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Jack had the conversation planned out in his head for three days before he actually tried to have it.
He'd practiced the words while staring at the ceiling at 2 AM, knowing Tim's bed was empty down the hall. He'd rehearsed them during physical therapy, when his legs screamed and all he could think about was how he couldn't chase after his son even if he wanted to. He'd gone over every possible response, every way Tim might react, trying to find the path that would get his boy to just talk to him.
None of it helped when Tim actually walked through the door at 3:48 PM on a Tuesday, backpack slung over one shoulder, new bruise blooming purple across his collarbone where his shirt had shifted.
"Tim," Jack called from the living room. "Got a minute?"
His son appeared in the doorway, and Jack watched him do a quick scan of the room—checking the doors, maybe, or just trying to see if he could figure out what this was about. What the threat could be. When had Tim started doing that? When had he started moving like something hunted?
"Sure," Tim said, but he didn't sit down. "What's up?"
"Sit with me," Jack said, keeping his voice light. "Just want to talk."
Tim perched on the edge of the couch, spine straight, ready to bolt. The backpack stayed on his shoulder.
"How was school?" Jack asked.
"Fine."
"Yeah? How'd you do on that history test you were worried about?"
Something flickered across Tim's face—surprise, maybe. "Uh. Got a B plus. Studied with Bruce the night before."
Of course he did. "That's good. I'm glad you had help with it."
Tim's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Yeah. He's actually really good at explaining things."
"I'm sure he is." Jack shifted in his wheelchair, trying to find a comfortable position that didn't exist. "Tim, I wanted to talk to you about something. And I need you to hear me out before you get defensive, okay?"
The tension snapped back into Tim's spine. "Okay..."
"I know you've been sneaking out at night," Jack said quietly. "I don't know how—your window doesn't open wide enough, and I'd hear the front door. But I know you're leaving. Almost every night."
Tim's face went carefully blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Please don't lie to me," Jack said, and he couldn't keep the exhaustion out of his voice. "I'm not going to yell at you. I'm not going to punish you. I just.. I need to understand what's going on."
"Nothing's going on."
"Tim." Jack leaned forward. "You're fourteen years old. You're barely sleeping. Your grades are dropping. You're coming home with bruises. Something is clearly going on, and I'm worried about you."
"You don't need to worry," Tim said, standing up. "Everything's fine."
"It's not fine!" Jack's voice rose despite himself. "You think I don't notice that you're exhausted all the time? That you're jumpy and secretive and you won't look me in the eye anymore?"
"Maybe that's because every time you look at me, you're looking for something wrong!" Tim shot back.
"Because something is wrong! My son is sneaking out every night to god knows where, doing god knows what—"
"I'm at Bruce's," Tim interrupted. "Is that what you want to hear? I'm at Bruce's house. That's where I go."
Jack's stomach dropped. "Every night?"
"Most nights. Yeah." Tim crossed his arms defensively. "So what?"
"So you're spending every night at a grown man's house and you don't see why that concerns me?"
"He's my friend," Tim said, but there was something fragile in his voice now.
"Tim, he's thirty-three years old. You're fourteen. That's not—" Jack caught himself, forced his voice to stay level. "That's not a normal friendship."
"Normal," Tim repeated, and he laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Right. Because everything about my life is so normal. Dead mom, dad in a coma, living alone in this huge house—"
"You weren't alone," Jack interrupted. "Bruce was watching you. Taking care of you."
"Yeah, he was!" Tim's voice cracked. "Because nobody else gave a damn! Not your business partners, not any of our family, nobody!"
There was a pause.
"I know," Jack said quietly. "I know he was there for you when I couldn't be. And I'm grateful for that. But Tim, don't you think it's strange that he wants you there so much? That a man his age wants to spend every single night with a teenage boy?"
"He's just being nice," Tim said, but he sounded less certain now.
"People can be nice without needing you at their house until god knows what hour," Jack pressed. "They can be nice without—Tim, you're coming home hurt. All the time. Where are these bruises coming from?"
