Archive of Our Own

There's a strange taste filling Tim's mouth. He swallows once. He swallows twice. The taste persists. His hand moves around, the tiniest bit, and then his head is killing him. Is his brain exploding? Is he dying? Where in the hell is he? The taste worsens as he wakes up more and more. Visuals and flashing images invade his sleepy brain. His breath hitches. Lightly. Covertly. 

Tim hopes everything was a dream.

Can it? Can last night be a dream?

But the taste in his mouth... Vodka and vomit. 

Shit. Shit. 

He stiffens. Someone is sleeping beside him. There's still the hopeful possibility that everything was indeed a dream - that Bruce never picked him up from the party, that he's now in Ber's bed; unbothered, innocent, neat.

But the taste in his mouth, the splitting headache, the green Merry Christmas shirt he's wearing that he definitely didn't put on last night, his room's ceiling covered in Oasis posters... Tim is a detective. Tim is stoic. It all indicates that he fucked up last night. He doesn't even want to move. Whoever's beside him can't be Bernard or a close friend.

Whoever's beside him must be... 

Shit.

Fuck.

Bruce picked him up from the party. It wasn't...It wasn't even...Not like that. It was a reunion, a birthday. Tim had a good time. A great time, honestly. He'd gone to, like, full Project X parties. This one wasn't like that at all and still.

He clearly fucked up. 

Shit. He threw up in Dick's car. He threw up all over the dash. Tim threw up all over his own clothes and shoes, actually, if his memory isn't messing up with him. He wishes it was messing up with him. He wishes it was all some stupid dream. Tim even wishes he was fear-gassed last night so everything that happened didn't really happen. 

Tim opens his eyes once again, barely, controlling his breathing as if his life depends on it because maybe it does, maybe his life depends on it because whoever's beside him won't receive him with a good morning hug. He can't stop lying to himself, he knows who it is. The rhythmic breathing, the weight in the bed, the shadow of him... Tim winces. If he's here, sleeping beside him, that means he took care of him and his biologically compromised state last night. That means Tim was a completely wasted, messed-up idiot last night.

Stop. He needs to stop thinking for a second. His head is killing him. Just a second... Can a hangover kill you? Hangover... The word tastes so wrong. So fucking bad. Literally and figuratively. 

He stops moving because Bruce, his mentor, his adoptive father, and his honest-to-God moral compass, moves slightly in his dreams. Tim is suddenly frozen. He is now some stupid popsicle. He is no longer a human being. Tim is just an idiotic, hangover popsicle. 

And this idiotic popsicle desperately needs to go to the bathroom. But he can't. He won't. He doesn't even dares to blink. Bruce Wayne is going to kill him if he notices his blinking. Scratch that; Bruce Wayne is going to kill him the moment he shows off signs of being awake. Tim can't wake up. Not now. (Not ever! His brain screams.) He needs to think. He needs to regroup. Robin can't reach a conclusion without leads and tangible evidence. Remember, remember. 

How many drinks of vodka did he have? God. Tim drank vodka like it was water. Fucking, stupid, tasty vodka. He can't pretend anymore - perhaps the first bottle wasn't tamarind flavored, but he still drank it as if it was the end of the world. Hell, maybe it fucking was, for all he knows.

Tim really enjoys vodka, but it wasn't a Fun Fact About Me! that his family knew. That Bruce Wayne knew. Alfred. Oh, fuck. Now he really wants to groan, to fucking scream, to disappear off the Earth. This is so idiotic. Tim even wants Damian to show up and scream "Imbecile!" to his goddamn face. It's actually funny. This whole situation is hilarious. Tim is on the brink of an existential meltdown. Tim fucked up. He fucked up so spectacularly badly he thinks even Jason is going to give him an award.

Jason is going to look at his pale face and green Merry Christmas shirt and is going to pass him the torch as The One Who Fucked It Up The Most in the family. Is Tim implying that getting drunk is worse than killing men? Absolutely. Because it is. It is a million times worse. (Bruce would obviously disagree with that notion, the rational part of his brain supplies.) 

He just... He shouldn't wake up. And the thing is, he can do that. Tim can avoid reality as long as he pleases, right? Free will. Free will. He thought the term already. Free will.

