Chapter Text
Tim wonders, not for the first time, what developed so wrong within him as a child that has made him so unfit to be loved.
For a moment, he shares a halfhearted sympathy with Bruce’s penchant for paranoia; Tim worries constantly that people can tell just by looking at him exactly how close he is to losing his grip on his…everything.
He has become a master at avoiding looking at mirrors, to the point where even now, staring forward while washing his hands, he doesn’t register his own reflection; the gaunt hollows of his cheekbones, pale against his rich black suit, the deep purple under his eyes hidden by the best concealer money can buy— no the real issue, he knows, is the look in his eyes. Sky blue and cold, dead… hollow. He’s seen the look he refuses to process in his reflection mirrored countless times back at him. They’re the eyes of someone who has cracks in the very foundation of their being. It takes so much effort to pull any semblance of life back into his features, that he spends a few more moments washing his hands than he really needs to, just to give himself the extra breathing space.
That is, until the bathroom door bursts open, and it’s time to play himself again.
“Tim?”
“Hi, Bruce.” Tim smiles weakly, “It’s been a while.”
-
When Tim was small—really small— he used to annoy his parents to no end, endlessly talking, obsessing over anything and everything, a book character, a cool rock he found outside, anything. His mind just worked so quickly, he found it difficult to sit still and be quiet.
That tendency was beaten out of him, though. Janet had a wicked temper, and Jack was no different. Over time, he learned to be quiet, to freeze and lock his muscles in place, to be good. The only thing left now to betray his racing mind is the way he’d sometimes unconsciously bounce his leg, which would generally be stilled by Janet’s hand on his thigh when they were out in public.
His silence helped, when he started going out with Bruce as Robin. After…after everything, there was a pretty common joke that Cass was Bruce’s favorite because she couldn’t talk. But that wasn’t it, not really. The thing about Cass was that she understood Bruce without him needing to speak, really understood him. Tim couldn’t understand Bruce the way Cass did, but he could be quiet. Not always, obviously, Tim had a good handle on when it was time to call Bruce on his bullshit to keep him alive, but he also knew when to give Bruce his space. Tim Drake always knew someday he would die, but he’d die safe in the knowledge he never asked for too much.
God, it was hard to put into words how ecstatic he was to be Robin. After so many years of being alone, finally he had someone who needed him, really needed him to be around. It felt…vital. He knew the Manor wasn’t his home, but the knowledge that he was fulfilling the role of Robin, holding up the mantle, really made him feel like he belonged. And yeah, going back to the empty Drake Estate after patrol was a little soul-crushing, but the nature of the job meant Bruce at least cared whether he lived or died, which was more than he could confidently say about his…actual parents.
Which, he knows sounds bad. He’s seen movies, alright? He knows it’s not normal for your parents to be gone as much as his parents were when he was a kid. But honestly? It was better when they were gone, because at least then he didn’t have to worry about being perfect all the time. It felt like he couldn’t breathe when his parents were home, like when they came they sucked up all the oxygen in the house. Tension gathered, coiled at the base of his spine as he waited for Janet’s other shoe to drop. And it always did, eventually. When he was little he used to wait with his nose pressed up against the windowpane, staring at the driveway, waiting for them to appear. As he got older, he made sure to have uncancellable plans whenever he could when his parents were due back at the estate.
It used to make him feel so guilty, especially when he clocked the look on Bruce’s face when he explained his situation. How could Tim explain that he’d infinitely prefer his parents’ absence over their presence in his life? That sometimes he’d wish they’d just get it over with and abandon him forever? The way Alfred’s face would get all pinched, and he’d glare at Bruce out of the corner of his eye. The way Bruce’s hardened face would somehow shutter even further. He knew that the issue came down to something wrong in him, somewhere in his core, that made him unable to deal with the reality of who his parents were, as people. He knew, on some level, Bruce must hate him for being so ungrateful, considering the way he lost his own parents. Tim Drake and his champagne problems, he knew he was being unreasonable, that the tightening in his chest whenever he saw their driver pulling out in front of the house was a disproportionate reaction-- that he was just being dramatic, but quite frankly, he didn’t know how to stop. He didn’t know how to stop feeling that way.
