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The dinner table is tenser than usual.
Tim glances back and forth between Jason and Bruce, then risks another toward Dick, partially wishing he could be looking down at his food like him, completely withdrawn from the situation. Or quietly grinning like Damian, enjoying this little stare-down.
It’s hard to be withdrawn and even harder to enjoy it when Tim is the heart of the issue, though.
“You’ve gotta let a man be free once in a while, Bruce! He’s not used to a dictatorial asshole breathing down his-”
“I think that’s hardly for you to determine, Jason Todd,” Bruce interrupts tightly, and Tim sinks a bit further into his seat, eyes dropping to the table. They narrow into a glare when Damian’s chortle becomes audible. “He knew ahead of time that he needs to ask permission before leaving the manor, and he chose to break the rules anyway.”
Bruce’s hand remains tight on his fork, the same white-knuckled grip he's had since Tim had stepped hesitantly into the kitchen after sneaking out 3 hours prior, though he’d at least given Tim a hug before ordering him to sit and eat with them. It had been mostly silent since then, the rigid atmosphere almost unbearable. That was, until Bruce offhandedly told Tim to “go wait in his room” once he was finished eating.
Until he said they needed to talk.
“Well, pardon me for thinking you’d cut a kid a break for once in your goddamn life, Bruce Wayne,” Jason seethes, and Tim barely has time for his eyes to widen in shock before Bruce is standing, hands landing heavily on the table. Tim sits ramrod straight in his seat, holding his breath, but Jason doesn’t have a lick of anxiety on his face.
It’s only rational, a distant part of Tim thinks, for Jason to be ballsier than him, considering he’s lived at the manor for 3 years while Tim’s only been here 3 weeks.
But Tim doesn’t want Jason to die.
“You, young man,” Bruce says, voice low, “better watch your tone when speaking to me.” Tim glances over to see Jason’s arms crossed over his chest, the fifteen-year old’s jaw clenching as if he wants to say more, but his body is forcing him to have some sort of self-preservation instinct. “Unless you’d like to join Tim?”
Tim doesn’t like the sound of that.
Swallowing shakily, Tim watches Jason’s chest rise and fall, strangely defensive over his “baby bird-brained brother” (Jason’s words, not Tim’s), even if he looks hesitant now. It’s strange, considering Jason was the most against Tim coming to live with them while his parents are in witness protection. I deal with enough of this shit in school, I don’t need another rich, snot-nosed brat living here! I can barely tolerate Damian!
He’s been all-around different for the past few days, though. Since he and Tim had their little… heart to heart.
Jason takes a deep breath, and Tim prays that he’ll just drop it. “Unless you’d like to take that stick out of your-”
“I’m finished!” Tim practically yells, standing up and effectively cutting Jason off before they’re both in hot water. Jason must have stood up as well, because when Jason and Bruce turn their attention to him, their poses mirror each other, hands braced on the table, faces still angry but confused eyes indicating it’s not aimed at Tim.
“I’m finished,” he repeats more quietly in the ensuing silence, pausing a beat before grabbing his plate off the table. He sends another furtive look to Dick, but his headphones have since been thoroughly plugged into his ears. His name really does suit him.
“I’ll… I’ll go wait in Jason’s room,” he mutters, quickly turning away before he can change his mind. He hands his plate to Alfred, who must have materialized when Tim said he was finished, as he tends to do. Tim can barely rasp out a thanks before trudging out of the room, trying not to look desperate to escape their weighted gazes. He can hear muttering as he walks upstairs, but at least there’s no more yelling from Jason or giggling from Damian.
No more terrible, undivided attention.
Tim doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.
He’s sitting on Jason’s bed when Bruce knocks. He isn’t sure why, considering his own bed is right next to it and, like, exactly the same - if a bit smaller. But, they were kind of on a time crunch when Tim moved in, and Bruce decided he needed to room with someone in case he needed protection from the gangsters after his family. Initially, Jason wasn’t too happy about that.
Tim wasn’t, either. Until he realized they had a little more in common than he thought.
“Tim,” Bruce says evenly, pushing the door open without prompting. Tim feels his shoulders tense, hating how different he sounds now. His own parents wouldn’t have blinked twice at Tim leaving after dark, never mind the whole “without permission” thing.
