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The principal’s office door remained closed and daunting.
Tim stared at the handle, unable to decide whether the wait was a gift or a curse. A part of him hoped the principal was busy, or maybe the incident slipped their mind. It wouldn’t be surprising, all things considered. It won’t be the first time someone forgets him.
One thing was for sure: Bruce was going to be disappointed.
He shifted his weight, the floor squeaking beneath his sneakers. The sound echoed loudly throughout the hallway. The silence grated on his nerves with every passing moment, the suffocating, oppressive sort. Silence meant something was coming–the calm before a storm. Moreover, his mind began to associate it with his bullies being up to something.
It was hysterical, really, how Tim could confront and defeat a thief with expertise, perform a triple summersault with his eyes closed, yet remain frozen as a statue when someone shoves him against a locker and demands that he surrender any money he had on him.
It hadn’t always been like this. It had started slowly–small enough things for him to brush off. Some whispers here whenever he passed by, an ultimately harmless rumor there–only that it worsened with time. At first Tim paid them no mind. But then one day, Tim discovered that the rumor had a face, and attached to it, a hand that he quickly learned was inclined to violence.
He never told Bruce about these recent developments. Were it up to Tim, he’d never have found out. Not because he doesn’t trust him. He trusted Bruce with his life, but this felt like the kind of thing that could change the way Bruce looked at him.
And Tim wasn’t sure he could survive that. So why bother, he’d ask himself every time he was left with a new bruise to hide. He became an expert at layering makeup over the purple-and-blue marks, if blaming it on the rogue-of-the-week wasn’t believable.
It wasn’t difficult to imagine. If Bruce found out, he’d be beyond disappointed in Tim—which would end with him being indefinitely benched. Telling the truth would meant his time as Robin would be over, and that was a risk he couldn't take.
And now, here he was, seated outside of the principal’s office waiting for the inevitable to happen like a misbehaving child. In the past, his parents' constant travel had been a shield; a call home usually hit a distracted assistant or an international dial tone.
But Bruce actually showed up. The realization made his stomach turn. For the first time Tim wasn’t facing a lecture, he’d be facing someone who cared enough to be disappointed.
He hoped Bruce wouldn’t get angry. Actually, throughout all the time he’d worked with Bruce, he’d never seen the man yell. His anger was expressed through quietness. It was visible in the way his jaw would tighten, how his fists would clench where he held them, and his eyes would narrow–and he’d seem far away, for a few moments. The opposite of his parents, who had always been more than vocal about their displeasure. With Tim’s parents you knew exactly what was wrong, how it happened, and when. With Bruce, however… he never knew if he was angry with him or not.
It left him walking on eggshells on more than one occasion, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Except it never did; not the way he feared.
Which left Tim in the dark, his stomach in knots, waiting for the downfall to happen. The uncertainty felt like a physical weight; a nausea that rolled through him in waves.
“Tim.”
Despite the secretary’s mild tone, it felt like a sharp knife had sliced through his thoughts. He felt briefly overcome with vertigo as he stood up, and it took a moment to steady himself. Tim tucked his hands deep into his sleeves, hiding his shaking fingers, and forced himself to take a step. As he crossed the threshold, the heavy click of the door closing behind him sounded like a gavel.
This is it, he thought. No hiding now. Secret’s out.
The room, though technically spacious, felt crowded and thick with tension. The principal, Mrs. Gable sat behind her desk with a posture that conveyed authority figure less, and more holding it together by a thread. She didn’t look angry per say, she looked like she needed three glasses of wine and a hard earned vacation.
Across from her was Reed, slouched in his chair, his jaw set in a defiant smirk that told the world how untouchable he thought he was. Which was partly true. No matter where he was, Reed acted as if he owned the room. He didn't just take up space—he demanded it.
Reed’s parents sat on either side of their son, periodically checking their watches and sighing audibly to convey how inconvenienced they were. They treated Tim’s presence as a mere hindrance on their day, like he was a piece of furniture that they couldn't quite move out of the way.
And then, there was Bruce Wayne.
