Chapter 1: the party, age 13
Notes:
The attempted sexual assault happens in the first chapter. If you want to avoid that, each chapter is mostly stand alone, so skipping chapter one shouldn't hurt any. See end notes if you'd like a description of the scene.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dad, it’s Tim. Can you - I know you’re busy hosting the party, but I don’t feel so good. I think - I think someone put something in my drink and I - can you come get me? Please. I promise I won’t take you away from the party for too long. I just really don’t feel good.
Tim’s hands were starting to shake.
He stared at his phone screen, head throbbing in time with his heartbeat and waited. His mother was on a business trip, but he’d called his father twice and sent a text - Jack was busy with the party, but he checked his messages pretty regularly in case the company needed him, or someone important was trying to reach out. You had to be available when opportunity called, he always said.
He heard footsteps outside. The click of dress shoes on the tile floors.
Tim’s hands shook a little harder. He was pretty sure no one would find him here. It had been his favorite hiding space as a kid, when he’d been scared by thunderstorms, or strange noises at night, or if his nanny was drunk again. He’d creep downstairs, through the kitchen, into the laundry room and crawl into the little storage cupboard in the closet. As a kid he’d curl up on the piles of clean sheets and towels, and fall asleep with cupboard doors closed, and wait for it to be over. The scent of specific laundry detergent still made him feel calm to this day.
He hadn’t done it in years, and was almost too big to fit, but he’d made himself as small as possible and tucked himself in.
He was starting to feel sicker, and the headache was getting worse. If he was just coming down with something, that was no big deal, though his father would be mad at him for embarrassing him at the party. But he had felt fine, right up until he’d been talking to one of his Dad’s business partners.
The same business partner who had followed him out of the ballroom when he started feeling unsteady.
Tim’s hands shook again, and he almost dropped his phone. Bruce always told him to trust his instincts, that it was better to call for backup and not need it than to get hurt (or worse, so much worse, he’d seen a flash of that now-familiar grief in Bruce’s eyes when he said I don’t ever want you to be hurt because you were afraid to ask me for help).
Bruce wouldn’t be mad if Tim called. Just in case. If he was wrong, Bruce would tell him so, and then at least Tim would know for sure he was safe. And he was already here, at the party, so even if Tim was wasting his time it wouldn’t be more than a few minutes.
His fingers mostly made the decision without him. The phone was ringing before he realized what he was doing.
“Tim. Where are you?”
“Bruce,” he said. His tongue felt thick. Slurred speech was a side effect of certain kinds of drugs, wasn’t it? “I don’t - I’m sorry to bother you, but I don’t feel so good.” He shuddered, and added, quickly, in case Bruce thought he was just being a baby, “I think someone put something in my drink.”
“I’m coming, tell me where you are.”
“Laundry room,” Tim said. He heard footsteps on tile again and dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. “Someone’s here.”
“Don’t go anywhere with them. If they try to make you, scream. I’m coming.”
“If I start screaming Dad’ll kill me,” Tim joked.
“I won’t let him,” Bruce said and it was just a hair shy of Batman’s voice, angry and protective and somehow so reassuring. Not even Jack Drake could argue with that voice, Tim thought. He’d probably try, though.
He heard new footsteps, moving quick, and then voices. Bruce - Brucie, Dick called him when he was like this, his voice a little higher pitched than normal, words a little too languid. He was pretending to be tipsy so no one would wonder why he was wandering around the house, or think twice about him leaving early.
Another voice answered, an uneasy chuckle. Tim could hear it echo through the still open phone line, but muffled, as if Bruce had put the phone in his pocket. Vince Carson, one of his dad’s golf buddies, and the guy who’d handed Tim the cup of Zesti while he was hanging out by the dessert table. There was a burst of laughter and then Tim heard the measured click of dress shoes on tile as someone walked away.
Not Bruce. Tim clutched the phone tighter in his hands. Bruce wasn’t leaving.
No footsteps this time, just the cupboard doors opening, letting light into his hiding place. Tim squinted against the fluorescent white lights in the laundry room, his head pounding double time.
“Hey,” Bruce said, and his voice echoed back at him through Tim’s phone before Bruce took it and ended the call. “There you are. Let’s get you out of here.”
“Don’t feel good,” Tim warned him. His stomach felt a little flippy, but it was mostly his head so far.
“I know, buddy. It’ll be okay. Come on, you’ll be more comfortable upstairs.”
Bruce held his hands as Tim untucked himself and crawled out of the cupboard, and all but pulled him to his feet. His hands were strong and steady as Tim’s legs shook. “Can you walk?” Bruce asked.
Tim nodded. He was strangely hesitant to speak now that he was back out in the open. What if Mr Carson was outside? If he heard TIm he might come back.
Bruce would make him leave, though. Bruce would stop him if Vince tried to make Tim go somewhere with him. Bruce had never been afraid of causing a scene, anyway, and he’d never let someone do that to anyone, especially not a kid.
Bruce’s arm was strong around his back, holding Tim close to his side.
Maybe especially not to Tim.
They didn’t run into anyone as Bruce led them through the mansion to the back staircase. Tim’s legs shook on the stairs but Bruce just took them slow, let Tim steady himself each time before moving on, one hand on Tim’s back to catch him if he needed it. Tim swallowed the urge to apologize with every step, to force himself to rush. Bruce wasn’t going to lose his temper and drag him up the rest of the stairs, and he wasn’t going to give up on him and leave him there. Bruce cared more about doing things right and being safe than he did about being quiet and not causing trouble.
“Just a few more steps,” Bruce said, and his voice was calm.
Bruce coaxed him up the last steps, and down the hall to Tim’s room, all the way at the end. Tim had a brief flash of certainty that Mr Carson was going to be waiting in there for them, but his room was empty. Bruce locked the door behind them.
“How long has it been since he gave you the drink?” Bruce asked. He guided Tim by his shoulders to sit on the bed and then crouched down so they were at eye level. His hands gripped Tim’s knees, but not tight enough to be uncomfortable.
“Fifteen, twenty minutes?” Tim guessed. “Maybe. I wasn’t looking at a clock.”
Bruce hummed. “That’s my guess too. I didn’t see what happened, but I saw you leaving. And I saw him follow you,” he added in a dark tone that usually meant someone was going to prison so hard. “I went after you, but you shook us both.”
“Hiding,” Tim said. He was tired. He wanted to close his eyes and lean forward and let Bruce catch him. But Bruce needed to be able to move fast in case Mr. Carson came back, so Tim had to stay awake.
“Smart boy.” Bruce smiled at him and squeezed his knees. “You handled yourself very well.”
The compliment made him feel warm, but he knew he didn’t deserve it. “Stupid,” Tim said, having to swallow against the unpleasant twist in his stomach. “Never take an open drink.”
“You’re not stupid,” Bruce said. “And it’s never your fault when someone tries to hurt you, do you understand?”
“Still dumb,” Tim sighed. His head was a little better up here. Bruce hadn’t turned on the lights and his room was dim, and quiet. He was feeling it a little more though. Tired. Shaky. His head was trying to float away. “Not taking any more Zestis from him.”
“No one will,” Bruce growled.
Tim heard knocking and he jerked his head up with a gasp, eyes locked on his door. Mr Carson, he thought. But Bruce was there. Bruce wouldn’t let him in.
“It’s all right,” Bruce said. He let go of Tim’s knees and stood. “It’s just Dick.”
Tim blinked at him as he took a few steps away to open the window next to the dresser.
Dick was perched in the tree outside and didn’t climb in so much as swing himself over so he could perch on the sill. He was wearing jeans and a jacket over an old band t-shirt so he definitely hadn’t been at the party with Bruce, but he’d arrived too fast to have been in Bludhaven so he must have been staying at the Manor for the weekend. “Hey, little brother. Heard you needed some backup.”
Tim swallowed against the tears that were threatening. “Dick. I screwed up.”
“Hey, no.” Dick pushed past Bruce and sat down on the bed next to Tim, one leg folded under him so he was facing Tim. “B told me what happened. You did everything right.”
Bruce stood in front of them and cupped a hand around the back of Tim’s head. Tim leaned into it a little, liking the warmth. His neck was starting to feel like a noodle anyway. Bruce could hold his head up for a bit. He could handle Mr Carson one-handed anyway. “I’m going to go for a bit, make my excuses and make sure they see me leaving the party. Then I have to go run some tests. But Dick is going to stay right here with you, okay?”
Dick was safe. Dick wasn’t Batman, but Dick was safe. He wouldn’t open the door, either. “What if Mr Carson comes back?” Tim asked.
Dick took Tim’s chin in one hand and gently turned his head so Tim was staring at him. “Is Mr Carson the one who gave you that drink?”
Tim nodded. “He’s a friend of my dad. He said he thought I looked bored all by myself.”
“Did he touch you?” Dick brushed his thumb over Tim’s jaw. Back and forth, real slow. Tim wondered if he even knew he was doing it. “I need to know if he hurt you,” Dick added when Tim didn’t answer right away.
Tim shook his head, then nodded. His head protested the movement and he grimaced. “Shoulder,” he said. “Back. He was pushing me a little. Wanted me to give him a tour of the house.”
“But nothing else?” Dick asked.
Tim shook his head again and clenched his eyes shut as his head started pounding even harder. “Sorry,” he gasped. “Head hurts.”
“It’s okay. You’re all right. The door is locked, and I’m going to stay right here. If Mr Carson-” Dick said the name with an angry snarl, “-tries to come in here, he won’t be able to get the door open. And if he somehow does, I won’t let him touch you. I promise, Tim.”
Bruce combed his fingers through Tim’s hair. “I have to go. But I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?”
“Okay.” Tim licked his lips. “Can I - I’m tired.”
“It’s okay to sleep. You probably won’t remember this in the morning, but you did a good job tonight.”
“Didn’t want to bother you,” Tim said. His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth. He saw Dick and Bruce exchange a look, but he was tired, and dizzy and he just wanted to lie down.
“You’re not a bother, Tim. Do you understand?” Bruce’s voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. “I want you to call me when you need help. Can you promise?”
Tim promised, but he wasn’t sure he was able to say so before he fell asleep.
He woke up, at some point. His head ached, but it was a steady, aching throb instead of the sharp pain from before. His whole body felt heavy, like his limbs had gone to sleep. He tried to move his hand, and it twitched a little on the pillow beside him at first, then slowly closed into a fist when he concentrated on it. Drugged, he remembered. Someone had drugged him.
It was pitch dark in his room, and the noise of the party was gone. His door was still closed. Still locked.
His dad hadn’t come to check on him. Tim realized it with a distant sort of pang. Like an old bruise that you just banged into a wall. More the memory of hurt than anything new.
Fingers combed through his hair. “Go back to sleep,” Dick said in a soft voice. “Bruce and I are on watch. It’s okay.”
Tim took a deep breath and used every ounce of concentration and strength he had to roll over. He put his back to the door, and the party, and his father, and Mr Carson. A strong hand caught his shoulder and helped him roll over the rest of the way despite the heaviness in his body. “You’re okay,” Dick said, and he wrapped his arm around Tim’s shoulders and held him against Dick’s side.
Tim could see Bruce, sitting in the chair by the window, where he could watch both of them and the door at the same time. He’d come back, just like he said he would.
His dad never came. But Bruce and Dick didn’t leave, so it was okay.
When Tim woke up the next morning he didn’t remember most of what had happened. Dick walked him through it, gentle and worried, but it felt like something that had happened to someone else. Bruce made him come back to the Cave for a blood test, to make sure the drugs were out of his system, and a checkup, just in case something had happened and Tim’s scrambled mind didn’t remember it.
Alfred’s hands were strong on Tim’s shoulders when he made Tim promise to call them if he ever saw Vince Carson again. Then he made Belgian waffles with a truly extravagant amount of powdered sugar and sent Tim to take a nap in the spare room that they called Tim’s.
Tim felt weird about sleeping in his own room. He knew Vince Carson wasn’t still in the house, and it was unlikely the man was a burgeoning supervillain plotting to climb in his window to finish what he started. But he found himself getting more stressed out as the evening approached and he’d have to go home.
It was Dick’s idea to call his dad and tell him he was spending the weekend with a friend. Dick stayed in from patrol that night and made Tim watch Romancing the Stone with him for the fiftieth time.
Two days later Vince Carson turned himself in to the GCPD, confessing to molesting a half dozen teenage boys over the last year. In the mugshot he looked like someone had worked him over pretty good. Someone had also broken both of his hands. When the cops asked, Carson just said one of the kids had an angry relative, and that was why he’d turned himself in.
Dick’s knuckles were scraped and when Tim looked at him Dick met his gaze and said, “He shouldn’t have put his hands on you, little brother.”
It wasn’t how they were supposed to do things, but Bruce didn’t say anything and Alfred didn’t say anything and Tim felt a little guilty at how much better he felt.
Tim cleared his throat, ignored the heat behind his eyes. “Next time I’ll call you guys first.”
Notes:
The attempted sexual assault in the first chapter is: Tim gets a drink from one of his dad's friends which turns out to be drugged. He leaves, the guy follows him, Bruce follows them both and scares the guy off. Tim is drugged, but otherwise unharmed, and the guy never touches him.
Chapter 2: the blizzard, age 13
Summary:
Day five of the winter storm from hell saw Tim in a room so cold he could see his own breath.
Chapter Text
Dad, it’s Tim again. I’m sorry to bother you while you’re at the dig, but the power’s still out and it’s getting really cold here. The generator is empty, and the fuel company won’t come out to fill the tank without talking to an adult. Can you please call them as soon as you get this?
Day five of the winter storm from hell saw Tim in a room so cold he could see his own breath.
He’d scavenged blankets from all over the house and heaped them on his bed, and the night before he had resorted to grabbing every candle he could find and piling them together on his nightstand, hoping the combined heat put off might help keep his room warm enough that he could at least get some sleep. But even with the towels shoved against the bottom of his door, or the blankets pinned over the window, it hadn’t been enough. Tim had spent his second night in a row shivering under a pile of blankets that must have weighed as much as he did.
He contemplated staying where he was and just enjoying what lingering body heat he had, but his stomach was growling unpleasantly, and his muscles were yelling at him since he’d barely moved at all the day before either. He wormed his way out of the blanket pile, shivering as he emerged into the cold room.
He blew out the candles that were still going so he could save them for that night. There were a few big glass ones that he was going to get chewed out for using if he couldn’t order replacements before his parents got back, but the rest were just tealights and little scented things in jars that he’d found in the kitchen pantry. They hadn’t lasted long, but Tim also didn’t think either of his parents would ever notice they were gone.
He had the brief, uncharitable, thought that they wouldn’t even notice if he were gone, let alone some lilac-scented tealights. At least not till they came back and wondered what was stinking up the place.
It was even colder in the rest of the house, if possible. The marble floors and aesthetically bare walls didn’t help give an impression of warmth on the best of days, and on day five of below freezing weather it felt like a very well-decorated walk-in freezer.
The kitchen was no better, and Tim spent a moment considering the contents of the cupboards with his hands tucked under his armpits. The stove was electric, so that and the microwave were useless now. The prepared meals Mrs Mac made for him twice a week were long gone - she’d been due to come out the day before the storm hit but she’d been worried about being stranded in Bristol if the snow started early, so Tim had told her not to come. Just as well; her lasagna was good, but there was no way to heat it up. The cupboards were mostly empty as well since Mrs Mac brought groceries with her to make his dinners, and he ate lunch at school. There were some snacks for him in case he got hungry, but they were mostly gone at this point. If the weather didn’t clear up soon Tim was going to have to get creative.
