and looks at Bruce through slightly blurry waves. “It really hurts. When I move--” he struggles up, leaning forward, breathing through pursed lips against the pain. 

“Tim--”

“They burn. Like. When I was there, against the pole, and I couldn’t really kneel but it was too short to stand, they used the--the--it was the kind with the fabric, and the knots in the end, I don’t remember the name, but when they hit me it felt like--” Like sudden hits on patrol, and the heat of deep summer air sucking breath out of lungs when you get in a car that’s been empty for hours, and the shock of his mom’s hand against his face and the way his brain skipped a track on the couch in front of his parents, and the burn came after no warning just like--

“I've been wondering, what is Ra’s short for, anyway?” Tim asks, faking lightness in his tone as he refuses to hunch under his too-tight bindings, the bruises already forming from his treatment in the hallway. He glances towards Ra’s’ people, by the windows, guessing character, calculating jauntiness and projected attitude and how far buttons can be pushed. The tensile strength of human nature. 

He hums faintly under his breath for a couple of seconds before locking eyes with Ra’s again, even though it makes his skin crawl. 

“Ra, ra, Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine,” he sings, half a note off. 

He thinks he can see Ra’s grinding his teeth from here. The man certainly looks constipated enough.

“Are we going to be here all day?” Tim asks, trying to sound genuine. “Because I admit, Mr. al Ghul, I do genuinely love your architectural design here, some of this detail work is just--so cool, seriously, but I was serious about wanting to find the kitchens, I’m really--”

“Fifty lashes,” Ra’s snaps, as he drops down into his carved chair. 

“What,” Tim says, every nerve in his body going cold like he’s been dunked in an icy lake.

“Cat of nine tails,” Ra’s says, sounding almost bored now. “Secure him.”

“Sir,” someone tentatively asks, and Tim doesn’t see who, because right now hands are grabbing him and lurching him forward, trying to slam his bound wrists in place over that hook he’d seen earlier and hoped wasn’t for what he thought it was, and he’s putting up a useless struggle, but he’s Robin and he’s BatWatch and he’s not supposed to give up without a fight. “Fifty is--”

“Fifty,” Ra’s says, flat and cold. “He has earned it.”

It’s okay, Tim tells himself over and over as he stands tethered to the pole with no shirt and no shoes and no pants and just underwear and hears something snap behind him, doesn’t look behind him, looks up at Ra’s and glares, just on principle, because this is what he has left. It’s okay, people have been whipped for years and years, it’s just a punishment, you’ve had worse, you beat Ebola and this is going to be fine. It’s just a thing hitting your skin and it’s going to hurt and you’ll breathe and meditate and it’ll be like other things hitting you and you can take it and it’ll be fine. 

He waits for footsteps, for a begin, for the moment to catch and hold his breath and brace--

It doesn’t come, they don’t come, all there is is the sound of fabric moving through air and then impact and the pain doesn’t come for a moment, two moments, but then it hits on delay and Tim. 

Tim is fine, Tim is fine, he gasps and his knees buckle while he can’t actually rest his weight on the ground, and he thinks, here comes the next one, but it doesn’t. There are moments, and seconds, and he breathes, and it’s fine. He looks up at Ra’s, and opens his mouth, and.

The sound, again, the hit, again, and burning, stinging, pounding pain, in a different spot, lower, and Tim waits for the break again, but this time there’s only a second and then again, the fire, the radiating pain, layers and patches of different levels of sting and ache spreading across his skin, and then a gap again this time, and then more--

Tim is not fine. 

“Tim,” Bruce is saying, firmly. “Tim!” 

“Sorry,” Tim says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sorry, sorry, I was just--”

“You have nothing to apologize for, you had a flashback. And it was only a couple of seconds,” Bruce tells him. “Not very long.”

“Sorry,” Tim says, miserably. 

“How about this,” says Bruce. He has one of Tim’s hands in each of his, squeezing them gently and rubbing his thumbs in circles across the backs of Tim’s hands. “I’m going to press your call button, and we’re going to get you some breakthrough pain meds. Because you need them. Don’t argue with me, this is what they’re for. The nurses know your pain is going to flare and ebb, no one’s going to be upset with you.”

“But--”

“We’re going to get you some pain medication,” Bruce repeats, calmly, “and I’m going to get you some light, easy things to eat, whatever you want, and we’re going to find out what numbing cream might be safe to use on your skin right now, and you’re going to have a quiet day.”

Tim knows this is where he’s supposed to argue, right now, to tell Bruce hey, no, I want to see my friends, I want to play Smash Bros, I want to get out of here and I want a shower and can I at least walk around the room a little, that’s close enough to bedrest, right? But Tim can’t. He’s just. He’s just. 

Bruce sighs, but it doesn’t sound like a disappointed sigh, or an angry sigh. Just...a sad sigh, maybe. 

“You really are feeling rough,” he says, and Tim screws up his lips, squeezes his eyes shut harder. “Tim. You’ve had--you’ve had an absolutely terrible past couple of weeks. You’ve been through a very traumatic experience, and handled it amazingly well, so far, but you can’t keep the front up forever. I know you’re not okay. I know that things aren’t okay. Hell, Tim, I’m not okay. But I’ve been able to talk to Alfred about it, a little. I don’t think you’ve even gotten a break.”

“No,” Tim admits. 

“So,” Bruce says, so gentle, still. “I’m going to take care of it. Everything. Remember how I’m your dad, with receipts and all?”

Tim cracks a grin. He opens his eyes part way and looks at Bruce. “Yeah.”

“And remember how that means that I’m your adult? And I’ll take care of things so you don’t have to?”

Tim swallows. “Yeah.”

“Let me take care of this,” Bruce tells him, brushing through Tim’s hair, along his cheek a couple times. “Let me give you this day, while you’re stuck here anyway. You and me, as much rest as you can get, no need to put on a strong face for company or anything. You be what you need to be, and show what you feel, and we’ll figure out how to get you comfortable while no one’s around to see, so tomorrow, if you’re up for it, you can have your visitors and not have to worry.”

“Okay,” Tim whispers. “Can you--I can’t keep counting right, long enough to--”

“The pain?” Bruce asks, softly, forehead creasing right between his eyebrows. “Breathing?”

Tim makes a noise of agreement. 

Bruce hits the call button, arranges the rolling table so that his phone is within reach, and Tim’s cup of ice water and TV remote are right next to it, and then nods. 

“We’ll get you those meds,” he says, “and after that I’ll text Alfred, and he can have your brothers text your friends. No one is going to be upset. Everyone is just happy you’re safe, and can’t wait to see you when you’re ready and feel safe and okay enough to do so. Got it?”

“Got it,” Tim says. 

“And we’re going to do this today, with maybe just one visit from Alfred,” Bruce says, “and you have to be honest with me about exactly what you’re feeling, and what you need. No hiding because you don’t want to worry me or be a burden.”

“Bruce…”

“Promise.”

Tim glares half-heartedly. “I will try my best,” he says, and Bruce smiles.

“That’s the best I’m going to get,” he says, sounding like that means it’s an agreement. “Okay. Six in, six out, I’ll count for you. Or we can chant the Ave Maria in latin for a bit, if that would be more distracting?”

“Chant,” Tim says. 

“Okay,” Bruce murmurs. “Squeeze my hands as hard as you need to. I’m with you, sweetheart. This pain is going to get easier, and it’s going to go away, I promise. Just keep breathing with me. Ready? Ave Maria…” Bruce sings quietly, in his surprisingly smooth voice, while Tim follows along as steadily as he can manage, much less clearly. 

But it’s the in and out of air that counts, he knows that, and so when Bruce leads him slowly through gratia plena, ave dominus, in and out and the concentration on keeping his breath steady, Tim follows with his hands in his Dad’s and his fingers squeezing and a rush of gratitude when the really nice nurse on duty takes one look at him and gives him the painkiller through his IV instead of as pills. 

And when it’s later, when he’s breathing and relaxing and they’ve got a rerun of Star Trek on one of the TV channels going, and Bruce is coaxing him through a couple rounds of sheer, utter bewilderment that’s he’s actually here, actually safe, that the past days happened but are over, that he’s actually holding a cheap plastic spoon with some frozen lemon ice on it, and he’s safe, and he’s with Bruce, and Damian’s--

“Damian,” Tim blurts out, gaze snapping from middle distance to land directly on Bruce’s concerned, steady face, while he drops the spoon back into his little dish. “Damian needs, you, he needs--”

“Damian will have me,” Bruce tells Tim firmly, smoothly, squeezing his arm once with just a little firm pressure. “Tim. Damian is safe, Damian is fine, and I am a stranger and an adult right now, who he will need time to warm up to. He’s having the easiest time with you and your siblings, for now, and he’s had a very traumatic change suddenly, and I guarantee you that he needs and wants some time and space of his own as well. He’s being well looked after at the manor by more people than he can shake a stick at. He’s safe. Right now, you need me too,” Bruce says, more softly. “I promised. I’m here, Tim, I’ve got you for as long as you need me. Just let me help.” 

Tim stares at him for a second, searching, wanting to argue, wanting to protest, wanting to--to crawl into Bruce’s lap and curl up like he’s somebody’s toddler or something and just hide, just let Bruce hold him, to ask Bruce to wrap him up in arms and the Batman cape and just let him sit there till he feels safe to come out in about. Maybe a hundred years. 

Tim takes a deep breath, remembering late night hugs and chases up buildings and hugs after nearly dying and frustrated shouting and a litany of moments of Bruce showing up, Bruce staying, Bruce not leaving, Bruce actually being there. 

Bruce making it better. 

“You don’t have to do anything alone,” Bruce reminds him. “I’m here. For whatever you need right now, whichever version of you needs me. Loud or quiet, happy or sad, Tim, I’m here.”

“Okay,” Tim says, and he offers Bruce a small, real smile. For the first time of the day. “Okay, Dad. Um. Can we.” He cuts himself off and signs the rest, instead, surprising Bruce a little because Tim’s been...really avoiding it, for a while, except when signing with Cass, or in the field, but Bruce smiles and kisses Tim’s forehead anyway. 

“Of course,” he says, and signs, and while Tim signs back thank you with blatant relief, Bruce slides his hands under Tim as gently as possible and shifts him over, just a little. Just enough to squeeze onto the mattress next to him, wrap him up carefully in a hug, and kiss his ear. 

“I love you, Tim,” Bruce says. “I’ve got you. I’m proud of you for asking. I’ll keep watch, as long as you need. Go on to sleep.”

And Tim, worn out and stressed out and medicated and warm, and wrapped up in Batman’s arms, Tim finally fully lets go of Robin for the first time in days, settles down under Bruce’s watchful guard, and does .

Chapter Text

True to Bruce’s word, Tim gets sleep and an appropriate painkiller regimen and feels about eight hundred times more human by the next day. His sleep schedule is shot to hell, and if he shifts more than a couple inches at a time half his body still yells at him. But they at least let him shuffle to the bathroom by himself, even if he can’t walk down the hallway yet, and more importantly, he’s up to having company again. And so company starts to come. 

His siblings tumble into his room while Tim’s still picking at his hospital breakfast tray, and spend most of the morning hanging out on the couch and Damian’s old bed that the hospital staff let Bruce crash on last night. 

Dick and Jason keep Tim playing Smash most of the time, which is fine. It’s something to do, it involves a lot of fond bickering between them all, and it’s mindless enough that they can just half-pay-attention while they play and not care too much about getting yeeted off the platform on and off. Cass joins in every now and then, but mostly enjoys watching and making fun of each of them in sign language whenever they’re not paying attention, just to get Bruce to laugh. 

Damian stays very quiet, the whole time they’re there. Tim tries to ask him how the Manor was, yesterday, how he slept, how he’s feeling, but it’s clear that Damian is not used to those questions nor comfortable answering them in front of others. Tim gets stilted, one-word answers out of him. So he drops it, exchanging a glance with Bruce, and just carefully shifts over in his bed to make room for his little brother. 

It takes a few minutes--Damain stands stiffly, posture perfect, near the curtain blocking the doorway at first. He doesn’t join the others in their bee-lines for every available cushioned surface. He shakes his head when offered a controller for the Switch. But he watches them all, doesn’t lean away when Bruce comes and speaks to him quietly for a minute. And when Alfred hands him a mango smoothie like all the others, his expression cracks into just one tiny second of open surprise before he reaches one small hand out and accepts. 

Tim leaves space open on his bed, glaring daggers at Jason when his brother makes for it. Jason snorts, throwing his hands up, and changes course for the couch next to Cass, who’s wrapped in three throw blankets and still wearing her sunglasses. 

Slowly, very slowly, Damian walks closer. Tim keeps pressing buttons, trying to whack Dick off the lower platform with a hodge-podge of sword strikes, and then when he gets suddenly eaten by a very overexcited Jason-as-Kirby, he drops his controller for a moment to laugh and catch Damian’s eye. The boy is within two feet of his bed now, frowning so slightly Tim’s sure he isn’t even aware of it.

“What’s up, Damian?” he asks. 

Damian stares back at him, serious. “You seem better than before.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees, nodding. “I’m feeling better.”

“That is good.” Damian glances up at the small TV screen, and then over to the space beside Tim. 

“It’s open,” Tim says. “If you want to come up. I could use the company.”

Damian’s eyebrows pinch together. 

“You have your whole family,” he says. 

“Including you.”

“I am not--you do not know me, I am--” Damian cuts himself off and huffs out a breath. “I am--”

“Also one of my brothers,” Tim finishes for him, firmly. “Damian. If you want to come join me, I’d love that.”

“Will I not hurt you?” And, man. The expression on Damian’s face right now--it’s so familiar, Tim’s heart hurts, for a moment--the mixture of uncertainty, restrained longing, and hesitancy has looked back at him in a mirror too many times. 

Tim shakes his head. “It’ll be fine,” he promises. “I’m topped off on pain meds, and I already moved over. A little dip when you climb up won’t matter.”

“Are you sure?”

Damian’s fingers have landed just at the edge of the mattress. Light as a feather, ready to slip away back to his own side in half a second at the slightest hint of not being wanted, but there . Reaching out, just a little. 

It’s a dance Tim hasn’t been on this side of before, but he knows it all the same. He’s watched Bruce and Jason and the others for two years now. He may not know exactly what he’s doing, but he can do this anyway. 

“Positive,” Tim says, with a broad smile. “Get up here, Damian. I missed you all night.”

“You have not known me long enough to miss me,” Damian grumbles, but he climbs up anyway, and settles back against the raised mattress just an inch or two away from Tim’s shoulder.

“I missed you, like, two seconds after your grandpa’s ninjas dragged me out of your room,” Tim says. “You grow on people fast.”

Damian makes a noncommittal noise, clearly not knowing how to respond to or believe that. 

“You want to play?” Tim offers, holding his own controller out and wiggling it just a little. 

Damian looks at it and doesn’t meet his eyes. “I do not...I have never used one of these before.”

“Have you gotten to play any games?” Dick cuts in, from a few feet away. 

Damian shakes his head. 

“This is a tragedy of unholy proportions,” Jason says, after pausing the game. “Tim. Fix this.”

“Oh, I’m about to,” Tim says, grinning. He reaches out and slowly fits Damian’s hands around the controller, fingers on buttons, curling around the grips. “Damian, get ready to learn the art of video games. Welcome to the party, you’re gonna love it.”

By lunch, Damian had played for nearly five hours straight. He picked the game controls up with a frankly terrifying speed that left Bruce quietly laughing and the rest of them split between awe at Damian’s determination and horror at how quickly he started thrashing them almost every round. 

Tim couldn’t be prouder. Even if he did want to throttle Damian just a little bit, after the kid knocked him straight off the stage not even two seconds after he’d just respawned from the last time. 

Alfred and Bruce herd the others out, with the promise that Bruce will return within an hour or two. Tim begs for some frozen yogurt, not above playing the I-was-stuck-in-a-desert-craving-ice-cream card if necessary, and Bruce just snorts and waves one hand over his shoulder in some kind of acknowledgement. Tim notices the way Damian relaxes, just a little, under Alfred’s steady hand on his shoulder as they leave, and makes a note to text Alfred later and see what’s going on. 

The kid seems more comfortable with Alfred than with any of the rest of them so far, and it’s not like Tim’s surprised, really, Alfred is just that good, but there’s got to be a reason, and Tim wants all the advice he can get. 

Damian deserves to feel comfortable. As much as he can. This is a totally new world for him, they ought to make it as smooth for him as possible. Even if there’s only so much they can really do to keep the culture shock to a minimum and help him learn a totally different way to live. 

And then, in the middle of his musings, Tim’s friends literally crash through the cracked-open door, and every thought flies right out of his head. The room becomes a jumble of happy exclamations, scoldings tumbling over the tops of each other like streams over rocks on a mountain, and a sudden group hug that very nearly ends in disaster (and a lot of pain) before Conner catches all of them in his TTK and keeps them just a little bit apart until they sort out their various limbs and don’t, you know, absolutely crush and strangle Tim. 

“Oh my god,” Tim gets out, thickly. “Oh my god, guys. I missed you. I was so worried.” 

“You were worried?” Cassie says with her hair flying out like a halo as she snaps upright, indignant. “You were the one who got kidnapped! You were worried?! We were going out of our minds!” 

“Don’t ever do that again,” Conner says. “Seriously. We can’t take it. You know we all share three brain cells at best, and you’re the one who holds the two non-panic ones.” 

“I’ll do my best,” Tim snorts. “You know it’s not like I wanted to be kidnapped, right. Like, you understand that that is not even slightly how that works.” 

“Shut up,” Bart orders, muffled where he’s smashed his entire face into Tim’s less-injured side and wrapped one leg around Tim’s like a half-committed koala. 

“For the record,” Tim says, bemused, while Conner and Cass slide his bed rails down out of the way so they can pile on the mattress on either side of Tim and Bart. “I’m sorry for freaking you guys out. And I’m really, really, really glad you’re here.” 

“Us too,” Cassie says. She thunks her forehead against his, then pulls back with a small smile. “Okay, no more sappy stuff, we’re already over our crying quotas for the month. Happy bonding only. What do you want to watch?”

“There’s one thing you missed while you were off playing Lawrence of Arabia with an evil immortal tyrant,” Conner says with a grin. “Bet none of your siblings remembered to tell you.” 

“What?” Tim demands. “Dude. Stop being coy! What!”

“Avatar is on Netflix.” 

Tim’s confused for a second, wondering why he’d care about the movie being on Netflix, and then he gets it. Oh my god. Oh my GOD. HOW DID I FORGET, he thinks to himself, with incandescent glee. I had it on all three of my calendars for WEEKS. Oh, I am gonna kill Dick and Jason. I’m gonna kill them. The whole morning, and they didn’t even so much as hint—

“That was this week?” Tim snaps. “Conner. Conner, plug my Fire stick in the TV right now, we are watching the first episode, please tell me you guys didn’t start without me.” 

“Of course not, dude,” Bart reassures him. “That would be totally mode. What do you take us for, LexCorp?” 

They all laugh, and spend the next minute or so roasting LexCorp and Luther in more and more ridiculous jokes before Conner finally joke-smothers Bart with a spare pillow and Cassie kicks Conner and Bart both into submission with one sock foot. 

“Water,” Tim recites along with the TV, reverently. “Earth.” 

“Fire,” Conner joins in, while Bart incessantly taps a foot against Tim’s shin at near-superhuman speed. 

Man. Tim May still be stuck here, and this may be a lot more uncomfortable of a position than he’s letting on, but it’s the best he’s felt since the Sunday he got taken, and that’s on having best friends to come hang at your hospital room when you’re stuck on bed rest and losing your mind. 

“But that all changed when the fire nation attacked,” Tim’s current nurse suddenly chimes in when she pushes the door open, coming to check Tim's vitals again. 

She’s really young. Just one or two years out of school, even younger than Dick. 

“God, I love this show,” she sighs. She grins at him while he holds his arm up for her to scan his wrist band. “Enjoy your binge. I’m on season two, episode four right now, and you bet I’m headed straight home to watch it over Chinese the second I get off shift.”

Tim laughs. “Hope your shift goes fast,” he tells her. “I mean. You’re great, I’m not trying to get rid of you, I just mean—“

“I get it,” she says, with a snort. “Thanks. I’ll be back with your meds in maybe half an hour or so. Let me know if you need anything before then.” 

She leaves them with a quiet click of the door latching into place, and then they’re off to the races, cheering and quoting and laughing at the characters like it’s any other random day. 

Bruce walks in with some FroYo in each hand to see Cassie and Conner perched on Damian’s old bed, each holding one egg-shaped rainbow shaker, Bart sprawled on the couch under the large window, legs sticking straight up in the air, a hospital staff member perched on the chair next to Tim’s bed with a guitar, and Tim sitting straight up, slapping a djembe drum, all of them singing “No Cars Go” with gusto. 

“What’re you up to, sweetheart?” Bruce asks, smiling at Tim when they all wind down to silence after the next chorus. “Looks like fun.”

“Music therapy,” Tim tells him, sounding both bemused and like he’s enjoying himself despite the hesitancy. 

“Hey,” the man in the chair says, sticking a hand out with a warm smile. “I’m Eric, the musical therapist on staff today. You must be Tim’s dad.”

“Bruce,” says Bruce, shaking back. “My pleasure. Thanks for working with him.”

“He’s a cool kid,” Eric tells him, then turns to grin at Tim. “You want to keep going? Looks like your dad brought a snack. I could play a bit while you eat, if you want a break.”

Tim glances between Eric and Bruce. “Are you sure?” he asks. 

“Probably want to eat it before it melts any more,” Bruce says, gently. He sets the cup on Tim’s rolling tray and pops off the lid. 

“It’s no problem,” Eric says, re-settling the guitar on his lap. “What do you want to hear?”

“Uh.” Tim frowns, looking off to the side while they can practically see the gears grinding in his head. “Do you know--uh, man, I’ve forgotten, like, every single song I know--”

“It happens,” Eric laughs. “Do you like certain genres?”

This time, when Tim exchanges a look with Bruce, it’s restrained laughter.

“All of them,” he tells Eric. “My playlists are all over the place.”

“Mine too,” Eric admits. Tim takes the spoon Bruce hands him and scoops up a little bit of the frozen yogurt with an ungodly amount of brownie bits and strawberry boba on top. 

“Maybe…” Tim starts, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Something indie? Like The Oh Hellos or something?”

“I can do that, I love them,” says Eric. “Anything in particular?”

Tim shrugs, then winces, and Bruce almost winces with him. “Whatever is cool.”

“Hey Tim,” Conner says. “Sorry, just. Really quick before you get going, I think it’s time for us to head out for now. We’ll come back tomorrow, but if we put off homework any longer I think Ma’s gonna make me clean the whole barn out with no help.”

“Go,” Tim says, grinning. “Thank you guys for coming. I missed you, this was fun. And--” he stops for a second, taking a breath before smiling at each of them in turn, and adds “love you.”

“We love you too, you disaster-prone dum-dum,” Cassie says, handing her and Conner’s shakers back to Eric. “Feel better, okay? Bart, let’s go!”

“I know we’re all about bending rules most of the time,” Bart tells Tim as he speed-walks to the side of the bed, “but like. Maybe this once, listen to your dad and all them and heal up. Cassie made me swear not to help with any escape attempts until at least Saturday.”

He fist-bumps Tim and starts off their complicated handshake while Tim frowns at him. “What day is it now?”

“Tuesday,” Bruce answers. 

“Damn,” Tim sighs. “That’s a long way away.”

“You’ve got an injured kidney,” Bruce says dryly. “And extremely clingy siblings who’ve been worried sick. I think you’ll survive the horror of being stuck resting for less than a week.”

“See you tomorrow!” Conner calls back over his shoulder, and the others add in their farewells, and then they’re out the door and down the hall and Bruce watches as Tim slumps down at least two inches, hitting the mattress with his back and letting out a sigh.

Eric silently leans forward to adjust a couple of Tim’s pillows, and Tim mumbles a thank you. Then he shoves his mouth too full of FroYo to possibly talk, and Eric starts to fingerpick quietly. 

Hello, my old heart

How have you been?

Are you still there inside my chest?

I've been so worried, you've been so still

Barely beating at all

Tim’s head starts bobbing along partway through the second verse, and Bruce settles back onto the small couch and just drinks in the sight of Tim, safe and sound and a little worse for wear, but beautifully, wonderfully alive and back with them after two weeks of hell. 

Tim, in front of him, slowly picking at FroYo despite continual nausea, Tim keeping a happy face on for all his friends and siblings, Tim having a genuinely good time with that drum a few minutes ago. Bruce may have to look into getting some more instruments for the manor’s music room. 

Tim pushes away the ice cream, nods at whichever song Eric has quietly suggested they do next, and then switches on his familiar laser focus while Eric hands him a ukulele and shows him where to place his fingers, which string to pluc in time with Eric’s guitar, until he’s got it right. 

Then they start to play, and Bruce watches Tim, sitting in the afternoon sunlight, thin and pale and tired and so focused, so himself. Still Tim, and still here. Eric’s fingers flicker across the guitar strings while the slow-tempo song progresses, Tim’s hesitant voice slowly rising to join him, singing all the doubts I’ve faced, all the doubts I’ve faced, I continue to face them.

Tim’s gaining a little confidence now, fingers less white-knuckled on the ukulele bridge. His small strums are getting louder, and Bruce smiles. 

Tim’s voice reaches almost normal volume, and Eric subtly lowers his own until Tim’s is the one that’s most clear, the one carrying the song, and Eric is only the guiding train rails. 

“The sun it does not cause us to grow,” Tim sings quietly. “It is the rain that will strengthen, the rain that will strengthen our soul.”

Bruce remembers this song, he thinks. There’s a very hazy memory, Bruce sprawled across one of the couches after a particularly rough patrol the night before, Dick rubbing Icy-Hot on spots Bruce can’t reach himself, and Jason and Tim on the rug, singing together while Jason plays guitar. 

“We have lived in fear,” Bruce hears. “We have lived in fear, and our fear has betr--” Tim’s voice half-chokes, suddenly, and Bruce opens his eyes, sitting fully upright. Tim’s face is all screwed up, but Eric has kept carrying the melody, quietly singing, and Tim’s fingers are still finding notes at the right moments. 

“--we are not alone, we are not alone in the dark, with our demons,” Tim jumps back in, voice thick, but still clear, still steady all over again. Bruce keeps his eyes on his son’s face. Tim stays steady, all through we have made mistakes, but we’ve learned from them, all through it is the rain that will strengthen your soul, and it will make you whole. They carry on, chord by cord, and they’ve almost made it, until at the very end of the song--

“And oh my heart, how can I face you now?” Tim sings, quietly, his voice just starting to waver. He glances over at Bruce, then immediately squeezes his eyes shut. Eric’s voice has almost completely trailed into silence now, like he and Bruce are both waiting for wherever Tim is going here. “We both know how badly I have let you down, and I am afraid--” Tim falters again, falling off beat, but Eric just quietly re-plays the chord, slower, and Tim picks back up, “I am afraid--” and his voice squeaks, but he finishes, “of all that I’ve built, fading away,” and the last word twists upwards into a quiet, stamped-down sob, like Tim is thinking if he fights it hard enough, he’ll be able to force the feeling away, but Eric is already leaning forward and Bruce is on his feet. Up to standing, stepping across the gap, and crouching down by Tim’s side in under two seconds flat.

“Tim,” he says, gently, and Tim won’t look up. Eric doesn’t move to take the ukulele from Tim’s clenched hands, just waits patiently. 

“Sorry,” Tim says, eyes so wet his lashes are already clumping together, and Bruce places one hand on Tim’s shoulder and the other on his cheek, and just lets them rest there. 

“No,” he tells Tim. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. Do you want to tell us what’s going on?”

“Was it the song?” Eric adds, gently. “Or is it something the song reminded you of?”

Tim shakes his head a few times, wordlessly, and then he turns to Bruce, meeting his eyes with a vaguely desperate expression. Tim lifts one hand, palm up, and Bruce understands. 

He draws circles with his pointer fingers, asking sign? with an open face, and Tim nods. 

“Okay,” Bruce tells him. “That’s fine. What’s happening with you, bud?”

Tim hesitates, staring into the middle distance while clearly trying to figure out what he’s wanting to put into words, and then his hands slip off the ukulele and fly rapid-fire through fail, and before-happy-good-I, and now-afraid, future-afraid, his fingers waggling on future and hands jerking across his torso harder than normal on the very last afraid . In a v-shape, his fingers jab into his neck while he glances at Bruce and tries to explain, stuck . 

“Sweetheart, no,” Bruce tells him. “No, Tim. You’re not going to be stuck like this. Just because you’re feeling these things again, that doesn’t mean they’re here to stay. You learned how to deal with the feelings before, and you’ll do that again.” He takes a deep breath, and nods at Eric, signaling the man to go. Eric tells Tim he’ll be back by later and slips out with his cart. 

“Tim,” Bruce says, shifting to sit at the edge of the mattress. “Recovery isn’t an uphill line. You’ll get pulled into old feelings and old traps multiple times in life. Believe me, I know. But just because you go through a certain pattern or feeling again, that doesn’t mean you haven’t made all the progress you have . It doesn’t mean your work or progress doesn’t matter. They do matter, because they’ll help you get out of the backslide faster and more easily than you did the first time it happened, and because your coping skills will make it less lousy to be in it while you’re there. You’re not stuck.”

Tim doesn’t look convinced. 

“Is this more specific than I’m thinking it is?” Bruce asks. “Is there something in particular going on?”

Tim’s mouth twists up, and then he looks out the window, then back to Bruce. He lifts his hands for a brief moment,before dropping them down into his lap and tipping his head back against the pillows. His eyes find the ceiling. Bruce’s never leave Tim’s face. 

“Dad texted,” Tim says, hoarsely. “Wants to...see me.”

Bruce goes very, very still. 

It’s been months. It’s been almost a year since Jack wanted any contact with Tim, and now he wants to come by after Tim’s been through a kidnapping and just--what, waltz in and--

“Also,” Tim adds, even more quietly, “I can’t shower. Bruce. I don’t think I can shower, I wanted to feel cleaner, earlier, and I used the sink to splash--I just--I only splashed a little water on my face, you know--like when you need to wake up or something and--it was so bad, I couldn’t--” He swallows, twice, and then his eyes find Bruce’s, and Bruce thinks, I want to wring the neck of everyone who made my child look like this. Who did this to him. 

“What kind of hero am I if I can’t even get water on my face without--” Tim gets out, “--without--freaking out, like what kind of person--”

“A hurt one,” Bruce interrupts him. “One who’s hurt and needs time to fully recover. Tim. By every accepted definition of the word, you were tortured. Within just the past few days. That’s not an experience that anyone comes out of unscathed, mentally.”

Tim opens his mouth to argue, but Bruce heads him off at the pass. 

“Not even me,” he says. “I tell you this from experience . Not even me. Not even special ops soldiers who train for that exact situation. Not even Superman.”

Tim’s mouth closes, slowly. 

“There is nothing to be ashamed of, about feeling whatever you feel right now, or in having reactions to things that you didn’t use to. That’s normal, it’s expected, and you’re not weak for having this happen to you. Dinah and the rest of us are going to help you heal from it, do you understand? This isn’t going to be a hole you’re in forever. This is just a thing that has been done to you, and it’s a thing we can make better. Just like everything else that we’ve dealt with so far.”

Tim stares at him for a couple seconds, then nods. Bruce pulls him into a hug, slowly, mindful of the many tender spots. 

“They’re really bothering you, huh?” he says quietly. “Your dad. And the shower.”

“I don’t--” Tim mumbles into Bruce’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to do. He’s my dad, but he wants to see me and I know I should have said yes already, when he texted earlier, but…
“Do you want to see him, right now?” Bruce asks.

“I…”

“Tim,” Bruce says. “He’s your father, but you’re not required to see him at this point. He doesn’t have custody or legal rights. If you don’t want to see him right now, you’re absolutely allowed to say no. If you do want to, then I’ll help you and stay every minute if you want. But it’s okay to not want him here, and I can tell him that if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t,” Tim tells him. “I should want to--”

“No shoulds in this family,” Bruce scolds gently. “You feel what you feel. It’s not right or wrong. Try again.”

“Bruce,” Tim nearly whines.

“Try again,” Bruce repeats.

Tim sighs, then presses a little further into Bruce’s hold. “I don’t want to have to act for him and spend the whole time making sure he doesn’t feel bad about this happening to me, while he wasn’t here or whatever. I don’t want to do all the pretending and worrying. I barely--I barely feel like a person, kind of, it’s--I’m stressed about just the idea of him coming. I could do it, though, I know I would handle it if he does, I just...I don’t want to. I don’t want him to come. Maybe...maybe later?” Tim pulls back for a moment and glances at Bruce. “Maybe when I’m feeling...not this?”

“I’ll contact him,” Bruce promises. “Let me and Alfred handle it. You don’t need to reply. Screenshot his messages, send them to me, and then delete the conversation if you want so you don’t have to see it. You don’t have to see him unless and until you want to. I’ve got it.”

“Okay,” Tim breathes, his forehead thunking back down into the junction of Bruce’s shoulder and neck. “Thank you.”
“It’s what I’m here for,” Bruce says. “I’m your adult. Now, we’re going to call the cafeteria and order you some dinner, whatever you think you can handle at least a little of right now. And then you tell me who you want staying with you tonight, and what you want to do.”

“Sleep for a hundred years.”

“No--”

“Damian,” Tim blurts out. “Can we. Can we bring Damian. I mean, he probably doesn’t even want to come back here, hospitals suck, but like...it was...over there was really bad and I know we’re not there anymore but I keep worrying about Damian, because he’s in a whole new country, and I didn’t get to see him and I didn’t even manage to actually help him until you guys came, and he’s--he’s so small.” Tim pauses, then glares at Bruce and adds, “Also. Also also, you’re his only available parent now and he’s your kid and you’ve like, hardly gotten to spend time with him so far. He needs to see you, and if you’re not gonna leave me--”

“We’ll call and see if Damian wants to come,” Bruce says, dryly. “Any other siblings?”

“I mean,” Tim says. “All of them, I miss them, but that’s also kind of...too much. They’ll be so sad, though--”

“They can handle it. Tim, they can deal with not seeing you for an evening. You’ll go home in a day or two anyway, and they’re going to be back harassing you again tomorrow. I promise they won’t be mad you didn’t feel like handling the undiluted chaos that is our entire family trapped in one room.”

“Okay,” Tim says. “Just Damian then.”

“You call the cafeteria and tell them what you want,” Bruce tells him, sliding the menu and room phone within Tim’s reach. “I’ll call the manor. Deal?”

Tim gives him a small smile and reaches for the phone, tugging the IV so he can get some slack by that hand. “Deal.”

Dick drops Damian off an hour or so later after the family has eaten dinner, staying in the room just long enough to ambush Tim with a quick hug and kiss on the cheek before slipping back out again, saying something about keeping the others from setting popcorn garlands on fire for science.

“I don’t want to know,” Bruce chants quietly, almost under his breath. “I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know.”

Damian looks mildly alarmed at Bruce’s Dad-ritual of chanting and rolling his eyes to the ceiling, pleading for wisdom and patience from on high, and Tim shoots him what he hopes is a reassuring grin. 

“Hey, Damian,” Tim says. “Thank you. For coming over.”

“You asked me to,” Damian says. 

“Well,” says Tim. “Yeah. But I mean. You didn’t have to. It’s nice that you did.”

“Company improves health outcomes for patients in medical facilities. I do not want to hinder your recovery.”

“Damian,” Tim repeats, a little more forcefully. He stares Damian in the eyes, raising his eyebrows just a very little bit. “Thank you.”

Damian stares back at him for a moment, then nods. Just once. “You...are welcome.”

“Cool,” Tim says, relaxed again, and sinks a little into his mountain of pillows. “So I don’t know if you’re staying here overnight with Bruce and me, but regardless, we’re stuck in this room only for a while, so unless you want to knock out B and sneak me out of here under everyone’s noses, our hang-out options are kind of limited.”

“Richard explained hanging out to me,” Damian admits. “He said it is about spending time in the company of people you enjoy.”

“Yeah, more or less,” Tim agrees. And look, Damian has finally sat down next to Bruce. And neither of them are looking at each other yet. “Did he say what you usually do when you hang out?”

“Play games,” Damian recites, “like you all did--we all did, earlier. Watch things. Talk. Eat. Play...things. Different kinds of games.”

“Right,” says Tim. “Do you want to play video games again? It’s easier to talk while playing those or a card game than while watching a movie you want to pay attention to, or eating that involves your mouth.”

“Speaking of eating,” Bruce interrupts smoothly, “you’re not doing that.”

Tim sighs. Long, loudly, an extra splash of drama thrown in. 

“Your body is trying to recover and heal,” Bruce says, in the weary, automated tone he always gets when delivering a patented Bat-Lecture ™ . “And to heal it needs--”

“--rest and extra nutrition intake, I know,” Tim finishes. He fake-scowls at Bruce. 

“Are you nauseous still?”

“No,” says Tim. “I’m not hungry.” 

"Loss of appetite is a common symptom after traumatic events," Bruce reminds him. "Your nervous system is out of balance. It will get better again."

“Timothy. You must eat anyway,” Damian almost snaps, sounding more firm than Tim’s heard him ever since the rescue. “Food is not optional.”

“I know that,” Tim says. “But I’m really not hungry, and it’s just--hard to eat anything when you’re not hungry.”

“Soup, then,” Damian says, and he finally turns to look at Bruce. “And high calorie drinks. What is the nearest place to acquire soup…” He trails off for a beat while frowning at Bruce, who’s looking down at him with a soft, quiet expression, carefully neutral. “...Father,” Damian finally decides, and Tim internally cheers. 

“The cafeteria,” Bruce tells him. Damian waves one hand dismissively, a sharp, compact little gesture Tim can imagine him doing a hundred times, a thousand times, as the prince of the little compound. 

“Quality soup,” Damian says, scathingly. “With nutritional value. Perhaps Pennyworth.”

“Alfred’s soup is really good,” Tim admits. “I can’t do anything rich, though.”

“What about pho,” Damian demands. 

“I’m vegetarian,” Tim tells him. 

“So am I. Father, do you have a cell phone?”

“I do,” Bruce tells him, sounding amused. 

“Richard and Jason said they have the ability to find any kind of place you wish to search for.”

“They do,” Bruce says. “What are you looking for?”

“Vegetarian vietnamese,” Damian tells him. “Timothy needs quality soup, and the noodles will be bland but add calories he desperately needs.”

“Hey,” Tim interjects. “You need plenty of food, yourself!” 

“Yes,” says Damian, “Which is why I am following Pennyworth’s meal plan from the doctor and eating every time I must. Extra will help. And eating is a social ritual, often done in groups. We will get pho, and you will eat.”

“I. Okay,” Tim agrees. “Sure, Damian. Let’s make a deal. I’ll eat the pho you find me, and you’ll watch a show I think you’ll like.” 

“A show?” Damian asks. 

“It’s where a story is split into many smaller episodes rather than--”

“I know what a show is,” Damian says. “I meant, which show.”

“Oh,” says Tim. “It’s called Avatar: The Last Airbender. It’s really good, it’s like--the best-written show in the world.”

“That is a strong claim,” Damian says, dubiously, eyeing Tim from where he’s been perched looking down over Bruce’s shoulder at the phone.

“It’s accurate.”

“I will have to be the judge,” Damian tells him. “You repeatedly provoke enemies larger and stronger than yourself, I do not trust your judgement as a general rule.”

“Hey,” says Tim. “That’s a time-honored tradition of the Robin role.”

“That’s just the curse of my children,” Bruce corrects, “in a coordinated effort to drive me to go gray before I’m even forty. Does this place look good enough?” he asks, holding the phone up for Damian to see. 

Damian scans the page for a moment, eyes narrowed, then leans back and nods. 

“It will do,” he says. 

“Cool,” Tim tells them both. “Bruce, order? Damian, come on, sit with me. This is the only good spot to watch the TV.” 

“I do not understand why everyone in this place is all about the touching,” Damian grumbles. But he crawls up to join Tim anyway, and settles down leaned into his side, underneath Tim’s cast-free arm. 

“Calms stress, regulates the nervous system, and releases oxytocin,” Tim tells him. “Also, we just like using it to show each other that we care.”

“Hm,” Damian says. 

“Now listen,” Tim says, very serious, as he clicks the first episode and sets the remote back down on top of his sheets. “The characters in this show are just kids, who haven’t had anything big happen to them yet, so they’re gonna be kinda dumb sometimes, but that doesn’t mean they can’t kick ass and take names anyway.”

“Language, Tim,” Bruce calls hand over the microphone of his phone. “Sorry, yeah, that’ll be a triple order, yes.”

“Anyway,” Tim says. He looks down at Damian, who’s staring up at him, attentive. “This’ll probably be really different from what you think kids are like...supposed to know or do. Just...ask me if you have questions, okay? Or if you need a break. Or whatever.”

“I will not need a break from some children’s show,” Damian scoffs.

“Okay, but if you do,” Tim says. “Just say the word.”

“Fine.”

“Great. Now aside from that, we both oughtta be quiet, so we can keep track of what’s going on,” Tim says. “Ready? Let’s do this.”

They watch together, through the first episode, and the second, and the third, through slowly eating their pho after Bruce meets the delivery driver in the lobby, through Tim’s meds and final blood draw of the day, through the slow progression of Tim nodding off with his arm slipping down and Damian curled into his side like a relaxed cat still anyway. 

When he’s absolutely sure Tim is all the way asleep, Damian reaches across Tim’s body in the almost-dark room and hits the pause button on the controller, the way he watched Tim do several times in the past couple of hours. Bruce looks up from his pile of papers, watching over the rim of his reading glasses while Damian quietly slides off Tim’s bed and pads back over to the couch on too-big socks. They must be Tim’s, or Dick’s--Bruce knows Jason hates the way that kind of fuzzy fabric feels on his feet. 

Damian, however, absentmindedly wiggles his toes over and over again, rubbing them against the bottoms of each opposite foot to feel the fuzz more strongly, and Bruce doesn’t fight back his small smile. 

“He’s out for now, huh?” Bruce whispers, and Damian glances up at him with a slow nod, face a serious little mirror of Bruce’s own. He can see it, the resemblance--Bruce’s brow line here, his jaw cleft there--but Damian’s eyes are Talias, and his little dimples are all his own. Bruce can’t wait to see them for himself, rather than in just a photo that showed up in his email from a throwaway account. 

He hopes he’ll get to see them soon. But he’ll be patient as long as it takes, either way. He can’t afford to press this boy, his boy, not this one who has been so hurt in so many ways, who’s in a strange land and not even feeling safe enough to show any difficulties he’s having or any feelings he may have. Bruce can’t rush this. Damian, he knows, is not the kind of traumatized that will bend and spring back into place like Dick was, if Bruce fumbles. Damian is the kind of traumatized that will snap and throw both jagged ends back at Bruce to keep it from happening again. 

Bruce is going to be digging out and rereading some of his old parenting books this week. And having a long, long phone call with Dinah. But not right now. Tonight is all that matters, for the moment, his two youngest in this room with him. One fast asleep, maybe waking up with nightmares, maybe still days or weeks or months away from that. 

The other next to him, with quiet, sharp eyes. Watching to see what he’ll do next, while they’re alone. Waiting to see what his true colors are, what he wants.

“Walk with me,” Bruce says, and it’s not an order, just an invitation. He stands smoothly, papers abandoned on the tile by his feet, and holds a hand out to Damian. 

Bruce’s heart strains as he remains so still, as he watches this boy, this small boy, his son, his son that he had wanted so badly, once upon a time, that he never knew was out there, his son who’s wary of everything that breathes, now, and isn’t that just karma, right there--

Bruce watches, still and quiet, and Damian watches his eyes, and his hand, and then slowly, lightly, Damian reaches out and takes it. 

Bruce smiles again. 

“The sky is clear, tonight,” he says, quietly. “It’s rare, for Gotham. Too much pollution. I’d like to go up to the roof garden and see stars.”

He knows Damian must wonder if that’s where he will strike--outside of view, alone on a roof, so easily able to throw Damian off, to make it look like an accident, or like a child climbing against orders, and it breaks Bruce’s heart.

Damian will learn. Damian will learn to not need to think like that, one day. It will happen. 

But for tonight, Damian is still wary. Bruce just has to get him through this part, baby steps, one at a time. Not pressing. Not pushing. Just a hand at a time, consistency, no threats. 

“I have to get my boots,” Damian says. 

“I...could carry you, instead,” Bruce offers, before he realizes what his mouth has just said. “I could carry you and your boots, too, for if you want to put them on once we get there?”

Damian stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Why would you carry me?”

Bruce expected more offense, there, maybe. More outrage, or wary rejection. But Damian mostly just sounds confused. Probably still more tired and weak than he’s used to, not as able to keep up his guard. 

“Because…” Bruce tries to find words. Why does he want to carry Damian? Why did he offer at all? It’s not a particularly smart idea, in this case. The offer alone had been likely to push his son away. Bruce carries all his children, from time to time, when they’re injured, or fall asleep in random places, or just need it for one reason or another.

Only Dick has ever come to him as young as Damian. And Dick had clung to Bruce like a barnacle for the first few years, every time he got the chance, grounding himself in the reality that Bruce wasn’t going to fall or vanish if Dick wasn’t around. Bruce hadn’t thought twice about that. They were just Bruce-and-Dick, for a while, and Dick initiated what he needed, and Bruce gave what was asked, and that was that. 

But Damian hasn’t ever gotten to ask. Or probably need, either. Bruce looks at him and sees his small son, his new youngest, who he never expected or asked for but absolutely loves anyway, has loved him from the second he saw him by Tim, the second he looked at him and realized--

“You just look,” Bruce says, gentle, quiet, steady as a rock. “Like you might, maybe, want a hug.”

And doesn’t that put an interesting expression on Damian’s face. He sees several things flicker there, too fast to really pin down, and then confusion and fear and a large splash of want before finally, at last, Damian settles into decisive . Bruce thinks Cassandra will be good for this boy. Bruce thinks Cassandra has been good for him . 

“I do not want hugs,” Damian says. “I do not--I have--we do not share hugs,” he tells Bruce, “at home. I do not need one.”

Bruce nods, even while it kills him to keep his face as neutral as possible at that.

“But they have not been unenjoyable,” Damian adds. “With Timothy. And Richard.”

“They’re good huggers,” Bruce agrees.

“What carrying do you mean,” Damian asks him. 

“Well,” Bruce says. “I could pick you up with an arm under your shoulders and one under your knees, in a bridal carry. Or I could keep one arm around you and balance you on a hip, although that’s hard to do with older children and adults just because of height similarities. Or, if you wanted, I could carry you sitting on my shoulders, one leg on either side, or piggy-back, with your arms around my neck and your legs around my waist, with my hands helping to hold your thighs up and you leaning on my back.”

“Those are strange,” Damian says, and his nose scrunches just a tiny bit, and Bruce nearly dies then and there.

“Strange doesn’t mean they’re bad,” Bruce points out. 

Damian is quiet for a moment, staring at Bruce like he’s calculating something. 

“Why do people ride on shoulders,” he says, at last.

Bruce shrugs. “People like feeling tall. Especially children, it’s a nice way for them to be close to someone they enjoy while getting a better view of the world, or having more in reach. People at events will often do it to view stages better.”

Damian hums. “I will allow you to try that,” he says. “But I will carry my boots.”

“Of course,” Bruce agrees, somewhat bewildered that Damian actually agreed. He watches his son grab his small lace-up boots from beside the couch, and then Damian comes to stand in front of him. 

“How do I get up?” he asks.

Bruce tips his head to one side. “The easiest way is for me to squat down, and then lift you up over my head to sit down on my shoulders,” he says. “But if you’d rather I squat in front of the couch, and you stand on it and climb up that way, we could do that instead.”

“Yes,” says Damian, and so Bruce squats down, and Damian hops up in his sock feet on top of the slippery vinyl, and it takes a couple of tries and a little hesitation, but Damian ends up perched on his shoulders, left hand clutching his boots by Bruce’s chin and right hand squeezing his knee tightly. 

“It’s more stable for you up there if you keep a hand on my head while I stand up,” Bruce tells him gently. Damian moves his right hand up, hovering over Bruce’s head for a moment before settling lightly on his hair. “All right,” says Bruce. “Going up.”

He stands, as smoothly as he can manage with the off-balanced weight, and Damian’s fingers suddenly tighten in his hair. Bruce grins. 

“You okay up there?” he asks. 

“Yes,” comes the clipped reply. “Are we going.”

“Onward,” Bruce confirms, and only murmurs a quiet “Duck under doorways, okay?” when they slip out of Tim’s room. 

A couple of nurses and techs at the center desk throw them amused smiles, which Bruce politely returns, and then they’re in the elevator and walking down a hallway and in a glass atrium and then they’re through sliding doors and out onto a roof in some of the clearest Gotham air Bruce has breathed in years. 

“It’s beautiful,” he says, mostly to himself.

“This city is a cesspit of pollution,” Damian corrects him. 

“It is,” Bruce says, agreeably. “I still love it.”

“Tt.”

“Do you want to see my favorite view from up here?” Bruce asks. 

Damian taps his head once. Bruce takes it as a yes. They walk over to the west-facing side of the roof, and together look out through the angled glass barrier at the skyline full of golden light interspersed with reds and blues and an occasional double-bright white. 

“That’s Midtown,” Bruce tells Damian. “The business district. My least favorite part of the city, but definitely the most beautiful at night.”

Damian is silent. 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says. “I just want you to know. I’m sorry that I didn’t find you sooner.”

“You did not know,” Damian says, quietly. 

“That doesn’t matter,” Bruce says. “I still wish I could have gotten you out sooner than this. I’m sorry for how much they did to you.”

“It is fine,” Damian says. 

“It is not.”

Damian is quiet again, then amends, “I do not blame you for any of it. If you had found me earlier, I would not have left anyway.”

“I would have taken you regardless, so you would be safe.”

“I would have killed you if you did. And then I would have gone back. Like a good heir.”

It is Bruce’s turn to fall silent. Damian’s fingers scratch absentmindedly at Bruce’s scalp, over and over, and they both watch a helicopter slowly drift across in the distance. 

“You found me now,” Damian says, finally. “That is all I wanted.”

“I want you to know,” Bruce tells him, “that what you did, resisting them--running away, messaging us, thinking on your own, and refusing to hurt the poor rabbits. Damian. That was very brave.”

“It was right,” Damian says, miserably. 

