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Something is wrong with Tim. Bruce isn’t sure what yet, but he’s confident in his ability to figure it out. He is, after all, the world’s greatest detective. He’s not sure when he first started noticing the difference, but he lets the vague unease prickle in the back of his mind as Tim gives him half a smile and slips out of the Cave after patrol.
When was the last time Tim hung around to look over case notes with him? When was the last time he came by the Manor for a social engagement, to have tea with Alfred or prod Cass into playing Street Fighter with Dick, or just to hang out? Years, maybe. Of course, Cass is in Hong Kong half the time now, and Dick is in Bludhaven, and things with Damian are still a bit strained, though, Bruce thinks, becoming less so. Tim is protective of Damian on patrol, in a way that Damian clearly both resents and is touched by. The other day he had come downstairs to find Damian and Tim arguing over a very fractious pigeon, trying to splint its wing.
Does Tim have friends, he texts Dick, and receives an immediate response that is just 140 question marks.
d: what’s wrong
d: is he pushing people away again? he does that
d: don’t let him.
And then two calls in rapid succession, which Bruce sends to voicemail. The texts are enlightening, in view of Tim’s somewhat distant behavior. Perhaps Tim is self-isolating. He doesn’t have a team anymore, the Titans having dissolved, and Tim hadn’t been an active member for a while before that had happened anyway. He habitually patrols alone, happy to tag along on others’ cases for a consult, but sticking to his own routes more often than not. He doesn’t have a Batman anymore, not now that Damian is Robin. Perhaps Bruce has made him feel unwanted, by allowing Damian to continue to be Robin. There isn’t space for two Robins at his side, but surely there are other ways he could express to Tim that he’s still part of the team, that he still values Tim’s presence in his life and his work.
He ought to ask Dick. Dick will know how to handle this. Dick and Tim are close, he knows, in a way he’s always been glad to see. This life isn’t easy, and he knows his own limitations. Dick has always been better at the emotional part of this. Batman can comfort a grieving child, or be kind to someone on the worst day of their life. But that’s just a few moments. After years of practice, Bruce has never found the days and weeks and years that come after any easier. He cares, of course, deeply, sometimes frighteningly. He doesn’t know how to show it in a way his children will accept.
He doesn’t call Dick back. He changes out of the suit, and puts on a worn brown duster, and takes one of his less conspicuous cars to downtown Gotham. “Don’t wait up,” he tells Alfred, ignoring his quizzical frown.
Tim lives in a nice apartment building, on the third floor. He’s moved out of the penthouse, apparently, which Bruce feels a twinge at not having known. He’s struck by the image of Tim picking up his personal possessions and carrying a few scant boxes down to the car. He can’t imagine Tim had taken much furniture; everything in the penthouse was bought by one of Bruce Wayne’s decorators, and Tim wouldn’t have taken it without asking Bruce. How cleanly, how quietly Tim has excised himself from Bruce’s space.
Bruce takes the stairs, noting the absence of dust in the corners and the small scuffs on the walls, from years of students moving in, probably. At least it’s a well-kept building. Tim isn’t living in squalor. He tries to banish the image of the apartment Jason had squatted in before Bruce had found him by imagining how Tim spends his days, now that he’s not spending half his time at the Manor and the rest of it with his father and Dana. Is he alone? Does he come back from patrol and eat dubious takeout in his empty apartment by the light of the single bulb over the sink? Does he work on cases and wish that Bruce would reach out?
Bruce is ready to rectify his mistakes. It will take time, to rebuild things with Tim, to earn Tim’s trust back. Tim trusts slowly. Dinner after patrol, as a start. And some sort of project, just him and Tim, to give them an excuse to spend time together. Tim needs the excuse, he knows. Perhaps the new drone prototype. They can tinker. He can show Tim that he values his thoughts, and his time, and Tim will understand that this means that Bruce values him, too.
Bolstered by this plan, Bruce takes the last flight of stairs two at a time. When he reaches the apartment door, though, he begins to doubt the address. Warm light wafts from under the door, accompanied by equally warm smells. Casserole, maybe, or pizza, some comforting assemblage of meat and cheese. There’s the low rumble of a number of voices coming from inside. It crescendoes into a shout, and then subsides.
Bruce reconsiders his plan. But if Tim has moved again, without telling anyone, he ought to know about it. He knocks.
