Chapter Text
Tim keeps his voice low out of pure instinct.
Not because anyone told him to—no, that would imply someone remembered to tell him things—but because the house feels like it’s holding its breath. Like the walls are listening. Like the floorboards are waiting for him to make a mistake so they can report back.
So he whispers.
“Hey,” Tim murmurs into his phone, the glow lighting up his face in the dark. He’s sprawled on his bed, one arm curled under his pillow, phone propped against his knee. The blankets are pulled up to his chest even though he isn’t cold. He just… likes the pressure.
On the screen, Dick’s face fills most of the frame, hair still damp from a shower, smile already too bright for ten at night. Jason is half-visible beside him, slouched so far into the couch that he looks like he might actually melt into the cushions.
“There he is,” Dick says, like Tim’s been missing for years instead of one dinner. “Thought we lost you.”
Tim snorts quietly. “You literally called me.”
“Yeah,” Jason adds, deadpan. “And you took, like, three whole rings to answer. Rude.”
Tim raises an eyebrow. “Sorry. I was busy committing crimes.”
Dick gasps. “Without us?”
“Unbelievable,” Jason mutters. “This is how it starts. First he does crimes alone, next thing you know he’s replacing us.”
Tim smiles before he can stop himself. It’s small, but it feels real. He tucks his chin down, hoping they don’t notice.
“I’d never replace you,” Tim says. “You’re… irreplaceably annoying.”
Jason grins, sharp and proud. Dick presses a hand to his chest like he’s been wounded.
“Wow,” Dick says. “After everything we’ve done for you.”
“Name one thing,” Tim challenges.
Jason doesn’t even hesitate. “I ate vegetables tonight.”
“That’s not for me.”
“It absolutely was,” Jason insists. “I did it emotionally.”
Tim bites his lip to keep from laughing too loudly. He can hear movement down the hall—footsteps, maybe—and his shoulders tense automatically. He shifts the phone closer, voice dropping another notch.
On the other end of the call, Dick’s smile softens. He notices. He always notices.
“How was dinner?” Tim asks instead, because if he lets them ask him anything, things get complicated fast.
Dick tilts the phone slightly, revealing Bruce in the background, standing near the bookshelf with a mug in his hand. Alfred is nearby, pretending not to listen while very obviously listening.
“It was… tolerable,” Dick says diplomatically.
Jason snorts. “Bruce tried to make small talk.”
“I asked about work,” Bruce says, sounding faintly offended.
“You asked about Dick’s work,” Jason says. “Like that’s ever been the problem.”
Tim hums. “And?”
“And Alfred saved us,” Dick finishes, smiling toward where Alfred gives a very dignified nod.
“We missed you,” Alfred says, voice warm even through the screen.
Tim swallows.
“Yeah,” Tim says quietly. “I missed you guys too.”
There’s a beat—just a second too long—and Tim feels that familiar prickle under his skin, the one that tells him he said something wrong. Too honest. Too much.
So he adds, quickly, “The food was probably better without me anyway. I steal all the rolls.”
“That’s a lie,” Jason says immediately. “You hoard them.”
“For later,” Tim argues. “Strategic.”
Dick laughs, bright and loud, and Tim has to press his face into his pillow to muffle his own laugh before it escapes at full volume. He can practically hear the imaginary tally mark clicking up in his parents’ heads: too loud, too much, too annoying.
On-screen, Jason squints at him. “You’re being suspiciously quiet.”
Tim freezes.
“I’m always quiet,” he says.
“No, you’re thinking quiet,” Dick says, narrowing his eyes playfully. “That’s different.”
Tim shrugs, eyes flicking briefly to his bedroom door. Still closed. Still quiet.
“Just tired,” he lies easily. He’s good at that. “Did patrol yesterday.”
Jason’s expression shifts instantly—just a fraction, but Tim sees it. The grin fades. Concern slides into place like armor.
“Were you hurt?”
“No,” Tim says quickly. “Promise. I didn’t even get shot at. Bruce made sure of that.”
“Wow,” Dick says. “Low bar.”
Jason sighs. “You’re fifteen.”
Tim lifts his head. “I’m capable.”
“Yeah,” Jason says. “That’s what scares us.”