Or go out in the snow and walk to the bus, which might not be running, to get to a store that might not be open.
Tim grabbed a snack and tried not to think too hard about Alred’s oatmeal with brown sugar and pecans, and his homemade from scratch hot cocoa. He had a couple more days before he had to go begging for food, and by then hopefully the roads would be clear.
Hopefully by then his dad would have called him back. Tim had tested the generators before the storm hit and found the tanks empty. He’d tried to get the fuel company out there to refill them, but apparently no one was going to make an emergency trip out there on the say-so of a thirteen year old, no matter how many emergency credit cards he had. Tim had left two voicemails before the storm, and a third since it hit, plus a text that was left on read.
Tim closed himself back up in his room and kicked the towel back into place against the bottom of the door. He shoved half a granola bar in his mouth as he climbed back into bed and pulled the blankets up over his lap. He had been keeping his phone under the blankets with him, so his body heat could, hopefully, keep the cold from draining the battery. He had an external battery, but after five days, and with no idea when the power might come back, he was keeping the phone off so he’d hopefully have some charge left if he needed it in an emergency.
Or if his father called.
Speaking of which. Tim turned the phone back on, grabbing another bite of breakfast while he waited for it to power up.
There were no voicemails waiting for him, but a half dozen or so text messages. Tim flipped through them quickly. Most of them were from Ives, cheering about another snow day, a couple from Dick including one that was just a picture of his fire escape covered in snow up to the windowsill and one from Mrs Mac letting him know she was still snowed in and wasn’t coming today, either.
Nothing from his parents, though.
Tim bit the head off a fruit snack shaped like a triceratops and debated texting his dad again. His parents hated it when he whined or complained, though. And if he kicked up a fuss it was very likely his father would say no just to teach him a lesson. If he let it go, Jack might get around to calling the fuel company on his own. Tim checked the weather app to see if maybe he was going to get lucky, but the high for the day was going to be below freezing again.
He texted Ives back, and crawled back out of bed long enough to send Dick a picture of his front yard, snow piled up as high as the front entrance. He let Dick know his battery was almost dead and he might not be able to answer for a bit, then switched the phone back off. In a couple of hours he could check again, to see if his dad had replied.
He should work out. Or get up and start shoveling the front entrance and drive. Or literally anything but sitting there staring out the window. But no one was there to see him being useless, and he was so damn cold. It felt like all his muscles ached as he curled up in a blanket by his chair, watching the snow fall through the window with his phone cupped between his hands. His fingers were getting stiff from the cold, but it was almost impossible to use the touch screen with gloves on.
At some point he must have fallen asleep for a few minutes, because the next thing he knew he was jerking awake, his heart pounding in his chest so hard he had to catch his breath.
He looked around but nothing was out of place. He tried to think about what had disturbed him but all he could remember was maybe hearing a loud sound right before he woke up.
The surge of adrenaline only got him so much energy and he struggled to sit up. His limbs felt heavy and he was still sluggish from sleep. His fingers were so cold they kind of hurt and he folded his arms over his chest, trying to warm them as he looked around, trying to figure out what the noise had been. If it was a movie, the cat would have knocked something off the shelf, but his parents didn’t allow pets.
He hesitated for a second, listening to hear if the sound repeated itself. It could have just been snow falling on the roof. Or maybe he’d knocked into something earlier and it had fallen over.
Or someone else had knocked into something. Had someone broken in? Thieves taking the opportunity to rob one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Gotham knowing the alarms wouldn’t be working and the cops wouldn’t be able to get out there?
He should check. Search the house. Just in case. He gripped his phone in both hands, tempted to turn it back on and call Dick or Bruce, have someone there with him, however remotely, while he checked the house. Dick wouldn’t mind, he didn’t think. Dick always picked up unless he was at work, and even then, sometimes he’d take the call if he wasn’t in the middle of an arrest or something. And Bruce probably wouldn’t be mad, especially if there was someone.
Tim squeezed the phone, but made himself let go. He needed to save the battery for a real emergency, not for calling like a baby every time he got spooked.
He heard it again - or what he assumed was the same noise. A loud, sharp crack that seemed to come from outside in the yard.
It sounded like something breaking - not glass, though, more like the sharp snap of wood. He’d stepped on a mostly rotten beam in a warehouse a few weeks back and the sound of the wood giving way beneath him had sounded a little like that. There were no rotten beams in his room, of course, but maybe the snow piling up on the roof had done some damage? Or maybe a tree branch had snapped off under the weight of snow and ice?
The sound came again, louder than before, like a crack of thunder this time. It was instinct more than anything else that pushed Tim to his feet and sent him running for the door just as the tree came crashing through the window.
Tim couldn’t quite bite back a shout as branches hit him from behind. He staggered, but made it through the door and into the hallway where he skidded to a stop. He stood there for a moment, heart pounding and panting for breath, listening as the creak and crack of branches slowed and stopped, and the last piece of broken glass hit the floor.
A puff of snow had made it as far as the hall outside his room, and Tim stared at it for a moment, brain catching up with what had just happened. He caught his breath and took a few steps back to the doorway of his room, where he gripped the frame and peered in to survey the damage.
The room was going to need some work. The window had been smashed out of the wall entirely and the wall around it was cracked and splintered. The tree itself had knocked things off the wall, and shredded at least one poster. The chair Tim had just been sleeping on had been knocked halfway across the room. There were tears in the carpet, and long, ugly gouges in the hard wood beneath. The floor was littered with broken glass, huge splinters of wood, and the remnants of what had been a very expensive set of curtains. Tim’s bed was almost completely buried beneath branches and snow and would, likely, be completely ruined by the time this could get cleaned up.
His mother was going to be pissed.
Tim closed his eyes for a minute and took a deep breath. His room was a wreck. He stood there for a minute, his back stinging from being hit, his head and heart pounding in synch as the adrenaline wore off. He swallowed, hard, and tried to be rational about it. The posters and the mattress could be replaced. The window would be fixed. His action figures would probably be fine, even if they were covered in snow.
Snow that wasn’t even beginning to melt.
That was when he finally noticed the cold.
It had been barely 40 degrees in the house to begin with after days with no power, but now the cold air coming through the broken window made him shudder. He felt heat prick at his eyes for a minute before he shook his head and got himself under control.
Okay. First things first. The tree was too big for him to do anything about it from inside. Maybe his dad had a chainsaw somewhere? Tim hadn’t actually used one of those before and he decided this wasn’t the time to learn. He’d have to call a professional once the snow stopped and the roads were clear. But that meant leaving a big hole in the wall, sucking out what little heat the house had managed to retain.
Tim shook himself a little. He needed to get moving if he didn’t want to be a popsicle by dinnertime. First things first, he pulled the door shut behind him, then went for the laundry room to grab some more sheets and towels he could use to stop up the gap beneath the door from the outside. By the time he was done his fingers were clumsy and aching from the cold, and he cupped them over his mouth for a minute, trying to warm them. He could already tell the temperature was dropping and for a minute he just wanted to sit down and give up.
He retreated back down the stairs to the kitchen, where at least there was sunlight coming through the windows to provide an illusion of warmth. Tim grabbed another granola bar but when he turned the tap, only a trickle of water came out before the flow stopped entirely. The pipes were frozen.
Okay, that was a problem he couldn’t fix. Tim reluctantly turned his phone back on to call his parents again. A burst pipe would mean thousands in repairs - more, depending on how bad the damage was and whether his parents’ artifacts were damaged - and his parents would want to take care of that ASAP.
And in the meantime he was going to have to figure out what to do for drinking water and the bathroom. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his fingers cold on his cheeks. Well, there was plenty of snow outside. If he brought it in it might thaw out enough that he could dump it in the toilet tank to flush? It would do for drinking water too, though he’d feel better if there was a way to boil it.
God, none of this would be a problem if he’d thought to check the generators before his parents left for their trip last month. He’d known winter was coming and the weather might get rough. He should have planned better, should have thought.
His phone chimed with new messages - texts and voicemails, and for a second he got his hopes up, thought maybe his dad had gotten his messages and taken care of everything. But the texts were mostly from Dick, expressing dismay about his phone - is the power out there, are your generators not working? Text me back and let me know you’re okay - sent nearly three hours ago, before Tim’s impromptu nap. The voicemails were from Bruce. The first was brief: Give me a call when you get this, Dick’s worried about you, followed by a second from just a few minutes before, that was just a hangup.
He curled up in the kitchen chair and admitted defeat.
Bruce picked up on the first ring. “There you are,” he said. He sounded pretty cheerful, but there was just a bit of relief in his voice, like he’d actually been worried. “I was about five minutes from putting on the snowshoes and heading over to check on you.”
“I’m okay,” Tim said. “Just saving the battery. Tell Dick he’s a mother hen.”
Bruce chuckled. “No, I don’t think I will. What’s wrong with the phone, though?”
“Generator’s out of gas,” Tim confessed. “I could use a hand with that, actually. I know it’s a lot to ask, but do you have any fuel to spare? If I can get at least one of them up and running it would help a lot.”
“Of course,” Bruce said instantly. “I’ll get a tank and bring it to you. It’ll take a little while though, are you all right in the meantime?”
Tim promised he was, then promised to keep his phone on so Bruce could reach him if he needed to. He had about a quarter of a battery left, so that should be plenty as long as he didn’t play any games. And once he was able to get a generator running he could recharge the phone and the spare power supply. It would be fine.
Tim sat in the kitchen till the sun went out, and then dragged himself back upstairs. He paused outside his room, exhaustion dragging on every limb. He should do something about the mess, he knew that, but he didn’t even know where to start.
He could feel a draft seeping out from under the door, bitter cold on his toes. He backed up a couple of steps, then spun on his heel and walked to the guest room at the far end of the hall. He closed the door behind him and crawled into the bed. There was only the duvet and sheets, which wouldn’t be enough to get through the night, but the warmest blankets were currently underneath a tree in his room, and he was too tired to even think about scavenging more.
The candles, he remembered dully. Every last candle in the house had been in there and now they were covered in snow.
Bruce had said he would come to help with the generator. Bruce kept his word. Tim would be able to have at least a little electricity in a few hours and everything would be fine then.
He curled up in a ball under the duvet, his phone placed carefully on the pillow next to him so he’d hear Bruce when he texted, and started composing his next text to his parents so he wouldn’t sound like he was complaining when he let them know what happened.
God he was so cold. Instead of warming up from his body heat he felt like the sheets were leaching it out of him. He was starting to shiver for real now, too,and he curled up even tighter trying to make it stop.
Bruce would be there soon, he reminded himself. It was going to be fine.
He kept telling himself that as he fell asleep.
“Tim!”
Bruce’s voice was loud, but distant, as if he was yelling at Tim from far away. A spark of anxiety flared in Tim’s chest. As intense as Bruce could be he didn’t actually yell at Tim very much unless there was danger or something.
But he wasn’t yelling for Robin, and Bruce never broke the rule about names in the field, not ever, so whatever was wrong, it probably wasn’t actually dangerous.
He should call back anyway. Tim knew that. But he felt like he was smothered in a thick blanket, or a heavy fog, curling around his arms and legs and making them too heavy to move. His eyelids felt the same way, and even his mouth. Too hard to move. Too much effort.
Bruce shouted for him a second time, or maybe a third. Tim thought maybe Bruce had been calling for him for a while, but Tim couldn’t hear him.
“Timothy Jackson, answer me right now!”
Oh that was. That was The Voice. Something about it broke through the fog and Tim found himself abruptly awake. He blinked but it was dark, and cold, and he couldn’t remember where he was. “Bruce,” he said, but his throat felt tight and raw and he ended up coughing instead. “Bruce,” he tried again, rasping against the back of his throat with a growing sense of panic. He didn’t know where he was, and he felt numb, aching through to his bones. Something had happened.
He heard footsteps pounding against the floor, far away but getting closer by the second. Tim forced his eyes back open, not sure when they had closed, and tried to push himself upright. His arms only barely obeyed his directions, and Tim’s head swam with a thick swirl of panic as he realized whatever had happened, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t run.
Couldn’t fight back.
He dragged in a deep breath and the air stung his throat, bitter cold and dry. “Bruce,” he said again, but the word caught on a sob and came out strangled.
Dimly he heard a loud crash, and the footsteps racing toward him. Get up, he told himself. You’re Robin. You have to fight.
Hands grabbed at him and Tim tried to pull away, but whoever it was, they were stronger than he was. He felt himself dragged upright and then there were hands on his shoulders, holding him still, and a hand on his face.
God, it was warm. Tim leaned into the touch without meaning to and couldn’t help the shudder that ran through him.
“Tim.” It was Bruce, quieter this time, but still with a sense of urgency that made Tim think something must be going on. “Tim, open your eyes for me.”
Oh, his eyes were closed again. Tim blinked a little and made his eyes focus on the man in front of him. “B?”
Bruce was standing over him, leaning down so they were almost face-to-face. He was wearing civilian clothes, which was good because it meant Tim hadn’t fallen asleep on the job as Robin, and dressed for the cold in a thick coat and a hat pulled down on his head. His hands were bare though, and the one touching Tim’s cheek was so warm that Tim almost couldn’t feel anything else.
“Are you hurt?” Bruce tipped his head back a little, then let go to run both hands over Tim’s shoulders and down his arms.
The sudden absence of warmth made the skin on Tim’s face hurt. He made noise deep in his throat and leaned forward, as if he could get the touch back.
“It’s all right. We’re going to get you warmed up, but I need to know if you’re hurt.” Bruce was patting carefully at Tim’s chest and sides, checking his ribs.
Tim was pretty sure he hadn’t been stabbed or anything, but he still wasn’t sure where he was so maybe Bruce knew something he didn’t. “I’m tired, B, are we almost done?”
“I’d like it if you stay awake for a bit. Can you do that for me?” Bruce apparently finished his inspection of Tim’s injuries and leaned back to unbutton his coat.
Tim watched Bruce’s fingers unbutton the long black coat Bruce was wearing. That wasn’t right. It was so cold. Didn’t Bruce know it was cold? He needed to stay warm. Tim reached out and tried to redo one of the buttons, but Bruce carefully took his hand and tugged it away.
Bruce finished unbuttoning his coat and shrugged it off before wrapping it around Tim’s shoulders. “Get your arms in there,” he said, helping Tim fit his hands through the sleeves like a child. Tim thought he’d blush if it was warmer. Bruce wrapped the coat shut around him and then reached down and lifted Tim up in his arms.
“Bruce?” Tim said. “Is something wrong?” He tried to sit up but Bruce just tightened his grip. He was holding Tim against his chest, with one arm under Tim’s knees and the other behind his shoulders. Bruce’s coat was so warm, and when Bruce hefted Tim up in his grip it was so easy to let his head fall against Bruce’s shoulder and go back to sleep.
Bruce didn’t like that. “Stay awake,” Bruce said, jostling him a little.
Tim whined a little and pressed his face against Bruce’s shoulder. His sweater was soft and warm and Tim tried to burrow into it.
