Chapter Text
Janet Drake was an exceptional woman.
This isn't to say she was perfect in many ways, but most of the time, she was—especially in the eyes of others. She wasn't close with her child, was cold and aggressive at work, always impeccably made up and unapproachable. Yet, people were easily manipulated by her, always bending to her will, which made them see her as perfect.
Tim didn't see her that way.
Observing her, he saw the tiredness from dealing with others, the displeasure at missing things at certain moments, and the absence of a quiver in her eyes when feigning emotions. She wasn't perfect, not in front of him. She sat before him, revealing her true self, teaching him how to read people, understand them, satisfy them, then leaving him to ponder these lessons alone through countless nights.
She didn't provide him with a perfect image of a mother, but she did give him her essence: a statue complex and exquisite enough to be admired. He touched it, studied it, polished it. He played the role of the perfect child for the statue, embodying another delicate and pale figure, like Pygmalion's Galatea, brought to life by love.
He first utilized it a month after his mother passed away.
Jack Drake loved his wife deeply, but with her gone and himself confined to a wheelchair, he was stuck, unable to move forward or back, trapped in the manor just as Tim had been for years. But Tim adapted, venturing out at night as he pleased, smart, able-bodied, unafraid of darkness or pain—his father couldn't.
That was the saddest part: Jack couldn't.
Tim pitied his father, finding the adult world hard and fragile, lacking too much to sustain their happiness, seeing too much that led to their pain. Greedy, and thus easily broken.
For a brief moment, Tim wondered if his mother had taught him anticipating this moment, knowing she would die early and his father would break. But it didn't matter. He didn't want to speculate about the dead. His mother wasn't a perfect image; she probably didn't love him more than she did. But he took nourishment from what she left, growing from it, and that was enough.
Perhaps for the first time, she helped him escape pain rather than plunging him into it, even if the source of that pain was his father, her husband.
Jack broke down quickly.
He might have really tried. He attempted to get better, to communicate, to work, to handle affairs. But he was too fragile, and sleepless, his need for control spiraling, as if he'd forgotten he'd left his child alone in the manor for years, suddenly becoming a protective father, lashing out at anything that might harm his child, including the child himself.
Thus, he confronted Tim, grasped his shoulders, tore off his bandages, demanding to know what they were for, what he was doing at night, why he was associating with the Waynes, if he planned to leave, abandon him, forget his father, his owner.
Tim blinked. A momentary look — one he had tried on in the mirror, one used as Robin to reassure victims, to urge them to follow him to safety, telling them it would be alright — emerged forcefully, nearly sharply: "Father."
Jack paused.
Tim shrugged off his shaking hands and straightened, meeting the other’s eyes filled with spinning madness and confusion, devoid of guilt, of recognition of his identity. So, he cooled his gaze, raised his voice slightly, finding his mother's tone — steady, rhythmic, calm, without severe fluctuations: "Jack."
He softened his tone, making it sound like a sigh, slightly disappointed but more rejecting, demanding calm: "You're tired. Go rest."
Jack did.
More confused, a bit resentful of wanting to fight, fearing he'd done something wrong, fearing he couldn't fight back, he looked like he wanted to speak, to accuse, to argue. But he just — did as told.
The next morning, as they sat at a table for breakfast, Tim still employing the etiquette his mother taught, knowing Jack was watching him, he didn't respond. He cut his food, ate, and as he turned to leave with his backpack, his tone was crisper and higher than usual, not the softness he preferred: "I'd like to read a book when I return. What do you think, Father?"
Jack looked puzzled, then nodded.
They sat together by the fireplace after dinner, finishing a book. As he left the flames to become Robin, Jack still sat there, watching him, unmoved, unarguing.
That was unexpectedly easy.
It often appeared on Jack unconsciously, some kind of instinctual self-defense. Sometimes, Tim wondered if his father's increasing madness and irritability were to make those moments appear more, but he didn't fulfill his wish; he could use it, but didn't like it.
Until he first deliberately used it on Batman—more accurately, Bruce.
Bruce was human, could be hurt, could be vulnerable, but Batman was not. Batman lacked love, lacked vulnerability, more a dark incarnation of Gotham itself than a person, so people couldn't see his frailty, his madness.
That's why Tim threw himself in front of Batman, becoming a stabilizer and moral compass, guiding Batman back to the right stance, no longer wild and uncontrollable. He didn't waste energy learning how to be the past Robins; he didn't need to, didn't want to. They shone with their own light. He wasn't the past Robins; he was just "Robin," a title, a necessary existence, a concept to keep Batman sane, making him a protector rather than an extrajudicial punisher.
He knew Bruce needed Jason. The man always stood tiredly in the Batcave, staring at the display case, always hesitant to look at him, often forgetting which Robin he was, thus subconsciously trying to stop him from moving forward.
Tim didn't mind. He had considered becoming Jason, but he quickly dismissed the idea. He didn't want to be Jason; it was too different from his nature, required too much energy, and he doubted others would like it, including himself. He liked being Robin, liked Jason's personality, liked being himself, even if more ofter than not he felt safer, more comfortable behind some kind of mask.
Moreover, Jason was not the best way to soothe Batman under the enhanced fear toxin.
He made many attempts, grabbing Batman lying in the warehouse, telling him he was safe, telling him he was Robin, telling him it would all be over soon, just to get back to the cave, telling him it was all an illusion, to calm down.
That didn't work.
He told him he was the past Robin, smiled at him imitating Dick's smile and Jason's somewhat rude demeanor, pulled his ear, yelled at him to wake up, told him the enemy wasn't there, he should come back.
That didn't work either.