“It was hard,” says Bruce, “and it was brave, and you are remarkable. I’m so glad I get to know you, now, and that I have you as my son.”

Damian doesn’t respond, and Bruce doesn’t push it. That would be an overwhelming sentence even for Tim, even with as far as he’s come, and Damian deserves all the space and time to process it as he needs. Bruce finally turns to head back for the doorway, thinking it’s about time to check on Tim again, when Damian speaks up. 

“I do not understand you,” Damian mumbles. “I do not understand how--how the rules are. Here. I do not know how to be--good.” Bruce bites down the words, the hurt noise, that wants to come out of his throat at that. 

“But I--I like,” Damian goes on, choppy and stumbling, more childlike than Bruce has heard him so far. “I like the way that you all move.” His hand is still and pressed down on top of Bruce’s head, almost painful. “You touch each other the way...I wanted them to touch the rabbits. You move without--without--you do not always wait for the next time to strike.”

“We relax,” Bruce says, for him. “We are gentle, here. Not always, but--with each other. With everyone who we don’t have to fight.”

“Yes,” Damian agrees. Then, more quietly, like he’s telling a secret in the still, quiet dark: “I am very tired,” he says, “of fighting.”

Bruce hums. “In this place,” he tells Damian, slowly. “In my house, in this family, I do not care where you have come from, or what you have done, or what you can do. I do not want you to do anything that hurts you. For some of us, fighting makes us feel stronger, or safer, or like we’re helping the world. But for some people, fighting only hurts.” He tips his head up, craning his neck to the point of pain so he can make sure he sees enough of Damian to make this count. 

“In this life,” he says, “you will never have to fight again, if you don’t want to. In this place, we are free to choose. And we never, ever kill. Does that sound all right, Damian?”

He sees Damian’s face crumble and harden and crumble and smooth again, watches him swallow once, hard. 

“Yes,” Damian whispers back, softly. “I want--I want to learn how to choose that. I want to know how to be...good.”

“Damian,” Bruce says, more gentle and emotional than he’s allowed himself to sound all night. “Damian, tifl, habibi, you already are.”

Chapter Text

Damian does not understand this place, these people—what’s expected of him in this upside-down world of tumbling conversations where everyone speaks over each other. Of casual brushes of hands across tables, of posters on some of the walls about naming your feelings, of good mornings and what do you want to dos and more green than he’s seen since the jungle and too many smiles for no reason.

He does not understand all the choices . 

These people wake up in the mornings, they wake up and they bounce and shuffle and touch and—and—

The first morning, when they leave the hospital to pile into a—a minivan —with loud banter, and then fight over a cord, the oldest man carves out empty space in the air by a door and nudges Damian inside, into one of the larger seats. 

“I’m afraid we shall have to purchase you a booster seat,” he says, glancing over the area, over Damian, with a critical eye, while he doesn’t even hesitate before buckling the seatbelt across Damian’s chest himself, quick as you like. “We’ll have to measure to know for certain, but I believe you’re still slightly under the recommended height guidelines for riding without one, and Master Bruce has always been serious about following the best practices rather than the letter of the law on this particular topic.”

Damian doesn’t know what a booster seat is, but by the way Jason grins with amusement and Richard groans beside him as he’s elbowed in the ribs, he has a feeling he won’t like it. 

“My height is of no consequence to my skill and control,” Damian replies, as Alfred steps back, hand on the sliding door’s handle. “A booster seat is unnecessary. I am perfectly capable of driving any motor vehicle or small nautical vessel necessary.”

Alfred doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. 

“In this country,” he says, his tone as casual as his consonants are sharp, “children are not allowed to operate motor vehicles until the age of either fifteen or sixteen, and only under proper supervision until training is completed. I’m afraid you’ll have to be patient until then, young sir, and allow those of us who are old enough to drive you where you need to go. With whatever adaptions are required to make the journeys as safe for you as we can.” 

And with that, he gives Damian another unnecessary smile and shuts the door. 

On the way to... Batman’s home—Father’s house, Damian supposes—they turn off the road to a sprawling American-style store that’s large enough to devour most entire markets Damian has ever seen in his life. Alfred seems to whisk forward a tape measure out of thin air, and within seconds of exiting the driver’s side, has Damian out of the vehicle, measured and recorded, and tucked back into his seat in under two minutes flat. 

“I shall back in a jiffy,” he tells them all, and then points a finger at the older children. “You all— behave . I am leaving the keys, turn the air on if it is necessary. Look after Master Damian until I return. Nova, dear lady,” he tacks on as he turns to leave, smiling at the dog settled patiently between the two front seats, where once upon a time it looks like there was some sort of console. “You’re behaving perfectly. I believe you’ve earned a treat when we arrive home.” 

Then he’s off, and Damian’s left to ignore the attempts of his—siblings, he supposes. what a strange idea that is—the attempts of his siblings to draw him into conversation, and stares out the window at asphalt and flood lights and scattered plastic shopping carts, trying not to think of the fact that he’s somehow landed himself an ocean and a continent and an entire unethical consumeristic society away from home. 

To his eternal horror, he falls asleep in the shiny, new, thrice-damned booster seat before they even cross the river. 

He wakes with a hard jump at the repetition of his voice, quiet but firm, off to his left. Damian jerks his head left, right, freezing still as a statue as he tries to get his bearings. 

“Hey, easy, it’s all right,” a voice says. Damian’s eyes snap over to the matching face. “You’re safe. Fell asleep in the car, that’s all. You’re in America, we just made it to Wayne Manor.” 

Jason . Half-draped over the back of the seat next to Damian’s, and apparently the only other person left in the car. 

Terror washes through Damian’s veins like ice water as he realizes how deeply asleep he must have been, to miss the sounds of the others leaving, to not wake at every bump or turn, to not—

He could have died . This kind of lapse, it only takes one moment of weakness to give your enemy an opening, and Damian was foolish to sleep like this, to close his eyes at all in an unfamiliar land. 

“Damian,” Jason says, and it’s in an odd tone of voice. Serious. Just this side of commanding, but somehow warm instead of sharp. 

Damian opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His head is still flashing through the mistakes he’s made today. Still trying to catch up to now, his body tethered down to a degrading hunk of plastic in a vehicle he isn’t allowed to control, completely restrained from any useful fighting readiness.

“Damian?” Jason prompts again. 

“I apologize,” Damian replies, robotically, and his fingers stumble around the buckle, trying and failing to release the catch, and—

Jason slowly reaches out and presses down for him, guiding the seat belt across Damian’s chest and over his shoulder to where it’s supposed to rest. 

“For what?” Jason says. His face scrunches just a little.

“For—for. I slept. My awareness, I stopped paying attention to my surroundings.”

“Yeah,” says Jason, slowly, “because you were asleep.”

“I must not,” Damian gets out, voice rough. He scrubs hard at his eyes, feeling unbearably childish, but they itch, and his vision is still slightly foggy with sleep—he scrubs harder, tries to explain “I cannot—“

Large hands catch his own and tug them away from his face, and then an arm is slipping him out of his seat and he’s moving through the open side door. 

Damian freezes. He can’t sort out—he should claw and twist immediately, this is undignified, it is dangerous, and he doesn’t understand.

Jason’s arms adjust their grip, and he turns to trail Dick and Nova, who have just disappeared around the open door to the Manor. 

“You can,” Jason says. “You’re exhausted. Your body has been through a lot lately, and you need a lot of sleep to recover. You were safe, in a car, in sunlight, with people to protect you. It was all right.” 

“You must never trust your safety to another,” Damian spits, pure reflex.

“That,” says Jason, gripping tighter as Damian warily starts to settle into the hold, “sounds like a very lonely way to live.” 

Damian wants to argue, but his heart is racing still, and his arms shake with leftover adrenaline, just a little, and his eyes just don’t want to stay open . He can’t sleep again, he shouldn’t have in the first place, but—

“Your body is making the decision for you,” Jason says, more softly, while Damian fights to keep his eyelids at half-mast and hears Jason’s boots thunk rhythmically down a carpet runner.

“Let’s compromise, okay? I’ll tuck you in on a couch in the lounge, near all of us, and then you can pick whatever room you want to be yours later. And in return, you stop fighting sleep. You need it.” 

I need to find a strategic place, Damian thinks. I need to figure out what to do, take stock, find the rules you follow here.

“Hnnfm,” he mumbles aloud.

“Atta boy,” Jason says, rumbling against Damian’s ear. “Sleep, baby bat. You’re safe here as long as we’re all alive. I promise.” 

Promises are easily broken. That’s the truth that Damian’s learned. And Damian is a stranger, and they should not trust him for that and for a thousand reasons besides. And he should not trust this, trust them, trust a false hint of quiet. 

But he doesn’t have a choice. His eyes are shut beyond even his power to reopen now, and he has just enough awareness to feel something woven and heavy start to land on his legs before the last shreds of his senses drift off to the void and he’s out for the count all over again. 

He wakes to the quiet sound of an old fountain pen scratching against paper, and doesn’t dare to even breathe. 

Take stock, take stock, assess location, evaluate condition--

“I hope you had a restorative nap, Master Damian,” a very British voice says, and the scratching stops. 

Damian’s breath stutters back out so quietly he almost can’t hear it himself. 

“You are still at Wayne Manor, on one of the hideous embroidered sofas that Master Bruce insists on keeping with every passing spring,” Alfred goes on, calmly. “The other children are occupied around the property. It is just you and I in the room for now.”

He knows that. He can count the number of breathers in the room for himself, he’s not useless . 

“You may open your eyes and sit, if you do not wish to continue the charade,” the old man tacks on. “There is tea and a sandwich on the side table for you.”

Damian pushes up onto his elbows and kicks off the scratchy tasseled afghan someone draped over him. He stares hard at the man.

“What kind of tea,” he says, quietly. Not quite daring to be a question, but not a demand either. 

“Mine,” Alfred tells him, taking a long sip from his own cup. “I blend it myself. I make a variety for each member of the family, you see. My standards have only increased with the passing years, so I learned to blend teas and have been supplying the household ever since.” He nods over at the cup and saucer. 

“That one,” he says, more quietly, “is my personal blend--Oolong, rose, lemongrass, and just a dash of raspberry leaf. If you prefer plain black, I have that as well. But I find this one comforting in trying times.”

Damian takes a sip, and meets Alfred’s eyes over the rim. He purses his lips together and clinks the cup softly down onto the saucer held in his other hand, as instructed. 

“It is acceptable,” he says, as sturdily as he can manage. 

Alfred smiles as if he understands that Damian means it is delicious, thank you, and the flavors are balanced perfectly, and I didn’t think anyone could make me like rose in tea, but this has managed, somehow, and how did you know I would like something warm to hold.

“Very good,” Alfred says, blandly. “Now. Before you are turned loose into the headfirst slide that is this particular family’s daily life, I believe you and I need to have a small chat.”

Damian takes a long sip.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, lad,” Alfred says, looking chagrined suddenly. “You’re not in trouble in the slightest. I just have two things I need to say, there’s nothing to fear.”

“I did not think I was--”

“You did,” the old man cuts him off. “You most certainly did, and I assure you, I have raised several young boys before you in this house, and there are very few faces I do not have the ability to read at this stage in my life. You are not in trouble, and it is not shameful for you to have feared it. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” Damian says, as evenly as he can manage. 

Alfred nods. “Now, as I said. Two things. Firstly, your father--he has come very far, but he sometimes has difficulty speaking his deepest feelings to those he cares for. I would like to assure you right away that he, and your siblings, already love you very much. This is unconditional, non-negotiable, and will not be reversed no matter what you do or who you believe you are.”

Before Damian can even begin to sort through the thoughts and sensations that dredges up--mostly confusion and a desperate scramble to parse meanings--the old man goes on. 

“Secondly,” he says, and his voice drops to something very soft as he leans forward, cup set aside and hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees. “I do not presume to know exactly how you were raised, Master Damian. I know no details. But I do know a thing or two about men in this world, especially the bad ones, and the sorts of things they do to others.”

He pauses long enough that Damian can’t hold off the urge to shift on his cushion. He sets his own tea aside in a mirror of the old man’s motion moments earlier.

“I do not know your past, beyond vague guesswork,” Alfred continues, quietly. “But I know enough about people, and especially about hurt young boys, to know that you are not all right.” Damian bristles, but Alfred lifts up one hand sharply, in contrast to the loose ease with which he holds the rest of his body. “I cast no judgement, Lord knows everyone in this Manor carries their own burdens and hurts with them, you will learn that over time. But while you are doing an admirable job of following our lead so far without protest, and while you have been nothing less than a well-behaved, mature young man...despite your amenable behavior since suddenly joining our lives, you do not trust us yet. Nor should you. You must take as long as you need to trust us, and that is perfectly reasonable. I ask that so long as you live among us you do try to follow our house rules--they exist for a reason, after all--but beyond that, you may say no here. Do you understand that, Master Damian?”

Damian frowns, opens his mouth, closes it again. 

“I may tell you ‘no’,” he parrots. 

“Yes,” says Alfred. “That means that if someone asks you to play, you may decline. If we ask you to eat something you do not abide, you may refuse. If we hurt you on accident, you may tell us, and we will fix it. If we invite you to participate in something, you may choose to do something else instead, or nothing at all. You do not have to do what the others do, and you do not have to be anyone other than the self you wish to be at any time, happy or sad, quiet or loud. And it is all right if you do not know who that is, yet. You are very young.”

“I…” Damian starts, hesitantly, and he would pick up the cup of tea again, except for the way his hand has started to shake. 

“Breathe, my boy,” Alfred says, softly. 

Damian breathes. Then breathes again. He counts to ten, then counts in threes, and then he meets Alfred’s eyes. 

“Master Richard wishes to give you a tour of the Manor and grounds,” Alfred tells him. “He is quite eager. That is his natural state of being, you will soon find. Would you like to do that right now?” He pauses, gives Damian a look. “Or do you wish to do something else?”

Damian looks at this old man before him, nowhere near as old as his grandfather, of course not--no one living in the world is. But somehow, seeming--seeming a thousand years deeper and wiser, even though Damian knows that’s impossible. Both of the old men had piercing eyes that made Damian feel flayed open to his core, but while Ra’s seemed to spear all of his weaknesses and rip them forward, this man seems to--he seems to see the tiny, hidden pieces of Damian that he’s too afraid to let out, the bits of him that he thought were hidden, that he’s tried so hard to bury. This man has taken one long look and ripped Damian open for the hundredth time, but this time--

This time, it feels more like a version of him is breaking through a locked coffin and finally being able to breathe . 

“I want,” Damian says, quietly, and thinks what a strange thing, to be allowed to want, and falls silent. 

They sit in a calm, golden silence together for several minutes. Afternoon light flickers in through the blinds and lights up occasional dust specks in the air, and they sip their tea, and Damian’s fingers twirl in the tassels that aren’t really as bad as he’d first assumed. They’re shorter and softer than the ones he is used to. It feels almost like running his fingers through his mother’s hair, if he lets it. 

And still, the old man waits with patience. By now, Ra’s would have had him before the court, reciting his failures and condemning his own hesitation, and Damian would have been waiting for what punishment he’d be given this time for not being as decisive as a rising heir to the Demon’s Head ought. 

“I would like,” Damian says, finally, “I would like. I want--” he closes his eyes, and whispers, ashamed, for the only thing his body screams for at the moment, “a place to hide.”

“Then a place to hide you shall have,” Alfred says, and Damian hears feet hit the floor. 

He opens his eyes slowly, and finds the old man standing a couple of feet away, one hand stretched out towards the couch, towards him. 

“There is a room, in the family corridor,” Alfred tells him, slowly, “that has a secret panel in it that even Master Bruce does not know. It used to be one of the rooms fitted with a hiding passageway for children of the family in case of a break-in, but this particular tunnel was not included on the family’s updated blueprints, and fell out of use. But the tunnel remains. I have kept it clean and secret all these long years, in case we had need.”

“Even from my father?” Damian asks. 

“Even from him.” And here, Alfred’s expression changes for just a moment--there is a hardness there that is not from cruelty, but rather what looks much like pain, like exhaustion, like seeing too much and never quite coming home from it. “I learned, long ago, that it is wisest to always keep a few secrets that even your closest companions do not know--to better protect them from others, and from their own selves. In the event of truly worst-case scenarios.”

Damian narrows his eyes. 

“You plan for an eventuality where Batman would hurt his children?”

Alfred stares him down evenly. “I plan for every eventuality, Master Damian. He would never willingly hurt any innocent. Neither would I. But the world is full of evil that does not stop finding new and terrible ways to turn people on each other, and so we have measures set in place--just in case. I have them for him, and he has them for me. But what matters at this moment is that there is a tunnel no one in this house knows save for myself, and now you. Do you wish for it to be yours?”

Damian considers. “Who is the room near?”

Alfred smiles a little then.

“Master Timothy is next door, on the right,” he says. “And your other siblings are scattered around the hall. Master Bruce is across the hall, three doors to the right.”

Damian hesitates still. “If this tunnel is an important contingency--” 

Alfred waves the hand he has been holding out. “One of them, not the only one, my boy. And an eventual ‘what if’ scenario is nothing in comparison to the well-being and safety of a very real, very important young member of the family here and now.”

Damian swallows, and straightens, and nods at him once. 

“In that case,” he says, “I would like that room.” Then, after just a moment, he adds, hesitantly, “Please.”

Alfred smiles as warm as the sun. He holds his hand back out, wrinkled and steady and sure in all the ways Damian is not. 

“Then that room you shall have,” he says. “Come. Let us go get it set up together.”

Damian goes on a walk with Richard and Nova after that, secrets in his bones and questions on his tongue that he is too wary to ask, and a very small flicker of something in his chest that, if pressed, he might dare to say felt like hope. 

Nova licks his hand again, several times. He’s still unsure whether he likes the sensation or not--it is touch, and it is fond, but the wetness, the texture--it makes his skin crawl, a bit. But he has had worse. It is all right. For this creature, Damian can take a bit of discomfort. 

And her fur--it is worth it to bury his hands in her fur and rub. 

“Look at that, Damian,” Richard tells him, while Damian and Nova roll in the grass, Nova panting and darting with excitement, and Damian looking as relaxed as any of them have seen him so far. “You’re a natural. She’s giving you her belly already, Damian, I think Nova’s in love.”

Damian snorts, and goes back to scratching around the dog’s sides. 

But it does feel good. And the little thing inside his chest feels like it gets another burst of air to breathe as he hears the unexpected praise. 

“Richard,” Damian says, not looking, not looking, but listening, hesitant. “Tell me what you were all doing today, at the hospital. With the games.”

“What, that?” Richard says, not sounding like he thinks Damian is foolish at all. He flops onto his back on the ground next to Damian and Nova, and squints up at the clouds above them. “Like, what is it where all of us gather in a spot and play like that?”

“Yes. I could not find a purpose--there was never an announcement, no training--”

“Oh,” Richard interrupts. “Oh, I see what you’re--that’s called hanging out, Dames. It’s where people who are friends or family gather together to spend time in the same place in order to bond. We do enjoyable activities, or talk, or rest together, in order to form closer social attachments. Does that make sense…?”

Damian considers for a moment, slowly lying down a few feet away from where Richard is sprawled. 

“Yes,” he says. “What is the purpose of the bonding?”

Richard hums. 

“Well,” he drawls. “I guess you could say it’s...well. Hm. I suppose--fostering closer bonds between people improves their performance together in team settings, which is one benefit. It also boosts physical health and mental health in various ways, and makes people more resilient to change and trauma. Having strong social support is a survival benefit in human society all across history. But I mean...mostly we do it because it feels good, and we love each other, and we like spending time with people we love.”

He’s silent for a few moments, then turns his head to glance over at Damian, who is staring dutifully up at the clouds like he’s meant to read the Declaration of Independence from their undersides. 

“Have you ever had a group of people you wanted to do things like that with?” Dick asks softly. “Some friends, or any other relatives over there? Did you get to talk and eat snacks and play and just--hang out?”

“No,” says Damian. “There is not time for play. I was the only child, except for my cousin, but she is older and left years ago--I have not seen her since. We trained. When necessary, some of us would sleep together during missions. But not...no,” he finishes, stumbling almost. “There was no one.”

“Mm,” says Dick. And his heart is breaking, for this kid, just shattering in his chest, but the past is the past and it can’t be undone. The only thing they can do now is try to give this boy all the things he’s missing, just like they’re doing for Tim, just like they’ve been doing for Cass, just like they’ve spent years doing  for Jason, and like even Dick had done for him in turn--

“That one up there,” he says, calling up a real grin, because this boy can tell the difference for sure. “The one with the extra-bright corner. I think it looks like a hippo, what do you think?”

He glances over, and Damian is looking at him like he’s grown a second head. 

“What are you talking about.”

“The clouds,” Dick tells him. “It’s a game people play. You tell each other what you think the a cloud looks like, usually an animal it sorta resembles. And then you argue about it for fun, joking around, and keep doing it as other clouds pass by on the wind until you get tired.”

“That is a stupid game,” Damian snaps. He looks back up at the sky, and Dick takes in the tense little lines of his body before turning to stare back upwards himself.

“Do you want to play it anyway?” he asks, after maybe a minute has passed. He carefully doesn’t look over at his littlest sibling, holds himself still against his nature, and holds his breath, and waits.

Damian is silent for a few seconds more, and then Dick hears a very, very quiet sigh. 

“...What is a hippo?” Damian asks. 

And Dick grins. 

“Well,” he begins. “It’s this big ol’ animal, over in Africa, with tough skin and a lot of--sort of round, fatty parts of its body, and a big head. It’s name means ‘water-horse,’ but it’s not actually related to horses at all. I don’t know why it got named that. Or why I remember that fact, honestly. But yeah, it’s this big animal that is amphibious--that means that it lives in both--” 

“I know what amphibious means,” Damian interrupts, sounding for all the world like any normal exasperated ten-year-old for just that brief moment. Dick grins. 

“Cool,” he says. “Okay, so it’s amphibious, and listen, it is--hippos are huge . Just an absolute unit of an animal. It spends a bunch of its day in the water, and mostly eats plants. They also secrete this weird red oil stuff that--”

He goes on, telling Damian all he knows about hippos--then all he knows about foxes, after that, and then some more about wolves vs. dogs vs. coyotes. And Damian interrupts, here and there, doesn’t make any guesses at clouds himself, but he listens. He definitely listens. He listens while Dick guesses, and listens while Dick explains, and points, and pulls up photos and National Geographic pages on his phone here and there. 

Damian listens, and they sit out there for almost an hour, long enough for Nova to doze off with her head across Damian’s thighs.  Dick isn’t an expert on traumatized kids like Bruce is. Hasn’t raised them, hasn’t studied them, hasn’t trained for them in any great depth. He can’t claim to know what to do, beyond what he learned from himself and Jason and his training from Bruce and the police academy when he was still on active duty. 

But he thinks that--he thinks that this listening—that Damian asking a question, humoring Dick like that, even when he doesn’t know him, even coming from the League—which Dick only knows about from files and after-reports and case files, and knows enough to make some guesses, still—he thinks that that’s a good sign.

Damian curled up with him last night like he was starved for contact, similar to how Tim was when he first started coming around. And Dick knows they’re not the same. That none of them in this house have been. But knowing how Bruce has worked with all of them so far, knowing how they all come together with time into their weird, messy, tangled-up tight-knit dogpile of a family—

Dick thinks that they’re gonna make it, in the end. All of them. The whole gang, no matter how long it takes, no matter how much needs to just be managed long-term, no matter how many pitfalls there are along the way—they’ve got him. This kid, this boy, this new baby brother Dick already wants to scoop up and never let go—yeah. Dick’s sure of it, watching the boy watch Dick watch the clouds, and seeing him stare down at Nova when she settles across his legs like she’s the brightest star in the universe and Damian has never even seen a sun—

There’s no doubt in his mind. This kid is going to come out the other end of his story just fine.

Chapter Text

Tim gets to come home on Wednesday, to his supreme and utter joy. (It’s actually more like a tired and vague hurrah of relief, if he’s being honest, but. Same difference.) 

Damian goes home with Dick that morning after spending the night in his old bed and sleeping just as deeply as he had the night before. He doesn’t actually wake up when Tim and Bruce do, early in the morning with the nurses’ shift change and handoff. It’s not until Dick is already there and waiting, and Tim’s slowly getting changed in the bathroom, that Bruce gently calls his name at the edge of the mattress till his eyes blink open. There are a couple of seconds of stillness before Damian seems to finally wake fully, and he goes rigid. 

“It’s safe here,” Bruce says, quietly, not looking away while Damian’s wide eyes are locked onto his face. “You’re in Gotham. You’re all right. Just take your time, baby. You’re all right.”

Damian’s lips part, then, just a bit, and a little furrow shows up between his brows that is so much like Bruce’s it makes something in him ache. 

Dick walks over and crouches beside Bruce, smiling warmly. 

“Hey, Little D,” he says. “Good morning. I’m glad you got some more sleep.”

“I,” Damian rasps, then clears his throat. His visible hand finally unclenches from around the hospital blanket he’s wrapped in. 

“Take your time,” Bruce repeats. “It’s okay. It can be hard to wake up sometimes.”

Damian blinks at him. 

“Is it all right if I touch you?” Bruce asks quietly. 

Damian frowns, then gives him a small nod. Bruce smiles and reaches slowly, making sure Damian can track every inch that his hand moves, and then settles his palm curving around Damian’s small skull. His thumb starts to rub slowly back and forth across Damian’s temple, and he marvels at the soft, fine baby hairs there, right at the edge of the boy’s hairline. He’s never had a child so young before. Not even Dick, all those years ago, had ever been so...small. 

Little by little, Damian’s face smooths under Bruce’s hand. He shifts against the mattress, and pushes himself up to sitting, looking out at Dick and Bruce from under his messy, frizzy bangs that hang to mid-eye. 

Bruce pulls back, doesn’t say, you need a trim, habibi, doesn’t say, I wonder what your baby-mornings were like, doesn’t say, when I look at you like this I remember how I thought you were lost forever, and I have you in front of me, and I almost can’t breathe. 

“Good morning,” Damian echoes, hesitantly, glancing between them with his deep green eyes, so very Talia, so very uncertain, and Dick beams. 

“It has occurred to Jason and I,” he tells Damian, perching on the edge of the mattress, “that you have never, not once, had American McDonald’s, and that we need to rectify this injustice at the earliest opportunity.”

“I have never had any McDonald’s. It is horrifyingly unhealthy.”

“That’s what makes it so delicious,” Dick tells him. “I’ve got a change of clothes for you in the backpack right there. Once Tim is out, you can go in the bathroom and change and brush your teeth, all right? And then the two of us are going on a McDonald’s run for everyone back at home.”

Damian slides onto his feet as Dick and Bruce both step back out of the way. He raises one eyebrow up at Dick, even while walking towards the indicated bag. 

Bruce doesn’t miss the way Damian clutches it close once he’s got it in his hands. 

“Even Pennyworth?” Damian asks.

Dick shrugs. “The man likes his occasional McGriddles. What can I say?” 

Damian doesn’t have anything in response to that, and the room falls back into silence while the boy rubs his eyes with the back of one hand and Dick and Bruce just watch in quiet thought. Then Tim emerges from the bathroom, pale and less nimble than usual but alert, awake, here, alive. And he lights up, seeing Damian awake, and insists on a light hug, and then their morning goes from there. 

Tim is fine. 

He’s fine, he’s genuinely okay, yes, he’s sore, okay, it’s his body, he thinks he knows that. But he’s fine. He’s home at the Manor, he knows where everyone he loves currently is--family is all home, friends have checked in over texts and Snaps, all are safe, all are accounted for--

He’s fine. He’s home, and he’s calm, and he’s healing, and he’s fine. 

Tim is awake. It’s night and it’s dark and he’s breathing and he’s awake, he’s awake, he’s at the window breathing in huge lungfuls of cool night air with a promise of rain on the edge of its scent, the gauzy sheers between his yanked-back blackout curtains are drifting, fluttering in the breeze, and Tim is awake with shrieks in his ears and lead in his legs and a big empty weight of dread where his ribs are supposed to be. 

Tim looks out the window, at the dark grounds, full of shifting layers and shades of black--black-green, black-blue, black-charcoal, black-shadow, black-interrupted-by-short-beam-of-kitchen-window-light. He looks out over the dark nebulous grounds, the dark starless sky filled with a storm rolling in, turns and glances back over his dark room, with its vague dim shapes and shades of blue-black objects all over, lit only by a few faint dots of light from his Play Station, the closed laptop, his charging Switch in the Dock that he still hasn’t caught up with Animal Crossing on--

Tim nearly sprints across the room to turn the light on, his sweaty sleep shirt and shorts brushing sticky across his skin with every step. Then he stops, hand on the light switch, blinking in the sudden brightness, and--and--

Tim slams the lights back off. 

His fingers press the switch so hard something cracks, he hears it, inside, and in the darkness, again, he looks at the window, the only thing real, and looks over to the side at the wall that might be stone, might be cold damp darkness and stone and a confusing endless meandering march of hours or days or weeks, he doesn’t know, and isn’t that the smell of damp on the air, now, and Tim breathes and his locked knees start to shake from the strain of being held so still and his fingers flick the switch back to on and then it’s too bright and he flicks it off and it’s too dark and he flicks it on again, hears babies screaming and men shouting at him over and over, slams it off so hard the plate breaks into sharp edges under his fist, and he knows it’s his room but it was dark like this there, too, and if he doesn’t look at the window it feels like--

It feels like the cell that felt like hell, and then, after he felt what could happen in a worse hell over there, started to horribly, terribly, feel like a new home. Lights on, the memories; lights off, the memories. The quiet when the window is closed and the damp when the window is open, the perfect, textbook slide into sleep that evening in his comfortable bed just like normal--the blissful lack of any nurses or techs coming in at intervals to flick lights on and wake him up--and the silent waking into a paralyzed body and pounding heart a few hours later, and Tim is hot and cold and sticky and stuck and he really, really, really wants to sleep. 

Tim wraps his arms around himself and starts to cry. 

He cries and breathes and cries and breathes there, for maybe a minute, maybe an hour, maybe a century, and a little lighting starts to lighten the sky just a bit out the window. Not close enough to illuminate the room, yet, but enough to add to the surreality of the whole thing. 

There were no thunderstorms in his desert. There were no thunderstorms in that dark. But as much as he knows he’s here, now, he’s safe, now, he’s at home and it is night and the sun will rise again--

What his brain knows in the body of a sixteen-year-old, in a familiar bedroom, safe and taken care of, and what his body knows in a dark room with the smell of water on the air and pain under his skin--these are two very different things right now. 

And then there’s the soft snick of the doorknob catching and starting to turn, just beside him. It’s nothing like the lock sch-thlunking undone on his cell, nothing like the heavy creaking, he’s not there, but Tim can’t help it. 

He’s off like a shot by the time the door is swinging open. He crashes sideways into something hard, some furniture, and stumbles as things fall to the ground, and then Tim is still moving, stumbling, slamming into a wall, finally, that is not stone, that is not damp, that has no crumbling mortar or old stains, it has--it has smooth drywall and he knows this, he knows this, that he is home and he is safe and it is night and it is dark and he is safe and he is there and he is here and someone is entering a room and Tim just needs to--

His fingernails carve crescents into his upper arms while he finds himself sagging, sliding down the wall he’s ended up leaning against, and there’s a moment of a hand fumbling against something before someone sighs very quietly, and there are footsteps and nail-clacks on wood, and finally the familiar sound breaks through the tug-of-war fighting for control of Tim’s brain. 

There’s a click, and then Bruce is there in the glow of a pocket flashlight, face full of worry, and Nova’s stepping forward to press against Tim’s knees, nudge them apart, force her way in. She whuffs gently at him, licking at his arms insistently. He breathes, tears rolling, and stares, wondering, thinking of trying to wipe dog spit off on an already-damp shirt. 

“Stop,” he says, around gravel. “Nova, stop--”

Bruce is saying something but Tim can’t make it out, it takes too much effort to tune in and he’s focused on Nova right now. He’ll turn back to Bruce in a minute. Nova keeps licking, looks up at him, shoves harder with her nose at his arms, tries to wedge her way under his hands over and over--

Oh. She wants pets. Or a hug. Tim’s fingers nearly creak as he lets go of his arms and lets Nova wiggle a little closer, her nose bumping his face, and he lets his arms go limp a little till his hands are both settled around her neck, his stiff, tired fingers scratching gently through her soft fur. 

Nova licks his chin once, and then sits right on his lap. Tim winces. 

“Nova, off,” Bruce commands instantly, and Nova pulls away, tail down, watching. “Good girl,” he praises. “You can still have pets. We just have to be a little careful with Tim right now. It’s okay.”

Tim shivers, and his hands start drifting back to his arms, to squeeze, to press, to remind himself that they aren’t bound, but Bruce’s warm, calloused hands catch them gently halfway. 

Tim blinks and forces himself to focus on Bruce’s face. 

“No, sweetheart,” Bruce says softly. “You’re hurting yourself.” 

And there is blood on his fingertips, Tim realizes, with mild curiosity. Just a little. Not a lot, not like the last time there was, when his hands had been tied behind him after the--and it was all up and down his forearm and inner elbow, dripping in a few streams down off his dangling fingers--

“We’re going to go to my room,” Bruce says, still holding Tim’s loose, limp hands, and rubbing circles on his skin with large, slow thumbs. “Do you want to pet Nova for a minute first?” 

Tim nods, distantly. Bruce doesn’t let go. 

“Nova,” Tim gets out. “Here.”

Bruce guides his hands down to her sides, braces Tim while the boy bends forward and leans his neck against hers, rests his head on her fur, rubs with clumsy fingers. His back and thighs tug and pull, sting, burn a little, but they’re not his, at the moment, they’re just white noise, and he’s getting a little further from it with every passing second, so it’s okay. 

It’s okay. It’s okay. Tim is fine. 

He’s slipping out of his fingers and hands, he can tell, and they sort of stutter against Nova’s sides before resuming. Tim’s feeling a lot better already--his breath is light, easy. The tangled confusing jumble, the dread and familiarity and sensations and feelings, are all almost gone, all distant, all settling in a smooth, even, glassy calm surface that feels like relief. 

“Tim,” Bruce says, something in his voice Tim thinks he’d care about more if he paid more attention right now. “Tim. Sweetheart, can you tell me where you’re at right now?”

Tim’s breathing slows a beat further, his hands slowing to meet it, and Nova wiggles under his hug, just a little. Bruce is levering him back upright all the way, always gentle, always steady. He ducks his head down a little to stare hard at Tim’s eyes, his face, his shoulders. 

“Tim,” Bruce says again. “You’re safe here. I’m with you. You’ve worked really hard on this in the last couple of years, can you try to come back to the moment right now? You’ve got Nova and me right here with you. You’re safe. Can you come back to me, sweetheart?”

Tim looks at him, away from his eyes and away from his skin and so close to just--slipping out, for a minute, just for a minute, just--slipping out from being a person for a moment. Where he has to feel those things. Just a break, it already feels so much better.

“Timmy,” Bruce says, holding his hands, squeezing. 

Tim blinks at him slowly, once, and then looks down at the little gossamer mist still sort of holding him half within himself, and he looks out at Bruce and swipes one arm through it, clean and neat. 

And then he’s back and up and away, a few feet apart, numb and quiet and drifting and his body stays where it belongs, safe with Bruce. Home and safe and sound and okay. 

Bruce closes his eyes for a moment, down there, in front of him. Nova noses at Tim’s body’s face. Bruce reaches up to cup Tim’s body’s cheek in his hand and lets out one single sigh. 

“Okay,” he says, finally. “All right, sweetheart. That’s okay. It’s okay. You take the time you need, and I’m going to take care of you right now. I’m going to pick you up and carry you to my room.”

Bruce nudges Nova aside gently with one knee and slowly scoops Tim’s body up in his arms. Tim feels something like a tingle, sort of, if he can actually call it feeling when he’s floaty like this. And then it’s gone again. 

“Nova, come,” Bruce says. Then he’s walking, towards the door, through the dark, and thunder finally starts to rumble faintly outside. Bruce’s steps falter, and he turns back halfway, staring at the open window, then glances down at Tim’s body curled up in his arms. And Tim wonders, absently, will he--

Bruce shakes his head and turns back towards the door. 

“I’m going to carry you to the bathroom, first, and we’ll take care of the little cuts on your arms,” Bruce says conversationally as he walks. “And we’ll find one of my oversized shirts for you to put on, maybe after you get a quick wash with a cold washcloth. That’ll feel good, right?” He nudges his own door open with one foot and steps inside, letting Nova in all the way before he pushes the door shut with a soft click. 

And they do. Bruce carries Tim’s body to the enormous bathroom, stopping along the way to swipe his phone, a large shirt and a pair of Tim-size sweats from the drawer. Once there, he grabs a couple of washcloths from the cabinet. He narrates as he types a quick text to Cass, still awake and dancing downstairs, asking her to close Tim’s window before it rains.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Bruce tells Tim’s body. “Let’s get you more comfortable.” Tim watches with a little bit of--something like the ghost of a warm feeling, maybe--as Bruce carefully slides arms through sleeves, a head through the neck hole, sweaty fabric off of skin and then all of that all over again for the shorts. He allows himself to doze, sort of, halfway, while he watches Bruce painstakingly get the water at the right temperature, wet the washcloths, rub gently up and down sweaty skin, the fading-flushed face, even the backs of ears. He pauses only to yawn, twice, and then gets right back to it. 

Bruce cleans the cuts, smooths Justice League bandaids over them, and then wraps Tim’s whole upper body in a fluffy towel for a minute, rubbing his hands firmly up and down over where the arms are. He tugs the sweatpants over compliant legs and his old soft sleep shirt on over that. And then he kisses Tim’s body’s forehead for a moment, pats Nova awake, who’d been dozing on one of the bath mats, and says, “Come on, Tim. Let’s go to bed.”

And they do, even though Tim isn’t there right now. Even though Tim isn’t sure how sleeping works like this. Even though Bruce looks sad around the edges, sends a few more texts he doesn’t narrate, takes extra care to tuck Tim and Nova in on his bed and cover Tim with the weighted blanket he keeps in the room as an extra. 

“Sleep well, sweetheart,” Bruce gets out around the interruption of a jaw-popping yawn. “You’re safe. You’re dissociating right now, but everything is all right. I’m here, and I’ll be here in the morning. You’re all right.” He wraps an arm around Tim’s body, reels it in close to his chest. “Take as much time as you need, but keep trying to come back. I hope you have good dreams, Tim. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Tim wakes up in the space between breaths, staring at the dim morning light wrapping the edges of Bruce’s furniture. He’s looking out from his own two eyes again, which is good, but he’s just—he’s him, just a little to the left, and the world is just the faintest but unreal. Like there's an invisible wavering wall between him and reality, just thick enough to make it not...not quite close enough to be there. 

Still dissociating, then. Okay. That’s fine. He’s—

He’d kind of rather not be, actually. Tim watches, feels his body breathing, sees Bruce’s body still sleeping, and yeah, it is quiet and there isn’t anything uncomfortable in this mode. But there isn’t anything nice either. It’s just blank. He knows if he wanted to right now he could make himself get up, go brush his teeth, go get dressed, pet Nova, drink water. But things are just...not close, right now, and so none of that is urgent, and all of it is so hard,  and instead he’s just floaty and hand-wavey and blank and bored. 

And then Bruce wakes up just as quickly as Tim had, one blink and already alert, and he looks at Tim and smiles.

“Hey sweetheart,” he says, voice croaky with sleep. “You with me right now?”

Tim closes his eyes and burrows closer, pressing into Bruce’s chest and letting his dad squeeze one arm around his shoulders.

“Sorta,” Tim says. “Not really.” 

“Okay,” says Bruce. “That’s fine. You’ll get there. Better than last night?”

Tim nods.

“Good. Is anything uncomfortable right now, that you can tell?” 

“No.” 

“How are your injuries?”

Tim shrugs a little. “Same.” 

“Hm,” Bruce says. “Well, it’s definitely time for painkillers with breakfast. You’re due for them about…” he glances over at the nightstand clock. “An hour and a half ago. Dammit.”

Tim makes a vague noise of protest when Bruce kisses his forehead and then pulls away, sitting up and swinging off the bed. 

“It doesn’t really hurt at all,” Tim grumbles. 

“Let’s keep on top of it anyway,” Bruce calls over his shoulder as he ducks into the bathroom and slides open the mirror to rummage for the right pill bottle. Tim hears rattling and a muttered aha. “You’re on a schedule for a reason. I don’t want you in pain when you come back all the way.”

“Fine,” Tim acquiesces, and then Bruce is walking back over on quiet bare feet, shaking out two pills and holding out a glass of ice water from the nightstand that Alfred must have slipped in silently not long ago before they woke. 

Tim tosses the pills back and drinks his water, and Bruce, as usual, chugs a lukewarm Ensure from the drawer in under ten seconds. 

“Ugh,” Tim grumbles. 

Bruce laughs quietly as he drops the crumpled carton into the trash can and helps Tim nudge a very sleepy Nova down to the footboard so Tim can slide off the bed. “Efficient, though,” he says. Bruce grins and flexes his arms comically, up and down, striking a Thor pose. “It takes a lot of calories to look this good, you know.”

“Bruce,” Tim says, but Bruce does get him to snort, and with the way it makes his dad’s face light up, Tim’ll forgive him for the gun show. 

“Do you want to shower this morning?” Bruce asks. Then he catches himself, catches Tim’s blank face. “Take a bath, I mean. Or would you rather just dry shampoo and get dressed?”

“I...don’t know,” Tim admits, after a long pause, shifting from one foot to another and still not feeling like he’s centered in his body. 

“That’s okay,” Bruce says, putting a hand on his shoulder and steering them both out of the room. “Come on. Let’s go get Damian, and you can think about it a bit longer before you decide.”

Tim lets Bruce guide him in silence, be the momentum and the direction for Tim’s robotic, mechanical legs, and they walk down the hall several yards to the door Damian has chosen. He’s been living at the manor for a few nights now, minus the one he spent overnight at the hospital after their Avatar night, but no matter how many times Alfred or Bruce or Dick or even Tim have tried to tell him he’s allowed to just wander down to the kitchen in the mornings, just grab food or drink when he wants, he still hasn’t done it. He’ll show up there in the afternoon, sometimes, while Alfred is cleaning or cooking, and he’ll agree to a snack. But when he wakes up, as far as they can all tell, he immediately goes through a series of katas and exercises and then gets dressed and--just quietly waits to be released from his room. 

The door is unlocked. Bruce has told him this, shown him this, promised no one will be upset if Damian does whatever he wants in the morning, but Damian just looked at him every time with a face that said I am listening, I am hearing, but we are speaking different languages and this is--this is--

Bruce stopped after the second try. He gets it. He knows.

This is something Damian needs, in a world that’s upside down and inside out. If he’s been anything like Bruce was, growing up, the League would have had to condition him early and firmly to wait for permission before running off to tackle his day, and while for Bruce that had meant Martha and Thomas training him to wait to come out of his room until they were ready to give him a round of hugs and tosses into the air and silly morning songs, for Damian, it just seems to mean waiting for permission, for a summons. And he’s been adapting--better than Bruce expected, so far, really. Much better. Almost too well. But there are things like this that come through and remind them all that Damian, however amenable he is trying to be, is from a very, very different life, different place, and it’s going to take time for him to live the way they do here.

So this is a thing that Bruce will meet him halfway with. Damian needs to be given permission to leave in the mornings. He needs the cue, still. And Bruce needs Damian to start seeing it not as permission, allowance, but as a welcome and greeting. So instead of just getting his son, walking him downstairs, Bruce snatches one of the guitars from the wall in the hallway, or grabs a book, and fetches Damian himself with a proper hello and something enjoyable to share before they go down. 

And then, eventually, maybe he’ll get Damian to meet him in a second space instead, somewhere else in the house, as a middle step. A den, or a landing, or the library, perhaps. Neutral ground. Not full run of the house, not the whole distance to the kitchen, but baby steps out of the room he feels he needs to stay within. 

He’ll get there. He just needs time. They all need time, all of these kids Bruce falls in love with, takes home, holds close. He can give them that. He can give them as much as they need, even if it’s his whole life that they still need him for these things, as long as he can help them feel at least a little more whole and less hurt. He will give them that, however long it takes. 

“Good morning, Damian,” Bruce says, when the boy opens the door for them. Damian nods at him, already dressed but still rubbing one eye with his knuckles before he seems to suddenly realize what he’s doing and drops it to his side. 

“Good morning, Father,” Damian replies, and shifts from foot to foot. 

“May we come in?”

Damian steps aside silently. 

“Thank you,” Bruce says, seriously, before he walks over and sits at the edge of Damian’s neatly-made bed. So different from Dick and Tim’s. So very like Jasons. He suppresses a smile. 

“What is wrong with you, Timothy?” Damian asks, suddenly. He’s scowling but it’s--there’s an edge to it that’s not anger, it’s more fear and, dare Bruce say it, worry. 

Tim blinks at him from where he’s plopped down to sit criss-cross applesauce on the floor by Bruce’s leg. 

“Jesus pickles,” Tim says. “How did you even notice?”

Damian’s fists land on his fists, like he’s a very, very tiny version of Diana, and now Bruce really has to fight not to laugh and ruin the moment. 

“It is in every movement of your body,” Damian snaps. “What is it. Have you been injured further. Are you ill. I will fetch Pennyworth--”

“It’s okay,” Tim says quickly. “Damian. Chill. I’m just dissociating.”

Damian doesn’t ask the question they both see flicker across his face, keeps his lips carefully closed, but Bruce steps in anyway. 

“Do you know how when people experience particularly frightening or painful things, they cope in various ways?” he asks, gently. 

“Yes,” Damian tells him, glancing between him and Tim.

“Some people cry, maybe, or hide for a while, or get angry. Or they can ignore what happened for a while and pretend like things are fine, maybe having nightmares when they sleep, or getting hit with panic, suddenly. They might be on edge all the time, jumping at sounds. Have you seen things like this before?”

“Yes,” Damian repeats. “Sometimes...after certain missions, some of Grandfather’s men would...they would return but not...they would be. Different, sometimes. Some of them never...went back. They left, I thought, or. I suppose they did not…” Damian frowns for a moment, then sort of shakes himself slightly and goes on. “The ones who did not snap out of it were liabilities.”

“They were hurt,” Bruce corrects him, gently. “When someone is hurt like that, from something they’ve done, or been forced to do, or had happen to them, they need help. Like when you break a wrist. It needs to be set and given time to heal, and then you have to do physical therapy and exercises to get it strong and healthy again, right?”

Damian looks unsure, but he’s still following. 

“I suppose,” he says. 

“The brain is an organ,” Bruce tries, changing tracks a little. “You know this.”

Damian nods. 

“The stomach, the skin, the lungs--they can all be injured, right? Or have a dysfunction that needs treatment.”

“Yes,” Damian agrees. 

“And the brain is also an organ,” Bruce repeats. “And it can get hurt or sick as well.”

Damian nods, looking like a lightbulb has gone on. “Traumatic injuries,” he says. “Or strokes, or--how do you say it, in English, the--with shaking, and electricity--”

“Epilepsy?” Bruce offers. 

“Yes, that one,” Damian says, with energy. “Ep--epilepsy.” 

“You’re right,” Bruce says, with a large smile and the most encouraging voice he can pull out without sounding condescending. “You’re right, those are all injuries or dysfunctions in the brain. Good job. But there are other things that happen too, that you maybe haven’t learned yet. Chemical levels can be out of balance, and affect people’s behavior, memory, things like that. You know how the body can’t function right when things like iron levels, or hormones, or blood cells aren’t at the right amounts? The brain has important levels too that it needs to stay within, or it can’t work as well as it should and things go wrong. And then the brain’s development itself--of important parts, like the ones that control coordination, movement, vision, language, memory, even--things like that--can be stunted or altered by how children are raised. Emotionally or mentally stressful experiences can cause the brain to get--stuck, sort of, with memory processing, or cause the limbic system to be over-active, or a lot of different things. The brain is delicate, and a lot can happen to it.”

Damian’s nose scrunches, just a very little bit. 

“And Timothy...has a brain injury? Like one of those?”

“Yes,” Bruce says. “Yes, exactly. Most of us in this house actually do, but we take care of them and work on healing, and usually it’s not very obvious that we’re hurt.”

“Then what…”

“When your brain has been injured before, by bad experiences,” Bruce explains, “it’s more prone to being injured again.”

“Like with concussions,” Damian says. 

“Right,” says Bruce. “But not only from physical impacts. Lots of things can do it, anything that makes you feel like you’re in a lot of danger, even if you maybe aren’t. We can talk about that more a different time, if you want to know examples, but that’s a long discussion, okay?”

“Okay,” Damian agrees. 

“Anyway,” Bruce says, “Tim had some bad experiences before that hurt his brain in various ways, and he’s worked really hard to heal from them. Just like I have, from mine, and Dick has, and Jason has been, and Cass is doing, and he’s healed a lot. But what Ra’s and his people did to Tim, over there--that was--”

“Wrong,” Damian snarls.

Bruce blinks. 

“Yes,” he agrees, carefully keeping his voice calm, as he watches Damian’s fists clench around the edges of his shirt. “Yes, it was wrong. They hurt Tim. But the danger and fear and psychological tactics they used on him--that hurt his brain, too. And so it’s sort of--let me see if I can describe it with our broken arm metaphor again. Imagine that Tim broke his wrist, okay? And he went to the doctor, and the doctor said ‘You have to let me set it and then wear it in this cast and be careful with it for six weeks, okay?’, and Tim agreed and tried to do that. But then after four weeks, he got into a really bad car accident, and his arm got caught between parts of the car, and the cast cracked. His wrist wasn’t healed all the way, and it got re-injured. So now it has to be treated again, and allowed more time to heal, while he’s extra-careful about the compounded damage. Does that make sense?”

Damian is silent for a few moments, turning to look at Tim, who’s leaned over to rest his head against the side of Bruce’s knee. 

“Grandfather re-injured your brain?” Damian asks him.

Tim hesitates, then nods. 

“And this is why you are...moving strangely?”

“Sort of,” Bruce tells him. “One of the things that hurt brains can do is...shut off, in a way, turn their activity way down, and make it feel like a person or the world isn’t real, or like things aren’t happening to them, or like they don’t actually have emotions about something. It’s to protect people from pain or other bad feelings, and if a brain learns to do it to cope, it will always have a tendency to do it if things get overwhelming and other coping skills aren’t used first, instead.”

Damian opens his mouth again, then pauses. “So…” he says, hesitantly, “Timothy is...turned down.”

