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Tim wears nail polish.
It’s something Bruce has noticed about him. He prefers darker colors (dark purples, midnight blues and even the occasional black) and he does it once every two months on average. Tim uses nail polish remover too; it's rare for Bruce to notice any chipping.
Bruce has never really had any reason to comment on the observation–what Tim does as a hobby is no business of his–until one day, he does.
They’re in the Batcave. Bruce is observing some crushed pills through a microscope, the latest in a series of dangerous new hard drugs to hit the streets. Tim is leaning over his shoulder, looking at his work. Bruce is wearing gloves, Tim isn’t, and so when Tim gets a little too close, Bruce grumbles out, “Step back.”
“What?”
“Your nails,” Bruce clarifies, sparing him a glance. “Glitter spreads easily, your knuckles are already covered in it. You might contaminate the sample.”
Bruce really doesn’t mean anything else by it, except for Tim to step back but the boy flinches, hastily stuffing his hands into his pockets. “R-right,” Tim stammers. “I’ll just, um, go get rid of them now. The glitter, I mean, not, um, my nails, obviously–”
Bruce watches in bemusement as Tim flees up to the Manor. He’s back 15 minutes later, gloved up and quiet. Almost professional in the way he watches Bruce work.
Bruce means to ask him about the odd reaction, but then the computer finishes analyzing the strange, new component in the drugs, and then it's time for Batman and Robin to hit the streets.
Nevertheless Bruce files away the observation for later. The next time they meet in the Cave, Tim’s nails are bare. Bruce tries not to feel like it's somehow his fault.
Kids these days wear lots of things, Bruce thinks. The popular boy bands Bruce has seen advertisements of in passing wear eyeliner and gold earrings. The kind of men’s fashion Bruce keeps up with for his ‘day job’ is miles away from whatever is popular now with the youths. Still, Bruce can’t help but observe Tim a little more closely in the following months.
Are Tim’s cheeks occasionally tinged pink from the cold, or is that the remains of rouge? Is the darkness under his eyes just from his nights as Robin, or is it also hastily washed away mascara?
And why does Bruce care? Ugh.
There was something in the way Tim flinched back, he thinks. As if expecting a scolding, or retaliation. It was…it wasn’t right. It’s suspicious. It’s… upsetting.
Still, Bruce doesn’t bring it up. If Tim needs him for…something, then…well he can’t truthfully say that Tim will let him know. But Bruce can’t say anything, either. He doesn't...he doesn’t know how to do such a thing anymore, if he ever did. Even with his own children Dick and Jason, he’d never known what to say, that’s obvious enough. Never mind this brazen child who’d walked into his life and demanded a place in it.
And Tim has made his place in Bruce’s life, despite Bruce’s best efforts to keep him at a distance. There’s no helping it, not when patrols finish sometimes as late as 4 am and Alfred offers, loudly, that ‘Master Tim should stay over for the night,’ eyes daring Bruce to disagree.
Little by little, Tim spends more and more nights at the Manor post-patrol, and a slow accumulation of ‘Tim things’ gather in the corners of Bruce’s house. Sticker packs and school notebooks. A skateboard that changes rooms every so often. Magazines and wired headphones lying around the furniture.
It makes Bruce want to…something. Cry, scream, hurl things–do something at the idea of Tim filling in a gap in the Manor that Bruce doesn’t want filled.
And he almost does too, when one day, he comes home from work to find Tim in the library, on his stomach with his ankles crossed, scissors in hand as he flips through the pages of a magazine.
It makes something horrible and ugly rise up inside him, and irrationally, he wants Tim to just leave –the Manor, the Cave, Robin, all of it. He opens his mouth, blood pounding in his ears, but before he can say something that he’d surely later regret, Tim notices him. Tim notices him and immediately tries to slam the magazine shut, and in his sudden haste, nicks his hand with the scissors.
“Shit,” Tim curses and sits up, flailing, still struggling to shove the magazine aside one-handed.
Just like that, watching Tim struggle, the ugly thing inside Bruce dissipates, leaving behind only revulsion at himself–and worry for Tim.
“Stop,” he orders and Tim freezes, a trained Robin response. “Let me see.”
Gingerly eyeing him, Tim holds out his hand. The cut is thankfully shallow, barely bleeding and Bruce sighs in relief. “Put a band-aid on it. And be more careful next time.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Tim looks away.
Bruce lets out another sigh. “And…I’m sorry. If I startled you,” Bruce offers begrudgingly. Tim’s eyes widen and he ducks his head almost shyly. His next words are not shy at all, however.
“Can you say that again so that I can record it? For posterity? Dick might not believe me when I tell him.”
Despite himself, Bruce huffs out a small laugh. Out of the corner of his eyes, he glances at the magazine, still stubbornly flipped open. A women’s fashion magazine, opened to the jewelry pages.
“Working on a project for school?” Bruce says in a carefully neutral voice, deciding to hand Tim an out. Surprisingly, Tim doesn’t take it.