They were moving fast. Tim vaguely recognized the upstairs hallway of his house. Bruce took them past Tim’s room, and Tim jerked a little as he saw the tree and snow. The damage looked worse than he remembered - the branches were broken and cracked in places, as if someone had tried to get through them. “Mom’s gonna be so mad,” he said.
Bruce’s grip on him tightened. “Your parents will be happy you weren’t in there when it happened,” he said. “They won’t be mad at you.”
“You don’t know my parents very well,” Tim said doubtfully. He closed his eyes and pressed his face back against Bruce’s shoulder. Some of the warmth was wearing off already and he shivered.
“I know, buddy,” Bruce said. “Just hang in there for me for a few more minutes and we’ll be somewhere warm.”
“The generator,” Tim said. He wasn’t sure how much of that came out though, because he still had his face smashed against Bruce’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry about the generator,” Bruce said. “We’re going back to the Manor where it’s warm.”
That didn’t make sense. Tim mulled it over for a minute as Bruce made his way to the stairs, and then down to the foyer. The front door was open, like Bruce hadn’t even bothered to close it before coming to find Tim. The snow on the front porch was disturbed with tracks that led down the stairs to a snowmobile parked at the foot of the steps.
“Don’t have a helmet,” Tim said.
“You can wear mine.” Bruce set him down on the snowmobile, one hand on Tim’s shoulder to keep him upright. “Can you hold on?” he asked.
Tim thought about that for a minute. He was pretty sure the second Bruce stopped holding him up he was going to fall asleep and go straight off the side. “I think I should walk.”
Bruce didn’t say anything to that, but he did urge Tim to scoot up further on the seat till he was right in front of the controls. Tim was a little worried about that. He’d never driven a snowmobile before, and this felt like a bad time to learn.
Bruce slid onto the seat behind him and pulled Tim back against his chest. “I’ll teach you this weekend if you’re feeling better,” he said.
Tim mentally added another note to his mental Can Bruce Read Minds checklist.
Bruce carefully fit his helmet over Tim’s head. “Hold still,” he said. “We’re going to go slow, but try to hold on anyway, okay?”
Tim was pretty sure he nodded, but Bruce took one hand off the controls and wrapped it around Tim’s chest anyway.
Tim didn’t remember much of the trip. Just Bruce’s arm around his chest, and the growl of the engine and the way the cold air burned against his uncovered throat and wrists. Every time he shivered he felt like Bruce tried to hold on tighter.
He did remember Alfred’s shocked voice, and more hands pulling him off the snowmobile, and then lights and warm, warm, warm-
Tim woke up for the third or fourth time that day.
He was warm, nearly uncomfortably so, but the memory of how cold he’d been before made the heat seem like a relief instead.
He took a deep breath and took a quick inventory of himself. He was laying down somewhere comfortable. He could feel the weight of several blankets pressing down on him, and an arm sitting heavily, securely, over his chest. He could hear the crack and pop of a woodfire somewhere close. His head was resting on a broad chest, and if Tim listened for a moment he could hear the steady sound of a heartbeat beneath his ear. Tim’s head rose and fell slightly with each breath, and it was strangely calming. He took a deep breath, and then matched his breathing to that rise and fall.
“Awake?” Bruce asked, his voice little more than a rumble that Tim felt through his chest as much as heard.
Tim hummed, letting himself just breathe in unison with Bruce for another moment. He dimly remembered Bruce coming to the house, the alarm in his voice and - the tree, right. Of course Bruce wouldn’t have wanted him to stay in the house after that. If nothing else, trying to heat a house with a hole in the wall would have been a waste of perfectly good fuel.
“You gave us a bit of a scare,” Bruce said quietly. “When I saw that tree had come down on your room - you didn’t answer your phone, and I couldn’t find you.”
Tim tried to twist around so he could look at Bruce, but the arm around his chest kept him pinned in place. Not that he thought it was taking much, he was pretty sure a kitten could keep him pinned, as tired as he felt. “Sorry,” he said, genuinely remorseful. He hadn’t thought about how it would look to Bruce, hadn’t thought about what the man would assume. He should have though. “I didn’t hear the phone, Bruce, I promise I would have answered if I had. I wasn’t trying to scare you.”
“I know. The battery was dead when I found you.”
Tim vaguely remembered it being low. “The cold probably killed it,” he realized.
“The phone wasn’t the only thing the cold was affecting,” Bruce said. He brushed his fingers over Tim’s forehead, brushed his hair away from his eyes. “When I found you, you were barely conscious, nearly incoherent. You couldn’t walk, could barely hold on during the drive back.”
Tim felt a rush of embarrassment. “I didn’t realize.”
“Tim, when Alfred took your temperature it was only 93 degrees. We nearly had to take you to a hospital.” Bruce sighed, and Tim’s whole body moved a little with the force of it. “The power has been out for more than just today, hasn’t it?”
“Since the first day of the storm,” Tim said in a small voice. He felt guilty, like he’d been caught in a lie, even though he hadn’t. “I tried to get someone out to fill the generators but no one would deliver for a kid.”
“Why didn’t you call your parents?”
“I did,” Tim objected. His heart was beating a little faster at the accusation, even if Bruce didn’t say it in a way that made it seem like he was mad. “I tried to get Dad to call someone, but he’s out of the country and he’s too busy to check his voicemails all the time.”
“Not even the ones from his son?” Bruce said. “Not even when they knew the storm was coming?”
“They don’t really keep up with the weather in Gotham while they’re traveling,” Tim said.
“Tim, how long have your parents been gone?” There was a pause, then Bruce added, “I’m not angry, and you aren’t in trouble. I just want to know.”
“They were here for New Year’s,” Tim said. His parents had come back for the big New Year’s Eve gala at the Met, like they did every year. It was probably the biggest social event of the season barring the Wayne Foundation Charity Gala and whatever elite wedding may be scheduled for the spring. “But they left the week after.”
“That was five weeks ago,” Bruce said. “When are they coming back?”
“End of March,” Tim said. “Dad’s got a quarterly shareholder meeting, and then I think they’re heading to New Zealand for a few weeks.”
“And it’s just you in the house when they’re gone?” Bruce’s fingers combed through Tim’s hair and it felt so good that Tim’s eyes drifted shut again. “I didn’t see or hear anyone else while I was looking for you.”
“Mrs. Mac comes twice a week to cook and clean,” Tim said. He could feel himself drifting off again, but he forced himself to stay awake to answer Bruce’s questions. “She makes me a bunch of meals I can reheat and does the laundry and stuff. But she couldn’t come this week because of the snow.”
“But the rest of the week? And at night? You’re there alone?”
“Yeah.” Tim heard something and he blinked his eyes open to see Alfred walk into the room holding a coffee mug. “There’s a security system though. And I have my phone if something happens.”
Alfred crouched down beside the couch and held the mug out. “I thought you might be ready for another drink, Master Tim. I trust some hot cocoa would not be remiss.”
“I love your cocoa,” Tim said.
Alfred smiled at him, holding the mug steady as Tim slowly got his hands free of all the blankets. “I shall have to make sure to keep the ingredients on hand, then. I haven’t made it often, of late.”
Tim wrapped his hands around the mug and shivered again as the warmth of it sank into his skin. He wasn’t cold, but… Bruce’s arm tightened across his chest, and then they were moving - Bruce carefully shifting them until they were sitting more upright, but keeping Tim pressed against his side. He rearranged the blankets around Tim like a little nest while Tim tested the cocoa’s temperature. It was warm, just shy of hot, and thick and rich and amazing.
“You gotta teach Mrs Mac how to make this,” Tim said.
“Absolutely not,” Alfred said. “If I give away my secret, how will I tempt you to come visit us?” He gave Tim a soft smile. “I want you to rest some more. Once you’re done drinking we will check your temperature again and see if perhaps you’re ready to be moved to your room.”
Tim took a deep sip of the cocoa and let himself lean into Bruce’s side, the man’s arm resting around his shoulders. “Thanks, Alfred.”
“Of course, Master Tim. I’m very glad you’re safe.”
“On that note,” Bruce cleared his throat. “Tim, I’d like you to stay here. In the Manor.”
Tim blinked. He glanced up from his mug to see Alfred watching him carefully, then turned his head to look up at Bruce. “I - stay here?”
“Just while your parents are out of town. If nothing else, the house needs work before it will be safe for you to stay there. And I don’t like you being over there alone for so long.” There was a flicker of something on Bruce’s face, something that made Tim feel like maybe he was in trouble, but Bruce looked at Alfred and whatever it was smoothed away. “Besides, if you stay here we’ll have more time to train and work on your lessons. And Alfred never makes his special cocoa when it’s just me.”
“I-” Tim gripped the mug a little tighter. “You don’t have to. I can have someone out to take care of the tree and get the generators back up as soon as Dad calls back.”
Bruce made a sound that Tim knew was carefully pitched to sound non-judgmental. It didn’t work, but Tim didn’t feel like it was aimed at him, either. “How long ago did you call your father?”
Tim lowered his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see their reactions. “A few days before the storm. He’s busy.”
“I’m sure he is,” Bruce said. He was gentle about it. “But all the more reason. Even when I’m gone to a meeting or on patrol, you’ll have Alfred here. It must be hard arranging for what you need when you have to play phone tag across different time zones.” Bruce squeezed his shoulder, then let go to tousle his hair. “For now, you can stay with us till the repair work is done, and we’ll make arrangements for the rest as it comes, okay?”
Tim nodded, risking a glance up. Alfred looked quietly pleased, like he’d gotten the outcome he wanted. “You don’t have to,” he said again, quietly. “I know how to take care of myself.”
“Very well, too,” Alfred said. “But Master Bruce is right, a young man shouldn’t be rattling around in a big empty house like that for so long. It will do me good to have a more appreciative audience for my cooking,” he said, casting Bruce a very pointed look. “And having you here will give you and Master Bruce more time to focus on your education. I think it will work out quite well.”
“Also, we like having you here, Tim.” Bruce tapped the side of Tim’s cheek with two fingers until Tim looked up at him. “We want you to stay. Not because we have to.”
Tim could think up a thousand arguments, but at the moment honestly all he felt was relief. The thought of going back to Drake Manor right now felt exhausting. “Okay, at least till the repairs are done.”
He was very aware of Bruce and Alfred exchanging glances over his head, but he didn’t care much at the moment. “Sounds like a plan,” Bruce said. “We can spruce up your room, make it a little more personal so you’re comfortable here.”
“And snowmobile lessons,” Tim said. He felt his eyes starting to get heavy again and didn’t resist when Alfred plucked the empty mug from his hands. “You promised.”
Bruce tugged him a little closer so Tim’s head could rest against his chest again, and tucked the blankets in around him so there was nowhere for the cold to get in. “Anything you want,” Bruce promised, his voice tunneling as Tim slipped back to sleep. “Anything you need, Tim. I promise.”
Chapter 3: the ransom call, age 13
Chapter Text
I’m starting to think you’re ignoring us, Jackie. You’ve got one more chance to do as we say, and you’ll get your kid back in one piece. I’ll call back in one hour - and if you don’t answer this time, you’ll never see your son alive again. You got it?
The leader slapped Tim’s phone down on the table hard enough that Tim was pretty sure the screen would crack. “What the hell is your old man’s deal, huh, kid?”
Jack and Janet were in Egypt at the moment. They’d been invited by an old friend to some kind of big museum opening - a bunch of old artifacts that hadn’t seen the light of day since they were originally uncovered back in the 50s or something. They’d been gone for a couple of weeks and weren’t expected back till next month. Which Tim had told the kidnappers when they came for him, and again when they were tying him to the chair he’d been stuck in for the last several hours. And again, just a few minutes ago, when they tried to get through for the fourth time.
“You’d better hope he calls back,” the man continued. “I’d hate to have to send him some motivation to cooperate.”
Tim’s cheek throbbed from the backhand he’d gotten the last time his parents didn’t answer. “I’m sorry,” he said, because he was pretty sure a normal kid would be cowed and contrite in this situation. “Sometimes when they travel they don’t get good cell service.”
“If I can’t get ahold of them, then they can’t pay me,” the leader said. He was an older guy, with salt and pepper hair and an expression that seemed to be permanently angry. “If I can’t get paid for letting you live, then what use are you to me? You see my problem, don’t you?”
Tim nodded. “Honestly, though, killing me takes effort. You’d be getting a better deal if you just let me go and cut your losses.” So much for cowed and contrite, he thought. Damnit, Tim.
That earned him another backhand, on the same cheek. He’d have a hell of a bruise to explain when this was over.
Well, or the coroner would have to explain it.
“Give me another number,” the leader said. “You’ve gotta have their hotel room, or a work number.”
Tim shook his head. “No, just - just the cell. It’s the only way I can reach them, except for email.”
“I’m not sending a ransom demand by email,” the leader snarled.
Tim privately thought the man probably didn’t know how to but kept that thought to himself. He already felt like half his face was one giant bruise, he didn’t want the guy to switch hands.
He waited until all three of the kidnappers were huddled together by the door arguing in hushed voices about what to do with him before he started working at the ropes around his wrists again. They clearly weren’t worried about a thirteen year old getting loose, because they’d just tied his hands to the arms of the chair and called it a day. If they weren’t right there he’d have been free already.
If they stepped outside he could get loose. The room looked like it was a basement level office - an old table and filing cabinet, and a window up toward the ceiling. Tim could get up there easy, and even if it was locked, the glass would be easy to kick out or smash. He figured it would take him less than five minutes to escape if they would just leave. But with them right there watching him he wasn’t confident he could escape his bindings in time to take all three of them in a fight before they got the jump on him.
Plus the leader had a gun. That tipped the odds way too far out of Tim’s favor. So for now he was biding his time and hoping they’d take a lunch break or something before they decided to shoot him and cut their losses.
Judging by the angry whispering at least one of the guys objected to killing him - “Should have thought of that before he saw our faces,” the leader said - so hopefully there was a little time left before he had to take his chances in a three-on-one fight.
He’d been there since they’d grabbed him at the bus stop that morning. The school would have reported him absent by now, but they would have reported it to his parents who were clearly not checking their phones. Bruce would notice when he didn’t show up for dinner and patrol, but that was a couple hours away still.
There was a possibility someone had seen them grab him from the bus stop and called the police. And a kidnapping happening right down the street would probably catch Bruce’s attention, and he was paranoid (protective) enough that he’d check on Tim just in case. But then he still had to find him and that could take time, even for the greatest detective in the world.
He just had to keep them calm until then, if he could. It didn’t sound like they were going to be willing to just let him go so he just had to reassure them that his father would answer. Eventually. Probably.
He ignored the little voice in the back of his head that was asking if his parents would even pay a ransom.
The argument over by the door was getting heated. The leader was gesturing at Tim with the gun in a way that was making him feel very nervous.
“Actually,” Tim said, too loud. He stopped himself, bit his lip. “Actually,” he said again, heart pounding against his ribs, “there might be someone you can call. If - if you want?”
All three of them were staring at him now, one of them looking vaguely hopeful. Tim thought he was kind of a moron - if they were worried about him seeing their faces without a ransom, they’d be just as worried with a ransom. Either way Tim was getting shot. But with the promise of a payout they’d need proof of life, which meant they’d put off shooting him for a couple of days. Enough time for Batman to find him, or for Tim to escape on his own.