“Yes,” Bruce says. “Sometimes, every now and then, he’ll--sort of slip away from his body, a little or all the way, and things will feel very distant and hard for him to interact with like normal. So we have things we do to help keep him safe and help him come back all the way once his brain thinks it’s all right to let down its guard again.”

Damian considers this.

“I shall help protect Timothy,” he says, decisively. “While he is--dis--dissasoci--”

“Dissociating,” Tim finishes for him, smiling faintly. 

“Dissociating,” Damian echoes. “Yes. What are we protecting him from, Father.”

Bruce laughs. 

“Just keep him by us, mostly, so he doesn’t wander and get confused or lost, if it gets more intense. We bring Nova food and water so she can stay by Tim while he needs her more, and we keep Tim from accidentally hurting himself on hot or sharp objects or forgetting to eat for a whole day because he doesn’t feel hungry.”

“Does he not already struggle to eat?”

“He does,” Bruce nods. 

“Timothy,” Damian says, with a tone of despair. “How do you survive.” 

“With our help, and love, and support,” Bruce says, firmly. “Just like how all of us survive. I wouldn’t have made it without Alfred, that’s for sure. Everyone needs people. That’s what family and friends do, we all support each other and enjoy each other’s company and step in to help when things are hard.”

“Tag-teaming,” Tim agrees. “Whoever is doing well helps the ones having hard times. ‘S a good system.”

“It’s worked well so far,” Bruce says. “And for all of you children, Alfred and I are always going to be here to help. For big things and small things.”

Damian doesn’t seem to have a reply to that, and Bruce has mercy on him. He lifts up the guitar. 

“I was feeling like playing a little this morning,” he says, smiling again. “Do you mind if I play in here for a few minutes before we all go to breakfast?”

Damian shakes his head. He steps over to lean against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “It is your house,” he says. “Do as you wish.”

“It’s your room,” Bruce counters. “This is your space to control. If you don’t want Tim and me here, you can tell us to leave. If you don’t want me to play right now, I’ll find a different spot.”

He doesn’t flinch under Damian’s sharp gaze, as the boy watches his face for any hint of a lie, any shred of double meaning, until he finally finds none.

Damian’s the one who breaks eye contact and looks away, over and down at the edge of the rug. 

“Play,” he demands. “You may stay.”

“Thank you,” Bruce tells him, and finally settles the guitar into position on his lap. His fingers gently start to strum the chords he’s got running through his memory, and he pauses only to reach down and lift one of Tim’s hands to the broad part of the guitar’s body, hoping that maybe feeling the vibrations might help a little. Tim hums quietly at him for a second, then quiets again. 

Bruce strums and plucks and clears his throat, and then finally starts to sing.

It’s nice in the morning, o

It’s nice in the morning

I’ve got butter on my bread, I’ve got thoughts in my head

When he glances down, Tim’s got his eyes closed, and when he looks over at Damian, he sees him slipping a little bit out of his tight curl, arms loosening and sliding to rest against the wall, palms down, instead of protective across his chest. 

Whatever this day may hold...let it hold me with you, Bruce sings quietly, wincing and then letting the annoyance go when his voice catches a few times on early-morning rust from sleep. He doesn’t need it to be perfect. He just needs to make the effort and try, that’s all. Just be in this moment with his kids, for now, and give them something that’s quiet and beautiful just for the sake of beauty, a quick break from all the things in their lives that are hard. 

He ends the song a few verses later, when Tim’s hand has slipped to the edge of the guitar, and Bruce’s fingers are starting to burn just a little, and Damian has slid down the wall to sit against the base board with his knees pulled up and his sock-toes curling tight against the old wood floor. 

“All right,” Bruce says, smooth and soft, as he stands with the guitar in one hand and then turns to set it across one of the armchairs in Damian’s room. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m definitely ready for some of Alfred’s crepes. Let’s go get breakfast, kiddos.”

He pulls Tim up with one hand, doesn’t let go once the boy is up, and then steps them over to where Damian is already upright and brushing himself off, back straight, chin up, over by the door. 

“Ready to go?” he asks. He reaches out his other hand. Just like before, on the first morning at the hospital. Bruce reaching out, slowly, carefully. Damian watching, waiting, reading and analyzing and deciding deciding deciding--

Damian slowly reaches up and slots his small hand into Bruce’s, letting Bruce slip their fingers together and close his palm around Damian’s, and it’s just a little faster this time, just a very little bit smoother. 

It’s progress. It’s learning. It’s enough. 

Bruce never thought he’d have this, with Damian, never thought he’d ever meet the lost baby, and now he’s walking his two youngest down the hall to eat a slow, bright breakfast in the warm kitchen with his own father and his other children, in this house that’s not empty but full, with his children who amaze him every day and make him so full of love he cant breathe from the terror of it, some days, and in his hand he holds the small fingers of his small, young, baby boy, who he gets to touch, and love, and hopefully help heal, with time--he gets to have this, this miracle, after already so many miracles he never expected to be granted. 

This is more than enough, today. His children and father and home and quiet morning, with all their baggage around the edges, sure, and a city that likes to set itself on fire every Tuesday, sure, and probably a world-ending invasion call from the Watchtower later this afternoon just because it’s Thursday and everyone knows what the universe thinks about those--

But it’s more than enough. It’s the only place Bruce wants to be, with his family on this strange, broken, beautiful, sunlit morning in a big world made small. And so they’re all, for now--for as long has he can swing it, with the lives they lead--perfectly, safely home.

Chapter Text

The family keeps Tim close that morning, as per the standard activation of Family Protocol #17, and they keep Damian even closer, since he refuses, from the first step out of his room after Bruce, to leave Tim’s side for more than a four foot radius in any direction. 

“I may have told him,” Bruce whispers to Dick, quietly, “that it’s our job to protect Tim while he’s dissociating and can’t do it as well as usual for himself.”

Dick grins, not even bothering to look away from where Damian sits two chairs down from Tim, glaring daggers at anyone who tries to put food on his plate or seems to be prodding Tim for interaction too hard. 

“Oh, boy,” Dick whispers back. “You’ve done it now, B-man. If there’s one thing I know about Damian so far, it’s that he does absolutely nothing by halves.”

“Yes,” Bruce says, with a tiny smile. He thinks back to pho night at the hospital. “I’m beginning to get that, too.”

They watch him, while they all sit together as a family for the first time since Damian was thrown, literally, into their lives. He doesn’t speak much, but his eyes are just as sharp as Bruce’s in full Batman mode, and he seems to catch everything in the vicinity, down to the smallest shifting of dishes. 

Bruce watches him startle at the sound of ceramic hitting metal when two serving plates collide in the middle of a tug-of-war, and he frowns. That level of hypervigilance--if that is what’s going on here, as he’s guessing based on what limited data he has so far--isn’t healthy for anyone, much less a very young, very rapidly developing brain. He hopes it’ll be helped by time living in a place where Damian can learn he doesn’t have to be alert for every little thing anymore, but a larger part of Bruce knows things are rarely that simple. Dinah’s going to definitely have a new patient and several more donations for the community programs she’s running in Star City soon.  

Tim makes a vaguely disgusted noise when Jason, who’s been quietly trying to see how much food he can get away with piling onto Tim’s plate while the other boy mostly stares into the middle distance at a butter dish, plops a half-scoop of scrambled eggs down near the plate edge. 

For the first time since sitting down at the table, Tim seems to come a little bit back to the present moment, and in one quick motion lifts his plate and flicks the eggs right off and onto the middle of Jason’s plate across the table.

Jason blinks. 

“Okay,” he says. “Sorry, baby bird, I’ll stop. You’ve got a lot on there already anyway.”

Tim makes a vague noise in his direction and goes back to staring at the middle of his plate while he stabs individual grapes, one at a time, on the tines of his fork. 

“You are irritating him, Jason,” Damian snaps.

“Chill, baby bat,” Jason says, around a mouthful of loaded Nutella crepe. “I backed off already. Tim can look out for himself.”

“He is incapacitated!” Damian snarls. 

Cass holds up one hand and he freezes. She shakes her head, once she’s sure he’s paying attention, and says, slowly, carefully, “Not.”

Damian frowns.

In answer, Cass holds perfectly still for just a moment while Dick and Bruce turn, cutting off their conversation mid-sentence, and then she throws one hand so fast at Tim’s throat it’s a blur in mid-air. 

Damian’s halfway out of his seat with a strangled noise in the back of his throat before he stops, blinking in surprise, and Jason and Dick both snort. 

Tim’s fork has clattered off the edge of his plate, and both hands have Cass’s fist caught tight. He turns and gives her a tired look that, if it had more energy behind it, Damian might have labeled as exasperation. 

Cass grins back unrepentantly, and rubs her free fist in a circle a couple times on her sternum. 

“Sorry, you say” Tim scoffs, “as if you expect me to believe that.” But he lets her wrist go, anyway, and picks up a plain strawberry-stuffed crepe with both hands to take a bite. 

“Bat reflexes are bred deep,” Jason stage-whispers to Damian. “Sit down, kiddo. You’ll catch flies.” 

Damian thunks back down in his chair, or--what counts for thunking, among baby assassins trained in grace and stealth from toddlerhood on up. Which is to say, he sinks back down to sitting at a slightly more rapid speed than usual, and then scoots his chair back to its proper spot. 

“I see,” he says, giving Cass an odd look. 

She smiles back, then looks away, over at Alfred, who’s just stepped back into the room, and her face lights up with a smile. 

“Chocolate milk!” she half-sings, and Bruce doesn’t miss the surprise that flashes for a second across Damian’s face at how much clearer her speech suddenly is. 

“Indeed, Miss Cassandra,” Alfred sings back, to the tune of something Bruce vaguely remembers hearing in The Music Man years ago. 

Then Cass is making grabby hands, and so is Dick, and the table has four voices clamoring for dominance until Damian’s questioning one finally wins out.

“Oh, Lil’D,” Jason says, grinning. “Chocolate milk is a rite of passage.”

“We get to watch you drink it for the first time?” Dick exclaims. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Bruce--please can we break the no-phones-at-meals rule for this.”

“I suppose,” Bruce says, smiling into his coffee where they can’t see. 

“Yes,” Dick hisses, and nearly knocks his chair over with how much energy he jumps up with. 

They do catch Damian’s first taste of chocolate milk, surprise and shaky camera recording and all, and then coax him into two more glasses, steamrolling his protests about balanced food intake. 

“You’re ten years old,” Dick says, waving one hand while he shoves the second glass and another plate of buttery golden biscuits at him. “You’re supposed to inhale everything you see for the next several years of life. It’s the law.”

“I do not think that is how the law works,” Damian shoots back, but he takes the glass and a biscuit anyway. 

So Damian eats and watches over Tim, and while Jason gets going on a complaint about the latest paper one of his 100-level course professors has assigned, Bruce watches Damian settle in a little more and nods to himself with satisfaction. 

But he also looks around the table as an alert father, not just a happy one, and checks on his kids in turn, cataloguing and running through his mental checklists that get him through each day and interaction and change almost as frequently as his children change clothing sizes. 

So he catches Damian watching how they pass dishes, searching out any order to the hot-potato chaos. Catches Tim scooting food piles away from each other more than actually putting them into his mouth, makes a mental note to have Alfred give Tim a thick milkshake this afternoon, see if that helps. Catches Dick rubbing his eyes even though he projects his usual energy and volume. Catches Jason’s slightly protective curl of one arm around his plate that he hasn’t lost after years of living here, safe and fed and steady. And catches himself having to gently remind Cass to slow down and taste what she’s putting in her mouth every time she gets distracted by one of the others. 

His kids all have their own little things that pop up, resurface, disappear for a while, crop up anew, and Bruce watches for them all. He may not be able to make all their problems go away forever, but he’s doing what he can. It’s all he can do--be here, step in when they need it, give them safety and stability and the resources they need, and walk them through things when they can’t do it without help. 

Like now. 

“Damian,” Bruce calls down the table, and his youngest son looks up quickly from where he’s about to slowly--reluctantly, almost--stick another bite of cantaloupe in his mouth. 

“Father,” Damian says, carefully, lowering his fork. 

“I think I’m about done here,” Bruce says, pushing his chair back a little. “I’m about to take my dishes to the kitchen and then get a show cued up for us to watch in the lounge. How are you doing down there? Do you want to keep eating, or would you like to help me? I can show you how to work our media system here, if you haven’t used it yet.”

Bruce doesn’t think he imagines the relief in Damian’s expression as he quickly drops the fork to his plate and pushes his chair back as well. 

“I will join you,” Damian says. “I have not learned the controls yet. We only used it once, to watch something from--Disney, Richard said.” 

“Ah, yes,” Bruce nods. “That’s the one you fell asleep during, right? The pictures Dick sent were very good.”

Damian’s face flushes red. 

And Bruce laughs, makes sure Damian gets his dishes and utensils stacked safely, and then leads the way, pausing to catch Tim’s eyes and make sure he’s all right before stepping through the door. 

Bruce is here for his kids, whether they know they need him and can admit it or not. He’ll step in as long as they need him to, as long as it takes. 

“I think you’ll like the show we’re going to watch today,” Bruce tells Damian as he points out each button on the universal remote and shows the boy where to aim it to reach the sensor. “It’s about a warrior, and an alien child, and a lot of fighting in outer space. The warriors have very specific rules, too, which makes things more complicated.”

Damian takes the remote when Bruce holds it out, and carefully finds the menu button and presses it down. He looks up at Bruce when he praises the success with admittedly more enthusiasm than most ten year olds would merit from that activity, but Damian isn’t a normal ten year old. 

He’s been abused. He’s been sheltered. He’s been--a lot of things, for a lot of years, and there’s a lot of catching up to be done and a lot of damage to make up for before Damian becomes anything resembling normal and healthy. But he’s trying, and he’s good, and most importantly of all, he’s Bruce’s. 

Bruce will shower him with praise as much as he wants, goddamnit. Heaps of praise. Mountains of it, until Damian stops having the same startled, surprised, uncertain look that Tim gets from it too. 

Both of them. Bruce is going to keep loving and excitedly praising both of them until they can take it , and then he’ll keep praising them more after that because they deserve it, and they’re wonderful, and he’s so damn lucky that against all the unbelievable odds they happen to be his. 

“What is the show called?” Damian asks, and Bruce takes a few extra moments before the others tumble in to prop Damian up on the couch, tuck him in with throw pillows and one of the fleece-lined flannel blankets. And Damian, surprisingly, stays quiet and lets him. 

Bruce watches Damian slowly rub the flannel fabric between two fingers over and over and over, and doesn’t hide his smile. 

“The Mandalorian,” he says. “It’s part of the Star Wars world of stories. You’re going to Learn all about those while you live here, that’s a guarantee.”

“They are important here?” Damian asks, fingers freezing, pinched tightly around the plaid print. 

Bruce places a hand where he remembers Damian’s knee being and rubs his thumb back and forth firmly. 

“Not like that,” he says. “They’re just loved. The stories are enjoyed by a lot of people, who care about the characters, the message, the world the writers dreamed up. It’s unique, and a lot of people get attached. It’s just--like how some people love certain types of music, or--weapons.” 

There. There it is, Damian found a bridge with Bruce just then, Bruce can see it. 

“Some people use weapons only as tools and put them away at the end of the day,” Bruce continues, more surely now. “But for some people, weapons are more precious, right? They have blades, or guns, or staffs that they would never use in a fight--only for show, or because they find them beautiful.”

“Oh,” Damian says, and Bruce gets an entire solid nod out of him. 

It feels better than winning a fight with the Justice League against interstellar invaders. Bruce will never get used to the way having kids makes him feel--the way he can hurt for them, the way they can suck the air out of his chest in a split second, the way they can make him so joyful he thinks he’ll explode. 

“I think I understand,” Damian tells him, and then sinks down into the pillows just a little. He doesn’t try to move Bruce’s hand from his knee, and Bruce smiles when he catches Damian’s small fingers go back to slowly rubbing the flannel back and forth. 

“I think I hear your siblings,” Bruce murmurs, conspiratorially, as they both glance towards the hallway at the sound of a large thunk. “Hopefully they don’t cause too much property damage on the way here.”

Damian sniffs. “They have no excuse for being so clumsy,” he says. “You are Batman. You have trained them better.”

“They’re excited,” Bruce says, settling down on the couch himself, finally, next to Damian’s blanket-covered toes. “They just get a little relaxed and...overenthusiastic. Better that than afraid to touch anything.”

Damian frowns, looking thoughtful, but stays silent, and Bruce joins him in it, for the last few blissful seconds of calm the room will have before the whole troupe piles in and onto furniture and each others’ various limbs. 

It’s going to be a good morning. Whatever comes. 

Tim, specifically, comes back to them halfway through the second episode, and then immediately slips off the arm of the couch onto his butt on the floor. He startles himself just as much as he does everyone else, and Bruce immediately hits pause on the controller. 

Tim blinks at the nearest chair, for a few seconds, mouth slightly open. Then he twists around and looks up at Bruce with a small frown. 

“Sorry,” he says, quietly. 

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Bruce tells him, for the hundredth time, for the thousandth time, for as many times as Tim needs to practice this until they both get it right. 

“Still sorry.” 

Bruce sighs and just ruffles Tim’s hair a few times. 

“What,” Damian says, flatly. He looks very slightly alarmed, on his knees and leaned over the couch arm, staring down at his fallen brother. “Timothy--”

“I’m back,” Tim sighs.

Damian blinks. “Oh.” His nose scrunches a tiny bit, the way Bruce’s does out of the cowl when he’s genuinely surprised by something. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Tim agrees, and then in one quick, careful movement, hauls himself over the armrest and tumbles onto the couch cushions to crash into Bruce, taking Damian down with him. 

There’s the most involuntary, childish noise any of them have heard out of him yet, and then a grunt from Tim, while he reaches for his back, and then Bruce is sighing and hauling Tim up, onto his lap, already scolding in his patented Disappointed Father Voice about the doctors said light play and specifically no roughhousing, please I am begging you to sit calmly for the rest of the morning and at least survive until it’s time for checkups in the Cave. 

Tim just nods and sinks back against Bruce’s chest, one pinkie sneakily wrapped around two of Damian’s fingers out of sight. 

Yeah, his healing bruises and cuts and kidney didn’t like that very much. But he’s--he’s back, okay, and he has the urge to feel as much as possible right now, immediately, this second, because, wow, it’s so clear. And when he and Bruce glance sideways while the show restarts, to check on Damian who’s being very quiet--

His perfectly spiked hair is just a little out of place, and he’s not fixing it. And there’s a look on his face that’s still half-surprised and half-confused, but there’s something else tangled in as well, now, that Tim catches when Damian glances his way for a moment, looking up from where his head is ducked--

Damian looks young. Not just his size, his--his eyes. His eyes look-- young. 

And then his two fingers squeeze Tim’s pinkie, a little. Just once. And Tim grins. 

Sure, he’s sore. But he’s always sore right now, it’s no big deal. Bruce has already stopped scolding in favor of tucking Tim’s head under his chin anyway. And Damian is...relaxing. Just a bit. 

Yeah, Tim thinks. Definitely. Definitely worth it for this.  

Damian gets a similar explanation to the one Tim got not all that long ago about why they do checkups and documentation down in the Cave every so often. He accepts the logic stoically, and doesn’t seem to have much to say. 

So Cass and Jason break off from the group at a look from Bruce, arm in arm, headed for Cass’s favorite ballroom. And Alfred joins them in the elevator, which they elect to take to keep Tim and Damian from exerting themselves more than necessary while they’re both ostensibly still recovering and prone to fatigue. 

Tim isn’t exactly enthused at the prospect of stripping to his underwear and having photos taken, but he’s not upset either. Bruce made sure to grab his Switch before herding them all down, so Tim should be occupied well enough.

Dick’s going first anyway, since he didn’t get his checkup done in their last round, as he had to help run a gymnastics meet for the kids he teaches now in Gotham. And ever since, things have just been-- busy. 

“Am I gonna get a lollipop?” Dick asks as he bounces on his toes out through the elevator doors, spinning on the ball of one foot to walk backwards and grin at Bruce and Alfred. 

“Possibly,” Alfred says. “If you behave.”

It’s an empty threat. It always is. Dick could spend the whole checkup jumping from surface to surface and one of them would still cave to his sad eyes and give him a lollipop at the end, and that’s just how the world is. It’s the circle of life in this house, and they all know it.

Tim scoots past them, drowning in the ancient hoodie of Bruce’s he’s tugged on over one of his many, many stolen pairs of Cass’s leggings, and plops into one of the armchairs in the med bay, leftover from the last time Bruce got banged on the back hard enough to need to lie down for a night before going back upstairs. Damian hesitantly follows, and Tim starts talking to him quietly, explaining what they’ll do with Dick and what extra they’ll have to do for Damian, maybe. 

Bruce and Alfred get to work Dick-wrangling and doing the standard checks, and the whole time Bruce keeps one careful ear out to listen in on Tim explaining Animal Crossing to Damian. And, for his part, Damian looks more interested in the game than he has in any activity shown to him besides dog-petting, recently, which. 

Is probably what Tim was banking on, now that Bruce thinks about it. He smiles a little, head ducked and turned away from the boys to face the counter. What a clever kid. 

And then, all too soon and not soon enough, if the boy’s conflicted walk is anything to go by, it’s Damian’s turn in the spotlight. Tim tugs Bruce’s hoodie on slowly while he passes Damian on his way back to the chair, careful of his sore back, and then shoots Damian a smile as Dick tugs him up onto his lap and wraps him in a hug.

“My turn to snuggle,” Dick says into his hair, and Tim pulls his legs up until he’s just a ball in his oldest brother’s arms.

“It’ll be okay,” he tells Damian. “Nothing hurts. They’ll go as slow as you need.”

“I know that,” Damian says, probably meaning for it to be waspish, but it comes out more flat than anything else. “I am not a child in need of comfort.”

“I know,” Tim says. “Just. In case you needed a reminder. We all do sometimes.”

Damian makes a small noise and doesn’t bother to look at Bruce or Alfred while he quickly hoists himself up onto the exam table. Then he immediately lies down and stares straight up at the recesses of the cave ceiling and hardly even breathes. 

Bruce stops what he’s doing and frowns, one hand reached out for the rolling stool still. 

“Damian?” he asks. Alfred turns from his place at the counter, putting away Tim’s memory card for their camera, and takes in the situation with sharp eyes. 

“Master Damian,” he says, firmly. “Are you quite alright?”

“I am perfectly adequate,” Damian says, in an eerily monotone voice. “I will be still.”

“Still?” Bruce echoes, softly. He steps closer, a few inches at a time. 

Damian carefully doesn’t answer, doesn’t look down, doesn’t even move when Bruce knows he should be tracking them, would be tracking them, and--

“Alfred,” Bruce murmurs, stopping just inches away from Damian and realizing how distant Damian’s eyes are. 

Alfred sighs. 

Bruce does tug over the stool, now, as Dick and Tim sit straight up on the chair, watching, and he gives them a wave-off and mouths Ace. 

Dick nods, and before Tim can get a word out, Dick’s on his feet with Tim in his arms heading for the stairs.

And then Bruce sits, head still where Damian can see if he looks, hands in plain view at the edge of the exam table. 

“Damian, baby,” he says, softly. “Do you know where you are right now?”

There’s no answer, except for a very tiny furrow between the boy’s brows before it’s gone again. 

Alfred steps over with one of the spare weighted blankets, child-size, from when Dick was younger, and together they gently spread it over Damian, narrating as they go. 

“I’m going to put my hand on your forehead, habibi,” Bruce says, and there, that gets the little furrow again. “If you want me to move it, you can just shake your head or tell me no, all right?” And then his hand is softly touching Damian’s skin, brushing a finger or two through his hairline, softer than Bruce ever expects, these kids always have such soft hair, he forgets that--

“You’re in the United States of America, right now,” he tells Damian. “In Gotham. We’re in the Batcave under Wayne Manor, and you’re completely safe, and it’s just me and Alfred and the bats down here. I’m touching your forehead and I am Batman and I am your father. Do you remember that?”

“Batman?” Damian mutters. His brows stay pinched this time. One of his hands moves a little under the blanket, and Alfred gently reaches his own hand under the edge to rub it.

“Batman,” Bruce confirms. “You’re at Batman’s home, not with the League. You’re safe. You’re with Batman.”

There’s silence for a few beats, and then Damian blinks, and finally tilts his head to the side, just a little. “Father?”

Bruce smiles while he wants to cry and rip someone’s throat out with his bare hands.

“Yes,” he says, softly, and his thumb dips down to smooth over the crease between his baby’s eyes. “It’s me. You’re safe, Damian. Do you know where you are?”

Damian swallows, but stays remarkably calm while he immediately pushes himself up to a sitting position. He stares around for a second, and then locks wary eyes with Bruce. 

“The Batcave,” he says. 

Bruce nods. “Great, Damian, that’s really good. How do you feel right now?”

“I…” Damian hesitates, looks down at the blanket. “What is this.”

“It’s a blanket with heavier filling inside,” Bruce explains. “It feels good to some people, and can help when you need to feel your body more.”

“Why am I under it.”

“Because you went away, for a few minutes, habibi,” Bruce says, carefully keeping his hands in Damian’s line of sight while Alfred steps next to him, allowing Damian to not have to split his attention anymore. 

“Went away,” Damian echoes, not quite a question.

“Yes. Has that happened to you before?” Bruce asks. He desperately hopes somewhere in the buried, panicking part of him, that he’s not pushing too far with this particular child, this child so different from the others, even while they’ve all been different from the ones before as well. 

Damian just looks at him, opening his mouth to say something very quickly, and then he pauses, suddenly, and seems to freeze. 

“Before…” Damian finally says, so quietly Bruce has to strain to hear. “Did...was it like Timothy,” he asks. “Me going away.”

Bruce hums. “A little,” he offers. “There are different levels to it. Tim didn’t go very deep today, but you went deeper. Like...you needed to hide from something far down where you wouldn’t need to speak. Or maybe feel.”

Damian looks stricken, and Bruce sucks in a breath, ready to backpedal, apologize, even though words can’t be rewound. 

“Before,” Damian says again, his voice tight. “I...think so. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Bruce asks, so gently. 

Damian looks down and starts rubbing the textured edge of the blanket between his fingers repetitively. “I had to,” he bites out. “I had to. I had to, Father--”

“I know,” Bruce soothes. “Baby, I know, I know you did. That’s all right. I’m not mad.”

“I didn’t want to do it,” Damian pleads. “I didn’t want to kill them.”

“Kill--kill who?” Bruce asks, before he can put on the brakes, and immediately kicks himself. 

“The fireflies,” Damian chokes out, before Bruce can really get going, and oh. 

Oh, Damian. 

“Oh, baby,” Bruce says, that perfect hard-won mix of sympathetic and comforting, and Damian, for the first time since the plane, actually reaches first.

They don’t do Damian’s checkup that day, except for a quick hop on the scale and pause in front of the doorframe with everyone’s height markers, to get his measurements for the week and add them to Alfred’s chart for Operation Get Damian Where He Should Be On The Growth Curve. Bruce carries Damian upstairs, tucks him and Tim both together on Bruce’s own bed, and gets them settled with Nova and Ace and blankets and a remote connected to the Apple TV, and then Bruce curls around Damian, slowly, holding his breath and feeling a surge of joy when his son doesn’t curl away, and falls asleep in the first few minutes of whatever episode of Avatar: The Last Airbender the kids had left off on last time. 

When he wakes up with a start a few hours later, it’s to a paused screen on the TV, Damian and Tim tangled up in each other’s limbs in the center of the bed, and Jason, curled protectively around Tim on their other side, watching him with a soft smile. 

“Been burning the midnight candle at both ends lately?” Jason whispers, and Bruce bites down the urge to groan.

“It’s called having kids,” he rumbles back, as quietly as he can, and flops one arm across his eyes. “You should try it sometime. Best decision of my life, nothing like it.”

“I hear the hours are near-illegal,” Jason muses. “And the pay is shit.”

“Language,” Bruce whisper-scolds. “Little pitchers have big ears, Jay. And the pay--it’s the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done in my life, and you may quote me on that.” 

When he looks up, in the following silence, Jason is watching him in the dim afternoon glow leaking in around the window shades, with big eyes and something Bruce can’t quite name in his expression. 

“I’m supposed to go back to college on Monday,” Jason whispers.

“I know.” 

Jason chews on his lip for a moment, and it almost immediately starts to bleed. Not the first time of the day, then, Bruce thinks. 

“If I miss any more,” Jason goes on, “I won’t be able to catch up, even with exams being pushed back for my special circumstances.”

“I know,” Bruce repeats. What’s your real question, Jaybird.  

“Maybe I should....just not go back this semester. Stay here.”

Bruce blinks. There it is. 

“Okay,” he says, voice neutral, voice careful. “You’re right, that’s one of your options. Why that as opposed to finishing the rest of the semester, honey?”

And Jason stops looking at him, staring at the strip of pillow between his face and Tim’s hair instead.

“I mean,” Jason starts. “I mean. Tim got kidnapped.” 

“He did,” Bruce agrees.

“And we have Damian, all of a sudden.”

“We do.”

“And they both need, like—support and time to adjust, right,” Jason whispers quickly. “And. Family being around.” 

“Yes,” Bruce whispers back. “But family doesn’t mean giving up your own dreams or life to sacrifice everything and help. There are several of us now. And Alfred and I are the grown ups, at the end of the day, and taking care of all of you is our role that we chose.” Bruce reaches out and rubs one thumb over Jason’s visible eyebrow. 

“Tim and Damian will be here while you finish the semester, if that’s still what you want to do,” he whispers. “And they’ll be here when you come back. Every weekend, if you want. Or in a month or two. College is for you, Jason. You need to make your decisions based on what you need and want. Okay? As long as you do that, I’ll always be happy with whatever you decide.”

Jason looks at him, for a long moment, opens his mouth, and suddenly bursts into tears. 

“Oh, honey,” Bruce exclaims in a half-whisper, and then he’s sliding off the bed and jogging around to the other side to pick Jason up with a little grunt and haul them both over to the recliner by his window. 

“Jay,” Bruce murmurs, pressing a long kiss to his son’s forehead. “Jason, what’s going on?” 

Jason’s breath catches twice before he finally manages to cough and get a few words out. Neither boy on the bed stirs, thank god.

“It’s really hard, Dad,” Jason cries. “I’m just—I did so well in high school, like, I’m not trying to brag or anything but I did, everything was okay and I was healthy and school was great and I did track and—and balanced family and school and rest and everything fine, even while we went out most nights, and I’ve been so excited for college, I have, and it got pushed back because of—I mean, everything last year—“ Jason takes a deep breath, tears still leaking down his cheeks. “But I can’t.” 

“Jason,” Bruce rumbles, softly. 

Jason snorts through his tears. “I feel like I can’t,” he corrects. “Bruce. I just. It’s too much, I’m sorry, I thought I could handle everything and I don’t know why it’s so hard, I’m trying, but I just get more behind and I don’t even have an excuse I’m just lying on my bed or the dorm couches half the time and I want to be good and I want to like, work at my potential but I’m tired and I keep failing and I don’t know what to do.” 

And then he’s sobbing again like Bruce hasn’t seen him do since Tim was dying, and Bruce pulls him in closer, tucks him under his chin, and just rocks them a little for a few minutes while he hums and Jason lets it out. 

“So,” Bruce says, gently, once Jason is calmer. “It sounds like you’ve been having a really hard time lately.” 

Jason tenses under Bruce’s arms, but nods. 

“Jason,” Bruce asks. “Do you need me to step in right now and take over for a bit?” 

They sit in total silence for several minutes while Bruce just keeps slowly rocking and Jason doesn’t move from his huddled ball, and then finally, slowly, Bruce feels Jason nod against his collarbone. 

“Okay,” Bruce says, quietly. “Here are your options. I’m giving you three options. You with me?”

Jason nods again. “Option one: we go get Peanut,” Bruce continues. “You hang on to Peanut, eat something, drink something, and get settled, and then we work together, along with your disability coordinator, to figure out how to make going back to school feel manageable so you can finish this semester and then come home and rest all of winter break. Option two: We go get Peanut, you eat, drink, etc., and then we sit down and contact your disability coordinator and professors and the registrar, and we get you unenrolled and you don’t have to worry about going back at all to this university.”

Jason’s breath hitches. Bruce pushes on. 

“Or,” he says, “Option three: We get you Peanut. We get you fed and watered like the complex, tired little succulent plant you are, and then we call Leslie and Dinah, and we talk with your disability coordinator, and we set up a medical withdrawal for the rest of the semester so you have time to get happy and healthy again and we can work out what you need to feel like it’s manageable when you go back to school next semester or next year.” Bruce pauses. “You don’t need to pick right away, but are you still with me? Do all of those sound fair?”

“Yeah,” Jason whispers. Bruce feels one of his hands adjust its grip on the side of Bruce’s button-down. 

“Okay,” Bruce says. “We can sit as long as you need. Unless you want to go find Peanut right away? Your call.”

“Peanut,” Jason replies, almost immediately. “Peanut. I want Peanut. And.” Bruce feels Jason smash his face into his chest, and squashes the urge to groan at the nose digging into his sternum. This is his kid. This is one of his little boys who is hurting, he can take a nose to the ribs, it’s fine. 

“Do you really think I need to--I need a medical withdrawal?” Jason asks, and he sounds so tangled up and hesitant it makes Bruce ache. 

“I do, buddy,” he murmurs, dropping another kiss on Jason’s thick hair when the boy pulls back a little to squint at Bruce. “You’ve been doing a great job of seeming normal lately, and you’re being an amazing big brother. But I’ve been wondering, a little, if you were okay--your sleeping is off, and your stress tells are back in full force.” Bruce gives a little shake of his head. “I figured you were stressed from being in your second semester of college, since that’s not easy and it’s been a lot of big changes for you--moving, living in an apartment by yourself, managing your schedule and meals and exercise and work load all the time with no backup--that’s all hard. But it’s more than that, huh?”

“I’m so tired,” Jason says, voice cracking again while his eyes go red and watery. They’re still puffy and hot from the first round of crying. “I’m--I’m so scared, all the time, and I don’t know why. Nothing’s happened. The whole year has been fine. It’s just stupid--”

“Things did happen before, though,” Bruce reminds him. “Very large, very scary things. You know how this works, bud, there’s no time limit on reactions. You have us, and you have Peanut for a reason, and if it’s what you want, we can step your support up to what you need so that you can feel good and able to handle what you want to do at school and home.”

“Yeah,” Jason gets out, through what has solidly become round two of tears. “Okay, Dad, let’s--let’s do that. It’s not like it can make anything worse, right?”

“Right,” says Bruce. “I’m going to carry you into the bathroom for a minute, all right? We’re going to get some really cold water on a washcloth, and then you can hold that over your eyes while we track Peanut down. All right? That’s all you need to worry about right now. I’ve got you. I’ve got the rest.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason sniffs, while Bruce hauls them both up and starts quietly walking towards the master bath. 

“No sorries when we’re being vulnerable,” Bruce scolds. 

“Not sorry, then,” Jason grumbles, and sticks his tongue out, as an afterthought. It’s missing Jason’s usual energy, but Bruce will take it. 

“That’s more like it,” he says, and then, with one last quick glance at the boys sleeping on the bed, he heads for the cabinet with the towels and washcloths. The boys are still out, and Jason needs him now more than they do. He’ll send Dick or Alfred up to keep watch over these two, and then grab Peanut, and maybe Cass, and make one of the three food items Bruce has proven he won’t burn down the kitchen with. 

They’ll be all right. All of them. They always are. Sometimes, Bruce thinks, as he holds the washcloth under the cold tap, and holds it out to Jason, sometimes, you just need to let go and let dad for a little while. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Everyone needs a break some days. He’ll be here for all the kids when they need theirs. And when he finally hits a wall of his own, well. 

He’s not the only dad in the house. It’s all right for him to let go and let dad, too. 

Chapter Text

By the next Monday, Dick has set up a schedule of when he’ll stay at his apartment in Gotham and when he’ll sleep over at the Manor, Bruce has withdrawn both Jason and Tim from their schools on medical leave for the fall semester, Damian has been set up with online school similar to what Tim will be doing, and Bruce has informed Wayne Enterprises that he’ll be out to handle family matters for at least the next month straight. 

Tim is furious for all of two minutes when Bruce first tells him that he’s not going back to school for the rest of the semester. Bruce lets him protest that he can make up the missing work, that Bruce knows he’s caught up after worse delays, Tim can do it, and it’s not fair for Bruce to be making decisions like this for Tim when Tim’s spent years handling everything himself--

“Tim,” Bruce interrupts, finally, perfectly calm. “Can you just listen to me for one minute.”

“What,” Tim says, in the tone that’s the closest he ever gets to actually snapping at Bruce.

Bruce is so proud. 

“Sweetheart. I want you to actually imagine going back to school, physically, walking down the halls with everyone and sitting still in the same desks with people surrounding you on all sides right now. Actually stop and take a minute.”

“I don’t see--”

“Try, Tim,” Bruce orders. Tim looks sullen, but he stares at the wall and does as Bruce says. 

And less than a minute later, he’s looking at Bruce with a very different expression, fingers twisting together hard around the strings of one of Bruce’s oldest hoodies that he’s pilfered for the fourth time that week. 

“Oh,” he gets out, and looks so heartbroken Bruce doesn’t even hesitate before giving him a hug. 

“It’ll pass,” Bruce promises. “It’ll get better, you know that. You’ll go back once you’re ready. I just want you to have the time you actually need to get comfortable with people and places that aren’t home again first. Okay? I want you to feel safe.”

“Yeah,” Tim says into his shoulder. “Okay. Okay.”

And life goes on. The next few weeks are mostly quiet. They find new paths around and between one another. Damian learns the rules. They have family meetings to work out new schedules, lay down expectations, figure out what accommodations and things each member of the household needs for the coming month, and what things can be scrapped from the month before, no longer necessary. They eat, they rest, they watch a lot of shows, and they all in their own ways try teaching Damian how to play. And it is...good. It is calm.

Jason reads to them at breakfast, on days where he couldn’t sleep much the previous night, and today he’s got coffee and some of Dick’s cereal and a collection of Mary Oliver’s poetry in one hand, and one foot up on the seat of his chair, knee tucked almost to his chin. 

“Oh do you have time to linger for just a little while,” he recites, immediately after swallowing an orange slice off the rind, “out of your busy and very important day, for the goldfinches, that have gathered in a field of thistles--”

Damian means to pay attention, he does--he’s just seen a goldfinch for the first time, this week, in the book of birds Richard brought home from Costco. Damian likes it. It has bright photos, detailed descriptions, and--the best part--buttons to press, all along one side, to hear each possible bird call for every species in the book. 

Damian has listened to them at least a dozen times apiece. Cassandra has taken to trying to imitate every whistle like it’s a commercial jingle, and Damian, after a while, has begun to try to purse his lips up and imitate her. 

He is not having much success. 

“‘S all right,” Tim told him, yesterday, giving him what Richard calls a noogie and Damian unfailingly calls get your hand off of my hair, you nuisance. “Whistling takes practice. You’ll get it. Bruce’s really good at it, if you want lessons.”

“Get your hand off of my hair, Timothy,” Damian replied, with long-suffering exasperation. But he filed the information away for the future anyway. Just in case. 

But the poem. Damian would like to listen--it is goldfinches, he wants to hear--but Pennyworth took him out with Cassandra yesterday to find them both new clothes, as Damian has only hand-me-downs and Cassandra’s keep mysteriously vanishing and reappearing on Timothy. And Damian--he refused to try many on, so in the end he had been tiredly nodding when Pennyworth held up socks, and Damian is not used to socks, and these particular socks are making him feel nothing but the way they sit against the middle of his shin, and Damian can’t pay attention to the poem while his legs are full of ants. 

“--as they strive, melodiously--” he catches, in Jason’s rich voice, and all Damian can think of the next moment is rubbing his legs together, kicking up a little and dragging his heels down his pants legs carefully, hard, just so--until--

Relief. On that side. Something inside his chest loosens a little, and Damian breathes, listens, hears. 

“Believe us, they say,” Jason says, something reverent in his voice. “It is a serious thing just to be alive, on this fresh morning, in the broken world.”

It is beautiful. Damian doesn’t understand, but at the same time, he feels like he does. In some way. 

And then his skin shouts again, down to the bone, and he’s busy scraping, kicking, shoving, until the other sock is down around his ankle too. And then he pauses, because now the socks are off his shins but they bunch--they bunch unevenly, around his ankles, and if something is going to be there, then it must be equal, and it must press in, right where the muscle dips, or Damian would sooner claw his own bones out than--

Seconds later, the socks are off entirely, on the floor underneath his seat, and Damian can’t help slumping slightly with relief. It goes against everything he learned at home, and matches everything he sees around the table here. He is trying. He is trying to fit.

He can learn. 

Jason’s got a small smile on his face, now, and Damian tunes back in while he reaches to reclaim his abandoned spoon and dip into the quinoa bowl Pennyworth prepared for him. 

“It could mean something. It could mean anything.” Jason pauses, glances around the table, and then finishes. “It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote: You must change your life. God, so good. There’s a reason she’s my fave.” And then, after a single beat of silence, he snaps the book shut and shoves nearly half of a peanut-butter-covered slice of toast right into his mouth, and Timothy almost howls in dismay. 

“Jason,” Timothy shrieks, around a mouthful of oatmeal. “Jason you’re gonna choke.”

“Nuh,” Jason retorts, muffled around the unholy amount of homemade bread in his mouth. 

“Jay,” Father sighs, dropping the half-folded newspaper beside his orange juice. “Please.”

Jason swallows, shoots Bruce a look, and sighs in return. “Fine,” he says. 

Cass, meanwhile, continues to snore quietly, head down on the table next to her scraped-clean plate. Damian watches with amusement as Father absently brushes some of her hair off of her cheek and goes back to reading the funnies.

“Remember how it’s the Robin duty to keep Bruce from choking?” Timothy says, stabbing his spoon down into his bowl. “Well I’m declaring it the new Robin duty to keep everyone from choking. No being stupid at meals.”

“Are you calling me stupid?” Jason teases. 

Timothy narrows his eyes. “If it looks like a duck…”

“Excuse me,” Jason interrupts. “I’m sorry, if anyone’s a duck in this house--yeah, whose last name is, let me see if I remember--Drake?” 

Timothy points his spoon at Jason, opening his mouth to protest, accidentally flings oatmeal onto Jason’s shirt, and the morning chaos carries on from there.

As Damian is learning--all in all, a typical day in the Wayne household. 

Bruce and Damian get back inside from what’s been written onto Damian’s “daily schedule whiteboard” as part of his morning routine, now--walking Ace with Father around the perimeter. 

“I go every morning and every evening, as long as I’m home,” Father had told him, quietly. “It makes me feel better to walk the perimeter, make sure everything is as it should be. I think it might help you, too.”

Damian scoffed, just a little. But Father was right. It did help, just a little. It was something constant, something dependable, and it helped him start building rocks to cling to in the rolling ocean he’d been thrown into and out of his old fortress of routine and expectation. 

He did not tell Father this, because he did not--he never had words, for things like this. But Father seemed to know anyway, at least enough. 

“Damian,” Father says, as he shuts the door behind them on their way into the foyer. “You look a little restless. Everything okay?”

Damian is restless. He wants to tug off the shirt that keeps brushing the inside of his arms with sewn seams and pull back on the kaftan he wore on the journey over. Or at least one of Richard’s soft shirts. Or nothing at all. 

“I am fine,” he says, and unclips Ace’s leash. But instead of jogging off to drink from his water dish, as he usually does, Ace twists around and knocks into Damian, still crouched in a squat on his toes, and Damian falls backward with a shout. 

In an instant, Father’s strong hands are there, wrapped around his arms and hauling him up to his feet. 

“Ace, stay,” Father commands, and Damian sucks in his breath and holds it until his heart stops racing and everything slows back down. 

Father crouches in front of him, his broad frame somehow tucking down to look much smaller than usual as he stares up into Damian’s face with concern. 

“Damian?” he asks. “I bet that was startling for you. Very sudden. Are you okay?”

Damian takes a few breaths, tries to think of what the right answer is. 

“I am,” he begins, and Father’s hands are both on his arms, and the shirt seams press into his skin all over again, and Damian suddenly yanks away and pulls the shirt over his head in one smooth motion. He holds it, crumpled, in one hand, and stares at Bruce with his head ever-so-slightly ducked. Then he tilts his chin back up, proud and sturdy and bare-chested and small. 

“I am fine,” he says, firmly. 

Father rocks back on his heels, easy and slow. His hands drop down to rest on his knees, and he doesn’t move towards Damian again. 

“Have we told you about what makes Ace special?” he asks. “Like Nova and Peanut? How they’re different from most other dogs?”

Damian doesn’t know where this is going, but he does know when he’s expected to answer. “They are trained,” he says, thinking back to what Jason and Tim explained the other day. “They--do tasks, for certain people.”

“Right,” Bruce says, smiling. “Perfect, well done. You’ve got a good memory. They have special training that lets them help when people are upset or not feeling well. Peanut is focused on Jason, and Nova is focused on Tim, but Ace is more or less for everyone in the whole family. He’s also getting older, too, so he’s sleeping more now rather than checking on all of us throughout the day all day long. But he still really loves tasking and helping when someone feels bad.”

“Like Cassandra,” Damian says. “Yesterday.”

Cassandra had woken up from a nap screaming loud enough she’d scared half of the house’s occupants. Damian had come running thinking there was an attack, but when he got there all he found was Bruce wrapped around Cassandra, who didn’t look like she was seeing him at all, and then Ace, sprawled across her legs and lying patiently while her hands stuttered in half-motions around his ears. Over several minutes, Damian watched from one of the open rafters as Cassandra...found herself again, and started to pet Ace properly, and then there was the sound of footsteps further down the hallway and Damian had slipped away. No point in risking being caught.

“Yes,” Bruce says, unsurprised that Damian had somehow witnessed that episode. “Just like that. Plus, dogs are excellent for hugging and cuddling even if you feel wonderful.” 

Damian hums in agreement. 

“When Ace nudges people like he just did to you,” Bruce continues, a little slower, a little more quietly, while he keeps his eyes fixed on Damian’s face, “it usually means he’s sensing that they’re upset, a little bit. He wants to help, the way he’s trained to do.”

Damian doesn’t say anything. 

“I know you’ve watched Nova lay on Tim a few times,” Bruce says, switching tracks. “Tim loves that. He does it a lot more often than the rest of us, and Nova loves the extra snuggling. But Ace is very, very good at it too, and we all take turns with him every now and then.” Bruce tips forward onto his knees, finally, but still doesn’t move closer. “You’ve been doing a great job with Teacup and the dogs,” he offers. “You’ve got petting and walking down like a pro. If you’d like, I can show you what it’s like for Ace to lie on you, now, and you can decide if you want to try too.”

“You would do it first?” Damian asks.

Bruce nods. “Of course,” he says. “So you can watch and see how it works without it involving a lot of teenage boy limbs and long fur.”

Damian considers for a moment, fingers still clenched in his shirt, and he’s not sure why Father hasn’t commented on it, and he’s not sure why he’s not commented on the sockless shoes, either, but Ace is perfectly still now, and Father is perfectly still, and Timothy seemed to like Nova lying on top of him so much.

And no one in this place has lied to him about animals, yet. Not once. So Damian figures...it is at least worth watching, as Father says. And then he can decide after.

“Very well,” Damian agrees, with a sharp nod. 

“Great,” Father says, smoothly rising to his feet. He holds out one hand and calls Ace, hooking two fingers under the dog’s collar, and then looks at Damian. 

“How about we go in my study?” he asks. “It’s nice and quiet in there. And the rug was just cleaned, so it’s fluffy and soft to lie on again.”

Damian shrugs and follows his lead, and they head off down the hall, not quite touching, but only a few inches apart. 

It’s progress. Always progress. 

Damian does let Ace lie on him, thin undershirt and sockless shoe-feet and all, and it is. 

It is.

The best thing Damian has felt in years.

So good, in fact, that he buries his hands in Ace’s back fur, listens to Bruce’s quiet reading from The Phantom Tollbooth, which Jason got Damian started on the other day, and falls asleep on the rug for over an hour. 

When he wakes up, Ace is still there. 

And so is Bruce. 

When Damian, still partly hazy with sleep, comments as much, Bruce looks down at his baby, his tiniest son, who he is so careful not to touch, so careful not to push, but so in love with it feels like he’s grown an entire sixth heart--

“Always, habibi,” Bruce says, with a small smile. Just for him. 

Damian blinks twice, slow, like a cat, and then before either of them can say another word, he’s back asleep with Ace snoring quietly on top of him.

It’s a good morning. The best. And it’s about time, Bruce thinks. They all need a break, and Damian--Damian deserves a thousand mornings like this. A thousand soft ones, slow ones, and he deserves, some day, to not wake up and need to do his katas, to not wait for permission to leave his room, to not hold back from ribbing his siblings, and--he’ll get there. One day. He’ll have that. And for now, Bruce can watch while he sleeps with a dog, and make sure he gets this one morning to start. And make a list, a quiet one, starting with socks and moving on to sounds, question mark, and finishing with pressure - anecdotal. 

The afternoon, unfortunately, is another matter entirely. 

Because Damian--small Damian, whip-smart Damian, trying and trying and learning Damian--comes to Bruce in his study after getting halfway through the reading for one of his new courses of study, and instead of opening his mouth to complain about the material being too juvenile, as Bruce expects, he opens his mouth and asks a question instead. 

“If I,” Damian begins, sounding surprisingly like his age for once, “told you things. About. Home. What would you do?”

Bruce sets down his pen very, very carefully, and lays both hands down on his desk, leaning forward towards Damian just a bit. 

“I would listen,” he tells Damian, neutrally. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

Damian’s eyes are like fire brands as he stares Bruce down, hunting for something, hunting for truth, hunting for lies, and he must find what he’s looking for, because he looks down, and then up, and then over at one of the knick knacks on Bruce’s bookshelves. 

“You asked if I went away before,” Damian says quietly. 

“I did,” Bruce agrees.

“I did not know,” Damian goes on.

“Sure,” says Bruce. 

Damian looks back to him, now, before fixing his gaze on the pen Bruce just set down. 

“I did. Go away,” Damian says, after a few moments. Even more quietly now. “I do. I think.”

Bruce doesn’t move. 

“Okay,” he says, matching Damian’s tone. “You think you do?”