Evidently, Bruce and his parents are very, very different.
“Sit down, lad. We need to have a talk.”
Tim hadn’t even realized he’d stood up.
He lowers himself slowly back to the bed, wrapping a hand around his left wrist and squeezing as Bruce shuts the door behind him. The man walks closer and sits heavily beside him, looking a bit more slumped compared to his usual perfect posture, and Tim feels something nasty bubble up in his stomach.
Bruce looks… haggard. As if he’d been worried.
“Would you mind telling me why you left without permission?” he asks after several moments of pinching the bridge of his nose, finally letting go to look at Tim. A part of Tim wishes he’d go back to pinching the bridge of his nose. “Because I do remember specifically telling you to let me know when you’re leaving - and to never leave by yourself at night. Did you just feel like killing two birds with one stone?”
Tim swallows, throat suddenly dry. “I didn’t… I just wanted to take some pictures. I thought you… wouldn’t notice.”
He can practically hear Bruce’s eyebrows raise, even if he can’t bring himself to look up from his hands clenching his knees.
“You thought I wouldn’t notice that you left for several hours? At night, no less? Even without our complex alarm system, I seriously doubt that no one in this house would notice the absence of a whole person, Tim.”
His voice has something stern underlining it, and Tim feels something hot flush down his face and back, expression pulling down. Bruce has no right to talk to him sternly - not while Tim is on this over-glorified vacation with the family he’d been stalking.
Admiring.
Whatever.
“My parents wouldn’t have,” he mutters sulkily, tracing a grass stain on his jeans. There weren’t many interesting things to photograph while standing at a normal height, after all, but he doesn’t think Bruce would approve of all the crouching and climbing he’d done that night with so little training.
Bruce doesn’t approve of a lot of things his parents wouldn’t have cared about.
He can feel Bruce’s eyes on him, but all Tim can do is frown deeper, forced to sniff softly when his nose runs too much. His face feels uncomfortably hot, which is kind of stupid, since he’s thirteen and way too old to be so upset over something like this.
He’s done fine by himself. He has.
“They should have,” Bruce says quietly, and surprisingly, Tim doesn’t jump when a meaty hand lands on his shoulder, resting there warmly. But it does make a tear rush down his face, another sniffle tearing from his throat. “But I’m not your parents, Tim.”
Yeah, Tim knows. Sometimes, it’s all he thinks about - even if it’s only been a few weeks.
“I just wanted to photograph some nature scenes,” he croaks, tightening his fists in the material of his pants, “I didn’t… didn’t think it was a big deal.”
Bruce sighs, a sound almost as drained as he looked when Tim first walked into the kitchen. “I know that, Tim, but I specifically told you the rules of this household. And you deliberately disobeyed them.”
Tim sniffs again, rubbing at his face with his wrist. He can’t bring himself to say anything.
“...I’m afraid you’ve earned yourself a good hiding. Stand up, Timothy.”
Tim falters for a moment, and while a distant part of him had expected as much, he can't help but feel like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over his head. Like he's crash-landing back to earth, and flames are bursting up around him. “Wait- what?”
Bruce is already rolling up his sleeves, rebuttoning them further up his forearm, and Tim finally looks up to his face with wide eyes. The man stares back calmly, face set sternly but not visibly angry. It doesn’t help the nerves that surge up Tim’s throat. “You heard me, kiddo.”
“But- But that’s not… only parents do that!” he spits out, stomach clenching painfully and skin buzzing uncomfortably. He feels a sort of franticness in his chest, almost making him consider the window to his right - two-story drop be damned. “And mine never did! And you don’t… really, I appreciate you letting me stay here and all, but you can’t do that!”
Bruce only continues staring at him. His eye doesn’t so much as twitch - as if he’d been expecting this.
“You’re under my care for a reason, Tim,” he says slowly, large hands falling to rest on his own knees. “It’s my responsibility to keep you safe and out of trouble, and I can hardly do that if I don’t know where you are. If you can’t see the danger in being out at night by yourself - with no one aware of your location, no less - then perhaps this will disincentivize future misbehavior.”