“Bruce,” Tim said. “You can - he watches me while my parents are out of town sometimes. He’ll pick up if he can, and - he always calls me back if he thinks I need something.”
The leader grabbed the phone. “He can get ahold of your parents?”
“No, but-” he said quickly when the man stepped toward him, fist raised, “but he might be willing to pay the ransom anyway. He can get my parents to pay him back when they come home.”
The bruise on his cheek throbbed dully. Bruce always said to call if he needed anything. And - Bruce wouldn’t have to pay, after all, once he knew Tim was in trouble he’d come as Batman and it would all be taken care of. He just… he really hoped he wasn’t overstepping.
That seemed to be enough to convince the leader. “What’s his number?”
“It’s in my phone,” Tim said. His heart raced a little, he tried not to let it show on his face. Bruce and Oracle could track him by his phone - for god’s sake Dick had made him install one of those friend-finding apps a while back, allegedly so they could find each other if they met up somewhere but mostly because Dick and Bruce were paranoid and overprotective and got real fidgety if Tim wasn’t where he said he would be when he said he would be there. He was pretty sure these guys had never kidnapped anyone before.
Tim was super honored to be the inaugural victim.
The leader grabbed Tim’s phone and started scrolling through contacts. “Which number?”
“The one that says cell. He’ll answer that one, if he can.”
The leader gestured to one of the others. “Keep him quiet until I need him.”
The second guy, the one Tim had been calling Thomas, in his head, because he was built like a fucking tank engine, slapped a hand over Tim’s mouth and yanked his head back until he was basically facing the ceiling. Thomas’s hand stank of cigarette smoke and something rank and pungent, like a really bad case of BO. Tim held back a gag and tried not to think about it.
The leader must have put the phone on speaker, because Tim could hear the tinny sound of it ringing over and over.
He wasn’t going to answer. Of course he wouldn’t - and why should he? He was at work, he was a busy, important man, and Tim wasn’t his kid. Tim’s own parents had more important things to do than deal with his screw-ups, why had he thought Bruce Wayne of all people would want to clean up after him?
Heat pricked at the back of his eyes, and he closed them before Thomas could notice.
The ringing stopped halfway through the fourth ring, but instead of voicemail, Bruce’s voice filled the room. He sounded distracted, but not unhappy to hear from him and it made Tim’s chest feel strange. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?”
Tim dragged in a deep breath, his whole body going nearly limp.
“Timmy’s missing school today, I’m afraid,” the leader said.
“Who is this? Where’s Tim?” Bruce’s voice was sharp, wary. “I want to talk to him right now.”
The Leader came closer and Thomas let go of Tim long enough for him to suck in a lungful of blissfully clean air. “I’m sorry, Bruce, I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Are you all right?” Bruce asked. “Where are you?”
Thomas slapped his hand back over Tim’s mouth hard enough that it stung. It probably sounded like a slap, too, because Bruce’s voice got a lot more alarmed. “Tim? Tim! If you’ve hurt him, I swear to god-”
“Calm down,” the leader said. He pinned Tim with a crooked grin. “I was starting to think no one wanted the damn kid back. But it sounds like you’re a reasonable man, aren’t you, Bruce?”
“Don’t hurt him,” Bruce said. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen. But don’t hurt him.”
“First things first,” the leader said. “I like to know who I’m doing business with.”
“This is Bruce Wayne. Who am I talking to?”
At the mention of Bruce’s name all three of the kidnappers’ heads snapped around to stare at Tim. He could practically see the dollar signs floating around in their eyes. “You can call me, “sir” for now,” the leader said. He was grinning at Tim, but it was ugly and greedy. “So tell me, Mr , how much is it worth to you to keep little Timmy breathing?”
Tim snarled at him in sudden fury, jerking against the restraints. He hoped someone was with Bruce in his office, hoped that comment hadn’t made him think of Jason - Tim wasn’t Jason, wasn’t even close but… Bruce lived with that on his conscience every day. He didn’t need or deserve to feel any guilt because Tim was too stupid not to get kidnapped on a lousy Tuesday morning.
Thomas just shoved him back down and bent Tim’s head back again.
“Anything,” Bruce said in a strained voice. “It’s worth anything. Just tell me what you want.”
“A million dollars,” the leader said, his eyes boring into Tim. It was twice what they’d planned on asking his parents for, Tim knew. The Drakes were just random rich people. It was very likely they’d grabbed him just because he took the bus instead of getting driven by a chauffeur like a lot of the other kids in the neighborhood. But everyone knew Bruce Wayne.
“Done,” Bruce said.
The leader grinned, and Tim could see the other two exchanging looks over his head. “I want cash, twenties or smaller, untraceable bills. Don’t get cute with dye packs and GPS locators. I want it by tomorrow morning, you understand?”
“Yes, fine. I want to talk to Tim again.”
“You’ve got twenty seconds.” The leader held the phone out in Tim’s direction and Thomas let him go.
“Bruce,” Tim said.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m okay. They haven’t done anything.”
“Do as they say. I’ll take care of everything. This will all be over soon, I promise.”
The leader drew the phone back. “The banks are still open, Mr Wayne. I suggest you get moving. We’ll call first thing in the morning to give you the drop-off instructions. I wouldn’t sleep in if I were you. If you don’t answer the phone, the kid gets a bullet in the head, understand? I’m all out of patience.”
“There’s no need for that. I’ll have the cash ready, and I’ll be waiting,” Bruce said. “Just please don’t hurt-”
The leader hung up on him and tossed the phone on the table again. The three of them left the room, voices raised, exclaiming over their dumb luck in grabbing the one thirteen-year-old in the world who had Bruce Wayne’s mobile number.
Tim waited till the door slammed behind them to let his chin drop against his chest and drag in a shaking breath.
It took less than an hour.
Tim heard a heavy thud from the next room, like something had been dropped. Or someone had fallen. His head snapped up just as he heard the yelling start. Two more thuds, something slammed into the wall, and a single gunshot that made his heart pound in his chest as he jerked against his restraints. Another thud, heavier this time, and a loud moaning sound in a voice that didn’t sound familiar.
Please…
The door slammed open and then Nightwing was there, unhurt, kneeling in front of Tim’s chair and dragging him into a frantic hug. Tim could hear Dick’s heart pounding under his ear, hear the long, shuddering breath he let out before he pulled back and gave Tim a wry grin. “Hey, buddy. Are you okay?”
Tim gave him a shaky smile. “Yeah.”
“I’m gonna get you out of here,” Nightwing said. He had already cut through the ropes binding Tim’s right hand and was working on the left. “The cops are right behind me, and they’re going to take you someplace safe, okay?”
Tim nodded. “There were three of them. I didn’t see any others the whole time.”
Nightwing cupped his hand around the back of Tim’s head. “Okay, good. That means I got all of them. Come on, I want you out of here.” He reached up to touch his comms. “Nightwing to Oracle. I have him, he’s safe.”
Tim let Nightwing lead him out of the room, and past the three kidnappers, zip tied in varying states of unconsciousness on the floor. It was full afternoon outside, and Tim narrowed his eyes against the sunlight while Nightwing walked him through the parking lot toward the road. Once they were away from the building, Nightwing crouched down, keeping himself between Tim and the building where he’d been held. He touched the fingers of one hand against Tim’s cheek, just barely brushing over the skin where they’d hit him. “This looks like it hurts.”
Tim could hear police sirens in the distance, slowly getting closer. “If it looks half as bad as it feels, then yeah.” Tim shrugged, gave Nightwing a smile. “But that’s all there is.”
“I should have hit them harder,” Nightwing said, but his voice didn’t have the razor-wire sharpness to it that Tim had learned meant his temper was about to slip. “All right, Tim. Here’s your ride home.”
A half dozen Bludhaven cop cars came to a screeching halt around them, and the next several minutes were filled with people shouting back and forth, and the cops securing the scene. The paramedics came in once the scene was cleared, and Nightwing reluctantly turned Tim over to them long enough to determine he didn’t have a concussion or anything.
“You’re safe here, okay?” Nightwing waved to someone and a lady officer separated herself from the pack and came to stand with them. “This is Detective Spencer. She’s going to take you straight home.”
Tim offered her his hand on instinct, and she raised both eyebrows before taking it in hers. “They raise them polite over in Gotham, huh?”
“He’s a good kid,” Nightwing said. He ran a hand over Tim’s hair and met his eyes. “His family must be going nuts. Let’s get him home, okay?”
My family doesn’t even know I’m gone, Tim thought, but didn’t say. “My phone,” he said, gesturing back toward the building. “They took it.”
“It’s probably going to end up in evidence,” Detective Spencer said. “Sorry, kid. Don’t worry, I’ll radio ahead and let them know you’re on your way.”
Detective Spencer was really nice. She asked him questions but in a gentle sort of way, checking to see if he’d been hurt, asking about what he saw and heard, even asking if he wanted her to stop for ice cream or a drink on the way. “Do you have any questions for me, Tim?” she asked around halfway back to Gotham. “If I can answer them, I will. I know today must have been pretty scary.”
Tim didn’t look at her, just watched out the window as the freeway blew past. “Did my parents ever call back?”
He could feel her eyes on him in the rearview window. “I don’t think we’ve been able to get ahold of them yet, but it’s been a bit since I checked in. Do you want me to find out?”
“No,” Tim said. He already knew the answer. “It’s fine, Bruce will know when we get to the Manor.”
His parents might actually pick up if Bruce Wayne called them. It might be related to the business, after all.
There were two police cars parked outside the Manor, officers lingering in the drive. Alfred was standing on the front stairs and he rushed to meet Tim halfway when Detective Spencer helped him out of the backseat.
“Master Tim.” Alfred blew right past the relieved hand on the shoulder and went in for the full body hug, which was possibly the last thing Tim would have expected. It was nice though, and he leaned into it a little, snaking his arms around Alfred’s waist so he could hug back. It didn’t feel as uncomfortable as he would have thought. “Thank God. Thank you, Detective.”
“I can’t take any of the credit,” Spencer said. “Commissioner Gordon called in the Bat. Nightwing was the first on scene.”
“Well thank god for him as well,” Alfred said. “And thank you, for bringing Master Tim home. Do you need to ask him any questions? I want to take him inside and get these injuries tended to at once.”
“It’s okay, Alfred. It’s just a bruise.”
“It is not okay,” Alfred said fiercely. He barely waited for Spencer to give her blessing before he gripped Tim’s shoulder with one hand and steered him into the Manor, through the front parlor and into the little sitting room off the dining room. Tim’s mom did that all the time, grabbing him by the shoulder to make him go and do as she wanted, but somehow when Alfred did it there were never any bruises after. “Sit down, please. I’ll get an ice pack and something to drink. Do you need anything?”
Tim sank down onto the couch and had to resist the urge to curl up on it like a little kid. He folded his hands in his lap and shook his head. “I - I’m actually really hungry?” he said. His stomach felt pretty unhappy with him at the moment, but Tim was pretty sure it was just stress and hunger interacting badly. “If there’s a snack or something?”
“I will be in the kitchen for just a moment,” Alfred said. He hesitated though, hands on Tim’s shoulders like he thought Tim was going to make a break for it as soon as Alfred let go. Or someone else was going to grab him if Alfred wasn’t there.
“It can wait,” Tim said tentatively. “Until Bruce gets back.”
Alfred took a deep breath and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. “I should get the first aid kit,” he said, inspecting the bruise on Tim’s face with narrowed eyes. “Brutes,” he said.
“They were kind of awful,” Tim said. “Is Bruce…?”
“He’s on his way.” Alfred checked his watch. “Getting here from downtown can be tricky at this time of day, but he left as soon as we heard you had been rescued.”
Oracle would have passed along Nightwing’s message that he was safe, but if the GCPD was involved, as the cars outside and Spender’s comment about the Commissioner seemed to indicate, then Bruce would have had to wait for the official word to come down from the BPD that he’d been found. He hoped Bruce had been able to get some work done after the call at least.
The front doors burst open and Bruce’s voice echoed through the front parlor. “Alfred? Tim!”
“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, before Tim could even open his mouth. “He’s in here.”
Bruce burst through the door and paused for a split second. He wasn’t his usual put-together Brucie - his hair was a mess and his coat was unbuttoned and half falling off one shoulder. His scarf was wadded up and stuffed in his pocket, which Tim knew Alfred hated. He stared at Tim for a moment and the look on his face was weirdly familiar. “Tim,” he said. “You’re all right? They hurt you,” he nearly growled, voice darkening into near-Batman levels of intensity. He dropped to his knees next to the couch and reached out, cupping Tim’s face in both hands.
His fingers were shaking, just a little, as he carefully turned Tim’s head to the side so he could see the bruising.
Tim swallowed, because now he recognized the look on Bruce’s face. It was the one he always saw through a camera lens, when Dick or Jason was hurt.
“I’m okay,” he said. “Nightwing saved me.” He reached up and curled the fingers of one hand around Bruce’s wrist. “I’m okay,” he said again.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Bruce didn’t let go, just turned Tim’s head back so they were facing each other. “Alfred, can you call Leslie-”
“Dr Thompkins is en route,” Alfred said. “I called her as soon as you left the bank.”
“Bank?” Tim asked.
Bruce nodded. “I was waiting for them to put the ransom together when we got the call that you were safe.”
The guilt that had been lingering in his stomach since Bruce picked up the phone swelled up into a heavy ball. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be so much trouble. I didn’t know who else to call. Dad wasn’t picking up and they were getting mad-”
“You are no trouble at all, Master Tim, and I will thank you to remember that in the future.” Alfred squeezed Tim’s shoulder and then stepped away. “I will go get that snack now, I can’t imagine those brutes thought to feed you at all.”
Bruce pushed himself up off the floor and sat down heavily on the couch next to Tim. “Don’t apologize,” he said. “Never apologize for calling for backup. I want you to call me if you need something, okay?”
Tim nodded, but he could feel the twist of anxiety in his stomach, the press of tears in his sinuses behind his eyes. “I tried to call my parents first, I promise. I wasn’t trying to make you pay the ransom.”
Bruce sighed and wrapped an arm around Tim’s shoulder, tugging him over until he was pressed against Bruce’s side, his head against Bruce’s shoulder. “I would have paid it a hundred times over, Tim. Do you understand?”
Tim thought he might. He closed his eyes and let Bruce hold him up until Alfred came back. “Thank you for answering the phone.”
Bruce’s other arm came up around him. “Always.”
Chapter 4: the Rogue attack, age 14
Summary:
None of it is real.
Chapter Text
“Mr Drake, I’m calling from the principal’s office at Gotham Academy. We’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon regarding Timothy. The school has been evacuated and closed for decontamination following an attack by the Scarecrow, and we need you to have someone pick Timothy up. Please call the school as soon as you get this to make arrangements. We’re also strongly urging you to take your son to a pediatrician or primary care to make sure there are no side effects from the fear toxin.”
Tim was sitting calmly in the back of the last ambulance when Bruce got there. His feet were dangling out the back of the ambulance but he wasn’t kicking or swinging them. The blanket they’d wrapped around his shoulders almost three hours ago was still there, held in place by one hand, and if his fingers were curled into the fabric so tight that they were cramping, well. No one needed to know but him. It was helping him focus. His breathing was even, his heartbeat was steady. Nothing to worry about here.