“Uh no,” he mumbles, blushing. “It’s a, uh, personal project.”
“..Well,” Bruce starts, then pauses. “Let me know if you need any help.”
It’s a disingenuous offer, simply saying something for the sake of saying it, and Tim knows it too. He lets out a quiet chuckle. “Sure, Bruce. I will.”
And there’s nothing else to say to that. Off-kilter and unsure, Bruce orders Tim once more to put on a bandage and flees the room.
So. Bruce develops a theory. Not even that! Bruce has a suspicion, that’s all. It’s in the way Tim will sometimes raise his voice higher to talk to someone on the phone and lower it down to a ridiculous register when Bruce walks in.
It’s in the very particular magazines and catalogs that Bruce sometimes finds scattered across the Manor, on days that Tim has stayed over.
It’s something that maybe Bruce is reading too much into. It’s a suspicion, nothing concrete.
And then they rescue a woman from a mugging in a dark alleyway.
It’s a slow night, a routine patrol with no active cases currently on their radar. They noticed the woman run and then stumble, and then they saw the men converging on her. Child’s play for Batman and Robin.
“T-thanks,” the woman tells them nervously. Unable to look Batman in the eye, she directs her gaze somewhere between him and Robin. Batman watches her as she gets up from where she’d fallen, straightening her turtleneck sweater. A necklace of small diamonds rests on her collar. Fake, but likely what drew the muggers’ attention to her, he thinks, and has to grit his teeth against the sudden rush of hate that fills him.
“No problem, Miss,” Robin says. “You tie up these crooks, Batman. I’ll walk her home.” He’s pegged, correctly, that she’s not the kind of woman who wants to stick around to talk to the police. He’s also potentially trying to confirm whether this was just a random mugging, or if there’s the beginnings of a case here. Smart lad. Batman feels a warm rush of fondness that he doesn’t even bother trying to tamp down.
The woman glances between them, still terrified, but between the Dark Knight and a brightly-colored child, the choice is obvious. She hastily gets to her feet, broken heels in hand and Batman gets to work.
“I like your necklace,” Robin offers, quiet but sincere.
“...Thanks,” she returns. “I like your, uh, cape.”
Batman can just imagine Robin’s grin at that. The two of them head off, Robin leading her down the narrow alley paths (it wouldn’t do for Batman’s partner to be seen taking a stroll down the main avenue, after all. Bad for business).
On his part, it’s barely a few minutes’ work, tying up three small time muggers, and then Batman takes to the rooftops, silently tailing Robin, listening to him chatter away at the woman to both put her at ease and dig for information.
The two of them part ways at a narrow intersection. It might be near her home, it might not. Either way, it’s obvious that she doesn’t want them knowing exactly where she lives and if Robin’s found anything suspicious, he’ll share it soon enough.
Batman watches Robin watch her go. He’s far away, and Robin is wearing a mask, but still. When Robin raises a hand to his neck, tracing an invisible collar, Batman can’t describe it as anything but wistful.
Bruce has been called insane before. Many, many times, by many different people. He’s never seriously considered it. No, really . The accusations would have some merit to them, if he isn’t proven right 90 percent of the time. There’s a method to his madness, that’s all. But this…maybe he really is losing a few screws.
Because why else has he emptied out the contents of the safe deposit box that held Martha Wayne’s jewelry?
His mother’s jewelry collection, something he hasn’t seen in over two decades, now sits as neatly sorted piles on his bed. He’s had to hide this from Alfred too. There’s no way to explain…this .
The jewelry brings back memories, of course it does. Of Mother sitting at a vanity with Bruce in her lap, affixing earrings to her lobes. Of Father helping her with a clasp on a necklace as Bruce impatiently whines that they’re going to be late. So many memories.
In another life, these pieces would have been added to as Mother grew older. They would have been passed down, maybe to a sister, maybe to a partner of Bruce’s. In another life. As it is…Bruce shakes his head and observes the piles.
Mother wasn’t ostentatious, but her tastes were expensive; the number of pieces are few but they are all clearly well-made. Bracelets and earrings form the majority of the collection, with rings and necklaces coming in second and third respectively.
Tim doesn’t have pierced ears, so Bruce discards earrings immediately. As for the bracelets…all Bruce has ever seen adorned on Tim’s wrists are plastic beads, leather cords and knit arm warmers with band logos on them. A far cry from his mother’s gold and diamond cuffs.
Rings…Bruce’s eyes catch on them, all nestled in neat lines in a custom jewelry box. One of them is his mother’s wedding ring, he knows, put away there by Alfred. He quickly averts his gaze. No. Rings are just a weird choice for a gift to a teen.
The last section is his mother’s necklaces. A platinum and diamond choker, an emerald and gold locket and a sapphire wreath. No pearls, Bruce notes, stomach turning. The earrings that completed the set Mother was wearing that night are missing as well.