“In--sometimes--” Damian sighs and takes in a frustrated breath, hands grasping thin air as if in it he can find the words he’s searching for to explain. “Home--Mother--if I was--if I failed,” Damian grits out, finally, still looking frustrated. “If I was--too injured, or if--sometimes just--I would wake up and it would be. One of those days, for it. They would come get me.”

“They?” Bruce asks softly. 

“Doctors,” Damian clarifies. “In--always in coats. Like at your hospital.”

Bruce has gone very still, but he still doesn’t move towards Damian, or change his expression. So Damian stays, roots himself down, doesn’t bolt. 

“I see,” Bruce says. “They’d come and get you? What would you do after that?”

Damian’s eyes flick up to Bruce’s, then down to the pen, and in a very un-Damian move, he shifts back and forth between his feet. 

“It was cold,” he says, flatly. “Always bright. The same room. I could wear no clothes, and they--I used to--” he goes quiet for a moment, and then closes his eyes. “If I do not cooperate, they tie me down anyway, and it doesn’t matter. So I go quiet.”

“You go quiet,” Bruce asks, voice so even you could use it as a level to hang paintings. 

“Quiet,” Damian agrees. “I go...I go up. Far above. And listen to stars.”

“Stars,” Bruce murmurs. “That sounds very nice. Do they talk?” he asks. “Or do they sing, more?”

And he shifts his chair back to stand. 

“They sing,” Damian tells him. “They sing, but I do not know words. They’re beautiful. So I go there and listen instead.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Bruce says, and he slowly steps around the side of the desk, stopping a few feet from where Damian stands still. 

Damian hums in agreement. Bruce gets down on the floor slowly, one leg at a time, and sits in the lotus position with his eyes locked on Damian. 

“What happens when you come back from visiting the stars,” he prompts, quietly. 

Damian almost startles, then, and when he looks at Bruce, it’s with wide eyes. When he speaks, it sounds like it’s the first time he’s being honest with this voice in a long, long time, and there’s a tiny hitch in his throat. 

“It hurts,” Damian says, almost reverent, almost like it’s a revelation, a truth he only just saw now. He stares at Bruce. “It hurts. It always hurts.”

“Do you know what happens?” Bruce asks. “Do you know why it hurts, what happens in between?”

Damian eyes him warily. 

“They do not tell me,” he says. “I stopped asking. They will not say. But after--” he takes a breath again. “After, after they wake me up, Mother is always there. She stays. Until the pain is less.”

“I see,” Bruce says again. “That’s good. I’m glad she is with you after that.”

Damian nods. 

“Damian,” Bruce says, gently. “What is your body like, when this happens? They do things to you, after you go away and they put you to sleep?”

“Yes,” Damian says. “Sometimes it is small. But. Sometimes it hurts in many places.” 

“Can you tell me any of the places where it has hurt?” Bruce asks, still not moving, still seated with his hands on his knees, palms up. “You don’t have to. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t feel like telling me, today or in the future. But if you want to, I’ll listen.”

Damian watches him for a moment, and then wordlessly tugs on his shirt. It slides up and over his head, and then Damian pulls the tank top out of the waist of his pants underneath it, and pulls that up, too, and Bruce--

He can’t help the sharp intake of air between his lips. 

Damian has too many scars. Even for someone trained to fight from a young age, even someone training with blades with harsh teachers--Damian has too many scars. Far too many of them are precise, even, made with steady and purposeful hands.

“Damian,” Bruce breathes, but Damian cuts him off. 

“Here,” he says, pointing. “Here. Here...this time, it hurt in three places. It was longer before Mother left.”

Bruce can’t respond. 

“The longest time,” Damian says, sounding almost wistful. “It was--it hurt more than any of the others. But Mother stayed for weeks. We had chai and--and she would sing…she said I did well.”

Bruce braces himself. “Which one was that, habibi,” he murmurs. “Do you want to show me?

Damian doesn’t point, but instead turns around to put his back to Bruce, and his back--his back--

Bruce fought the Bane, once upon a time. He fought Bane and lost. He fought Bane and was broken, his back demolished, he fought Bane and Alfred had to pick him up out of the gutter and piece him back together with a surgeon and metal and months and months of recovery and despair and pain. 

Bruce fought through it, and over the years has called in every favor he can to stay functional, to get magical aid here, to learn new muscle control techniques there. He still feels it on the cold days, when metal swells and shrinks under his skin, the metal he’s still, somehow, too afraid to let anyone into his back one last time to remove. Under the skin, under the scar that runs for several inches along the line of his long adult spine. 

On Damian’s back, there is a matching scar. But it goes higher--higher, up past the boy’s feathered hairline, and lower, not just mid-back, but down, down, down, down past lumbar vertebrae, slipping under the waistband of his soft seamless boxers, and Bruce, for the first time in a long time, cannot control the words before they slip out of his mouth. 

“Oh, god,” he whispers. “Oh. Damian. Baby.”

Damian has gone tense, but Bruce is eighteen miles away, running calculations and thinking of old research files he snuck and remembering the kind of pain that surgery brings, and thinking Talia took this child, thinking Talia took our baby, thinking Talia offered him up again and again as an experimental lamb and no one should go through this kind of pain--

“Damian,” Bruce asks, voice tight, just a little, as he wrestles back control. “Damian, habibi, can you look at me for a moment? Thank you so much for showing me your scars. You’re being very brave.”

Damian still for a few moments, then slowly turns and meets Bruce’s eyes. 

“Damian,” Bruce says, so gently he aches, having to hold in the need to break the nearest chair with one kick. “Are you in pain right now?”

Damian frowns at him. 

“What do you mean?”

“Does anything hurt, right now,” Bruce clarifies. “Does anything ache, or sting, or feel sore? Anywhere? If you pay attention.”

If he pays attention. If his baby pays attention, because if what Bruce suspects is true--

Damian frowns, then nods. “Yes. It is negligible. I can function at normal levels.”

Bruce has to take several breaths. 

“Damian,” he says. “The normal level of pain for a person to be in is none.” 

“That is foolish,” Damian says, just as evenly. “All life involves pain. No one avoids injury.”

“That’s true,” Bruce gets out. “But Damian--most people don’t live in pain all the time. They get hurt, and then it heals, and they aren’t in pain anymore.” 

Damian frowns again, opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it again. 

“I’m in pain all the time,” Bruce offers. “But that’s because--partly because I go out almost every day and fight criminals, so I’m usually injured. But it’s also partly because I’ve been injured very badly several times over the years, and some things don’t heal the same way ever again.”

And then Bruce stands, fingers flying over buttons, and he strips off his own shirt, his own undershirt, and turns around, twisting a little so he can still see Damian over his shoulder. 

“I have a scar, too,” he tells the boy, “on my back. Because someone hurt me very, very badly there, once, and a doctor--a good doctor, who was safe--had to cut me open to try to fix my spine so I could walk again, and be in less pain than if it was still broken. But it still hurts. More on some days and less than others.”

Bruce turns back around and crouches in front of Damian. “Where do you hurt right now, habibi?”

Damian watches him with deep eyes. And then he lifts a finger and points--to one knee, to a certain rib, and then a sweeping motion along his back. 

“Okay, Damian,” Bruce says, nodding. “I hurt right now, too. But we don’t have to hurt this much all the time--there are things to make it better.” 

“I am functioning within my optimal parameters,” Damian says, but it doesn’t sound like he’s trying to argue. Just understand. 

“You are,” Bruce agrees. “You’re doing great. Just--an absolutely amazing job. I’m proud of you.” And he catches the small flush on Damian’s ears at that. “But it’s not just about performing well enough while in pain--it’s about different kinds of pain, and not injuring ourselves further. And,” he adds, finally reaching out to put his hands on Damian’s shoulders, slowly enough that the boy can knock him away if he wants, “even with pain that never goes away...we deserve to make it hurt as little as possible. You don’t need to suffer through pain, anymore, habibi, just because you have or can.” 

Bruce moves from touching Damian’s shoulders to holding his hands over Damian’s cheeks. 

“Damian,” he says. “Honey. Remember how we talked about fighting, and how you don’t have to do that here if you don’t want to anymore?”

Damian nods, eyes sharp and expression--more vulnerable than Bruce has seen it, ever, really. 

“You don’t have to keep quiet when things hurt anymore, either,” Bruce says, firmly. “Or when they’re unpleasant. Or when you don’t like how something feels, or when you want to be left alone, or when you don’t want to do something other people do. Here, you are allowed to say no, you are allowed to say you don’t feel good, and you are allowed to stop when things hurt or feel bad.”

“Just…” Damian frowns. “Just like that?”

“Yes.” 

“But--if I can handle it--” 

“I have to tell Tim this a lot, too,” Bruce cuts him off. “You two are very similar, in a lot of ways. Just because you can handle something by yourself, that doesn’t mean you need to anymore. Or should. You’re allowed to need or want help, and you’re allowed to have bad minutes, or hours, or days.” 

Damian watches his face for nearly half a minute before finally nodding, very slowly. 

“You’re in pain,” Bruce states.

A nod.

“Would you like to be in less pain?” 

A pause, and then--another nod. 

“Will you come with me, down to the cave?” Bruce asks. “To the med bay again, with Alfred and with Ace, too, this time?” He strokes his thumbs over Damians cheeks a couple times. “We will not do anything to hurt you, we will not cut you, we will ask your permission before everything, even something as small as giving you a bandaid or a glass of water. I promise.”

“A Batman promise?” Damian asks, sharply. 

Bruce nods, more sure of this than he has been of anything else all day. 

“A Batman promise,” he echoes, firmly. “You have my word. All I want to do is check and see what’s causing you pain and do what we can to make you feel better. Is that all right?”

“And it won’t hurt after?” 

Bruce shakes his head. “Not more than right now. It should hurt less, once we know how to help you feel better.” 

Damian nods, finally. “All right,” he says. “I will go with you.” 

“Thank you,” Bruce says. “Thank you, Damian. I know it’s hard to trust us like this.”

“I do not trust anyone,” Damian corrects, instantly. 

“Right,” Bruce agrees easily. “I understand. But you’re making an effort to work with us anyway. And I want you to know that we appreciate it. I’m glad you’re letting us help.”

It takes the rest of the afternoon and almost cuts into dinner time, but very slowly, very gently, they go over Damian’s body with him as their guide, part by part, and get his knee in a soft brace, wrap a bruised rib that Bruce can’t believe the boy has been able to hide, get him a child’s dose of light pain medication, and ultimately, after a lot of quiet, tense talking and reasoning, are given permission to call in Leslie before doing any scans to see what lies under the surface. 

She comes after dinner, and they get Damian’s permission before every single step, and finally he lies on the table at the edge of the CT scanner, giving a very amused Bruce a lecture on how Computed Tomography algorithms have developed over the years since their development and how ridiculous it is that most people don’t know it’s just an x-ray machine that takes a rotating series of photos instead of one flat one. 

“It’s not their fault that no one ever teaches what different medical scanners are and how the science behind them works,” Bruce points out, smiling. “Most people never need to know.”

“Any knowledge can be important in the span of an instant,” Damian counters. “People ought to be more prepared.”

Bruce sighs. “I...can’t argue with that,” he says, smoothing down the edge of Damian’s pants leg. “But most people don’t need to be as prepared as you or I prefer to be. And that’s fine.”

Damian clicks his tongue at him, but doesn’t argue, and--

Maybe it’s just Bruce’s imagination, but even facing down another piece of medical equipment, Damian looks just a little more relaxed than he had the day before. And he allowed Bruce to actually help him up onto the platform several minutes earlier, so Bruce thinks, maybe--maybe they really are bonding in both directions. Maybe he’s doing this right after all. 

“Okay gang,” Leslie calls, from where she stands in old overalls hooked over a chunky sweater, hair messy and now tumbling loose from the bun she’s had it up in all day at the clinic. “Bruce, scoot your boot. I’m going to do the scan.”

“Okay,” Bruce calls back. “Hey, habibi,” he says, looking down at Damian with concern, one more time. “You sure you’re ready? I can stay longer and we can wait if you’re not.”

“It is just a few minutes,” Damian scoffs. “I am not a child. I can hold my breath as instructed and lie still for a simple scan.”

“Okay,” Bruce tells him. “But remember--if you change your mind at any point, just say--”

“Stop,” Damian finishes, sighing and looking straight up at the cave ceiling. “I know.” 

Bruce watches him for one more moment, his youngest, and almost reaches out to ruffle his hair before he finally turns on the ball of his foot and steps away to join Alfred and Leslie at the control panel. 

“We’re good,” he tells Leslie. “Let’s get this over with.” 

Leslie pushes the button to start sliding Ddamian within the gantry, and Alfred’s hand lands heavy and solid on Bruce’s shoulder. 

“Whatever we find,” Alfred murmurs in Bruce’s ear, “we shall all face it together, and handle it as we have handled everything so far in life. Chin up, dear boy.”

“Alfred,” Bruce says back, squeezing his eyes shut. “He’s just--”

“I know,” Alfred says. “I know. But we cannot change the past. All we can do is make the future better, hm?”

“Yeah,” Bruce agrees with a sigh, as he watches the images start to roll in, slowly forming a comprehensive whole. “Yeah, you’re right. We’ll fix what we can and walk him through what we can’t, and that’ll have to be enough.”

“It always is, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, with a quick squeeze. 

His whole spine. It’s not--it isn’t bracing some broken vertebrae, it’s not scattered enhancements, or implants, it’s--

Bruce calmly walks out of the area and into one of the soundproofed storage containers while Alfred serves Damian a plate of cookies and a milkshake like Tim’s favorite, and he goes through two of the dish sets normally set aside for Jason and smashes every single one. 

They took out Damian’s entire spine, cervical vertebrae to tailbone, and replaced it with an identical twin of metal alloy and clearly some amount of magic, reconnected bones, ligaments, muscles, nerves--it shouldn’t have worked. Somehow, it did. And they did it for--for what?

They’d asked Damian, still in shock a bit, if he’d ever had a back injury before that particular surgery, if he’d been hurt there, and he’d very firmly shaken his head. Bones, yes, muscles, yes, many wounds, yes--a few damaged joints, which they could verify on the scan as well, with their internal bracing and several enhancements that Bruce remembers seeing within Ra’s’ medical files once. But Damian’s spine had been healthy, young, and strong. And they had--Talia had let them--

Bruce is halfway through another set of dishes before he finally breathes, and calms, and heads back out to hold his son. 

His ten year old child has a body stitched back together from injuries he should never have received, filled with joints already more worn than most teenage athletes’, and standing tall with a spine that isn’t his own and holds some technology up by the edge of his brain that Bruce doesn’t like the look of at all. 

His ten year old child is in pain and has been in pain and Bruce can’t go back into the past to force Talia to tell him the truth, about the miscarriage, about the lie, to make her give him the baby before Ra’s gained control over them both and had his way. 

But he can help Damian now. He can brace his son’s joints on bad days now, he can teach him about autonomy and consent now, he can give his ten-year-old child pleasant sensations and control over his body and all the boundaries and hugs and comfort that he has apparently never gotten on any consistent basis while growing up. 

Just like with Dick, with Jason, with Tim, with Cass--he can’t undo the injuries, or erase memories of what happened. But he can replace lies with truths, and he can slowly drown bad memories with softer ones, and he can give all of them, and Damian, now, too, a soft place to land for as long as they need to heal and grow and find newer, stronger wings. 

“Damian,” he says, softly, and smiles. “Would you like to come walk Ace with me before the sun goes down? I have something I want to teach you tonight, if you don’t mind sticking around after that, too, and doing a little exercise before bed.”

“Teach me?” Damian asks, fingers tightening just slightly around an oatmeal raisin cookie. “Like training?”

“No,” Bruce says. He shakes his head. “Well, it is training, but not to fight. I want to teach you Tai Chi. It’s an ancient martial art, but it’s used for control, strength, and beauty, nowadays. It requires discipline and careful focus, and I think you’d like it very much.”

“Tai Chi?” Damian says. He hops down from one of the chairs drawn up to the folding table they have set up by the Cave’s mini-kitchen. “My teachers mentioned it. They said it was not useful to us.”

“It’s one of the styles used in the Avatar show you and Tim have been watching, by the Waterbenders,” Bruce says. “It can be useful as a fighting style, but that’s not why I learned it. And it’s not why I want to teach it to you, either.” 

He crouches down in front of Damian, who watches him less warily and with more interest than he had before this afternoon. Bruce knows he passed some test, of sorts, with the revelations of the day. Damian isn’t suddenly affectionate, and there’s still careful distance between them, but something has shifted again. The river between them is a little less wide, the sky a little clearer, the bridge they’re building up from each bank a few planks longer. 

“Tai Chi is beautiful,” he says. “I use it to slow down, pay attention to every part of my body, and remember how to feel in control. I think that in your life, you haven’t been given a lot of ways to have control over what’s been done to you or what you’ve had to do. And I want to start giving you that.”

Damian scrunches his nose again. Just a little. “Why?”

“Because you are a person,” Bruce tells him, while Alfred and Leslie clear out. “And people deserve to feel safe and in control of their bodies and lives, no matter how young or old they are. And I want you to be happy and healthy, just like I want for the rest of your siblings.” 

“All right,” Damian says, finally, after another couple of seconds of watching the floor and finally looking back up to Bruce’s face. “I would not be averse to trying this Tai Chi. Can I--if I learn it--do you think Timothy would want to see.”

Bruce smiles and holds his hand out for Damian to take as he rises back to his full height. 

“I think Timothy would think it was extremely cool for you to be able to do Waterbending, kiddo. I think he’d want to see that very much.”

And this time when he holds his hand out, Damian only hesitates for a second before slipping his own into Bruce’s grasp, and their fingers slide together with the beginning of muscle memory, no longer fumbling and having to sort themselves out.

Chapter Text

Tim’s on minute 47 of talking nonstop about the history of photographic lens design, pressing his heaviest school textbook down into the tops of his legs while he kneels on the couch cushion next to Bruce, and Bruce blinks a few times, leaning back against an armrest. 

His mind starts assembling a new jigsaw—the excited rehashing of one of Tim’s oldest favorite topics, Tim’s constant love of pressure, Damian that morning carefully picking raisins out of his oatmeal every time he thought no one was looking, Tim’s pickiness about foods that’s far exceeded anything Bruce was used to from Dick or Jason—and something starts slotting into place that feels like it’s been a long time coming. 

Tim is hitting the peak of his excitement and volume register as he explains to Bruce, in as much detail as Bruce remembers getting from college professors back in the day, about the materials and invention that allowed the transition of not just traditional photography from film to digital, but also large space observatory telescopes to transition from having extremely complicated, expensive photo plate arrays to a digital light recording system instead. 

And Bruce is listening, he is- -Tim can tell him all of this three times a year, twelve, a hundred, and Bruce will keep listening, because it’s important to Tim. But at the same time, he’s having an upright piano dropped on his head, in a way, while he stares at his third child and just thinks, Huh .

The way Tim takes every excuse to lie under Nova or his weighted blanket. His periods of using sign language, or not talking at all. His continuing difficulty verbalizing his emotions, or even recognizing them when he’s feeling them sometimes. The fact that feelings charts and finally being given the right vocabulary has only helped him so much, even with consistent practice guided by both Bruce and Dinah. His deep, deep empathy, but difficulty understanding what others are thinking half the time when body language is different from what he’s learned so far growing up. 

His uncharacteristic outbursts when he finally moves past “stressed” into “overwhelmed” and loses control. The seeking out of small, dark places to hide in when he’s distressed. His fidgeting with the hoodie strings. The ways that as he’s gotten more and more comfortable with them, Tim somehow seems to magically pilfer their softest clothing, stop hiding his likes and dislikes of food and candles and--

His interests. Oh, god, good lord in Heaven, Tim’s interests. Many, and varied, and so, so intense. Tim was what Bruce would call fully obsessed with Batman and everything having to do with detective work for years before they met him, and he just. Hasn’t stopped since. And they’ve heard about more, and more, and more--the months straight that Tim spent learning extra math to create models of population loads in ecosystems and the spread of viruses in an epidemic. The history and genetics of kudzu. Triassic period dinosaurs, specifically, and also variations in modern rocket design, and also, always, always photography. The physics of it. The materials. The history, the techniques, the masters, the step by step process of film development, the ins and outs of lens design. 

Bruce has been making a list for Damian. He thinks, maybe, he needs to start a new list for Tim, too. 

Bruce sucks in a breath. He’s been so good at picking up the--hints, the hints, in Damian, so far, and yet for two years, has he been missing them in another son? All the things that they’ve all accepted as Just Tim and products of his personality, his years mostly alone, the neglect and the trauma he’s been through that lead to so many of those behaviors--and yet.

And yet. 

Bruce squints over his reading glasses to look up at Tim, on his feet now, squashing down one of the couch cushion while he intersperses his lecture with sweeping gestures for emphasis. 

“Hey Tim,” says Bruce. “Could you--do you think you can help me understand something?”

Tim blinks, one arm still outstretched, and looks down at Bruce. Then, as if suddenly realizing what he’s doing, he snaps his mouth shut and drops down into perfect posture on the cushion, the way Bruce knows Janet trained him to do as a toddler. 

“Relax,” Bruce reminds him, and Tim sighs. But he also allows himself to slump, so Bruce counts it as a win. 

“Understand what?” Tim asks, always curious. 

“I want to preface this with the reminder that I could not care less what foods any of us like or dislike, it’s natural and fine to have preferences, and I’m not upset. I’m perfectly happy with you having foods that you don’t like to eat. Everyone’s allowed to love and hate various foods. Okay?”

“Okay,” Tim agrees, looking a little wary. 

“I just,” Bruce says, slowly, making sure he doesn’t so much as twitch, doesn’t spook Tim. “I realized I never actually asked you what you don’t like about them.”

Tim’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Uh. Which...ones?”

Bruce glances over at the window, thinking for a moment. “Hm. Eggs, maybe? We had them again this morning, and I remember you eating them a couple years ago, but...I don’t think I’ve seen you eat them for a good while now.”

“Oh fuck eggs,” Tim snaps, vehemently, and then freezes, like he’s surprised himself as much as Bruce in that moment. But he rallies, straightens a little as if daring Bruce to scold him for the language, and talks a little faster. “I would rather,” he tells Bruce, eyebrows pinching together. “I would rather--I would rather break my foot again than put eggs in my mouth, they are so gross , they are so gross, I do not get how in the world you all stand those textures. I don’t get it.” Tim shakes his head in disbelief, staring at the lamp. “I throw up every time I eat them! How do you do it?” 

He. He what. 

“You--every--??????” Bruce takes a deep breath. 

Counts to five in German in his head. 

Stares at Tim with a very, very carefully calm expression. “Did you throw up when you ate them before, too?” he asks, trying to get a better grasp of this bombshell. “Back when you first stayed with us? Or has this been more recent, like just since...the virus.”

It’s always a toss-up whether Tim will take a mention of his time nearly dying from Ebola with total calm or total upset. They’re working on it, but it was...extremely stressful, for Tim, to put it mildly, and since he hates to even think about the whole time surrounding it, it’s been like pulling teeth to get him to talk through it with Dinah. But they’re working on it. 

This time, Tim just shakes his head. “No, it’s been always. I can’t stand them. They’re just--ugh.”

Bruce looks up at the ceiling. “So every time you ate them with us, even--the day we were talking about hot sauce? That day too?”

Tim nods.
“You threw up every time.”

Tim nods again. 

Bruce can’t help it. He tugs the reading glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose hard with one hand. 

“I mean,” Tim says, sounding about 90% confident. “I mean. It’s just a thing . It’s not like throwing up from food is a big deal.” 

Bruce stares at him, mouth open slightly. He has to remind himself that Tim is clearly getting enough nutrients, clearly growing, clearly healthy. He’s okay. 

Relatively speaking.

“Does this happen often?” Bruce gets out, sounding only slightly strained.

“No! Calm down, B, I don’t eat things like that much. Just sometimes.”

Bruce reaches out and holds the sides of Tim’s face, a little desperate, just--trying to get Tim to understand. 

“Tim. Tim. Honey, why didn’t you ever say anything before?”

Tim shrugs and won’t meet his eyes.
“It was fine,” he says. “It’s just a thing.”

Just a thing. Just a thing. God, what else does Tim think is just a thing? What has Bruce missed?

“Tim!” Bruce gets out. “We ate so many eggs your first year here.”

“Well yeah!” Tim says, frowning at him. “You guys like eggs a lot.”  

“Tim,” Bruce grinds out, and then takes several very deep, slow breaths, and presses a kiss to Tim’s forehead before finally letting go and settling back onto his cushion. 

“You didn’t feel comfortable speaking up about foods you do and don’t like?” he guesses. Tim avoids his eyes again, and picks at the edge of one of Dick’s old shirts. 

“It’s rude,” he mumbles. 

“Not when it’s at the expense of your own comfort and health,” Bruce corrects. 

“I was a guest,” Tim argues. “It’s rude to say you don’t like things. You’re not supposed to make your host feel bad.”

“That’s true,” Bruce acknowledges. “But, again--you were living with us, and it’s an issue of comfort and health, not just you preferring peanut butter over almond butter, sweetheart. I’m very, very glad you feel comfortable enough here now to be honest about when you don’t like things more.”

Tim ducks his head. 

Bruce takes in another breath. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Eggs. Tim, you do not ever have to eat eggs again, even if we make them, okay? We’ll make sure there’s always something else you can eat instead. Is there anything else that you can tell me right now that’s bad? Like the eggs?” 

Tim looks wary, but he finally meets Bruce’s gaze again slowly, even while he’s leaning further back against the opposite armrest to put space between them. 

“Um…” he says. “Meat...I guess…”

Bruce nods. “You decided to be a vegetarian a while back.”

“Yeah,” Tim says. “Once I realized how much simpler it made the whole thing, I couldn’t believe I didn’t think to do it sooner.” 

“Simpler?”

Tim shoots him a look. “I didn’t decide to be vegetarian because I don’t think we should kill and eat animals. My--B, my best friend lives on a farm? They like, kill pigs every year? And I accept the standard food chain, with the exception of our excessive meat consumption and industrial animal farming, of course, but--why do you think I wanted to be vegetarian? I don’t have anything against any of it. I’d just rather get, like, seven flus than eat meat, it is so bad. I’d--” he sends Bruce a wry grin. “I’d rather eat eggs than eat meat.”

Bruce blinks, while his train of thought mostly goes oh my god...oh my god. Over, and over, and over. 

“Okay,” he says, perfectly calm on the outside, and even manages a soft smile for Tim. “Anything else?”

But Tim must be picking up on something, Because Bruce can just see walls starting to come down. 

“Are we done yet?” Tim asks. 

“No.” Bruce tilts his head a little, and holds the rest of himself perfectly still. “Are there a lot of foods that you have texture issues with?”

Tim scrunches up his nose, and under different circumstances, Bruce would laugh at how Damian seems to be rubbing off on him. “I don’t have issues,” he retorts. “I just don’t like them.”

Before Bruce can say anything, Tim continues. 

“Like--like when you can’t stand how a certain fabric feels, you know? When you want to like, crawl out of your own body and shudder all the way onto the astral plane? Or--like! Like when you have a crunchy roasted chickpea in the same bite as soft zucchini and soft couscous, and it’s HORRIBLE, and you like them all individually, they’re all good, but when they’re all there at the same time, it’s just--” Tim seems to run out of words, here, and flails his hands wildly before tucking them under his textbook again, and this time, Bruce notices that he leans forward just a little and presses the edge of his abdomen into the spine of his book, presses the spine backwards with his fingers, and Bruce just.

How has he missed these little tells? All this time?

“Do you,” Bruce asks, only mildly strangled, “do you throw that kind of food up too?”

Tim sighs. “No, that’s just textures mixing. I like those foods, they’re all good. I just keep them separate.”

“Right. I understand.”

How has he missed this. How has he missed this. Or--no, the more important question, really, is when, how, and why did Tim learn to hide everything so well. And what is Bruce going to do about it now that he knows?

“This is why you reacted so strongly when Jason stirred up your plate with a fork, isn’t it,” Bruce murmurs, with dawning realization. 

Tim goes red right where he sits. Bruce would almost be impressed at how quickly Tim’s feelings escalated just now if he wasn’t having to watch his kid sit in distress. 

Tim splutters for a moment before finally finding his voice and slamming his palms down on top of the textbook hard. “He DRAGGED the watermelon into the--INTO THE MAC AND CHEESE, HE--HE--YOU CAN’T JUST--” Tim tries to take a few breaths, but he cuts himself off to continue talking. “I can’t EAT THAT,” he gets out, desperate for Bruce to understand. “You can’t MIX them, it’s not--”

“Hey, what’s going on in here?” Dick’s chipper voice cuts in, and Bruce and Tim both look over on reflex to see Dick’s head pop around the edge of the doorjamb. 

“Fingers out of the gap,” Bruce says, instantly, and Dick, after years of this routine, sighs and slides his fingers away from the hinges. 

“Nothing,” Tim says, sounding--

Bruce blinks. 

Tim sounds like he’s had the most perfectly calm morning in the world. Perfectly happy, even-keeled, settled, and calm. He’s pulled on a mask and is wearing it seamlessly. 

They’ve talked about this, before, about how Tim tends to hide things until they’re too big, how he’s afraid of making anyone upset, how it’s leftover from interactions with his parents, but now Bruce wonders again if it’s not partly from the rest of his life too. Tim tugs masks on and off with different settings the way Bruce does, seamlessly, fluidly, sliding into each one as if it’s the one that’s real, and Bruce...Bruce definitely hadn’t been able to do it at age sixteen. Dick hadn’t either. Jason doesn’t have any masks to speak of at all--he’s just himself, more formal or more casual as the situation requires. Cass is never anything but honest; it’s how she speaks. It’s who she is. 

Tim is eighteen boys at once and still just one, and he hides more than he shows, and a few moments ago Bruce just watched Tim hide a full-body demonstration of complete upset and transform himself into a perfectly relaxed upper-class boy in a drawing room. 

By the look on Dick’s face, he’s realized it too, because he’s eyeing Tim with something just two steps shy of being total doubt.

“You sure about that Timbourine?” he asks.
“Bruce and I are just talking,” Tim says. “And chilling.” He waves his art textbook over the back of the couch for emphasis. “I was going on a tangent about lens development again.” And he even pulls off the perfect level of sheepish when he grins at Dick. 

Dick snorts, finally relaxing. “Ah, the old history-of-photography lecture. I was hearing a raised voice--that would do it.” 

Bruce watches Tim carefully, sees the still-tense shoulders, the fingers on one hand twisted tightly in the edge of Cass’s’ leggings, and finally makes his call. 

“He was actually standing on one of the cushions in full orchestra conductor mode before you popped in,” Bruce says, smiling warmly. “It was getting good.”

Dick does two front flips and lands smoothly in a sitting position on the couch catty-corner to them. “Timmy Talks are always good,” he says, sliding down into a sprawl and grinning upside-down at his little brother. “Any chance you could pick up where you left off before I interrupted? I could use a distraction from paperwork.”

Tim relaxes a little, finally. 

“I, uh,” he starts, then glances at Bruce. “I don’t remember--”

“The transition to CCD chip arrays in modern astrophotography,” Bruce prompts him, smiling fondly. 

“Oh, right!” Tim says, straightening up, and then he’s off and running and within five minutes standing in the middle of the rug using his whole body to try to explain the differences in scale between old photographic plates and modern CCD chips to an amused Dick and a very confused Damian who wandered in about two minutes and three sweeping gestures ago. 

Bruce watches his boys, pulls out his mental lists, and starts to think. And when he sits down at his desk that afternoon, email open and a new draft on the screen with Leslie and Dinah and the pediatric psychiatrist that he took Dick to once upon a time all in the subject line, he thinks he finally knows what he needs to say. 

A week and a half later, appointments are set up, assessments have been slowly filled out by Bruce, Alfred, and Tim’s teachers, and Damian’s pain seems to finally, finally be under control. He’s healing well from the injuries they found, Bruce is hunting down Talia through a network of connections, and they’re on their way to getting answers for the many, many questions they have about what was done to Damian’s spine. 

Tai Chi is progressing well, turning into a morning bonding tool for Bruce and Damian. Bruce is slowly easing Damian away from doing full katas, which feel too much like his old training, and instead has Damian help him find Tai Chi videos on YouTube that look cool so they can work towards imitating them once Damian gets the basics down. He’s a fast learner. Not that Bruce is surprised. He always has been, too, and in the League, in the environment Damian grew up in so far--

He wouldn’t have survived if he didn’t pick things up fast and get them right. 

Tim, for his part, is almost fully healed from his time with the League. Physically, anyway. His first session with Dinah since everything went down is scheduled for tomorrow, so they’ll see how that goes. He’s not eating enough, but Alfred has the situation in hand and Tim’s checking in with Leslie weekly to make sure he’s not losing too much weight. If it gets worse, they have options, and they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it. 

His only physical restriction is the still-healing kidney laceration, but it’s not causing him pain anymore. He just needs to be careful. So Dick’s currently in charge of getting Tim’s increasing levels of restless energy out with gentle exercise.

Tim initially didn’t think it was going to be enough, but after the second day in a row of Dick leading Tim through a series of poses and reps on the yoga hammock with lots of encouragement and absolutely no mercy, Bruce couldn’t help laughing when he walked past Tim stretched out flat on one of the cave mats, groaning and limp as a rag doll while Dick cheerfully practices on the aerial silk nearby and continues to recap what Tim needs to work on during their next session. 

Cass gets both Tim and Damian to learn TikTok dances with her, purely because no one can really say no to Cass. Well, Tim can, but he rarely does, because the two of them are nearly as close as twins and often so eerily on the same wavelength that it unnerves Bruce. The first time that he’d walked into a room and Tim and Cass had swiveled at the same exact moment, with the same exact expression, wearing jumbled mix of each others’ stolen clothes between the two of them, Bruce had blinked twice and then turned right back around the way he came. He may not be clairvoyant, but he’s raised two kids before them. He knows when to call it a day and choose his battles wisely. 

So all in all, Bruce’s checklist is coming along well. 

Get the whole family on a new, agreed-upon weekly schedule that works for everybody. Check.

Make sure the house rules are explained and visible in several places for Damian. Check.

Spend plenty of time with each kid. Check.

Find Hatter and put him back in Arkham before Robin can get any ideas about needing to help with a breakout while still benched. Check.

Get Jason back on meds again, help him through the initial side effects. Check, and in progress.

Sort out school for all the kids in school. Check.

Contact the necessary people to start seeing about getting Tim and Damian evaluated for autism. Check.

Eat Alfred’s zucchini bread. Check.

Tell Tim and Damian about the assessments he wants them to take, what he suspects, and why this isn’t a criticism of them as human beings. Get them prepared and ready for when the day comes around. 

Not...quite check. He’s working on it.

The conversation Bruce needs to have is going to be different with both of them. Tim and Damian are both terrified of failure, terrified of letting people down, and devastated at the mere thought of being anything less than normal-to-above-average.

They had to be perfect. It was the only acceptable option for a long time.

They’re both a long way from fully believing otherwise yet, although Tim is further along than Damian. Regardless, Bruce has to be very, very careful how he approaches the situation, because one wrong move will have either or both of them thinking he sees them as broken and not good enough, which couldn’t be further from the truth. 

They’re perfect. They’re perfect with scars, they’re perfect laughing, they’re perfect when they’re having breakdowns, they’re perfect in quiet moments helping Alfred cook. They’re perfect no matter what they’re doing, how they’re hurting, what they need, or what they can do. They don’t need to do anything for Bruce to love them. They just--don’t fully understand that yet. 

They will. They will. He’ll get them there, no matter how long it takes. He just needs patience and a whole lot of repetition. He’s done it before. 

They’ll practice over and over until self confidence and self love and safety and trust are the default. As many times as it takes for them to be safe and get it right.

And in the meantime, he’s got to tell them separately, both because their assessments will be separate and because they are very different kids who need to be communicated with through different methods. As good as he is working with kids, Dick would be helpful here. Damian honestly might even be more comfortable if this news came from him. 

But it has to be Bruce, for something like this. Bruce is the one making it happen, and Bruce is their father, and Bruce is the one who needs to explain it to them. As best he can. 

It’ll be enough. He’s worked at this for a long time now, learning to find words, learning to practice and plan and then trust his instincts. This is his job. His most important job out of all of them. 

It’ll be enough. 

Bruce has taken Damian outside for some hiking and a session of Tai Chi, special and extra and just the two of them in the far edges of the Wayne property, and Tim knows something is up. Bruce has been quiet, today, and Alfred has been absolutely, positively, stubbornly mum on the subject. Which means it’s important. Which means Tim is worried. 

Which means Tim is marinating on the landing for the third hour in a row, having shrugged off even Cass and Steph’s attempt to get him to play Mouse Trap on god mode. 

And it’s at about that very moment that Jason comes out of his room for the first time in a few days, looking tired and a bit pale but dressed and ready to go somewhere, from the look of his leather jacket. 

Tim lifts his chin to look up at Jason upside down from where he lies on the floor, and the old red beanie hits him square in the face. 

“Get up,” Jason says, voice steady but hinting at gravel. Hinting at a less-than-fun last few days while Bruce was the only one he allowed in his room. Hinting at the tiredness Tim can see around the edges of his eyes, which he’s clearly pushing through because he thinks Tim needs him or something, but that’s--he shouldn’t be--

“Oh my god, Timbelina, shut your brain off for two seconds and put on the hat,” Jason growls. “I can hear you thinking from here.” Peanut presses close against Jason’s leg, and Jason runs one finger between Peanut’s ears with a brief smile. 

“Why--” Tim starts, and Jason cuts him off with a click of the tongue. 

“Put on the damn hat,” he orders. “We’re getting Nova, and then we’re getting the girls, and then we are all getting out of this damn house and into the fresh air and going for a ride.”

Tim puts on the damn hat. 

Jason hauls him up with his one free hand, the other never leaving Peanut’s harness. And then they march. 

Jason shouts to Alfred as they walk past that he’s taking an Audi, and then they’re all down the hall and into the garage and peeling out in a blur of leather and chrome and dogs and teenage voices shouting along to I Wanna Get Better and A-Punk at the top of their lungs down the Bristol back roads. 

“Where are we going?” Tim leans over to demand over the music, as they cruise down the highway towards one side of Gotham. 

“Towards and experience,” Jason shouts back, and then he turns the volume up a little higher till they’re all singing along to Panic at the Disco like tomorrow is the day the world is gonna end. 

Steph starts crying in the middle of No Cars Go, looking both confused and emotional, and starts trying to apologize until Jason cuts her off with a quick hit of the pause button and a fierce look in the rear-view mirror. 

“No apologizing for car emotions,” he snaps. “Not today, not ever. Drives are for feelings and for secrets and for letting it all out, and if I hear the word sorry out of your mouth for having an emotion on the highway, I’m going to make B tell your mom about you trying to teach yourself wall flips unsupervised last month, and make you come on rides every day until you can cry at music with the windows down and not feel weird.”

“Okay, you asshole,” Steph snaps back through a frankly alarming amount of tears, and Peanut takes the opportunity to hop up from the seat well to settle across her lap, partially on Cass too. And then the music is back on, and Steph cries until she’s done, and the whole car feels a little like an out of body experience and a little like some place sacred and a little, a very little, like a secret they forgot when they were little, and that Jason seems to have remembered enough to show them again. 

Tim finds himself laughing for no reason other than the swelling in his chest while each song crescendos, and he doesn’t care about the wind absolutely destroying his and Jason’s hair, or the way Nova is practically smashing his thigh to get her head out the window, or the looks some of the people in the cars around them have given them while they’ve been cruising in the middle lane. 

Jason glances over after Tim finishes shouting the last line of a song, one of his hands loose on the wheel and one clutching the shift, and smiles a little. 

“Better?” he asks, in the relative quiet, with only the rushing air to speak over before the next song picks up. 

“Better,” Tim says. 

“Me too,” says Jason, and then the guitar starts up, and the drums, and even Cass is singing along in the backseat with the melody when she doesn’t manage the words. 

They hit the half-mile tunnel in the far right lane at a solid 60, with Jason’s hands steady on the wheel and a real, honest grin on his face while he jabs the phone screen and glances at all of them in the last second before they go from day to night. 

“Sing as loud as you can,” he shouts, and then the first drum and guitar chords start up for Electric Love, and it’s echoing off the concrete tunnel walls along with their voices while the wind blows their hair and the strip lights fly past in a neon blur, and for the first moment since he’s been back, back from the dry heat and dark damp and endless seconds and piles of days and unending awful horror and dread--back from not being free, not being in control, not being a person at all--

Tim’s lungs are pushing till they’re empty of air and his head is thrown back in the car with his siblings and the sound is reverberating down to his bones, and for the first time since coming back, just for a minute, he feels almost like he really is still young. 

They’ve spent the past hour or two wandering Father’s favorite trails along the back of the property, through the trees and along some of the bluffs, stopping frequently whenever Damian spots a new insect or animal. Father always waits quietly with him for as long as he wants to watch, before the animal vanishes from sight, and it is--

It is so unlike any hike Damian has ever gone on before. The others have talked, a bit, about trips to the state park, hours spent wandering hills, wading in creeks for fun, just watching and relaxing, but Damian hasn’t had that luxury before. He’s been in many ecosystems, to train, to learn their dangers, and he has gotten to see things like--like the lightning bugs. And waterfalls. Hot springs, twice, and many small creatures, but only in passing. 

Here there are no time limits. It feels like there should be, but there aren’t. It is just him, and Father, and the chill of late, late fall in a humid subtropical climate zone, and Damian feels like he can slow and still in a way he can’t in the Manor. 

“It’s always nice to come out here,” Father comments, while they sit and share some of Alfred’s sandwiches after finishing Tai Chi practice and several minutes of what father calls play fighting and Cass calls fixing . 

“Helps,” she’d told Damian, when he’d stared at her from all fours with wide eyes the first time he’d danced through a fight with her and come out without a single bruise, even though he’d been startled and swinging to hurt. 

She just stopped a few steps away after he finally landed on his back, and looked down. Her hands had lifted automatically, but she’d dropped them back down to her sides and opened her mouth instead, choosing words carefully. 

“Too...ready,” she told him, gesturing back and forth between the two of them. “Us.” She paused for a moment, and then launched violently at an invisible attacker, throwing out hard strikes and miming pinning them to the ground, ready to strike a throat. She glanced over at Damian, still frozen on the floor, and stared at him, hard. 

“Fight. Too ready,” she repeated, and then rolled to her feet. She stepped lightly back over to where she’d started from and began again, but this time light on her toes, slower, dancing more than striking, in what looked like an even, restrained invisible fight. She ended in a pose that looked like she’s tangled with someone, and smiling. 

A chunk of bangs fell over her face when she turned and glanced back over at damian. 

“Game,” she said, stressing it as best she could. “We learn. Different.” She dropped out of the pose and gestured between the two of them again, and then at Bruce, who’d been quietly watching the whole exchange from one of the balance beams several yards away. 

“Fixing,” she’d told him, and Damian hadn’t really understood. 

A couple of weeks later, now, after being gently tackled from the side by Bruce and pulled into a shouting, tumbling roll of wrestling on top of fall leaves and somehow never falling into the vision and movements of a true fight, he thinks he’s beginning to. 

“It’s quiet,” Father says, making Damian tune back in. Father is looking around, up at the nearly-empty trees around them. “Well. Not quiet, really, but--quiet here,” he finishes, tapping the side of his head a few times. 

Damian nods. 

“Yes,” he agrees. “It is…” He doesn’t have a word for what he feels, what he means, exactly, but he searches, reaching for the closest approximation. “Like sitting underwater,” he says, finally. “When the Sun is too loud. It is still there, but…” Damian trails off, frustrated and grasping again. 

“But softer?” Father finishes. “The world is less so your thoughts can be more.”

“Yes,” Damian says, and it is. That was what he was trying to say. 

Father turns, arms on his knees, and faces Damian, a serious expression on his face. 

“Damian,” he says, and something makes Damian sit up a little straighter from his own curled position. 

“Father.” 

One side of Bruce’s mouth tips up a little, and he slowly, slowly reaches out to run his hand through Damian’s hair a few times. 

“There’s something I want to talk with you about,” he begins, “so that you understand it, and you’re ready next week, because it involves you. But I need you to understand that before I begin, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that you could say or do that will ever make me send you away or reject you. I love you, and I want you to stay with me for as long as you want, even if that’s forever.”

“No one lives forever,” Damian says, immediately. 

Bruce smiles. “True,” he says. “All right, I’ll give you that. Not quite forever, but, say, for the rest of the time I’m alive.”

Damian tips his head, starts scratching one nail in the rocky dirt under his hands. “That makes more sense,” he concedes. 

Bruce huffs a soft laugh, then settles again, eyes still on Damian. Damian can’t quite meet them in return, but he’s tuned in, he’s waiting, he’s twisted ever-so-slightly towards Bruce and listening with ears and body together. 

“Do you remember,” Bruce begins, “a few weeks ago, when Tim was dissociating, and we talked about brains in your room?”

Damian’s nail scratches a little harder. 

“Yes,” he mumbles. “I went away later.”

“You did,” Bruce says. “That’s all right. It happens to all of us. I know it’s always hard, but you did just fine, and I’m proud of you for how you’ve been handling everything.”

“Even you?” Damian asks, suddenly, head snapping up to meet Bruce’s gaze with narrowed eyes. 

“Even me.” Bruce tilts his head up, leans back on his arms. Lets his eyes drift between clouds, remembering Dick’s comment about teaching Damian to find the shapes. 

“I don’t dissociate any more,” Bruce amends. “Not for years. But I used to, when I was younger. Your age, actually. I did it a lot after my parents were killed.”

Damian frowns in the periphery of Bruce’s vision. “How did you stop?”

“Time,” Bruce tells him, honestly. “A lot of time, and a lot of sitting with the hard feelings, and a lot of talking.”

Damian huffs. “I do not like talking.”

“I know you don’t, habibi. But it’s good for all of us. I don’t need you to talk as much as Dick, or any of the others. Just to do what you can, however you can express yourself--speaking, or sign language, or drawing, whatever feels right. Just to keep trying. It gets easier.”

Damian is silent for a minute. Then two. Bruce doesn’t glance down, giving him space. He absently wonders what Damian’s scratching into the ground, and even more absently bets that the second he moves to look down, Damian’s palm will sweep it into oblivion before he ever gets a glimpse. 

That’s okay. It’s Damian’s choice to show or hide. Bruce will wait as long as he needs.

“I will try,” Damian mumbles, finally, and sure enough, When Bruce looks back down, he catches the tail end of small fingers sweeping across loose dirt. 

“It’s hard,” Bruce murmurs. “It’s hard work. It’s all hard work. But it’s worth it. It does get easier, I promise.”

Damian nods. 

“You’re already doing very well, Damian,” Bruce tells him, firmly. “I want you to know that. We all see how hard you’re working to adjust and figure yourself out and get to know all of us. That’s all hard, and I’m proud of you.” Bruce takes a breath. “But back to brains. Every single brain is different--all of them, every one. Most of us have the same structures and parts, but they’re different sizes, just a little. And we all end up wiring and creating our pathways differently, because we all have different experiences from before we’re even born to the day we die. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” 

“And there are all kinds of ways the brain can be sick, or hurt,” Bruce goes on. “And that makes brains a little different too. They can heal or be treated either partially or all the way, but the brains are still different from what a fully healthy one would be. Does that still make sense?” 

“Yes,” Damian agrees again. 

“But some brains are a little more different. We don’t understand everything yet, but some people’s brains are what we call neurodivergent. If you average most people’s brains together, you get pretty standard sizes of parts, and pretty standard communication between them, and pretty standard electrical activity and activation of areas when they’re stimulated. That makes sense, right? Just like with bodies, where everyone’s heart is a little different with tissue patterns and sizes, but they all have the same parts and work in the same healthy patterns. Still with me?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Okay,” says Bruce, looking at the trees again. “Okay. So. The average, standard brain is what we call neurotypical. People generally have standard traits, sensory experiences, and brain activity, which all lead to a standard range of normal behavior.”

“Right,” Damian agrees, slowly. 

“Neurodivergent brains,” Bruce goes on, glancing back at Damian now, “are a little bit different. People who are born with neurodivergent brains can be a little bit different or a lot different from what people consider “neurotypical”, but their brains aren’t wrong. They’re just constructed a little different than average.”

“What does this have to do with me,” Damian asks, flatly, huddled a little more tightly in on himself. Bruce fights the urge to sigh, and instead loosens his own posture, opens up a little more. 

“Cassandra is neurodivergent,” Bruce says. “Her brain’s language, speech, and reading structures are very different from most other children her age, and she communicates a little differently because of that. But is she any less smart than the rest of us, or any less capable of communicating through the ways she’s chosen to use?”

“No!” Damian snaps, offended that Bruce would even suggest it. “Cassandra could eliminate us all at least--five different ways before breakfast. She understands us. She is--she is very intelligent. She sees patterns we do not, sometimes.”

Bruce smiles. “She definitely could,” he agrees. “And I see Jason got you to watch Alice in Wonderland, huh?”
Damian ducks his head. “It was Timothy,” he corrects. 

“Ah,” says Bruce. “Well. Dick is also neurodivergent. His brain works in a unique way we call ADHD, but it’s not a very accurate name. What it means is that his brain doesn’t handle stimuli and task delegation the same way as most people’s brains--it’s very hard for him to stay organized, and to control how much focus he uses, on which things, and for how long. It makes it harder for him to sleep sometimes, too, and causes him to have a lot more drive to do things than most people do. It’s why he’s so often bleeding off energy with extra flips and runs around the property.”

Damian looks genuinely surprised. 

“Richard’s brain...is not normal?” He asks. 

“It is normal,” Bruce corrects, firmly, “for people like Richard. He has strengths and weaknesses just like every person on the planet does. The way his brain works can make it hard for him to do things the usual way, sometimes, but he’s very good at finding new ways that work for him instead. Can you say he’s a poor leader because he struggles to remember where he stored his tax forms, or that he can’t fight crime because he might be distracted by something during patrol and miss an important detail?” 

“No,” Damian snaps again, even more fiercely now, and he’s twisting almost to face Bruce fully now. “Richard is--he is--”

“He’s wonderful,” Bruce says, easily. “Dick is brilliant, absolutely excellent on patrol, a world-class athlete, and one of the most well-loved, wonderful leaders I’ve ever known. He’s successful in civilian life and as a superhero. His brain is just a part of that, and it doesn’t make him any more or less good of a person than anyone else. Right?”

“Right,” Damian says. 