The police officer posted at the front entrance of the school, the one Tim had finally convinced to text Bruce for him after it became clear the school wasn’t going to, briefly turned into the Joker. His mouth stretched wide in a grotesque smile, tongue lolling out nearly to his feet. His right arm turned into a crowbar which he swung through the air as he turned and smiled straight at Tim.
None of it is real, Tim chanted in his head. You’re at school. None of it is real.
He needed to get out of there. Go home and sleep it off. Or better yet, go back to the Manor and get Bruce to give him an antidote so his mind would stop trying to kill him.
His heartbeat picked up again and Tim made himself take a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. None of it is real.
A car pulled up, going too fast and stopping too suddenly. Someone was rushing. Scared, maybe. That was normal, after a Scarecrow attack. Running. Screaming. Tim inhaled slowly. Scarecrow was gone. He exhaled.
“Tim!”
There was movement to his left. Tim turned his head, quick, but controlled. He was jumpy and that was normal, no one would look at him twice for being skittish after the day he’d had. “Bruce?”
There was a flash of black out of the corner of his eye and for a moment Bane was there, towering over him, muscles bulging, mouth twisted in a hateful sneer. Tim didn’t flinch, let his eyes go slightly unfocused as he dragged in another breath and counted to five in his head.
Bane was screaming something at him, face only inches from the side of Tim’s head. Tim could feel his breath and the wetness of spittle against his cheek, but there was no sound. None of it is real.
There was movement in front of him, and Tim made himself look away from Bane as Bruce approached. He was walking so fast he might as well have been running, and there were two cops trying to keep up with him. Bruce didn’t seem to notice or care about his escort, making a beeline for Tim’s ambulance. He stopped right in front of Tim and gave him a once over that was all Bat intensity instead of Brucie chill. “Tim, sweetheart. Are you okay?”
Tim’s not sure when Bruce started calling him that. After Tim had started staying with him at the Manor, but before his mom died and Bruce became his guardian. It’s not like. A thing. But it slipped out sometimes, mostly when he was worried. He did it to Dick too, and it always made Dick go a little still and silent for a second, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Tim thought maybe it was a thing once, before Dick and Bruce started fighting so much. Before Jason died. Maybe Bruce used to say things like “sweetheart” all the time and not just when he was worried. Tim wasn’t sure - he wasn’t privy to their regular lives back then, and on patrol he’d rarely been close enough to hear them talking. But Bruce sure had smiled a lot more back then.
Bruce’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “I smiled more before I had to deal with you,” he said, voice dripping with disdain. “You don’t really think having you around is helping me, do you?”
Tim’s breath caught in his throat for a second until he made himself cough and drag in a shaking breath.
“Tim,” Bruce said and he leaned forward. There was a weird moment where Tim could see two of him, then the worried one stepped through the sneering one and the double image vanished. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Tim said. He flexed the fingers of the hand gripping his blanket. “The attack happened outside. I was sitting by the window though and might have breathed some in, so they won’t release me without an adult.”
“It was a drive-by,” one of the cops said. “Scarecrow hit a couple other places, too. Just tossed a gas canister and took off. The fear toxin spread too fast for the teachers to seal the school off in time and a bunch of kids were exposed. The paramedics checked out everyone who wasn’t screaming bloody murder but mild doses can be harder to pinpoint.”
Bruce took Tim’s other hand, the one not holding the blanket, and rubbed it between both of his hands like he was trying to restore circulation. “I’ll take him to the family physician as soon as we leave.”
Alfred had been promoted to physician. Tim made a mental note to congratulate the man as soon as he saw him next.
“We need to see some kind of ID,” the second cop was saying. “We can’t just let you take the kid.”
Bruce pulled a batarang out of his pocket and flung it at the cop, impaling him through the eye. The cop didn’t flinch, but Tim did.
Bruce squeezed his hand. “Tim?”
None of it is real. “Sorry,” Tim said. He looked away from the cop, let his eyes go unfocused again. It was a trick Dick taught him before he ever hit the streets. If you let your eyes go unfocused, but the thing you were seeing stayed clear, it was a hallucination. He counted to five and took a deep breath. “Little jumpy. I’ve never - I’ve never seen Scarecrow before.”
Not on record anyway. Tim Drake’s life was pretty sheltered, on paper.
Bruce squeezed his hand again, and this time when he reached out to the cop it was just his ID in his hand. “My name is Bruce Wayne. I’m one of Tim’s approved pick-ups. You can check with the office, I’m allowed to take him home.”
Bruce’s home, Tim hoped. Where there was a top of the line security system, and hot cocoa, and people who understood what the aftermath of fear toxin did to your nerves. And antidotes. God, he wanted an antidote right now.
Bruce was still talking to one of the cops - getting a rundown of the attack. “I saw it on the news,” Bruce said and there’s something more to it than that because Bruce sounds Batman angry underneath the flustered anxiety of Bruce Wayne. “I called just to make sure he’d gotten home all right but the housekeeper said he wasn’t there and I almost had a heart attack.”
“Dad had a meeting this afternoon,” Tim said. He missed the pressure of Bruce’s hand, so he squeezed first this time. The pressure felt good so he didn’t let up when Bruce squeezed back. “I asked them to call Alfred but the office said they had to call primary contacts first, and there were hundreds of kids needing pickup.” He squeezed harder just to feel it.
Bruce frowned at him, but not like he was mad about it. “Your cell-”
“Dad took it. Said I was giving him attitude at dinner last night. No phone or videogames for a week.”
“Jesus,” the cop said. There was something leaning over his shoulder and leering at Tim, a shadowy mass with teeth that glistened. None of it is real. “Sending a kid out in Gotham with no damn phone.”
Tim laughed, but it was unsteady. “Yeah I don’t think he anticipated this situation.”
The second cop came jogging back over with Bruce’s ID. Tim kept his eyes down, watching his fingers flex as he squeezed Bruce’s hand over and over.
Bruce’s other hand came up to cup the back of his head. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here.”
The paramedics that had been chilling with Tim for the last couple of hours waved goodbye. Tim was pretty sure at least one of them was real. He waved back.
Bruce didn’t let go of his hand until they got to the car. Tim felt like a little kid but he didn’t let go either.
“You brought the Phantom.” The Rolls-Royce wasn’t Tim’s favorite car, but it was Dick’s. “Can I drive?”
“Not while you’re hallucinating, no.” Bruce stopped short of picking Tim up and putting him in the car like he was injured, but just barely. He held Tim’s arm the whole time he was getting in, then pulled the seat belt over Tim’s lap and buckled it for him, as if seeing Two Face out of the corner of his eye was going to stop Tim from being able to function or something. He functioned just fine with real supervillains, thank you. The imaginary ones couldn’t even hurt him.
Bruce closed the door behind Tim very firmly and went around to get into the driver’s seat. “What are you seeing right now?”
“Uh. Two Face? He’s just kind of-” Tim gestured vaguely at the windshield. “Screaming.”
Bruce hit speed dial on his phone, then reached over and checked Tim’s pulse. His hands were big and covered up Tim’s whole throat. “Heart rate?”
“Under control.”
Bruce hummed. There was a click as Alfred picked up the phone at the Manor. Tim closed his eyes and concentrated on Alfred’s voice while Bruce counted heartbeats and read Alfred in on the situation. The voices were probably real. Tim hadn’t heard anything obviously fake since the attack. Sight and even touch were fucking with him a little, but the auditory hallucinations were apparently sitting this one out.
Temporarily satisfied Tim’s heart wasn’t going to explode, Bruce let go of Tim’s throat and put the car in gear, pulling out at a much more reasonable speed than he’d arrived.
“Why didn’t you tell the paramedics you’d been gassed?”
Tim didn’t hear anger in there, not even “I’m worried and bad about admitting it so I’m gonna act angry so you know I’m upset but not why” so he figured he wasn’t in trouble. “There were limited doses and none of these kids have any experience with fear gas. I wasn’t so far gone I couldn’t understand what was real and what wasn’t, and I was able to keep myself calm so I figured it was better to let a civilian have my dose. Also I wasn’t counting on Dad not checking his phone for this long.”
“We’re going to get you a second phone,” Bruce said quietly. “I don’t mean to undermine your father, but I need to know you’re safe.”
Tim nodded, but didn’t open his eyes. “I can promise to only use it for life or death stuff if that makes you feel better. No games on it, so if I get grounded I can’t use it to go around Dad.”
Bruce huffed a little, Tim recognized the sound Bruce made when he thought you were funny but didn’t want you to know. “I doubt you’d need my help getting around a grounding,” he said ruefully.
“Not really,” Tim said. “To be fair, though, Dad doesn’t pay enough attention to really make it hard.”
No comment to that, because even before Janet had died, Bruce really tried not to let Tim know how much he disliked Tim’s parents. It was nice of him. In return Tim tried not to let Bruce know how easily Tim could tell that Bruce disliked his parents. Well. Parent.
Tim was winning, because he had a lot more experience in reading Bruce’s expressions than Bruce did in hiding things from Tim. Tim had a four year headstart and Bruce was never going to catch up. It was the one advantage he had, aside from the puppy dog eyes, but Dick said he still had some practicing to do before he could use them on Alfred or Bruce.
“Can we stop for ice cream on the way home?”
“No.”
“Fine. Frozen yogurt.”
“No.”
“Italian ice.”
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
“Alfred lets me get ice cream when school is canceled for supervillain attacks.”
“Alfred,” Bruce countered, “will ground me for a year if I take you joyriding while you’re under the effects of fear toxin.”
“He can’t ground you, it’s your house.”
“I dare you to tell Alfred that.”
Tim snorted. “No deal.”
“That’s what I thought.” Bruce ruffled Tim’s hair with one hand, which felt kind of nice.
Tim leaned back against his car seat and risked opening his eyes a little. They were merging onto the interstate, which meant Bruce was taking the fast way home. “If my heart hasn’t exploded yet, it’s probably not going to.”
“That’s not how fear toxin works,” Bruce said. “But if you promise not to have a heart attack on the way home, I’ll take you out for ice cream after dinner.”
That sure sounded like Tim was going back to the Manor, at least for a little while. Something tight started to loosen in his chest and he took a deep breath. “I wanna go to Batburger for dinner.”
“Over my dead body,” Bruce said instantly.
Nightwing’s body dropped out of the sky and crashed onto the hood of the car.
“Dick!” A shriek that tore its way out of Tim’s throat, panic and horror making his voice crack. He tried to lunge out of his seat to - he didn’t know, to do something, but Bruce slammed an arm over his chest and pinned him in place. “No! Bruce-”
“Sit down!” Tim could hear horns blaring and brakes shrieking as the car swerved dangerously. Nightwing’s body was sprawled over the hood of the car, limbs bent in impossible angles, skin pale. There was blood everywhere and Tim could see a flash of white bone through a tear in his uniform. The body flopped with the movement of the car and Nightwing’s head rolled almost a full 180 to stare at Tim through the windshield with cloudy, vacant eyes as he started to slide off the side of the hood.
“No!” Tim scrabbled at the door, trying to get the window down. If he could grab Dick, pull him inside where it was safe-
The car swerved to the side again and Nightwing’s body flew off the hood into oncoming traffic, hitting the pavement with a wet-sounding thud that Tim could hear over the engine and blaring horns. Tim choked on a scream and reached for his seatbelt. He didn’t know what he intended to do, but that was Nightwing, that was Dick, that was his brother-
“Robin, sit down!” Bruce’s voice was a roar and it shocked Tim like a bucket of cold water.
“Dick,” Tim choked. His fingers were curled around the door handle, but Bruce’s arm had him pressed into the car seat so hard it hurt. He tried to breathe and almost gagged on a sob. “Dick.”
“Don’t move,” Bruce snapped. The car jerked as Bruce swerved sharply to the right a final time and then they were bouncing on the grass and gravel at the side of the road. “Do not move, Robin. Do not get out of that seat.”
“What if he was alive?” Tim forced the words out through numb lips. “What if he was still alive?”
Bruce didn’t answer, but Tim heard the sound of his phone dialing, the tinny ring of a phone on speaker.
“I- I have to go check.” Tim was crying. He could feel the heat in the back of his eyes, the wetness of tears on his face. His chest was heaving for breath that he couldn’t quite seem to catch. “B. B, I can’t leave him out there like that.”
“No.” Bruce’s arm didn’t loosen up at all, even when Tim tried to lean forward to reach for the door. “Tim, I need you to trust me. Stay in your seat. Just for a minute-”
The phone picked up on the other end. “Is he with you?” Dick Grayson demanded in a breathless voice. “Tell me you have him. Where the fuck is his father?”
“Dick,” Tim said. He curled his hand into a fist and shoved it against his mouth before he could start sobbing.
“Dick, I need you to talk to Tim. He’s hallucinating.” Bruce’s arm eased up, but only enough for Bruce to reach over him and refasten his seatbelt.
“Timbo? You there, little bro?”
“Dick,” Tim said again. His chest hurt. “I thought you fell.”
It was a terrible thing to say, Tim knew it as soon as he said it. Dick had always been charmed by the knowledge that he met his honorary little brother so long ago, but the fact that Tim watched Dick’s parents die was something they didn’t ever talk about. Dick wasn’t stupid, he knew exactly why Tim would hallucinate the last Flying Grayson falling to his death.
If he was upset or mad, he managed to keep it out of his voice. “No, I’m right here, Timmy. I’m at work - well, I’m in a supply closet at work, but close enough.”
“I could see you,” Tim said. “It looked real.” Something huge moved in the corner of his vision and Tim hunched his shoulders even as he turned his head to watch Killer Croc stalk across the asphalt toward the car.
Bruce covered his eyes with his hand. Tim could, somehow, still see Killer Croc. None of it is real.
“None of it is real,” Tim gasped. “None of it-”
“I’m real,” Dick said. “Bruce is real. Okay? We’re both real, we’re both gonna take care of you, okay?”
“Keep your eyes closed for me.” Bruce’s voice was a low rumble, and his hand lingered over Tim’s eyes until he nodded his agreement. “Dick, can you keep talking? Distract Tim for a bit, just till we get somewhere a little more secure than a speeding car.”
“Can I talk, he asks. Timmy, are you hearing this?”
Tim sucked in a shaking breath and let some of it back out in a laugh. “It’s like he doesn’t even know you.”
“Can I talk, I’ll show you talking, Mister. Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask, do you want to spend the night in the Haven this weekend? We can hang out, maybe take a spin around the neighborhood and get some decent curry for once.”
“I’m pretty sure Tim’s grounded,” Bruce said. The car started moving again, accelerating quickly as Bruce made his way back onto the highway.
Dick made a rude noise. “Cause that’s ever stopped him.”
Tim pressed his eyes closed so tight he saw white behind his eyelids. He couldn’t freak out on the highway like that again. It was a miracle he hadn’t killed them both. “Can we get Batburger? Bruce said no.”
“Heathen,” Dick hissed. “Come to me, little baby bird. I will take care of you.”
The car got up to speed and Bruce’s hand settled on Tim’s shoulder, just holding him, a steady, reassuring weight. Dick launched into a rant about a movie he’d been excited to see which had turned out to be so terrible that he was going to make Tim watch it too, just so Tim would understand his pain. Tim kept his eyes closed and let the motion of the car, the weight of Bruce’s touch, and the sound of Dick’s voice wash over him.
