Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim did not plan to become Robin.

He only wanted to help after witnessing Batman's descent into self destruction and unnecessary brutal display of violence. He only wanted to convince Dick Grayson that he should become Robin once more before it was too late. But Dick had turned him away and then after the entire mess with Two Face there was really nothing much else he could do but step in himself.

Bruce was going to kill himself or someone else if he didn’t intervene - if he hadn’t intervened. How many times did him calling 911 or performing first aid save someone’s life? He started carrying bandages and gauze early into his stalk- uhm… observing Gothams beloved heroes. Tim did what he could with the tools he had. Thank god he memorized first aid protocols long before… everything.

Point was, Tim wasn’t supposed to be here.

Robin was never meant to be him. He knew that he was intruding into a space that was never meant for an outsider, such as himself. He was not part of the family. He had two perfectly healthy parents that took good care of him when they were in Gotham to begin with.

Tim knew that.

It didn’t stop the tightness in his chest every time he was dismissed. Sent home without as much as a thank you for repeatedly saving B’s life.

But Tim didn’t need that. He knew it wasn’t his place to ask for things like that.

So he didn’t.

Dick didn’t want anything to do with the so-called mission - the endless war - the man he thought of as a father chained himself to.

Not when it took his little brother from him. Not when Bruce didn’t even have the decency to tell him.

He could never understand what had driven Bruce to do what he did. Let his little brother die all alone and then leave his oldest to find out he had missed the funeral over the damn news.

No.

Bruce can go fuck himself.

That is what Dick told himself over and over. Like a prayer, every time the guilt tried to creep in.

Even when a too-small, too-thin boy stood in front of his door, his icy blue eyes shining at him with determination behind a fringe of black hair. Armed with pictures of Batman. Of Robin. Of them - years worth of photos.

How long had he been watching them? How old was he when this started?

He said no. He has to even though the flicker of disappointment and lack of surprise from the boy had made him sick. He hated the quiet resigned look on his round face. As if he expected it.

It wasn’t enough to make him go back.

Imagine Dick’s surprise, weeks later, when he turned on the TV for some mindless pre patrol background noise and saw a small black haired child wearing his and his brothers mantel next to Batman on the news.

There was no way to see the kids eyes behind the domino mask but he could imagine the ice blue eyes of Timothy Drake behind the mask as he watched the footage.

Rage bloomed under his skin, festering in his chest.

Time to pay Bruce - and the new bird - a little visit.

Tim didn’t hear the confrontation between Dick and Bruce - being in a manor next door and all - but when he got to the cave to suit up for patrol tonight he found that he didn’t need to.

Bruce's mood was practically written in the way his shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched. Not all that unusual on its own but tonight it was worse than Tim had ever seen it.

And paired with Dicks coat hanging in the entrance of the Manor it wasn’t hard to guess why.

So he did his best on patrol. No wrong move, keep his head down, just practiced perfection to not get in Batman's way.

He didn’t flinch at the harsh commands, nor did he ask for a ride after a goon had gotten in a good hit in with a bat and left his ribs bruised.

He just slipped away when everything was done and made himself some coffee to work on one of the open cases. Only wincing a little when the stretch agitated his forming bruise.

When Dick came to Gotham he didn’t hold back. He didn’t want to - not when he was screaming every mistake Bruce ever made right in his face. Because how dare he?

How dare he do to him and his little brother what he did? How dare he put another kid in those damned colores when his own son died in them?
Dick couldn’t recall all that Bruce had said to him in return but the essence was clear:

He didn’t choose Tim.

The kid blackmailed him into becoming Robin.

They had yelled at each other for what felt like hours until Alfred informed them - calm but pointed - that Tim had arrived for tonight's patrol. Dick couldn’t watch another kid put on that cursed suit so he hid in the Manor - like a coward - and waited until Batman and Robin left.

He meant to leave after that. To cool off. Talk to the kid somehow convince Tim to leave vigilantism behind for good before he gets hurt.

But he couldn’t.

Something in Bruce’s voice… in the way he talked about Tim - it didn’t sit right.

So he did what any self respecting Bat would: he put on his suit and followed Batman and his bird to see how the two interacted with each other.

Old habits die hard, Dick guessed as he darted from rooftop to rooftop, trailing the familiar figures of Batman and Robin. When he finally spotted them - the bright flash of the Robin suit and the looming shadow beside it - he slowed.

From a rooftop across the alley, he watched Tim closely.

Tim was… good.

Too good for someone with so little training. Every movement was precise, practiced, and efficient. No wasted energy. No room for error. No room for mistakes.

He was clearly working himself to the bone just to keep up.