Bruce breathes deeply, and while Tim couldn’t manage to look him in the eye earlier, he can hardly look away now. Bruce rubs his forehead briefly. “This is your last chance, Tim. Stand up so we can get this over with.”
Tim, indeed, does not stand up.
“I’ve only been, uh… swatted a few times, Bruce, and I don’t think that’s what you have in mind. Can we please just drop it? I'm not looking to go into shock or anything.”
Bruce continues looking at him, expression rather deadpan - probably just as aware as Tim is that he’s playing dumb. He slowly holds up one finger, and for a moment, Tim thinks he’ll just slap him to get him moving.
“One.”
Damn it. Tim freezes, eyes widening but staying locked on Bruce. A shiver goes down his spine, but he stays glued to the bed, suddenly questioning if he’d even be able to stand up if he tried. He’s only ever seen this type of thing in sitcoms and the occasional family at the park - he always thought it was funny, how quickly a kid obeyed once their parent started counting.
Keyword: thought. Past tense. Very much past tense.
“Two.”
Tim’s breathing picks up a little, but hopefully, it’s not noticeable. He sends a quick glance to the window, then the door, and notes a bit frantically that Bruce shifts forward in his seat - probably ready to grab him, if necessary.
He’s on a time crunch. He’s supposed to be smart - he should be able to talk himself out of this.
“Thr-”
Tim shoves himself off the bed, taking off in a dead sprint toward the door - apparently, verbal negotiation isn’t included in the whole “fight or flight” thing. Who knew? Tim certainly didn’t, or he would’ve been more of a stickler to Bruce’s training regimen and get a little faster, at least.
Well. Maybe he has gotten a little faster, a little stronger.
But it doesn’t stop the hand that darts out to grab his shirt after hardly two steps.
“That’s more than enough, Timothy Drake,” Bruce says sharply, hauling him back toward the bed and taking hold of his upper arms. He positions Tim between his knees, gazing up at him sternly. It’s mildly concerning that Bruce is nearly as tall as him sitting down. “I never figured you’d be a runner, but then again, I trusted you a lot more before today.”
...Ouch. Tim doesn’t have anything to say to that, and he doesn’t think he could say anything with the sudden lump in his throat, even as adrenaline continues crawling under his skin.
He doesn’t say anything when Bruce’s hands fall to his waistband, either. He doesn’t protest when his jeans are unbuttoned and pulled down to his knees, only to slip and pool around his ankles. His mouth stays wired shut and trembling when Bruce props out a foot and tips him over his lap, legs left dangling uselessly behind him, and all he does is reach out and grab a stray pillow off the floor when Bruce’s warm hand rests lightly on his leg.
There’s something hot and aching in his chest… something he’s felt before, but never with his parents.
Not that Bruce is his parent or anything. But he can’t bring himself to protest anymore against something he deserves so thoroughly.
“Why am I- am I over your knee?” he asks quietly, gripping the pillow between white knuckles. It’s funny - Bruce was doing the same with his fork only thirty minutes ago, but for an entirely different reason. “Shouldn’t I be… over the bed or something? The- desk?”
A hand rubs up and down his back briefly, and it’s not that Bruce hasn’t been physically affectionate during his time here - he’s probably gotten more hair ruffles and head pats and one-armed hugs in the past three weeks than he has in the rest of his life combined - but it feels different, somehow. More personal.
“No. Maybe when you’re a little older or you do something more serious, but for now, it’s just my hand to your bottom, and your bottom over my knee,” he says seriously, as if he didn’t just use the word ‘bottom’ unironically. Tim buries his face back into the pillow - not completely out of shame for himself, this time.
Tim doesn’t say anything else, but he’s quietly surprised that Bruce is only using his hand. His parents may have never actually spanked him, but Tim does distinctly remember a time, maybe in fourth or fifth grade, when a teacher had been calling his parents nonstop over a fight he’d had with another boy. Tim had recently learned that forging signatures was a crime, and for once, he decided not to fake out the teacher.
When his teacher had finally reached them after they’d returned from their business trip, his father had marched him upstairs, taken off his belt, and ordered him to bend over the bed.