He woke up on a cot in the Cave medbay, wrapped in a soft blanket, his head resting on Bruce’s thigh while Alfred pulled a needle out of his arm. Bruce still had a hand cupped carefully over his eyes and left it there until the antidote had time to work. Alfred stuck him with an IV and told him not to move for at least 45 minutes.
“Thank you,” Tim said quietly. It was nearly silent in the cave. Bruce was reading something on his phone, and Alfred had gone upstairs to make dinner - his request for Batburger delivery having been thoroughly and intensely shot down. “I would have called you sooner, if I could have. I promise. I didn’t mean to make you guys worry.”
“I’m getting you a backup phone first thing tomorrow,” Bruce said. “Just for emergencies. And I’m going to have a very long talk with the school about how emergency contacts work.”
Tim kind of hoped Bruce would let him listen from the waiting room. Oh well, even if he didn’t, Tim had his ways.
“But thank you,” Bruce said. He sounded a little hesitant as he added, “For having someone call me. I know you like to handle things yourself when you can, but it means a lot to me that you know you can always call me.”
Bruce wasn’t perfect. Batman, in a lot of ways, was maybe even less so. Neither of them were Tim’s father. There would be problems Bruce couldn’t fix, or wasn’t allowed to. Maybe even ones he won’t want to, where he remembered better than Tim that there was a difference between a temporary ward and a son.
But even if he said no, at least he’d hear Tim ask.
“I think the toxin’s worn off,” he said. “Want to test it?”
“On three,” Bruce said.
Just as he started counting down Tim heard the Cave door open, and familiar footsteps taking the steps way too many at a time.
Bruce lifted his hand off Tim’s eyes and Tim blinked up at him, squinting a little against the overhead lights.
“There you are!” Dick called. “Hey, Timmy, good news and bad news. I got your text, but next time you try to steal Alfred’s phone to request illicit fast food deliveries, you should consider deleting the message when you’re done. I just got a five minute lecture on what growing boys need to be healthy, and twenty dollars worth of Batburger went straight in the trash.”
Tim rolled over a little to look at Dick, and let out a loud shout, clutching at Bruce’s arm. “B! I think the antidote didn’t work! I see it!” He pointed at Dick, who had frozen halfway toward them, one foot still held slightly off the ground. “A terrible fashion disaster!”
It took another lecture from Alfred to get Dick to stop chasing him around the Cave, but Alfred had made homemade pizzas for them and even remembered that Tim liked artichoke hearts on his. It was way better than Batburger.
When Tim woke up at his dad’s the next morning, there was a new phone sitting next to his pillow. Bruce’s number was already programmed in.
Chapter 5: the fever, age 14
Summary:
Tim didn’t really remember getting sick.
Chapter Text
“Mr Drake, this is Thomas Wayne Memorial Hospital in Gotham. We’ve been trying to reach you about your son, Timothy. It’s urgent that we speak with you. Please call us back as soon as you get this.”
Tim didn’t really remember getting sick.
Actually, most of Wednesday was a total blank. He wasn’t even totally sure if he was conscious for the trip to the hospital. He remembered eating dinner with his Dad the night before and talking about Dana, and he vaguely remembered talking to Ives and Hudson about the history test that morning - though that could have been from the day before, they’d been stressing about the test for days. Dick had helped Tim study, and Tim had been determined to do well so Dick wouldn’t think he’d wasted his time.
And then he was in the nurse’s office, laying on a cot with a nurse asking him if there was someone they could call because the number for his Dad wasn’t picking up.
He hurt everywhere, and he was tired, bone-deep and aching. He blinked up at the nurse for a moment. “My dad?”
“He’s not answering the phone, honey. Do you know who else we can call? A babysitter, or an older brother or sister?”
“Bruce,” he said. He was tired, and the name came out like an exhale. His eyes started to slip closed again.
He was vaguely aware of the nurse asking him a few more questions. She put his phone in his hands for him to unlock, and there was a brief moment where Tim had the realization that this might be a trap, some scheme from a villain or a rogue to get him to reveal Batman’s identity. He almost panicked but if he was here as Tim then they already knew he was connected to Bruce. If it was a trap, it wasn’t about Batman, and his head was pounding and his throat hurt and he was tired and he was weak and he wanted someone to come make it better. So he put the passcode in with fingers that trembled so bad he needed more than one try to get it right. The nurse left, and Tim was gone again.
Voices wake him at some point. An unfamiliar woman was talking, something about treatments and proper medical care. She mentioned police and legal documents. Tim heard his father’s name, and his own, and a sour taste like dread pooled in the back of his throat.
Bruce’s voice answered her, calm and reassuring, and Tim almost went boneless with relief. Whatever was happening, it couldn’t be too out of control if Bruce was there. It was fine. Tim could go back to sleep.
The next time he woke up he actually knew where he was. He also got as far as opening his eyes before becoming completely exhausted, which he was pretty sure was better than the last couple of times.
For a long moment he just lay there, breathing and blinking up at the ceiling. The lights were dimmed and it was bordering on dark. Tim could see curtains drawn to his right, so he was sharing the room with someone else. There was the sound of a heart monitor, distant voices from the hallway outside, the smell of disinfectant. He could feel the slight pinch of an IV in his left arm, and under the over-starched sheets he could tell he was wearing a hospital gown.
There were ducklings painted on the walls.
Pediatrics, he realized dully. He was at the hospital, but why?
“There you are.”
There was the sound of fabric moving and then Bruce was leaning against the side of his bed, looking down at him. He was wearing a suit, except for the jacket, and his tie had been loosened. “How are you feeling, chum?”
“Like I spent the night at Dick’s and let him pick all the meals.”
Bruce chuckled. “Fair. You’re in the hospital, Tim. Do you remember what happened?”
Tim debated shaking his head but that seemed like the sort of thing he’d end up regretting real fast. “Sick?”
“You have a bad fever. The doctors think it’s probably a virus, but you don’t have any other symptoms. You’re going to be all right, though. They got you treatment in time.”
“The nurse was upset?” Tim remembered her handing him his phone, his vague conviction that he was getting Bruce in trouble.
“Your fever was pretty high,Tim. Over one hundred and three. The nurse wasn’t allowed to treat you without parental permission, and the office wasn’t able to get ahold of your father.” Bruce ran his fingers through Tim’s hair, and the rush of cool air against his sweaty scalp felt amazing.
“Do that again,” Tim said.
Bruce did, combing his fingers through Tim’s hair in a half dozen different patterns. “By the time you told her to call me you were pushing 104 and the nurse made the executive decision to call an ambulance. I managed to meet the ambulance here and get you checked in.”
Dad was not going to like that. Ever since he’d gotten out of the hospital and gotten custody back, Jack had been getting… touchy about anything connected to Bruce. He snapped at Tim whenever he mentioned Bruce or Dick lately, and had tried to forbid Tim from going to the Manor or hanging out with Dick.
“You said they needed parental approval?” The school let Bruce and Dick and Alfred pick him up because his parents had signed a permission slip ages ago for when they were out traveling, but Bruce’s authority over him had ended with his legal guardianship. Hospitals weren’t like kidnappers who just wanted to get paid, or gas companies who just wanted to talk to someone over 18.
“I told them I was your legal guardian.”
Tim stared up at him, horror starting to claw its way out of his chest and up his throat. “You can’t,” he said, then, “No, no, Bruce, if they find out you were lying they’ll make you leave-”
“Tim-”
“And Dad will - he’s already trying to forbid me from seeing you, do you know what he’ll do if he thinks he has some kind of leverage?” Tim could run circles around Jack if he had to, and had in the past, but Bruce didn’t like him lying to his dad. If Jack forbid Tim from going back then would Bruce back him up? Bench Tim indefinitely? Find another Robin?
No more Alfred, or hot chocolate after a bad patrol, no more home cooked meals, or going to Knights games with Dick. His room, the room that Dick had picked out for him, would be a guest room again. No more study sessions with Dick or cooking lessons from Alfred. No more Batman and Robin. No more Bruce and Tim.
No more family.
Tim’s chest felt tight. His head was spinning. Distantly he could hear the beeping of the heart monitor as it kicked up.
“Tim, you need to calm down.” Bruce pressed one palm to Tim’s chest, the other to the top of his head. “Come on, breathe for me. You’re hyperventilating. Come on. In. Hold, Out. Count it in your head. You can do this.”
Tim dragged in a breath like a sob and sagged back against the pillows as he sucked in another lungful of air. His eyes were burning with more than embarrassment at losing control like that. “You can’t-” he said again, sounding miserable to his own ears.
And somehow Bruce knew what he meant. “I’m not going anywhere,” Bruce said, fierce enough that Tim kind of believed him, even through his panic. “I didn’t lie, Tim. No one’s going to try to make me leave.”
For a minute Tim just lay there, getting his breath back and trying to keep the hot press of tears from overflowing and making him look even more like a child than he already did. Bruce stood there with him in silence, hand on Tim’s chest, taking deep breaths that Tim could mimic.
When he thought he could talk without bursting into tears like an infant, Tim lifted one hand and curled his fingers around Bruce’s wrist, holding it in place. It took more energy than it should have, Tim’s hand shaking a little until he could close his fingers around Bruce’s wrist and hold them there. “What do you mean?”
Bruce used his free hand to brush Tim’s bangs off his forehead. “We can talk in the morning when you’re more rested.”
“No. No, I want to know.” Tim swallowed. “This is about me. It involves me. I should know.”
There was a long moment where Bruce looked like he might just refuse to answer. He even tried to pull back, but Tim refused to let go of his hand. Tim felt about as strong as a kitten at the moment and he already knew if Bruce exerted any kind of effort at all he wouldn’t be able to keep him there. But Bruce stopped as soon as Tim resisted. “I don’t want to upset you while you aren’t feeling well,” he finally said.
“The only thing I’m upset about right now is that if my dad finds out you told them that he’ll have you kicked out. And then I’ll be in here alone. I don’t-” His voice wavered but didn’t crack, and Tim closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t want to be in here alone.” He took a deep breath. “I’m so tired of being alone, Bruce. You can’t - you can’t make me start getting used to having someone and then ask me to lose it.”
“Never,” Bruce said. “Tim, even if your father could make me leave, I wouldn’t go far. You can always call me if you need help and I’ll come, even if Jack takes out a hundred restraining orders. Do you believe me?”
It was impossible not to when he used that voice, when his hand on Tim’s chest felt like the center of the universe. Tim sucked in another deep breath. “You said you didn’t lie?”
Bruce heaved a sigh so deep it seemed to move his entire body. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and half turned away from Tim like he was trying to compose himself. “A legal guardianship is binding. The courts set it up. And the courts have to dissolve it. It doesn’t just go away once one party doesn’t want it anymore. The only way to revert your custody back to your father was either for me to go to court and give you up - which I haven’t - or for your father to petition the court to have it dissolved after his recovery.”
Tim closed his eyes. “Which he hasn’t.”
“No,” Bruce said gently. ”He hasn’t. It’s possible he doesn’t know he has to.”
Bruce was just trying to defend Jack, he always tried to defend Jack, but Tim was suddenly and completely sick of it. “He has lawyers,” Tim snarled. “You can’t tell me not one of them knows how a guardianship works. He was in a coma when it was formed, but they would have briefed him when he woke up.”
“He’s been through a lot,” Bruce said. He rubbed his thumb over Tim’s chest. “It’s possible he forgot. Or decided to leave it in place in case he relapsed.”
“He remembered everything to do with the company,” Tim said. “He remembered how to collect what he was left in Mom’s will. If he forgot to take me back it’s because I wasn’t important enough to remember.”
He breathed. It was shuddering and deep and on the verge of something worse than tears. It was a grip that couldn’t hold on anymore. “He hates you. He’s jealous of you. He keeps trying to forbid me from talking to you anymore because he thinks I like you better than him. If he remembered, he’d have done it. But he didn’t remember, because going to court to have it revoked would mean he had to pay attention to what was going on with me instead of his book, or his new girlfriend or selling off Mom’s investment properties to keep the company afloat for another quarter. He woke up and found out his son belonged to someone else and he didn’t care enough to get me back.”
Bruce was silent. Tim clung to his wrist and stared at the ceiling as the pain in his chest slowly burned itself out. It didn’t take long. It was too familiar to last long. There was almost nothing left for it to feed off.
Tim had figured out his father’s priorities long before his mother died. He’d just been stupid enough to believe Jack when he said he was going to change.
“Would you have done that?” he asked. “If you were hurt, and Dick or - or Jason was still a kid. If Alfred or Kate or someone had taken them in while you were gone. Would you come back and just. Let Kate have them?”
“No,” Bruce said. For a second he pressed down against Tim’s chest like he was trying to hold him steady, even though he hadn’t moved. “I would have brought them home. I would have made sure they were mine again. I wouldn’t let anyone take one of my kids away from me, not even on paper.”
Tim closed his eyes and nodded against the pillow. “You could have dissolved it,” he finally said. He let go of Bruce’s wrist. “You didn’t forget. You could have gone to court and made him take me back.”
Bruce didn’t move his hand. “No,” Bruce said softly. No one even a couple of feet away could have heard him. “No, I couldn’t do that. If he came and dissolved the guardianship I wouldn’t have fought him on it, because he’s your father and I would never try to undermine that relationship. But I would never give you up.”
“I believed him,” Tim said. He felt dull, like the brief spark of pain had burned up everything else in him. “He said he wanted to get to know me. He said he wanted to be a better father. And I believed him. I believed him when he yelled and threw coffee mugs at me. I believed him when he blew me off to work on his book. I believed him when he took Dana away for the weekend and forgot to tell me until he’d been gone for two weeks.”
Bruce’s other hand touched the side of his face, thumb brushing over Tim’s cheek. “I didn’t know it was like that. I thought you two were getting a fresh start.”
“Sure we did. But it took us down the same road we always ended up on.” Tim closed his eyes and ignored the tears that ran down the side of his face. “I used to think I just wasn’t his top priority. There was Mom, and the company, and his expeditions. They were all important, all interesting. More than a little kid who was too young to travel and too uneducated to help with his work anyway. Right? Who - who thinks kids are interesting, right?” He took a deep breath, held it till he thought he could exhale without sobbing.
“You’re interesting, Tim.” Bruce’s voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder. Like he was holding back so much that it made his voice shake. “You’re smart, and kind, and funny, and we love having you around. The Manor is too quiet without you in it.”
“But Mom’s gone now. And he can’t go on expeditions anymore. And I thought -” His cheeks burned with shame, both at how selfish he sounded and how how stupid he’d been. “I thought, okay. He’s got to focus on his recovery now, and the business is still really important but maybe I can break into the top three priorities, you know? Maybe there’ll actually be time now. But he has Dana, and the book and I’m lower down the list than I ever was.” He closed his eyes. “Maybe that’s what I deserve,” he said. “For being so selfish.”
“You’re the least selfish person I know,” Bruce said. “You’ve made sacrifices that most young people don’t even know exist yet. You’ve been a caretaker to your dad, and a helper to Alfred, and god knows I’d have been lost without you.” He sighed heavily, and Tim felt the bed shift just a little as Bruce leaned against the side of it. “Having your father’s attention should be the bare minimum, Tim. Not something to aspire to. Not something you have to earn. You aren’t selfish for wanting what you always should have had. And I’m sorry,” he added. “Sorry for telling you this while you’re already feeling bad. Sorry for not realizing how hard things were at home. But mostly I’m sorry for letting you think there was any possible way I’d let anyone, even your father, keep me out of your life if you want me there.”