Tim blinks. He blinks again. And again. Seems like he really slept some more. This time he looks to his right, fast and anxiously, catching a glimpse of Bruce's sleeping form. There it is. The second time that he confirms everything wasn't a dream. This time it is more devastating. It's soul-wrenching. It's stupid. Tim can't help but think about the many faces, masks, and personalities he's shown to Bruce. No matter how angry, how angsty, or how happy he's been with B, Tim had never added the "a total disappointment" term to his qualifications and adjectives repertoire. Have other people been disappointed in him? Yes, plenty of them. Has Bruce? The one man who has called him "world's greatest detective"? The infamous vigilante who has praised him, who has told him that they worked too well together? Like "some well-oiled gear"? Bruce, who has been calling him "son" for years?

Tim wants to cry. Tim doesn't want to be a total disappointment. That's Jason's thing. That's Jason's fuel, to be called that. But Tim...Tim needs acknowledgment. He needs words of affirmation from his family. Not insults. Tim doesn't power up with insults. He deflates. He wants to crawl out of his skin with them.

This is stupid. Drinking was stupid. It wasn't even his first time. Tim has been socially drinking since he was seventeen and now that he's twenty this happens to him? He threw up everywhere, for fucks sake. Bruce changed his goddamn clothes. Bruce had to take care of him all night long, judging by the chair that is beside his bed, making sure he didn't choke on his own vomit. Making sure he was fine. 

It's embarrassing. 

Then, Tim thinks of Bernard. What kind of ridiculous shit did Tim pull up last night in front of Ber and his friends? What if he threw up in the house of Bernard's friend? He can remember a siren. Did B call the cops? Why would he call the cops? What is even? 

Tim has to stop thinking or else he's going to wet his bed. The faster this gets over with, the better. He wakes up completely, and the first thing that catches his attention is a vinyl that Bruce bought him a few days ago, resting on a shelf by his wall. It's from The Cure. 

Trying not to think about anything at all, Tim sits up. The world tilts around him. 

Then, "Hey, hey, bud. You need help? Let me, let me help you. Don't stand." 

Tim doesn't listen to Bruce. He is decidedly ignoring everything, so he crawls on the bed, definitely not reeling thanks to his shaky arms, and plants his feet on the ground. He doesn't look back at Bruce and Bruce doesn't speak again. Tim tries to coordinate his feet but can't; one of his flip-flops goes flying a few inches away because he kicks it, but in the end, he successfully walks toward his bathroom.

(He nearly falls face-first into the floor.) 

He does his necessities without looking back, the awful taste in his mouth getting stronger, but Tim doesn't have the physical nor the mental energy to brush his teeth. He thinks he doesn't even deserve it. He should wallow in his own misery feeling and looking like shit.

By the time he exits his bathroom, Bruce is nowhere to be seen. There's only his rumpled bed and the empty chair beside it. Unconsciously, Tim's eyes trail back to the vinyl. Robert Smith seems to be making fun of him. 

B doesn't want to see me, Tim thinks bitterly, and like on cue, the urging to throw up invades him. He doesn't have anything else in his stomach, so he keeps retching for a few moments more, a piece of clear evidence that God doesn't exist, and then he brushes his teeth because he may be feeling like a total piece of shit but he won't go to sleep with fresh vomit in his mouth - again. 

Once clean, Tim walks toward his bed and flops down over it. He hears Bruce's faint voice coming from the hallway mentioning the words "board" and "work".

He only closes his eyes, wishing that everything was just some sick joke. 

Tim wakes up for the third time and for the third time, he doesn't want to face reality. The Manor is suspiciously quiet. He remembers that Bruce left, probably to attend a meeting at Wayne Enterprises. Then he remembers Dick, and his temporary visit, but he doesn't seem to be home either. That means the only one currently home is Alfred. 

He doesn't know if he should feel scared or relieved. 

It turns out to be the latter.

At first, Tim avoids Alfred at all costs. It's midday, he's thirsty and should definitely eat something. He tiptoes around his room, weak, nauseous, and dizzy, looking for his phone until he sees it over his desk. There's a text from Bernard. Babe are u ok?? How are you feeling? Your dad is going to kill you. 

No shit, Sherlock, Tim not-so-nicely thinks. I'm fine. Wth happened yesterday?? You okay?? Yep. B is going to kill me, he replies.

Ber responds immediately, I'm okay!!, and starts typing more. Tim locks the phone, placing it on the desk once again. He's suddenly exhausted. He doesn't want to know more. If Bernard's fine, then everything's fine. Tim can sort out his shit one step at the time - although he isn't sure that he wants to.