He was seated in the leather chair with an intimidating effortless grace. He was wearing one of those immaculate, custom-tailored suits that he usually reserved for gala openings or particularly high-stakes board meetings—the kind of suit that meant he was present as not only the foster parent of Tim Drake in, but as a figure of authority.
His expression was a perfect mask of indifference and boredom. He didn’t look at Tim right away, and that lack of acknowledgement cut deeper than any reprimand.
To Bruce, Tim wasn't even a disappointment yet; he was simply invisible.
Tim felt a hard lump form in his throat, and he swallowed hard. He’s dressed up–Tim realized, a cold shiver racing down his spine. This wasn't just a school meeting where he threw a few smiles and placations and took him home, anymore. This was a statement.
Mrs. Gable rubbed the bridge of her nose, her glasses perched precariously on her forehead. When she finally looked up, her eyes softened as they landed on Tim, but the kindness was tempered by a weary, professional restraint.
"Thank you for coming in, Tim," she said, her voice quiet and dry. She didn't look at Reed's parents or Bruce as she added, "I wish it were under better circumstances. Again."
Tim perched on the edge of the chair beside Bruce’s, eyes down.
“This meeting,” the principal began, “concerns repeated harassment and, most recently, a direct threat of violence made on school grounds. We have witness statements and a recording.”
“Let’s not be dramatic,” Reed’s father interrupted, his voice smooth and entirely unbothered. “It’s a recording of a boy blowing off steam. This is an administrative hiccup, surely, not something that requires a formal audience. We’re all busy people.”
Mrs Kelley continued after her husband, adopting a smile to at least pretend at some cordiality.
“Surely it’s not this serious,” her tone was condescending, and thickly sweet. “They’re two teenage boys. They fought. It’s not so novel.”
Beside Tim, Bruce shifted. He didn’t say a word, but the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees with his silence.
The principal directed her attention back to Tim, eventually. “I’m disappointed at how this was allowed to escalate. Tim, you’re a brilliant student. Why didn't you come to us sooner?”
Tim opened his mouth, but the apology died in his chest. He wanted to explain, to beg for a flicker of understanding, but his throat had tightened into a hard, painful knot.
He felt small under the weight of everyone’s gazes.
After a long, agonizing beat, he only managed to let out a whisper, the words barely more than a creak: “I... I thought I could handle it.”
“So what?” Reed’s father scoffed. “You mean to tell me you’re suspending our son because this boy couldn’t take a joke?”
The room went quiet.
Bruce uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. The motion itself felt heavy–and with his previous stillness, it captured everyone’s attention.
And it was there when Tim realized this wasn’t the Bruce Wayne for cameras, the one who could make a joke about anything and collected vintage cars. In his place stood the real man: cold, towering, and terrifyingly still. This was the Bruce Wayne who owned the city and as his eyes settled on Reed’s parents, the air left the room.
He didn’t look angry; he looked like he was taking a silent inventory of how easily he could break them.
“If I may,” Bruce said, straightening. He rested a hand onto Tim’s shoulder without taking his eyes off of Mrs Gable, a heavy weight that anchored the boy to the spot.
“You seem to be operating under the impression that this is a schoolyard grievance,” Bruce said softly.
He looked directly at Reed’s father.
“Tim’s last name may be Drake. But he is also my son. And I find that I have very little patience for those who threaten my family.”
He looked at Reed next. He didn’t harden his expression–he didn’t need to. He simply looked at the boy with the cold, calculating eyes of a man who hunted monsters for a living.
“This ends today,” Bruce said, addressing both parents. “I expect my son to be able to attend this school without having to look over his shoulder. If I hear otherwise—if his name even crosses your son's lips—you won't be talking to the principal. You'll be talking to me.”
Reed’s parents turned a few shades whiter. Even the principal seemed to hold her breath.
“Thank you, Mr. Wayne,” she cleared her throat. “I believe that is sufficient. Reed, you are suspended effective immediately pending further review.”
***
From then everything felt like a blur. One moment, Tim was inside the principal’s office, the next, he was struggling to keep pace with Bruce’s long stride. The last couple of words were still ringing inside his ears.
