Chapter Text
Tommy poured a large amount of milk into his bowl, letting it collide with the dry oats. The already-placed sugar combined with the milky texture, later being made one by a metal spoon. The oats laid flat at the bottom, overtaken by the whiteness of the milk.
He placed it inside the microwave, shut it, and put one minute on the timer.
The microwave beeped. Taking the bowl out, he placed it on the dinner table. He sat down, took the metal spoon in hand, and began to eat the porridge.
The porridge looked beige and syrupy—cushy too. But he ate it like that; his typical breakfast meal. He had no complaints and ate it without much thought. It slid down his throat, entering his stomach, filling him up after only a few bites.
Before cleaning up, he made his sleeping father a bowl too, setting it on his side table and kissing him on the forehead before he left for work. He roamed through the street until he found his tiny convenience store in the corner. The sign lit up, flashing a blue light.
He entered and went straight to the back, letting the previous night’s worker go, giving him encouraging words and a light goodbye.
Tommy opened his mouth in a yawn, a yawn that lasted a whole minute, relaxing his vocal cords. He stretched his arms into the air, and returned to the counter, flattening them as he leaned forward and felt tempted to stretch again.
By the next hour, customers swarmed in, the morning rush commencing. A new customer every minute—some with children, others with dogs—all entering for regular goods, and some for their one-dollar coffee. He rang them up at record speed.
By the time the hour came to a close, the same young man—Dick—the one who seemingly crept on him at least once a day, hurried to meet him at the counter.
Tommy greeted him with a smile. A normal thing for him he felt—he was right on schedule, showing up at precisely 9 a.m every morning. “Sir, how’s the morning going? Any good sleep?” A charming, neutral response to a regular customer. Although, he had quickly found Dick to be a creep. Just strange and perpetually staring at Tommy like a madman.
Dick faced his pockets, struggling to find his wallet again. He could only mutter back a ‘Good,’ unconvincingly. Tommy always laughed at his lack of coordination. He leaned in, watching Dick as he finally found his wallet in his jacket pocket, having been hidden by a few scraps of cash. His two items were the same as usual: a cold can of soda and a large bag of chips—this time Hot Cheetos.
Tommy followed as generally as he could, making small talk. Dick, in return, would respond blankly and timidly, like Tommy was a giant, scary man and not a scrawny twenty-one-year-old adult. His eyes always found themselves positioned on Tommy, like he was studying him and as if he was taking mental notes. His stares always made Tommy uncomfortable. Tommy never said much but as he felt this tension only grow and gnaw at him, he felt like he should. Finally having found the courage in his throat to speak up, he decided today he would, even if it was just a sheepish comment.
He cleared his throat, the scratchiness of his sleep leaving him. “I have to say something. If you think my idea is completely wrong, say so. But…” he trailed off, distracted by the money on screen. He turned to rummage through the register for the correct change, starting again: “I—well—have you been coming to see me on purpose?” He piled the money on the counter, lining the bills up one over the other.
Dick stopped in his place, lifting his head slightly. Those same eyes trapped him—the ghost still ran throughout his mind. Tommy. Jason. All of it, the same. But Dick tried to figure out what to say, realizing he had nothing that would actually convince Tommy.
“Why?” He asked.
“I just… I’m uncomfortable, sir. That you come here for that reason. If it’s true.”
Dick breathed in. Tommy thought of him as a creep—a pervert—and he was everything but. “I didn’t realize… It’s not because of that, I…”
Tommy raised his brows and looked at him lazily, gazing at him like he’d open his mouth and refute his suspicions. “Sir?”
The struggle in his mouth clear and coarse, his tongue itching to help him, Dick bit his lip, replacing his stare at Tommy with another object in the vicinity. “It’s nothing. I… I apologize. If you thought of me like that.”
“I just…”
Tommy felt guilt wandering in his chest like carbonated soda, his stomach already bursting from an anxiety that drove him awry. “Sometimes you see people a lot—familiar faces—but it gets strange to a point, y’know? I’m not saying you’re not allowed to come, but… if you could, you don’t have to see me every day. You don’t live here from what I’ve seen; you can shop somewhere closer to where you live.”
Dick dropped his gaze. “How do you know I don’t live here?”
Tommy chuckled nervously.
“What’s your last name again?”
“Grayson.”
He quieted his voice like he was saying an unspoken truth. “No one around here is named Dick Grayson, sir.” It was like a scoff—in a softer form, no gesture, just words that collapsed within Dick’s thoughts. Dick Grayson’s eyes widened; his cover was practically blown. It was unbearable.
Tommy leaned back, looking around for a crinkled-up bag. Seeing one near him, he grabbed it, flipping it until it puffed up. He dragged the items inside the bag. After finishing, he settled it in front of Dick, motioning it forward. Afterward, he lifted his chin, pursing his lips as he did—the money being the center of his mind, not the ended conversation.
Without having anything else to say, Dick decided to stay silent, to leave without any more issues or regrets. He grabbed the filled bag from the counter, holding it tightly and letting it glide to his side. The awkward conversation instantly made him feel creepy. He hadn’t thought his actions would be seen as such, but other people’s emotions were really something he rarely understood.
He didn’t make eye contact with Tommy, his heart already having dropped and his ideas broken. “I’m sorry. I’ll try not to come,” he spoke abruptly, ridding any sort of casualness.
