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Tim
My feet shuffle loudly in my empty apartment, bringing me to the kitchen sink. I’ve been home from patrol for about an hour and the adrenaline is fading and the pain is setting in.
Tonight’s opponent had been Killer Croc. Team Batman had swiftly put a stop to his plan—world domination I think—but he was able to escape before the police arrived. We saved the day but didn’t quite cage the beast. That will have to wait for another day.
During the fight, Croc got in a few good shots to my ribs with his tail. The lucky hits felt inconsequential at the time—but now that the adrenaline is gone, the tail strikes are feeling very very consequential.
And the consequence is intense pain. The kind of pain that can only come from a couple of bruised ribs.
I turn on the facet and reach for a glass from the overhead cabinet. I wince at the jolt to my side that this causes as I stretch for a plain glass in a sea of coffee mugs. I scoot aside a mug that says, ‘World’s Second Greatest Detective’, and continue to feel around until I feel cool glass against my fingertips.
I bring the glass down and hold it under the running water. I’m gripping the bottle of pills in my other hand almost as tightly.
When the glass is full, I take a slow breath. That basic task feels like it takes more effort than fighting the crocodile did. I pop the medicine bottle open and dispense two painkillers. I swallow the two pain relief pills and chase them down with the lukewarm tap water.
I glance at the coffeemaker, but I’m pretty sure the combination of coffee, Vicodin, and antidepressants might actually kill me, so my caffeine fix will have to wait.
I close my eyes, begging the pain to stop and the relief to begin. Pain is briefly interrupted by an alert my alarm has being tripped.
As Red Robin, nightly patrol ends most nights at around three in the morning. I live in an apartment complex so I can’t use the main door when I come back at that hour. I always enter through the window, right off the fire escape.
I keep this window on a different alarm system than the rest of the house in case another member of the team wants to stop by. All of the Bat team have the disable code so that probably means tonight’s intruder is the cat that keeps clawing at the window latch, tripping the alarm.
“Ow… ow! For the love of—"
A very uncat-like Jason Todd wedges himself through the window.
After the most ungraceful breaking and entering that I’ve ever seen, he dusts himself off. “I came to check on you.” He meets my eye and grimaces. “Wow. You look worse than I thought. Next time, try to actually avoid the giant monster’s swinging tail.”
“How did you know I was fighting Croc?”
Jason lifts his arms over his head, which produces a loud crack that sounds really satisfying.
“I had a bird’s eye view from an adjacent rooftop, so I saw everything that went down. Your Bat team brought the fight right to the edge of my territory in Crime Alley, so I thought ‘why not sit back and watch the show’? I would’ve joined in to help, but I really didn’t want to.”
The look I’m giving him must hit a nerve because he rolls his eyes.
“Relax Bambi, if things really started to look dicey, I would’ve gone into hero mode and jumped in to save the day.”
“So instead, you stayed in spectator-asshole mode.”
“I prefer to call it anti-hero vigilante mode, but that’s not the point.”
“What is the point, Jason?”
“I need you to tell the Old Man to stop coming into my territory. You and the team can play hide and seek all you want, in whatever sandboxes you want, but stay clear of Crime Alley and Park Row. That’s Red Hood turf.”
“You followed me all the way from Crime Alley to tell me that? You could’ve texted Bruce.”
“I don’t have his number.”
That’s a lie, but I don’t want to call him out on it. Instead, I put the semi cool glass against my forehead, shivering as I tread forward lightly.
“Jay, you run missions with us. You were on a mission with me, Bruce, and Dick two days ago.”
Jason leans against the wall and sighs, as if he’s the one that’s losing patience.
“Look, things are shaky at best with Bruce and only marginally better with Batman. And whenever I talk to him about business, whether he’s wearing the cowl or not, it always ends with one of us saying something that borders on homicidal. It took a lot of work to get to the point of being civil to each other. I just don’t want to ruin the paper-thin alliance we have going, okay?”
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” I say with my hands held up in surrender, but my stomach twists in an unpleasant way and I swallow audibly.
“Are you gonna—?”
