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"Wait, wait," Dick laughs, the laugh strained, forced, and foreboding of a storm headed towards Tim's contently grey skies, "Tim wasn't — wasn't last week your birthday?"
Of course this is when Dick remembers. Not when they're in the Cave after a mission, or when Tim is injured and resting upstairs in the guest room in the manor, not even when Tim is working on his suit or the Batmobile, but when they're about to bust a trafficking ring. Because of course this is when Dick pulls out what Tim had let be swept under the carpet, never to be seen again, or so he had hopes.
"Um," Tim coughs, "yes?" What does Dick want Tim to say?
"Oh." Dick sounds sad. He sounds devastated, actually. Tim can understand why, and at the same time, not understand. Dick is an empath. He's sensitive. He's putting himself in Tim's shoes and through all the pain he would've felt had it happened to him. But it happened to Tim. Tim is a member of the team, nothing more. And Dick is an empath. But does his empathy extend to Tim?
Tim scrunches his nose and chooses not to think about it. Dick, though, is only thinking about it. "But none of us did anything. Or wished you happy birthday. Or remembered, for that matter."
"Way to rub salt in the wound," Tim mutters under his breath so quietly that there would never be a way for the golden boy to hear. "I don't see the big point in all of this."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"I just didn't think it was important."
"But it's your birthday."
"And? Never celebrated them before."
Dick lets out a wounded noise. "Tim, that's even worse."
"If it makes you feel any better, I never celebrate anything. I just, like, as a kid, my birthday was never a thing, so as an adult, it just transferred over. So you or Steph or Alfred didn't do something wrong by not remembering. If anything, the times I did celebrate my birthday with you were weird. It's just a thing I do, okay? One of my 'quirks' or something." Tim waves it off, sighing deeply.
Dick opens his mouth, ready to pour in more salt. He's ready to press on, press onto a dagger that is edging deeper into Tim's skin, into Tim's heart. The dagger is pressed in and Dick's hand is on the hilt, his every word pushing further and further. Tim's bulletproof and yet he slices up so easily. He isn't going to let his predecessor insist on a topic of which he knows very little about and is involved in about that much. Besides, Tim doesn't need another wound to lick, especially one that's already healing.
Tim cuts him off with a raised hand. "We have work to do and this is a conversation that I'd rather never be having. It's trivial, anyways." Tim turns.
As Tim walks away, he pretends he doesn't hear Dick's quiet, "It shouldn't seem trivial."
A few days later, after Tim had hoped the storm had calmed down on it's own, or not even have happened at all, Tim is swiping evidence to look over. He just finished a night of patrol and unfortunately had to regroup back at the Cave. He knows it would be crowded. Jason is coming over more often, and so are Cass and Steph. He sometimes shadows them, but he likes to keep to his Nest. He tries to avoid the Cave, but tonight, it proved difficult.
He noticed that the rest of the family was weary of him. He wondered what he did, what he said, and it nipped him a few times in the back of his mind that it's possible the Golden Boy said something, or maybe the others remembered. He doesn't know why either would happen. After all, it wasn't important then, it's not important now.
Tim rushes to finish up and grab what he needs before he's throttled by someone.
It's only when the others have began finishing up that it happens. Bruce awkwardly clears his throat. The hair raises on Tim's neck. He pauses. "Tim, can I talk to you?"
And the Cave is emptied out just as quickly as Tim's walls are put up and reinforced. He sees out of the corner of his eye the look that Dick shoots him. Dick is checking up on him. Traitor. The final puzzle fits into place, knocking Tim upside the head in the process. Tim swears if Dick tries to interfere in his life one more time Tim swears he is going to—
"I'm on a tight schedule," says Tim with a tight smile. "But sure, what's up?"
Bruce opens his mouth to speak. Tim has seen the great Batman speechless before. Bruce hates that fact. When Bruce is speechless, it's because he's trying to speak his feelings. Tim's seen it when he asked to adopt Tim, but that was the only time. He's seen it happen with Damian, with Jason, with Dick, even Cass and Alfred. The only emotion that's shown towards Tim these days is cold, hard disappointment that used to pierce him deeply now barely even dents.