Tim feels something warm bloom in his chest, equal parts comfort and ache. He doesn’t let it linger. Feelings are dangerous. Feelings make noise.
“—also,” Dick says, suddenly smug, leaning closer to the camera, “Bruce did try to use slang tonight.”
Bruce stiffens in the background. “That is not accurate.”
Jason grins. “You said ‘it’s giving.’”
“I said ‘it is giving,’” Bruce corrects. “Which is grammatically sound.”
Tim snorts before he can stop himself. The sound slips out—too loud—and he winces, instinctively glancing at his door. Still closed. Still quiet.
Dick gasps dramatically. “Timothy Drake laughed. Write it down.”
Jason nods. “Mark the calendar.”
“I hate both of you,” Tim mutters, but he’s smiling again despite himself.
Bruce crosses his arms. “I fail to see why this is funny.”
“That’s because,” Dick says cheerfully, “you’re the joke.”
Alfred hums from somewhere offscreen. “Master Bruce, with all due respect, you did also say ‘slay.’”
Jason absolutely loses it. “NO.”
Bruce’s ears go red. “That was taken out of context.”
Tim’s shoulders shake as he laughs silently, pressing his knuckles to his mouth. For a moment—just a moment—he forgets where he is. Forget the house. Forget the rules. Forget the careful, quiet way he exists.
This feels normal. This feels safe.
Tim opens his mouth to say something—something stupid, probably, like you guys are ridiculous or I wish I was there—
CRASH.
The sound is loud. Sharp. Final, Something breaking downstairs.
Tim flinches so hard his phone nearly slips out of his hand. His heart slams into his ribs, breath catching painfully in his throat.
“TIMOTHY.”
His dad’s voice cuts through the house, furious and sharp, his name cracked like a whip.
Tim’s mind goes blank.
What did he do.
What did he—
His hands are already shaking as he scrambles upright, feet hitting the floor. His chest feels tight, like the air got heavier all at once. He runs through the checklist automatically.
Did I leave something out? Did I touch something? Did I forget—did I—
Nothing comes up.
And somehow, that’s worse.
On the phone, Dick’s smile vanishes instantly. “Tim?”
Jason’s already sitting up straighter. “What was that?”
Tim barely hears them. All he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears, his dad’s voice echoing over and over again.
TIMOTHY.
“I—uh—” Tim starts, voice too fast, too thin. “I—I have to go.”
“What?” Dick frowns. “Why?”
Jason’s eyes narrow. “What happened?”
Tim shakes his head even though they can’t see it properly, words tripping over each other. “It’s nothing, it’s just—my parents need me. I forgot—something. I have to—”
“We’ll come,” Jason says immediately.
“Yeah,” Dick adds, already moving. “We’ll be right there.”
“No.” The word comes out too loud, too sharp. Tim’s breath stutters. “No, you can’t. Please. It’s fine, really, I just—”
“Tim,” Dick says, gently now. “Hey. What’s going on?”
Tim backs away from his bed like the room itself is dangerous, clutching the phone to his chest. His pulse is everywhere. He can’t think. If they come—if his parents see them—if this turns into a thing—
“I’m fine,” Tim blurts. “Please don’t come. You can’t. I’ll—I’ll explain later, I promise, just—please.”
Jason’s jaw tightens. “Tim—”
“Please,” Tim says again, and this time it’s not steady at all. It cracks. He hates that it cracks.
Another voice, sharp and impatient, cuts in from downstairs.
“Timothy. Now.”
His mom.
Cold fear drops straight into his stomach. “I have to go,” Tim says, panic flooding his voice. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
“Tim—” Dick starts.
Jason’s voice overlaps, urgent. “Don’t hang up—”
Tim ends the call. The screen goes dark. For half a second, the silence is unbearable.
Then Tim turns and runs.
Tim barely makes it to the bottom step before his dad is in front of him.
The living room looks wrong.
The vase—his mom’s favorite, the one they’re never supposed to touch—is shattered on the floor. Ceramic pieces everywhere. Water soaking into the rug. A single flower bent at an ugly angle.
Tim’s stomach drops.
Oh.
That.
His dad is pacing, fists clenched so tight his knuckles are white, breathing hard like Tim did this on purpose. Like it was planned. His mom stands near the couch, arms folded, expression perfectly calm.