Before leaving his room, Tim makes sure he doesn't want to throw up again, and then he tiptoes around the Manor. Alfred's nowhere to be seen. Tim's so paranoid he even looks at the ceiling, making sure that his grandfather isn't just there, judging him with a disappointed look. Tim grabs a vase of water from the kitchen and returns to his room. He immediately regrets his decision. He should eat something or else he's going to perish.

Tim unlocks his phone, ignoring the five more messages and one voice audio from Bernard, and types in the search bar, how to survive a hangover. Then, how to cure a hangover. He scrolls through pages like WikiHow, HealthForWomen, and Reddit. The words "fruit", "water", "aspirin" and "nuts" repeat the most. He immediately heads once again to the kitchen, still feeling like shit and still scared of seeing Alfred.

Tim wishes he dared to ask Alfred for help. For a moment, he thinks about calling Jason too. Jason would know what to do. He could give him tips on how to stop feeling like a big bruise - like a swallowed and spit-back cookie, like a trampled muppet.

Hah, that was a good one.

I'm so hilarious, Tim thinks stupidly. He grabs melon from the fridge, another vase of water, and a handful of almonds. He thinks fuck it and seats down at the table. If Alfred comes by then so be it. Tim just wants to stop hurting. He wants to fast forward weeks from this nightmare. 

This experience wouldn't be so terrible if he were a normal person. If he didn't have to treat his body like a temple. If his adoptive father didn't despise alcohol and drugs since he had use of reason... If, if, if. It's not like Tim had an existential crisis every time he drank. The first time he did, but with time he learned that it was fine for him to have his own principles and convictions. 

Tim learned to build his own moral compass, one that integrated everything he knew and everything he once was taught, but also everything he thought and everything he believed in. Having fun once in a while didn't hurt anyone. One evidence of it was when Alfred made them milkshakes, even though they were supposed to have a strict diet. 

Even Batman ate cookies once in a while, why couldn't Robin have fun too? 

This is why, his own brain reproaches him. But he knows this isn't it either. He's never drunk as much as yesterday. He's never behaved as awful as yesterday. 

Tim just wants Bruce to scold him and get this over with. Maybe he'll just bench him. 

B wouldn't take Robin away from him, right?

(Tim's not so sure.)

Turns out that eating melon and drinking gallons of water makes a hangover ten times worse. (He couldn't get himself to eat the almonds. They tasted like sand.)

Tim has to end up asking Alfred for help, who is quietly gardening as if one of his grandchildren hadn't broken the most important rule of all.

"Alf?" Alfred keeps humming absentmindedly. "Alf? I feel sick."

Tim takes a few steps forwards and regrets it immediately. His stomach and head are spinning. That's when he sees that Alfred has headphones on. He's probably listening to that podcast he likes so much. 

Nausea worsens.

Tim moves his arm a bit, and then Alfred sees him, takes off his headphones, and gifts him the most gentle look ever. "Oh my, Master Timothy! You are awake."

"I think I'm gonna - I want to puke," Tim mutters in defeat.

"Don't," Alfred takes off his gardening gloves, hovering over him. "Have you eaten?"

Tim knows that he doesn't deserve kindness (he puked all over Dick's car!) but he welcomes the affection and preoccupation like a warm blanket. "Fruit, water," he mumbles. "I don't - I'm gonna puke, Alf." He feels like crying. "I need aspiring or some-something."

Alfred nods resolutely, still looking like he wants to reach for Tim to help him stand. "I assure you that everything will be fine, Master Timothy and that you will take medication. But first, you need to eat. If you need to vomit, and you think that that might help, you shall do so."

He doesn't think twice before turning to run to the bathroom. Tim doesn't even know how he manages to run, but getting rid of the fruit and water lurking around his stomach feels fucking good.

Ten minutes later, with once-again freshly clean teeth, Alfred sits next to him by the kitchen island, seeing him eat strawberry yogurt now and then while he reads the paper. The yogurt. It tastes so good. It's cold and feels like heaven inside Tim's throat.

Alfred keeps him company as if he deserves it. Tim swallows the strawberry-flavored guilt. 

The thing is, Tim's been told that alcohol is bad his whole life.

His late mom told him. His late dad told him. Alfred told him. Dick told him. Bruce tells him.