"I'm clumsy," Tim said automatically.
"You're not clumsy. You've never been clumsy." Jack's hands gripped the armrests of his wheelchair. "What's happening over there?"
"Nothing's happening!" Tim backed toward the doorway. "We just hang out, okay? We talk and—and do stuff together. Normal stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"
"I don't know! Regular stuff! Why does it matter?"
"Because I'm your father," Jack said desperately. "Because you're my son and I need to know you're safe."
"I'm safe!" Tim shouted. "I'm safer there than I am anywhere else!"
The words hit Jack like a slap. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
"No, tell me. Safer from what?"
"Just—" Tim's hands were shaking. "It doesn't matter. You wouldn't understand anyway."
"Try me," Jack said. "Please, Tim. Help me understand why you need to be at Bruce Wayne's house every single night. Help me understand why that feels safer than being here with me."
"Because you weren't here!" Tim's voice broke. "You were in a coma and before that you were always traveling and I was alone all the time and Bruce—Bruce actually wanted me around! He actually cared about what I was doing!"
"I care about what you're doing," Jack said. "That's why I'm asking—"
"No, you care about controlling what I'm doing," Tim interrupted. "There's a difference."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Tim's eyes were wet now. "The second you wake up, suddenly you're interested in my life? Where were you before, Dad? Where were you when I actually needed you?"
The words carved something hollow in Jack's chest. "I know I wasn't there enough before the accident. I know I missed things, and I'm sorry. But I'm here now, and I'm trying to protect you."
"Protect me from what?" Tim demanded. "From the only person who's actually been there for me?"
"From whatever is happening at that house that you won't tell me about!" Jack's voice rose. "Tim, Bruce Wayne had two other boys living with him. Did you know that?"
"Of course I know that," Tim said quietly.
"One of them is dead," Jack said. "The other one is completely estranged from Bruce now. Won't even visit. Don't you think that's strange?"
"People grow apart," Tim said, but his voice wavered.
"Tim, they both looked like you," Jack said quietly. "Dark hair, blue eyes, about your age when Bruce took them in. And now you're there every night, coming home hurt, and you won't tell me why."
"It's not—" Tim's breath was coming faster now. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
"I can't!"
"Why not?"
"Because you'll ruin everything!" Tim shouted. "You'll take it away from me just like you take away everything else!"
"I'm not trying to take anything away," Jack said desperately. "I'm trying to keep you safe."
"By what? Forbidding me from seeing Bruce? Locking me in my room?" Tim's voice was vicious now. "Good luck with that. You can barely get up the stairs."
The silence that followed was deafening. Tim's face paled as he realized what he'd said.
"Tim—"
"I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did," Jack said quietly. His hands were shaking. "You're right. I can't stop you. I can't follow you. I can't even check your room at night to make sure you're there. You could walk out that door right now and there's nothing I could do about it."
Tim's eyes were streaming now. "Dad, I didn't—"
"But I can call CPS," Jack continued, and his voice was hollow. "I can report that my teenage son is staying overnight at an adult man's house against my wishes. I can make this official."
"You wouldn't," Tim whispered.
"I don't want to," Jack said. "God, Tim, I don't want to. But I will if I have to. If that's what it takes to keep you safe."
"Safe from what?" Tim's voice cracked. "What do you think is happening over there?"
Jack met his son's eyes and saw the fear there, the desperate need for him to say something, anything else. But he couldn't lie.
"I don't know," he said finally. "That's what scares me. I don't know what's happening, and you won't tell me, and all I can see is my son disappearing more and more every day into that house with a man who—"
"Who what?" Tim challenged. "Say it. What do you think Bruce is doing to me?"
Jack's throat closed up. He couldn't say it. Couldn't put that accusation into words, couldn't do that to Tim. To himself.
"I think something is wrong," he said instead. "That's all. Just—something is wrong, and I need to figure out what it is."
"There's nothing wrong," Tim said, but his voice shook. "Everything is fine. I'm fine."