He forces himself to breathe through the pain and focuses. What is he doing? Masochist, Alfred’s voice scolds him. Determined to punish yourself. And for what? The necklaces are heavy, intricate things, fit for galas and charities. There’s nothing here for a teenage boy.
Slowly, feeling strangely ashamed of himself for disturbing the contents of the safe deposit box after so long, Bruce begins packing everything away again.
The choker, the locket, the wreath…and then his hands fall on something thin and light.
Bruce pauses, and then picks up the chain with hesitation. A single teardrop pendant, milky white in color and the size of the nail on his pinkie finger, hangs from it.
Examining the necklace, Bruce tries to recall the memories made faint by time. Casual wear. Mother would wear this at home, when entertaining guests, he thinks. The clasp on the chain is broken but Bruce can’t remember when or how that happened.
It’s delicate. Just like the chain of small, fake diamonds was. Bruce sets it aside and gets back to work.
The next time Tim makes to leave the Cave, Bruce stops him. It’s maybe an odd choice, to do this in the Cave, rather than the Manor, but somehow it feels safer to do this here, under the guise of Batman and Robin instead of Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake.
“Yeah?” Tim’s waiting, expectant.
Bruce clears his throat. Ease into it, he thinks. One step at a time.
“You like wearing jewelry,” he says instead and immediately wants to slap himself as Tim’s shoulders rise up defensively.
Tim looks down at his wrists, bound up in leather cords and wrist warmers. “They’re cool,” he defends and Bruce watches, dismayed, as he folds his thumb into his fist, hiding the remains of blue glitter on the nail bed.
“They are cool,” Bruce agrees cautiously but it doesn’t have the intended effect.
“Look, whatever this is, can you cut it out? You dress like a giant bat every night, you have no right to judge me–”
Oh, he’s really stepped into it now. “I’m not judging,” he replies quickly. “It’s alright, it’s–I just wanted to give you something.”
“...What?” Tim asks warily.
Bruce spares a thought to wonder–what reactions has Tim been faced with before? Do his parents know? Or his friends? Is there anyone in his life who he can share this with?–before squaring his shoulders.
From a compartment below the console, he retrieves the pendant and chain. It’s not in a box, that seemed too formal, and Bruce is trying to make this as comfortable as possible. For both their sakes.
Tim, despite his mistrust, leans forward. “It’s a necklace,” he says, surprised.
“Yes.”
Tim seems to consider the necklace, before narrowing his eyes. “This is for a girl,” he says flatly, and Bruce tries not to wince. Yes it is, but doesn’t Tim–? Has he misjudged the situation after all?
Useless words try to escape his mouth–’It’s okay to be a girl, you know’ fighting with ‘Well, boys can wear pendants, too.’ None of them feel right and probably none of them are helpful.
“It was my mother’s,” Bruce says instead. “She didn’t wear it often but…I thought you might like to have it.”
That’s right. Never give out too much information, always let the mark implicate themselves. Or rather, let Tim draw his own conclusions instead of ineptly trying to talk about something he really doesn’t understand.
Tim is still looking at the necklace. Slowly, his expression softens. “It’s a moonstone,” he murmurs. “My mother wears those a lot. An astrologist near a dig site in India once told her that that’s her lucky birthstone. She doesn’t believe in that stuff , of course, but she likes to joke that it matches her skin anyway.”
“The clasp is broken,” Bruce offers. Projects. Tim likes projects and puzzles and solving equations. “You could fix it up, if you want. You can have it.”
Tim reaches out to touch the pendant before hesitating. Instead, he cups his palms below Bruce’s. Bruce tips his hands forward and the pendant slides onto Tim’s waiting palms, like water being poured.
Tim holds it reverently, almost as though it’s sacred, and Bruce feels a knot of tension loosen in his chest.
“My mother let me wear her jewelry sometimes,” Tim starts shyly. “When I was younger. Her rings and necklaces. Sometimes, we’d paint our nails together.” He waits, clearly expectant.
Bruce opens his mouth. Oh God, what is he meant to say? Oh yes, me too? He’s never exactly done something like that with his own mother but he could lie. Clearly, Tim’s looking for a connection so–
“Oh my god,” Tim bursts out in laughter.
“What?” Bruce asks, feeling both baffled and slightly offended.
“Your face!” Tim is positively shaking with mirth. “You’re just–you–never mind!”
Sullenly, Bruce waits out the indignity of being laughed at by a teen.
“Thanks for the necklace, Bruce,” Tim says at last, through a smile. He looks pleased. It’s genuine, Bruce notes with relief. “I’ll fix the clasp. I gotta get home now though, okay? Catch you later.”
As soon as Tim leaves the Cave, Bruce collapses back onto his seat, face in his hands. Goodness. Criminals? Gangsters? Give him twenty. But navigating one conversation with a teenager…but if it makes Tim more comfortable around him then it’ll have been worth it.
He imagines his mother’s necklace, out in the sunlight again after over two decades, because of Tim. Bruce rubs his face with his hands. He doesn’t even realize that he’s smiling.