Tim prepares for a lecture. He doesn't exactly know why he'd be lectured for his birthday being forgotten. Maybe he should've told them about it. It does seem like they want to keep him in the family in the public's eye, inviting him to outings once in a while and checking for his attendance at galas. Other than that, they don't interact with him all that much. He's fine with it. Maybe the public isn't. After all, Vicky Vale tried to approach him on his birthday. That must be it. They were planning a stunt for his birthday and he messed up and—
"I . . . I wanted to apologize." Tim pauses. That's . . . a weird way to start a lecture. Tim looks at Bruce. His face is hard but his eyes are soft around the edges. Tim stares at him, studying his face. Bruce stares back, and he's searching Tim's face for something so Tim shuts down every facial tick and body language he has. "For forgetting your birthday."
Oh. "Don't worry about it. It's not important."
Bruce's eyebrows narrow. Tim said the wrong thing. He tries to go for the right answer. Does Bruce want Tim to pretend? Does he want Tim to make a big deal to the press, to keep up image? What's the right answer? Will Bruce, as usual, be disappointed either way and find something to be disappointed about no matter what Tim does? Is that what's going on? If so, now Tim wants to leave even more than he did before.
"I," Tim tries again, "I mean—"
"It is, though. It is." Bruce's tone is . . . somewhat desperate. He steps forward. His hands are anxiously running over each other and his body is tense, not like he's angry but as if he's holding himself back. His arms twitch as if they want to move or wrap around something or someone. His only focus is on Tim, who's posture is relaxed but muscles are as stiff as a board. "I forgot."
"And that's okay. We never celebrated my birthdays, anyways." Tim means with Bruce, but with his parents. When things were good with the Titans for a hot second, they threw him a party, the first he ever got. Well, he might've celebrated with his parents a few times, but they weren't memorable or left warm, fuzzy feelings that lingered for years to come. "It's okay."
Bruce vehemently shakes his head. "No, no, it isn't. I . . . I barely wished you happy birthday. And after the death of your friends and your parents, I never asked if you were okay."
"Yeah, I know," says Tim, albeit a little frustrated now. "But you adopted me, which is good enough." Even though Tim's now emancipated.
"But even afterwards, I—"
"Is there a point to this?" Is there a point to reminding Tim that he already knows he's not equal to Dick or Damian or Jason or even Alfred the cat? Is there a point to telling Tim how bad he feels for falling deep into a narrative that he didn't want to be a part of anyways? A narrative of a hope for a family that Tim made up in one of his weakest moments, when he was so low he didn't think he could ever get back up. Of course, the 'up' was a very bright light, and Bruce was stuck in his own darkness. Tim was sure if he pushed the light in Bruce's direction for the hope that it would be noticed, the light would've been destroyed. Plus, Bruce never would've wanted Tim's light, Tim's wavering light. He has Dick.
Bruce swallows thickly. His eyes widen for a moment before returning to their uncommonly worried state. He stops edging closer to Tim, who's bracing to run as soon as there's an opening. Bruce looks defeated.
The older man nods. "Of course there is. Tim, why aren't you upset? We forgot your birthday. All of us did."
"Yeah, no shit." He tries to sound playful, joking under a forced laugh. "But it's okay. I don't really care."
"So you're okay with being neglected?"
"Don't use that term. It doesn't apply here."
"Yes," huffs Bruce, "it does." And the anger, the seething disappointment and all of the other ugly feelings are surfacing. "We've emotionally neglected you—"
"That doesn't apply here, Bruce, you know it—"
"We are your team — shit, that's not what I meant to say."
Tim's forehead creases. He shifts the weight to the front of his feet. He crosses his arms and he sizes Bruce up. The man is pinching the bridge of his nose and the free arm is wrapped around his midsection. He seems frustrated and Tim thinks he should stop while Bruce hasn't slapped him but apparently, Smart Tim has left the building. What the Hell does Bruce want?
Tim swallows, biting his tongue. He opens his mouth, which is surprisingly dry. His eye twitches with rage. "You're not neglecting me. You're . . . " You're my boss, my mentor. You're the closest I've ever gotten to a person. You've been so kind and so distant and I don't know which one is worse. "You're doing a fine job, Bruce. You're not doing anything wrong."