Bruce was quiet under the fear toxin, not attacking, not speaking, almost like he was fine. But he was tense, looked like he would collapse any second, just like he did during the time he lost Robin. He didn't say a word, barely trembled, locked himself up. Then Tim brought it out, he started trying.
He had seen portraits of Martha Wayne in Wayne Manor, her hand gently on Bruce's shoulder, smiling softly though with an aristocratic air. She was beautiful. Tall. She and Janet Drake both had a woman's delicacy, but she was softer, she would be gentle, maybe strict at times, but more flexible. She would let her child try his adventures, but only after she had prepared for them.
So, gently.
"Bruce."
No response, increasing worry.
"Bruce."
A slight tremble, increasing physical touch.
"Bruce."
Tim ran his fingers through the hair at the back of the man's neck, stroking lightly, leaning gently beside him. Without further physical contact, but steadying his gaze on him, Tim covered his head with his own body, limiting his senses to a small space, and let out a caring hum at the man's finally raised head, setting his breathing rhythm with his touch.
"Bruce, what's wrong, having a nightmare?"
An attempt to open his mouth, but quickly closed, still needing more, where's the missing part? The upper class rarely embrace intimately, they're outdoors, this isn't the perfect moment for touch. Martha Wayne would protect her child, but she wouldn't be too indulgent, full embraces outside of family were the father's duty, the mother would offer more subtle comfort... Ah, there, his clue.
"Dear," he made his voice even softer, "you're having a nightmare, wake up, I'm here."
A suffocating silent scream, good, he did it.
"I'm here, you're fine, it was all just a nightmare, okay?"
A nod. Then, it needed to be more assertive.
"Let's stand up, we need to go home, I'll take care of you, we can," did Bruce have a favorite toy, he didn't know that, truthfully, he didn't really want to know, "build a pillow fort, and then sleep in it for a day, that way the nightmare will go away, how about that?"
Another nod, and more trembling, the illusion induced by the toxin clearly still present, then, more care and asking for help: "Can you answer me, dear?"
"...I, can."
"Good," acknowledgment, but he really didn't intend to call himself 'mom', "then help me stand up, tell me what you want?"
"Want... fort."
"Then we need to go to the car first, can you go to the car for me? Don't think about the nightmare, there, home is waiting for us to return."
"I can."
"Great." Tim took a deep breath, leading a movable Bruce towards the Batmobile, the man following him step by step, like a tall duckling that had accidentally sprouted a cape and bat hood. He tapped his earpiece, "Alfred, can you provide remote control for the Batmobile?"
"Of course, Robin." Fortunately, the butler who had listened to the entire ordeal had no comment on his actions. If he had to assess, Tim would say there was only a bit of strange nostalgia in his tone, "Once you're in the car and have fastened your seat belts, I'll drive the vehicle back to the Batcave."
After that, he and Bruce didn't talk about it.
Just occasionally, when he lowered his voice to comfort victims, he would sense a pause in the gaze.
It appeared with Dick in moments of playfulness.
There was no emergency, just them talking about how he threatened Bruce to let him join as Robin, how he discovered the entire Bat operation, how he had once gone to see the Flying Graysons perform.
"Only now, I realize 'Robin' was your nickname," he said to Dick with a smile, imitating the light and warm voice of Mary Grayson he had heard, "'Our little Robin', right?"
Dick Grayson didn't speak, his eyes widened at him. Tim blinked, paused, then before Dick could snap back to joking or sadness, he slowly made his smile even more joyful, rolling up the exaggeration needed for a performer at showtime, and called out again: "Robin."
"Mm, ah, yes, I'm here."
"Dick," he made his voice a bit more buoyant, slightly rising at the end, there, a bit of disregard for others' gaze, open and natural, confident, caring, "why don't we sit down and have something to drink? Don't you want to talk about your life with me?"
"I would love to," the young man's blue eyes like a clear sky, he seemed to sparkle, the long-term weariness wiped away, "I'm looking forward to it."
If his action had any significance, Dick seemed not to notice it, and after that, he often came to share his life with him, calling him "Robin" with a smile during those moments.
Bruce and Alfred said nothing about it, just watched them for a while when passing by or bringing something to them. Bruce watched for longer, looked at Tim more.
Most of the Titans didn't need its appearance.
His own control and meticulous tendencies were already sufficient in his role as a leader, the members had understood under his guidance that he would take care of and manage them, they trusted him.
Among closer friends, Bart liked to be coddled by him, but what he needed was the leader himself, and Kon didn't have a need for parents. Most of the time, if Tim reached out to help him, he would be eager to reciprocate.
Not the kind of equal, rule-based, planned reciprocation Tim Drake was used to, but an instinctive desire for equality, to give back. Such people didn't need it.
In other words, that’s just what he once thought. —— Until Kon walked into the Titans' lounge to find him, while he was flipping through college textbooks, idly letting his hand hang from the couch, casually combing through Bart's hair as he napped on his leg, before he signaled Kon not to make noise to wake Bart, then satisfied raised an eyebrow at his cooperation, clumsily praised Bart as a "good boy," and before Kon blushed.
"What's that," Superboy edged closer, whispering extremely carefully in his ear, "sounds... ticklish?"
Of course, a clone not understanding parental warmth and praise.
"That is," Tim pondered the wording, "a form of praise some people really like."
"I like it." Kon stated plainly, "Can you praise me again?"
"Um... baby boy?" Gotham's Robin selected words used to soothe children at work, "You're Superboy, the 'boy' part matches quite well, how does that feel?"
Kon answered him with wet, shiny eyes and a blush.
After that, that became his main method of praising perfect actions.