“I think,” Bruce says, careful to make his voice even more measured and smooth, careful to keep his chest open and loose and keep all limbs in Damian’s sight, “that you might be neurodivergent, too.” 

Damian stiffens . 

“I do not have--my brain is not--”

“Your brain is wonderful,” Bruce interjects, firmly, shooting Damian a look. “Your brain is absolutely marvelous. You’re incredibly smart, I can’t believe how much you know and can recall all the time. You’ve got amazing control over your body, much better than most children your age. Your focus is fantastic. Your brain is amazing, Damian, and perfectly good, and there is nothing wrong with you. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you at all.”

Damian’s breath is still coming a little short, but he’s listening again. He’s trying. And Bruce will keep reaching out to meet him halfway. 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your brain, or with you,” Bruce repeats. “I just think that your brain is one of the ones that’s a little bit different, and if it is, we can make some things easier for you that I think might be hard right now.”

“Like what,” Damian asks, sullenly. 

“Like clothes,” says Bruce. 

Damian stills. 

“They’re uncomfortable, right?” Bruce asks, gently, and he doesn’t so much as twitch. “Not all of them, but some of them. So uncomfortable that you can’t really think while they’re on you?”

There are a few beats of silence, and then Damian quietly mumbles, “Yes.”

Bruce nods. “And sometimes, maybe, sounds hurt? Some of them?” He pauses, then adds, “Especially if you’re tired, or maybe upset?”

Damian looks up at him now. “They are loud,” he says, sounding a little like he thinks Bruce is being deliberately stupid. 

“And feelings might be...difficult to understand,” Bruce adds, gently. “Maybe it’s hard for you to understand what other people are thinking or feeling, a lot of the time? Or what you are feeling, yourself.”

Damian doesn’t say anything. 

“Your body likes pressure a lot,” Bruce goes on. “I know you’re very comfortable when Ace lays on top of you, nice and heavy.”

“So is Timothy,” Damian points out. 

“Yes,” Bruce agrees, nodding. “I think Timothy’s brain might be neurodivergent too. I think there are some things that are harder for the two of you than for most people, and if they are, I want to make sure you both have help to make them easier.” He glances over Damian, making sure the boy isn’t too upset for him to continue, and then goes on, a little more softly. “Your brains are both very, very good at remembering all kinds of things, and studying them, and hunting down more information. You do it with animals, right? You want to know more all the time. And Tim does it with various things--often it’s photography, or skateboarding tricks, or something to do with Triassic dinosaurs. You two have so much knowledge you could write your own books. That’s amazing. And you see patterns very well, and you both have so much empathy for people and animals it’s amazing. But I think both of you are also in pain, sometimes, from your senses--things that you’re hearing, or touching, or tasting, things like that. So I would like to have you both see a special kind of professional who knows all about different kinds of brains, and they can help us figure out if your brains are different or not. And whether your brains are, or whether they aren’t, the specialist can at least help us find ways to, say, figure out what kinds of clothes feel good to you and which ones feel bad, and make you more comfortable.”

“How can they tell?” Damian asks, quietly, not looking at Bruce. 

“They ask questions,” Bruce says. “And watch how you behave and interact with things. And they talk with people who know you and see you a lot, and find out what they’ve noticed.”

“Like you?”

“Like me.” 

Damian throws a couple of rocks into some shrubs, and then turns to Bruce. 

“It’s just...to see?” He asks, hesitantly. Still a little wary, but not completely rejecting the idea.

“Just to see,” Bruce says, nodding. “And figure out how to help. I want your brain to be the healthiest, happiest, most comfortable brain it can be. Does that sound all right? You can tell us no at any time. You can tell us when things are uncomfortable, and we won’t be upset. We’ll stop, and we’ll find a different option. Okay?”

“Okay,” Damian agrees, slowly. “And Timothy...will also do this.”

“Yes,” says Bruce. “I’m telling him about it later today. I’ll be taking you both to the specialist next week on the same day, and you’ll see them one at a time. But you’ll both go, and if you want, we can have Timothy go first and tell you how it is.”

“Okay,” Damian says again, sounding much more agreeable to that suggestion. “I...will go. For now. But I can refuse? Later? If I say stop--”

“If you say stop, it’ll be just like every time you and the others have been playing tag,” Bruce says, firmly. “If you say stop, we stop. Right away, no hesitation, everything pauses until you want it to start again or you decide it’s time to do something else.” Bruce rises smoothly to his feet and sticks one hand down for Damian to take, if he wants it. “Okay?”

Damian looks from Bruce’s hand, to his face, to the edge of the trees, and then back again, and finally gives Bruce one small nod. 

“Okay,” he agrees. And he reaches up and lets Bruce pull him onto his feet and into a very short, very light hug. 

Chapter Text

The drive was something wild, something good, but as they pull back up the drive to the Manor--just Jason and Tim, now, Cass currently staying at Steph’s house to work on reading The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet, which they’ve been slowly working their way through since mid-August--Tim’s not sure what he’s feeling anymore, exactly. He’s not--he’s not upset, exactly, and he doesn’t feel bad, it’s just--

Something deep. Something--trying to push through to the surface, sort of. In a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

He’s not sure he likes it.

“Hey,” Jason says, swatting Tim’s sneaking hand away from the iPod screen as the eerie, wistful strumming of the latest song fades out. “You picked the last three Hozier tracks, it’s my turn to choose. Dad said it’s my turn to lay gently in the cold dark earth.”

Tim snorts. 

Jason hits play on Cherry Wine and starts to sing along, and within a couple minutes they’re parked and unbuckled and headed inside, Jason still humming quietly as they go. They kick their shoes and socks off at the door to join the usual entryway jumble, and then step through into the familiar warmth of home.

Tim’s hand is on Nova’s collar, and he’s planning to head for a quiet corner of the library, hoping to hide out until whatever this weird feeling is goes away. It’s like he’s walking along the edge of a cliffside trail, and there’s something in the trees, something watching him. Something ready to pounce, to knock him flying, maybe, if it has the right opportunity. Tim can’t see it, can’t hear it, he can’t tell it’s really there, but it’s--it’s like he can feel the eyes, somehow. Like he’s walking a tightrope a few feet away from the tree line, and if he slows for just a beat something is going to come out of nowhere and--

Alfred catches them in the hallway, gently herds them into the kitchen. He sets water bowls down for the dogs, two thick, heavy milkshakes out for Tim and Jason, and then lets Peanut and Nova out back through the door once they’ve finished drinking. 

“I’d like you both to try to drink as much of the milkshakes as you can,” Alfred tells them, polite and steady as ever. “Master Jason, I know you have been nauseous for most of the week, but hopefully since it has been easing slowly this will sit more easily than something more solid. And Master Tim, please simply try your best to drink at least half, my boy. I know you had a hard time at lunch earlier.” 

And Tim’s vague feeling of something shoves harder at the wall holding it back. He feels his chest tighten with the usual rush of shame, of frustration, of anger with himself and tiredness at the whole situation in general. 

Yeah. Tim had a hard time at lunch. Tim has a hard time at every meal now. Tim’s had a hard time at breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, at snacks, at the snow cone place, at the Kent farm. Tim is sixteen years old and Batwatch and Robin--or he was, until he got himself kidnapped and indefinitely benched. He’s supposed to be sixteen and independent and capable of basic life skills like eating enough food to maintain a healthy weight. 

And what’s he doing, lately? Barely eating enough to sustain a middle schooler. He knows it. Alfred knows it. Bruce and Dr. Thompkins know it. Tim sits down and stares at food he doesn’t have an appetite for and tries to eat it anyway and then is full so fast it almost makes him wonder why he even keeps trying at all. And then he has to stare at the rest of it like--like it’s all the ways he’s been failing, lately, just constantly screwing up this one tiny thing, it’s not like he doesn’t want to eat, just--

He lets everyone down every single time he tries to eat, and he’s tired of it, and he’s frustrated, and he really just wanted to go sit with Nova in the library, but here he is, watching Jason slump in a kitchen chair and sigh, watching his own hand take a creamy strawberry shake from the counter and hearing his own voice tell Alfred thank you like he’s fourteen and newly staying at the Manor like a good little boy. 

Tim drops onto one of the stools at the island and slowly starts to sip. Jason seems equally uninterested in trying to talk at the moment, clearly still not back to his usual energy levels yet, and Tim pulls out his phone to scroll through Twitter looking for a distraction. 

More corrupt politics. A surfing dog. Three separate lawsuits over discrimination incidents, a resurgence of two hashtags from a week ago, Gotham Gazette’s recap of Condiment Man’s escape and recapture by Batman and Blackbird last night, and, oh, look, another corrupt politician being exposed--

Tim drops his phone face-down on the marble and sucks harder at the straw, feeling like it’s concrete rather than creamy shake settling in his stomach. 

He sips and he stews and he sips and he stews and right when he’s feeling like he’s going to have to push the glass away and tell Alfred--ever-patient, never-judging Alfred who has to be disappointed in him by now regardless of how well he hides it--that once again, Tim can’t even manage to finish a glass of one of his favorite drinks on the whole planet, because he’s useless and can’t even manage to keep himself alive, apparently--

Bruce strolls through the kitchen entryway, spots Jason and Tim, and smiles warmly. 

“Hey, kiddos,” he says. He’s still got a tiny leaf stuck in his hair, and while Tim’s fingers squeeze against the condensation-damp glass, hardly feeling it anymore with how numb they’ve grown with the cold, he wonders if anyone’s bothered to mention it to Bruce. 

“Hey pops,” Tim hears Jason mumble from a few feet behind him, at the table. 

“Hi B,” Tim manages, and stares down his shake again. 

“You two doing all right?” Bruce asks, as he settles onto a stool on the opposite side of the island from Tim. 

“Getting there,” Jason replies, and Tim just frowns at his glass. He doesn’t know how to put any of it into words, for Bruce, the giant question mark of urgency he’s feeling, the frustration he can actually name, the guilt and shame he doesn’t want to. And Bruce doesn’t want to get bombarded with a sudden tumbleweed of Tim’s feelings, right now, he wants to hear a chirpy “Doing great, Bruce!” And Tim can’t give him that. So if he can’t say something nice. If he can’t find anything to say. He’d better not say anything at all. 

That’s the safest plan of action for a lot of situations, Tim’s re-learned this year. Careful silence, instead of spouting half of whatever runs through his head. Being quiet until someone goes away or finally shows their hand. Holding back whatever wants to jump out of his mouth when the odds are high that he’ll only make the whole situation worse. Tim’s learned a lot this fall. Turns out, being the prisoner of a centuries-old madman with a lot of ideas for how to make people cooperate does wonders for little things like learning self-restraint. 

“Tim?” Bruce prompts, after a few too many seconds go by. 

Tim’s fingers press against the glass so hard his knuckles turn white, and then he forces them to all release at once, and lays his palms flat against the table, looking up to try to give Bruce a reassuring smile, at least. 

“You’ve done a great job with that shake, bud,” Bruce tries, smiling back. “Look at you, that’s got to be at least twice as much as you were able to drink last time. That’s awesome, Tim. I’m really proud of you.”

And that’s just. That’s just--

Something deep in his chest snaps. 

Tim is on his feet beside the stool, face on fire from his chin to the tips of his ears, and the floor to his right is covered in shards of glass, reflecting glints of light above the old tiles. Milkshake is splattered across the baseboard, the lower wall, spreads out along the tiles, and the room is frozen, and Tim is screaming. 

He sees Bruce looking back at him with widening eyes while words pour out of his mouth about not being a child and not even able to fucking eat and don’t patronize me and what’s the point anyway, and--and failure, and Bruce is off his own stool, now, too, starting around the island, and can’t even manage to keep himself alive.  

Couldn’t manage to not--to not turn into a complete sniveling baby, either, and Alfred, standing careful, still, and close against the counter by the fridge, and motion in the doorway, Tim’s ringing voice stuttering to a halt, just for a second--and it’s just Damian. Just Damian, just Damian, couldn’t even fulfill the one actually important promise, either, can’t protect anyone and then Tim is back to shouting couldn’t even get myself out, like a--

And Tim is flushed with heat, skin tingling across every inch of his body, shoulders and back and chest so tight and tense that he’s almost shaking with it, but he’s still screaming word after word after word that he doesn’t plan and doesn’t even recognize and he’s hurling them like a hundred Batarangs at Bruce and the milkshake and the situation and his own stupid feelings that he can’t even figure out. 

And then two large hands touch his arms, slowly, and he knows them, he knows this, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t, what he knows is being pulled through hallways, and what he knows is hands behind his back and light and pain and water and being a puppet, a begging animal, a crying mess on a floor in a puddle, and what he knows is deeper voices and stronger hands moving him where he doesn’t want to go, and Tim has spun backwards and away and run several steps before Bruce can so much as say his name. 

“Don’t TOUCH ME,” Tim screams, and his face is wet now, he can feel it, and the room is the kitchen and the room is well lit but his face is wet and there are voices and stones and aching limbs and his rabbit heart trying to pound out of his chest while he waits for the unpredictable timing, the ever-present threat of when he’ll be jolted and tugged along next, and he is so afraid while the world falls out from under his feet. And he’s in the kitchen and he sees men spilling in all over again, and his feet--

“Don’t touch me,” Tim’s mouth is shouting, over and over while Jason snatches Damian by the arm and tugs the boy, too startled to fight, into his lap at the table, while Bruce steps forwards with hands out, palms up, lips forming sounds that Tim couldn’t understand even if he was able to hear them right now.  

“Don’t touch me, don’t, stay away, I don’t want to-- ” Tim gasps, chokes for a moment, and then it’s spilling from his mouth again like a litany, like a prayer, like if he says it enough times he can make the world follow the old order of things again. “Not again, don’t touch me, please don’t, please don’t, please don’t--”

Tim’s taking a step backwards for every one that Bruce takes, and he knows something’s wrong, the ground isn’t quite right, and Bruce looks--afraid? Upset? Is it because of the men, is Bruce worried about when Ra’s comes next, too? 

Tim’s back hits something hard. A stone wall, a tilted board, a stiff chair, a sandy floor, plain drywall, plain drywall, this is the kitchen --his body is electric, numb, every inch on fire and every inch intangible at the same time, and his chest won’t move, he can’t breathe. 

“Timmy,” he finally catches. “Tim, honey, you’re on glass, I know you’re scared, but--”

Is the ever-indomitable Robin finally scared? 

Timothy, Timothy, Timothy. Are you frightened, without the Bat? Have you finally realized that no one can hear you beg?

Bruce steps the heel of his second shoe onto something that crunches, and Tim jerks so hard his feet slip on glass and tile. He slams down on a forearm and his hip and scrabbles to get his knees under him, to get back to his feet and take the chance while he still can. 

Fingers just manage to brush the edge of his arm again, while the air buzzes with steady low-pitched sound, and Tim finally finds his feet, pulls his burning arm to his chest, and bolts. 

He flies out of the doorway so hard and fast that he slams into the opposite wall and bounces off, catches his balance. Then his feet are pounding on the carpet runner, flying up stairs two, three at a time, on autopilot, because Tim is not in control, Tim is home and locked up in the second floor, Tim is headed for the one place that feels like it can’t be touched, and then he’s wrenching the doorknob and throwing himself into his room, and he locks the door behind him and gasps. 

He gives himself three wild-eyed, heaving seconds to breathe before he’s stumbling on uncooperative legs to grab furniture and pile it in front of his door, wedging a chair under the handle, dragging his nightstand in front of it, shoring it all up with anything he can. Then he pauses, coming to a stuttering halt in the center of his rug as he looks around. It’s--it’s as good as it’s going to get. That should hold. 

And then the voices start, as someone tries to open the door and fails, tries to quickly pick the lock and finds the door still won’t budge. And then comes the knocking, and the noise, and Tim slams his hands over his ears, dropping into a huddled ball on the floor, poised on the tips of his toes like a bird about to take flight, and screams. 

He screams without words, and then with words, and then the next thing he knows he’s got something heavy and right and solid in his hands and he throws. The old lamp hits the pile and tumbles down to the floor, cracking, shade askew, and Tim’s chest is heaving as he snatches a textbook, rips pages by the handfuls, flinging them behind him until it’s not enough and he takes the tattered book and throws that, too. His kippah from on top of the dresser, the box of candles from his mom’s stash, his moon night lamp, a can of Febreeze, stacks of books and his old ukulele and the cushions from the loveseat. 

The room is a whirlwind of hot, blurry reaching and holding and flinging, sometimes hitting, and sometimes it’s his own body that he’s flinging, against a bedframe, against the wall, and still he’s safe, because the door is blocked, the door is blocked, they can’t get through and he’s not going to be caught off guard this time--

And then there’s a sliding sound behind him, and Tim whirls just in time to see the window opening and a body sliding through and before he can even think what to do next he’s flung himself sideways in a body that’s too small and too tight and too hot, hot, hot, and while the figure dashes for him Tim can only slam backwards into the dresser and try to claw his nails hard enough to tear himself out of his own skin. 

He tries so hard, every time he tries so hard, but just like the day before and the day before that and the day before that Tim’s just not strong enough to get away once the hands are on him. So he fights. He has more energy than he expected, and he’s going to use it, going to press the advantage while maybe they don’t expect it. He’ll probably pay for it more later, but if he can manage to get away, maybe he won’t have to. He jabs, he dodges, he swings with his free arm aiming for eyes, throat, ears, throat again, and it’s blocked every time, so he lunges--

And the man lets him fly past, ducks behind him, still holding one of Tim’s arms, and then before Tim can so much as lift a hand, his other forearm is grabbed as well in an iron, unbreakable grip, and right arm under, left arm over, criss-crossed on top of his ribs and hands tucking up under his armpits. No. 

Tim goes limp and instantly drops, jerking his shoulders hard, and the hands let go, which is new, and weird, but his arms are free again and Tim is scrabbling on all fours and then back on his feet, hurling across the room like a runaway boulder in an Indianna Jones movie until he crashes into the dresser again and makes the whole thing shake. Small objects clatter to the ground, but it’s background noise, and Tim’s head whips, left to right, trying to calculate options, knowing he has only seconds before all his chances are gone. The man is making sounds, they always are making sounds, except when they’re not, and that’s when it’s time to really worry, and Tim’s time ticks down to almost zero while the man gets within two arm lengths of him, and then Tim shoves off the dresser and sprints with all his strength straight for the still-open window and whatever lies below. 

It’s better. It’s better than anything on the menu of what’s coming if they grab him again, especially since he’s fought it this time. He’ll take his chances. 

His fingers brush the loveseat under the windowsill, and he tenses to jump up, ready, stretching, and then suddenly he’s caught from behind, one immovable arm snaking around his upper chest, one around his waist, and Tim lets out a wordless shriek as both of their bodies fall backwards, the man hitting first, Tim already thrashing against the hold, against the firm chest underneath him, screaming any cuss and any word that flies into his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut against whatever will happen next. 

He was so close. He was--he was so close. 

Tim can’t find any words anymore, just wave after wave of feelings too big to even name, feelings that shake his bones apart from the inside and press until he can’t breathe, and distantly he hears someone speaking near his ear, hears another pair of soft footsteps in the room, but Tim can’t bring himself to look. He waits for more hands, for ropes, for whatever comes next--

And minute after minute, while he heaves and tries to escape in tired fits and starts, nothing ever does. 

Tim struggles, and falls back, struggles and falls back, screams until his voice cracks into ugly, weak sobs like a child, and then does it all again, and there’s still a voice near his head and unbreakable arms around his chest, and finally, after an impossible, infinite amount of time, Tim stops waiting and finally gives up. 

He goes completely limp, wrapped up, and just cries until his voice is too cracked to carry on anymore. He cries until he can’t, and then shakes apart in the still-clinging arms, and sucks in breaths that rattle his ribcage until they finally start to even out too. 

Tim can’t open his eyes, but he starts to feel the rumble underneath this back, the rise and fall of someone else’s chest, and the hands holding his arms and his chest and his sides and his everything loosen just a very little bit. 

On instinct, Tim gives one last jerk, trying to wrench free, but he’s pathetically ineffectual, and doesn’t even make it up an inch. The arms don’t even bother to tighten again, because they know he’s too weak, know he’ll just fail, and Tim slumps for the last time and lets his head hit a hard shoulder and breathes. 

“--sixteen. You’re at home at Wayne Manor, and I’m with you,” Tim suddenly catches. His breath hitches with confusion, and fear flares again, because there’s a voice now that’s real, but it also doesn’t sound angry, or amused, so…

Tim’s throat lets out something a lot like a whimper without his permission, and the voice pauses. Then it resumes, again, a little more strongly, a little more smoothly. 

“You are Timothy Jackson Drake. You are Robin. You are sixteen years old, it is November fourth, and you are safe at home in Wayne Manor.”

He’s--he’s--who’s--

“Baby bird,” a different voice says, soft and familiar in a way that brings up bad nights and frightened people and a calm presence and some feelings of...awe? Admiration? Tim can’t tell. But the voice isn’t finished. “Baby bird,” it soothes, again. “Can you hear us now? Do you think you can open your eyes?”

Baby bird. He knows that. There are only a few people who call him baby bird, and none of them are in the desert, none of them are in the cold darkness, none of them are in the too-bright fluorescents and--

Tim cracks his swollen, damp eyes open and blinks until the room comes into focus. His eyes land on a familiar figure, crouched lightly several feet away with hands dangling loose in front of knees. 

“Robin?” Tim croaks out, syllables catching and squeaking in his throat. 

“Hey, baby,” the man says, brows pinching together. “There you are. Yeah, baby bird, I was. You remember now?”  

“Dick,” Tim breathes, and Dick’s face splits into a soft grin. 

“Bingo,” he says, and drops down to sit properly at last. 

If Dick is there, and someone’s still holding him, someone much bigger, then--

“Bruce?” Tim gets out, and then his eyes are welling up again and his voice trails into more of a squeak. “Bruce?”

“I’m here,” comes the same voice from behind his ear, the same steady rise and fall of the chest under him, and Tim can only let out a squeaking keen and try to twist around to see. 

Bruce lets him, finally, letting go and giving Tim room to tiredly wiggle around while still feeling Bruce’s arms close by. Tim ends up flopped face-down, chest to chest with Bruce, and catches his breath for a few seconds before he finally lifts his head to meet Bruce’s eyes. 

“Dad,” he tries, voice breaking and turning into a cry halfway through the single syllable, and Bruce wraps him in a hug and hauls them up into a seated position. 

“Shhhhhh,” Bruce soothes, holding Tim against his chest and shifting his legs with one hand so Tim’s more comfortable sitting in his lap. He rocks them both gently side to side while Tim cries for a couple of minutes and just lets Bruce take all his weight. 

“Sorry,” Tim mumble-croaks, at last, mouth brushing Bruce’s throat, and Bruce hums for a moment under Tim’s ear pressed to his chest. 

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Bruce says, for the hundred millionth time in this household. “Nothing. These things happen. We’ll clean it up, and we’re going to get you cleaned up, and it’s all right. It’s a bad day. That’s all. It’s just a bad day, sweetheart.”

“Broke stuff,” Tim whispers. 

“Yeah, you did,” Bruce agrees gently. “I know you already feel bad about it. We can clean it up, Tim. You’re not the first, you won’t be the last, and you’re not bad for throwing things.” He presses a quick kiss to Tim’s hair. “You were feeling too much, and you were showing it the only way you could at the time. It happens.”

“Sorry,” Tim says, miserably. Then: “Hit you, too.”

Bruce snorts very softly. 

“I’m pretty sure I can take it, bud,” he says. “Hate to break it to you, Timmy, but you’re no Bane.”

Dick laughs quietly from a few feet away. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Bruce says, while Tim sags further into his arms and chest and feels the muffled gray fog starting to come down and make everything hard to see, hard to feel, hard to do. “Dick’s going to clear everything away from your door, and we’re going to get you out of here for a while. I’m going to take you to my room, with Nova, because she’s been waiting outside your door worried about you, and you can use the comfort. And Alfred and I will check out your cuts while you rest on the bed for a bit--I’m going to bet that Damian will probably come join you, too.”

But Tim’s stuck on part of that, still. He frowns. 

“Cuts?”

Dick pauses mid-step on his way towards the pile of furniture, but Bruce waves him on, and then pulls away a little so he can look down and meet Tim’s eyes. 

“Tim, honey,” he says, softly, “you were stepping on glass, down in the kitchen. Your feet are covered in blood.”

Tim blinks. He pushes off of Bruce’s chest enough to sit up straight himself, pulling all his current energy into it, and leans over to look at his feet, and--

They are. And--his arm, too, now that he’s looking at them, they’re all starting to sting, and there’s dried blood and fresh blood and he’s got bloodstains on the rug--

“It’s okay,” Bruce tells him. “It’s okay, Tim, shhhh. It’s not a problem. Rugs can be cleaned, we get blood on things at least once a month here. It’s fine. I just want to get you feeling better and taken care of, all right?”

Tim steadies his breath and nods. 

“Okay,” says Bruce. “We’re going to sit here and practice breathing for the next couple of minutes while Dick gets the door open, and then I’ve got it from there. Okay? We’re just going to sit and breathe and calm down for a couple of minutes.”

“Okay,” Tim agrees. And they do. 

“Bruce,” Tim whispers, while they walk past Jason and Damian in the hall--Damian with his eyes locked on Tim, torn between a fierce scowl and open worry, and Jason bundled in a blanket and holding Damian tight on his lap. “What did I say?”

Bruce shakes his head and hikes Tim a little higher in his arms. “It’s not important right now, buddy. You didn’t say anything hurtful to any of us, don’t worry.”

That doesn’t reassure Tim as much as it ought to. But he lets it go, for the moment, because he’s so tired, and everything is hard, and even just putting words together feels like it’s pulling from the very last dredges of a used battery with Tim having to dig the energy out with a hand-shovel by himself. 

So he goes silent and lets the world move around him. Lets Bruce lie him down gently on the bed, feet dangling off the edge, lets Jason nudge Nova up on one side of him, Damian on the other, and then lets Nova lay across him in that just right, so good way. Lets Damian very, very slowly roll onto his side and wrap around Tim’s free arm and bury his face in Tim’s shoulder without a single word, while Jason presses against Tim’s other side like a steady rock and runs fingers through his hair. 

Tim may cry a little again. Just a very little. 

He lets Dick call Steph and let Cass know what’s going on, and that she might want to spend dinner over at Steph’s house, and they can pick her up in a while. 

He lets Bruce and Alfred carefully tuck a spare towel under his ankles and feet, and under the arm Jason is carefully holding straight out across his own chest, and lets them run gentle gloved fingers over each scrape and puncture wound. Tim is tense at ever sting, but doesn’t really have the energy to twitch away. 

Finally Bruce straightens up and sighs. 

“Tim, honey,” he says, one hand resting steady on Tim’s left ankle. “You’ve got a lot of cuts, sweetheart. We could clean and bandage them, but between it being glass from the floor and you not having a spleen, we really need to take you in to see Leslie before the clinic closes.”

“No,” Tim pleads, just--just wanting things to stop. For a bit. Just wanting time to freeze so he can wait till he’s ready, but--

“I know, Tim,” Bruce tells him. “I know how much you don’t want to go. I’m sorry. But it’s going to be so much worse if Alfred and I miss some glass, or if you get an infection, and we need to do this right the first time around. The infection risk goes up by a lot if you wait twelve hours or more. Otherwise I’d get you bandaged up and then take you tomorrow. But it really can’t wait that long, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“Please, B,” Tim tries, one last time. “Please.”

“We have to go, honey,” Bruce insists, and leans forward to smooth his palm over Tim’s forehead. “I’ll call ahead and make sure Leslie can get us into a room right when we get there, and we’ll bring Nova. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

Tim makes a small noise and closes his eyes, and he feels Damian squeeze his good arm a little more tightly without uncurling even an inch. 

“Why can’t we do it here?” Tim mumbles. He can hear Alfred shaking something out, probably clothes or a blanket for Tim to change into out of his sweaty bloodstained ones. 

“I’ll wipe them down a little and bandage you up before we go,” Bruce says. “But Alfred and I aren’t as experienced with things like spotting very tiny pieces of glass near tiny bones or around layers of muscle and tissue. We’re very likely to miss something, and Dr. Thompkins deals with glass and splinters and nails in people’s feet and hands all the time. She’s got a whole process for it ready to go at the clinic with everything she needs. And if she needs help, her assistants are also used to helping out. It’s safer, Tim. And we can knock your weekly check up out of the way if we go in right now, too, and then you can just rest for as long as you want instead of going in tomorrow afternoon.”

“Fine,” Tim says, pressed in on three sides and tired and stinging and just wanting everything over for the day. 

“I know you don’t want to,” Bruce says, while he gently wraps up Tim’s feet and Alfred tackles his arm. “I know you’re probably really frustrated, but thank you for agreeing anyway. I promise we’ll try to make it as easy as possible.”

“And stop beating yourself up for doing it in the first place,” Jason grumbles from beside him. “I can hear you being crabby from here. You didn’t mean to.”

Tim just sighs, and lets Bruce carry him out to the car with Damian hovering inches away the whole time. 

Dr. Thompkins can’t see them immediately when they get there, but her receptionist does usher their group straight into one of the pediatric exam rooms, as promised. This one has Pokemon wall clings all over two walls, and colored cabinets, and part of Tim wants to protest that he’s not a little kid, really, but much more of him is just relieved to be staring at a happy Bulbasaur instead of blank eggshell wall. 

He has to admit, it does make things a little less...much. 

The stickers, of course, prompt Dick and Jason to immediately dig out their phones and start showing Damian Pokemon GO, and when they explain how it’s a little different from the other Pokemon games they’ve all been slowly teaching Damian to play, Tim silently opens the app on his own phone and holds it out to Damian. 

Bruce’s arms squeeze Tim once where he’s perched on Bruce’s lap, both of them sitting at the edge of the exam table with Nova curled around against their sides.

Damian eyes the phone in Tim’s hand, and then looks up to lock confused eyes with Tim. 

“What,” he asks. 

Tim wiggles the phone a little. “I’m too tired,” he says, honestly. “Can you catch some Pokemon  for me?”

Damian takes the phone, and Bruce hangs on tight to a newly-shaking Tim. He wasn’t lying that he was tired, but he did conveniently fail to mention that oh, yeah, also, his buzzing anxiety that never fully went away from earlier is back in full force and he kind of extremely very much so strongly wants to run or possibly have a panic attack, neither of which sound like healthy options right now. 

“Tim,” Bruce whispers, quietly enough that none of the others will hear over the sound of Dick and Damian’s Pokemon battle. “Do you need everyone out?”

Tim hesitates, one hand fighting not to squeeze Nova’s fur too hard. 

“If it will make you a little more comfortable, then it’s the right call,” Bruce says firmly. And Tim finally, after a few more seconds, nods. 

“Dick,” Bruce rumbles, and Dick’s head snaps up. He and Bruce have a conversation back and forth through a few careful eyebrow wiggles, and then Dick is on his feet and already herding Jason and Damian through the door. 

“Let’s go, gang, we need to go pick up Cass,” he says easily, before either of them can protest. Damian drags his heels to a stop in the exam room doorway, looking back at Tim and holding out his phone, and Tim shakes his hand. 

“Take it,” he tells Damian. “Spin some Pokestops on the way and see if there are any cool Pokemon to catch while Dick drives.”

And then they’re gone, and the door closes, and Tim twists around and shudders out a long breath against Bruce’s old sweatshirt. 

“I know, bud,” Bruce tells him. “On a scale of happily curled up with Nova to ripping off the Robin suit and curling up in a storage locker, where are you at right now?”

Tim presses his forehead into Bruce’s collarbone until it almost hurts. 

“My body is a wasp nest,” he says, slowly, carefully, “and I want to--” his teeth click shut.

“Tim,” Bruce murmurs. “Go ahead and say it. I’m still never going to be mad at whatever the truth is. I just want to help. But I need you to be honest so I can do that.”

Tim shakes his head, but Bruce pulls him up a little higher and settles back against the raised back of the table and has Nova shift around to lie across Tim’s legs on top of his own. 

“Tim,” Bruce prompts, one more Time, and Tim finally sighs. 

“I want to--run out and--and do. Risky things,” he mumbles. “Until it feels like I’ve--gotten it out again.”

“Okay,” Bruce says, calm as ever. “Thank you, Tim. We’ll deal with it together. Okay?”

“Okay,” says Tim.

Bruce doesn’t let go, and Nova doesn’t move, and Bruce walks Tim through more breathing exercises that are just enough to keep him planted where he’s sitting and not actually hyperventilating until Leslie makes it to them. 

When she does step through the door and shut it behind her, looking them both over with a critical eye, Bruce rubs a thumb over Tim’s white-knuckled hand and shoots Dr. Thompkins a look. 

“Leslie,” he says, all Bruce, no Batman. “Before anything else, do you think you could give him a small dose of Xanax?” 

She stares at Tim for a second while he blinks back at her tiredly, his hands still shaking and feeling like he’s seconds away from tearing at the seams with a level of fear he didn’t know it was even possible to feel. Tim waits, Bruce waits, and Nova snores softly from where she’s fallen asleep across their thighs. 

“Yeah,” Dr. Thompkins nods. “I think it’s definitely called for in this case. Let me get your vitals first, honey, and then I’ll grab it.”

Tim manages a nod, and silently cooperates while she speeds through the standard checks. 

“Your pulse and blood pressure are a little above your baseline,” Dr. Thompkins says, as she finishes scribbling numbers on her sheet at the counter. “But with what happened earlier, I’m not really surprised. They’re not high enough to be a real worry right now. Let’s get you a little more comfortable, okay?”

She gets Tim a small dose of Xanax, and then some extra water and a packet of graham crackers after confirming with Bruce that he hasn’t eaten for a few hours. 

“I don’t care how long it takes you,” she tells Tim, as she places the packet in his hand, “but I need you to finish these before you leave. You have to have something in your stomach, okay?”

“Okay,” Tim says, quietly. He starts to nibble at the first cracker while Dr. Thompkins kicks off on her rolling stool and starts inspecting his throbbing feet. 

“Oh, kiddo,” she sighs. “This must be hurting.”

Tim just shrugs. He doesn’t have a lot of brain space to devote to his feet right now. It’s not a big problem. That’s an issue for future Tim to deal with. 

“We’ll start icing them on and off when we go home tonight,” Bruce tells her. “But I didn’t want to do anything until you got a look.”

“Good call,” Dr. Thompkins tells them both, as she stands up and puts her hands on her hips. “All right. Here’s what we’re going to do. I need to see if there are any glass fragments besides the few I can already see in your feet, Tim, so we’re going to take a few x-rays of your feet and your arm. Then we’ll start them soaking, to get your skin nice and soft, and I’ll take out any glass that needs to come out, and we’ll get all the cuts cleaned and put on some antibacterial ointment.” 

“Will--” Bruce starts, but Dr. Thompkins is way ahead of him while she already shoots a request off to one of her assistants for the portable x-ray and starts pulling out a foot bath and epsom salts from one of the cabinets. 

“Yes, Tim’s feet are going to be numbed before I start taking anything out or cleaning the cuts out,” she tells them. “I’ll use one of the locals we know he tolerates well. Don’t worry.”

She pauses, one hand on the faucet handle, and frowns at Tim. 

“Have you ever had Xanax before, honey? Any anti-anxiety medications at all?” 

“No,” says Tim.

“Well. You’re probably going to get pretty drowsy when it starts kicking in, especially if you’re already worn out. It might be hard to think or talk or balance, too, so don’t be alarmed if that happens. I only gave you a low dose, but you’re not particularly large, and you don’t have a lot in your stomach, so it’s probably going to hit you a little harder than it would otherwise.”

“What if I fall asleep?” Tim asks, stiffening a little. 

“Then you take a nap,” says Leslie. “That’s perfectly fine. I don’t need you to be awake while I fix up your feet. I hear your dad is pretty comfortable to nap on, anyway.” 

“But--”

“Tim, it’s fine if you fall asleep,” Bruce affirms. “It’s not a problem, and honestly, you need it after using so much energy. It’s okay if you nap.”

“You’re also going to need to stay off your feet at least until the anaesthetic wears off,” Dr. Thompkins says, sternly, while she thanks the assistant and rolls in the x-ray machine before shutting the door again. 

“I’ll carry you, don’t worry,” Bruce says. 

Tim just nods. He doesn’t have enough brain cells to do anything else at this point. 

“Okay, Tim,” Dr. Thompkins tells him. “I’m going to have to have Bruce and Nova get off the table for a minute while I take x-rays, and then they can come right back. Do you want any pain medication before we get going?”

“No,” Tim says, at the same moment that Bruce says “Yes.”

Tim stares at him. 

“Tim,” Bruce says, gently, while he scratches Nova under the chin a  few feet away, perched on the arm rest of one of the spare chairs. “Remember on top of the museum?”

Tim does remember. Tim remembers very well. But that’s supposed to be for, like, if Tim is putting himself in danger, or something, or--

“I know things probably don’t feel normal right now,” Bruce continues, interrupting Tim’s thought train. “And I know your feet aren’t bothering you much yet, but it’s going to take a good while for your feet to soak and Leslie’s going to have to touch and mess with your cuts on your feet and arm a lot before we’re finished. 

“They’ll be numb,” Tim points out. 

“Not until after we soak them and I’ve gotten the obvious pieces out, honey,” Dr. Thompkins says, as she drapes the lead apron over Tim. 

He’s momentarily derailed by how good it feels. It’s like his weighted blanket, but even better, more solid, and--

Bruce’s face is doing something funny, like it’s trying to smile and resist a smile at the same time and can’t quite decide which way to turn. 

“Leslie,” he says. “Do you think we could maybe just leave the apron there for a while?” 

Dr. Thompkins blinks for a moment, glancing between the two of them, and then shrugs. “What the hell. You’re the last patient I’m seeing today unless there’s an emergency, and if they need to do x-rays, we have more aprons. I don’t see a problem with it.”

“Let us make sure you’re as comfortable as you can be, Tim,” Bruce says, finally. “I know you can handle a lot of pain. Both of us do. But if it’s avoidable, we don’t want you to be in any. Especially when you’ve already been having a hard day. Can you trust me on this?”

And the x-rays are done, already, and Tim is so tired, and with the apron on he feels less like he’s going to shake out of his bones. And Bruce is looking at him like that, and helping Nova up onto the table again, to curl up on Tim’s left and let him bury his hand in the fur on her back. 

“I trust you,” Tim says, softly, while Bruce starts running a hand through his hair, and he closes his eyes and lets himself just sit. 

The good news is that Tim doesn’t have any glass shards near tendons, nerves, joints, or anything else delicate and important. His arm doesn’t have any shards in it at all. The bad news is he does have several deeper than the skin surface, and Leslie is going to need some time to get them out. 

The benzodiazepine kicks in fast enough to surprise Tim, and true to Dr. Thompkins’ word, he gets even more drowsy than he already was. Between that and the fact that he’s finally feeling settled with his head in Bruce’s lap and Nova against his side, rather than like he’s a shaken jar of hornets on the inside, Tim spends most of the rest of the visit drifting in and out of a doze. The only thing he remembers about Dr. Thompkins’ initial glass-fishing is snatches of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood on Bruce’s phone, a couple of brief moments where his foot hurt in a spot or two, and a hazy memory of Cass ducking through the doorway to kiss him on the cheek and then slipping out again before he could make his sluggish brain and hand sign hello. 

Bruce squeezes his hands while he gets the local injected for the harder-to-reach glass shards, and then Tim really does fall asleep and misses pretty much the rest of all the cleaning and medicating and bandaging. 

The next thing he knows, the world is swaying gently, rocking, and there’s light and then dim and light and then dim and a mix of half-hushed, mostly-still-loud voices drifting in one ear and out the other. He forces his eyes open to see Bruce, holding him, and the sky overhead changing from clinic ceiling to overhang to cloudy Gotham air. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bruce says, when he glances down and spots Tim awake. “You snoozed through all the best parts.”

Tim makes a small cranky noise and shoves his face into Bruce’s sweatshirt, and Bruce laughs. 

“Okay, okay,” he says, only sounding a little apologetic. “No jokes yet. Sorry.”

There’s the sound of doors opening and hushed fighting, then Bruce’s quiet “Kids.” And then Tim’s being handed off to other arms, wrapped in a seatbelt, and he almost opens his eyes, but then the familiar feeling of Nova’s warm body settles across his feet and someone tugs his head down onto a shoulder that’s just the right height, and Tim lets out one last sigh. 

The car starts up, some quiet music starts to play, and right before they drive off, right before Tim falls asleep again for the rest of the ride home, he feels two small arms wiggle their way around his waist, and the funny, unmistakable feeling of a short head of hair duck under his arm, and he thinks, Damian. With the very last bit of energy he he has, he lifts his own hand to clumsily settle on top of Damian’s wild head of hair, and he thinks Damian, he thinks safe, and then he’s buckled and dozing and not thinking anything else at all. 

Chapter Text

Tim’s feet, with time, heal back to normal--with a little bit of babying, a lot of itching (convenient excuses for tickling sneak attacks, until Steph got kicked a few too many times), and a smooth, textbook-linear healing process. 

The rest of him doesn’t follow quite as smoothly. But he’s trying, anyway, and that’s what matters. If he needs to nap every day, and to sleep a full twelve hours straight almost every day after he has a session with Dinah, that’s okay. He doesn’t have anything he has to do but keep trying to heal. At least, so Bruce, and Alfred, and Dinah, and his new neurologist tell him all the goddamn time.   

Damian and Tim both got evaluated separately, on the big day of their appointments. They came back home with their favorite Thai orders, equally tired brains, and two diagnoses of autism spectrum disorder, right there in their charts. 

Bruce has a conversation with both of them, again, about it later that week. It’s mediated by both Dick and Alfred, and it goes...better than Bruce had expected. 

Tim’s taking the new diagnosis with mixed emotions, not quite as well as Damian, who hasn’t had as many years in mainstream society to get the same messages as Tim. But Bruce and all the rest of them will make it clear as many times as needed until both boys get it that having the label doesn’t change anything about who they are or how the family treats them. It just means they have some more things to think about sometimes, and that now they’ve got access to tools that can make life a lot easier.

“It’s a start,” Bruce says. 

And it is. A good one, and they need as many of those as they can get.

They find clothes Damian is actually comfortable in. Tim and Damian both get new and revised IEP plans from their schools. And the whole household gets to benefit from the Great Search For Sensory Items that Bruce maybe, possibly, just a little bit, goes overboard on.

Whatever. It’s worth it for the moments when Tim or Damian or even Dick and Cass, or any of them really, find something that they fall in love with. Even Bruce discovers that he apparently really, really, really likes finger fidgets. He pretends not to notice Alfred sneakily taking photos of him playing with them, and in turn doesn’t comment on how often Alfred seems to wind up “cleaning up” one of the containers of sensory putty from somewhere around the house, even though no one besides Steph seemed very interested in that particular item. 

They’re dads, Bruce tells himself firmly one afternoon at his desk with glasses halfway down his nose, a clicker fidget in one hand, and some WE forms in front of him he’s supposed to have signed by yesterday. They’re allowed a little fun too, in the middle of being Responsible Adult Grown Ups. Who would give them trouble for it, anyway? Leslie? Bruce snorts.

Leslie’s too busy with her chaotic little urban Fuck-A-Lawn Front Yard Farm and three chickens to point fingers. She and her girlfriend are both absolute disaster lesbians outside of Professional Work Hours. Leslie has no room to talk. Half the shelves in her tiny front room are filled with shiny objects she’s just had to bring back, Alfred, from various overseas medical volunteer trips. 

Yeah. It’s all a start--their lives are full of them in this family, start after start after start. Bruce doesn’t think that’s a bad thing. New starts just mean they’re not finished getting better yet. 

And that is something to be grateful for, even with all the growing pains that come along with progress and change. 

Jason automatically lifts one arm and gives a half-awake mumble when Tim slips through the cracked-open window above his bed and stright into the gap under the covers. 

“Hi,” Tim whispers, tucked close against Jason’s ribs, nose nearly touching his brother’s ear. 

“Mornin’, baby bird,” Jason mumbles into pillow wrinkles. “Shhhhh. Sl’p’n.”

Tim snorts softly, then wiggles around a little to get more comfortable. Jason doesn’t even protest when Tim accidentally knees him in the thigh. He just huffs a breath and throws his arm all the way around Tim in a loose drape, forces Tim still, finally, and Tim settles down.

There’s the sound of soft, even breathing again within moments, and Tim lies there and just soaks in Jason’s warmth with a tiny smile. He peers out with the single eye not hidden behind Jason’s neck, and watches the early morning rays of light flicker gently on the wall next to the door as the tree outside moves slightly in the breeze. 

Everything is calm, for now. He can pause. He can breathe. 

Tim closes his eyes, focuses on muscles from neck to toes. He relaxes them wherever he notices he’s tensed up, sinks further into the warmed-up sheets and just breathes. 

Inhale. Listen to Jason’s soft breaths. Exhale. Feel the comforter surrounding him on top and Jason’s warm, steady body keeping him safe on the side. Inhale. Hear the faint sound of the back garden’s waterfall fountain, soft bird and tree noises from outside. Exhale. Relax into the moment of just being here, in the quiet slow warmth of a morning full of stillness. Inhale. Exhale. Slip into the nice feeling of just letting the world pass over and by, just being comfortable and small, just breathing and being and floating at the center of a calm, glass lake. 

The loud bang doesn’t even register until Tim has already shot violently upright in a kick and scramble and tangle of comforter, a gasp involuntarily ripping from his lungs so loud it’s almost a shriek. 

Jason scrambles upright in the middle of the tangle, making shushing noises, and Tim’s nerves defrost from the ice they turned into momentarily when he realizes all it was was the breeze from the window slamming Jason’s bedroom door. Just the door. 

Just the same old, familiar, normal wooden door.

“Deep breaths,” Jason instructs, kneeling up on the mattress to pull the window shut.

“Sorry,” Tim says, and then flops face-first down into Jason’s spare pillow and groans. His chest still feels electric, like a strike of lightning has yet to fully dissipate and is sitting in every network of nerve and muscle and bounding, racing heart. He’s here, he’s here, soft pillow, warm skin, but electrified and feeling--

A damp nose. 

Tim hardly has a chance to let out a muffled noise of confusion before there’s a very insistent bulky object worming its way between the sides of the pillow and Tim’s face, pushing, nudging, damp, scratchy. Tim twists away slightly, but the nudging only follows, and when he rolls over for air, Peanut’s dark eyes are over him as the dog immediately starts licking insistently at Tim’s face, his jaw, his hand. 

Tim can’t figure out exactly if he doesn’t like it or if it feels good, but it’s taking all of his attention--there’s dog tongue on his face, it’s pretty hard to notice anything else at the moment. But he’s making little wheezing giggle sounds unintentionally, on autopilot, and gently shoving back at Peanut. Peanut just licks his hands more in response. 

Jason’s head appears next to Peanut, who starts licking him too every couple seconds, flipping back and forth between him and Tim. Jason’s hands land on Tim’s forehead and Peanut’s neck, and he locks eyes with Tim and gestures with his chin over at Peanut emphatically. 

“He’s trying to help ground you, he thinks you had a nightmare,” Jason says. “Pet him. Both hands.”

Tim does. 

Peanut is very happy to have his ears rubbed, still splitting his attention between Tim and Jason, who is currently shooting Bruce a text. 

When Peanut shifts a little, looking restless, Tim pokes Jason with his foot. 

“What does he want?” Tim asks. 

Jason glances up as he sets his phone down, then smiles. 

“Peanut,” Jason says, moving his hand across Tim’s chest. “Over, buddy. That’s it.”

Before Tim can protest, he’s got a very pleased German shepherd lounging across his chest, panting quietly, and Tim’s hands automatically find their way up to Peanut’s back and start stroking in time with his own slowing breaths. 

Jason flops on his back next to them, wiggling closer till he and Tim are touching, side to side. He reaches up and scratches gently around the top of Peanut’s head, then under his chin, and then does a quick half-sit-up to kiss the dog right in the center of his forehead. 

“Good boy, ” Jason praises, and Peanut tips his head up and licks him square in the face.

Tim snorts, and breathes, and twists his head until he can bury his face in the safety of Jason’s neck, his scent, his steadiness.

“B’s bringing Nova in a minute,” Jason says, honey-smooth and hushed so it isn’t too loud right next to Tim’s ear. “He’s coming up from the kitchen to grab her from your room.”

Tim makes a vague noise of agreement. 

“Peanut,” he says, finally finding his voice again. “Peanut, go to Jason.”

Peanut blinks slowly at him, then licks Tim firmly right over his left cheek, and if Tim didn’t know better, he’d almost swear he was just explicitly sassed by his own brother’s dog. 

“Unless I start freaking out, you’re stuck with him,” Jason whispers, sounding pleased. “His radar is locked on now. Good luck.”

“Jason,” Tim grumbles.

“Shut up and enjoy it,” Jason whispers back cheerfully. “When Nova comes, I’ll take him, don’t worry.” 

That afternoon, Jason comes into Tim’s room with his serious face on, Peanut tethered to his side, and an empty duffel bag in one hand which he promptly throws straight at Tim’s face where he’s sitting curled up in what he deems the Safe Corner of the closet, making his way through a skein of yarn as the pile of baby hats next to him continues to grow..

Then Jason crouches down just outside the closet doorway, elbows on knees, hands dangling loose and relaxed between his legs, and he looks at Tim like he used to a few years earlier, when he was Robin and Tim was BatWatch and he walked into their school after the ice incident and told himself, this one. This one is gonna be protected now. 

“Come on out,” Jason orders, giving Tim a little smile. 

Tim blinks up at him, already moving on autopilot to scramble out of the closet before his brain fully catches up. “What--”

“Pack up, baby bird. We’re going on a road trip.” 

“A road trip?” Tim asks, trying and failing not to show his nervousness at the prospect of leaving the safety of home. His gaze darts to the window, then back. “Road trip to where?” 

Jason takes his hand and walks to the wardrobe with him, Peanut and Nova silent at their sides. “We’ll make a few stops along the way, some places I think you’ll like. We’re going the scenic route. But it’s been too long since we knocked anything off that list, and since you’ve survived another year and another unfairly traumatic series of events, I decided it’s time to start tackling it again. You said you wanted to go to the coast, right? And it’s just cold and snowy around here right now, so what better time? We’re gonna go see the ocean.”

Tim goes still, one limp t-shirt hanging from his frozen hand, halfway to the open duffel. He stares wide-eyed. 

“The ocean,” he echoes, in disbelief. 

“The ocean,” Jason confirms.