"You're not fine!" Jack's voice broke. "Look at yourself, Tim! You're exhausted and jumpy and you're lying to me constantly and I don't—I don't know how to reach you anymore!"
"Maybe you can't," Tim said quietly. "Maybe I'm not the same person I was before Mom died."
"I know you're not," Jack said. "How could you be? But that doesn't mean I'm going to stand by and watch you—" He stopped himself.
"Watch me what?"
"Put yourself in danger."
"I'm not in danger," Tim said. "The only danger I'm in is from you. From you trying to take away the one good thing I have left."
"The one good thing?" Jack stared at his son. "What about me? What about your family?"
"What family?" Tim's voice was bitter. "It's just you and me, Dad. And we’re… we’re broken. You can't even take care of yourself, let alone me."
Each word was a knife. Jack felt them all, precise and devastating.
"Get out," he said quietly.
Tim blinked. "What?"
"Get out," Jack repeated, louder now. "If I'm so useless, if Bruce Wayne is so much better than me, then go. Go to him. Stay there. See if I care."
"Dad—"
"I said get out!" Jack's voice cracked. "Go run to Bruce! Go be his next son! Maybe you'll last longer than they did!"
Tim's face crumpled. "I hate you," he whispered.
"The feeling's mutual," Jack lied.
Tim grabbed his backpack and ran. Jack heard the front door slam, heard his son's footsteps pounding down the walkway. Heading away from him. Toward Bruce.
Jack sat there in his wheelchair in the empty living room, his hands shaking so hard he had to grip the armrests to stop them. He'd done exactly what he'd sworn he wouldn't do. He'd pushed Tim away. Sent him running straight into the arms of.. of whatever Bruce Wayne was.
His phone was in his pocket. He could call Bruce's house right now. Could demand his son come home. Could threaten to call the police.
But Tim was right. What would he tell them? That his son was voluntarily visiting a neighbor? That he had a bad feeling?
Jack dropped his head into his hands, elbows braced on his knees. The house was so quiet. Tim's bedroom door was open upstairs, and Jack could see the empty hallway from where he sat. How many nights had that room been empty while Jack sat down here, useless and oblivious?
"If only you were here, Janet," he whispered into the empty room.
She would have known what to say. Would have known how to talk to Tim without it exploding into whatever the hell that was. She would have known whether Jack was right to be terrified or right to be ashamed.
She would have been able to climb those stairs and check on their son. Would have been able to follow him, protect him.
She would have been able to do all the things Jack couldn't do anymore.
"If only you were here," he said again, and his voice broke on the words. "God, Jan, if only you were here."
But she wasn't. She was gone, and Tim was gone, and Jack was alone in this house with nothing but his fears and his wheelchair and the terrible certainty that he'd just made everything so much worse.
Somewhere next door, Bruce Wayne had his son. And there wasn't a damn thing Jack could do about it except sit here in the dark and pray he was wrong about everything.
The silence pressed in on him. Jack closed his eyes and tried to remember what Tim had looked like before—before Janet died, before the coma, before Bruce Wayne. Happy, maybe. Or at least not this haunted, hunted thing that flinched away from his own father's concern.
He'd lost that boy somewhere along the way. Lost him to grief and trauma and his own failures as a parent. And now he was losing him to Bruce Wayne too, watching helplessly as his son chose a stranger over his own family.
Maybe Tim was right. Maybe Jack was the danger here. Maybe he'd just destroyed the last good thing his son had, all because Jack couldn't stand to feel this helpless. This useless.
Jack didn't move from the wheelchair. Didn't turn on any lights as the room grew darker. Just sat there alone, thinking about Jason Todd's sealed autopsy and Dick Grayson's estrangement and his own son's bruised body and exhausted eyes.
"If only you were here," Jack whispered one more time into the empty house. "If only you were here."
But Janet was gone, and Tim was gone, and Jack sat alone in the dark, wondering how he could even save his son without destroying him.