“Just a second!” Tim’s voice calls. “Guys, will you shut up for one minute please, I think Anita’s finally— oh.” He looks comfortable, standing there in an oversized Smallville High Athletics t-shirt and brightly colored pajama pants. A sparkly hair clip holds half a braid in place over one ear. Tim snatches it out and shoves it into the pocket of his pajama pants. Bruce can see the comfort falling away from him to reveal the steel core Tim has always had at his center. “What’s wrong? It’s game night, but we can suit up if you need.” Tim sidesteps the pile of shoes in the entryway to pull the door to. “Tell me the situation.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Bruce says, wrongfooted. He doesn’t really want to have this conversation in the hallway. “Can I come in? Just for a few minutes.”
Tim narrows his eyes at him. “Is it sunny?” he says.
Bruce has the sinking realization that Tim finds his coming over for non-work reasons so unusual that his first assumption is that Bruce is mind-controlled. He gives the response he'd drilled into Tim years ago. "Dazzling, yet plain to all eyes."
Tim’s own eyes widen, and he blinks a few times, nonplussed. “Well,” he says. “I guess.” He pulls Bruce into his small kitchen, ignoring Bart Allen’s shout of “who is that?” and someone else’s hushed “it’s Batman.” The living room goes briefly quiet. A door slams. Bruce chooses to ignore the furious, hissing whispers that follow.
In the kitchen, Tim turns around, gestures like he’s going to offer Bruce a seat, realizes there’s nowhere to sit, and then leans in a way he is clearly trying to make nonchalant against the counter.
“I wanted,” Bruce begins, somewhat stilted, “to apologize.”
“To apologize,” Tim says. The fridge behind him is crowded with color. “My Dad Went to Keystone City and All I Got Was This Lousy Magnet.” “Happy Harbor” but the “A” in “Happy” has been replaced with an “I,” a marijuana leaf floating in an inner tube underneath. Photos jostle for room: Tim and his Titans, arranged by a pool, a stripe of sunscreen gleaming across Tim's nose; Tim and Young Justice, grinning in the stands at the Olympics; Tim and Babs and Cass and Steph, goofing off in the Clocktower, Tim's arm slung aroud Steph's shoulder while she tries to noogie him, Cass smiling a little shyly from behind them. A graduation card in a messy scrawl, signed “Ted Kord.” Another graduation card in much neater cursive, signed “H. Bertinelli.” A novelty calendar, oddly shaped vegetables in suggestive poses. Most of the squares are full with Tim's neat block capitals: lunch with S. Breakfast with D. Team movie do not forget! Call Ives. C’s recital. A’s bday. Pru visit?? Tonight is marked “game night,” and Tim has drawn a little die underneath. The material evidence of Tim’s life, full to bursting, with all the people he has surrounded himself with.
“I haven’t been there for you, lately.”
Tim frowns. “You don’t really need to apologize for that,” he says. “You’ve been busy.”
“I should have made time for you,” Bruce says. He needs to get this right. Tim’s life doesn’t seem to bear much resemblance to the bleak, sterile existence he’d been imagining. But that doesn’t mean it’s not still important that he fix his own relationship with Tim. Bruce is aware that there are no photographs of him on the fridge, and no blocks with his name on that calendar. He clears his throat. “There’s a prototype I’d like you to take a look at,” he says, a little stiffly. “When you have time.”
“Okay,” Tim says. “Yeah, I can do that. Did— was that all you wanted?”
No, Bruce wants to say. Something went wrong, and I don’t know what it was, and I can see it happening all over again. It went wrong with Dick, and with Jason; it never really went right, with Cass; I am holding onto Damian by my fingernails. I am losing you. I already lost you. He looks at the grinning face of the carrot on Tim’s calendar and says, “you’re busy. It’s not a good time.”
Tim sighs. “Look, clearly it was important enough for you to come over here. They’ll keep for another 20 minutes or so.” He gestures to the other room, where the furious whispering has given way to occasional laughter. “We might as well.”
“Dick said you pushed everyone away. That you had self-isolated. He was concerned you might be doing it again. I was also concerned,” Bruce adds, in the spirit of honesty.
Tim stares at him like he’s grown a second head. He looks both bewildered and exasperated, the way he used to when he'd fall asleep on the couch and Dick would wake him with a finger in the ear. “Well, you missed the memo by about two years, but thanks for checking in, I guess?”
That math isn't difficult. “When I was dead.”