Tim remembered being terrified of his father’s rage - something that he seldom experienced, considering he seldom saw them. When he did, they usually threw gifts and money at him as if to make up for their time away. But in the moment, his father had raised the belt high and snapped it down on the bed near the right side of Tim’s head. For a moment, Tim had thought that he’d been hit so hard that he didn’t feel it. He’d learned about that - the nerves being so damaged that it doesn’t cause any pain, or the adrenaline being so strong that the ache doesn’t hit until later.
But, no. His father hadn’t struck him at all.
The belt landed on the bed several more times, each right near his head, the sound so loud and terrifying to a nine-year-old that he’d started crying without so much as a love tap.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” his father had finally said when it was over, Tim shaking like a leaf, so afraid that the man had been trying to throw him off guard and was going to land the belt for real at any second. That the horrible snapping noise would be against him. “Your mother and I had to leave Cancún a day early because you couldn’t behave. You don’t want another nanny, do you?”
He’d looped his belt back through his pants without waiting for a response, then left the room without so much as laying a finger on him. Tim hadn't stopped crying for hours.
Tim clenches the pillow tighter, trying to avoid the same outcome of sobbing his eyes out, when a hand pats his shoulder with finality. All Tim can do is take a deep breath.
The hand lifts from his leg, and a part of him thinks it won’t actually come down - that Bruce will let him up and send him on his merry way, upset that he was interrupted from his workday because Tim couldn’t follow the rules. Couldn't behave.
His butt suddenly erupts with a bright, stinging flair of pain, and it isn’t until a second later that his brain registers the smack that accompanies it.
He doesn’t have time to contemplate it, though, because although there’s a brief reprieve, another follows quickly. And another. And another.
All Tim can manage is a small, choked sound, because he’s known how strong Batman is, but attaching that to Bruce? Feeling the weight of that man’s hand crashing down on him? The same hand that has tossed around multiple criminals simultaneously?
It doesn’t help to know that Bruce probably isn’t even using a tenth of his strength.
“I know you’re new around here, Tim,” Bruce says, but he doesn’t stop smacking as he does. It’s really not fair, because how can Tim focus on words while his butt is getting handed to him at the same time? Interference between tasks - no one can effectively focus on two things simultaneously. Completely counterproductive. “But I don’t have rules just for the sake of having rules.”
All Tim can do is let out a low whine, now able to connect the sound of smacking to the feeling of ouch, and he can only pray that no one else is upstairs. He thinks he’d die.
“I set rules for three reasons. Can you guess what they are?”
Tim guesses it’s a rhetorical question, but when Bruce’s hand lands a little lower - ow - he opens his mouth frantically. “Uh- so I can, ow, stay out of danger?” It seems like a safe guess, no matter how far-fetched it may seem - Bruce has been preaching a lot about staying out of danger.
Bruce hums, thankfully moving his attention back up. Tim is trying to take this in the most dignified manner possible, because even with his lack of experience, he’s not a wimp. Not like all the others seem to think.
But he can’t stop himself from twisting his toes into the carpet, hips shifting side to side.
“That’s good. Yes, to keep you safe is my number one priority - not just because your parents are in witness protection,” Bruce says, voice soft despite his very not soft hand branding his butt with white-hot smacks. “I care a lot about you, Tim, and I was worried when you were gone. I’m not punishing you for my own feelings, but Tim… you could’ve been seriously hurt, and I wouldn’t have been able to get to you in time.”
As if that conjured up some new inspiration in the man, Bruce tilts him forward, and Tim feels a sob rip past his throat at the change in position. If the brief swat to his thigh had hurt so badly, this would kill him.
And when had he started crying?
“The other reasons,” he continues, hand landing hard a bit lower on his butt, somehow hurting a lot more than everything else. Tim wonders if it’s because that’s where most of his weight goes when he sits, which is quickly followed by the thought: he’ll never sit again, “are to keep you happy and healthy, and to help you grow up to be a good, well-rounded person.”
His hand rains down, again and again, and Tim gives up on the whole ‘tough’ thing, sobbing softly and tossing his hips side to side.
It makes no difference, and who’d think it would? The man is freaking Batman. “I made a promise to your parents, Tim,” he says, pausing briefly in the assault so that Tim can finally get a breath. “I promised to take care of you, and… well, I’m not sure they’ve been doing that job properly.”