Dick’s gaze shifted to Bruce. Tense. Silent. Still angry.

Tim turned to tell Bruce something that couldn't be made out with the distance between them but Batman paid his bird no mind, instead dropping in the next alley without checking if his partner was following behind.

Nightwing followed to a spot from which he watched the fight ensue without stepping in even if he itched to do so.

The fight started fast. Goons poured out of the building. Dick didn’t step in - not yet. He knew they could handle the numbers. But what had him frozen wasn’t the fight - it was the way Bruce didn’t cover Robin. Not once.

He just let the kid deal with hit after hit on his own. Not bothering to even look if he was doing ok.

It turned out to be a big mistake when Tim was hit with a bat by a thug.

His hand twitched on the edge of the building he was leaning on when Robin just caught himself and continued the fight without any pause at all as if he was used to not getting any help from the man that was supposed to be his partner but the conversation that followed had Dicks blood boiling once again.

“Go home, Robin. You’re done for tonight.”

That was it.

No “Are you hurt?”

No ride. Just that.

Tim didn’t argue. He just climbed up the fire escape and disappeared into the shadows alone.

Dick followed.

He told himself, once again, it was just to make sure the kid got home safe.That he’d leave once he knew.

But he didn’t.

He watched as Tim climbed through the window of the silent manor. He didn’t bother keeping quiet as he removed his suit and got himself some coffee from the kitchen and moved to work on some cases. Only wincing slightly as he stretched to get to the upper shelves.

Dick blinked.

The rage in him cooled into something else. Something deeper. Something that twisted in his gut and refused to let go.

Where are his parents?

Chapter Text

Dick spent the next couple hours in Blüdhaven thinking everything over.

Seeing Tim wearing that suit, being treated by Bruce like he had been, and then disappearing into an empty Manor had rattled him worse than he thought it could. He didn’t want to look too closely at what he’d seen, afraid of what he might find, but he could only distract himself with trashy TV for so long before he would explode with nervous energy.

The need to figure out what was going on with Tim was like an itch so deep under his skin no amount of scratching could satisfy it. So after long consideration he pulled out his assortment of work equipment and got to work, not really bothered about the fact that it was 4 a.m.

It usually paid off really well to be a Private Investigator, but especially in situations like this he was stupidly glad for the occupation he’d chosen—even if it drove Bruce absolutely insane (paranoid bastard). Combined with Bat-training, he could get almost any information he wanted right from home.

It didn’t take long for Dick to find out that Janet and Jackson Drake were barely in Gotham. Hell, they weren’t even on the continent most of the time. Flight records, bank statements, airport security footage—all of it confirmed a regular pattern of international travel. They only returned for the occasional gala or business meeting.

On Tim’s school records, he found that all of his doctor’s notes as well as notes to and from parents were sent via e-mail. A quick look into Tim’s personal electronics showed that most were sent by Tim himself, paired with messages from his parents to simply “Handle it yourself, Timothy!” when he asked for help.

Every new detail piled up, adding to his disdain for the Drakes, but he couldn’t let his emotions interfere right now. Instead, he compiled the evidence—calmly, methodically—into a file he hoped to use later.

Once the case against the Drakes was laid out in full, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as he considered the next step. He could go after them for child neglect—no question—but that wouldn’t change the fact that Tim had figured out their identities at an absurdly young age. Nine years old, if Dick was timing it right. Around the first appearance of a small, serious kid with an expensive camera trailing the Bats through Gotham.

The only way Tim wasn’t going to work himself into the ground was if someone kept an eye on him.

Dick adored Alfred, truly—but he knew better than to assume the elderly butler would stand up to Bruce. If anything, he enabled him far too often.

Dick rubbed his hands over his face and let out a long sigh. He would have to stay in Gotham for a while.

~

Tim was really glad it was summer break and he didn’t have to attend school with the giant bruise covering his ribs as he woke up the next morning. Or rather noon, Tim realized when he turned on his phone to check the time.

“Huh, guess I needed the sleep more than I thought,” Tim mumbled, turning his face back into the pillow, most certainly not ready yet to take on the day ahead of him. Well—who was gonna chide him for it? His parents?

It took him a good twenty minutes to pull himself out of bed and into the shower, where he stood under the warm stream for way too long before he managed to actually wash himself off.

With a deep sigh, Tim turned off the water and got himself ready for his day. By the time he finished pulling on clothes, smearing bruise cream on his ribs, gathering the material from the cases, and moving his ass over to Wayne Manor to review the information he’d gathered and start training, it was already two p.m.

But that was fine. It wasn’t like Bruce had set a time for him to show up. Or… asked him to show up at all.