“Like. All of us? Did Bruce set this up?”

“No, Timbo. Just you and me.” And it’s Jason’s turn to hesitate, now, to curl his shoulders and perch taut on the edge of Tim’s mattress, fingers playing with the strap of Peanut’s harness. “If you don’t want to go, we won’t, I promise. It’s really spur of the moment, I just--I think it would be nice. For both of us. A change of scenery, you know? Some distraction. And just--” He takes a deep breath, then glances up to Tim’s gaze and away again. 

“I miss you,” he says, cheeks darkening a little. “I miss brother time. We got too busy and I love Cass and Damian but--I miss hanging out with just you.” 

Tim stares at him for a moment. Jason looks up. And then before either of them have time to think, he’s got an armful of younger brother and the air is being squeezed out of his chest. 

“Timmy,” Jason wheezes. “Tim. Ease up a bit, I have these things, they’re called lungs.”

“Sorry,” Tim says into the fabric across Jason’s shoulder, and then they’re hugging for real, and it’s safe.

It’s safe, and it’s hopeful, and it’s relearning, and rebuilding, and it’s good.

“We’re gonna be okay, Timbit,” Jason says. I’m getting better, and you’re getting better, and we’re gonna have a good trip, okay? We’ll go as slow as we both need.”

“Okay,” Tim says. “Okay. The ocean?”

“Gulf coast,” Jason confirms, dropping a kiss onto Tim’s hair. “With some stops along the scenic route on our way.” 

“And you’re sure it’s okay? With Bruce and everything?”

“Got his blessing, got Alfred’s blessing, got Dinah’s reply saying in all caps, and I quote, that she’d ‘kick us straight out the front door into the car herself, get out of that godforsaken city and go do something nice.’”

“Technically, we don’t live in Gotham City,” Tim points out.

Jason jabs a finger into the side Tim’s most ticklish in. “Technically, Dinah doesn’t give a shit.” 

Tim laughs involuntarily and twists away, rolling off the bed onto his feet in a crouch and then standing with a small, real smile.

“You’re sure it’s okay.”

“I’m sure,” Jason confirms. “And we’ve got Batman and Superman and Wonder Woman and all the Teen Titans and your friends on call if we need them.”

“And we’ll be back in time for the holidays?” 

Jason catches the swimsuit Tim tosses over from one of the drawers and deposits it on the bed next to the duffel.

“With plenty of time to spare,” Jason promises. 

“Am I gonna get any more details out of you than this?” Tim shoots, with a raised eyebrow. 

“Nope,” Jason says with a grin, popping his p. “It’s a surprise. It’ll be an an adventure, remember, you used to like those.”

Two seconds later, the smile is frozen on Jason’s face as he realizes his mistake. 

Tim’s answering grin is nearly feral. Jason opens his mouth, glances towards the door as if that will save him, but it’s too late. 

“It’ll be an adventure,” Tim recites, with frightening accuracy. “We’re going on an adventure, Charlieeeeee.”  

“Please, no,” Jason tries. “Mercy.” 

“CharrrrrrrlieeeEEEEEEEE,” Tim sing-song-shrieks behind him as they tear out of the bedroom and down the hall, Jason laughing while he clamps hands over his ears and Tim still holding one lone sneaker from the closet in his hand. 

One floor down, Bruce and Alfred pause their conversation to listen to the pounding footsteps of two boys overhead, sprinting down the halls, and then share matching small smiles and carry on. 

Progress, Bruce reminds himself, for the hundred thousandth time. The millionth. A googolplex. As many times as they—as he needs. Always progress. Always healing or breathing or both, little bit at a time. 

His boys will get there. They’ll be better than him, one day, far better, already are in so many ways, and he just wants them to heal however they each need. Grow however each one grows, love what they love, heal and learn and enjoy life with as little lingering difficulty as possible.

Dick is well on his way, Jason trailing not too terribly far behind. They’re both so much—better than Bruce was at their age, healthier, wiser, more happy and tempered. Tim, Cass, Damian, they will follow, are following, too. 

Progress.

It’s a good word in his mouth. 

Progress, he murmurs to Alfred, and ducks in for a quick dad hug. 

Progress, Alfred echoes. 

And then they head off into the manor, heading for children and food prep and memos and well-orchestrated chaos, and the world shifts just a little bit closer to where they’re aiming up ahead.

Chapter Text

Bruce often has to dramatically shift his frame of mind within a split second of waking. It comes with the territory of being a parent. Especially a parent of even-more-chaotic-than-average teenagers.

For example, last night, he decided to turn in early for once. He walked up to the main lounge, intending to say good night to the kids, and was met with the sight of Tim grinning, holding a phone, on top of the end table. Dick with his oldest guitar and a football helmet—where did he even get that?—plus Cassandra holding a PVC pipe hovering above said helmet, both of them perched on the L-shaped sofa. Steph, oversized headphones around her neck as she pretends to DJ on her tiny phone screen where it lays on the coffee table. Damian, pretending to draw over on the window seat, but secretly watching the antics. Damian, shooting Bruce a single raised eyebrow, so much like Alfred, when he thinks Bruce is being purposefully obtuse and needs to get his head out of the sand he’s shoved it in lickety-split. 

Damian, rolling his eyes, actually, and it takes Bruce’s breath away, seeing the boy make such a carefree kind of gesture, seeing visible evidence of the progress he’s been making, so carefully—

Damian, rolling his eyes. The phone clearly recording. PVC pipe. Matching grins, Barely-contained energy zipping around the room. Jason nowhere in sight—

Oh, no, Bruce thinks, as his brain starts to put the pieces together, and he realizes Cass is whacking Dick every time he stops playing, right on beat. Do they always have to—

At the first musical run, instead of Dick playing, it’s Jason’s turn to shoot up from behind the couch, sunglasses on and blowing hard into the saxophone he hasn’t touched since graduating high school. 

His kids carry on with their rousing Wayne family edition of classic rock, and Bruce lets go of the doorframe, does a sharp 180, and heads on off to shower. He can tell each of the kids goodnight when he checks on them in a while. There’s no way he’s getting roped into whatever TikTok or YouTube video or Twitter post those hams are cooking up back there.

Bruce has a date with some hot water and a silk pillowcase. His kids can get a mischief pass, just for tonight. They probably won’t break anything this time. He hopes.

In the morning, Bruce wakes up half a second before the flying body hits him, just enough time for him to let out an aborted gasp before it turns into a sharp OOF halfway through. 

Love you, Cass signs, beaming, from on top of his aching ribs. Day new! Good!

“Hi, baby,” he wheezes. “It sure is.” Love you, he signs back. Morning, happy.

Cass preens . She pauses for a moment, then leans down and kisses him squarely on the forehead before rolling off of him and landing on both feet on the hardwood floor. 

“Anyone else up yet?” he asks, throwing his duvet back and swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. 

Cass darts a hand out to tickle the underside of his left foot, then immediately dances back out of the way when he kicks out on reflex. 

“Cass,” he grumbles, trying for exasperated but landing somewhere closer to fond. 

Her right hand flies up in the closed-hand finger sign for A , bouncing off her forehead in two small arcs. The name sign she’d decided on for Alfred—the letter A combined with the sign for grandfather, once she’d come to understand what that meant.

Alfred, she tells him. No others.

“They’re all being lazy, huh,” Bruce says, sliding on his house shoes and a warm robe. Cass grins. He finishes tying the robe shut and signs back to her. Breakfast-early-quiet? Just us?

Cass nods, and Bruce reaches out and catches both her shoulders under one large arm. She’s content to lean into him as they make their way towards the stairs, silent in the morning light that filters through the stained glass windows in every other window frame. 

“Good,” Cass says, quietly, just as they reach the top of the staircase. “Alive, still. Now.”

Bruce turns to look at her, giving her his full attention. Cass glances towards one window, then meets his gaze. 

“New day,” she says. Her hand touches her chest, his, and gestures loosely at the Manor in general. Gift. 

“You’re right,” Bruce says, quietly. “It is a gift. We’re very lucky.”

Cassandra suddenly starts to tear up, and Bruce feels the familiar wave of desperate helplessness as one of his kids is starting to cry in front of him, is in distress, is—

Love you, she signs. Love you, love you, love you. Home, she adds, gesturing at the Manor again, and then, home, this time resting her palm on Bruce, right over his heart. Gift. Every day.

“Princess,” Bruce murmurs, brows pinching together as he opens his arms, and Cass shoves into them hard. “Hey. I love you too. I love you. What’s got you thinking so much this morning? Are you all right?”

Cass offers nothing more than a little shrug against his embrace, and shoves her damp face even tighter against his neck. Bruce sighs and picks her up, shifting one arm to slide under her like a chair while he slowly makes his way to the kitchen again.

“All right, Cass, that’s okay,” he says, pressing a kiss into the tangled hair just above her ear. “You can tell me more whenever you’re ready, or not. Let’s get some breakfast, huh? Maybe Alfred can make you your favorite tea. It’s okay, baby. It is good, we’re going to have a nice morning. You’re all right.” 

And she is. And he is. And they all are, quietly existing in the morning as the world comes to life, until Bruce gets a text from Jason, rapidly followed by three more, and the day fully spins to life. Jason and Peanut have Tim handled, and Bruce just needs to be the dog courier. And then probably check on Damian, see if he’s ready to be led out for breakfast or if he’s still asleep. And also Bruce should wake Steph up so she can help Alfred make the waffles—or maybe he should ask Cass to wake her, since Steph was sleeping in her room, and—

“Go on, Master Bruce,” Alfred interrupts gently, nudging Bruce towards the kitchen door. “One at a time. Don’t plan for them all at once.”

“Thanks, Alfred,” Bruce says. “You’re right. I’m...still working on that.”

“I know, dear boy,” Alfred replies, smoothing down one of Bruce’s cowlicks with the hand that isn’t currently coated in flour. “You’ve already come far. All you need is more practice. Go on and do some more right now, your children are all fine and will be happy whenever you happen to make it to them. Trust me.”

Bruce shoots Alfred a small smile, and heads off after a simple shoulder clap and a nod. 

Right. Tim, dog, hug. That’s the first order of business. Then maybe Dick, or Damian, whichever one will be more efficient to—

No, Bruce stops himself, shaking his head as he walks as if he’s trying to get a gnat off. No. He’ll figure that out after he tackles Tim and Jason. Efficiency doesn’t matter. He’ll figure it out as things come up. It’s family, not the mission. He doesn’t need a plan for everything. They’ll create whatever happens together, person by person, and just see how the day goes. 

His kids need him, and he’ll be there whenever for whoever, but until those moments he’s going to keep on learning to let go of some control. Dinah and Alfred keep reminding him to practice what he preaches even when he’s been stressed or triggered himself. He’s got to, for the kids. They learn from his example.

So this is him, practicing letting go, practicing being flexible, practicing tackling things one at a time rather than being paralyzed into frozen overwhelm by thinking of too much at once. 

Tim, Jason, dog, hugs.

He can do this. They can do this—are already doing it together, without him needing to be there. They’re so much better than he was at their age, already, and he’s more than proud.

They can all do it. One day at a time. He can too. They’ll all get there, whenever it’s meant to be. Just a little bit better, one step forward each day, and he’ll be there to walk them through the journey until they’re ready to keep building their paths without his help. 

When Jason comes to him in the arboretum a few hours later, quietly requesting to ask him about something while the work side by side to thin the latest crop of rosemary and basil plants, Bruce—well, he can’t say he expected the road trip idea, exactly, but he also isn’t at all surprised. It feels mostly like...like maybe they were all waiting for this moment to come, in whatever form it would ultimately take, and now that it’s finally here, of course Bruce gives it his blessing.

“You’ll check in at least twice a day,” Bruce says firmly. 

Jason gently pats the dirt down around one of the growing plants. “Of course.”

“And you go as slow as you both need, stay extra nights if that helps.”

“Yessir. I know, B.”

“And if anything happens where you need help faster than I can get there, I’ll have Clark on—”

“Gorram, B! I know .”

Jason stares at the planter he’s weeding with single-minded focus, shoulders tense. Bruce is silent for a few moments, watching, counting to ten. 

“I know, Jay,” he says, more softly now. “I’m sorry.”

Jason’s hands go still. 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce repeats, setting one gloved hand next to Jason’s. “I know you’re plenty careful and responsible, and I know how well you plan things. How much you want to keep everyone safe. I do trust you. I’m sorry for being overbearing just now.” Bruce takes a deep breath, lets it out. Closes his eyes. “I’m certainly not perfect. I was letting my own fear take the driver’s seat instead of trusting you, and that shouldn’t happen. I think this is a wonderful idea, son. And I suppose the only thing I really should be saying right now is—what do you need me to do to help?”

Jason lets out a long breath, opens his eyes, and finally turns to look over at Bruce, eyebrows softening. Bruce carefully doesn’t look down at his hand as Jason bumps it with his pinky finger. 

“Apology accepted,” Jason tells him. “Just—yeah, keep working on it. Thanks for catching yourself this time.”

“Thanks for calling me out on it so I had the chance,” Bruce counters. 

Jason shrugs. 

“Now, I mean it,” Bruce says, shifting back so he’s perched on the balls of his feet in a squat, and holding a hand out to Jason. “What do you need from me?”

Jason takes the offered hand and offers him a lopsided grin. “A new brain, maybe? Trauma-eraser machine?”

“Alas,” snorts Bruce. “Fresh out. I’m afraid I just sold the last one last Tuesday.”

“Damn.” Jason holds his hands out for Bruce’s gloves, and steps over to the nearest cabinet, tucking their gloves and the hand weeder in their usual spots. “I guess, just—help me make sure I don’t forget anything while packing and planning? And—um,” he trails off, and Bruce makes sure to not let him drop eye contact. 

“Yes?” Bruce prompts gently. 

“If I just—can’t keep driving, or something, could you make sure that Tim gets to the ocean? Even if I can’t? I just really—I really want him to have something good. Just something good that doesn’t get messed up.”

Bruce fights the urge to make Jason tackle that statement right here and now, because of course Tim has had good things that haven’t been messed up—but that’s not the point right now. Bruce gets it. It’s been a hard few years for all of them, especially Tim, and after an experience like the one he’s just had with Ra’s—

Of course he gets it. Of course he knows what Jason means. The specific feeling and phrasing aren’t worth splitting hairs over right now, they’re not in a therapy session or tackling a big issue.

Jason’s just a big brother who wants a little sibling to have something good and be happy.

So Bruce shoves down the part of him that insists on correcting the statement, on making Jason go over CBT steps with him, on reminding them both of all the good things that have happened to Tim, not just the bad. He shoves that part down, and the part that wants to plan everything for Jason to make sure it’s all perfect, and the part that doesn’t want to let his boys leave the safety of the Manor at all. And he puts a hand on Jason’s cheek and smiles. 

“Of course, Jason,” Bruce tells him, “of course I will. I’ve got your back. I promise.”

It’s worth it, he thinks, for the relief on Jason’s face, and the grin that quickly follows.

They’re going to be all right. The trip will be fine, they’ll have backup plans, and the boys will be happy and safe and fine.

They have to be.

And in the meantime, as long as they’re gone, Bruce will...practice. He’ll practice, he’ll wait, and he’ll be ready for when they need him, and he’ll be there for his other kids in the meantime. As he should. 

And it’ll be okay. 

Tim is only partly awake for the early-morning last-minute packing, the tight-squeeze-hug goodbyes, and the whispered promises to Damian that he’s coming back soon, that he’s just one video call away whenever Damian wants.

Then there’s the shutting of the doors, the standard shuffling around to fit between pillows and blankets and the cooler and all their bags, and then it’s barely seconds after Jason starts the engine and Tim is already falling asleep against the pre-dawn dark outside the window. 

“Tim?” Jason asks, turning to follow the curve of the drive down to the gates, adjusting a mirror, reaching over to tap Tim on the shoulder. “Tim? Buddy? You still with me?”

Tim lets out the first half of what’s probably some actual word, maybe, before it trails off into an unintelligible grumble and sigh. 

Jason quietly snorts, and refocuses on the asphalt ahead of him as he pulls out from the Manor drive and onto the first real road of their trip. “Okay, bud,” he says, as his blinker flicks off. He reaches over and pats Tim’s hair clumsily without looking over, and manages to bump Tim’s face more than his head on accident. 

“Gu hoff,” Tim mumbles, attempting to swat Jason away without opening his eyes. He misses by several miles. 

“I know you hate mornings,” Jason tells him cheerfully. “I’m not sorry for dragging your sorry butt out of bed for this. You’ll thank me later.”

Tim’s only response is a muffled sigh as he twists further into the tangle of blankets he set up between him and the door of the car. Jason glances over just in time to see Tim visibly relax a few more degrees, mouth falling open just a tiny bit as he slips fully into sleep. 

Jason smiles, takes a swig from his thermos of Alfred’s best tea, and sets his calm instrumental playlist to play on shuffle. At the first long stoplight they find themselves sitting at, even though the roads are sparsely populated this early in the day, especially in Bristol, he takes a moment extra to throw the car in park and lean over to press a covert kiss against Tim’s temple. 

“Sleep as long as you want, Princess Aurora,” he says to his sleeping brother. “S’not like you have your goddamn license anyway. Slacker.” The light turns green, and he merges into the turn lane, flicking his blinker on as they pull onto the ramp that will set them on the first interstate of the day. 

Tim shifts for a moment, mumbling something Jason can’t quite catch, and then settles back down again with his face even further buried in the crook of one arm.

“I’ve got you,” Jason says, firmly, as he pulls onto the interstate, lanes clear and near-empty in the pre-sunrise dark, perfect for thinking, perfect for his favorite kind of quiet drive. “Sleep however much you need, baby bird. I’ll be here the whole time. The ocean is still a long way away.”

Chapter Text

It’s not perfect. 

It’s not well-planned, even. It’s just a last-minute, go-bag, get-out-of-Dodge-before-you-lose-your-mind kind of thing, if they’re being honest with themselves. But it’s a road trip, and it’s theirs, and it doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be good, and they can make that work.

This is their week, their time, their hours of interstate, their diversions and sing-alongs and absolutely no crime fighting or media vultures allowed. They’re on a road trip. Just for a breather. Just for a reminder why it’s worth it to live. 

It goes like this. 

As soon as Tim wakes up for real, with a hoarse good morning and a loving punch to Jason’s non-steering arm after his terrible, awful brother has the audacity to start singing Good morning, starshine at top volume —

As soon as Tim wakes up, they peel right off at the next exit and absolutely stuff the car with junk food. 

“If a road trip doesn’t start out with a run through a gas station that ends up looking like a nine year old was let loose with a credit card, you’re not doing it right,” Jason says sagely, as he and Tim jog back to their gas pump with arms full of Hostess pastries, Fritos, and anything else that caught their fancy. 

Tim laughs, then immediately rips open a pack of mini donuts with his teeth and pops one in his mouth. 

“Dick taught me that when we went on our first road trip, up to NYC.” Jason wrinkles his nose as their armloads scatter all across the top of the luggage in the backseat. “That could have gone better. But whatever. It’s not like we can’t dig through and find what we want when we let the dogs out for the next bathroom break.”

“True,” Tim agrees. 

“Okay, buckled?” Jason checks. “Let’s do this.”

They peel out of the gas station exactly one mile per hour above the speed limit, windows down, blasting Queen all the way back to the turnpike and shouting along till their voices crack and they start laughing instead.

“You drive like a Grandpa, you know that right?” Tim asks Jason over Lorde’s rich vocals as they’re serenaded by a chorus of frogs along the side of the backroad. 

Jason shoves a holiday Oreo in his mouth and crunches . “I’m still technically breaking the law.”

“By one mile per hour. Ooh, scary,” Tim scoffs.

Jason shoots him a sideways glare. 

“Seriously. I’m not complaining,” Tim says, “I’m just surprised. I used to think you’d be the risky driver. I didn’t guess it’d be Dick. Or that you’d be so—restrained.”

“Someone in this family has to be,” Jason sighs, overdramatic and with a near-perfect imitation of Alfred’s eyes-to-the-sky look. “Listen, Timbo, Bruce teaches all us kids to drive on old airport runways in fancy sports cars with roll cages, just like Alfred taught him. You’ll get your turn soon. But see, I know how things work. I know how police look at young guys with fluffy hair and darker skin in sports cars, and I know too many guys who get tickets, like, every weekend. So I decided to be smart.”

“By being a good citizen and obeying traffic laws, even though you’re a rebel to the core and would go around in punk gear and male-librarian-chic 24/7 if you could get away with it?”

“You’re a punk,” Jason says affectionately. He absently noogies Tim’s hair without taking his eyes off the road. “No, dumbass. I break the law by just enough to count, but not enough to be dangerous or to actually get in trouble. And since I’m such a careful driver, do you know what I get to do? I get to flip off every corrupt cop I see—”

“Which would be all but like, four of them in Gotham, including Gordon,” Tim cuts in.

“—while the whole time, I’m driving safely in an emissions-tested, current-license car, even using my blinker politely like no one else in our godforsaken city bothers to do. Police included.” He grins at Tim, and it’s nearly feral. “As Aunt Kate will sometimes say—’daloy polizei, but like, in a chill way.’ And excluding the good ones. I don’t flip off Gordon or Montoya, especially not them—they get peace signs instead.”

“You’re a hopeless bi,” Tim says. 

“And proud of it. Like you have room to talk, Mr. Fingerguns-at-Everything.”

“So rude,” Tim grumbles, and tosses back the last of his Sunny D. 

“Aw, you know you love me,” Jason drawls.

“Duh,” says Tim, leaning his head on Jason’s shoulder across the console. And they drive on as Dick’s giant Roadtrip Mix of Total Awesomeness keeps playing every mile along the way.

On the road, like this, in their rolling liminal space, real life feeling far away and the only thing real being the sounds and the company and all the rolling scenery outside...it’s like ditching all the problems, for a while.

If they’re moving down the interstate, with their un-normal food and their playlist full of hits and all the ridiculous turns of conversation that happen on long drives—if they’re in this bubble universe, with new views and time standing still and miles rolling past and nothing to remind them of their normal life at home—Tim can run far enough away that it’s almost as if nothing has ever happened to him. Or any of them. The only thing that’s real is them laughing over their scientific debate about what sponges are, their sharing of the Skittles as they drive through late-fall woods and talk about Dinah’s advice, them shivering in hats and gloves as they run alongside the dogs at a rest stop, burning off energy and stretching tight legs. 

Like this, Tim can feel like nothing is wrong. Like he’s just a teenager on a road trip. Like they’re just young and dumb and on a wild adventure to have fun. Like he isn’t a walking train wreck, like he isn’t a time bomb, like he isn’t damaged goods. Like he’s normal . 

It’s nice. 

He ignores the part of his mind reminding him that it’s a lie, it’s pretend, he can’t avoid things forever, and when Jason pulls into the Red Roof Inn in Kenley, Tim shoves that part far, far to the back of his mind and tells himself that everything—

Everything is going to stay just fine .

It starts to rain while they’re walking from their car to the hotel. It’s just a little drizzle, at first, half a minute tiny drops here and there—on back of a coat-covered shoulder, an outstretched sleeve, one of the fingers wrapped around one of their suitcase handles. They don’t even notice. They’re throwing quips, debating Mandolorian lore and slight differences in remembered Jedi code that really could be settled with a single google search (which neither of them care to do), and they’re wrangling two bags apiece, flushed and distracted and focused on getting inside—

The cloud breaks open in the space between breaths. 

Tim doesn’t remember dropping his bags, but in the middle of a confusing jumble of seeing concrete and grass medians and manicured landscaping, and knowing he’s in danger, knowing he’s drowning and surrounded by enemies and no help is near, Tim is present enough to feel himself being pulled and manhandled by arms that hold tight, and he sees the glowing hotel sign and feels the heaving of his chest and hears Ra’s bored voice saying I expected you to last longer, after how promising our initial talks were, but I see now why your original guardians were so disappointed in you.  

“Stop,” Tim begs, desperately, and that’s kind of weird, because he’s supposed to have a face covered in a towel and that towel soaked with water and that water dripping down his skin and the dripping streams rolling into his hair, his ears, his mouth his nose his lungs his lungs his lungs—

Something damp against his hand, with something furry, too, moving it, bumping it, and Tim’s fingers grasp on reflex, feeling a nose, an ear, and his breath hitches . 

“Tim,” someone is saying. It overlaps with the faint ghost of Ra’s voice that feels just as real as the Georgia license plate Tim’s eye’s flash over as he keeps scanning. “Tim,” more urgently, and a mantra, over and over, arms still holding him as he twists trying to free himself in the way that never works, never will work, not that it even matters at this point anyway because they all know that he’s too weak to do anything but roll off the angled board and retch on the floor until they slam him back on the rough wood for the next round.

“Tim,” says a voice, that cracks at the end, hot and unyielding and right next to his ear. “It’s Jason, I am holding you right now, I am the only one touching you, I promise, and we’re in North Carolina and you’re safe. It’s raining, and I’m holding you until I can walk us inside. It’s just Jason. You’re safe.” 

There’s a dog whining somewhere close by, followed by a quick shushing sound. 

“Jason,” Tim gets out, squeezing his eyes closed. The world is less real, and more real, and everything is awful and everything is dangerous, and nothing is safe or ever will be again, and Tim might die at any moment, and he can’t believe he ever felt good before in his life. 

“Tim. Hey, Timmy, that’s really good, can you take three deep breaths with me? Really slow, deep ones. Here.” 

Tim tries, and falters. He’s tensing, curling into himself like a collapsing star heading for black hole territory, and then Jason is physically catching his clenching shoulders and rubbing his cheek and there’s Nova’s familiar paws on his lap, her head against his chest, her tongue on his chin, and Tim tries to push away, because he loves her and he wants her but nothing is safe and nothing is okay.

“No,” Jason orders firmly. “Hey, no, open your eyes back up. Remember Bruce explaining why that’s important? Eyes open, Tim.”
Tim wants to argue. He wants to explain what’s going on. But that would take so much effort. It’s easier to be silent, to slip under the ocean’s surface while the hurricane stirs it up and just go away and stop breathing till the tide spits him out on some beach whenever it’s over. Jason’s asking for more, still, and Tim just wants to be left to—to something, to get swept off in the riptide, because that’s less fighting, and he just wants to curl up in a ball and die , from now until everything bad passes and nothing matters anymore. 

Jason curses once, rearranges his grip, and then his voice resurfaces right next to Tim’s ear, hushed and unyielding. 

“Robin,” Flamebird orders. “Open your eyes.” 

Robin drags them open with a sharp breath, fingers clenching in soft fur, and Jason scoots back on his butt to drag them a little further onto the sidewalk and away from the curb gutter that’s rapidly filling with rain. 

Rain on his skin. Water on his face, water unrelenting, but it’s rain, he’s in the US and it’s raining, but the world feels like it’s falling apart and everything is ending. He’s in the US and it’s raining and he’s with Jason and he sees the dogs, Peanut panting anxiously next to Jason because Jason is occupied with Tim and Peanut can’t task, because now Tim’s in the way and messing that up too, even though he’s supposed to be out of trouble and safe on familiar ground. 

“List five things you see,” Jason orders, and Tim drags the scattered fragments of present-him together while the world is ending and tries. 

“The sign,” he manages, so slowly it’s almost slurred. There’s a reassuring squeeze around his shoulders. “Water on the—the asphalt. Um.” He trails off, drifting, and tugs his shipwrecked brain parts back together even more tiredly than before. But he does it. “A red...a red car. SUV. No, I mean, minivan. Red minivan. Uh…” Tim takes a few breaths, looking around, trying to really take in the row of cars, the bushes, the road over the barrier, the paint color of the overhang’s support pillars nearby. 

“We’re wet,” he mumbles. 

“Very,” Jason says, amiably. “Two more things Timmy. You’re doing so well. It’s okay. Tell me what you see.”

Tim takes a deep breath. Then another. He’s sweating under his winter coat. 

“There’s...a McDonald’s sign,” he gets out. “Across the road.”

Jason snorts. “Of course you’d notice that. We all know you have a thing for their pancakes.”

Tim tries to swat behind him at his brother and misses by inches. Jason makes a wounded noise anyway, then pokes Tim’s arm with the fingers he has wrapped around it and urges him to keep going. 

“Our suitcases,” Tim blurts out, “shoot—let me—”

“Hey, no, don’t worry about it, they’ve got waterproof coating,” Jason says, holding Tim back, still in his lap. Tim’s suddenly aware of the odd stare they’re getting from the couple jog-walking towards the hotel entrance with a jacket and a tourist backpack held over their heads, and a tiny part of him laughs hysterically at what they must be thinking—seeing two teenage-looking boys, sprawled on wet concrete in a downpour, at a hotel, luggage in the parking lot tipped over and one boy holding the other in a hug. What a weird thing to walk past. 

“But—” Tim starts.

“The luggage isn’t important,” Jason says, in a voice that’s almost syllable for syllable just like Bruce’s. “You were my priority, okay? I got us out of the way of potential cars, because we can pick the bags up whenever. I’d rather not be picking brother up from wet asphalt instead, you know?” 

“That’s fair,” Tim sighs, while he still feels bad about it. 

“Hey.” Jason flicks his ear and releases his hold around Tim. “Stop beating yourself up. It happened, it’s not a big deal. It’s just me. Okay? Tim. It’s just me and you. I don’t care, I have my own shit, and literally no one else here is going to see us ever again.”

Tim wiggles his way onto his knees, then standing while holding Nova’s harness and letting her nose his free hand. “Yeah,” he acknowledges, coughing a couple times and scrubbing his face with his sleeve. “But I’m supposed to have better control than this. I don’t want to—just get hit whenever, I was working on it.”

“You’re so stupid,” Jason says, kindly. 

“Rude.” Tim cracks his collarbones while rolling his stiff shoulders back.

“Dum dum,” Jason counters, rubbing Peanuts ears and scooping up his suitcase’s handle, water rolling off it in a heavy stream. 

“Mother hen,” Tim snips, and gets a nose flick for his troubles. 

“Don’t think I don’t see you still pale as Queen Elsa and tense as Hal gets when presenting a report to B.” 

“It’s only because Bruce enjoys messing with him.”

“I don’t hear you protesting.”

“Okay, Mr. Trying to Distract From the Fact His Hands Are Shaking,” Tim fires back, as he scoops up his own bags and they start sludging through the water to the hotel doors. 

“Come on, man,” Jason says, half serious and half amused. “All right. Touche. I’m afraid when bad things happen to people I love, okay, sue me.”

Tim stops a few feet shy of the automatic doors’ sensor range and turns to Jason, whose steps falter to a halt half a second later. Water rolls and pours off the straight edges of the drive-up overhang around them, and splatters in a sea of raindrops further out. He and Jason are standing in the frozen space in between, just for a moment—the curtain of falling water around their edges, air cool and full of the smell of damp earth, and they’re draped in the honey-colored rectangles of light pouring out of the glass doors and walls enclosing the warm, dry, plush world within the hotel, so different from the dark night of falling air and water just feet away on either side. 

They’re in the middle of the drop-off lane, just standing still, and probably one or the other of them should care. (Jason, his wild mop of hair curling in the humidity while rogue strands drip into his eyes, maybe, or Tim, head tilted to look up the last several inches that Jason has on him still, his own much finer hair plastered down and framing his bloodshot eyes. It’s impossible to tell how much of his face is water vs. tears. And it’s impossible to tell how much of Jason’s hand trembling is from fear vs. being soaked in the winter cold.)

As it is, neither of them really do. If a car comes, they can move. But this is their moment while the in-between holds a breath, their pause between worlds, and wouldn’t jason like that—it’s like their own version of The Magician’s Nephew, their quiet, uneventful wood-between-worlds as they haul themselves out of one pool and prepare to step chin-up into another. 

“I’m sorry,” Tim says, unable to put into words which things he means, unable to add for that, for what I am right now, for being a burden, for making you feel we had to do this, for scaring you, for everything—

And this is why he’ll always love Jason just a tiny bit more than the others, if he’s honest, just a little bit more deeply even though he’d never say it, because he can look up at Jason who came looking for him for no reason when Tim was a scrawny underclassman, at Jason who never stopped pulling Tim in, inch by inch, in a way that never made him feel pushed but never let him go—he can look up at Jason and say I’m sorry and Jason just knows. He knows the ways Tim means it, and he knows when Tim needs to have sense whacked into him but he also knows when Tim just needs to be allowed to feel bad. And Bruce is amazing, and good for fixing things and holding them and being their rock, but—

But Jason is Tim’s rope. Jason is the other tin can at the end of their homemade phone string, and Tim doesn’t always know what language he’s speaking into his own end, but Jason usually understands anyway. 

“I know, Tim,” Jason says, giving him a small smile, with pained eyes and determined eyebrows and all the usual Jason-ness he carries with him. “I promise it’s okay. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Tim chokes out. “I love you. I’m sorry.” He thunks his forehead against Jason’s down-covered shoulder for a second, then steps back and smiles as well. “Let’s go in. Don’t want you to—to freeze your hair off. How will you get Roy to go on a date with you then?”

“Okay, listen, you little heathen,” Jason says, threateningly, and reaches out to noogie Tim. 

Tim dances away, snorting through his still-runny nose, and they slowly make it inside. A little shaky, a little rough around the edges, and very, very soaked.

But together. And really, truly, pretty much okay. They’re making it, side by side, one foot in front of the other, each step of the way. 

Chapter Text

When Jason quietly wanders in through the open doorway, Tim sits with his eyes closed, breathing in the humid air, letting his head fall forward and bangs fall over his eyes while they start to feel a bit sticky against his forehead. The water laps up against his back and knees as Jason steps up to the edge of the tub behind him with rolled-up pants, sticks one leg in, and kicks Tim gently with his foot.

“Scooch up. You’re hogging all the surface area, I need some too.” 

“You could just wait and take your own shower later,” Tim shoots back, but he scoots over anyway, and Jason kneels down next to the tub with a groan. 

“Too much effort,” Jason retorts. “Man, I forget how stiff driving all day can make you.” He ends up leaning over the edge of the tub and starts to scoop water over his hair with his cupped hands.

Tim sniffs. “I wouldn’t know.” 

“Yeah, ‘cuz you’re a baby,” Jason snorts. He lifts one dripping hand out of the water and flicks water at him.

“Hey! I’m old enough to learn,” Tim grumbles. “Give me a break.” 

“Still a baby,” Jason teases. He pokes the back of Tim’s neck. “Hand me the shampoo. I’ll get our hair.” 

“I can do my own,” says Tim.

“You just had a flashback,” Jason points out. “I’m stiff from driving, but you’re still as tight as a locked-down set of straps on a pickup truck payload. Of course you can do yourself. But isn’t it nice to let someone else help sometimes?”

Tim twists around enough to see him, bracing one arm on the bathtub edge, and frowns. 

“Feels like that’s all I’ve been doing for ages right now,” he tells Jason.

“Bull shit ,” Jason says pleasantly. “You’ve needed help for stuff, but you’re you . You’re always doing as much as you can on your own even when it’d be easier to ask for help. For Chrissake, Timmy, let me scrub your hair, would you? You’re literally already right here in front of me. And I’m not above playing the older brother sympathy card, either.” 

Tim promptly elbows Jason in the kneecap, eliciting a sharp hiss, and grins. “Oh?”

“It’s scary when you have an episode like that,” Jason says bluntly, as his own elbow jabs Tim’s ribs. “You, Bruce, Damian, Dick, whoever—it’s always better when it’s me, because yeah, it might suck and I might be freaked out, but at least I know exactly what’s happening in my own head and don’t feel so helpless. I need to—I need to help people, right? I need to make things better? That’s my thing. And when you’re hurt, or like—when you’re upset or in pain or whatever, and I can’t actually fix it, and you’re suffering, you know? It scares the shit out of me.”

“Language,” Tim says, weakly, because it’s the only thing he can think to say. 

“Shut up, I love you,” says Jason. “Just...can you let me help? For my sake at least?”

Tim twists around one more time, eyebrows furrowed just a little. 

“Alright,” Tim grumbles. “Fine. I’ll grab the shampoo and conditioner. But only if you let me help you stretch out your back later before bed, so you don’t wake up too stiff to walk tomorrow.”

“Deal,” says Jason, and he drops a quick, dripping-wet hair ruffle on Tim’s head before unceremoniously dunking his little brother underwater. The ensuing quick and furious splash war leaves them both well-soaked and the tile around the tub flooded with water they’ll have to sop up with the extra towels later. 

Jason scrubs Tim’s hair and his own with military speed and precision, then spends an extra minute or two making Tim sit under the hot shower stream while Jason digs into the knotted muscles along Tim’s neck and shoulders, releasing some of the tension sitting there. 

They take turns changing one at a time into their pajamas in the bathroom afterwards, and once they’ve cleaned everything up and laid out their clothes for the next morning, Tim follows Jason’s lead and hops into the queen size bed that’s his for the night. 

“Looks like our options are the full cable spread,” Jason says, impressed. He chucks a pillow at Tim’s face from over on his bed, distracting Tim from the feed he’s scrolling through on his phone.

Tim sits up and throws it back straight at Jason’s face. 

“Hm,” Tim says, doing a respectable imitation of Bruce. “Nick at night?”

“Only if it’s appropriate,” Jason warns. 

“Dude. It’s probably SpongeBob. It’s not, like—this isn’t the 90s, or whatever. You’re only a few years older than me, what are you even worried about!”

“I’m the adult,” Jason says primly. “I’m responsible for the wholesome development of your young impressionable mind.”

“You’re young and impressionable, you—”

It is, in fact, SpongeBob. 

They watch until they both have dry, tired eyes and mutually agree it’s probably smart to settle in for the night unless they want to miss their check out time tomorrow. 

They’re in the dark, in the duvets, in the silence for a while. One or the other will shift a little, getting into a more comfortable position—a foot here, a wiggle of shoulders there, once or twice a full roll-over to the other side or a faceplant into one of the pillows. 

“You still awake?” Jason finally whispers into the dark.

“Yeah,” Tim sighs. He rolls over to face Jason’s bed, as if that’ll help him gain night vision all of a sudden.

“Me too,” says Jason.

Tim snorts. “Wow, I had no idea!”

“Shut up,” Jason mutters, but there’s a fond undertone in his voice that takes all the bite out of the phrase. 

They fall silent again for a minute. The only thing visible in the room is the very faint glow around the edge of the drapes, cast by the parking lot lights outside. Jason shifts again, and Tim hears Peanut’s snuffle and a jingling noise as the dog shakes his head before settling back down into a better position against Jason’s side. 

“I still get flashbacks too,” Jason says quietly, and Tim is suddenly wide awake. Before he can say anything back, Jason continues on. “To—stuff that was done to me. Kind of like you. It’s not as bad anymore, and I know nobody’s told you anything about what’s wrong with me—”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Tim starts, fiercely. 

“I don’t mean I’m broken, chill out, I just mean that...that it’s a fact of life that I’ve got trauma that’s never gonna go away,” Jason cuts him off. “Not like—I mean, it’s like—” Jason huffs, and trails off. “It’s not...it isn’t easy for me to talk about any of it. And I try to ignore it, mostly, and I don’t ever like anyone seeing if I’m not okay—I used to hide in stupid places just to avoid it, got myself hurt a bunch of times, Bruce kept having to find me and pull me out of spots, after I’d had a thing and gotten banged up while stuck somewhere, because I wouldn’t come out, it was stupid. And Bruce and Alfie and Dick won’t ever tell anyone anything unless I tell ‘em okay, because I made them swear not to—so I know no one’s told you, and it’s been a long time now and it’s just—I want you to know it’s not anything to do with me not trusting you—”

“Jason—”

“—I just don’t really tell anyone who wasn’t there, like even Babs doesn’t know much, and I’ve felt really bad because I’ve got these triggers and bad days that I know you have to have noticed don’t line up with just, you know—abuse, or whatever, and you need stability and stuff but I just go shut myself away from everyone when that happens and it’s not fair to you.”

“Jason—”

“And it’s not your fault,” Jason rushes on, still hushed in the dark, as if he can’t even stop himself spilling the words anymore. “It’s me, it’s just—I never want to talk about it, or think about it, or be weak around anyone, because it’s like, that gets you killed, you know? That’s what I had to go by for super long, and I know it’s not true with our family, but I just—I hate being weak, but I hate lying to you more—”

“Jason, that’s not lying to—”

“Or keeping secrets, whatever, close enough, I’m sorry I never told you before now, but I—I definitely trust you, I just didn’t want you to have to know too, but maybe it would help, so—” Jason takes a couple breaths. 

“Jason, stop for a minute,” Tim commands, trying to emulate Bruce as best he can. “Breathe. Are you even thinking straight right now?”

Jason’s laugh is just this side of hysterical, and Peanut and Nova are both focused on him, Peanut shifting around in the tangle of duvet and pillows on the bed to try to get Jason to pet him and breathe.

“Not really,” Jason says, tightly. He sounds apologetic.

“Do you—do you want me to call Bruce? And give you the phone?” Tim offers. 

Jason is quiet for a minute, breathing in and out through pursed lips, and Tim flicks the nightstand lamp on to reveal Jason stroking Peanut’s fur over and over with bloodshot, overflowing eyes. 

“Uh,” Jason tries to hide his face with one hand, then gives up and glances over at Tim for a moment. “Yeah,” he rasps.

“Okay,” Tim says. He’s feeling amazingly calm, even though it’s his brother who’s having a Moment, even though he doesn’t really know what to do or where this came from. It’s like, now that it’s not him having a breakdown, he’s actually fine during this kind of situation. 

Tim hits Bruce’s name on his favorites list and waits for their dad to pick up. It doesn’t even make it through the whole second ring before the line clicks. 

“Tim?” 

“Hi,” says Tim. “It’s Jason. Can you talk to him?” And he passes the phone off across the gap between their beds.

There’s a tentative hello, a wet-sounding laugh from Jason, and then Jason spends a while burrowed under the blankets talking quietly with Bruce while Tim puts on his headphones and listens to some YouTube music on the Switch. Their early start is probably a lost cause at this point anyway, and he wants to stay up till Jason’s settled, in case Jason needs him. 

Tim wakes up with one headphone still in, Jason leaning over him with puffy but clear eyes, and sunlight flooding the room from the thrown-open drapes.

“Huh?” he croaks, pushing himself up partway before getting stuck in the tangle of duvet and headphones and two excited dogs looking for good morning scratches. 

“Morning,” Jason says, a greeting and an explanation at once. 

“I fell asleep?”

“Before I even got off the phone with Bruce.” Jason ruffles Tim’s hair, then turns away and walks over to their suitcases. “I fell asleep before I remembered to plug your phone in to charge, so it’s almost dead right now. I’m sorry. But I plugged it in with the fast charger, so it’ll at least have enough juice to get us through breakfast until you can plug it in during the drive.”

Tim shoves at the duvet and sheets till he’s free, immediately rolling over one of his shoulders off the edge of the bed to land on the balls of his feet. He barely manages to catch the water bottle Jason throws at him.

“Are you...feeling better?” Tim asks. 

“Much,” says Jason. “Bruce sorted me out. I’m okay now. Thanks, Timmers.”

“Yeah, of course.” Tim stretches his head to one side, then the other, tipping it back while he takes a large swig of water, trying to work out the stiffness. The eventual crack is heavenly. 

“Breakfast?” Jason asks, a few minutes later, when they’re both dressed and re-packed and have the dogs ready to go. 

“Breakfast,” Tim confirms. 

“And then—the beach!” Jason says, throwing out his chest and making a show of shoving the door to the hallway open with his foot. 

“To Waffle House,” says Tim, cheerfully. “And coffee. And an ungodly amount of waffles. And then the entire Holy Musical B@tman! tracklist.”

“The soundtrack of legends,” Jason agrees, solemnly. 

Then he thumps Tim on the back of the shoulder and starts speed-walking down the hallway. “Come on, last one to the car has to dip a waffle in whatever condiment combo Steph and Dick make up!”

Damian wakes up and knows he is wrong . Something is wrong. He is wrong. He’s...the world isn’t right. He can’t feel things right. Things are—

Damian wakes up again, sometime that must be later, because that is the only logical way time works, but he can’t tell how long, and anyway, it isn’t so much waking up because he wasn’t really asleep, he doesn’t think. Not asleep, but—the world appeared again, and he has eyes that are seeing, and he has no memory of those facts combined before a few seconds ago.

So. He wakes up again. Most of his body is the equivalent of smoke, or if not smoke, then perhaps the absence of smoke; not a swirl of movement and free-shaking atoms, but the absence of their collisions, the absence of any detectable contact, and Damian can only vaguely feel the parts of his body that are pressed the very hardest between weighted blanket and mattress. 

Off in a distant existence, there is light coming in through his always-open curtains. Off in a dreamlike haziness, there are the early riser birds calling him awake, calling him to stretch and practice his katas and try, again, the Tai Chi movements Father is slowly guiding him through piece by piece. Damian thinks, I should get up, if it is morning. I have to be ready. I have to. 

Damian wakes up with his eyes already open, he knows that for certain. His eyes are taking in light on a wall, and he just lived the strange moment where they went from passive light receptors to a tool sending information that says something to see now somewhere deep in the recesses of his brain. 

He assumes he still has one. It doesn’t feel particularly there. But he can still think just the slightest bit, even if it’s slower, even if it takes the effort of an obstacle course run just to think two clear thoughts in a row without losing the first one at the start of the last. 

He should get up. It is morning. He is awake. He can’t feel his body unless something is smashed, like his arms underneath his chest as he rolls facedown onto the mattress. Or unless something is scratched hard, like his fingernails against his face when he scratches an itch he can barely register and only catches himself scraping nails furiously against fragile skin after several canyons of time have slowly swung past. 

He must get up. He must start the morning. He is already behind, he will be late, if he is late, there will be pain. Or worse, they may bring out the fireflies, or the rabbits, early in the day, and he cannot...it is morning. He is—there is a wall, there, white and drywall and covered in—in a crayon drawing? 

A crayon drawing. Richard, he thinks, vaguely, during a brief flash of recognition. Richard’s childish scribble of a whale. Terrible.

Precious. 

Dear. 

He is...he is in bed. He doesn’t feel it. He can, a little. But he cannot . It is morning, and he needs—

Something is wrong. 

He needs to—he needs to be fine, he is not fine, he must achieve the morning—

Damian is awake. The world is unreality and absent sensation, but Damian is awake, and Damian is going to do what is needed. 

He finally slides, slowly, to the edge of the mattress, far later than he should have. 

Damian is half of his fingers, pressed against the fabric he is focusing every bit of his consciousness on in a mantra of hold the waistband and take off pajamas, hold the waistband and pull with fingers, taking off pajamas, hold the fabric to take off pajamas, take off night pajamas, hold onto the fabric, step by step.

Damian is a clean shirt on that he can’t really feel, but watched stubbornly the whole way on, so he knows it’s there. And if he glances down, he sees it, if he presses his hand against a seam, he sort of feels it, so it is there . It is. 

He turns his meagre awareness to his shoes, and the shirt no longer exists. Neither does most of his body besides a few faint sensations, and neither does the world, aside from a vague dreamlike sense of things and space around him. If he looks, he sees it, he knows it, he feels that it is real and there, but the second he is gazing at the floor, instead, or thinking about his fingers, to make them move carefully, correctly, not to slow or hard or fast or wrong, the awareness vanishes.

Damian exists. But only as a shade of himself, a faded avatar. The world exists, but only when Damian does not. One or the other. 

The shade of Damian feels a niggling of desperately lonely terror, he thinks. He can’t really feel much of anything, but he thinks that this is what it is. He is alone in non-existence, in a world he cannot perceive properly in a body that he cannot fully feel. 

Damian is in an aquarium of the void of sensation, wrapped up in an enormous—blanket burrito. Richard keeps trying to get him to do those. He is swirling in the water unable to control his level of floating or much of his body at once, and the whole time there is a giant blanket around his water bubble blocking the world.

Is he even in the world? Truly? Is it still there? Is he still here? 

Damian cannot feel himself sitting on the floor, frozen with one hand on a shoe, one leg sprawled in front of him, one sock half-on the other foot—he cannot be sure of things, cannot hold on well enough to the reality that shifts into concrete touch for mere seconds before turning dreamlike again, cannot tether himself hard enough into his own body when he feels one wrong breath away from vanishing into the infinite-ness of outer space like Father did once, in his story, but how could Superman catch a consciousness without its body—he would be lost and drifting further forever, and it stills his very core, this pressing terror of disconnection and absence and isolating distance.

A knock. There is a knock, on his door. He struggles and cobbles together a thought: I should answer it. It is the door. I must—

Damian wants, foolishly, to cry. He cannot feel, and he is an Al Ghul and a Wayne, and he does not cry. But it is so alone and wrong. He does not want to drift away. He does not want to fall, or float, or anything else. He doesn’t want a dream. He wants the home that is new. He chose it, it’s not fair for it to be—to be unreal. It is not fair. He is alone, and he may not even exist anymore. Is this death? Is it hell? So close to touching, but never touched? 

Damian wakes up looking at his sneaker, eyes dry as if he has forgotten to blink for a hundred years. His shoe is not real. But it is, he knows it, and if he reaches and squeezes it in his hand—like this—just like this, his fingers on the rubber, the raised seam, and there, one on the lace—
He can’t feel it much. But it is real. His fingers are there . Half of them, at least. That is a feeling. 

Damian stares at his hand, and at the shoe, and doesn’t move. He hardly breathes.

If he focuses all of his awareness on them, he cannot feel his body and he cannot feel the world. But he can feel his fingers where the shoe is pressed in, and he can feel the faint texture and firmness of the sneaker, and it is real, real, real.

He is in a dream. Everything is the unreality of a dream. But not a good dream. It is just a dream, and he cannot make it end. 

Damian squeezes the shoe harder, revels in the slight extra sensation the metal shoelace tip gives when it presses into his skin suddenly, and squeezes more. He still cannot feel enough, but if he runs into something hard, or presses against something sharp like this, it is at least something better.

“Damian. Damian, son. I’m sorry for coming in without permission, but you weren’t answering. I got worried.”

That is Father’s voice. He knows it is Father. He looks up, not moving his hand, not moving the shoe, or his sock foot, stares at the man above him, the man crouching down and rocking up onto the balls of his feet as he settles in a squat, stares at Father and wants so, so badly for him to be real, for himself to be able to go back in time and fix this morning, not fail his practice routine and fail being a person. 

Father’s face is scrunched, slightly. He is trying to use that new word, Timothy taught him scrunched to describe Cassandra’s nose when she was thinking of how to beat them both at Uno the other day, and Damian decided he liked how the word feels in his mouth. 

