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"Stop pretending like you care!" Tim's voice echoed around the cave. "Just, like, get the fuck off of me, alright? Get away! I don't care what you have to do. Go pick on someone else, fuck!"
Bruce froze. He did not understand exactly what his son had just screamed at him--it was like he was buffering, stuck in the harsh absence of sound like newly-deafened soldiers in a minefield. Tim was not the type to yell, let alone scream. He had been trying to get the boy to sleep after he had been working hard all night. Bruce had recently felt the strong urge to take care of him, suddenly noticing everything wrong and attempting to fix it--he often had these sporadic desires, the need to nurture one of his kids until he was satisfied and sure that they were fine. This time around, Tim had been his focus, and it was clear now that he did not appreciate it.
Tim narrowed his eyes at him. "I deserve what I get. I fucking get it," he spat. "But if you come near me one more time, it's open fucking season." He was not an angry child, had never been particularly hostile or demanding, leaving Bruce off his guard and unprepared. Deserves what he gets? Bruce did not know what to say, and it hurt, hurt his brain, his heart, his whole body that his son was so incomprehensibly furious with him.
His confusion must have been apparent, because Tim balled his hands into tight fists at his sides. "You know what? You are so fucking mean!" His eyes were glassy and his voice caught in his throat, but he persisted, growing more agitated with each word. "I can take a lot. A lot," Tim said with a shuddered breath. "You are never satisfied, and it's sick." Bruce felt his stomach drop at the hate in his voice. All he wanted to do was to show Tim that he cared, remind him that he was loved and cherished and he could not understand what he had done to hurt him so badly.
"Queridito," Bruce breathed, heartbroken and frustrated to tears with himself. He felt the way he did during some of the uglier fights with Jason; where there was no reason, only hurt, the collapsing of a broken building begging to be rebuilt. "Why are you hurt?"
"Stop!" Tim cried. "Stop it!"
Bruce rushed forward towards him, wrapping his arms around his son before he could get the chance to fight back. He felt Tim's hands clawing at his shirt, desperately struggling to get away, but he did not let go. He would never let go, even when this hyper-focus ebbed away--Bruce knew that he would always be there for Tim, no matter what, even if Tim did not know it himself.
Slowly and surely, Tim ceased his fighting, and Bruce felt him shake against his chest. His hands cupped the back of the boy's head, and he knew he felt secure and safe when Tim finally returned the hug.
"I--" Bruce hesitated. It was difficult for him to say, but there was not much else he could do. "I love you, queridito." The words themselves were enough to send his son into sobs. Bruce knew Tim had trouble with emotional trust--he had greatly underestimated the severity of the issue.
"Let me help you," Bruce said. "It's all I can bear to do." His heart ached to repair the damage in front of him, but he knew it would not be that easy. There were a limited amount of things he could do, but he would do them: he could feel that little heartbeat against his chest, make sure he was warm, fed, rested, and cared for. He would do them because one look at any of the little dark heads that bobbed around the manor screamed something at him Bruce could not explain. He needed it.
Tim's head nodded against his chest. Bruce pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. He did not fully understand, but he knew that they were both in on the same thing; those words were not used lightly.
He meant every word.