Besides, Tim had something far better than a father. He had a Batman.
Parents just don’t need you the way you’re supposed to need them. The only thing his parents ever demanded of him was to be the perfect heir, which was easily fakeable when you never had to see them for more than 72 hours at a time. It wasn’t hard to pretend to be the twelve year old efficient business automaton or whatever it was that his parents wanted to see in him. Batman needs a Robin, always and forever, and if Dick wasn’t willing to come back, then Tim could become the Robin Batman needed. He could mold himself into the vessel the job required.
Dick told him, once, of how when Jason was a kid, he used to have red hair but dyed it black at Bruce’s insistence. Changing yourself to be what Batman needs— it’s an integral part of the Robin experience. Of course, making himself into a worthy Robin was going to be a lot more work than some drugstore dye-job, but what mattered was that it wasn’t unprecedented. It was normal for Robins to come with some assembly required.
And god, how amazing it felt, being Robin. Those moments where Bruce’s gaze would rake over him after a particularly grueling patrol, cataloging his injuries and making mental adjustments to his suit’s armor. The way his eyes would soften half a degree, sleet blue eyes becoming fractionally less icy as he nodded to himself, reassuring himself that Tim was okay. The first time Tim realized that’s what Bruce was doing during these after-patrol stare sessions, and not just silently glowering at him as a reprimand for all the little ways he fucked up during the route, he nearly embarrassed himself by crying right then and there. No one ever, in his life, had cared about him as much as Bruce cared about him.
Now sure, did that have anything to do with Tim as a person? Of course not, but it had everything to do with the son Bruce just buried. It was true for Dick too, the poor man was trying so hard to foster a real relationship with Tim, very clearly out of guilt for the way he had treated Jason.
Tim, honestly, didn’t really know how to feel about Dick. On one hand, Dick was very easy to love, easygoing and sincerely charming. And sure, there was definitely some level of hero worship going on there. One of his core memories was being held by Dick on that fateful evening at Haly’s circus. It’s the first time he can remember feeling…safe. But on the other, Tim didn’t know how he felt about the fact that every time Dick looked at him, he was very clearly seeing somebody else. It made him uncomfortable, whenever Dick offered to spend time with him-- like to accept would be taking advantage of his grief.
Bruce never looked at him like he was seeing Jason, the few times Bruce accidentally called him Jason, he exploded in a burst of anger and retreated to the Cave for a couple hours. It was as though Bruce’s psyche was reliant on never seeing Jason in Tim’s face. It’s a lot, knowing someone else’s mental state depends on your wellbeing, but it was the closest to being loved that Tim ever got, and there wasn’t a whole lot he wouldn’t do to protect that feeling.
All of this is to say, when Dick took Robin away after Bruce died, he took away quite a bit. Arguably, the only thing Tim ever really had. And, if you asked Jason, it was never really even his to begin with.
-
Considering his relationship with his parents, Tim kind of assumed he’d be pretty okay with their deaths.
Which again, he knows sounds pretty bad!
When he was younger, he remembered one of his teachers, maybe English? Asking him if he was ever scared or anxious for his parents, seeing as they traveled so much. Tim genuinely didn’t know how to answer that question. He was well practiced in the art of saying the right stuff so no one would worry, but he wasn’t sure what the right answer would be in this instance. The truth was that, no, he didn’t really think about his parents very much at all anymore, and he certainly wasn’t wasting the brain space to worry about their…mortality.
Like, did he sometimes wish his parents cared a little bit more about him? Yeah, of course he did. But then he always felt like an idiot for feeling that way whenever his mother did pay a little more attention and then berated him for thirty minutes for not showing enough deference to the host during some charity gala. After a while, his parents’ attention just made him feel like there were ants crawling all over his skin. Same went for physical touch.