He doesn’t know if he would feel it right now if he tried to speak.

Father’s face is doing something that looks like upset, and Damian needs to be better.

“I apologize for your trouble,” he gets out, but he isn’t completely sure he got the intonation correct. 

“There’s no trouble,” he sees Father say, steady and sure as a rock splitting a stream. “Habibi. Are you all right?”

Damian is watching Father’s face, trying to hold onto it being real, and he has lost his hands. 

He squeezes hard, much harder than before, in a brief flash of fear that this time, this time he won’t get his body-feeling back, it’s slipped away the very last few inches and he didn’t notice because he was trying so hard to pay attention, to hold fast to a tatter of reality with other people in it, not so empty.

Damian breathes in sharply at the sudden flash of discomfort against his skin as the metal lace tip scrapes skin hard enough to hurt. It’s completely gone in a moment, but it was the most real thing he’s felt so far, and it wasn’t nice, but for a second—

“Damian,” Father says. 

Damian squeezes hard, so hard, and this time doesn’t gasp, just focus on that awareness. Then he’s releasing the shoe to reposition the lace better, except a large, warmer, rougher hand is enveloping his and knocking the lace out of the way. 

“No,” says Damian, dumbly, able to think of nothing but the way he can feel the rougher skin, but not as much as he knows he should. 

“Baby,” Father is saying, very softly, and Damian tears his eyes away from their hands to see Father’s other hand catching Damian’s free one as well. “Can you try to look at me for a moment?”

Damian stares at Father’s face. It is furrowed and filled with craters and mountains and dips and stubble. It still looks kind. 

“I don’t think you’re feeling very well,” offers Father. “It seems like things are very hard for you today. Is that right?”

He is quiet in the in-between. The grown-ups are so patient here, and Damian has not gotten used to it, still. Maybe he never will. There is no frustration when he takes time to speak or when he does not have an answer immediately, here. There are no punishments for laziness or wasting others’ time. They wait. Like Father, now. Like this. 

Damian is wiggling his fingers, trying to be within himself, trying to have hands and a body and a voice, and Father squeezes, tight and firm, helping. Then eases. Then squeezes again, and Damian—

“I don’t...know,” Damian gets out. Another reassuring squeeze. Damian desperately tries to find the reality of his room, or of himself, of anything besides his faint hands and the knot at his center. 

“Father,” he blurts, suddenly. Desperately. “Father. Please.” Damian’s trying to squeeze Father’s hands back so hard his knuckles are probably white. 

“Damian,” Father says, firm and worried. “What do you need? Please what, habibi?”

“I want to wake up,” Damian says, and immediately bursts into tears. 

Arms full of terrified, crying ten-year-old, Bruce seeks out Alfred, first, and informs him that they’re having a Bad Day. 

“Quite,” replies Alfred, sympathy on his face as he runs one hand through Damian’s sweaty hair. “Are you setting up in the family lounge?”

Bruce nods. “It’ll feel safe in there for him, as much as anything can. Damian, son? Could we sit on one of the sofas, do you think? A big L-shaped one?”

Damian nods, barely sniffling anymore, but his face is pressed as hard into Bruce’s sweater as he can manage and his hands are fisted so hard in the knitted fabric that it looks almost as if he’s trying to climb into it. 

“Excellent,” Alfred says. “Master Damian, you do not need to look at me or respond in any way. But please remember my promise to never lie to you when I say that I love you and that you will not feel this way forever. All bad days pass, my boy, and we will be with you every hour of the way through the rest of this one.”

“You will feel better,” Bruce murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of Damian’s hair for a moment, squeezing him even tighter. “You’re not alone. This has happened to others before you, and I promise you will wake up all the way. Until you do, we’re not going to leave you alone.”

“Shall I call Master Richard?” Alfred asks. 

“Would you?” says Bruce. “Thanks, Alf. I’m going to get us settled in there. I left my phone up in my room, so—”

“I will call him in your stead,” Alfred cuts him off. “It is the least I can do. And I shall bring you the usual basket of ice packs and sensory items, along with some easy foods, since breakfast does not appear to be an option at the moment.”

“You’re better than an angel, Alfred,” Bruce throws over his shoulder with a grateful look as he steps through the doorway. 

“Not even a bit,” Alfred chides, but he smiles anyway. “And I shall send Miss Cassandra to join you once she arrives from the Gordons’ this afternoon.”

“Excellent,” Bruce calls back. “After the sleepover and speech practice with Babs, I’m sure Cass will be ready for some quiet company too.”

Damian’s day is, as far as days go, categorically awful. But it does get better, here and there, slowly. 

Father and Alfred did not lie. He is not alone or without human contact for a single minute more all day, aside from the few times he needed to use the restroom. In fact, Father, Richard, and Cass spend a ridiculous amount of time squabbling over who gets to hold onto him most. 

On a normal day, Damian would rather claw his own skin off than be touched this often. But this is not a normal day, and if he thinks too hard for longer than half a second, the only things that start to matter are the way he can’t feel his body—the way he doesn’t know if he will be hurt because of that or if he will hurt someone else on accident, especially Ace—and the way nothing is real, the way the world that is supposed to be there is instead a horrible dream-like tangle of not-real, not-real, not-real. 

So, as Bruce explains, the order of the day is distraction, distraction, and more distraction. 

They keep him touching as many textures as possible, drinking ice-cold liquids, snacking on anything he’s not terrified of hurting himself with. Richard puts show after movie after documentary on the large screen opposite their couch pile, and they pass hours that way, keeping Damian distracted enough that while he feels terrible, while things are not all right, while he is wrong, he isn’t about to collapse from it any longer. He is still slipping, still nearly drifting into space without stars that sing and without the ability to fly, but he has others around holding onto him while his tether tries to break. 

It might. It might, still, and he is still scared. 

But there are hands holding onto him, and arms wrapping him up, and while he’s still alone in his own isolated space suit, or so it feels, he breathes a little deeper knowing that if that tether does snap, he won’t be lost right away. 

And if it doesn’t, then it’ll be easier for them to pull him back into the ship when the empty coldness gives up on its attempts to pull him in. He’s confused and disoriented, still. He knows the words for what’s going on—dissociating, derealization, numbness. Father explained. It makes sense. But he is still disoriented, yes, and frustrated, and scared—

But he has a family who hold on, now. He is not being abandoned for this, he’s being placed in a position of honor. 

And as much as it doesn’t make sense, as much as he is not used to this, does not expect the amount of concern and selflessness these people always exhibit at times like this...Damian is grateful. 

Damian is wrong. He woke up wrong, he feels wrong, he does not know how to fix it, and for once, he cannot even fight to keep himself safe. But for one of the first times he can remember, he thinks, maybe, honestly—it is okay. 

This is what Richard and Bruce try to explain about family. This is what Damian ran away for, looked for, resisted and fought for—something that is merciful to those who are hurt, or not as big, or different than others. Something that is kind to rabbits. Something that would not hurt fireflies, or crying soldiers, or his mother, or little boys. Even if they do take too long to climb up a mountain, and deserve a consequence for it. 

Damian is not okay. And neither is the world. But with Father’s hand constantly holding him tight, and Richard and Cassandra keeping him close even if he does not often respond, and constant sound and movement to watch, to pass seconds that feel like years and hours that feel like minutes?

He is only afraid of lost , now, not of being thrown away anymore. Because this is what he looked for—and found . In this world, here, they are friends with dogs , and tend to flowers that don’t even give fruit in return, and they are kind to birds and boys and when he sat on their plane and knew they were fully within their rights to leave him on a mountain and never look back, Father reached out and hugged him and brought Damian home.

Chapter Text

It feels like an entire day, but it's actually only just around lunch when Damian wakes back into his body with all the grace and gentleness of a car crash.

He is supported, loose, leaned at an angle against Father's steady chest with his legs carefully bundled blanket-burrito-style across Richard and Cassandra's laps where they sit on the other sofa cushions. He can hear a slow, even heartbeat under one ear. His head is squished into the ribbed sweater covering Father's sternum. The dim sconce lights along the room's perimeter barely do anything more than outline the furniture; instead, every rise and dip of the fabric that folds and twists across his toes is lit in blues, reds, whites, greens—blues again—a nature documentary casts the light from somewhere in the distance. The light flickers, out of sync with a quiet narrator speaking in a strong British accent that Damian isn't focused enough to translate. Damian is held and softly touched and in a room and warm and there is sound and light and other bodies and a complete flash flood of body signals and the steady shift of firm ribs under his head once, twice, a thumping under his ear out of sync with the rush throughout all of Damian, and there is first a moment of stillness and now a moment of ice—and now pain, slamming, contact registering on his hand, his elbow, a knee a knee and now shoulder-hip-hand, and the blanket sailing as far away from his body as possible—

Damian's on fire and exploding and filled with utter, desperate terror, and he's free and he’s trapped and he scrabbles to the middle of the floor and screams .

Bruce has an arm slapped soccer-mom-style across Dick and Cass before Damian more than tumbles onto the rug. He risks two seconds to lock eyes with Dick and murmur Jason-style before turning his full attention back to Damian, confident that Dick and Cassandra can handle themselves and know to go call Alfred on an intercom and then take care of themselves with whatever will make them feel better until Bruce is able to come round and check on them himself.

Bruce gently packs away the ice and urgency flooding his body into a mental cabinet for later, kicks his shoes off, grabs one of the nearest throw pillows, and sinks down onto the floor. “Damian,” he offers, clear and enunciated. “I’m here with you. I will not leave you alone. You are safe in this room.” 

Damian doesn’t uncoil from the crumpled ball he’s folded into—knees to his chin, hands locked over his ears, elbows over his face with his whole head bent over his knees. He’s only pausing his screams when he runs out of air, and Bruce can see Damian’s fingers pressing so hard against his hair that the knuckles and nail beds look white. 

Bruce resists the urge to go scoop his child up, despite how strong it is. That’s the last thing Damian likely needs right now, and bruce isn’t naive enough anymore to think that hugs and comfort will always fix every child’s distress every time.

“I’m here,” he says again, keeping perfectly still, kneeling down just a body’s length away from Damian. “Damian, you are safe. I know you feel bad. This will pass soon. You’re still safe.” Damian rocks harder, crunches further, and Bruce sees sweat starting to peek through his soft pajama shirt in spots, the skin visible on the back of his neck appearing flushed-hot-red. 

“It’s okay to feel this,” Bruce makes sure to say in a pause as Damian catches his breath after choking mid-shriek on what was probably spit, from the sound of it. “It’s safe here. You are safe , habibi. I’m here if you want me.” He’s silent for a few moments, then adds, “You will be okay.”

Alfred slips in maybe a minute or so after that, the small basket in his arms that he and Bruce used to use quite often when Jason was younger—terrified, freshly off the streets, and often inconsolable. Alfred, bless him, sets the basket next to Bruce on the floor and immediately takes out the old CD player with a recording of the sounds from the Manor’s garden to plug it in on a corner table. 

Bruce glances between Damian’s now-quieter keening figure and the contents of the basket while he rummages through the items. He manages to find the trusty pair of noise-canceling headphones that ought to fit Damian all right, and one of the thin blankets Leslie sewed for them a lifetime ago that smells like Alfred’s favorite fabric softener at all times. As an afterthought, he reaches in and plucks out one of the Beanie Babies no one’s used for several years—a little floppy-eared dog that might be acceptable if Damian wants something soft to rub.

Alfred slips back out with a whisper promising to have warm vanilla milk ready on the stove when they need it, and Bruce scoots a couple of feet closer to Damian. 

“Habibi,” Bruce says. “Can you hear me? Do you want help?”

Damian’s quieting noises pitch back up into an angry shriek, and one hand leaves his left ear to slap hard but sloppily in Bruce’s direction. Bruce doesn’t even get his next word out before the hand is followed up with a sharp kick that almost connects with his kneecap. Then Damian’s agitation shifts suddenly, and he’s near-instantly turned on himself and started hitting his head over and over against the floor, and one of his wrists against his head. Bruce is quick to grab the throw pillow from beside him and stick it between Damain’s forehead and the floor before any real damage can be done. 

He slides backwards a few feet, makes plenty of noise so Damian can tell, in case Damian was feeling crowded. After a few seconds, Damian seems to settle a bit. He goes still, except for one last swing of his hand that gets thrown in Bruce’s direction like a tiny warning.

“Okay,” Bruce agrees immediately. “I hear you, baby. I hear you. I’m here if you want me. You do what you need to. I won’t touch you.”

And they sit. Damian in agony, Bruce patient as a statue, desperately holding himself back, trying to sort out whether this is a meltdown or a flashback or something else or all of the above before reminding himself it doesn’t really matter at the moment and turning his focus back to Damian himself. It feels like they stay there for hours, Bruce occasionally offering verbal reassurance and Damian slowly tiring out until he’s more hiccuping than screeching. His body looks half limp now, and Bruce aches for how exhausted he knows his boy must be feeling. 

They sit there still, even longer, while Damian slowly leans sideways till he’s ultimately curled on his side with his feet dangling limp against the rug. The rigid edges of his profile start smoothing out in tiny degrees. He’s quiet enough to finally hear the very faint piano music coming from the side table, it seems, and Bruce feels the first wash of relief trickle through his own jangling nerves when one of Damian’s fingers appears to start tapping slowly in time with the melody. 

When Bruce offers the soft blanket by sliding the edge underneath Damian’s free hand, Damian doesn’t even hesitate before gripping the edge and rolling onto his front, face in the rug and knees pulled up beneath him so his body is curled like a peanut over his shins and the blanket rests over him like a tiny tent. Bruce smiles a little, finally. He gives the boy a few cycles of breathing to transition a little more from panting to quiet, and then Bruce softly speaks again.

“Dami,” he says. “I bet your body feels bad right now.”

There’s a brief silence, and then the Damian-size blanket lump makes a vaguely agreeing noise. 

Bruce nods, even though Damian probably can’t see him. “It’s never easy when our bodies do this. You’ve had a very hard day. I’m sorry that you hurt.” He watches the Damian-lump for any sign of movement. “Are things too bright or loud right now?” He’s prepared to wait for Damian to decide how he wants to respond, and ends up surprised as Damian almost immediately shakes his head under the blanket. “Okay,” Bruce replies. “That’s good to know. Do you want to stay right there for a while, or move somewhere else?”

He waits. One second, three seconds, five seconds—Damian wiggles forward as he pulls the blanket down slightly and tugs it closed again just behind his ears, still covering half his head and his neck up to his chin, and looks at Bruce out of the corner of one eye. 

“This,” he says, and Bruce carefully doesn’t let his expression change as he hears how rough Damian’s throat sounds. 

“All right,” Bruce replies, making sure to sound relaxed. “Sounds good. Would you like company? Or would you like us to leave you alone for a little while?”

Damian turns his face into the floor and says “Alone,” into the rug, so muffled Bruce almost can’t hear it. 

Bruce nods, and pushes himself up into a squat with his hands resting on his knees. He resists the urge to reach out and brush a clump of Damian’s frizzed-up curls behind one little ear, resists the impulse to scoop his baby son up and not let him go until they’re both somewhere the rest of the adults in the world will never be able to touch them again, resists the need screaming from his own emotions to protect protect protect that still hasn’t stopped roaring since he was eight years old in an alleyway, staring down the reality of an uncontrollable world. 

This isn’t about him and his emotions. There is a ten year old child here who has had his boundaries violated so extensively that he doesn’t even know they exist, and Bruce cannot let his own feelings take the driver’s seat and damage Damian further. 

So Bruce rocks up onto his heels, lets his knee pop as he stands. He places a bottle of water and the dog beanie baby within arms reach of Damian, and then the headphones next to those. 

“If you want to hold a little stuffed dog,” he says, “I put one right there. And there are headphones to help if you want the world to be quiet, and water for your throat. I’m going to go check on you siblings, and then I’ll be back to check on you in fifteen minutes, all right? We can see then how you’re feeling. If you want to rest longer, I’ll leave again until it’s time to check that you’re okay. If you want to get up when I come back, then we’ll head to the kitchen to pick up the vanilla steamers that Alfred made if you feel up to that. I love you, Damian. If you need us, the intercom is over by the door, like always.”

Damian doesn’t reply, but he does seem to loosen a tiny bit—although that may be Bruce’s wishful thinking. Whichever it is, Bruce lets it go and turns, walks quietly out of the room and tugs the door almost shut behind him. He takes several steps away from the doorway, leans against the wall, and slides down quietly till his tailbone hits the hardwood and his head tips back against the wallpaper, eyes closed, brow furrowed, lips tight. 

He can afford a few minutes of calming himself down before he checks on his kids—he has a sneaking suspicion they’ll be together, anyway, probably in Dick’s room. Probably doing yoga. Cass still relies mostly on co-regulation from others, because she’s so far behind developmentally thanks to her father. And Dick, of course, loves helping his siblings and feels best when he’s around others anyway. So Bruce suspects that they’ll be together, helping each other settle, and probably scheming about how to figure out what made Damian have such a bad day today and how they can fist-fight his past trauma. 

It’s Bruce who’s still alone, right now. He’s the one who’s still keyed-up and electrified inside, with nowhere for the panic to go and no way to express it in front of Damian for all those minutes. Bruce can afford a little time for this, because it’ll let him be the father he wants to be in front of his children, instead of losing control of his own emotions. It’s not Dick’s job to co-regulate Cass, despite his willingness to do it. Bruce is their father, and Bruce wants to help, and he’s going to be what Cass and Dick and Damian need. He just needs to take care of himself first.

So he keeps his head tipped back gently against the wall and begins to move from his toes up, flexing and pulling, tensing and relaxing, bleeding off the thrumming tightness from his muscles. He counts his breaths and forces measured inhales and exhales, in and out, in and out, in and out, flex his hips, release and melt, press into his diaphragm, feel its firmness, breathe out into calm. And it’s keeping him afloat, certainly. He’s old hat at this by now. He knows the drill—breathing, tension release, focus, grounding—but somehow he can’t shake the edge of the panic, can’t let go of the extra fear because this is his baby boy, this is his newest child, back from what Bruce believed all these years was the dead, his tiny child making noises of such agonized distress Bruce can’t even imagine what causes a child that young to feel that horribly, and his boy was feeling that on Bruce’s own floor while Bruce was helpless to do anything but sit, couldn’t even help the pain, much less take it away in the first place—his smallest, most aloof child, still so hesitant to even allow help, full of so much pain, and Bruce couldn’t—

He switches his breathing up, breathing out through his mouth now to add some extra flow to the process, to distract himself, to focus himself. His hands lift from the floor, where he’s pressed his palms into the wood on either side of his sitting bones and tried to ground himself, and cross across his chest to rest like a butterfly on his shoulders as he begins to tap. And breathe. And count. And tap, and tap, left right left right left right left right, and release his hips again, since the tightness keeps creeping in, and not think about Damian alone in the room a few steps away, and breathe more, tapping—

Hands press over his own, suddenly, stilling them, and Bruce’s eyes snap open as he half-gasps. 

And there is Alfred, steady, safe, Alfred in front of him, knelt between Bruce’s legs and curling his fingers gently around Bruce’s sweaty hands. 

“You’re tapping a bit fast, my boy,” Alfred chides gently. He’s lifting Bruce’s hands up, holding them firmly in his steady, warm ones, keeping them aloft between the two men on the floor. Bruce lets him. Alfred squeezes Bruce’s fingers once. “I daresay you might find it easier to calm down if you have a little help on a day such as this, mm?”

Bruce blinks. 

Alfred rearranges Bruce’s hands to rest in his lap, then lifts his own hands back up—one pressing gently on Bruce’s sternum, one coming to rest along Bruce’s cheek as if he was a child again, needing tears brushed away, needing the feel of his mother’s hand comforting him like he’d never be able to truly feel again. Like he’s felt from Alfred now a thousand times, over these decades. 

“Remember to breathe,” Alfred prompts, not a hint of judgement in his tone. 

Bruce tips forward before he even realizes he’s moving, and somehow despite his lack of any sort of plan they end up tangled together in the position Bruce always finds safest, Alfred leaning against the wall and Bruce leaned back against him, back-to-chest, his own arms in the butterfly position again while Alfred’s wrap around him in his entirety, around his shoulders and folded arms, pressing Bruce together like the best kind of bear hug and letting Bruce tip his head back against Alfred’s neck. Somehow it still works even though their sizes are reversed all these years on. Somehow this still makes Bruce feel safe, in these moments, somehow Alfred isn’t sick of it after all this time, somehow he still offers, somehow Bruce still accepts, and somehow they all make this work. 

“Just keep breathing, Bruce,” Alfred murmurs as his son shudders intermittently in his arms. “I have you. The world can wait. You are not alone and you do not need to give all of yourself without taking a rest. I have you for now.”

And, like always, somehow—he does.

Chapter Text

They’re back at the beach that evening, after spending the late afternoon holed up in the nearest coffee shop taking advantage of climate control and a low-distraction environment to tackle some of Tim’s schoolwork that they’ve so far neglected the whole trip. Not that they weren’t given permission to neglect it, but still. Tim hates falling behind in general, and since he’s already still trying to catch up to where his class is meant to be at this point in the semester, they figure it won’t hurt to knock a bit of it out of the way while they have spare time and energy. Besides, Jason is missing his own homework and studying more than a little. Tim’s high school Calculus might not be his first choice of schoolwork, but Jason’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. At least it’s something. 

But their quiet back-and-forth over Tim’s Calc problems ended quite a while ago, giving way to a couple of lazy hours with Tim picking up where he left off reading Now Entering Addamsville and Jason sprawled sideways in the other armchair, fast asleep beside him.

And now they’re side by side all over again, in their camp chairs, on the small rise just above the sand. Jason has Peanut panting happily, tongue lolling, sitting—as much as it can be called “sitting”, anyway—on his lap, apparently not minding that he has to crane his neck backwards to breathe without a face full of German Shepherd fur in his way.

Tim can’t help smiling a bit every time he looks over. 

“Isn’t his butt digging into your lap?” he asks, while his hand rubs gentle circles along Nova’s much more sensibly placed jaw, plopped sleepily on his lap while she leans most of her weight against his left leg. 

“Of course not,” Jason retorts. Tim can barely hear him around the giant wall of fluff.  “Peanut is a perfect lap dog, how dare you insinuate such a thing?” Shooting Tim a mock scowl, Jason scratches Peanut’s ear till the dog turns his head far enough for Jason to nuzzle foreheads with him. “Tim is just being a meanie, isn’t he? Yes he is. He is, I know. don’t listen to him little dude, you’re doing amazing.” 

“They’re ridiculous,” Tim informs Nova, who blinks and licks his wrist a few times. “Yeah. You’re much more sensible.” He can’t help sliding up into a sing-song when he watches her ears perk up. “I love you. I lovvvvve you.”

“Oh, come on,” Jason says, but he’s still grinning. “Now who’s being ridiculous?”

Tim sticks out his tongue, Jason sticks his own out back at him, and they both fall quiet again, backlit softly by the string lights Jason taped up all along the edges of the open car trunk behind them. 

Tim found himself zoning out in a good way for once. The layers of color rising up from the horizon, fading from orange to peach to pink to gray-blue haze, the barely-visible surface of the water caught between the vanishing of the sun and the rise of the moon—if it was going to be visible this evening at all, he wasn’t actually sure—and the constant rushing of the surf hitting the beach down the bank from them were all so different from the sound of the ocean in Gotham Harbor. 

You couldn’t really call it ocean sound at all, anyway, since it was really only seagulls and the sound of water hitting docks and watercraft. Even on the few occasions he’d been at the coast elsewhere in Jersey, he’d never gotten to go during anything but mid-winter, to make the rounds at a few holiday business-partner parties, where the adults ate lots of weird cheese and  hors d'oeuvres and the like, three whole kids who got dragged along mostly just tried to stay in the furthest corner of the least used smoking den and poke around on their phones until a parent found them and routed them out. 

They were so stupid. The parties never even had enough crackers to go with the amount of cheese. They should have at least matched the cheese if they weren’t going to offer extra just for snacking or for pairing with the little sausages and various spreads. 

Tim still wouldn’t have eaten any of the non-cracker foods if they did, but still. 

“Hey,” Jason says, drawing the word out just a little. “I wanted—no, sorry, let me...are you—fuck. Shit. Hang on.” 

Tim watches while Jason takes a few deep breaths and then sighs. 

“Okay. Lemme start over,” Jaston tries again. “We obviously went on this trip to get out of Dodge for a bit, right? And we definitely needed it. Like, so bad.”

“So bad,” Tim agrees. 

“It’s been good. I’ve really missed you.” Jason’s voice gets the slightest hint of a crack, even though he’s well past the point of being able to blame it on puberty. “I mean, I know we’ve been around each other a ton for ages now, with the epidemic and Summer break and then ever since you got back, but it hasn’t been us. It’s not like it was.”

Tim looks down and starts rubbing Nova’s back where she’s sprawled out dozing across his feet. “Yeah.” He lifts his head to look out at the ocean again, where the skyline has dimmed considerably in just the past few minutes. It’s almost impossible to see the actual waves now. “It’s not like before. I miss you at school. And just hanging out.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason says. 

“No, it’s not your fault,” Tim rushes to assure him, twisting in the camp chair. “You’re not doing anything wrong. I’m glad you got to go to college finally. It wasn’t fair that you and all the other Gotham students got stuck having to wait an extra year almost. That wasn’t fair at all, and you should go to college, because you’re so smart, and you love school, and you’ll be the absolute best ever in the English department, okay, and I’m so proud of you, and it’s okay that I’ll miss you when you’re gone. I can miss you and be okay with you being gone. Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it’s not good change. You deserve to go. You should be happy.”

Jason looks at Tim seriously. “I am happy.”

Tim shakes his head. “No, you should be happy in your own life. I mean—” He scowls because the words aren’t slotting into place in his head that match up with what he feels, and the words coming out of his mouth aren’t even the few words that his brain is supplying. “Ugh. I mean, like, I’m always gonna be sad that you have to leave. I like having you around. You’re my big brother. My first brother. And you’re my friend, and you’re super cool, and you don’t usually get annoyed with me like most kids at school, and you like the same video games and there’s no one who’s as easy to just hang out with like we do, but—you have to grow up. You’re a person.”

Jason tries to cut off his laugh before it comes out, but it turns into a sort of half-snort-half-sneeze instead. “Thanks for that observation, Timmy.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do, I do.” Jason lifts his hands for a moment in surrender. “I get it. Don’t worry. I’m just sorry that I can’t—that it can’t stay like it was before everything. Not that I’d change finding Cass or any of the rest of it, God, no, but...it was nice, wasn’t it. Just you and me. And Dick sometimes, but really just the two of us.”

“It was definitely a lot quieter,” Tim says, and Jason really does laugh that time. 

“Maybe,” he admits. “But we got super derailed. I just wanted to check if—dude, you are 100% allowed to tell me to fuck right off, and I won’t ask anything again for the rest of the trip, that’s fine. I’m sure you’re sick of having every adult in the world up in your business 24/7 for the past several weeks. You don’t have to talk to me about anything. But if you want to...I just wanted to ask. What are you actually thinking?” He pauses for a second, then adds, “Because I don’t think anyone has asked you ‘How are you doing, Tim?’ the right way, and I think someone needs to, and I’m worried, and I want to know if you’re not okay.” 

Tim looks back over, then, and Jason is staring right at him, gaze piercing, the way it only gets when he’s absolutely focused. His big brother’s face is fixed and steady and exactly the way it looked the day they sat across the cafeteria table the first time Jason pried and Tim hedged and things all progressed from there. The only real difference is Jason face being framed by fairy lights instead of fluorescents. 

Jason stares, and Tim stares back, and he thinks nope, we don’t think about anything, and then he sees Jason’s lip just-so-slightly tucked in on the left the way it gets when he’s purposefully not biting it but really really wants to, and something in Tim’s chest up by his collarbones feels like it bursts open a little, and that something starts trying to push its way up into his throat. 

He doesn’t swallow. Instead, Tim opens his mouth and speaks, slowly, choosing each word so carefully that he sounds like Bruce does on hard nights. 

“You know when you’re walking outside somewhere, and it’s fall? And you step on a black walnut out of nowhere, and then you’re suddenly in that moment where you’re just sliding at warp speed across the grass, trying not to pull every single muscle in your body while your legs, are practically doing the splits, and your heart completely stops but you don’t even have time to do anything except...desperately try to clench everything you can so you stay upright at the end and not dislocate your whole everything? But you’re just kind of confused the whole time?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” Jason replies. 

“That’s how I’ve been feeling,” Tim finishes. 

“Ah,” says Jason. “Okay. Thanks for telling me.” He looks at Peanut, who’s still in his lap, and scratches the dog’s shoulders while glancing back over at Tim for a moment. “Is it okay if I take a minute to think before I respond? I’m not mad or anything. I just want to process.”

Tim shrugs. “Sure.” 

They sit in silence again, for a series of slow breaths, and the sky above them is beginning to show stars clearly now that the horizon has dimmed to near-black. Tim thinks, if he squints hard, that he can just make out Cassiopeia and Saturn. 

“Okay,” Jason says, after a while. “Thanks for telling me, little brother. I can’t believe you managed to actually put something like that into words, but then again if I guessed who might be able to, it’d be you. Are you okay if I ask you a few questions, or do you not want to talk about it anymore?”

Tim thinks for a few seconds, then says, “That’s okay.”

“Thanks,” says Jason. “Okay. Um, you’ve been feeling really startle-y lately, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. I mean, you’ve been around for it. It was your bed I almost broke your face in when I jumped at the door closing.”

“It wasn’t anywhere near that bad, you’re just being mean to yourself,” Jason retorts, rolling his eyes. “Stop that.” He sighs. “It always sucks when hypervigilance gets super intense, I’m sorry you’re dealing with it right now. It’s miserable and super exhausting.”

Tim doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just shrugs. 

“Question numero dos,” Jason goes on. “Can you think of a couple words that fit how you’ve been feeling emotionally lately? It’s okay if you can’t.”

This one has Tim staying silent for a good couple of minutes. Jason doesn’t interrupt him even once. He does, however, dig two thick blankets out of the trunk stash and drop one of them on Tim’s lap with a quick noogie to the top of his head. While a displaced and disgruntled Peanut sleepily picks his way across the tiny gap between their chairs to flop down against Nova’s side and close his eyes with a sigh, Tim unfolds the blanket and wraps it around his body and over his head like a cloak, lifting his feet up to perch on the edge of the chair and burrowing his whole self under the warmth until he’s a scrunched-up ball of microfleece. 

As he burrows his blanket-fisted hands under his chin, and then leans the whole shebang on top of his knees, Tim finally speaks again. 

“I’m not upset,” he says at last. “Everyone expects me to be mad, or scared of everything, or super sad, or something, but I’m not. I know I’m supposed to be, but I’m just not. I mean, I wish it hadn’t happened, and I’m definitely scared of Ra’s and stuff, and like—I mean, you know. I’ve flipped out a few times. But I don’t feel upset. I just don’t really feel anything at all. I think I’m stuck.”

Jason looks at him with very slightly furrowed brows, but his mouth doesn’t look concerned. It just looks—if Tim had to guess, he’d say maybe it looked...relaxed? Understanding? He doesn’t know. 

“I just feel like there’s never a stop,” he almost mumbles. “I kind of thought for a while that everything was going to be settled, kind of, after Bruce got custody and everything. Not perfect or whatever, but like...okay. Stable, I guess. And then my mom got sick and that was bad, but I thought it’d be over sometime and then maybe things would settle down, but then the whole awful attack happened, and all of that stuff, and it was like, okay, well, this is terrible, but everyone says it’ll be okay eventually and things are improving so I’ll believe it because it makes sense. And it was okay for a few months again, just like before, but it was even better because Steph’s mom was better, and I felt good again, and Cass is so much happier and we were all back to kind of normal routines and stuff? And school was happening, so life was like, “yeah, see, things are going to be all normal and okay again, it’s all over”, and you were starting college and it was all good. And then just like that, everything went insane again, and I don’t know how to—” 

Tim stops and does a few rounds of breathing exercises while he tries to get his thoughts straighter again. Jason scoots his chair over till their arm rests bump, and then his hand is there, gently pressing on Tim’s head with just enough pressure to offer, if Tim wants it, but not enough to force. 

Tim tips his head and follows the pressure, and he takes in a long breath after his head hits Jason’s shoulder. It doesn’t matter that they’re both at a weird angle, that the cloth armrests are shoved into Tim’s ribs, that Tim’s leg is pressing into the cupholder and Jason’s arm is at an awkward spot at the junction between Tim’s shoulder and neck over the bunched-up blanket hood. 

“Dinah and Bruce and everybody have been telling me every time that I’m wrong about everything always going wrong at least once every year or two,” Tim says. “I told Dinah after I moved into the Manor that it was literally a guarantee that like, every three or six or nine months or so, some crisis would happen, and no one believed me, and then the next one would happen and then I’d just have to deal with it again anyway, so I figured out the pattern and then just knew something would be coming and since I watched for it I wouldn’t be caught off guard.” He sighs, a little frustration leaking in now. “But she was like, ‘But how does it make you feel being on the lookout for any tiny signs all the time of anything with your parents or a schedule issue or some Gotham crisis?’ and of course it feels terrible because it’s not like it feels good to be extra stressed about whether something is an impending sign or just a random bad day or whatever, but she told me that if I’m just suffering from trying to do that, I should work on stopping that. And then when I said—”

“Tim, bud,” Jason interrupts with a gentle voice. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but your voice is sounding like it’s getting really tense. Are you feeling okay?”

Tim stops with his mouth still open, and blinks, trying to tune into his body and see if it’s feeling anything in particular. 

“Oh,” he says. 

“Chest?” Jason asks, knowingly. 

“Tight,” Tim agrees. 

“Okay,” says Jason. “What if I set my watch timer for two minutes and we both do some deep breathing, and then you pick back up? I’ll remind you where you were if you need it.”

“Okay,” Tim agrees. “That’s probably a good idea. Sorry.”

“Nothing you did wrong,” Jason assures him. “It’s easier for other people to tell when we’re getting upset, usually. I just don’t want you to feel bad if we can avoid it. This is supposed to be a fun trip, not a dig-up-bad-stuff one. And after we do some breathing, if you decide you’d rather just stop talking about any of this, we’ll stop. That’s totally fine too. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” Jason rolls the dial on the side of his watch, then presses it in and gives Tim’s shoulders a quick squeeze. “All right. Two minutes, let’s go.”

The sit, and they breathe in, and they breathe out, and they listen to the sound of the sea breeze and waves and nighttime insects around them, and as usual, after several rounds of long exhales, Tim does start to feel better. By the time Jason’s watch buzzes, he thinks he’s ready to try again, and doesn’t give Jason a chance to say anything before Tim can lose his courage. 

“Dinah basically told me that I’m wrong about things always going wrong in a cycle, and that I should work on not believing that, and stop being so hypervigilant about it. And I didn’t believe her for a while, but then after a few months I guessed maybe she was right and it WOULD be different from now on, that this was the time the cycle actually broke and it really was just a temporary thing. But then, boom, Mom and Dad came back to Gotham and they dropped the whole cancer news thing and I just—ugh.” Tim takes another couple of deep breaths. “I walked in and I told Dana I told her so, but she still thought I was wrong, and I get it, I understand logically that it’s not a very healthy way of looking at life, but it’s the only way that makes sense.” 

Jason hums encouragingly. 

“I’ve kept trying,” Tim says, voice cracking a little. “I keep trying every time the bad stuff starts getting better, but crises keep happening, and I don’t know if I’m the one who’s right, or if I’m crazy and all the grown ups are right, or if maybe it’s some cosmic curse centered around me or something, and I’m so frustrated about it. Like, it makes sense to me that if I just stay expecting the bad things to happen, then I’ll be more prepared when they do and it won’t hurt so bad. Yeah, I’ll still get caught by surprise, but it won’t be like total surprise. I can’t keep doing the trusting thing and then just getting everything dumped out of the LEGO bin again every year.” 

He shakes his head “I’m not even mad now. I just don’t know what to do. I know I should do everything to get back into the normal swing of life, and all that, but I can’t feel like it actually matters or seem to make any progress because I just know that something is gonna mess it all up again for who knows how long and with who knows how much damage the next time. I don’t know how I’m supposed to actually do any of this.”

They’re both silent for a few seconds while Jason makes sure that Tim is finished talking for real, and then Jason tugs Tim a little closer to his shoulder and twists around enough in his camp chair to drop a quick kiss on Tim’s nose before settling back in the seat and starting to speak. 

“Okay, first of all, just getting this out of the way right now, you are not responsible for any kind of cosmic curse. Fuck knows life is plenty crazy enough to come up with all kinds of mess without any need for cosmic interference. Capiche?”

“Capiche,” Tim grumbles back. 

“Second,” Jason continues, “You’re not crazy, or stupid, or wrong. I’m going to tell you something that the adults probably wouldn’t be super big fans of, but honestly, right now, fuck ‘em. They’re awesome, but they don’t know everything, and they don’t always know what’s best for us every time there’s a problem. That’s why Bruce and Alfie try to teach us so much about figuring out our own needs and telling them about them. They don’t always know exactly what we need. I know sometimes it feels like it, but they don’t, Timmy. Neither do I, so take this with a grain of salt, but here’s my two cents for what it’s worth. Uh, if you want to hear it. Do you want to hear it? Because I can just stop, if you want.” 

“I want to,” Tim says. “I trust you. I want to hear what you think.”

“Okay,” Jason says, a little wobbly, and then clears his throat and carries on. “Okay. Okay. Listen...I don’t know if I’m right or wrong, either, but I’ve at least got a few more years than you and I’ve had a different life than Bruce or Dinah, right. And I’m gonna tell you, honestly, that what I DO know is that they’re not totally right. There’s not a guarantee that at some point things are gonna just start going well and not keep having really bad things throw everything out of whack again on a semi-regular basis. It’s really weird, kinda, that we’re talking about this now, because I literally had almost the same conversation with Dick a few years ago.”

Tim glances over at what part of Jason he can see beyond the side of the blanket hood. “Seriously?” 

“Yeah.” Jason nods. “Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that as far as I can tell, it’s not fair. Seems like it’s a total crapshoot whether you or your particular family have unpredictable bad stuff or hard stuff happen really rarely or pretty frequently. Like, some families are kind of guaranteed occasional crises, even. You remember Tanner, at all? In my grade? Tall, mock trial team, hitched a ride from Alfie a couple times?” 

“Yeah,” Tim says, after thinking for a moment. “He was the one who always kept sneaking cool socks under his dress pants and tried to see how long he could avoid getting dress coded, right? He had those crazy Beethoven socks that one day?”

“That’s him,” says Jason. “His older sister Sarah, I don’t think you ever met her, but she has Cystic Fibrosis.”

“Oh man, really?”

“Yeah. She’s a few years older than Tanner, and I dunno what mutations she has, but shes been kind of middle-of-the-road so far? Not as sick as some people her age are, but she gets bad infections and shit more often than their cousin who has it too does. At least, last I heard. Haven’t talked with Tanner in a bit. But the point is that their family is literally guaranteed that every so often, she’s gonna get sick enough to need help and to need to stay in the hospital for  a bit to get her body tuned back up again. It’s just the luck of their draw. So Tanner and his parents talked with his teachers before every school year to tell them that there would probably be a point where Tanner might miss some school or he might be attending but he’d have so much going on with his home life that he’d have a hard time with concentrating and stuff. They didn’t know when, and they couldn’t prevent it, but they made sure Tanner and everyone else knew that they’d be able to handle it when a crisis did happen and get through okay until life settled down again afterwards.”

Jason raked his free hand through his hair and shifted in his chair. Peanut whuffed softly and lifted his head with a jingle to glance at him for a second, then dropped it back down once he was sure Jason wasn’t about to get up and offer to play. Nova, meanwhile, didn’t even twitch in her sleep, still dead to the world. 

“As far as I can tell,” Jason says, “It seems like the people who do best are the ones who expect crises to come eventually, but get confident enough that they can handle them fine when they do that they don’t need to be afraid of them coming. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” Tim says slowly. “Kind of like Bruce? I guess?”

Jason hums for a moment. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Bruce and Alfred definitely get into crisis mode, but they don’t get like, overwhelmed. They just handle it. And they call in backup from other people when they need it, I think that’s a big part of why they’re able to do that. When I lived with my mom still, she always handled things pretty well, but a lot of our neighbors in the building would get pretty bad when something went wrong and I never really saw any of them having relatives or friends come watch kids or anything. I dunno. We should probably actually ask Bruce about this sometime.”

“Maybe,” Tim says. 

“Does that...help at all?” Jason asks. “I don’t think you’re actually wrong. I think—especially since this is our family, you know? And we’re in a lot more danger always anyway no matter which time of day it is? I think that you’re right, and it’s okay for you to think that there are going to be crises every so often. I think you’ve just had so many crises for so long, without enough control and stuff, that you’re super stressed about ‘em. Which is totally fair, because let’s be real, most adults aren’t like Bruce. We’ve both seen how useless Headmaster Hammer is when a Rogue attack hits the school. How are you supposed to feel like crises will end up okay if you haven’t seen enough of them that are handled well by the people who are supposed to handle it?”

“I mean, I’ve handled plenty of problems and stuff myself,” Tim interjects. “I got really good at it. Mom and Dad weren’t always around, or there were more important things that they needed to deal with, so I know I’ve been able to handle lots of things. I should feel fine about it.”

Jason is quiet for a few moments. “I said the same thing to Alfie my first year at the Manor,” he says, finally. “He said...I didn’t like it when he said this, but he was right, and I get it now. He said that...a lot of the things I had to handle, like finding food, and places to sleep on the street, and taking care of myself when I got sick, or whatever, and like, you know...helping my mom after chemo, and stuff...that I shouldn’t have actually been having to handle all that. That I handled it well, but none of it taught my brain to feel capable about it, because I was independent but I never got taught how to do things before I had to do them. Alfie said that if we have to figure things out like that by ourselves when things are all going wrong, and we don’t know what to do or have anyone to ask, it’s actually really scary to like, our nervous systems? And so. Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, then sighs. 

“You—” Tim nearly chokes out. “Your mom had chemo?”

Jason glances at him, startled. “Yeah,” he says. He rubs the back of his neck. “I...did I not ever tell you? I guess I didn’t, I haven’t really told you much of anything about before Bruce. Sorry, I always assume someone probably told you already, I’m still not really used to people actually not telling when they promise not to share things I say…”

“No, I’m not mad, I just didn’t know,” Tim says. “Jason—the whole time my mom was sick, and I was talking about it, and you had to hear about—”

“Whoa, don’t worry about that part,” Jason says quickly. “I already went through a lot of my processing about my mom, it’s okay. I didn’t ever get triggered by anything you said, or anything with your mom. They were pretty different situations, and besides, I had Bruce and Dick breathing down my neck pretty often double-checking I was okay the whole time anyway. Trust me, baby bird, I was okay. Am okay. It was a long time ago, and yeah, I’m still upset, and it still hurts, but it’s not like it was. It’s okay. I just...I’m sorry that I didn’t help you through it when your mom was sick. I know what it’s like, and I should’ve—”

“No should’ves,” Tim cuts him off, voice stern in his best imitation of Bruce. “You know the rule. That’s a dollar in the jar when we get home.”

“You little shit,” Jason says, but he gives Tim a small smile. “Listen. None of this is gonna be better fast. It takes forever. It sucks. But I think you’re right, and Dinah and Bruce are also partly right, and you don’t need to try to gaslight yourself into believing what you’ve learned from your own experiences is wrong just to please them. You just need to get to a point where you don’t have to be afraid about things going wrong. And I think we also need to find you a French onion soup,” he finishes. 

“French—French onion soup?” Tim wonders for a brief second if Jason is going insane. “I don’t even like onions.”

“Not literal French onion soup,” Jason clarifies. “Sorry, it’s my shorthand. It makes sense that you’re feeling numb and don’t know what to do, okay? If no one’s told you that yet, I’m telling you now. You’ve been through fucked up shit, and you shouldn’t have been put through the suffering you have—it was suffering, don’t you dare say a word.” 

Tim closes his mouth. 

“You’ve been fucked up,” Jason picks back up again, “and it’d be way more of a problem if you weren’t feeling numb, or pissed off, or scared, or like things are so different that you don’t know what you’re supposed to do from now on. I mean, think about it. It’s been two or three years and you’ve gotten a new guardian, a new house and family, gained another sibling after that, had your mom get cancer and die, lived through an epidemic that almost killed you, had a friend move in for a while and then move out, made new friends that live in different states, got kidnapped and tortured, gained another new sibling, found out you’re autistic, and haven’t really had more than a couple months of calm to process any of it yet, and, oh, yeah, took up the role of Robin and an entire secret identity fighting crime. I think you’ve earned some paid time off from the cape and also being a functioning human in general.”

Tim elbows him and scowls, slumping a bit in his chair. “I’ve been not functioning,” he grumbles, “that’s the big problem. I’m sick of not functioning. I functioned again for like, two months before bam, not functioning again. I want to function, not take a break.”

“Consider,” Jason says serenely, “your body has been running in urgent crisis-and-change-handling mode for, hm, fifteen years nonstop, and not had a rest? I don’t think it cares what you want at this point. If you don’t take the time to rest it and treat it however it needs, it’s going to just keep body-slamming you more and more loudly until you have no choice anymore at all. Believe me, I watched Dickie make that mistake the year he moved out, and I was there when he got Mono, Strep, and a depression relapse all in the same month. Best not to tempt fate.”

“Fate is gonna body slam me anyway even if I don’t tempt it,” Tim points out.

“Yes, but if you don’t tempt it, you get to spend more time healing and getting energy back and shit before it does again.”

“I don’t like it when you make sense so many times in a row,” Tim says. 

Jason full-on chest laughs then. 

“I love you too, Timmers,” he replies. “Listen...I can’t fix any of this. And it’s not like I’m Bruce or anything, I’m not all stable myself either. You know that. I just had to withdraw from college and go back on meds because I was feeling so bad. But I can help with one thing, which is helping you figure out what your French onion soup is. Alfie helped me when I felt like you do, and didn’t feel like doing anything or know what I should bother doing or care about. One day, he plucked the book I was reading right out of my hands and informed me that I would be meeting him in the kitchen in five minutes, washed up and ready to work. And when I got there he said—” Jason has to pause to smile for a moment. 

“He said, ‘Master Jason, I have raised two boys in this house, and one is the most driven human I have ever met and the other has so much energy he cannot sit still while in the deepest upset. You, however, have been disappearing into alternate worlds for quite long enough. It is time to find your hero’s journey in this one.’”

“Did he really?” Tim asks, eyes wide.

“He absolutely did.” Jason is grinning wide now. “And then he handed me the potato peeler, plopped me down in front of a stock pot full of carrots, and started teaching me how to cook.”

Tim frowns. “I don’t get what point this is supposed to have.”

“The point is that I was a cranky little asshole who grouched my way through it silently for the first four days, until he had me try French onion soup for the first time and I fell in love,” Jason says. “And for the first time in—a really long time, maybe years, I suddenly thought, I’m going to make the best French onion soup anyone has ever tasted, so that I can eat it slowly in front of the library fireplace while reading Pride and Prejudice and just feel total bliss that I made happen all by myself, and no one else can take credit for or hold over me. And I spent the next seven and a half weeks using the kitchen any time Alfred would let me to try every French onion soup recipe and variety of cheese I could get my hands on until I found my very favorite combination of spices and methods and cheese and bread and did exactly that.”

“French onion soup,” Tim says, feeling like he understands a bit now.

“French onion soup,” Jason agrees. “Exactly. It didn’t fix anything, but it got me un-stuck. There are a bunch of phases that you go through when you’re healing, you already know that, but like, forget those. They don’t matter until you get un-stuck enough to start actually feeling shit and working through things. What you need first is to feel safe, and what you need second is to have your own French onion soup thing to get you starting to feel like a human being with desires and more feelings than ‘hurt and in turtle mode’ again.”

Tim sits up, twists, stares at him hard for a few moments, and then slumps back down to thunk his head against Jason’s shoulder and chest again with a huff. 

“I don’t know if I should feel offended by that,” he says. 

“Your choice,” Jason replies, amusement in his tone. “I’m just telling it how I see it. I might be wrong. You’re the only one who knows your own feelings and what you want or not. But promise me something, before we pack up for the night, if you can?”

“What?” Tim asks, warily. 

“Promise me that you’ll try to remember that even if you don’t want to—or can’t—go to Bruce or Dick or Alfred or any of the other adults for help or to talk or whatever, you can come to me at any time of the day or night and I’ll listen or help and I won’t tell anyone unless it’s a matter of, you know. Life or death safety.” He turns to face Tim, and pushes Tim off his shoulder enough so that they can lock eyes. “I don’t need you to promise you will, but I’d like you to promise that you’ll at least remember that I’m an option, and that I’ll always pick you every time if you need someone on your side. If you’re scared, or feeling smothered, or want to complain, or need to get away, or—just whatever. Promise me that you won’t just try to keep everything walled up inside just because you don’t want to tell an adult?”

Tim doesn’t understand how he can tear up so suddenly, but here he is anyway. “Yeah,” he gets out. “I promise. I definitely promise.”

“Okay,” Jason says, and lets a heavy breath out in a quiet whoosh that tickles some of Tim’s stray bangs against his forehead. Then Jason is tugging Tim into a tight hug, the way he used to back in the early days of the custody battle, the way he hasn’t for a while now, and Tim curls up against him and wedges himself under Jason’s chin even though he’s getting way too tall to fit, and Jason cocoons him in his arms and just holds him in the breeze and the soft light and the nighttime chorus of bugs and ocean and soft dog snores from down by their feet.

“I can’t fix any of this,” Jason says. “I wish I had been able to keep you from ever going through any of the bad parts. I’m sorry I couldn’t. I’m here for whatever I can do to help while you figure out what you want to do, and who you are, and what you need, though. I promise. I’ve got you, however much I can, okay? I love you so much.”

“I love you so much too,” Tim says into the collar of Jason’s old red Patagonia, and it smells like Jason, and it smells like the evenings on the couch playing video games, and it smells like brother and home and the first time in a long time that he started re-learning what being young and feeling taken care of was like and it feels like safety and the first person who ever kept thinking about him while he wasn’t around and always came after him just because he liked having Tim around. “I love you,” Tim says again, squeezing his own arms tighter around Jason’s shoulders, and then, “I promise. I’ll try.”