I shake my head before he finishes, “I’m fine. Just a little queasy from the pills and lightheaded from not eating anything in a while.”
Jason shifts his glare to the pill bottle on the counter and groans, “You dumbass. You took painkillers on an empty stomach? That’s a new level of stupidity, even for you. Now sit, before you pass out.”
I hop up on the counter because I’m a little too dizzy to try to reach the table at this point.
Jason rifles through the cabinets muttering, “…smartest Robin my ass.”
When he finds a box of Ritz, he pulls out a sleeve of crackers and tosses them my way. The crackers bounce from my left hand to my right as I almost fumble the catch.
Jason lifts an eyebrow and I ignore how hot my face feels when I give him a quick, “I’m not well.”
He adds a smirk to his eyebrow raise. He’s about to continue teasing me, but he opens the fridge and cuts himself off with a whistle.
“Well, well well. It’s a miracle. You actually have food in here. You never have food in your fridge. This whole room’s so empty and pristine I was starting to think that your kitchen was just a glorified IKEA floor model.”
I quickly defend myself, “I went food shopping with Alfred the other day. And when was the last time you were at an IKEA?”
I tried to put as much fire behind that as I could, but my voice is too shaky for my words to have any heat behind them. I breathe slowly through my nose, so I don’t puke up the few cracker crumbs I managed to get down.
“I was there last week,” Jason says over the clattering of pots and pans. “I needed a new minifridge for the breakroom.”
“You have a minifridge in your villain hideout?”
“Anti-hero hideout,” he corrects me, pointing a slotted spoon in my direction. He has a knife in the other hand, but I think he’s planning to use that for dicing onions.
I white-knuckle grip the edge of the counter as I take a tentative breath.
“Jay… I’m gonna throw up.”
“No you’re not. Mind over matter, Timmy. Positive affirmations and all that shit.”
I can feel my arms trembling.
“I don’t think my ribs can handle throwing up.” My deep breaths are becoming increasingly more and more shallow.
Jason takes a break from preparing whatever elaborate meal he’s making to walk over to me. The metal slotted spoon falls to the floor and when it hits the wood my brain pulls back the one memory that I’ve tried so hard to repress. The nostalgia slams into me with so much force that everything around me stops. It’s almost like I’m there again…
I’m helping Alfred set the table at Wayne Manor. It’s one of the few times that my Drake family agreed to share a meal with my Wayne family and I’m nervous as hell.
The silverware’s clanging loudly in my trembling hands. Alfred puts a settling hand on my mine.
“Everything will be alright my, dear boy,” he says, “There is no need to be nervous.”
“Damn straight,” Jason says from across the room, “If your parents say anything even mildly questionable, I’ll kick both of their asses.”
“Jason,” Bruce sighs, “As much as I appreciate that you’re willing to defend Tim, I can’t condone violence toward guests.”
“Fine. The Drakes live next door. I’ll go to their house for the beat down.”
“Not quite what I meant,” Bruce says with a laugh.
Alfred and I finish setting the table and my parents arrive two hours late. Mainly because they’re terrible people.
The first half of dinner goes well, with Bruce leading the conversation with light small talk. He even has my mother and father laughing at a certain point, so I can relax my shoulders away from my ears just a tad.
Then… it all goes to hell.
My father starts innocently.
“So Timothy, I was given an invitation to Michael Rodderfield’s wedding. He was one of your classmates at the academy, correct?”
I nod.
“Use your words, Timothy,” my mother says with a glare.
“Yes,” I say too quickly causing my voice to crack. She really knows how to make me feel like I’m eight-years-old all over again.
Dick tries to redirect away from the secondhand embarrassment in the room, “Isn’t Michael Rodderfield the trust fund brat with the yacht that says YOLO on the side?”
“Oh, that tool?” Jason adds. “He got drunk at one of Bruce’s black-tie dinners and tried to fight a swan ice sculpture. Who would want to marry that entitled piece of shi—?”
My father clears his throat.
“The Rodderfield’s are the third wealthiest family in New Jersey. They are right behind the Wayne family and my family, the Drakes.”
“Yeah, until Mikey boy snorts the family fortune up his nose,” Jason says with a smirk.