Tommy nodded in acknowledgment. He turned his head, seeing another customer ready to replace Dick behind him. Dick only stepped to the side, twisting as he heard Tommy welcome the other person, a young woman with a child next to her. Dick’s showing up wasn’t meant to be considered creepy nor strange; he thought it was normal. Something someone that lived there would do. Then he thought of it again: that may have been the problem. He didn’t live here, there was no reason to be there, there was no reason to see Tommy in the city, neither were animals, neither would see each other out in the wild without any sort of real circumstance requiring them to.
He left the store, turning to the left as he saw Tommy through the window, reaching for another bag, his side profile the same—a large nose and bigger lips, only this time more red. A blush, maybe.
This was his sign to stop—and he did.
…
He dropped bags full of groceries on the kitchen counter, his back hurting from all the weight and the stairs he had climbed. He sighed in relief, jerking up and down until his discomfort went away.
Wanting to see if his dad was awake, he quickly regained his senses and strength and sauntered forward, entering his father’s room. The door had been slightly open since the morning.
He swiftly made it inside, cornering his dad as he jolted up from under the covers, struggling to find the wall behind him.
“I brought some groceries,” he said with a smile. “They’re on the counter. I brought your favorites.”
His dad kept coughing as his lungs struggled to catch up. He placed himself against the wall, feeling his legs fold underneath him, the aches still present more than ever, like they were drilling through his bone marrow. He huffed out, breathing intensely as he said, “Alright, thank you.” The breathing hadn’t gotten better—it only worried Tommy even more.
“You took your pills?” he asked, moving toward his side table. The bowl was still left with a half-full glass of water perched at its side; no remaining pieces of pills remained. Good.
“I always do!”
Tommy only laughed. He liked to tease him. “I just like asking. You know that.”
In his mind, he wanted to bring up the man again. It was a matter he always told his father about, even if he wasn’t remotely interested. Sometimes it would spark something in his mind; at other times he realized he had forgotten to grab his glasses. But maybe it wasn’t the time. “You need anything?”
He shook his head, yanking his arm toward the side table, almost clashing with the bowl and glass. As he found the weird-shaped remote and placed it on his stomach, Tommy—without any thought or real effort—said, “I have something to talk to you about.”
His dad looked at him attentively, giving him a nod, though his sight focused more on the TV.
“The same man keeps showing up. I told him to stop. Dick Grayson.” He fidgeted with his hands, watching as he twitched and twisted them. “It’s strange, right? Do you know him?”
“Dick… what?” his dad said, his hearing impaired, his sight briefly escaping him. “Say that again.”
He repeated, “Grayson. Dick Grayson.”
Pause.
He paused before scowling, the name sounding familiar. “Dick Grayson,” he muttered under his breath, his chest tensing up, his eyes narrowing toward his stomach. “Grayson…”
“So… do you know him? I’ve mentioned him before…”
No response.
“Dad?”
Again, no response.
Until finally,
“Get me some Coke.”
Hearing his request, he got up and attended to him, bringing him a glass of Coke in under a minute. Returning with it in hand, he took small steps so it wouldn’t drip anywhere.
As he gave him the Coke, he asked the question again, but it was as if his question was forgotten—never having been said. It annoyed Tommy. The only response given afterward was a set of false pants of pain, which Tommy took seriously until his dad shoved him out of the room.
He tried to forget—like those memories didn’t exist, like he wasn’t feeling as though something was missing.
His dad refused. Refusal was the thing in the way, and he didn’t like pestering his father; he was already too aged and gray. If any more questions were asked, he could sense his father’s heightened blood pressure, and he didn’t want that. His father was his whole world—his only family.
As he lay in bed, turning and rolling, deep down in the cavities of his system, there in the middle lay a secret—in the depths of his being—the truth was there, the truth he would take to his deathbed.
The glasses, the disguise of an old weak man, were used as a measure—a measure to keep himself hidden from the one person who crossed the walls, the one person who knew all. The one who could take him away.
A possessive secret only they knew.
He knew.
Everything.
He knew everything.
Who gave him Tommy. Who let him become his son.
Who let him be the one thing he wanted in this world: to be a father.
Jason Todd—the fourteen-year-old boy whose life stayed fourteen, whose life spanned beyond the most terrible of all: his death in the warehouse, the perpetrator, the arms he faded in. All of it was like a charm; it was there—the past.
Time wasn’t kind to him.
Not at first.
But in a matter of seconds, time denied him his death, resurrecting him, building him into a new life—a new glory. Being Thomas Lamb’s son.
It was what it wanted.
And Thomas would retain him—cherish him—until the day he died.
Because after all, Tommy Lambs was his son. No one else’s.
…
Bruce wandered near them, hidden from plain sight—carrying a briefcase, wearing a black suit, simply walking. A pair of sunglasses covered his eyes.
He walked near where they lived. He walked near Tommy’s work. He walked where Tommy spent his time. Only unlike Dick’s grand ideas, he stayed silent, away from view—sometimes in cars, other times pretending he was on the phone, saying the most random things.
Drawing attention could be useful, but Bruce never tried.
—
A different person. A different identity.
He was no longer Batman’s partner or Bruce’s son; he was someone unknown, someone among strangers.
That was all he could be.
—
It was all he could be. To Tommy, he could only ever be billionaire Bruce Wayne—not his father, not his foe, not his partner.
Bruce’s thoughts were small, unintelligible, incoherent at times, but he veered away from exposing anything—to anyone, not even Alfred. It was something only he could deal with.
That was one of the many reasons he told Dick to stay away. No problems meant no confrontation, and no theories.
That was fine.
That was all he needed.