~

It didn’t take long for Dick to organize everything he needed for his return to Gotham. There were already several flats in the city under various names—Bruce’s idea of emergency preparedness—so Dick simply grabbed one of the spare keys he kept for just such occasions and let himself in.

Dick didn’t need to worry about Blüdhaven; he could still work his cases and return for patrol as Nightwing. He would simply stay in an apartment near the Uptown edge. Close enough to Bristol and the cave, as well as the road back to Blüdhaven in case of an emergency.

He packed a go bag and was out the door before he could change his mind. Just putting one foot in front of the other without thinking—he could ponder why Tim was having such a big effect on him later, or preferably not at all, thank you very much.

Back in Gotham, he didn’t even take time to unpack before hopping back into the car and making his way to the Manor. He was sure Alfred would be thrilled to speak over some tea at—Dick checked the dashboard clock—huh, 9 a.m. He shook his head, amused, and kept driving. In that case, maybe he’d have some breakfast. Bruce, after all, wasn’t usually up until eleven.

~

The Manor was as quiet as he remembered on post-patrol mornings. Dick let himself in, toed off his shoes at the front entrance, and wandered toward the kitchen. The smell of freshly baked rolls met him halfway there.

Alfred was already inside, impeccably dressed as always, pouring coffee. He only glanced up briefly before wordlessly taking out a second cup to fill.

“Good morning, Master Richard,” he greeted mildly, as if Dick joining them for breakfast was a regular occurrence. “I see Lady Gotham has lured you back.”

Dick smiled softly as he pulled out a chair at the table. “More like I ran out of excuses to stay away,” he replied, accepting the coffee and the plate of fresh rolls, marmalade, and butter handed to him.

“Mh.” Alfred hummed idly. “I was wondering how long it would take you to notice the… state Master Timothy is in.”

“So you noticed.” Dick frowned slightly, deciding not to comment on the butler’s own silence on the matter.

Alfred definitely noticed, though—Dick could tell by the way the man turned to clean the already-pristine counter, shame tucked neatly behind the practiced motions. “It is not hard to see, if one is inclined to look,” he added quietly while loading the dishwasher.

The elderly man kept his hands busy, not looking at Dick, as he continued. “Master Timothy has great potential. The lad holds himself well in the field.” His hands paused briefly on the ceramic dish before resuming. “He just needs someone to advocate for him.”

Dick huffed. “Yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

A heavy silence stretched between them, thick with unsaid apologies and explanations. Maybe they would’ve surfaced—if Bruce hadn’t chosen that exact moment to enter the kitchen.

Barefoot, dressed in sweatpants and that old, fraying band T-shirt Alfred had probably tried to toss at least three times, Bruce walked straight to the counter for his mug of coffee. Dick felt a smile tug at his mouth.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he sing-songed in a chipper tone that he knew grated on the older man’s nerves.

Bruce grunted, accepting the coffee and plate from Alfred much like Dick had done earlier. After a long sip from the mug, he finally looked up and squinted at him. “You’re here early.”

“Oh, maybe I missed the smell of ancient furniture and emotional constipation,” Dick replied, smiling as he tilted his head. He knew he was pushing it, but he was still pissed about their fight yesterday. “Figured I’d drop by, chat… maybe punch you. Depends on how the day goes.”

Bruce didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he sighed deeply. “You’re here because of Tim, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” Dick said, popping the p with zero intention of elaborating.

“Are you staying?”

“Nah—well, I’m staying in Gotham. Just not in the Manor.” Dick leaned back in his chair. “Figured the kid could use someone else to spar with every once in a while.”

Bruce set his mug down on the table, watching him carefully. “You want to help train Tim.”

“Yeah, that’s the plan.” Dick tilted his head again, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Didn’t get much of a chance to do that with my little brother.” He knew he was being cruel to the man, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Bruce blinked. His shoulders stiffened at the mention of his second son, but he gave a slow, deliberate nod.

Dick stood abruptly, leaving most of his breakfast untouched. “Well, I’m off to the cave. Today’s training day, right? He should be here soon enough.”

Chapter Text

Tim made his way into the cave quietly after being let in by Alfred. He suspected that Bruce still wasn’t in a good mood and didn’t want to anger him any further.

He knew Bruce had held back yesterday. He could’ve been way meaner to Tim after that fight with Dick, and Tim knew that perfectly well. Who was he kidding—Bruce had been meaner for way less. But he digressed. There were more important things to consider.

Like, why was someone already stretching on the training mats while Bruce was brooding over files in front of the computer?

