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Tim Drake doesn’t want to go home for the holidays. This time of the year, right before the big holiday break starts is torture for him, more torturous than any other part of the year. He can put up with 24/7, 7 days a week school. He can! Sure it makes his ears bleed, and he’s half certain that all of his brain cells have died, but going home for the holidays is hell on earth, and letting him go home should be a punishable offense.
Don’t get him wrong. He hates school. More so than maybe anyone else at the stuffy boarding school he’s been going too since he was a young kid. The teachers don’t really do shit to watch over them, which makes it all too easy to sneak off of campus and into the small town situated by the large sprawling rich kid palace. Normally, the locals know to report kids who are ditching class, however Tim hasn’t learned nothing from his mother. There’s always a reason to be making connections. He’s lovable, the locals adore him, they’d never report him.
He hates school. He hates learning. Whenever he does show up to class, either because he got caught (a rare situation) or his attendance proportions were slipping just far enough to almost warrant a call to his parents, it’s boring. Things are just… easy for him. It’s not that he already knows everything they’re teaching, he’s not that pompous. The problem is that he picks things up quickly. What it takes a month to teach Tim’s already got it down by day 2.
School is boring, and learning is boring. But it’s all so so much better than home. Of course, Tim, like the rest of his classmates, stands out in the blistering cold – wind biting his nose – as he waits for his parents to pick him up. His peers all talk about what their family is going to do, the vacations they’re going to go on, winter houses in the alps, the whole nine yards. They talk about what they want to get for Christmas, or Hanukkah, or whatever – Tim’s not really paying attention.
His eyes are trained on the incoming cars, anxiety drumming under his skin. He bounces on the balls of his feet to try to dissipate that nervous energy that infects him from his mind to his soul. He knows what the car ride back to Bristol is going to be like. He knows the script and what to say and how to say it. It’s the exact same thing every year. It’s never different. Yet, yet he can’t help being nervous.
There are eyes boring into his back. He stills his restless body, knowing exactly which adult is looking at him with a glare of daggers. God damnit. He grits his teeth together as he takes a deep breath. He can hear her voice in the back of his head, ‘Proper young boys don’t do this, Timothy. Proper young boys don’t do that, Timothy’. He squeezes his eyes shut, hugging himself.
His options for where he lives at any given point in time are both really bad options. On the one hand you have school. On the other you have home. And he hates both options. Don’t get him wrong, his home life is… fine. With a few caveats. But– maybe he’ll just let the day run its course. Maybe that’s enough of a show to entertain the masses.
The Drakes roll up to parent pick up in a car that’s too shiny. It’s brand new, Tim didn’t bother to learn the make or model, and he doesn’t care to learn the make and model. It’s some sort of latest sports car, whatever they could use to flaunt their wealth. His mother is talking animatedly from the passenger side of the car, his father is rolling his eyes, glaring daggers at the car in front of them.
He comes to a stop right in front of Tim, parking the car. His parents don’t leave the car. They sit there, looking at him expectedly. It’s a familiar dance, one that Tim hates with everything in his body. He opens the door and submits himself to his fate.
There’s little fanfare until his parents, his mother, decides to make idle small talk. Tim hates idle small talk. There’s no depth, they ask him the same questions, he gives the same answers. Nothing ever changes. He leans his head against the cool class of the window, closing his eyes and regulating his breathing.
“How are your grades? You know we haven’t gotten your progress report in the mail yet,” his mother says with all her usual charm. She’s looking at him through the rearview mirror, she always does. He refuses to make eye contact, instead opting to stare at the blurring trees that pass them.
His dad clears his throat, “We haven’t gotten it because we just got home.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Another deep breath. The panic starts to settle in his chest, making his throat tight. “They’re fine.”
His mother clicks her teeth, shaking her head. He can see her shake her head out of his peripheral, he tries so hard not to pay attention. He grips his hands into fists, there’s no point in hoping the inevitable doesn’t happen. “Don't mumble,” she chastises.