And he could call them hypocrites, but he genuinely can't. His parents never drank, except on that few occasions that don't count, not really, 'cause they were only sips. Tim knows that Alfred used to drink Fernet-Branca when he was much younger, except nowadays the only thing that he drinks is Earl Grey, so Tim doesn't really have a complaint to make. He knows that Dick drinks. Tim has seen the beers inside his fridge back in 'Haven, but not that constantly, and definitely not lately. Maybe the last time he saw them was two years ago. Dick has also told him all about his life adventures, and he's never mentioned the word "hangover". Ever.

And Bruce? Bruce has been Batman since he was twenty-six. Before that he spent his whole time traveling, learning, and educating himself in the finest forms of martial arts. Bruce has been training to be a fighter since he was eighteen. And before that? Well, according to Alf, Batman was an emo, weird kid at best. But not a drinker; never been a drinker. Hell, at galas and auctions B drinks ginger ale or some manipulated form of champagne that is more of a "hundred percent water and zero percent champagne".

Because Bruce is Batman. Because he has promised to be and do his best. Because he made an oath and actually respected it.

Tim broke that oath completely. He picked up the script and tore it off without empathy, without reason.

He keeps wallowing in his misery. He keeps the burden at bay because he deserves it. What if Robin had been needed last night? What if Bernard had been in danger? What if someone had attacked them suddenly while Tim was too happily drunk off his ass?

"Your dad came to pick you up and asked me if you had drunk. I said yes, babe - I just...couldn't lie, given the state we were in. Ari and Lee helped me to get you a bit sober but...y'know. Then you two left. Mr. Wayne came back a few minutes later 'cause you forgot your phone and I forgot I had it in my jeans. He seemed to take that as an opportunity to ask me more about the party. He asked if we forced you to drink, or if we recorded you, and what kinds of things had you said while drunk. I assured him that I kept you company every single second of the night, that you were in a safe space, and that no, you hadn't said or done anything too stupid or that we all didn't say and do too. I told him that it'd been your choice...but maybe I should've stopped you, Tim. I'm sorry. You didn't puke until you got home, I gue-"

Tim pauses the audio.

He sighs.

Bernard is holding his arm. "Tim, babe, please drink. You're too gone. Drink this."

"Nah," he says. He doesn't recognize his voice. Is he sitting on a bench? Where's?

Where's...?

"Water will do you good, bro," someone beside him adds.

Tim blinks.

Someone is helping him walk. A door is opened.

"Is he...? Did you all drink?" Tim hears Bruce ask. He stiffens. The party's off already? 

Bernard laughs. He sounds so far away. Or maybe Tim's far away? Where's far away, anyway? He giggles.

"Just a little bit, Mr. Wayne, Sir."

Bruce replies with something that Tim's brain doesn't catch.

Why is his dad here?

"Juss a lito bit." Was that his voice? It probably was.

The next time Tim blinks, Bruce is talking endlessly beside him. Tim can see the road. They're moving. Bruce is driving.

How...?

"-to tell me if you said anything, anything at all that could be incriminating. Please, son. Tim. Tim? Are you listening to me? You need me to stop? Tim?"

And the next time Tim opens his eyes, he's puking endlessly. Tim is dying. Is he dying? He gurgles.

No, he giggles. No, he's dying. 

His clothes.

They're so damp. Oh, fuck, is he still puking?

"I told him. I told him! Look at him, Dick. I can't believe this!"

Bruce is angry.

Bruce is angry and Tim's favorite shirt, the one with "THE CLASH" written all across his chest, is now stuck on his skin. His shoes look...

Vomit.

Bruce is carrying him by his left arm... No, by his right. No - Tim doesn't know. But they're carrying him. Is Dick home already? Why? When? What?

"You threw up all over yourself, young man--"

Who?

"Dick's car--!"

Who said that?

"B?"

Next thing he knows, everything is pitch black.

The moment Alfred informs him that Dick's car is passing the entrance gate, Tim flees to his room.

He's fucking embarrassed.

He decides to sleep for the rest of the afternoon when the nausea returns. Tim doesn't want to throw up ever again.

There's a knock on his door.

"Tim?"

Someone is opening the said door.

"Ngh," he plants his head over the pillow.

"How are you feeling, hm?" It's Bruce. "I've got you some electrolytes. You need them. Can you sit up?"

Tim groans. 

He just wants to sleep forever.

"Sit up. Just for a bit."