Tim opened his eyes. Bruce was watching him with narrowed eyes and his mouth pressed into a tight line. He wasn’t angry, not exactly. But he looked like he was getting ready for a fight anyway.
“I won’t let anyone take one of my kids away from me,” Bruce said. “You understand?”
Mortifyingly, Tim could feel his eyes well up with tears. “I’m not,” he said. He’d meant to be calm, to let Bruce know he didn’t have to do this, that Tim wasn’t that pathetic. But it came out like a sob, all of Tim’s worn-thin self control abandoning him at once. “I’m not, though.”
“You are,” Bruce said. He brushed his thumbs over Tim’s cheeks, wiping away tears Tim couldn’t seem to stop. “I know I’m not your father,” he said. “But you’re my kid, Tim. That’s just the way it is.”
Tomorrow Tim was going to wake up and realize this was all a fever dream. His overcooked brain was making up fantasies, showing him things he would never have let himself want in his more rational mind. Tomorrow, when he woke up alone because his dad hadn’t answered the phone and Bruce wasn’t considered family, he’d have plenty of time to think about how stupid and childish he was being.
But for now.
“Please don’t tell him.” Tim wrapped both hands around Bruce’s wrist this time, as if it would make any difference if Bruce really wanted to get away from him. “About the guardianship. Don’t tell him. Please stay.”
“I have no intention of going anywhere,” Bruce said. “You can go to sleep, Tim. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”
Chapter 6: the birthday, age 15
Summary:
He never should have answered the phone.
Notes:
Here's where we deviate from canon a bit more.
Also some POV changes, but hopefully there's enough Trying!Dad!Bruce in here to keep everyone satisfied.
character death mention: It's Jason.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Jack! It’s Bruce again. Look, I’m checking in to see if you got the e-vite about the party next weekend. I don’t want to double-schedule if you have something going on. Tim says you two don’t have any plans, but I thought maybe you were trying to surprise him. Give me a call when you get this, I can always reschedule for another day.”
Jack was expecting lunch when he heard the knock on his office door.
“Come,” he barked, already annoyed. The new admin wasn’t working out; he’d given her specific instructions to just bring the food in once it was delivered. He didn’t have time to hold her hand through every little thing. “I told you not to interrupt me.”
“Sorry, Jack. I think you were expecting someone else.”
Bruce Wayne stood in the door of Jack’s office, posing like he thought he was a fucking model. He was wearing a suit that cost more than Jack currently had to his name, and his hair was windswept and tousled like the fucking kids were wearing it these days. He was smiling, but Jack didn’t buy it for a minute. Wayne always put on a good show, but he was a viper.
A stupid viper, admittedly, but teeth were teeth.
“Brucie!” Jack smiled back, but couldn’t be bothered to even attempt sincerity. “It’s a pleasure, buddy. I haven’t seen you in a while.” They no longer ran in the same circles. Jack’s social standing had plummeted with his bank account and invitations to galas and parties - most of which had an element of charitable fundraising to them - had dried up months ago. It wasn’t like they’d ever had anything else in common - Wayne wouldn’t know anything about archaeology if it bit him on the ass, and Jack’s taste had never run to airheaded lingerie models. “What can I do for you?”
“I was checking in to see if you’d gotten my voicemails.” Wayne let the words linger just long enough to make it plain to both of them that Jack hadn’t listened to them. “About the party this weekend.”
That caught Jack’s attention and he leaned back in his chair, taking his eyes off his computer screen. It was summer, so there wasn’t usually much fundraising going on, as a lot of Gotham’s elite liked to travel. Jack and Janet had almost never been around in the summer, back when they’d still had their dig sites and expeditions to attend to. Jack tried to think of anything that might have been mentioned, but he was out of the loop. Possibly a society wedding, there were a lot of them in the summer, and they usually threw a good party afterwards.
An event was just what he needed. Something to get his foot back in the door, charm a couple of potential investors to tide things over until the company got back on its feet. If he’d known Wayne was calling about something important, Jack might have taken his calls. “Sounds like a good time! What’s the occasion?”
Something in Wayne gaze sharpened. “It’s Tim’s birthday, Jack. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for weeks to see if you had plans to do something with him so I could work around your schedule.” He sighed. “I see I overestimated you again.”
For a moment Jack was frozen, outrage and mortification smoldering in his chest. How dare Wayne talk to him like that? Like… like a disappointing child, like a disrespectful employee?
“I don’t think I appreciate your tone,” Jack said levelly. He grit his teeth together and laid both his hands flat on the desk. Dana had chewed him out just the other day for letting his temper get the best of him, she’d be furious if he started anything with Wayne. Even if the bastard had always deserved it.
“I don’t appreciate your attitude,” Wayne said. He took a couple steps into the office, closing the door behind him. “For God’s sake, Jack. You can’t even remember the day your only child was born?”
“It must be nice,” Jack spat, “to have nothing in the world to worry about except children’s parties and what flavor cake to order, but some of us have real jobs, and real problems.”
“Your son shouldn’t be a job, Jack. He sure as hell shouldn’t be a problem.”
Jack scoffed. “Right. Like you’d know anything about it. I know you’re having a good time being the fun uncle or whatever, patting Tim on the back when he runs to you about how mean his old man is, but you don’t know jack shit about what that kid’s really like.”
“I know him better than you do,” Wayne said. “I’ve known him for two years, and I know him better than the man who should have been there his entire life. That says more about you than it does about Tim, and none of it flattering.”
“You have some fucking nerve,” Jack snarled. “Coming in here and criticizing how I raise my son-”
“You don’t raise him!” Wayne snapped. “That’s the problem!” He caught himself and took a step back, but didn’t break eye contact. “That’s always been the problem with you, Jack. You can’t be bothered to put in the bare minimum effort, but you expect the full payout.”
“I have put a roof over his head and food in his mouth-”
“Except when the power was out and he almost froze to death,” Wayne said. “Except when he was snowed in and the food almost ran out.”
“I educated him-”
“Teachers who you never speak to, report cards you barely look at, assignments you never helped him with.”
“I pay his tuition!”
“He’s gone to public school since he was thirteen, Jack.”
“He’s healthy and safe-”
“You left him sitting in a parking lot after a fear toxin attack. You left him alone in the hospital with a hundred and four degree fever. You left him alone with a sexual predator-”
“At least he’s still alive,” Jack snapped, and had the pleasure of watching Wayne shut the hell up for once. “So I’m doing better than you in the parenting department.”
“He’s still alive,” Wayne said quietly. ”There is that, thank god.” Wayne took a deep breath and swallowed, his face gone pale.
That had probably crossed a line but Jack didn’t care. He didn’t know if Wayne was filling Tim’s head with bullshit, or if Tim was feeding Wayne lies, but either way it needed to stop. He wasn’t going to take this kind of disrespect in his own office, about his own kid.
The frustrated anger that had been simmering in Jack’s chest all day finally started to ease. Wayne had no right to come in here and lecture Jack for missing a few parent-teacher conferences when he’d gotten his own kid killed.
“Do you know why my son is dead?” Wayne asked. “Do you know why Jason died the way he did?”
Jack froze. That had to be a trick question. And even if it wasn’t he wasn’t sure he’d ever known the details. “He ran away, as I recall it.”
Wayne nodded. His expression was completely blank, but there was something about it that made Jack want to take a step back. “He ran away because I didn’t prove to him that he could always come to me. He ran away because he needed someone who would answer when he called, who would come when he needed help. I failed him, and he went looking for someone else to fill that place in his life. Children need adults, Jack. They need us to be there to shield them sometimes. To help them process. To hold their hands when they’re sick. And if they can’t get that from you, they’ll try to find it somewhere else. Be glad,” he said, voice hoarse. “You should thank god that Tim just turned to the adult next door. Because I know exactly how bad it could have been once he realized you couldn’t be what he needed.”
Jack’s temper stirred again at the implication. Beneath it, insult - the implication that Jack wasn’t good enough - when Tim was the one sneaking out at night and failing classes and spending all his time in some strange man’s apartment in a bad part of town. Tim was a problem and Wayne was just lucky he wasn’t responsible for him, pointing fingers from his high horse.
“Tim’s birthday is Saturday,” Wayne said in that same hoarse voice. “He isn’t expecting you to remember, or to come, and we both know he’s not wrong. You are going to surprise him.”
“You can’t tell me what to-”
“Tim and his friends are going to the carnival in the morning, but we’re having a sit down dinner at six. You should be there. Bring Dana, if you want, Tim seems to really like her.”
“I can’t just drop everything at the last minute-”
“You had plenty of free time a few minutes ago when you thought I was inviting you to a society party,” Wayne said. “It’s an hour to have dinner with your son. Make the time, for god’s sake.”
Jack scowled. “Or what?”
“Or nothing you care about.” Wayne spread his hands out as if to show they were empty. “I’m not going to ruin you - you’ve already done that to yourself. I’m not going to slander your name in public, you’ve done enough damage to your reputation anyway.”
“Son of a bit-”
“If you don’t come this weekend, I’m washing my hands of you, Jack. No more pointed reminders about Tim’s birthday or Christmas, no swinging by to fill you in on teacher conferences or doctor’s visits. I’ve been co-parenting your kid for the last two years because I thought you gave a damn, but I’m starting to think I was wrong.”
“So you’re going to stop harassing me if I miss this party? Not highly incentivizing, Wayne.”
Wayne’s expression shifted. The empty blankness was gone, his lip curling in disgust, his eyes narrowed. “I’m going to give you what you want, Jack. I’m going to take Tim off your hands.”
Beneath Jack’s anger and frustration, something went abruptly cold. “Don’t you threaten me,” he said.
Wayne only met his gaze, seemingly completely calm. “It’s not a threat, Jack. The only reason I’ve let you stay in Tim’s life is because I thought you wanted to be there. But I’m starting to realize just how wrong I’ve been. And I’m not going to force Tim to keep trying to have a relationship with someone who refuses to support him in even the simplest, most basic of ways.”
“Let me?” Jack echoed. He ignored the rest - Wayne’s opinion on his parenting skills were less than meaningless. But part of Jack rebelled against this open possessiveness. “You aren’t letting me have anything. Tim is mine.”
“Actually, he’s not.” Wayne smirked. “I took legal custody of him while you were laid up, remember? And Tim is so far down on your radar, so low on your list of priorities, that you never had custody transferred back to you. He’s been mine since you left for Haiti.”
“That’s not-” Jack curled his hands into fists. “You son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, this is clearly all my fault.” Wayne pulled out his phone and typed something on the screen. On the desk, Jack’s phone buzzed. “I’ve forwarded you the time for the party, and directions to Wayne Manor, just in case you’ve forgotten how to find it. There are some gift suggestions too, in case you want to actually get your kid a present. It’s a bit of a milestone birthday, it would mean a lot to him if you acknowledged it.”
Jack stared at the phone without picking it up. Anger was still churning in his gut but it was slowly being overwhelmed by the feeling that he was treading water. He wasn’t even sure where this conversation had gone so far off the rails. What the hell did Wayne mean, Tim was his? That was Jack’s kid, Jack’s son. “Sixteen is a big one,” he said slowly. “Maybe it’s time to teach the kid how to drive.” Tim would like that. What kid didn’t want to get their license? Maybe Jack could let Tim pick out a car online for his present. That’d top Wayne’s fucking dinner party.
“He’s going to be fifteen,” Wayne said. “And he already knows. He got his driver’s license early so he could take you to physical therapy. How have you not noticed that?”
“Forgive me for having other things on my mind while I was recovering from being paralyzed,” Jack sneered. “I think you should leave before I call security.”
Wayne actually rolled his eyes at him. “Just come, Jack, please. You and I can despise each other as much as we want, but if it makes Tim happy I’m willing to work with you. Just give him this one thing. Come to his birthday.” Wayne tucked his phone away in his pocket and turned to leave. “For one day. For one hour. Act like your son means something to you.”
Jack waited until Wayne was gone, his footsteps disappearing down the hall. Then he grabbed a paperweight off his desk and hurled it through the door behind him.
The new secretary squeaked and flinched in her chair. Jack scowled at her. “Make sure I’ve got a couple hours free Saturday evening,” he said. “If anyone else wants to see me I’m in a meeting.”
He slammed the office door and stood there for a long moment, clenching and unclenching his hands fighting the urge to wrap them around Wayne’s neck and squeeze until his head popped off.
Wayne thought he was a better parent to Jack’s kid than Jack was? Wayne thought he could threaten to just come in and take what belonged to Jack? Fine. If Wayne wanted a fight he’d get one. Jack would show him who Tim’s real father was, and teach his kid a lesson at the same time.
He pulled the office door open again and stuck his head out. The new girl jumped half out of her seat. “Get my lawyers on the phone.”
Jack hadn’t been to Wayne Manor in years. Not since Janet was alive, definitely. Probably one of Brucie’s Christmas parties, four or five years back. He couldn’t remember if they’d brought Tim along, but he remembered that they had left early because they’d had a flight first thing in the morning to Egypt.
He gave the driver instructions to stick close, and climbed the front steps of stately Wayne fucking Manor, his back aching at every fucking step. He felt ridiculously like a petitioner, come to beg on Lord Wayne’s mercy and hospitality. But that wasn’t how it was going to go. Jack gripped the envelope containing Tim’s birthday present a little tighter and took a deep breath. No. Wayne was going to remember whose kid Tim really was.
He didn’t even hear the massive front doors opening, but they were, and Wayne’s butler was standing there, hands crossed behind him. “Mr. Drake,” the man said. “It’s very good to see you. Shall I take your coat?”
Jack let himself be ushered inside, passing off his jacket to the butler who promptly made it disappear somewhere while Jack wasn’t looking. “Who else is here?”
“Master Bruce and Master Richard, of course.” If the butler noticed the way Jack grimaced, he didn’t blink. “A few friends of the family, and several of Master Tim’s friends from school and extracurriculars.”
Jack grit his teeth at the “friends of the family” comment. Clearly Wayne was stacking the deck, bringing in his buddies and sycophants. Who the hell wanted to come to a kid’s birthday party anyway? Probably a bunch of bootlickers trying to cozy up to Wayne. “I’d like to speak with Bruce privately for a moment.”
“Of course,” the butler said. “Let me show you to the sitting room, and I can bring Master Bruce to you.”
He led Jack to a room off the main entrance that he hadn’t even noticed was there. It was decorated in light colored wood and dark blue curtains and furniture. Everything about the room felt old, just like the rest of the house, and Jack had a pang of nostalgia for Drake Mansion. Clean white marble and paint, big glass windows, modern furniture - all signs of modern, up and coming business owners who were going to do great things.
God, he missed Janet. She never would have let the company get so far out of control. She never would have let Tim get so far out of control. If there was an afterlife, Jack was going to hear about it the next time he saw her.
What would Janet do? To be honest Jack wasn’t sure - even when she was alive he hadn’t always been able to keep up with his wife. Tim was a lot like Janet sometimes, twisting words and always arguing until Jack gave up in frustration.