“I said they’re fine!” He repeats louder this time, not too loud. If he’s too loud she’ll think he’s trying to pick a fight, when really that’s the one thing he’s trying to avoid.
“Just fine?” The accusation lay thick in her voice. If he’s not perfect it doesn’t matter. He needs a 4.0 to get into the best colleges, and good extracurriculars, and this and that, and it’s all just a bunch of shit he doesn’t care about. He’s 10 .
Tim sighs, “Straight A's don't worry.”
“Don't lie to me.” Her voice is getting snappish, she’s losing her patience and Tim is losing his. His dad, like always, keeps his eyes on the road and his voice quiet. He doesn’t talk to Tim’s mother when she’s like this, when she’s tired from a flight and getting exasperated with Tim’s mere existence.
His dad is a coward, he only ever adds fuel to the fire – entirely complacent in everything Tim’s mother does. It’s not fair, and though Tim is well aware by now that life will never be fair (sarcasm, pain, so much pain, tears falling – he’s sobbing on the ground, still he remains defiant), he can’t help but feel as if his dad is condemning Tim for the sin of being alive. He takes a deep breath.
Sometimes Tim wishes he would speak up. But no, it’s up to Tim to calm down his mother. But he’s tired too, he’s tired and tears threaten to wet his eyes. He can’t let the fall or else his mother would get even more mad. It’s an endless cycle. They do this every holiday break, and yet it never gets easier. Tim would punch the back of his fathers seat if he could, but he ca’t. And he hates that.
Instead he says, “I'm not lying.” Which is the worse option. He should know better than that. He should know better than
"Don't give me lip, I'm still your mother."
He could give her more attitude, and most of the time he’s half tempted too. But there’s a storm brewing, he can feel the tension in the air and it haunts him something fierce. "Sorry."
"For?" The prompting reminds him of his homeroom teacher and he winces, licking over his teeth at the sharp memory.
"Sorry for giving you an attitude.”
"Was that so hard?” Yes. Talking to his mother when she’s tired and cranky will always be the hardest thing he does. It never gets easier. Each conversation is like a mindfield. He has crescent shaped scars on his palms from how often he balls his fists. He smiles and shakes his head though. “Now. How are your friends?"
"Don't got any.”
When will this conversation be over?
"I'm sorry?"
She’s not.
"I don't have any friends,” Tim says through gritted teeth. And it’s not for a lack of trying, actually it is.
Tim just doesn’t like the other people at his school. He doesn’t like how they act, like they’re better than the rest of the world for being kids at a private school. He doesn’t like how they sneer at the townies, or laugh when someone says that they didn’t go on countless luxury cruises over breaks. That’s just not the type of person Tim wants to be associating with, no matter who their parents are.
“I told you before that I need you to start networking. It's better if you have deeper connections, people will do a lot for their childhood associates.”
“I just don't like them.” The people are rancid, they make Tim’s skin crawl, like maggots have grown underneath his skin. They have expectations for him, how he should act and how he should speak. He doesn’t fit into their perfect definition, their
That’s enough to end the argument before it even really starts. Though he can tell his mother is holding back, the way she sighs and shakes her head tells Tim that this isn’t the end of it. There’s going to be more later, once they’re home. Hopefully she’ll forget. She tends to do that often. Tim blinks back tears, his chest tight and nose stings. The holiday break cannot be over soon enough.
_________________________
It’s late at night, perhaps not too late. It’s late enough that Tim’s got his laptop open, scrolling through various Batman forums in order to catch up on what he missed. The school provided tech has too many filters, which Tim could probably get through them all. But that’s too much effort. He’s content to catch up during breaks. Anything more and he knows that his fingers would twitch and he’d start planning routes to Gotham from the school.