He doesn't realize he's sat until Bruce is opening the purple bottle that looks exactly like what Tim needs and grabs him by the arm.

"There you go," B mumbles, and then Tim is drinking as if his life depends on it. (Maybe it does. Tim doesn't know. He's too tired to know.) "You can go back to sleep now. I'll wake you up in time for dinner."

"'Kay," Tim replies weakly.

He goes back to sleep just as fast.

It's not even 6 PM when the four of them are gathered in the dining room. 

Bruce bought him food. Ramen. Tim loves ramen.

(Bruce bought him food after he puked on Dick's car.)

"It will make you feel much better, Master Timothy," Alfred says the moment Tim sits down, still torpid, still stupid.

He doesn't reply. He doesn't even look at Bruce's or Dick's eyes. He can feel Dick searching for his gaze but Tim doesn't indulge.

The only sound is the clattering of the dishes, and Tim can't take this anymore. When are they going to reprimand him? Surely by now, Bruce has gotten his speech and angry faces ready.

From his side, Tim sees and hears Dick exhale, and from his other side, Bruce cracks his neck. Here it comes. The Speech. The fucking embarrassment. The owning of one's mistakes. Cool. Everything's cool. Tim can take the scold. It's fine. It's not the first time someone drinks too much, right? He's a young adult. It's fine. Tim is desperately trying to convince himself to calm down and somehow it is working. 

But nothing happens.

Nothing happens at all. Actually, by the time Tim finishes his dish and Alfred hands him another one of those blessed purple drinks, he flees from the table and locks himself in his room. Robin can't take a scold, it seems. Wait. He shouldn't lock himself. That would make B think that he's avoiding the consequences of his actions. And yes, he is avoiding them, but in an undercover kind of way, okay? 

Tim leaves the door of his room open, turns on his TV, puts on Knives Out, and pretends that it is just another Tuesday. Another normal Tuesday for Tim Drake. For Robin. For the-not-Teen Wonder.

His phone dings. When did he turn off "do not disturb"?

It's a text from Jason. What happened, Mr. Barfy? U alright? Tim rolls his eyes. I got drunk last night. Jason immediately answers, Full blackout, huh? Big Bird told me. Then why's he asking?! Then why r you asking, idiot, Tim sends. Wanna make fun of u. Saw the vomited car, yk. Dick send me a pic. U rlly making our old man proud. Cheers! 

Tim doesn't reply and another text arrives, It was about damn time you lived life. Apparently, the lack of reply on his part prompts Jason to call him. 

"What?" Tim answers after ten seconds.

"Haha." There's a bit of interference. Tim wonders where his brother is. "How's the hangover?"

"It's better, actually. Thank you for your concern."

Jason clicks his tongue in approval. "Well, well. When I go back to the States we'll throw the insanest party of Gotham."

Tim chuckles. He hates Jason. Tim misses him. "Insanest? Is that even the correct term?"

"Creativity is the toughest men's weapon, Timmy."

"Where are you, anyway?" Tim asks him instead, closing his eyes. A soft lingering headache wants to crawl back into his brain. He won't let it.

"Classified," Jay replies. "For real though, are you alright?"

Is he alright?

"I will be," Tim sighs. "B hasn't said anything yet."

"You didn't do anything bad. You know that, right?"

"That's...not comforting at all, coming from you," Tim winces. "No offense."

"Little shit," Jason huffs. "Listen to the guy that kills men on a daily: You're just a kid. It's fine to have fun sometimes."

"Is it secure for you to admit that over a phone call?" Then he mumbles, "I ruined my favorite t-shirt."

"Buy another one, dumbass. You are allowed to make mistakes. We're not Dick, remember?"

At that, Tim laughs. "Dick's not the perfect child either..."

"You get what I'm saying," Jason insists. "Besides, everyone's entitled to have their own experiences. Batman can't take that away from you. And if he does, tell me. I'll kick his ass."

"I dunno..."

"Timmy," Jason says, "You're the most random, bullshitting kid I've ever met. I knew this would happen - shit, B knew this would happen. You're a bird, man. You fly. That's it. Nothing wrong with that."

"But I threw up all over Dick's car."

"He'll get over it."

Tim only sighs.

"I don't know how you're all broody and not laughing about this. It's fucking hilarious. I already texted Cass."

Oh, fuck. "Jason!"

"What?" His brother is full-on laughing. "At least I didn't tell Damian... I'm not sure he'd give a fuck though."