Technically, he wasn’t late. It was training day, and he showed up—like always—ready to be shoved around by Bruce for a couple of hours until the older man had enough and left him alone to perfect what he'd been taught that day.

He hadn’t expected anyone else today, or any day. Much less Dick Grayson, who was stretching on the mats like it was a perfectly normal Tuesday.

“Hey, Baby Bird! You’re right on time,” Dick yelled over to the entrance when he spotted Tim standing in the doorway.

Tim flushed at the nickname but concealed it by tilting his head in confusion. “There was no time set,” he said in a quieter tone than Dick.

“Exactly!” was the chipper reply, though it didn’t quite conceal the annoyed look Dick shot Bruce before perking up again.

“I decided to help out with your training a little. I never got the chance to break Ja—your predecessor's nose during his training, so you’re up!” Dick grinned.

Tim let out a quiet, resigned breath, already bracing himself for whatever “training” Dick had in mind. “That’s… comforting.”

Bruce had never actually hurt him during training. Sure, there were bruises or a sprained wrist here and there, but never real harm.

But Dick’s stance was loose. Tim knew what he looked like when he was angry, so maybe he should watch for that…

Lost in thought, he almost missed Dick’s reply. “Exactly what I was thinking!” the older man said with a lopsided grin as he lifted his arms into a final stretch. “So, what do you say? Start with warm-up drills?”

Tim nodded and trotted over to the mats, falling into position beside him. They went through the first couple of sets in silence.

Tim kept a close eye on Dick the whole time, noting how loose he seemed. Every movement was fluid, almost effortless, as he gently adjusted Tim’s posture throughout. Not at all like Bruce, who always seemed wound tight enough that it looked painful.

Tim furrowed his brow in suspicion. “Do you always train like this?” he asked. Dick hadn’t barked or hovered over him even once.

Dick flipped into a handstand and held it like it was the most natural thing in the world. “’Course not! Sometimes I throw smoke pellets at B to keep him on his toes, you know.”

Tim huffed softly but didn’t push further—he didn’t want to test his luck. They cycled into sparring drills next: light contact, just enough to test reflexes and coordination.

Dick was moving slower than usual, Tim noticed. Slower than he should be. Purposefully. Like he was watching Tim, not just sparring.

“You’re pulling punches,” Tim muttered, just a little offended—did Dick think he couldn’t take a hit? He ducked under a swing aimed at his shoulder and retaliated with a jab that missed Dick’s leg by a fraction.

“Maybe,” Dick said. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”

“You’re twenty-three,” Tim deadpanned.

Dick gasped and placed a hand over his heart, feigning deep offense. “Wow. Rude. That’s it. No mercy now.”

But the next round wasn’t harder. Just longer. More openings for conversation. Less overwhelming speed.

Eventually, Dick caught Tim’s wrist and held it—not hard, just firmly enough to pause the motion.

“You’ve been training solo a lot,” he said, voice calm.

Tim froze for a second, his eyes flickering up, uncertain. “Yeah. Bruce is busy.”

“Mm.” Dick let go and stepped back. “You like it? Working alone?”

Tim hesitated. He hated that—that pause. Like his brain hadn’t decided whether to lie yet. “It’s… fine.”

Dick didn’t say anything for a beat. His face perfectly blank. Just letting the answer hang in the air like it hadn’t quite landed.

“Alfred says you’ve been doing well,” he said eventually, circling lazily back to his bag and tossing Tim a water bottle. “Smart in the field. Fast. Stubborn as hell.”

Tim caught it, surprised. “He said that?”

“‘Stubborn’ might’ve been my addition,” Dick admitted with a smile. “But yeah. He sees it. So do I.”

Tim wasn’t sure what to do with that. Dick looked sincere when he said it. He twisted the cap off and took a sip, just to avoid having to answer.

“Look, I’m not here to make things weird,” Dick added, his tone dipping a little more serious. “I just… wanted to see how you’re doing. Actually doing. You know, with Mr. Broody around.”

Tim shrugged, avoiding eye contact, not laughing at the joke. “I’m fine.”

Dick nodded like he expected that answer. “Sure. And I’m Batman.”

Tim’s mouth twitched despite himself.

“Let’s take five,” Dick said, sitting cross-legged on the mat like he hadn’t just been sparring. “And then maybe you can tell me what the hell happened to your ribs.”

That made Tim go still.

Dick didn’t push. Just sat there, posture relaxed, letting the quiet stretch. Not a threat. Just… there.

And for some reason, that made Tim want to tell him everything and nothing at the same time. He swallowed hard and broke eye contact in favor of staring at the mat.