Bruce whips around. "Yes, I am! Why can't you see that?!"
"Why can't I see that?!" Tim's dangerously close to yelling. The bubbling anger is threatening to rise and burst and he doesn't want that he doesn't he can't have it he—
"You're being irrational! I'm trying to—"
"And I'm trying to leave!"
"show you that you matter—"
"Jesus Christ Bruce, leave it alone!" Tim yells and that finally, finally shuts him up. His jaw closes with an audible snap. He removes the cowl, and his eyes look into Tim's but he's met with an untamed, unleashed, unfamiliar anger. Tim hasn't ever gotten angry. Not at Damian, not at Jason, and Dick was never truly yelled at, just met with a glare or a lecture or two. Tim was never angry at the universe, at least not vocally. He's better silent, anyways.
"It doesn't matter, okay?! I don't matter in this dynamic, okay?! As Red Robin, of course I matter. I'm the intel guy, the strategy guy, the one who everyone depends on. As Tim Drake, I cover your slack at Wayne Enterprises, I keep up the illusion of this family, and I keep the money rolling in. But as Tim? I don't matter. I never have, Bruce. And I'm okay with that, so why isn't anybody getting on par with that?! I'm fine with it and everybody else just needs to learn that and leave me the fuck alone because I'm fine, okay?! So stop asking and let me leave like I've been trying to do!"
"You've been trying to leave?"
"Oh, come on, Bruce. Don't make this metaphorical," Tim angrily shakes his finger before scrubbing a hand down his face. "I need to get back to my apartment so I can get to sleep and so I can get out of this Cave, this place, this—"
"Family?"
Tim steps up and he makes sure he's staring Bruce right in the eyes.
Bruce has been through Hell and back. He's been to literal Hell. He's seen the death of his parents, he's lost friends, some of whom have come back. He's been tortured and kidnapped more times than he can count on both hands and feet. He's lost his children and his home and his city and his sanity. And most of it, he gained back. Clark always came back. Alfred was always there. He found Dick and so many other children that he has been gifted with.
When he showers, he can feel the water linger in the deeper gashes. When he looks in the mirror, the scars that are visible still sting as they taunt him. And for a while, after Jason's death, he wouldn't look in the mirror. He'd shave by physical memory. He'd shower with his eyes closed. Because he didn't want to have to look at himself in the eyes because he lost the light. The life had retreated to the abyss he'd prided himself for not falling into.
And then Tim came. Tim came, and it was a hand grabbing the life and holding it in an open-palmed hand, ordering for it to go back to Bruce. It took months, but the life returned and Bruce remembers when he could finally look himself in the mirror, and he cried. He remembered so clearly what he had lost, and he looked at himself, and he could see the chunk of himself he was missing, he could see the loss so clearly written on the worry lines and the tear tracks, but there was life and there was love and it was glorious and the colors became brighter.
Bruce remembers how he looked. He remembers that look on himself every day. But he'd never thought he'd see it on Tim. It's devastating. It's horrendous and it shouldn't fit Tim's face but it does because Bruce can count on one hand the number of times that Tim has genuinely smiled. The hallowed eyes aren't so foreign and that's terrifying. It stops Bruce's heart to think that it isn't a sudden change, just one Bruce didn't notice and somehow, that stabs him with such a sharp guilt that it's unbearable.
"Bruce," Tim's voice is lifeless, and yet there's an edge to it that only tells of an incoming storm. "To leave this family, I'd have to be a part of it, first."
He turns around, heading for the stairs, leaving Bruce behind. He focuses intently on his feet, watching every crevice of each step, determined not to slip as his tears slick the stairs. He bites the tears back, refusing to not even wipe at them because that would acknowledge them and he can't feel he just can't. He almost slams open the entrance to the cave, and the grandfather clock opens, light flooding in.
There, standing with the obvious intent on listening in, is the Wayne family. Tim catches Dick's eyes, those watery eyes, and the older man reaches his hand out, reaching for Tim, but Tim shoves past Dick, he shoves past them all.
Tim walks faster and leaves.
He doesn't want to come back.