"He wouldn't," Tim mumbles.

There's a pause on the line before Jason says, "You need anything, you call me. Understood?"

Tim, stupidly, nods. "Yeah, yes."

"Cheer up, kid. I love ya."

The line disconnects before Tim can reply. He keeps looking at his phone until the screensaver comes on, and then there's only him and his reflection. Even in the black of the screen, Tim looks like shit. Could Jason be right? Tim knows he's right. He's entitled to his own experiences. He's twenty. He isn't perfect - he's far from perfect and Bruce knows that. Bruce has to know that. Still...

Tim turns on his phone again, finally replying to Bernard's messages and audio. He'd forgotten before. Ber immediately replies with a picture from last night, and that's what finally makes him smile because in the photo there's him, squatting with the biggest smile he's ever shown, doing the peace sign beside Bernard and some more friends.

That's the thing that finally unveils his joyous heart. The thing that makes Tim remember all the laughter and jokes, the dance moves, and the singing out of tune. He had a great night. He...He would do it again without thinking twice, just...with more restrictions. With more empathy and rationality.

Tim knows that it was dangerous. He could've poisoned himself. He could've said something that compromised the whole crusade. Something that compromised his family's safety. The absolute conviction that takes over his heart almost makes him gasp because he knows he'll be more careful next time. 

To be honest, Tim doesn't know if he wants there to be a next time. 

"Are you going to tell me what happened yet?" 

He jumps in his place. Tim's heart starts hammering the moment he raises his gaze, meeting Bruce's dark semblance. He takes a moment to leave aside his phone and pause the movie. It's already halfway through. 

Tim doesn't know how to reply. 

"Tim..." Bruce exhales. "Have you got any idea how worried I was last night?" He knows B isn't really asking. "I called you at least fifteen times and you never picked up. I sent messages too, and it wasn't until I was on my way that you poorly answered. I thought you were in danger, Tim."

The words clash over him like a bucket of cold water, washing away all the happy and bubbly feelings he'd felt before. 

"You know this isn't...You know this isn't me trying to ruin your life," Bruce's eyes don't move from his. "I want you to be happy. I really do. It is one of the only goals that matter to me, that concerns me. But I don't think you took a wise decision last night. Did they force you? Did you think it would make you look fancier? Cooler?" 

Tim feels a smile forming on his lips. It's not an actual smile, it's just his anxiety making an appearance. He knows that Bruce knows how much he smiles when he's nervous as fuck. 

"No one forced me," he says stiffly, trying to stop smiling. 

Bruce raises his eyebrows, disappointment seeping from his face. "You're telling me it was all you, then?" 

What does he want him to say? 

"I..." Tim shrugs, "What do you want me to say? It was - I just did what I did. I thought I was fine. I was fine until I lost track of time. I don't--" 

"So you've drank before?" 

B waits patiently for his answer. Tim panics.

"No. Of course not."

Shit.

The seconds pass by slower than a snail. Tim knows that Bruce is analyzing him, looking for contradictions. When he changes his posture, Tim feels relieved. That means he didn't find any lies. 

"You can't drink that much and expect to be fine afterward. Your friends can do that because they've probably been drinking for years. But you?" Bruce shakes his head. "You were sick, Tim. You were throwing up so much that I froze. I didn't know what to do. And I'm Batman. I... I never expected this from you, son. It truly is one of the worst nightmares I've ever lived." 

Tim hangs his head. He feels his face getting hot. 

"What do you want me to say?" He mumbles again and lifts his head. "I'm sorry. It won't happen ever again, B. For real. I'm so sorry." 

"Bud, I don't even know how to..." Bruce sighs. "Can I sit?" 

Tim nods. He feels drained once again. 

"It would be exhausting for you to hear again how much I don't approve of any substance use. And I have - I've tried to warn you about it. Everyone in this home has." Tim nods. "But we can't really control the things you enjoy and the things you don't. And I don't intend to push my own agenda over yours, son. But I... You got to understand that I worry. And that worry increases every day that passes." 

"I won't drink again," Tim replies softly - and he means it. He won't. Shit, he doesn't want to if this is what happens after. 

"No, Tim," Bruce grimaces, "I don't want you to make compromises out of guilt and regret. I just need you to understand that our lives are different. I don't want to make my worries yours too. I don't want you to follow only my principles or my ways in life. I only need you to tell me that you'll be more careful next time. That you will let me know."