~

Tim and Dick went through a few more sessions together. Practicing moves. Running through a couple maneuvers Dick thought might come in handy on day-to-day patrols. Honestly, Dick was a little horrified that Bruce hadn’t taught them to Tim yet—but he kept his mouth shut for now.

Tim seemed genuinely excited to learn something new every time. He practically hung on Dick’s every word as he explained techniques or told anecdotes from his own time as Robin to go along with them.

Even though Dick didn’t miss how on edge Tim seemed.

He hadn’t missed how closed-off Tim became earlier, either—but that was a conversation for another time. The kid needed time to open up, and he’d only known Dick for what, a couple of weeks?

Still, it didn’t stop him from voicing one of his concerns as they wrapped up training for the day.

“I’ve been thinking, Timmers,” he started carefully as Tim finished putting away their gear. “Have you considered stopping... this? Eventually?” He gestured vaguely around the cave.

Tim froze immediately, and Dick winced internally—so much for the gentle approach.

“What?” Tim turned toward him, brows furrowed and lips pressed tightly together.

Dick sighed. “You know this isn’t safe, Tim. The last kid wearing that suit literally died.” His voice caught slightly on the word. It was easier to crack jokes about him than to say out loud that his baby brother died and he’d never have the chance to… nevermind.

Tim pulled off his gloves and let them hit the table with a soft thump. “You’re joking.”

Dick stepped beside the table and leaned against it, arms crossed in his classic 

I’m-the-older-Robin-I-know-better stance. “I’m serious, Tim. You’re so smart, kiddo. You could do anything. Why put yourself in danger like this?”

His voice softened at the end. He couldn’t hide the worried furrow between his brows.

Apparently, just like Tim couldn’t hide his anger—because the boy laughed. That humorless laugh. The kind you let out when you can’t believe what you’re hearing.

“Oh, that’s just rich, coming from you.”

Dick’s eyebrows furrowed further. “That’s not—”

Tim cut him off. “You didn’t know what he was like!” His voice sharp like a steel blade, raw anger etched across his face. “Do you think I wanted to be Robin? Why do you think I came to you—literally begged you—to be Robin again if that was my goal?!”

His fists balled at his sides as he kept going. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see how broken he was!”

Dick swallowed hard. “Tim, I can’t be Robin any—” he started gently.

“No!” Tim shouted, his voice echoing through the cave. “You don’t get to swoop in and try to save me when you’re the reason I’m here in the first place! I’m here because you didn’t want to come back after Jason died!”

Dick took a step back. “That’s not fair, Tim. I—”

“He almost killed himself, Dick!” Tim was breathing heavily now. “If you’d actually read the statistics I gave you instead of just sending me on my merry way, you’d have seen that he almost killed other people too!”

Tim blinked hard against the angry tears rising in his eyes. “Do you know how many times I called 911 or performed first aid on someone and it saved their life, Dick? That is why I’m here. And if you won’t do it, someone else has to—because Batman needs Robin.”

He swallowed hard, grabbed his gloves, and disappeared into the changing room, leaving Dick stunned and alone in the cave.

He stared at the door Tim disappeared into for a while while he tried to get what just happened in order. Rubbing both hands over his tired eyes, he couldn’t help but be glad that Bruce had already left the cave.

Chapter Text

When Tim went home that evening—because Bruce had already left without him for patrol, and he tried not to be bitter about it—he was beyond mad at Dick.

No one was supposed to know about those things! He was supposed to handle stuff like that on his own. Tim had no business being mad about any of it, because in the end he could have turned away from everything. He chose the mantle, and now he suffered the consequences.

Tim could handle all of that on his own, thank you very much.

Why did Dick feel the need to butt into it? Everything was going fine!

He sat in his room at home, reading over open cases Bruce had lying around, trying to distract himself from his thoughts. There was no use dwelling on it anyway.

It’s not like Dick actually cared. Sure, maybe he cared in the basic sense. Tim was a kid, and he was sure Dick didn’t want him dead—but no more than that. He would lose interest soon enough. Most people did.

~

Meanwhile, Dick was pacing around his makeshift apartment.

How did he fuck up that talk so terribly? They were doing well! And he just had to fuck it up.

He plopped down on the couch with a frustrated groan, burying his face behind his hands. How the hell was he supposed to approach the kid after that?

It's not like the kid was right... right? 

No that's ridiculous! He was not at fault for Bruce's incapability to have normal human conversations. You know, with feelings and stuff. But the more he thought about it the more unsure he got. 

Not about the thing with Bruce but how that might have come across for a literal child. 

In Tim's mind he had said no and basically forced his hand. Not intentionally—Tim is too smart to actually belive that—but still. And of course Tim wouldn't just drop it like that. He should have known that much. 

