Work Text:
Tim calls her halfway through her skincare routine. She’s just finished applying her c-serum, picking the remnants of cream from beneath her nails when his photo pops up on her screen—an old selfie of them in Robinson Park. There is mustard on his cheek.
The last time she’d seen him, his eyebags had eyebags, and he’d lost weight leaving an unnatural gauntness to his face—a kind of preview of the sharp edges he’d hold in adulthood. He hasn’t sent any photos since Bruce, Dick, and Tim left for their vacation around the world.
Still, she knows they know she’s clever enough to check on them if she wants to. Bruce hasn’t bothered covering their tracks. They’ve appeared in the backgrounds of a few photos online, enough to give her a picture of how things are progressing.
(She’s refrained from checking up on them more thoroughly, forcing herself to rely on the infrequently frequent calls Tim gives her and the occasional “alive” text from Bruce.
She knows why Dick isn’t reaching out to her.
It’s for the best.)
“Timmy,” she greets, forcefully cheerful as she rinses her hands and settles back to let the serum absorb. “How is Athens treating you?”
There is a general hustle and bustle in the background. The sounds of a city half asleep. Somewhere, halfway around the world, a man tells a woman good morning and a car drives past.
“Fair enough,” Tim responds, walking somewhere to something.
There is no Dick or Bruce in the background this time. Tim has decided to call her alone.
“Any reason for this call or just missing me?” Barbara asks. Anything I should be worried about?
There is a muffled sound, Tim apologizes to someone softly, voice away from the speaker, before returning.
“I figured you’d be lonely without me.” Tim teases, a specific kind of curl to his words, a heaviness on the word “lonely.”
Not a social call, then.
“Of course,” Barbara keeps her voice light, teasing. “What would I ever do without you boys eating me out of house and home?”
“We could have been worse,” Tim jokes. A bell rings; a door opens and shuts. “Dick always left a bowl behind.”
So this call is about Dick.
Barbara hums just to keep the conversation going as she exits the bathroom and wheels herself to her workstation. The computer boots up on her approach, the familiar flash of green filling the screen before it opens to her workstation. “Ah yes, truly the work of a gentleman. What would I do without you?”
“We were actually talking about you yesterday,” Tim pivots.
She pulls up their itinerary, swallowing her relief with a tinge of guilt. Yesterday, they were on the ship.
“We were in the ballroom.” Tim continues, dripfeeding her clues. Behind him, a barista calls a number; then movement as he collects his order. “It's this gorgeous big room, almost as big as the one in Robinson Park—you know the one we rented out for the Christmas Gala last year? Anyway, we were watching the sea. You really can’t tell how fast we’re moving until you watch the ripples in the water. And I mentioned you would have loved our last stop in Rome.”
It isn’t hard to get into the cameras. It was never going to be hard. She’d refrained because she’d been the one to ask for space, to call off their engagement when she knew acceptance meant locking Dick in a cage of his own making. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t hover, to keep her eyes on the horizon like a wartime bride—waiting for his return.
She finds the ballroom. Then the stern-side deck cameras. It takes 3 minutes.
She makes an inquisitive noise, light and airy, as if she were just invested in the gossip.
“And Dick mentioned he’d dreamt about you last night,” Tim signals. “It was… an interesting conversation. Got me thinking I should call.”
“That’s sweet.” She pulls up the video log and notices it has audio access. “I appreciate you guys thinking about me.”
“Ah! Sorry,” Tim says quickly. “I’ve reached our next tour. I’ve gotta go.” He’s said all he wants to, it seems. “I’m really glad you’re doing well. Take care of yourself, okay? I’ll call you when we’re on the boat.”
Before she can protest, he’s already pulling the phone from his ear. In the background, she can hear Dick asking Tim who he’s talking to. Before she can hear a response the call ends.
Destructive curiosity pulls at her. She stares at the video log, debating more for the sake of her conscience than any real attempt at stopping herself.
She takes a deep breath and hits play.
.
The clock reads 3am when she forces herself to move away from the computer, phone clutched in hand.
Her kitchen is small, but custom built. Bruce had paid for it, but she and Dick had meticulously planned it—from the low shelving to the easy‑to‑clean, heat‑safe granite in swirls of yellow, pink, and tan. She thinks about the way the sun used to illuminate his face as they lounged on his bed, laptop and sketch paper scattered between them.
She looks at her phone. The text thread feels heavy in her hands.
The last messages they’d exchanged were “I love yous”.
She closes her eyes.
“I don’t think I can become the man she’s waiting for.”
She bites her lip and forces herself to make a cup of tea.
“I’m not worth waiting for.”
The microwave rumbles. The mug spins.
She lets her phone screen go dark.
Halfway around the world, the love of her life walks the streets of Athens with his father and brother, looking up at the sky or at the ruins of a life come and gone.
The microwave beeps.
She thinks about his face in the sunlight and tries to keep her eyes on the horizon.