Tim wishes he could call himself subtle in his fanaticism, but he really isn’t. Batman posters hang on the walls, he’s got glow-in-the-dark bat stickers on his ceiling, and the picture of him with Dick Grayson is framed on his desk. He knows who Batman and Robin are because of that photo – because of that night. It was a tragedy, but one that gave rise to one of the coolest heroes ever. Tim’s been following Nightwing since he debuted in New York. Tim knows that Nightwing is the old Robin and that there’s a new Robin.
He also knows that his neighbor is Batman. Bruce Wayne is Batman, and Tim has proof. Proof that no one would believe. It’s night like these where he stares outside his window and tries to get a glimpse of the batmobile or anything really.
Tim knows the argument is coming before he hears it. It’s been too long and they’ve been living in too tentative of peace. It’s a mockery of what a family should be, skirting around each other, trying to keep everyone docile while they’re together. As soon as the holidays are over Tim will be sent back to boarding school and his parents will forget to write sometimes, but that’s better than this. He cringes back a little, feeling a residual burn – phantom pain.
Then he hears the argument. He grabs his headphones and turns up the volume too high too fast. He wouldn't be surprised if he went deaf early. It’s better than having to listen to his parents fight at full volume below him. The stomping feet, the shaking house. They live in a goddamn estate and yet Tim can still feel the burning hot anger and the vibrations of the screeching voices as if it were happening outside his door.
The headphones seem like a placebo really. His parents are screaming at each other too loudly for them to do much good. It’s the illusion of comfort that he craves so dearly. There's banging, the sound of glass shattering. It settles deep in Tims gut, his hands tremble, the headphones aren't enough. They’re never fucking enough. He scratches at his neck, as if trying to dig out worms that had settled under his skin. He can still hear everything, still feel that gut wrenching guilt.
He should be down there doing something. He should be calming them down, but what's the point when he'll only make things worse?
There's a sharp snap that echoes in his ears. He grabs his headphones and flings them across the room, his hands stilling. He winces, knowing that he probably wrecked the headphone jack. He’ll have to ask for a new pair, he uses those religiously at school and now they’re probably ruined.
He only gets up after he hears the front door slam closed. There’s not point in going down while flames of anger still licked the walls. With soft, socked feet, he slides downstairs, as if invisible he used the shadows to his advantage. Tim gauges his fathers mood, there’s not point talking to him if he’s going to be berated for everything he says.
“Mom leave?” Tim eventually asks, after watching his father sigh and sit down on the sofa.
His dad startles, shocked by Tim’s presence. His dad smiles, sadly nodding. “Yeah. She’ll be back though. Don’t worry.” In a smaller voice, one that Tim knows he wasn’t supposed to hear, his dad adds, “she always does.”
It’s no secret to Tim that his dad and mom don’t have a perfect marriage. But they pretend, so Tim does too. He pretends that he doesn’t hear the fights. He pretends he doesn’t hear the snide remarks they throw each other's way. “When is she coming back?”
“Come here,” his dad says.
So, with great care, Tim inches closer. He sits down on the floor in front of his dad. His dad reaches forward, attempting to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Tim flinches back, skin on skin contact burning hot. It sears him. His mind races, ‘protect’ it screams and he gladly answers. He flinches away. His dad frowned at the action.
“Who knows?” His dad leans back. “If you could just do what she says then we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Tim nods, pushing down the feelings of inadequacy as he so often does. Guilt rolls around in his stomach. He wants to cry. He can’t cry. There’s no point in crying, not when it would be met with scornful disapproval. There’s no point in shedding tears for people who wouldn’t shed them for him.
He’s just a kid.
With a nod and a small muttered apology Tim all but runs to his room. He’s not even thinking when he grabs his camera bag, his wallet, and slips into his running shoes. It’s habit to open the window, a small moment of inaction fueled by adrenaline and habit where he double checks the branch to make sure that it’s sturdy enough for him to reach out to. He does. Without fail he flings himself to the branch and scales down the tree to the ground below.