Tim tenses up slightly on his elbows, but it only lasts a moment before he collapses back down, crying openly into the pillow. He briefly feels bad about that - it’s Jason’s pillow, after all - but he doesn’t particularly care about anything, right now. Not with the guilt surging through his throat and up to his eyes, making them burn all the more.
“But,” Bruce continues, landing a few more smacks all over his butt, keeping them horribly, horribly unpredictable, even if they don’t seem to rattle him as much. It’s hard to tell, at this point. “I’ll take care of you to the best of my ability, which involves an equal partnership and trust on both sides. I need to trust you to follow my rules, understood? I need to trust you to trust my judgment.”
Tim finds himself nodding long before Bruce even finishes the sentence. “Yes, sir. I’m - I’m sorry.”
Bruce’s hand doesn’t falter, but for a moment, he rubs his unoccupied hand over his trembling shoulders. “I know, son.”
It’s over as quickly as it began, with Bruce peppering his butt in a layer of much lighter swats, though it’s hard to tell the difference with how much everything is smarting. All he can do is hiccup into his pillow, even after the sounds of smacks have stopped.
A hand reaches under his shirt to rub his back, and while it’s so nice that it nearly shocks the tears right out of Tim’s eyes, it’s embarrassingly easy to identify it as his spanking hand.
“Come here, Tim. Deep breaths, there you go.”
Tim allows himself to be guided up and into Bruce’s arms, automatically burying his face into the man’s shoulder as if all boys are hardwired to seek comfort after a butt-kicking. Bruce easily accommodates - again, as if he expected this - and one hand cups the back of Tim’s head, the other running up and down his back.
For some reason, at one point or another, he starts to cry harder.
Bruce seems to have expected that too, and all he does is whisper reassurances in his ear, never stopping with the soft touches.
When Tim finally settles, nodding off in Bruce’s large arms as if they’re a bolster pillow, only a distant part of him is ashamed of himself for being so needy. He shouldn’t have cried for so long.
Really, he’d fully expected Bruce to deposit him off his lap and walk out without another word. What would he have done then?
Instead, the door closing was preceded by the gentle lull of being moved to his own bed - the nostalgic feeling of a blanket being pulled over him, of cool lips brushing his forehead. A hand sweeping back his hair.
As he’s half-asleep, another tear rushes down his face.
It feels like hours later when Tim is roused from sleep by the sound of the door opening, and he forces himself to sit up, rubbing bleary eyes with his hand. He instantly regrets the movement when his butt brushes against the bed, still clad in only boxer shorts. He must have kicked off his pants sometime during his torture.
Jason must notice his hiss, because his smile is at least partially sympathetic. “If it’s any consolation, Bruce smacked my ass pretty good when I got too lippy with him earlier,” he whispers into the darkness, and Tim feels himself scowl. He doesn’t know why Jason defended him after seemingly hating his guts for two weeks, but he has a feeling it has to do with their little… chat, a few days ago.
“All the Wayne family bonds over childhood trauma, Timmy. My mom died and my piece-of-shit dad’s in jail, Dick and Bruce watched their parents die, Damian was raised by abusive psychopaths, you were clearly severely neglected… you fit right in!”
Tim almost wants to roll his eyes all over again. Maybe they all turned out a little weird, except for Alfred.
“That’s not any consolation,” he hisses, flipping onto his stomach to lay back down. “Why the hell would you do that?”
He doesn’t look, but he can practically hear the lazy smirk in Jason’s voice as he saunters closer, pants dropping audibly so he can climb into his own bed, “Brothers gotta stick together, right?”
Tim’s breath catches, but he doesn’t say anything. A part of him is grateful for the darkness and the fact that he’s facing the wall. He wouldn’t want Jason to see his quiet smile.
He hears Jason settle down in bed as his own breathing evens out, comforted by the familiar whir of Alfred’s diffuser outside the room. He relaxes each muscle in his body, surprised that in this position, the stinging in his butt is only a distant memory.
Maybe… Maybe he could get used to this.
Maybe he already is.
“...you bitch, why is my pillow wet?!”
Tim’s eyes snap open.