He can remember, as a kid, spending hours fantasizing about making his parents proud enough that they’d reach out and embrace him, that maybe his father would smile and pat him on the back, or his mother would lovingly run her fingers through his hair. The reality was, though, anytime his parents touched him, it was always an unpleasant experience. Whether it be Janet’s iron grip on his upper arm whenever he displeased her in public, or when Jack would lose his temper enough behind closed doors to actually hit him, it didn’t matter. If Tim’s parents were touching him, he’d already fucked up.
This meant that as nice as it seemed in theory to be touched, he’d been without it so long that when someone did touch him, it only served to make him feel carved-out and hollow. Greedy in his desire for more, and empty for the reflection it usually prompted of dear god when was the last time someone touched me? which never failed to depress him further.
One memorable experience after a particularly successful evening of crime fighting, Bruce attempted to pat Tim on the shoulder blade. Stilted and awkward, Bruce reached out with too much force, and Tim, looking at his report on the Batcomputer, didn’t see the hand coming towards him. Needless to say, when Tim shrieked and jumped about ten feet in the air, both Bruce and Tim agreed to never try that again.
That being said, nothing, nothing could compare to the feeling when Bruce himself patched Tim up after he got hurt out in the field. That’s not to say there was anything wrong when Alfred did it, Alfred’s medic skills were unparalleled—but they were also professional, brisk, impersonal. Bruce…was an intense man, and having his complete focus on you was…intense, but for a person who had worked so long and so hard to be invisible— being seen like that was incredible. The slow patient way he’d clean Tim’s cuts and scrapes, bandaging them methodically and with more care than Tim knew he deserved. Getting hurt out in the field usually meant Bruce tearing him a new one once they got back to the Cave, but Tim could handle all the screaming and yelling Bruce threw at him so long as there was even a slim chance that Bruce might take care of him after.
Bruce was always on him about not hiding injuries, (apparently that had been a real concern for Jason and Dick), and all Tim could think in those moments was god, I wish I had the wherewithal, the willpower, to hide the fact that I’m hurt. I wish I was strong enough not to waste your time. But the fact of the matter was, Tim was weak. And on the nights when he limped back to the Cave much worse for wear than when he’d left, Tim just wasn’t strong enough to simply change, file his report, and walk home. He’d just go over to medbay and wait until either Bruce or Alfred saw fit to help him. Sometimes, if he lost a lot of blood or got a concussion, Bruce would offer him use of one of the spare bedrooms for the night. Bruce was extremely good at controlling his facial expressions, but Tim was perceptive. He knew what it would do to Bruce’s psyche if he glimpsed a boy with black hair in the manor’s hallways, or coming down the stairs to meet him for breakfast. Batman might need a Robin, but Bruce Wayne would never have another son. He saw the emotion flash over Bruce’s face while he waited for Tim to respond, and that emotion was always fear. So Tim pretended not to see the profound relief on Bruce’s face when he politely declined, nor the narrowing of Alfred’s eyes when then the older man insisted on walking Tim home to the Drake Estate.
In his darker moments, he would be lying if he said he didn’t think about intentionally hurting himself to get Bruce’s focus on him again. Two things prevented him from doing so, only about 1 in every 10 Tim-has-been-hurt scenarios did Bruce rather than Alfred tend to him, and those flatly weren’t great odds. The more powerful motivator, though, was the intense shame engendered by the way Tim knew Bruce would look at him (pity, rage, disgust) if he ever found out Tim was getting himself hurt on purpose for attention. And Bruce would figure it out, most likely immediately.
It was reassuring, in a way. That Bruce was so perceptive as to make trying to keep secrets from him a pointless endeavor. Bruce, when he was looking in Tim’s direction, really saw the whole of him. There was no need for artifice or pretense, the way he always had to have his dutiful son mask firmly in place around his parents. There was no point. Either he deserved to be Robin or he didn’t, and every time Bruce let him help out on a case, it meant that he was still useful, still worthy of the mantle.
So, the concept of his parents being permanently out of his life, as far as Tim was concerned, he was already 90% an orphan anyway, why not make it official? He could take care of himself, he’d been doing it since he was six.
God, he was so naive.