The way to Gotham is engraved in his mind, his feet follow the exact same path. He pulls out his bus card. He refuses to sit while waiting for the bus. He refuses to sit on the bus. He’s not thinking about any of his actions, the only thought he has is ‘get away’. He needs to breathe. The problem with never seeing his parents is that he falls out of routine. He gets rusty. His tolerance for their bullshit is low and it can’t be low.
He checks his calendar, figuring out where Batman would be. It’s his… hobby. Photography. Specifically, photos of the Bats. It didn’t start like that. Tim had just wanted to get out of the house, and he’s always been roughly invisible. The first time he got a picture of Batman and Robin had been intoxicating, and then he never stopped. It’s his comfort.
So he walks the moldy streets, avoiding gum stuck to concrete. He climbs rusted fire escapes that don’t stand up to code anymore. He dodges behind a ventilation system, pulling out his camera.
They’re easy movements, sliding the smooth cap off of his lens, turning on the camera and aiming it. He takes a deep breath, focusing his subject against the light of the clocktower. It’s just Batman tonight, the new Robin woefully absent… okay maybe he’s a little glad that the faker is gone. He snaps a few pictures, he lowers the camera to mess with the setting, and when he raises it back up to take another picture-
Tim catches Batman’s eye through the lens of his camera.
Shit. He stumbles back, throwing his camera back into its back as quickly as he can. His fingers fumble, cold air freezing them and making him clumsy. Shit fuck. Tim takes a deep breath, the crisp air burning his lungs with how cold it is. When he breathes out, trying to calm his racing heart, he sees the cold condensation of it. He’s getting sloppy. He curses himself, running as fast as he can across the long roof of the building.
He’s not fast enough. Something grips onto his hood, pulling him back. He falls, back scraping against mildew strewn concrete. His head doesn’t hit the ground. When Tim looks up it’s into the obscured eyes of Batman – of his fucking neighbor.
“Who are you?” Batman asks him. And while he should be excited, his heart races from adrenaline that doesn’t come from meeting his idol.
“No one.” Tim says. He needs to get out of here. He needs to make sure Batman doesn’t think he’s some weird stalker or anything. He just needs to get away from Batman. Easy. It’s not like Batman knows when he’s lying. “Just some kid. It’s not important.”
Batman tilts his head. Oh this guy isn’t buying any of Tim’s shit. “Where are your parents?” He asks. And Tim wants to say nothing, but he can’t.
“At home,” Tim shifts on either foot, swallowing back whatever fear he has. “At least my dad is. Hell if I know where my mom went.” She’s probably off at a bar, or the store, or maybe she bought a hotel to sleep at for the night. She always comes back, that’s maybe the worst part. Maybe it’d be better if she and his dad could just stop this mad cycle once and for all.
“You’re defensive.”
“You would be too if Batman were interrogating you,” Tim snaps back.
Batman laughs. Tim narrows his eyes, he doesn’t trust this interaction. He doesn’t want to go home but he doesn’t want to be here.
But he does. How many times has he taken a picture of Robin and Batman interacting, wishing that could be him? How many times has he wished for a hug that doesn’t feel like venom, tingling his skin with the feeling of wrong .
How many times has he wished that something bad could happen? That he could actually have a reason to feel as shitty as he does. How many times… He’s lost track of all the times he’s wished his house would go up in flames, or his parents would finally crack, or a villain would take his school hostage. He just wants an excuse, any excuse, to get close to Batman.
But now that he’s here it feels wrong. He doesn’t like it, the pretense that it’s under. Real life is often more disappointing than fantasy.
Still Batman smiles, “I suppose so. Batman tends to be intimidating.” There’s a pause, as Batman tilts his head, looking at Tim as if he’s some sort of puzzle to solve. “So then, what are you doing out here?”
Tim holds up his camera, a shy smile creeping onto his face. “Pictures. I really like photography.” He actually has a pretty impressive camera and about 20 different lenses that he swaps out frequently. His parents will buy him anything if he asks them too, he thinks it’s their way of showing that they care. Bribery hobby. It doesn’t bother him too much. “I’ve been… uh… taking them since I was little.”