“That may be true,” my father says turning his attention to me, “But his wedding is still an event that is mandatory for everyone in our social circles. That means that I expect you to accompany us there, Timothy. And it goes without saying that you will not bring a plus one.”
My heart starts to pound. My father found out that I was bisexual two weeks ago. He was enraged, but I was certain he wasn’t going to tell anyone. He didn’t even want to believe it himself, so the thought never crossed my mind that he’d say anything before I’m comfortable enough to tell Mom and the Wayne family. To be honest, I low-key think he hopes I settle on marrying a girl and he never has to admit that I’m anything other than straight to his social circles.
I’m trying not to have a heart attack right at the table, but father continues to tighten the anxious strings around my throat, cutting off my air supply slowly.
“Timothy, are you dating anyone in particular?” he asks.
My voice cracks on every word, “I’m busy with work.”
“Oh, come now, Timothy. That’s not the real reason, is it?”
“Please Dad… don’t,” I whimper, biting my lip.
“There’s no reason to be shy, my boy. If I have to be privy of your vulgar activities, then so should the rest of the people at the table.”
No no no. Not like this. I don’t want to tell everyone like this. I can’t come out like this.
My eyes are filled with so many tears my vision blurs. The blurry distortion makes my father look more like a monster than a man.
“Timothy has an announcement to make,” my father says with so much contempt that I’m surprised it isn’t accompanied with a slap.
My mother claps her hands happily, “What is it darling?”
Way to read the room, Mom. What part of my tearful ‘please Dad don’t’ makes her think I have a positive announcement to make?
There’s a tiny part of me that thinks my dad is too ashamed to say the words ‘my son is a bisexual man.’ And if he can’t say it, I can pretend that I’m crying about something different. He said ‘vulgar activities’ so maybe I can say that I cheated on a girlfriend. That’s kind of vulgar, right? I’ve never cheated, and I never will, but maybe I can get everyone to believe it. Maybe I’ll say I was drunk. Or maybe Dad opened the door on me with two girls at the same time. That’s even more unbelievable, but maybe I can make that work. And it’s something I would cry about because it’s pretty embarrassing.
My father’s voice cuts through the room, “Two weeks ago I found out a secret that Timothy has been hiding from me.”
I can hear Dick mutter a soft ‘shit’ under his breath.
No. It’s not that secret, Dick.
“Please Dad,” I beg him, “I don’t want to do this like this.”
Dad raises an eyebrow, “You’d rather throw a parade?”
My breath hitches. He’s hinting too hard. The Waynes are all detectives. They’re gonna guess.
“It’s going to come out soon,” he scowls. The way he hits the words ‘come out’ makes my whole-body tremble. He’s gonna say it. He’s gonna say it.
Bruce is sitting near me, but his voice sounds far away. Everything feels so distant—like I’m floating.
“What secret is going to come out?” Bruce asks.
I whimper, “Dad please. Please!”
He answers with a smirk, followed by, “That Timothy likes to fuck other boys. My son, the worthless little disappoint that he is, he’s a fucking fa—
Jason’s hands are around my father’s throat before he can finish that particular slur. Jason’s borderline growling at my father, “All I needed was a reason, and you just gave me one you fucking abusive piece of shit!”
Dick yells, “Not like this, Jason!”
Jason lets go, and my dad spits in his face.
Dick runs to grab Jason, but it’s Bruce that wraps his arms around Jason, holding him back. He’s the only one strong enough to.
“You need to leave my house. Now,” Bruce growls, teetering on the dark tones of the voice he only uses when he’s Batman.
My mother stutters, “It—It’s not true. Is it, Timothy?”
My father rubs his neck, “I’m afraid it’s true, Janet. I caught him in his room with his hand down his pants. He was looking at his laptop with two men naked. Timothy was fornicating while watching the screen.”
None of that’s true, but I’m wheezing too hard to speak.
“Tim?” Dick’s using the calming Nightwing voice. “You gotta breathe. You’re having a panic attack. Focus on my voice, Timmy. You’re in the dining room at Wayne Manor. You’re safe.”