He feels so stupid. "I will, B."

"I know it is a lot - for me to ask for a notice every time you want to unwind. But for now, you're my responsibility, Tim. And this responsibility won't end as long as you are my Robin." Bruce smiles sadly. "As long as you are a vigilante, I simply cannot let you get away with this kind of behavior. Our lives are different. We answer people's needs. We need our heads clear. Impairment of judgment is all it takes--" 

"--for us to make a fatal, irrevocable mistake," Tim finishes his sentence. 

Bruce nods. "Exactly. I know how intelligent you are. You know everything I said and what I'm about to say," he pauses. "That is also one of the reasons this was especially hard for me. I have this image of you formed inside my head. You're Tim. You're my son. You're clever and wiser than you should be. It makes me forget how young you actually are. The expectations I've put upon your shoulders... They aren't fair. They aren't real."

Tim snorts bitterly, "So I'm not the perfect Robin, huh?" 

"No, you aren't," Bruce places a hand over his shoulder. "You are a human being. You are allowed to have multiple facets. To make mistakes and account for them. It's just... It's just natural that I forget that because you're my son, Tim, and in my eyes, you'll always be that. Perfect. Solely because of that."

Fuck. He's nearly crying. He doesn't think twice before hugging Bruce. "I made a mistake."

"It's alright, chum," B murmurs over his head. "We're alright." 

"Sorry," Tim cries. 

Bruce hugs him more crushingly. 

"I'm sorry, B. I'm truly sorry." 

His dad continues holding him until he calms down. Tim lets out a trembling exhale. 

"You'll take a vacation to recover properly."

Benched.

"Okay," Tim nods, rubbing his eyes. "We're fine?" 

"We're fine," B nods resolutely.

There's a beat of silence. Tim feels much more at ease. 

"There are another two things," Bruce frowns in thought. "Were you truly safe? With them?" 

It takes a moment for Tim to register the question until it clicks. "Yeah. Yes," he clears his throat. "I wouldn't have done it if I didn't feel comfortable." 

"Good." 

He tilts his head. "What's the other thing?" 

B frowns again. "Is there any...particular reason why you drank that much? Or was it simply an honest mistake?" 

Tim blinks. A particular reason or an honest mistake? Reason or mistake? His brain stops working. It reboots. It's Tuesday. It's January. He's been feeling down since Christmas. He's had a few bumps in his relationship with Bernard since New Year's. 

Particular reason or an honest mistake?

He opens his mouth to talk, but nothing comes out. 

Bruce's blue eyes turn softer in understanding. "You are not alone, son. Never. No matter how distant I seem. No matter how far away your siblings are or how busy Alfred is. We're not. We are right beside you, understood?" 

Dazedly, Tim nods. Huh. A particular reason. He didn't even realize... 

Without thinking much about it, Tim hugs Bruce again. 

It takes two days for him to acknowledge his oldest brother's presence. Tim's still pretty embarrassed, just not in an engulfing kind of way.

"Hey," he greets Dick when the latter arrives in the living room.

"Hey to you," his brother beams at him, as if Tim hadn't ruined his car's carpet, and flops down on the couch beside him. "What are we watching?" 

"Parks and Rec," Tim replies. God, he loves his brother. "Want some?" 

Dick looks at the bowl full of M&M's offered before grabbing a handful and eating them all at once. Tim laughs out loud, his eyes crinkling. He decides to let the time go by. They watch three episodes between laughs and smiles - and thrown M&M's - until Tim pauses the screen before it starts playing the next episode. 

"I, uh, wanted to apologize," he starts, "For ruining your car." 

Dick immediately turns to look at him, attentive and receptive. Dick knows him too well. It's his brother. His safety net. His lifeline. 

Tim gulps down the shame. "I'm sorry, Dick. I want you to know that it won't happen ever again." 

Dick smiles gently at him, ruffling his hair. "Apology accepted, Timmy. You owe me a favor, though."

"Of course," Tim agrees rapidly. 

"It's not bad to have fun," his brother adds. "But there's also fun in restrictions, okay? In moderation." 

"Yeah, totally. I get it." 

"Okay," Dick grins once again. "Now show me the pics! The videos! I want to know that side of you too, y'know. You're my li'l brother."

Tim rolls his eyes with a funny smile planted all over his face. "Nah. I don't think I will."