Batman raises an eyebrow. “In Gotham?” Tim nods. Tim can see the moment that Batman puts two and two together. “Of me?”
“And Robin.” He grips the strap of his camera bag a little tighter.
Bruce pauses, he pulls out a little watch. He bends down to be on Tim’s level, Tim takes a step back. He doesn’t trust people as a rule… the small voice in the back of his head tells him to trust Batman though. “How about this, chum, you promise me you’ll stay at your house where it’s safe, and if you ever need help you press this button. If you do that I’ll swing by and I’ll pose for some pictures.”
“Really?” Batman nods. Now’s maybe not the best time to tell Batman that Tim had grown to love the burning of adrenaline in his veins. It clears his head, helps him think. He loves the cold air as it stings his skin. His shaking, trembling hands – stiff from the weather has become his best friend. No, Tim doesn’t tell Batman that he won’t keep his promise. He doesn’t promise at all. Instead Tim takes the watch, saying, “Thank you Mr. Batman!”
Batman reaches out to place a hand on Tim’s shoulder. He flinches back, stumbling a bit on his feet. Tim can see the wheels turning in Batman’s head, the way he doesn’t move his hand right away. He feels that hand, though it barely grazed his shoulder, burning his shirt, hotter than any fire nearby. Batman doesn’t say anything, just stands there, head tilted as if fascinated by the mystery Tim presents.
“I… uh… I better get home.”
Tim leaves, climbing down the rusted fire-escape, ever thankful for being up to date on his tetanus shots. He longs for the careful touch of another, though he doesn’t know who he would trust to hold him with care.
__________________________
His family doesn’t celebrate christmas. They don’t even really celebrate hanukkah. They have a menorah on the dining room table but that’s about all. So explain to Tim why, on gods green earth, that he’s having to get dressed up at ass crack oclock, for a christmas gala that’s going to last all day.
His mother fusses with his tie, his father smooths out his lapels. He feels too grown in a tux that seems too adult.
“Do I really have to go?” Tim asks. He’d rather spend the day in his room, on the computer or something like that. There’s a lot better ways to spend his time than blinking up at old people who want to use him to get to his parents' company. They think a stupid little kid can’t understand squat, but Tim understands it all, and he hates it.
“Yes,” his mother snaps. She’s woken up in a bad mood, which should tell Tim to lower his head and just go with it. But he’s too prideful for his own good some days and he refuses to shut up when he should. “Since you’ve failed to network at the very expensive school we send you too, this is the least you can do for us.”
Tim barely restrains from rolling his eyes. “I didn’t ask to go to that school.” Why can’t he shut up?
“Timothy, darling, there are very important people that love kids. We are a family, it’s a Christmas event. You are going.”
“I don’t even see you for most of the year, that hardly constitutes a family.” He really needs to shut up.
His father shakes his head, “Tim, don’t talk to your mother like that?”
“Like what? With the truth?” Anger. Resentment. It bubbles inside of him, stinging his throat. He wants to cry. His voice wavers with emotion. He can’t show emotion, not if he wants to be taken seriously.
“Please! My parents left me alone for weeks, we’re doing so much better!” His mother says. And Tim wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. What about him? He wants to say. What about all of those birthdays spent waiting for a call that never came? What about all those times the teachers hurt him and they did nothing about it?
Tim scoffs, though it comes out all wrong with the tears on his lips. “Just let me stay home this one time,” and it’s too obvious that he wants to cry.
“You’re ungrateful. You’re coming to the gala and that’s final!”
“Fuck off,” he says so stupidly.
“Don’t. Give me lip.” And there it is. That searing anger that makes Tim squirm in his skin. “Are you crying?”
“If you want to cry I can give you something to cry about,” his father says. It’s an offhand comment. But something inside of Tim freezes. His father doesn’t mean it. But he can’t help it. It settles as an uncomfortable weight in his stomach. He blinks back the tears but it’s almost not good enough.