Dick continues to coach me, but the weight against my chest is getting heavier. The breaths are getting shallower.
I was supposed to tell them one at a time.
It was supposed to be my choice, on my terms.
And if Batman tried to take the Red Robin suit away from me because Robin can’t be gay, then I was going to talk to him. Just the two of us. I had logical arguments prepared. I had pages of literature for him to review if he wanted. I had PowerPoint slides. It was never supposed to go like this. I prepared too much for it to go like this!
I don’t think I blacked out, because it never went black, but Dick’s voice comes back midsentence.
“—sn’t matter. I’m so sorry it happened this way, but we’re all here to support you.”
Jason kneels down in my field of vision. “You okay?” he asks.
“I—,” my voice is shredded, “—I wasn’t watching gay porn.”
Jason nods, and I continue.
“But I am gay. Bisexual, actually.”
I follow my forced coming out, by throwing up in Dick’s lap.
The jolt back to the present is enough to physically push me back, but in the present, Jason is holding onto my shoulders instead of Dick.
Unfortunately, Jason’s lap has the same damage that Dick’s did.
Vomiting with a bunch of cracked ribs should be unbelievably painful, but all I feel is numb. I can see my hands shaking, but I don’t feel it.
Jason puts a hand under my chin to make me meet his eyes, but when I do, a wave of further panic crashes into me. Jason’s mouth is moving, but I can’t hear the words. I can’t hear anything at all.
I try to scream, but I can’t hear that either. Jason must have though, because his eyebrow’s draw together like I just punched him in the stomach.
He takes a deep breath in. He exaggerates the lift of his shoulders and the drawing in of the breath as I mimic it. He breathes out just as exaggerated and I follow along.
We follow this silent rhythm until my breathing can do it automatically. Once I’ve gotten enough oxygen, my ears open with a loud pop and I wince.
The first words I hear are Jason’s panicked, “Can you hear me?”
I nod, as the dull ache of my ribs starts to greet me again.
“Where the hell were you?” Jason asks. “You zoned out and then stop breathing. You almost gave me a fucking heart attack!”
“I think…” my voice sounds grainier than Batman, “… I think I had a panic attack. Sorry for throwing up on you.”
Jason winces, “You don’t have to apologize for that. But for someone that didn’t eat much today, you certainly found a whole lot to puke up.”
“The… the dinner that Jack told everyone that I’m bi. That’s where I was. It’s a place I never wanted to visit again.”
Jason narrows his eyes, “Repressed memories suck. Take it from me. The more you try to shove that shit down, the more it tries to pop back up again.”
Jason’s cargo pants got all of the damage, so he slides them off and leads me to a kitchen chair. Any sweatpants that I have are way too small, so he opts to finish cooking in his shirt, boxers, and an apron that Alfred gave me as a housewarming gift.
He gives me the side eye as he whips the egg yolks in the pan, “Don’t go nonverbal on me. This breakfast comes with a side of banter, and it takes two to banter. Wait a sec,” he lifts the pan to look under it, “Does this pan still have the price tag on it? Kitchen utensils aren’t props, Timothy.”
I flinch when he says my full name out of old habit, even though I know that the scolding is part of the banter he had promised. I cover up the flinch by folding my arms over my chest.
“If a price tag on a pan makes you freak out, you’ll really lose it when I tell you I’ve never read any of the books in my bookcase.”
“Why does it not surprise me that your copy of War and Peace is used for household aesthetics only.” His egg whipping has become more aggressive.
“I needed a red book because there were too may blue books in a row.”
“What the fuck, Tim? I’ve put dudes in jail for less.”
I lean my head on the table and let my arms act as a pillow.
“Whatever,” he concedes, “I gotta get back to work anyway.”
He heads back to the stove, and it takes my medicated brain a second to realize that work means back to cooking, and not hunting down drug lords in Crime Alley.
Before I can stop myself, the words slip out of my mouth.
“Can you stay the night?”
Jason doesn’t turn away from the sizzling pan, but I can tell he’s smiling.
“Sure thing my little coffee bean.”
“Speaking of coffee—”
“Not a chance, Tim Bean.”