Tim literally figured out the best kept secret in Gotham at nine years old, for fuck's sake! Of course he wouldn't just drop it. 

Leaning forward on his knees, Dick stared at the floor. His brows furrowing as his mind replayed the conversation in his head for the hundredth time and getting stuck on one particular statement.

Had it really been that bad with B? He never bothered to check on Bruce or Alfred, too mad at them to do much but yell after everything that happened with Ja- his little brother.

Maybe the kid would reconsider his decision if he made sure Bruce was not an danger to himself? Not that it was his job to do so but... 

Dick sighed. Maybe he should ask Tim for those statistics… 

~

Dick found himself at the doorstep of Drake Manor not too long after, nervous as shit about what he was about to do. But hell, he’d already come all the way out to Bristol, and he sure as fuck wasn’t about to hang out at Wayne Manor—so he might as well just press the damn doorbell and get it over with.

What the hell was his issue—

The door cracked open from the inside, icy blue eyes staring up at him beneath a fringe of black hair.

“You’ve been standing there for over ten minutes,” Tim said, his face pulled into a vaguely angry expression. “What do you want?”

Dick swallowed hard, stunned into silence for a moment. He just stared at the boy, wondering how the hell he knew he was coming—there weren’t any cameras?

Tim rolled his eyes with an annoyed huff and started to close the door when Dick finally snapped into motion, holding it open and fixing him with a pleading look.

“Wait! Please, Tim, I—”

He saw Tim’s expression darken and swallowed again.

“I swear I wasn’t trying anything. Or whatever terrible scenario you came up with in that big brain of yours,” Dick added with a weak smile, trying to lighten the mood with a half-assed jab before his tone turned serious again. “I wanted to take a look at your file. You know—the one about Batman.”

Dick’s voice grew quieter the longer he spoke. By the end, he turned his face away in shame—it wasn't a lie. That was what he came here for!

“You—what?” Tim asked, suspicion and surprise written all over his face.

Dick sighed deeply. “Listen, Tim, the truth is—I don’t know how bad Bruce was, or is. And I… I can’t make myself care about that right now. But I worry about you, kiddo. And if Bruce is being an ass, then I need to know.”

He looked up, watching the stunned expression on Tim’s face. After a few moments, the boy reluctantly stepped aside.

“…Okay,” Tim said, in the smallest voice Dick had ever heard from him. He added more firmly, “But we have to be quick, ok? My parents are coming home from Peru again and said they might stay long enough to celebrate my birthday with me.”

He looked so hopeful when he said it, even though it was very clear he hadn’t meant to. His cheeks burned in shame.

Dick didn’t even pretend it didn’t break his heart. He just didn't comment on it.

~

The manor was incredibly modern in its design. The Drakes seemed to prefer a sleek and clean aesthetic over the old-money look most people of their status favored.

He had to admit, he preferred Wayne Manor, with its worn furniture and warm colors, over the eerie quiet of this place. With its blinding white-and-gray color scheme and the ever-present smell of cleaning products, the whole place felt more like a museum—and Tim treated it the same.

He gave some offhand commentary on the decor—expensive artifacts his parents dragged in from around the world—as they passed, but otherwise kept quiet in the long halls.

Tim himself seemed… tense, for lack of a better word. He’d been tense in the Cave, too, but there it had felt like anticipation. Here… Dick didn’t know.

The kid held himself like Dick had seen his parents do at galas: back and shoulders straight, head level, arms positioned neatly in front of his body. It was incredibly unnerving to see a kid walk like that—like he was performing.

Relief only came when Tim immediately relaxed the moment they stepped into his room, posture shifting into something more natural, more like a kid in his own space.

It was that change that made Dick almost miss how different Tim’s room looked compared to the rest of the house.

Clothes were scattered on the floor, and case files littered the desk. Band posters were hung all over the walls. Despite the pale-colored walls, the room felt darker—cozier. The curtains were drawn shut, the only light coming from a desk lamp, a nightstand lamp, and a string of faerie lights draped over shelves stacked with LEGO sets.

It was messy, sure—but cozy. Honestly? Dick understood. If he had to live in that ice-cold, perfect house, he’d want something he could mess up too.

“You can sit on the bed if you’d like,” Tim said offhandedly, and Dick did just that.

It didn’t take long for Tim to find the file in the mess on his desk, like he knew exactly where everything was. Dick couldn’t help the tiny smile at the thought. What was that Einstein quote again?

He looked up when Tim came to stand in front of him, holding out the file. Dick hesitated only a little before taking it and opening the damn thing.