Son.
Bruce had never used that word out loud, not since Jason. On paper, it was a two-years-old legal truth, but in reality, it felt like a title Tim hadn't earned. Hearing Bruce saying that word about him felt like a shock to the system. Tim searched Bruce’s face—for anything that would tell him it was all for show, but Bruce’s profile was unreadable.
They turned the corner, and the hallway suddenly felt much narrower.
Standing against a row of lockers like a gargoyle come to life was Jason Todd. He looked exactly like the kind of bodyguard you hired when you wanted people to be afraid. He didn’t say a word, just staring down a group of passing seniors until they practically tripped over themselves to get away.
Tim stopped, blinking at the sheer drama of it. "You know," Tim muttered, his voice still a bit thick, "that’s a pretty awful costume for a civilian."
Jason didn't move a muscle, but his eyes cut toward Tim with a sharp glint. "Oh, shut up, Replacement. This was a last-minute call. You’re lucky I didn’t show up in the helmet."
"The leather jacket and the scowl is a bit much for a Tuesday, don't you think?" Tim managed a weak smirk.
"It's called a vibe, Timmy. Learn it," Jason grumbled, finally pushing off the lockers. He stepped into line behind them, falling into a protective stride. "Besides, B made me leave the gun. This was the compromise."
“We’re leaving, Jason,” Bruce said.
They walked to the parking lot in a tight formation—with Bruce leading in the front, Jason shielding Tim from the prying eyes of the hallway. When they reached the car, Bruce stopped. He turned to Tim, his expression finally softening into something weary but deeply paternal.
“Tim,” Bruce said, blocking the wind. “Look at me.”
Tim looked up, his vision blurring. “I’m sorry, Bruce. I should’ve been better. I know Robin shouldn't have let it get this far.”
“Tim,” Bruce said firmly, his grip anchoring him. “I’m not angry. And you’re not in trouble. You’re a brilliant detective and a better partner, but in this building? You’re a kid who deserves to go to class in peace. You don't have to 'handle' everything alone. Do you understand?”
Tim looked up, his voice small and trembling against the sudden lump in his throat. “Back there... when you said it. To them. Did you mean it? Or was it just... for the performance?”
Bruce didn't hesitate. He didn't even blink. He leaned in, folding his arms around him in an embrace, his shadow blocking out the rest of the world until there were only the two of them.
“I meant every word, Tim,” Bruce said, his voice dropping into a register of absolute, quiet truth. “You are my son. Not just on a piece of paper, and not just when it’s convenient. Always.”
The tension that had been coiled in Tim's chest for years finally snapped, leaving a strange, warm ache in its place.
He swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah. I get it.”
“Good. And you’re not losing the cape,” Bruce added, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Though your situational awareness in the cafeteria clearly needs work.”
Bruce headed to the driver’s side, leaving Tim with Jason. Jason tossed a helmet at Tim’s chest, which Tim caught with a grunt.
“Nice going,” Jason smirked, jerking his thumb back at the school. “I honestly thought you were gonna snap and use some of those high-level pressure points on the Principal. I had my camera out and everything. Total disappointment.”
Tim rolled his eyes, the knot in his chest finally loosening. “I’m not you, Jason. I don’t solve every conversation with a roundhouse kick.”
“Sure, kid. Keep telling yourself that,” Jason teased, throwing a heavy arm around Tim’s neck and dragging him toward his motorcycle. “Anyway, get ready. B is in full ‘Protect the Brood’ mode. He’ll probably have the whole Manor in a panic room by dinner and give us all a six-hour lecture on 'De-escalation Tactics for Civilian Settings.'”
“Still better than a suspension,” Tim muttered.
“Barely,” Jason laughed, hopping onto the bike. “Come on. Let’s get home before Bruce decides to buy the school just so he can kick the kid for scowling at you.”
Tim climbed on behind him, the roar of the engine drowning out the lingering echoes of the office.
For the first time all day, he didn't feel like a failure.
He felt like a son.