Never once has Tim’s parents hurt him. They haven’t. They never will. And logically. Logically, Tim knows that. But he can’t help it. He can’t help the way he flinches when his father raises his hand to intimidate him. Too many detentions he spent crying, hands stinging from a ruler slapping down hard against them. He’s faced one too many detentions for them to not leave a scar, they’re not noticeable but they are to Tim’s mind.
Tears well in his eyes and this time he can’t get them to stop.
His parents' anger has always been red hot, like the barest flicker of fire. And that fire has never once burnt him, not the way his teachers have. But he can’t help it. He’s scared that one day their anger will burn bright enough to scorch across Tim’s skin and brand him for the rest of his life.
He’s scared. He’s scared because he’s a kid. Most of the staff at his school praise him for his independence, but independence is the damnation of which his existence has been built. He’s learned how to quiet flames, how to shop for himself, he’s learned how to ‘network’ and how to quiet raging beats. But independence has become a necessity of youth. And it’s because of that necessity, Tim thinks, that he struggles to follow his parents orders.
His mother rolls his eyes. “You’re overreacting. My parents would do much much worse to me when I was a kid.”
That simple sentiment doesn’t soothe Tim’s fear, it cranks them up to eleven. His parents know how to do worse, the only thing stopping them is their own poor judgment. Tim doesn’t trust that enough to stay.
So he runs.
Tim runs. He doesn’t care about ruining the expensive suit. He doesn’t care about how snow lines the earth in a cold, softened blanket. He doesn’t care that he’s running miles to the estate. What he cares about is the fear. The fear that one day the fire of his parents' anger will burn him, will hurt him. He presses the button on the watch that Bruce gave him and he runs.
Snow enters his shoes, melting and freezing his feet. His lungs burn, the air biting at his cheeks. He doesn’t care. He just needs away. He’s run from a lot of things in his life. And maybe for the first time he’s running to something.
His tears freeze. His throat is tight and he wipes his face. Everything hurts. His parents don’t even chase after him. That fact sends his stomach rolling. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. They were supposed to follow him out, yell at him to stop.
By the time that Tim gets to the gate of the Wayne Family Manor he’s running off of pure adrenaline. It’s harder to climb the fence than he thought it would be. He does it all the time at school, getting off campus is easy. Maybe he should be concerned about how he hears his shoes rip. Or how he’s breaking into Batman’s house.
Maybe he should care about how he’ll have to explain how he gets passed all of Batman’s security defenses, and avoids cameras. He just. He needs this to be on his terms. No one else’s. Just his.
He takes a deep breath as he bangs on the door.
Moments later it swings open to reveal a disgruntled, startled looking Bruce Wayne. Tim throws himself at him, Batman catches him easily, holding him close. “Hey, kid – chum – what’s going on?”
“I pressed the button,” Tim whispers.
“I don’t know-”
“I was scared they were going to hurt me,” Tim blurts out. The fear that he’s always had finally coming out to the world. “I was scared they were going to hurt me, and I know. I know that Batman would never hurt me,” Tim says. It’s earnest, from his heart. It’s his truth. He wants this. He needs this.
Bruce grabs the back of Tim’s head and presses it into the crook of his neck. Tim takes a deep breath, tears he didn’t know he needed to cry spilling out. Bruce doesn’t hush him, simply holds him. He holds him so reverently, giving Tim the affection he has so craved.
Tim can feel Bruce move, he feels the warmth of the house and hears the door shut closed behind him. “I’ve got you now, Tim. And I’ll make sure no one hurts you. No one will ever even look at you wrong anymore. You’re mine now.”
And yeah, maybe Tim will hate that in the future. Maybe in the future he’ll bang against a locked bedroom door, stare outside the window of his new room to his old house and pray for something to smite him for daring to want something good. Mabe in the future he’ll curse out his decision to idealize a vigilante known for going ape shit crazy when his Robin’s are on the line. But now? Right now none of that matters.
Right now he’s warm and he’s safe. That’s all that matters to him.