He didn’t give any outward reaction as he flipped through the statistics one by one, but he couldn’t help the twist in his gut. Tim had been meticulous, comparing Batman’s time alone to his time with the first and then the second Robin—and then the time after Jason died.

It was outlined clearly: Batman’s brutality dropped when he worked with Dick and Jason, then shot up drastically after Jason’s death.

Dick swallowed hard at the numbers, but they were nothing compared to the pictures. Not only the ones Tim used to prove their identities, but also Batman’s… victims. There was no other word for the people unlucky enough to cross the Dark Knight’s path.

He stared in horror at the blob of blood and swelling that must have been a criminal before Batman got to him. He realized he’d been staring too long when Tim tugged the picture from his hand, then pulled the others from the file too.

“He’s Peter Bennett, 43. Robbed a convenience store. He was in the hospital for months before they deemed him ready for rehab.” Tim flipped to the next. “She’s Kara Morgan, 36. Robbed a pharmacy to get her little boy his lifesaving insulin. She ended up with permanent cognitive issues from blunt force head trauma, and her kid had to go to the hospital for his diabetes. He almost didn’t make it. This is Michael Schmidt, 55. He’s still in the hospital, medically induced coma, after he tried to steal a car.”

Tim stopped. There were more pictures, but he just put them back.

“There were more, but these three were the worst. I checked in on them after a while…” He trailed off, lowering his gaze. “That’s how I knew they wouldn’t have had good chances it if I hadn’t given them first aid and called 911.” The last part came out almost as a whisper.

Dick felt his eyes water and acid burn the back of his throat as he stared at this kid. Furious at Bruce, yes—but his heart was breaking for Tim.

Breaking for this tiny boy who followed his heroes and was rewarded with a lifetime of trauma. Breaking for the kid who tried to help people and was disrespected, ignored, shoved around in return.

No, Bruce wasn’t his responsibility, but he shouldn’t have to be Tim’s either—no matter how self-imposed his task was.

He felt sick, tears threatening to spill as he reached out. To tug Tim into a hug. To promise him none of this was his job. To apologize. Anything.

But the moment was interrupted by a ping from Tim’s laptop, open on a live security system— ah, so that’s where he saw Dick standing in front of his door. The boy jumped up to check it, and the unease vanished from his face the moment he saw the screen.

“My parents are home!” he said, turning back with a wide smile.

Chapter Text

Dick watched as Tim quickly grabbed different clothing from the closet and ran to the bathroom to change. 

Later he’d tell himself that he was just cought off guard when it happened and that's why he didn’t think to just jump out the window to avoid his Dad’s neighbors. Instead he stayed seated on the bed blinking at the closed bathroom door, reeling from the sudden whiplash of emotions he'd just experienced.

Well, he had time to dwell on it later. For now, he tried to get his bearings. He figured he’d done a decent job of pulling himself together, because when Tim emerged—slacks and a neat polo shirt that didn’t seem like something he’d normally wear—the kid didn’t call him out. Instead, he led Dick to the entry hall, giddy with excitement, where his parents were already waiting, their expressions impatient.

“Timothy!” Janet began sharply. “Where have you—oh. Hello, Richard.” She cut herself off when she saw Dick trailing behind Tim. The boy had already resumed his perfect posture, while Dick kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, offering an easy smile.

Jack raised an eyebrow. “No offense, Richard, but what are you doing here?”

Dick opened his mouth to cook up a half-convincing excuse for why he was alone with their underage son in their house, but Tim beat him to it.

“He saw me taking photographs outside on the manor grounds and invited me on the Wayne property to take some over there as well, Father!” Tim lied with unsettling ease.

“We were just reviewing the products together, and I showed him some of my other work as well. We must have lost track of time.” Not an outright lie this time. Dick didn’t mind—he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth

“Yes, exactly. I apologize for coming into your house unannounced,” Dick added, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “But Tim’s photos are truly amazing. He clearly has a passion for it.” He turned to Tim. “If you’re willing, I’d love to take a look at the rest and discuss them later.”

He smiled warmly at Tim, hoping the subtle double meaning wasn’t lost on him. Tim returned a flash of seriousness and nodded.

“Of course. We could—”

“Oh, Richard.” Janet’s syrupy voice interrupted. “It is very sweet that you indulge Timothy’s little… hobbies, but there is no need for that.”

Dick felt a shiver run down his back at the easy dismissal but kept his expression cheerful. It became especially hard when he saw Tim’s perfect posture falter just a fraction, disappointment washing over him for a brief moment before he corrected himself. Those tiny movements were clear as day to Dick–why weren’t they to them?