“Awesome,” Jason says, and drops a quick nose-bump against Tim’s hair. “That’s all I ask. I just want you to remember you’ll always have another option if you need it. Video games or emotions and shit, I’ve got you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Tim says, and he means it, he realizes, just as much as he knows that Jason does. 

Chapter Text

The thing is—Steph is fine. 

She’s great, actually. She’s doing great and her schedule is nice and she has fun at school and her mom is teaching her to bake and she’s a full volunteer at Leslie’s clinic now and she hasn’t been caught with the Waynes by any paparazzi in two whole months. 

Steph is good. And so is life!

It’s all good, even with the ripples still rocking everyone from Tim’s overseas fiasco and the sudden appearance of Damian. It’s hard, but no one is making it harder than it has to be. They’re all making it work. And Steph and Bruce even managed to compromise on a schedule that lets Steph patrol with them two nights out of the week so long as she doesn’t have exams the next day and she isn't injured. Which is, you know, pretty much just common sense. So she’ll let Bruce have this one.

The point is that things are fine. Steph is good, and everything is okay, and life is way better than she imagined it was going to be a year ago. She’s happy. Everyone she cares about is even still alive. That’s the biggest win of all.

Steph sleeps and she eats and she trains and she laughs and she does a hundred and one things every week that all add up to a whirlwind of just the right amount of adrenaline, and she wouldn’t trade it for anything.

It’s just that—

It’s just that on Friday, Steph comes back from school to dump her backpack off before Alfred and Dick pick her up for the weekend, and her mom is in the apartment, and—her mom is taking a nap. 

Steph stands there, for a moment. Stock-still in the entryway, with one shoe toed off on the mat by the door, her backpack hanging by one strap from her hand. Frozen in a moment that contains a hundred others, wondering for a split second and then remembering after that. She’s stiller than marble while her heart feels seventy times too large for her rib cage suddenly, she’s got a catch in her lungs where she’s forgotten the need to breathe, just a bit, and then she thinks, it’s just a nap, Steph, get it together. Mom’s taking a nap, and she’s been working nights lately, and you can see her from here, that her chest is moving and she’s even got the quilt curled over her. 

Steph’s fingers remember to release the strap, one by one at a time, and her backpack thuds gently on the floor. She turns, shoves her other shoe off, yanks her school hoodie over the top of her head, and then calmly checks that her mom truly is still breathing before walking the seven steps to her own room, where she shuts the door behind her, pulls out her duffle bag, and starts packing to leave. 

It’s just a nap. 

Her mom makes funfetti pancakes when Steph comes home on Sunday afternoon, so many they fill an entire cookie sheet in a warm, colorful, sweet heap of deliciousness, and they eat enough they hit food coma stage while watching the Harry Potter marathon on SYFY till Steph falls asleep with her head on her mom’s lap just like things used to be. Sweet food and good movies and Mom-and-Steph and the old quilt handed down from Grandma’s cousin’s mother. 

It’s just a nap, and life is still good. And Steph is still so happy. 

So things go. And go, and go and go, and she’s taking the PSAT and putting up fall decorations in the clinic with Leslie. She’s making canned dinners for herself during her mom’s night shifts, she’s forging through homework, she’s babying bruises from patrols, she’s keeping all the spinning plates in the air, and after a while, she’s feeling like everything is actually good again. 

Then the first day that the night shifts are finally over, she finds her mom’s bag isn’t where it’s supposed to be. It’s missing for the first time ina long, long time. And when she hunts it down in the always-neat master bathroom, she already knows that she isn’t going to look inside. She won’t like what she thinks she’d see. 

If she doesn’t look, it’s there or it isn’t. Schroedinger’s bag, maybe a bottle inside, maybe not a single one to be seen. There and not there. One reality or another. 

If Steph doesn’t give it the chance to be observed—because Tim taught her about that, last year, while she was humoring during one of his PT workouts with Alfred and her—if she doesn’t observe it, it can be both and neither and she can go away with her headphones and forget until it’s time for bed. 

She knows from Tim and Bruce that Schroedinger’s Cat is fake, a cautionary lesson about how it’s absurd to interpret scientific statements or facts wrongly. 

She knows that her Schroedinger’s bag is a fucked-up fake, too, but right now, she can’t be the one to open it. Even though she knows finding the dead cat doesn’t actually mean she killed it, that never helps. She’s done this enough times to know It’ll always still feel like she did. 

Steph keeps her hands off the bag, makes sure nothing obvious is out, and then leaves the bathroom and kisses her sleeping mom on the cheek before walking out down the hall. 

Steph has school and homework and quits her one extracurricular in case she’s right about what’s coming. Steph has part-time lifeguarding and part-time volunteer work and she apologizes to Leslie about needing time off for approaching project deadlines. Steph has patrol three nights a week that she cuts down to one and gets a hair ruffle from Bruce and Zucchini loaf from Alfred for putting her health and sleep first. 

Steph has a mom and a life and basic needs and a lot of memories, and by week two she’s got a new routine and life figured out. She’s done this before and she can do it again. Her mom’s been doing so well, Steph knows there’s no way Crystal wants to be doing this and she’s definitely going to snap out of it soon. Steph just has to hold down the fort for them both till she does.

Steph can do it, and she does. The fort is held. Steph is tired.

But the fort is held. 

And held. And held. And held. 

Steph is cranking out homework between extra shifts and getting groceries and meal prepping for the two of them every few days, because she can only carry a few backs all the blocks from the store to the train to their station to the apartment at a time. Her mom works and sleeps and eats and sleeps and lies on the couch and lets the world move until it’s time for her to work again and Steph is waiting for her with three glasses of water, Tylenol, and the latest canned fruit she could find on sale. 

Steph only finds her mom asleep in the bathtub once. That’s a brief heart attack, but it all ends up okay. Steph keeps a closer eye on her, shuts the bathroom door every time her mom’s home, and makes sure her mom’s bed is always a comfy space the whole time so it’s the best option. There’s not a single repeat. Crystal is safe, and Steph doesn’t have to worry, and a lesson was learned, and it’s okay. It will stop soon and all the little hiccups like the bath incident will just be in the past again. 

Then on night seventeen, Steph fills up to bursting with something so big inside her chest that it’s like a black hole and a blocked-top exploding volcano all at once. If she doesn’t let it out she thinks she might actually die, but also, she just put a pizza in the oven. And her mom is alone on the couch in the other room, completely helpless, tipped slightly to the side while staring at something Steph can’t see on the wall under the clock. And Steph is maybe dying, she guesses, but there’s a pizza in the oven. The pizza is in the oven, there’s a timer set, and she doesn’t want to walk back in that room even though she knows she’s supposed to be watching Mom like a hawk, and her chest is just a black hole gnawing harder than she’s ever known was possible and maybe it’s the coward’s way but for right now Steph is just going to lie on the kitchen laminate and shudder without any desire to cry. The numbness was better than whatever this is. With this, it feels like there’s no plug to a vacuum drain. At least when she’s numb, even her upset at being numb is blunted. 

This is just a drag down into the bottom of an ocean without even water in it. She hates it and for one, brief, thinking moment, she considers maybe this is a time you could call one of the adults. And for one breath, and then a few, she’s imagining it, someone sweeping in and taking care of it and sweeping her out of the way where she never has to do any of this ever again and can run so far away she’s half a country and several experimental personalities away from all of this and can dump it all behind in the past. 

There’s a pizza in the oven, though, and a person twelve feet away who can’t be left alone. And she’s the only one left at home. 

Steph gets up from the floor after the timer’s fourth ring. She gets the pizza. She gets her brave. She drops it in the trash because it’s absolutely drained empty and cut up with scissors, and pulls out her fake instead. And then she pulls out her customer voice and goes in to watch her mom through pizza and give her water instead of the syringe for the rest of the evening. 

Steph is in the hallway of the hospital, smiling and charming her mom’s coworkers while she goes to find Crystal in the locker room where Steph guesses she’s probably already too out of it and tired to get home without prompting and encouragement. 

Steph is at work, screaming back at a man for the first time when he won’t remove his drunk husk from the pool area until security comes and forcibly leads him away. Steph is in her boss’ office being given a sympathetic but firm leave from work for conduct review. 

Steph is heating up tomato soup for the third time that week and giving up on studying more for her chemistry exam tomorrow. She talks her mom into sips and talks herself into sips and when neither of them can pretend any longer, Steph settles them both onto the couch with the old quilt and wishes, for the brief second she has enough energy to wish again, that it was her back in her mom’s lap getting gentle fingers through her hair all around, instead of her mom’s quiet breathing on Steph’s ankle and Steph’s palm cupping Crystal’s neck so she can rest her fingers on a pulse point without telling herself that’s what she’s doing.

She’s at school in the bathroom pulling out a case of blades instead of lunch, and she’s pulling up underwear and jeans over skin without caring anymore to cover with anything more than a strip of toilet paper to minimize stains. Bandages are expensive and she doesn’t care about them anyway right now. She doesn’t want to take care of herself extra. She wants the feeling and the punishment and the reality check and the control. She puts her jeans over her blood and puts her case under her lunch and sits silent on the toilet lid until the warning bell finally rings for her next class. 

Steph is a ghost at school where it doesn’t matter anyway, because she never fits here and no one wants to be around the kid who doesn’t have the same clothes and interests, and no one wants to talk to the kid with a daddy in Blackgate and a mommy who doesn’t come to volleyball games. Or didn’t, when Steph still played. No one wants the tainted kid tainting them too, and Steph doesn’t have the energy anymore to hold the lunch crowd misfits at the table they were tentatively getting to know each other at. 

Steph has the bathroom and secrets and silence and peace. 

Steph has patrol and a full face mask and a voice she’s very good at using. She has fake reality for a few hours once a week and it is so, so good, and she is very good at living somewhere else in her head. Steph patrols and laughs and hugs and cracks jokes and kicks the occasional rapist or mugger and when Bruce asks her to help with a soup kitchen supply unloading, she’s happy to talk with people and do something totally only good for the first time in a while. 

Steph has ragged skin and clean hair and a laundry routine and prepped meals in the freezer and Mom under control and school still scraping along with C’s. She’s got exercise every day even when it pulls painfully along her hips, she’s got Alfred’s cookies one night a week, she’s got texts with Cass and texts with Tim, she’s got little kids at the clinic and she’s got nights of half-sleep and evenings of her mom’s head on her lap, both of them safe where Steph can keep an eye on their little family at all times. 

And it goes like that for a while. Okay. Working out. Handled, but hard, but handled, because there’s nothing else to do, until the day—until the day she loses the job, she forgets an assignment, she didn’t have her blades at school for once, her mom wasn’t home when she got there, didn’t answer Steph’s frantic calls, didn’t come in the front door till Steph was actually dialing the line for the hospital desk, and didn’t understand why Steph was upset. Didn’t understand the half-shouting, the distress, the questions, and brushed her off to go take a nap. 

Steph hears the sigh of relief through her thin bedroom wall and screams into the towel in her closet with the door closed. She throws away the evidence from the floor by Crystal’s bed once her mom is asleep, and after she’s watched her mom’s breathing long enough to feel sure she’s not going to stop, Steph goes to the box and rips out her blades and holds one barely-acohol-swabbed just poking un-sanitized skin and breathes hard as an ox before each swell of her feelings throw themselves into her arm and swing it through straight lines matching the depth of each wave. 

She gasps, and then breathes, and then the settled calm with a small side of horror and a large side of shame replaces all the bad, and Steph gives herself five minutes to sit and reorient before getting up and cleaning up and heading out the door in scrubs to go to the clinic and help with whatever Leslie needs that day. And maybe, if she’s lucky, get a little more slow-periods training in how to care for IVs when patients get them tugged around or have standard complaints. 

It’s that late afternoon at the clinic when everything breaks. 

It’s a normal shift until a few minutes of calm when for no reason at all Steph gets a wave of such foul feeling and absolute hatred towards everything outside of her that it shows on her face enough to make Leslie ask. 

Leslie. fucking. asks. She just had to ask. Not about anything particular, not anything actually wrong, not anything specific Steph can even justify getting defensive about, but just if anything had happened, since Steph looks suddenly like someone stuck Limburger cheese in her shoes. And steph makes the stupid, amateur mistake of snapping at her. Leslie. 

Leslie is not a person missing a bullshit detector, like Tim. She also isn’t a person whose bullshit detector can be redirected easily, unlike Mr. Batman-Terror-of-the-Night-and-misplaced-fire-escape-planters-at-two-o’clock-in-the-not-morning. 

Leslie calls bullshit and asks what’s wrong, because it’s clear something is now, and Steph is so afraid the jig is up that for the first time in her life that she turns her back on Leslie and actually runs straight out of the room. 

Unfortunately for Steph, Leslie has spent the past seventeen years sprinting after a lot of grown men to keep them from either committing a felony against a patient or killing their own fool selves by bleeding out before she can actually close their wounds. She takes down a lot of adults while they’re absolutely out of their minds on adrenaline and whatever the vice of the week was that their buddies thought would help with pain. 

Steph is down before she’s hit stride number fourteen, still several feet away from the back door. Leslie twists to be under her before Steph slams into the tile, and Steph hates her even more for it, for not letting her at least take the hit and make the failure and defeat real, and she tells Leslie as much. Leslie tells her that she’s “not even using her brain right now” and “can kindly shut up” until she’s ready to say something honest and not rude. 

Steph’s response to this, of course, is a long chain of every curse word she can remember, and a creative attempt to throw Leslie’s arms off, but. Well. You don’t spend this many years as Batman’s honorary aunt-teacher-mom without being able to wrangle him down when circumstances are really dire. A seventeen year old girl who’s uncoordinated from a recent growth spurt doesn’t have a chance. 

Leslie calmly nudges the collar-hooked voice call button with her chin while holding one hand so firmly over Steph’s mouth that Steph can’t even get out throat-screams louder than low volume, and asks her PA to take the last case or two scheduled on his own unless something really requires Leslie’s attention, because a Family Emergency has come up. He agrees cheerfully without question, then jokingly chides her to not break too many laws on her way to Wayne and the kids. She tells him to, respectfully, shut up, thanks him, and closes the line. 

Then she pulls her hand off of Steph’s mouth and squeezes her extra-tight for a second to get her attention a bit more focused. 

“You have two options,” Leslie says, with steel. “No, I am not negotiating. You don’t react like this. You never react like this. I was wondering a little, when you asked to cut back on hours, but you did a magnificent job of putting on the convincing show. Alfred’s thespian heart will be very proud, I’m sure. You’re not okay, Stephanie. Not okay people do not get to make decisions while they’re unsafe. So for the next half hour, I am making decisions, and you are going to pick between things.” 

“No, I’m going home,” Steph snarls. She’d kick Leslie’s shin if the woman didn’t have them wrapped around Steph’s legs already, holding them in from around the sides. Screw her. “You don’t have any legal right to keep me here. I’ll complain to somebody.”

“I have perfect legal right,” Leslie replies. “I have reasonable suspicion of active danger to a minor. So, I have a legal responsibility to keep you safe until that can be verified or disproven. You’re not going home right now.”

Steph is flooded with sweat and red-hot heat and zero thoughts before he words have died in the air yet. 

“You can’t,” Steph screams without even a single second to think what volume she wants to use here. “You can’t do that. I have to go home. You can’t make me—I have to go home, I can’t leave Mom longer than the shift, you can’t make me stay here you can’t make me LET ME GO—”

“Stephanie, can you breathe right now?”

“Let fucking GO OF ME!” 

“Okay, I do hear you. I understand that you don’t want me to be keeping you here right now. I’m sorry that this is hard. I need to keep you safe right now, and until I know where you are safe, or if you aren’t, this is the only place I can do that.”

“I hate you,” Steph snaps out. “I hate you, you’re a lying traitor, you can’t just do this suddenly when we had a deal, I’ve done EVERYTHING RIGHT LESLIE, you’re just a LIAR like all the rest of them and I HATE YOU you WERE LYING TO ME THE WHOLE TIME!”

“I have not been lying to you,” Leslie interjects in her still-even voice, and Steph shrieks as she slams her head backwards to hit whatever is behind it, which happens to be Leslie’s surprisingly hard sternum. 

The pain is a shock but good but hurts and Steph latches onto it because it’s real and it’s something she can do, and she throws her head back twice more while Leslie’s voice grunts out requests for her to stop. 

When Steph is lifting her head for a third toss, not even hearing Leslie anymore, she finds herself suddenly blocked by a too-strong-to-break-through grip from laced fingers under her skull, and makes a wordless noise of anger. 

“Stephanie Amelia Brown,” comes a completely unexpected voice, “stop.” 

Stunned enough to still, Steph rolls her eyes backwards and tips her chin up just a hair until the newcomer is visible, and there behind her and Leslie, kneeling on the floor in sweaty hair and a tank top that says Gym Bat that Stephanie herself had bought him as a joke for his last birthday, is Dick Grayson, in civvies, in Leslie’s clinic, holding Steph’s head with firm hands and frowning at her.

Steph goes rigid, then, and freezes instead of making any response. 

It’s only a few seconds before his face changes to something too complicated for Stephanie to recognize at the moment, and he lets out a kind of upset sigh. 

“Shit,” Dick groans. 

“What?” Leslie asks, from underneath Steph. 

“Let her go,” says Dick. “She needs space. I scared her.” 

It’s a testament to the number of years and hard-built trust between the two of them that Leslie doesn’t question him once, just slowly releases Steph from her grip while Dick also removes his hands from behind her head and lets her head settle back down slowly onto Leslie’s chest. 

Steph doesn’t move. She also hardly breathes. 

“Stephie,” Dick says quietly. “It’s okay to move. You can go over to the other side of the room if you’d like to. We’re not going to touch you right now unless you’re about to get hurt and we need to stop you. I promise.”

“Me too,” Leslie agrees. She puts her hands in the surrender position by her head while flat on her back still. “No more grabbing, honey. We’re not going to hurt you.” 

“Fuck you,” Steph spits automatically, for some reason, and her voice is embarrassingly tight. 

“Do you want help at all?” Dick offers. 

Steph roll sideways off Leslie and won’t look at him. She pushes her way up onto her feet and speed walks to the other side of the backroom, right in front of the exit door to the loading area, and doesn’t move again. 

Leslie sits up into criss cross applesauce on the floor and scoots her butt till she’s next to Dick instead of in front of him, and then stops moving. 

“How does your body feel right now, Steph?” She asks, gently, and Steph is so mad. 

“I’m not talking to you anymore,” she snaps out. “You’re a liar. Don’t pretend like you care. You’re just like the rest of them. I’m not talking to you.” 

Leslie wisely doesn’t make it worse by trying to reply. She just stays silent and doesn’t move towards Steph.

“What about me?” Dick is asking, now. “Could you tell me what happened today?” 

“Nothing happened,” Steph shouts, and her arms fly up in the air as punctuation. “Nothing fucking happened today, I didn’t do anything, and you can’t stop me from going HOME!” 

“Steph,” Dick tries, hands lifting up a bit in a placating move, “we just want to make sure—”

“I hate ALL of you,” Steph snarls. “You’re fake traitors and I was clearly stupid to think you weren’t just waiting to find a time that poor stupid Stephanie would give you some excuse to jump in and run everything just because it’ll get what you want, you’re all fake, you—you fucking assholes. I hate you.” 

And Steph hates herself, too, for how out of control the words flying out of her are, and how much she feels like she’s dying and melting with heat, and how there are tears rolling down her scrunched-up burning-hot cheeks now without any kind of permission. Before either of them can say anything, before Steph can say something more that doesn’t ask her before coming out, before her body can do anything else stupid, Steph whips around, shoves open the door, and runs.

Chapter Text

Steph is down through Old Gotham, crossing Monolith Square, and finally jogging sweaty and long out of breath before she finds herself smack-dab between Wayne Botanical Garden and The Reservoir and realizes she would kind of rather die on the spot than be visible to the rest of humanity, because having a visible freakout in front of Leslie and even Dick is bad, but looking like a certifiable basketcase absolutely ripe for preying on in the middle of Robinson Park is a whole nother thing. 

She beelines for the main bridge, hangs a left, takes the half-dirt path around the side of the park that they’ve had the unfinished road re-laying going on in for months, and then finally, finally, her tiny bridge comes into view. Steph spends two seconds checking for any watchers, then sprints straight for the edge of the canal and swings herself under the side of the walkpath bridge straight into the little bit of bank that she’s come to since she was old enough to walk all the way to Robinson Park sometime in the middle of fourth grade. 

Steph curls her knees up under her chin while the cold mud patches start to soak through her scrub pants and closes her eyes and just gives up on staying upright in the tsunami of spinning thoughts and self-recriminations and angry accusations in her head. 

She doesn’t know how long it’s been before she’s suddenly aware of another presence. They might have been there for an hour, or they might have just slipped down onto the narrow strip of solid ground right that very moment. Steph takes a deep, sighing breath in and out before she rolls her head to the side and looks up at the newcomer bleakly from on top of her knees. 

It’s Batman. Of course it just has to be Batman. 

“Hello, Steph,” the Batman says quietly, almost too quiet to hear over the constant water noise just a few feet away. 

Steph just stares back in reply. 

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he starts again, and this time, Batman does a small glance around the tiny area before he sweeps his cape to the side with one arm and a bit clumsily folds himself up till he’s able to plop on the mud a few feet away from where Steph sits. 

“I’m fine,” Steph mutters. 

“Okay,” he offers easily. Steph frowns. 

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Batman confirms. “I’m not about to start grilling you. There are enough people in this family for that already. If I wanted to know details right this second, I would’ve sent Nightwing or Alfred.”

Steph snorts softly. “You’re the detective. Grilling is what you do.”

“Not when it’s not the right course of action.”

“So I’m a mission that needs a course of action now?” It comes out more sharply than she intended, but she can’t say she isn’t feeling pretty razor-like at the moment on the inside, she guesses.

Batman is silent for a moment, and looks out at the dimming surface of the water bobbing past them while Stephanie looks at him. “No,” he answers, slowly. “You’re a child who I think could use some help.”

“I don’t need help,” Steph immediately replies, and looks away from him and back out to face the water too. “And you know I’m not a kid. Don’t degrade me like that.”

She hears a bit of a creak as Bruce probably twists a little to glance at her and then settles back into his uncomfortable-looking huddle. She feels a little bit bad that he’s wedged himself under here because she hasn’t just gotten up and come out to sit somewhere reasonable like a normal human, but most of her is still heavy concrete and tired muscles that think moving at all sounds like a whole lot at the moment. Besides, he’s the one who came after her. She didn’t call him or anyone else. He can leave any time he wants. 

“You’re right,” Batman admits. “That wasn’t fair of me, and I’m sorry.”

Steph turns and stares at him. 

Batman keeps looking at the surface of the water, even unfolding his hands and starting to fiddle with a piece of gravel in one of them. “You and I both understand that you’re legally a minor. But you’re right that it isn’t fair for me to insist that you’re a child when you’ve proven numerous times by now how much more responsibility you take on than most adults.”

Steph doesn’t reply. But she does listen. Don’t get her wrong, she’s still pissed as hell, and still absolutely not going to cough up whatever information the Bat is going to try to pry out of her sneakily instead of bluntly, but she is willing to reserve judgement. For now. 

“I came after you to make sure you were safe,” says Batman. “Agent A and I got Leslie’s panic button signal and I headed out immediately, but D was the closest to the clinic at the time. He wasn’t wearing any comm when he ran in. And he and the Doctor are both refusing to tell me a single thing that happened, because the Doctor is insistent that I should hear things from you yourself. Do you want to tell me why you’re out here?”

“No,” says Steph, and she flops down on the ground’s incline and firmly closes her eyes. 

They pop back just a second later when Batman actually snorts. 

“All right,” he says, sounding surprisingly relaxed. “That’s fine. So long as you answer three questions for me, I’ll spend the rest of the time sitting here and not prying. Swear on my mother’s grave.”

Steph doesn’t dignify any of that with a look, but she does inhale loudly before saying, “What questions.”

“First,” Batman holds up his first finger. “Are you sick or hurt anywhere that needs attention immediately?”

“No,” Steph says. 

“Good to hear,” says Batman. “Second: is anyone in immediate danger?”

Steph pauses, has to think about whether her mom qualifies as “in immediate danger” or if reality is being mostly overwritten by Steph’s too-intense worry. She ultimately decides on no and yes respectively. Batman doesn’t question her when she reports that no urgent danger is imminent for anyone as far as she knows. He just nods and stays silent for a minute. 

Steph shifts. She glances sideways without actually glancing, fidgets with the lower part of her scrub top in a futile attempt to make it sit less messily on the damp dirt, slides her heel up the bank and then back down, and finally huffs a sigh in the general direction of the Batman and asks, “What’s the third question?”

Batman twists towards her, looking down, arms still wrapped around his own knees. It’s strange seeing the face with the cowl looking so unnervingly neutral instead of in its cranky-patrol-mode or I’m-a-softie-for-bad-puns-mode that comes out in the Cave and on the less-stressful Batmobile carpool nights. 

His eyes aren’t visible through the cowl’s lenses, but Steph has worked with him enough to be able to read his small movements almost as well as the flock of Robins, so she is absolutely, 100%, completely totally sure that his eyes are staring directly at hers. Or at least her nose. Somewhere right in that vicinity. 

“If you didn’t have a single rule, or fear, or thing you should be doing right now,” Batman says, “and I want you to take a little time to think before you answer this one, okay? Imagining that scenario, having no restrictions, what would you want right now? For your body, or something you want to do—it doesn’t have to be specific. This isn’t a question that has a wrong answer. Whatever is true for you is the correct answer for this. Can you take a minute to think about it?”

Steph’s fingers dig into the damp dirt and moss-lichen-patchy-grass mix under her hands, and turns her head until she’s staring back up at the underside of the little bridge instead of at Batman’s still figure. 

“Yeah,” Steph answers. 

“Okay,” says Batman. “Just think about it, and let me know when you figure out what it is. I’m just going to try to remember the kinds of rocks in this brook for a minute. Littler-D is supposed to come with me to see the petting zoo later this week, and I know he’s going to ask about everything in this park.” Just enough affectionate-yet-stressed exasperation bleeds through Batman’s half-there gravel tp make Steph grin. Just a tiny bit. 

“Good luck with that,” she tells him, and at his quiet hn she tucks her hands behind her head, studiously does not think about how much dirt she probably just got in her hair, closes her eyes, and tries to think. 

What does she want? Tired, Steph thinks, sleep. Sleep would be good. But she’s too stressed for sleep, so maybe not sleep, except she’s supposed to imagine there’s nothing stopping her like stress, so—maybe sleep? It doesn’t seem right, though. It’s not vibing. Maybe—she hasn’t gotten to do any hobbies for a while. And she’s not in art this year. It might be nice to do some kind of craft, or decorate the clinic with some fresh character paintings in the kid rooms? Or she could learn to bake something new. She’ll probably burn it, but it’d be something. But that doesn’t seem right either. Nothing is like, really strumming her guitar chords. Why is this so hard.

What had Batman said again? Something she wanted to do or something for her body...does she have anything she really wants body-wise? Sleep, obviously, but she’s been getting a decent six or seven hours every night, she’s not that tired. She’s like, existence-tired, not so much rest-tired. She wants a some time without having to try to keep on top of school work and talking to enough people and not completely failing at volunteer work and keeping tabs on her mom every day before and after school—maybe if she could just have a day without having to wonder what her mom was doing one single time, that would be helpful, probably give her enough brain power back to really get a solid grip on everything else again so that the next day she would feel fine and confident wrangling daily life again. 

Or she could want a dog. Or a trip to Banff, Canada. Or a sleepover with Cass. Or she could say she wants most in the world to get to drive the Batmobile. What would Batman say to that one? Probably no, of course. This is just a stupid thought exercise. She’d rather drive Jason’s bike than the Batmobile anyway. Or a convertible. Bruce has some good convertibles. But it’s still not making her sure of an answer. 

Steph mulls over and over and over her thoughts until she’s nearly run out of options to frustratedly discard. Batman has resorted to tossing pebbles in the water one at a time as he finds them, and Steph is furiously keeping her eyes closed—annoyed at him for the repeating sound, annoyed that she’s not alone to just be for a few minutes, mad at herself for how she acted at the clinic, angry she ran here, worried about her mom, worried something has happened while Steph has been at the clinic, and it’s only gotten worse since she ran away, or that something is happening to her mom right now while Steph is at the park instead of heading home, stressed about whether she’ll snag enough money from her mom’s paycheck this Friday to get good groceries for the whole weekend and next two weeks, guilty about the schoolwork she didn’t finish for the third day in a row before going to Leslie’s anyway, even though she should have canceled and just done the work instead, ashamed that she hasn’t kept up with Tim much and mad at him for like, never messaging her anymore, and then mad at herself for being mad at him for a non-issue that isn’t even his fault, and she’s cold and uncomfortable from the stupid wet ground and she hates these scrubs and she hates the plinking water noises when it gets broken by a pebble and she’s mad that they’re all making her day so much harder and she’s never going to have enough time to make up the lost time from this afternoon that she wasn’t helping at the clinic and still get home in time to do some assigned reading and make sure mom gets up for dinner and some water and god, she needs to pick up the laundry from the laundry room, she can’t believe she forgot her wet clothes are just in there, she needs them tomorrow—

“I want,” Steph says, before she even makes up her mind to talk. “I want a break.” 

Batman is silent for a moment, then sits up straighter and turns to look down at her where she’s lying on her back with her eyes finally open. 

“You want a break?” he asks, not sounding questioning, but just neutral, like he’s making sure he’s heard right. 

Steph feels the embarrassment rising, but makes herself nod. “A break.”

Batman shifts weight onto one arm. “Will you let me help you get a break?”

“What?”

“Will you let me—and the Doctor, and Nightwing, if they’re still available—help you figure out a way to get you a break right now?”

“You can’t,” Steph says, hearing her own voice sound suddenly way too close to little-kid tears. “There’s just no way right now. It’s okay. Sometimes life has periods where you just can’t stop or slow down for a bit because things are too crazy, I know, I’m just complaining. There’s nothing that you could change, I just have to do things. I need to stop wasting more time and actually go do them.”

“In my experience, actually,” Batman says, “there’s never a time where you’re not allowed to take a break. When a person is overwhelmed, that’s when their friends and family can step in and take things over for a bit until life is more manageable and they feel better.”

“No!” Steph snaps. “That’s not how this works! You can’t just come in and do my homework for me, and I can’t pay someone to come clean or do our laundry when Mom and I just don’t have time and stuff lately, you can’t just stop doing your job shifts or school or cooking or whatever because you’re overwhelmed, life doesn’t work like that!”

“You’re right, most things we can’t just stop doing completely,” Batman agrees. “But Stephanie, that doesn’t mean we have to do them all alone. We’re allowed to have people help. Even if it’s just something little. Even if it’s something very big.” 

Steph involuntarily hiccups out a tiny sob from sheer surprise. 

“Stephanie?” Batman asks. And it’s his gentle voice, Steph hates that voice being used at her, she’s not someone who just got assaulted or a lost kid or some overwhelmed trainee police officer, she’s handling things and she didn’t even ask for him to come here and he and the others need to just leave her alone. 

“Stephanie,” he says, one more time. “Is there something big that’s hurting you right now?”

“No!” Steph shouts. Scrunches her face. Raises herself up to sitting just to turn away from Batman. Takes a hard breath. Suddenly admits “Yes!” 

And then she bursts into tears. 

“Oh, hey,” Batman gets out, and of course that makes her stupid self cry harder. “Do you want a hug, Stephanie? Would that help right now?” 

Steph doesn’t bother trying to say yes. She just crawls the two feet straight on top of his lap and shoves her arms and her ribs and her whole entire face into his stupid giant chest and presses into it until his arms come up and wrap around her like a seatbelt, nice and tight. 

Batman doesn’t try to talk her out of it, or calm her down, or even bother reassuring her much. He just hangs on to her and says things every thirty seconds or so about her being safe, and it being okay to feel like this, and that he’ll stay right with her while she’s upset and she’ll feel slightly less terrible soon. When she hits the level of so-out-of-control-with-upset that she’s drenched in sweat, physically trembling, and reduced to coughing in between tear-and-spit filled sob-gasps that keep making her choke after every few lungfuls, he stops trying to use any words and all and just sways very gently side to side where they sit, not loosening his grip an inch, occasionally making low, long shushing sounds whenever her breathing is quiet enough to let external sound through. 

Eventually the fit dies down, like they always do, and Steph is left with the molasses-slow feeling, a cottony head, a sore throat, and rapidly-growing embarrassment that she’s on Batman’s lap having just literally demonstrated the spit-crying level of total unhingement. Batman, who she’s supposed to be proving herself to. Batman who’s in charge of her being approved for patrol. She’s already given up almost everything else that’s fun right now, and she can’t lose that one tiny last piece of normalcy too, she can’t do it, it’s the only time of each week that people are just normal and she knows everything she needs to do and she’s just normal and everything is positive and the stuff she does actually makes a difference. 

“Are you feeling a little better?” comes the deep voice above her head, and Steph shoves herself out of Batman’s lap in one movement, scrambling into a deep squat next to him and scrubbing only exactly twice at her face with her sleeves. 

“I’m okay now,” she tells him. Her voice is steady, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she sounded like a fourth grader on day three of a cold, it would almost be believable. “Sorry for that. I just have a great big buildup every now and then. I’m good now.”

“Okay,” Batman says, “and it’s also okay if you’re not. You were clearly upset. Bodies go through a lot when we cry and get scared.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Steph retorts. 

“Okay. You don’t have to be. But the same kind of hormones get involved, and it takes a lot out of our bodies to cry or have panic attacks or shake. Are you pretty tired?”

“I’m fine.”

“But are you also tired?”

Steph scowls at him. “I mean, yeah, sure, but I’m fine.”

“Would you like me to drive you home so you don’t need to walk?” He can apparently see her getting ready to shoot that right down, because before she can speak, he continues, “It’s a lot safer than you navigating Gotham at sunset while tired and worn out from a hard cry.” 

“Just driving home?” Steph checks. “My house?” 

“Yes,” Batman says. 

“Straight there? No stops?”

“No stops unless you want to stop somewhere.”

“Do I have to sit in the backseat?”

Batman smiles. “No. You’re tall enough to sit up front just this once, I think. Just don’t tell Agent A.” 

“My lips are sealed,” Steph tells him solemnly. “I’m no snitch. I’m the one benefitting, I don’t even have a reason to.” She takes a couple deeper breaths. “Don’t you need to get ready for patrol though?”

“No. It’s still early, but more importantly, my kids always come first. I’m not going out tonight. I’m going to drive you home and then I’m going to figure out some options for making it possible for you to get a break.” 

Steph stares at him, throat tight. 

“Come on,” Batman says then, standing up from the dirt and letting his cape drop back down at last, vanishing most of himself into a vague dim void. “Batmobile is only about a block away. I’ll carry you over the really muddy part.” 

Steph still can’t say anything while she lets him simply take her hand and lead her up the little bank, over the bridge, and towards the Batmobile. She doesn’t say a word when he lifts her up like a ballerina under the armpits and swings her right over the mud pile at the edge of  the construction zone. She’s silent as he the Batmobile beeps unlocked, as he pops open the side door, as he watches her buckle to make sure it’s all the way in. 

Batman gets in on his own side, powers the car on, turns the seat heaters up, and smiles at her once, and Steph still isn’t saying a single word. She’s cotton-headed and damp and cold and warm against the seat surfaces and confused and overwhelmed and wants to be left alone and so guilty about not giving him any explanation for why she just made him hold her while she got snot all over his suit and her heels in, she didn’t know, probably his thigh bones or something, and—

They’re passing the fourth stoplight from her apartment building when Steph suddenly opens her mouth. 

“Mom’s got Fentanyl this time,” Stephanie gets out, with a crack in the middle, and she’s crying again before she even knows what hit her. 

Batman has thrown the emergency flashers on and pulled into a parking meter spot in under three seconds. 

“Sweetheart,” says Bruce, and Stephanie looks over the console to see it’s really him there, cowl down, brows furrowed, looking like he’s in pain for her, and she closes her eyes and cries. 

Sometime during her round two: godawful hullabaloo, Bruce pulled one of the stupid blankets out of nowhere and put it over her hunched shoulders as well as he could manage with her curled up like an egg in the seat. As her breathing starts to slow, and the pressure in her chest drops, Steph finally opens her eyes again, soggy and gross and puffy and sore as they are, and sees him still sitting there, not looking the slightest bit impatient, holding a stupid Batman teddy bear from the stash in the backseat. 

“Are you kidding me,” Steph croaks out, but the effect is ruined by her still sounding like an upset second grade kid. 

Bruce glances almost sheepishly down at the bear in his hands and then back to her gaze. “I thought it might...help.” 

“You’re so stupid,” Steph snaps. He doesn’t even flinch. Steph adjusts herself an inch or two in the curled-up hunch, pulls the blanket up higher around her neck so she can hold it in place like a cape, and then she sticks out one hand. “I want it.” 

“Oh good,” Bruce says, and she doesn’t think he’s faking the relief in his voice. 

“You’re not getting it back,” she warns. 

“That’s fine.”

“I’m not giving this blanket back either.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“I don’t need a stupid blanket and teddy bear.”

“Sure,” Bruce agrees. “They’re just nice sometimes.”

“I’m not a kid,” Steph feels like she has to say. Just to make it clear. He’s seeming a whole lot like he doesn’t remember that well today. 

“But you are having a bad day,” Bruce returns. “And also are probably cold and sore. And also seem to have been having a pretty bad...week? Month?”

Steph glances at him, then away. “Sure. We’ll go with month.”

Bruce is silent next to her for a minute or two. They both breathe quietly, as if neither one of them is sure of the right way to break the silence next. 

Finally Bruce turns his head and stares at her. 

“Stephanie,” he says, quiet but in one of his firmer tones. “You know that I can’t ignore what you let me know now, right?”

Steph swallows. Twice. “Yeah,” she confirms. Her voice is a lot smaller than she means for it to come out.

“I need to ask you a few questions before we decide what to do next for tonight. You’ve heard them before, and I know they’re a pain, but—”

“Legal stuff, I know,” Steph cuts him off. “Just shoot.”

“Okay. Has anyone been hurting you at home?” 

“No.”

“Have any adults around you been making you feel like you’re in danger or touched you in any ways you didn’t want?”

“No.” 

“Have you had enough food to eat lately?”

“Mostly.”

Bruce frowns for a moment. “We’ll come back to that sometime. “Are you still living with your mother?”

“Yes.” 

“Has anyone else been living with you?”

“No. Not since Dad went back in Blackgate.”

“Okay. Who cooks meals at home for you?” 

“I do.”

“Who’s at home during the day or at night?”

“Depends on if Mom’s working day or night shifts.”

“Do you have the things you need to take care of your hygiene and school needs?”

“Yes.” 

“Are you ever afraid because of someone or something at home?”

“No one’s going to hurt me.”

“Does anything at home scare you, Steph?”

“Yes.”

“Does your mother or another person scare you there sometimes?”

“No. I mean, not about me. I’m not scared about me.”

“Are there any things that happen in your home that make you scared?”

Steph chews on her lip. “Yes.”

“Are there any items that are in your home that make you scared?”

“Yes.” 

“Can you tell me any of the things that make you scared?”

“The drugs and supplies and stuff. And when Mom gets high.”

Bruce nods. “Thank you for being honest right now. I’m sorry that this is happening. It’s hard, and we want to get you able to feel safe and happy at home again like you should. Okay? Can you keep answering a few more questions for me, or do you want a break?”

“I’d rather just get it all over with,” Steph tells him.

“All right,” Bruce says. “Tell me about the last meal that you ate.“

“I had butter tortillas this morning before school. And then an extra one while I was at school.”

“Have you been missing any school lately?”

“No.”

“Have you been able to get all of the school work you need to do done lately?”

“Almost always. I’ve never failed an assignment this year. I just am getting behind sometimes. But everybody does!”

“Has anyone been offering you alcohol, drugs, or other substances lately?”

“No.”

“Is anyone making you do things that you don’t want to do, or aren’t comfortable with?”

“No.”

“Have you been sick lately?”

“No.”

“Are you able to sleep at night without anyone waking you up or keeping you from falling asleep?”

Steph thinks about it for a few moments. No, no one is purposefully waking her up, and it’s not like her mom is keeping her from going to bed. She just—it’s Steph who’s deciding to stay awake until her Mom is safe, and waking up to check on her if there’s a thud or something. 

“No,” she answers.

“Do you have any injuries at the moment?”

Steph is silent. 

Bruce waits for several seconds, while she stares at the dashboard instead of at him and refuses to cave. He asks again. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

“No one has been hurting me,” she says. “No one is even touching me.”

“Steph.” Bruce is not backing down. His eyes haven’t left her for over ten seconds straight. 

“I’m fine.”

“Stephanie, I need you to answer the question. I’m not going to be upset no matter what the answer is. I just need to make sure that you’re safe. If you’re hurt, you deserve to have it cared for.”

“No one hurt me,” Steph repeats.

“Not even you?” And he asks it so gently, without any slight inflection of judgement or impatience. Not even a hint. 

Steph feels like the world goes frozen for a second, as her whole body goes hot then cold then hot again and she can’t get the wide-eyed stare off her face that she knows has already given it away. 

But Bruce isn’t looking away, and he’s not changing his expression either. 

“I don’t have to talk about this with you,” Stephanie tries, as a last-ditch effort. “I haven’t admitted anything, and I’m not supposed to have to tell anyone if I don’t want to, my therapist made a rule. You know I don’t have to talk about it.”

“I do remember,” says Bruce. “I’m not going to force you to. You haven’t given me any reason to think that you’re a suicide risk or going to imminently hurt yourself enough to put you at risk of bleeding out or anything similar. But I’m not asking as a demand, kiddo. I’m asking as someone who wants your body to feel as good as it can while you’re already in a lot of pain.” 

“Don’t say stuff like that,” Steph gets out. “Stop just saying things so much, I’m taking care of things fine and I didn’t ask for any help!”

“But you’re going to be helped by people who love you anyway, because that’s how this works.” 

“I don’t need an intervention!”

“This isn’t going to be an intervention. Stephanie. Listen to me. You’re fifteen years old and you’ve been doing an unbelievably good job of taking care of yourself and your mother and a number of other responsibilities. But you shouldn’t have to. Even if you were eighteen right now, today, you still should never be having to care for an adult all by yourself without at least some intermittent support or financial assistance. You’re doing far more than anyone your age should be having to do, and it’s not healthy, and it’s hurting you, and that’s not your fault.” 

“It’s not my Mom’s either!” Steph snaps through watery eyes again. “She didn’t mean for this to happen! She’s a really good person, and she’s super loving, and she’s never putting me in danger and she’s doing her best! It’s not her fault she can’t do everything right now! That’s why I’m taking care of the leftovers for now. It’s what family does.” 

“Yes!” says Bruce. “That is what family does. It’s absolutely clear how much you and your mom love each other, and you understand the give-and-take of family units very well. But you’re missing information, honey.”

“What.” 

“That give-and-take is only for equal adults. Burdens and responsibilities get shared between partners, and only smaller ones are supposed to fall to the younger adults and kids. If there aren’t partners, then other adults like friends, aunts and uncles, grandparents, community members, whoever, are the ones supposed to step in and help. Responsibilities are supposed to be given to children and young adults after they learn how to do them. Things they aren’t ready emotionally, mentally, or physically to do yet are the responsibility of experienced grown-ups. It’s not supposed to be you.”

Stephanie, once again, can’t find words to speak suddenly. 

Bruce keeps going. “You’re still a teenager, and while you’re very competent and very mature, you are simply not ready for the full amount of adult responsibilities yet. That’s not a failing, and I’m not criticizing you. You’re not grown all the way yet. You haven’t had anyone teach you to do most of those things, and you haven’t had the time to confidently work your way up through easier versions of things till you are able to take everything on without overwhelm or uncertainty. You’ve been very successful so far, but it’s harmful to you both emotionally and developmentally to make you do it. You’re not supposed to do any of this alone, Stephanie.”

“It’s just Mom and me,” Steph whispers. “What was I supposed to do? Let us starve? Not get her to work on time so she loses her job? Stop going to school?” 

“No,” Bruce tells her, gently. “You shouldn’t have had to make the decision at all. If a guardian isn’t able to care for a child for whatever reason, they’re allowed to go through that. People get sick, have sever grief or depression, lots of things. But their responsibility is to make sure that their child is still cared for. When your mom stopped being able to take care of you, that’s the time when adults are supposed to call for help and ask people they trust to help them take care of their child until they can again.”

“Mom couldn’t think things through like that once it started. That’s not fair.” 

“I’m not blaming her,” Bruce clarifies. “I’m sorry, I should have worded that better. Your mom has a difficult life, and she’s worked hard and isn’t a bad person for any of this. The thing she should have done differently to protect you is to have set up a system of adults who would automatically step in and help care for you if she did relapse.”

“She did, though,” Steph points out. “She put together the whole safety plan and everything. You were there. She literally listed you for kinship care if I needed to go in the system again.” 

“Right,” says Bruce. “And she knows that Alfred and Leslie and I are all willing to step in and help both of you at any time, no matter what. But what went wrong when she relapsed this time and things started to get hard?”

Steph stares at him. She doesn’t know what answer he wants. “What?” She asks, slowly.

“She didn’t ask anyone for help.” 

Stephanie doesn’t look back at him for a good minute or two. Bruce generously doesn’t comment while she spends a good part of that time kicking the toe of her boot into the glove box over and over again. 

“I could handle it,” Steph tells him.

“You’ve been handling it. You’ve been handling it a lot better than anyon could have expected. A lot of adults wouldn’t be managing everything as well as you’ve been doing.

“Mom’s not out of control,” Steph adds. “She’s still going to work every shift. She does a good job. She isn’t hurting anyone and she isn’t driving high and she isn’t doing anything at work. She’s not putting anyone in danger.” 

“She’s putting herself in danger,” Bruce points out. “She’s putting you in danger.” 

Stephanie doesn’t reply. She kicks the console this time, extra hard. 

“We don’t need help,” Steph mutters.

“I think that’s a complicated statement we could debate,” says Bruce, “but ultimately it doesn’t matter if you need help yet or not. That’s the wrong question. Stephanie, I know you’re tired. I know you had—a really terrible day. An awful, stressful, draining day. You’ve been honest with me so far. Can you be honest one more time? Don’t think about what your mom needs or wants, and don’t think about what you feel like you should need or allow yourseld. This is just about the answer you feel like giving tonight. Do you want help, Stephanie?” 

Stephanie kicks the side of the console so, so hard, one last time, right after he asks that, and then goes still as a poked rolly-poly. 

Bruce just waits.

“I want my mom back,” Steph croaks, as her voice cracks almost as much as Tim’s has taken to doing. “I want my mom. I want things to be okay again.” 

And finally, Bruce reaches out and pulls her head onto his shoulder while she once again starts to cry. Not loud or fast or intense like before. Just slow and quiet. Just even breaths, tears slipping out, almost-keening sounds in between inhales. “I’m just really tired,” she sobs when his hand lands on her cheek, and he rubs a few circles against her tangled hair with his thumb. 

“I know, Steph,” he murmurs. “I know. You’ve been holding this all by yourself for way too long. You need a rest. We’re going to take care of you and your mom. I promise. Do you trust us to take care of things for a little bit? Can you let me do some of the work for a while?” 

“Yeah,” Steph gets out through her once-again-congested nose. “I trust you. I just don’t know how to ask for help. I can always handle things so I don’t ask and I’m really tired but I didn’t mean to mess up everyone’s day like this and I’m super sorry and it’s so dumb—“

“None of this is dumb,” Bruce interrupts firmly. “Not a single thing. You’re doing a good job and it’s time for you to take a break now while we tag in. You’re not alone. We’re going to fix it.”

“I trust you,” Steph repeats, stronger. “I have for years, I know you mean things when you say them. You took me back home one night a long time ago when someone almost—I was by myself and you gave me a Batarang and showed me how to hold it and carried me all the way home to my own window and put me in bed. Like a real dad.” 

“You remember that? You must have been so young.”

“I’ve carried the Batarang every single day except at school ever since,” Steph tells him. “It kept me safe. And then you fixed it when I was stupid and got shot and everything—“

“Not your fault, and you weren’t stupid, be nice to yourself,” Bruce interrupts.

Stephanie rolls her eyes, which makes him smile. He lets her sit up and buckle back into her seat.

“The point is that I do trust you. You always…make things safe.” 

Bruce looks at her for a moment, something complicated on his face, and then smiles a little bit at the end.

“I’m not perfect,” he tells her. “I mess up a lot. But I’m very, very glad that I’ve been able to meet and help you. I’m going to do my best to never mess up that streak. You sure you trust me?”

“Yeah. I literally just said it.” 

“Even after you’ve seen me try to cook?”

“If I need cooking help I’ll just find someone else.” 

“Even after you’ve seen me fall over all those times on the waxed tile floors?”

“Yes, even after that, that happens to anybody, are you trying to get me to not trust you?”

“Even after—“

“I TRUST YOU, OKAY!” Steph shouts it, but she does laugh a tiny bit while she’s shouting. 

“Okay,” says Bruce, smiling in return. “Then will you trust me to make some decisions for you and your mom tonight?”

Steph swallows. “Yeah.” 

“And will you trust me if I take you back to Leslie’s clinic or to Alfred and we make sure that your body is as safe and comfortable as we can get it right now and fix anything that might need a little bit of care, like cuts or hunger or a headache?”

“I don’t want to,” Steph replies.

“But will you trust me to help you do that tonight?” Bruce asks. “It’s okay to say no, we can do it later instead. But if the answer is no, I need a ‘no.’” 

Stephanie is quiet for a few seconds, and then looks at him sideways. “I still trust you,” she says. “I don’t wanna do it, but I don’t want to decide stuff anymore. I’ll go if you promise I can say no or stop and you won’t make me do something.” 

“Absolutely,” Bruce tells her firmly. “This isn’t meant to make you feel worse. I want you to feel better, and to do that we need to see where you’re at first. No one will make you do anything uncomfortable. I promise. And if one of us does, you have my full permission to put us flat on our backs and run to a safe house until you can call Dick or Clark.”

“I don’t think that would be necessary.”

“Just in case,” Bruce says. “You’re not a prisoner, and you have rights and autonomy. No matter who it is, if someone hurts you, even if it’s one of us, I want you to know that you can and should always defend yourself first and get away safe. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Steph agrees.

“Good. One more choice for you before we drive, and you can try to nap on the way if you feel like it. Do you want Leslie, or do you want Alfred, or do you want to go to an urgent care or hospital and have someone else help you?”