“When you were dead but not actually, and my dad was dead, and Kon was dead, and Bart was dead, and Steph had recently been dead, yes,” Tim says. “I lost a major organ and also Robin. It was not a good year for me.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,” Bruce says. “I’m sorry about things with Dick and Damian.”
“You got sent back through time,” Tim tells him. “And Dick and I talked things out. It’s fine. I’m fine, Bruce.”
Bruce watches him fiddle with the worn hem of his borrowed tshirt. He’s filling out. He’s nearly 19.
“Did you ever think about college again?” Bruce asks. “You don’t need to be CEO of Wayne Enterprises. You could do school part-time, even, if you’re worried about being overworked.”
“Oh my god,” Tim says. “You sound exactly like Helena. Did you drive all the way over here just to give me the same lecture as my career counselor?”
“No,” Bruce says. “I just want to make sure you know you have options.”
“Of course I know I have options,” Tim says. “I made a whole list of them two years ago.”
And what had that list looked like, Bruce wonders, when Tim had been lost in grief and anger? Where does Tim see himself in five years? In ten? Bruce himself has always known where his own career will end, but he doesn’t want that for Tim. It is the driving fear that has kept him awake for the last four years. There are many, many ways to die, doing what they do.
“Okay,” he says, instead of any of that. “That’s good.”
Tim spins a pen around on the countertop. “Great.” There’s a silence, broken by the hum of the fridge and a muted scuffle in the other room. “Well,” he says. “I should be getting back before they break my whole apartment.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll let you know about that prototype. You can just leave it by my locker.”
“I was hoping,” Bruce says, “we could look at it together.”
“Oh,” Tim says. Amusement and frustration are warring in his expression. Bruce can't tell which is winning. “Oh.”
“I thought—”
“I know,” Tim says. “I know. It’s a nice thought. I’ll come by. We can look at it together.” His body is angled towards the door of the kitchen, away from Bruce. In the other room, the voices are rising.
“Okay,” Bruce says, again. “That’s good, then.”
“I gotta—”
“Yes.” Bruce shuffles to the side, so Tim can pass him.
“Bye, Bruce,” Tim says.
“Bye, Tim,” Bruce tells him. He opens and closes one fist by his side. This is where he would have hugged Tim, two and a half years ago, or ruffled his hair. “Have fun with your friends.”
“I will,” Tim says. He darts forward, all that unexpected Robin-quickness, and claps Bruce on the shoulder. “I’ll see you.” He manages to maneuver Bruce out the door without seeming to have done it. Bruce, a veteran of years of Gotham socialite maneuvering, is honestly impressed.
Behind Tim’s front door the voices rise in a clamor. He recognizes a few— Impulse, Stephanie, Superboy, Wonder Girl— but not all of them. He had thought that Tim was unsure of his place in Bruce’s life. But instead he finds the situation reversed, as neatly and disconcertingly as if the penny in the Cave had turned its back to show its other side. It isn’t that Tim must be carefully slotted into Bruce’s life. It’s that he finds himself questioning whether there is room for him in Tim’s.
Well, he thinks. Tim will come by for patrol, and for the prototype. He will make an effort, and maybe so will Tim. It won’t be like it was when Tim was younger, when he hung on Bruce’s every word, when he needled Bruce out of his shell with cheerful, chattering, careless abandon. It won’t be like that. It will be like something else.
Bruce has been accused, at various points in his life, at not being very good with change. But this is the other side of the fear. Tim is alive. That means Bruce can’t keep him in a glass case, forever frozen at 15. He turns away from the glow of the door and heads down the stairs, back out into the cold dark.
It’s beginning to snow. Tim has always liked Gotham in the snow, the way for a brief few hours the flakes blanket all of Gotham’s sins, the gentle wash of color from neon and streetlamp. There aren’t any shadows on a snowy night. There isn’t anywhere to hide. For a moment Bruce considers going back up the stairs to tell Tim. He doesn’t want Tim to miss the first clean fall of snow, before footsteps and cars and plow salt turn it all back to gray slush.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Probably another call from Dick, asking him what the hell he’s doing. He doesn’t know, is the thing. He’s never known. He didn’t have a teacher to tell him how to do this part, the way he did for fighting and French and Farsi. He doesn’t go back into the apartment building. He texts Tim instead, attaching a picture of the slow drift of snowflakes under the streetlight. And then he turns his phone off, and walks back towards the car, his feet growing damp in his unsuitable shoes.
Even Batman, it turns out, can get cold feet.