His back ached, and he glanced consideringly at the couch before he straightened his posture and put it out of his mind. Wouldn’t do to look weak in front of Wayne.
It couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes before the door opened again and Wayne strode into the room. He pulled the door shut behind him, giving Jack a look he couldn’t quite interpret. “Jack. Thank you. I really am glad you could make it. Tim will be so excited.”
Jack bit back a smirk. Way to give away all the power in these negotiations, Brucie. “Of course,” he said, like he had never intended otherwise. “Good business men know how to make time for the important things, right?”
“I suppose,” Wayne said. He leaned against the side of the couch, hands in his pockets. He was dressed pretty casually, but still somehow managed to look like he was ready to hit the boardroom. “Not sure your son needs a business man at his birthday as much as a father.”
Jack grit his teeth together. “One and the same, Brucie. You can’t split a man in half.”
Wayne made a careless sort of humming noise that made Jack’s nerves twitch. He had never dealt with the man very closely and to be honest he wasn’t that broken up about it. Janet had had some kind of plan for wooing good old Brucie over but whatever her intentions had been, they’d died with her. She’d probably have been mortified by all this ridiculous birthday and custody nonsense. “You wanted to talk?”
“Yes, actually.” Jack let some of his satisfaction show. “I got your list of suggestions for a gift.” He’d skimmed through them the night before, growing more confused and annoyed with each one. Camera equipment? Since when was Tim a photographer? Some superhero merchandise, as if Jack would waste his money on that nonsense, fancy coffees that Tim was surely too young to be drinking, and a list of other unsuitable or ridiculous gifts. Jack suspected the list was Wayne trying to sabotage him - play it off like he was doing Jack a favor but really just making him look bad when Tim opened his gift and saw some useless shit he didn’t need. Then Wayne could whip out something nicer that Tim actually liked and make himself look good in comparison. Jack wasn’t falling for that. No way in hell he was going to let Wayne make a fool out of him.
“I had some thoughts of my own, though, decided to go in a different direction.” Jack held out the envelope, pleased when Wayne’s gaze focused on it. There was a hint of a furrow between the man’s eyebrows, like he was thinking too hard. It only deepened as Wayne took the envelope and slid out the legal documents Jack had had his lawyer draw up the night before, dissolving Wayne’s legal guardianship of Tim. “Don’t worry,” Jack said, “I’ll go last. I know it’ll be tough to beat.”
Wayne tore the packet of papers in half and tossed them to the side where they hit the floor and slid under the couch. “I’m not playing games with you,” he said, ignoring Jack’s protest. “You are not turning Tim’s birthday into some sort of power struggle to stroke your ego.”
Jack clenched his hands into fists at his side to resist the urge to throw something at Wayne’s smug, arrogant face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Today is supposed to be about your son,” Wayne said.
“This is about Tim!” Jack shouted. Anger was pushing at the inside of his temples, a rush of fury almost overpowered by bitterness pooling in the back of his mouth. Wayne was enjoying this, of course he was. Ever since Jack woke up Wayne had been subtly twisting the knife under the guise of helpfulness. “Co-parenting” Jack’s ass, Tim wasn’t Wayne’s fucking kid. This was just a power play. A way for Wayne to show off and play the better man. Jack had no idea what he’d done to draw Wayne’s attention like this - had the man agreed to take Tim in just so he could turn it around on Jack? Was this revenge for some slight at a party five years ago Jack couldn’t even remember?
“No,” Wayne said quietly. “That is about you and me. On Monday, if you still want me to sign those papers, that’s one thing. I’ll see you in court and we can work it all out in public with the judge and the lawyers and Tim’s social worker.”
“Social-”
Wayne pinched the bridge of his nose. “But tonight is about Tim. Can you just go out there and spend time with your kid, and forget I exist for the length of one meal? I’ll leave early, if that will help.”
He swallowed, made himself relax. “You think you’re better than me.”
“A better father, yes, though the bar on that is disturbingly low.” Wayne’s smile was cold, tight. “As you yourself pointed out, my track record in that department isn’t impressive. But at least my kids know I care. At least I remember their damn birthdays. At least I didn’t flush their future down the drain because I was too proud to admit my wife was the real businessman in the marriage.”
Jack drew in a sharp breath. Was that what this whole farce was about? Was he after Drake Industries? Had the man been hoping Jack’s illness would ruin the company and now he was going to swoop in and start a hostile takeover under the guise of protecting “Tim’s” interests?
Jack would be damned if he let that happen.
“Look,” Wayne said, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, I said this wasn’t about you and me and then I went and started a fight. Forget I said anything, all right? Go see Tim. I’ll make up an emergency at the office and leave you guys to celebrate together.”
“Actually,” Jack said. He made his voice as cool as possible, pleased when Wayne regarded him with narrowed eyes. “I’m just becoming aware of a situation myself. I’m going to have to go in and deal with this. Make sure it’s well in hand,” he added, returning the narrow-eyed stare and pleased when Wayne frowned. “But hey, you should stay. Enjoy the party.”
“Jack,” Wayne said slowly.
“”Because that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? The party.” Jack grinned. There was a surge of triumph in his chest, the knowledge that he’d figured it out in time. God, everything made sense now. He’d known Wayne had to have an ulterior motive. “Hope you have fun hanging out with a bunch of teenagers all night.”
“Jack, if you do this-”
“You’ll what?” Jack walked toward the door, stopping when Wayne made no effort to get out of the way. “What are you gonna do, Brucie? Steal my company? I’m onto you.”
Wayne met his gaze for a long moment, then deliberately took a step to the side. “Some decisions can’t be unmade, Jack. If you regret this later, I won’t be the one to help you fix it.”
“Regret saving my company?” Jack snorted. “Not likely, but thanks for the thought.” He moved briskly toward the door, not willing to let Wayne see that his back was killing him, but stopped when Wayne spoke up again.
“And Monday?” he asked.
Jack glanced at him, wary of a trap. “What about it?”
“The papers, Jack.“ Wayne looked strangely urgent, like he wanted Jack to pick up what he was laying down.
Jack stared at him for a minute, trying to figure out what that was supposed to mean as Wayne’s expression slowly went from urgent to something that reminded him a lot of Janet when he’d pissed her off.
“Tim’s present,” Wayne said, when things had dragged on just a little too long.
Right, the documents Wayne had torn up. That had to be a trick. If he really wanted to keep Tim, why remind Jack of the guardianship at all? All of this, the birthday, the threats, the dramatic tearing up of the papers - all of that was Wayne trying to manipulate him. Clearly whatever he had planned hinged at least partially on Jack trying to get custody back.
“We’ll let the lawyers deal with that, why don’t we?’ Jack bit back a grim smile.
Wayne gave him an unhappy glance and Jack fought back another surge of satisfaction as he stalked out the door without another word. Wayne didn’t try to stop him this time.
The butler materialized out of nowhere with Jack’s coat draped over one arm. “Master Timothy has returned from the carnival,” he said. “Would Sir like to wish him a Happy Birthday before leaving?”
“No need,” Jack said.
The butler arched a single eyebrow but didn’t otherwise comment. “Would Sir like me to deliver a message to Master Tim, perhaps?”
Jack waved him off, irritation bubbling in his chest. God, even the servants were judgemental assholes in this place. “Not necessary.” He waited pointedly for the butler to open the door, then took the front steps as fast as he could with his back protesting the whole way. He had his lawyer on the phone before he made it to the car, leaving a terse message for the man to call him back, then left a similar message for the COO and CIO of DI.
He thought he heard someone calling him, thought he heard Tim’s voice for a moment over the voicemail message, but then he slammed the car door shut and the car was heading back into Gotham.
His phone rang right after they hit the Interstate.
The number that came up wasn’t in his phone, and he didn’t recognize it off the top of his head. Hopefully the lawyer getting back to him, or someone calling from a home line. It was the weekend, after all. “Jack Drake.”
“Hi, Dad.”
It took a second for Tim’s voice to sink in, as Jack had been expecting literally anyone else. “This isn’t your number.”
“I figured if you knew it was me you wouldn’t answer. You never do.” Jack bristled, but Tim pushed ahead without waiting for him to respond. “I saw you leaving the Manor. I called, but I guess you had somewhere to be.”
“Yes,” Jack said. “A situation has come up.”
Tim hummed. “At Drake Industries, yeah. Bruce said it was an emergency.”
That got Jack’s back up. What had Wayne told Tim? Damnit, Jack should have thought to tell the boy himself, god only knew what Wayne could have come up with. If Wayne wanted to drive a wedge between them, then Jack needed to cut that off at the pass. “It is. It’s not overstating things to say the future of the company is at stake right now.”
“I’m sure you’ll take care of it,” Tim said. It should have sounded like a vote of confidence, but instead it just came across like a platitude. He clearly didn’t mean it. And he clearly didn’t care.
“This company is your future,” Jack said, irritation curling in his chest. “You could stand to be a little involved.”
“I’m as involved as I’ve ever been,” Tim said. There was something in his voice that Jack wasn’t sure he liked. “But that’s kind of the problem with us, isn’t it?”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I can’t be involved in something I have no access to,” Tim said. “If you wanted me to be involved you probably should have talked to me about it. Brought me to the office. Made me an intern. When’s the last time I was even in the building?”
Jack draws in a deep breath, but doesn’t get a chance to say anything because Tim keeps going.
“When’s the last time we even talked?” Tim asked. “And no, asking about pizza toppings, or passing a message along through Dana doesn’t count.”
Jack could feel his head go back, he was so taken by surprise. They were past this, weren’t they? All of Tim’s whining about not being involved, not getting ernough attention. Jack has spent most of the time since he woke up trying to cater to Tim’s demands that he do better, and this was what it resulted in? The boy was fifteen for God’s sake, what more did he want from Jack? To be tucked in at night and spoonfed? “I don’t think I like your tone.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Tim said.
“Now you listen,” Jack snarled. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, but it needs to stop, right now.” Tim was usually a well-behaved kid, at least to Jack’s face. He snuck out at night, and hung out with friends that were inappropriate at best, but Jack could count on him to keep his mouth shut in front of investors and obey when given an order. “Do you understand me?”
“I think I do,” Tim said. “I didn’t call to fight, actually. I called to say thank you.”
“Thank you?” Jack rubbed his temple. “For what?”
“For my birthday present, of course.” Tim paused for a second while Jack is trying to figure out if Wayne actually fished the custody papers out from under the couch. “Bruce said you left it for me when you had to run off. He gave it to me right after you left.” Tim paused again. “You know. The concert tickets I’ve been wanting?”
Jack has no idea what concert Tim is talking about, but he vaguely remembered seeing something about it on that damned list Wayne had sent him. Obviously Wayne had taken it upon himself to buy Jack’s present for him. But why? Jack ground his teeth, trying to figure out what Wayne’s endgame was here. “Right. Concert tickets. I’m glad you liked them.”
“A lot,” Tim said, and there was a cheerful note in his voice. “But how did you know? I’ve never mentioned them to you - we both know you hate punk.”
Jack will literally cut his own tongue out before he admits Wayne paid for them. “A father has his ways.”
“Yeah. Like listening to me when I mention they’re gonna be in Gotham. Or noticing what I’m listening to while I work out. Or asking my friends.” Tim’s voice went flat. “Bruce is good at that.”
“Is that so.” Jack refused to rise to the bait. Was this what Wayne wanted? Making Jack look bad by buying a gift he couldn’t have known about? If he admitted he didn’t buy Tim the tickets was that playing into Wayne’s plan? He could say he asked the idiot for ideas, but that gave Wayne the credit again, and had the implication that Wayne knew Tim better than he did.
Why the hell was Wayne cozying up to his kid so much? Having custody of Tim wouldn’t be enough to get him control of Drake Industries.
DI was struggling, that much was true. And Wayne clearly knew it, judging by his comment about Janet. If he was going for a hostile takeover then having custody of the Drake Heir wouldn’t matter one way or the other.
Unless he thought having control of the Drake Heir would buy over the Board and investors? But they barely knew Tim, Janet had never thought a child belonged in business.
“Yeah, he plays like he’s dumb, but he pays more attention than you’d think. He tries really hard to make people happy. That’s why he lied about who bought me the tickets. It’s why he lied about you helping him plan my birthday dinner. And it’s why he lied about you having an emergency at work.”
“Now, Timothy-”
“It’s fine. We both know you aren’t interested in birthday parties. We both know you aren’t interested in being a dad. I thought - you tried,” Tim said softly. “You did try, a lot, after mom died. And that means a lot. Thank you for trying. It - it means a lot to me. That you thought I was worth trying for. But, I think we both know it’s not working.”
Jack bristled. “Just because I don’t spoil you rotten like your precious Brucie-”
Tim laughed. “Oh my god, if you had any idea. No, Dad. It’s okay. This isn’t the life you wanted. I’m not. I’ve had time to come to terms with it. But this isn’t the life I wanted either.”
His son’s voice goes soft, barely audible, and Jack finds himself gripping the phone tighter.
“I know you know about the custody agreement,” Tim said. “Bruce told you, because he wanted you to fight for me. He thought you would, if he pushed a little. You’d realize your kid was gone and all of a sudden you’d rush in, fight to get me back, and we’d get to be a happy family in the end. It was nice of him, though if he’d asked me first I would have told him not to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I’m giving you the out you always wanted. No more needy kid asking for your attention, no more having to deal with grades, or remember birthdays, or meet with teachers. Or come up with reasons why you can’t do those things. It’s fine, Dad. I know you have important things to do. You have the company, and you’ll be strong enough to go on your expeditions again soon. You don’t need a kid tagging along at your ankles like a puppy. You don’t want that, either.”
Jack’s heart thumped heavily against his chest. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m going to stay here for a while.”
“No,” Jack said slowly. “You’re going to come home. Right now.”
“That would be rude, Alfred hasn’t even served dinner yet.”
“Timothy Jackson-”
“And I haven’t been home in weeks, Dad. My room is basically empty. You haven’t noticed, have you?”
That… couldn’t be true. Jack thought back over the last several days, trying to remember the last time he spoke with Tim.
“I think that proves my point though. This is for the best, Dad. You get the freedom you need, and I get-” There was a long pause before Tim said, voice thick like he was going to start crying or something. “I get what I need, too.”
“Now wait just a minute-”
“If you need me, you know where I am,” Tim said, as if Jack hadn’t spoken. “I’ll always answer if you call, Dad. I won’t ask you to promise the same, we both know better.”
“So, what?” Jack’s tongue felt strangely thick in his mouth. “That’s it?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean you could always go ahead and take Bruce to court but he’s kind of mad at you and he’s already talking to the lawyers. I think he’s gonna try to adopt me now.”
“Adopt?”
“He’s going to bribe you with a bailout for DI. I’m not supposed to know that though, so don’t tell him I told you.” There was a flurry of voices in the background, none of which Jack could make out. “Dinner’s ready, so I should go. Thanks for coming, Dad. I wish you could have stayed.”
Jack had no idea what he was going to say to that, but it didn’t matter, because Tim - his son - hung up without waiting for a response.
Jack stared at his phone screen for a long moment, Tim’s last words echoing in his mind as the car pulled up to his office.
He never should have answered the phone.
Notes:
I hope you guys had as much fun reading it as I did writing it!
I'm on tumblr at onemuseleft if anyone wants to talk about Batfam or give me BruceDad prompts. :)
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