“No, no, Janet. I insist,” Dick said firmly. “In fact, I believe Tim has real talent here.” That wasn’t even a lie—the pictures were good. “I think I’d even like to buy some of them!” He added, letting a little jab slip in as payback for Janet’s dismissal. He just hoped it landed. There was no way to tell with his eyes fixed on Tim. 

It was kind of adorable seeing the little signs of shyness peeking through at the comments so he decided to just continue the game a little. Just to tease a little. 

He shot a polite gala smile at the Drakes before turning to Tim again. “You truly have something special. With good marketing, you could get really famous. But that’s for later. I’d like to have some of your work before you get too busy.” He winked at Tim and grinned at the slight blush his compliment caused.

A brief–and very uncomfortable– goodbye later, Dick was on his way back to his apartment. He wasn’t done investigating the Drakes’ whereabouts over the last few years and wanted to make sure Tim had a proper birthday present waiting when he got back. 

A boy only turns 14 once, after all!

~

The mood at the manor was tense after Dick left, but that was alright. Dad ruffled his hair while helping with luggage, and Mom mentioned she would “take a look at those pictures Richard had been looking at.”

It felt good. Dick had complimented his pictures and promised to discuss the Batman file later. Tim was very, very happy. So happy, in fact, that he had no problem telling Batman he couldn’t patrol for the next fifteen days. Usually that made him feel guilty, but with Dick in Gotham, Batman would be kept in check. Everything was going well.

Tim had enjoyed the few days with his parents around, which made him almost forget that his mother wanted to see the pictures. She hadn’t brought it up again—until he approached her study with the photos.

Of course, these weren’t the actual shots of Batman and Robin, but backup images of the manor grounds at various lightings and situations—ones Tim liked best. He knocked on the door.

No response. He grumbled a little, knocking again. Finally, he heard rustling inside, and Janet opened the door.

“Yes, Timothy?” Her expression was stern. “I am very busy, so make it quick, please.”

Tim nodded quickly. “Yes, Mom. I brought the pictures Dick and I were looking at the other day.”

She picked up papers she’d been reading, glanced up, and corrected, “His name is Richard, Timothy. That nickname is very old and unbecoming. Thank you. Put them on my desk and return to reviewing your school material for next year.”

Tim complied but added, “I already reviewed the important parts of the curriculum earlier this break. I’m confident in the material.”

“Review it again, if it’s just to keep you busy. I need to get work done. I will see you at dinner.” She turned back to her papers.

Tim swallowed hard. “Of course, Mom. Sorry for interrupting.”

“You are forgiven. Now go.”

He left, closing the door gently behind him, trying not to feel too hurt. It was fine. His parents were busy. That was normal.

~

Tim spent the day reviewing case files and sending evidence to Bruce. It kept him occupied until dinner, which was ordered from an extravagant restaurant. His parents chattered about Rome and upcoming trips; Tim asked questions about the last one. He felt good—until he ruined it himself.

“Hey, Mom. Did you have a chance to look at those pictures?”

She sighed and exchanged a look with his father. “No, Timothy. I was busy today. I’ll take a look tomorrow.”

Tim blinked, stunned. “But it took so long to make and edit them! I’d really like it if—”

“Timothy,” his father interrupted, raising an eyebrow, “that is no way to speak to your mother.”

“But—” Tim started, feeling helpless.

His mother’s honeyed tone cut him off. “Timothy, you seem agitated. Why don’t you step outside for a moment and regain your composure?” She smiled, but there was a sharp edge to it.

Tim’s shoulders slumped slightly. “No, Mother. I can finish dinner.”

“Good. Eat now; your food is getting cold, Timothy.”

~

That night, a bad feeling settled in Tim’s chest. The next morning, the house was quiet; his parents were nowhere to be seen, cooped up in their studies. He didn’t dare interrupt, no disappointment left—just quiet resignation.

His eyes lingered on the expensive, durable suitcases packed by the door. When his parents finally appeared, his father fiddled with a lock, his mother murmured something in French on the phone, then snapped it shut, slinging her purse over one shoulder.

“Oh, Tim,” she said, brushing past him with barely a glance, “we need to head to the airport earlier than expected. There was a change in the itinerary.”

Jack checked his watch. “Yes, your mother’s contact moved the meeting up—nothing we could do about it.”

Tim’s gaze flicked to the bags. “But… it’s—”

“We’ll call you from the hotel,” Janet interrupted, adjusting her bag strap as she opened the door. “You know how chaotic these trips can be.”

They didn’t seem sad about missing their only child’s birthday. But Tim understood. It was fine. They were busy people.