That’s worse.
“Do you have any idea,” his dad snaps, voice already raised, already sharp, “how embarrassing this is?”
Tim swallows. His mouth is dry.
“I—I’m sorry,” he says immediately. Automatically. “I didn’t know—”
“Don’t lie to me,” his mom cuts in, voice quiet, precise, every word placed carefully like a blade. “A B minus. In English. Do you know how that reflects on us?”
Tim’s chest tightens.
“I can fix it,” he blurts. “It was just one test, I promise I can bring it up, I’ll talk to the teacher, I’ll—”
His dad doesn’t let him finish.
The slap comes fast.
Tim doesn’t even see it—just feels the sharp crack, the force snapping his head to the side. His vision blurs instantly, stars bursting behind his eyes. He stumbles, barely keeping his footing, hand flying up to his mouth.
There’s a metallic taste.
He doesn’t cry. He can’t. Crying makes it worse.
“I’m sorry,” Tim says again, the words tumbling out broken and fast. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to—I’ll do better, I swear, please—”
His dad shoves him hard. Tim goes down, shoulder hitting the floor, breath knocked clean out of him. Pain blooms everywhere at once, overwhelming and messy.
“Do you think sorry fixes this?” his dad yells. “Do you think you get to be average?”
Tim curls in on himself instinctively, hands over his head, trying to make himself smaller. Smaller is safer. Smaller means less to hit.
“I know,” he gasps. “I know, I shouldn’t have—”
A kick lands against his side, not hard enough to break anything, just hard enough to hurt. To remind him.
His mom sighs softly, like she’s disappointed.
“We give you everything,” she says calmly. “Opportunities other children would kill for. And this is how you repay us.”
Tim squeezes his eyes shut.
They’re right.
They have to be right.
This is for his own good. That’s what they always say. If they’re angry, it’s because they care. If it hurts, it’s because he needs to learn.
He just has to be better.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t make it worse.
His thoughts scatter, grasping at anything familiar, anything safe.
Bruce’s steady voice. Dick’s laugh. Jason calling him “kid” like it’s something precious. Alfred’s hand on his shoulder, warm and solid.
He wants them. He wants—
His dad draws his leg back again.
The doorbell rings.
Once.
Then again—louder this time. Urgent. Rapid. Someone pounding like they know something is wrong.
Everyone freezes.
Tim’s dad turns toward the door, scowling. “Who the hell—”
The knocking doesn’t stop.
Hard. Insistent.
Tim’s heart stutters painfully in his chest.
For the first time since he came downstairs, a dangerous, fragile thought slips through the fear:
They came anyway.
And somehow, that terrifies him just as much as it comforts him.
“Upstairs.”
Tim flinches.
His dad doesn’t even look at him when he says it, already adjusting his expression, already putting the anger away like it never existed. Like Tim didn’t just end up on the floor.
“Go to your room,” his dad continues, voice low now. Dangerous. “And if I find out you called someone—anyone—I promise you it will get much worse.”
Tim nods immediately. Too fast.
“Yes,” he whispers.
His mom finally looks at him then. Her eyes flick briefly to his mouth, to the red smudge there, and then away again, like it’s an inconvenience.
“Clean yourself up,” she says coolly. “You’re embarrassing.”
Tim scrambles to his feet.
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t hesitate. He just runs.
Up the stairs, legs shaky, vision swimming. He takes them two at a time, chest burning, ears ringing. He can hear the doorbell again downstairs, voices now—familiar voices—and his heart lurches painfully.
Don’t look back. Don’t make it worse.
He makes it to his room and shuts the door behind him as quietly as he can, like he’s afraid even the sound of the latch might anger someone.
The moment it clicks closed, his legs give out.
Tim slides down the door and crumples onto the floor, knees pulled to his chest. His breath comes in broken gasps now, sharp and uneven, and he presses his sleeve to his mouth, trying to stay quiet.
It doesn’t work.
The sob rips out of him anyway.
He curls tighter, fingers digging into the carpet, shoulders shaking as everything he held in finally spills over. He bites down hard on his sleeve, muffling the sound, tears soaking into the fabric.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t—
But there’s no one here to see it. No one to get mad.
So he cries.