Work Text:
Tim can’t sleep.
But what else is new?
His parents are supposed to come home tonight, finally, after almost five months out of the country with spotty phone reception. Tim tried not to, but he missed them. They had an important job somewhere in the Middle East and they’d promised to be home for Christmas, but plans change and their flights got cancelled last minute. Tim pushes the memory away. No need to get hung up on the past, when they should be back any minute now. He checks the time, fidgeting in his chair. His father would scold him for it, Tim can almost hear his voice, telling him to sit like a proper man. But the house remains silent around him, safe for the ticking of the antique grandfather clock his parents brought back from their last trip to London.
The dinner he prepared is slowly getting cold, but Tim can’t bring himself to eat something. His stomach is twisted into a knot of anxiety, nausea curling around him. Minutes turn into hours and it’s not the first time his parents forgot to tell him they had a change of plans, but Tim can’t help but wonder if this time something happened to them. Maybe they’d gotten into a car crash, or his dad had a heart attack or they’d been kidnapped. For a terrible, guilty moment, he wishes that was actually the case. Maybe a real tragedy would hurt less than being forgotten.
When the clock chimes two, Tim slowly rises from his chair and clears away the dishes. His limbs are stiff after sitting for so long and the motion feels almost mechanical. He puts the leftovers in the fridge, where they will go bad, because he knows he won’t be able to eat them. There’s a lump in his throat, but he doesn’t cry as he climbs the stairs to his bedroom and gets ready for bed, his stomach grumbling.
He’s still staring at the ceiling when his phone pings with a new message from his mom at four in the morning, startling him out of his daze. His heart flutters in his chest as he opens the message only to be crushed when he reads the businesslike note that there had been a problem with his dad’s passport and that they’d be home later that week.
He leaves the message unanswered and curls up on his side, hugging a pillow to his chest in a desperate attempt at comfort. It takes a long time for sleep to find him.
-
Tim moves through the day like a ghost. He’s tired, but there is also a crushing feeling of disappointment buried deep inside him. It’s his own fault, he knows that. He should be used to it by now, should know better, but every time he still dares to hope.
He shakes his head slightly, trying to rid himself of the memories of last night. He has a job to do, after all. He can't allow himself to be distracted. Can't allow Bruce to see that he isn't good enough.
Exhaustion makes his limbs heavy, and his movements feel slow and sluggish as he lands on the rooftop, allowing himself a moment to breathe. There’s a pressure behind his eyes that hints at a starting headache and not even the strong wind ripping at his cape is enough to wake him up. He glances at his watch and feels a pang of relief. They are almost done for the night. The debriefing will be quick, it was a quiet night, and then he can return home. Home. Back to the cold and empty halls of Drake manor, where he feels more like a ghost than a living person.
Movement startles him out of his daze and his eyes focus on the street beneath him. A group of people is illuminated by a flickering streetlamp and Tim’s shoulders slump when he sees the glint of a knife. He’s so tired.
“B?” he asks, and his com crackles with a grunt of acknowledgement. “I think there’s trouble here.”
He waits patiently for the soft swoosh of fabric and feels more than sees the presence of Batman stepping up beside him. He points to the struggle down below and sees Bruce nod.
“Stay close,” he tells him, before swinging down.
Tim follows, trying not to think about how much his hands tremble. Normally, Tim would be ecstatic, the rush of wind makes him feel alive like nothing else can, his body buzzing every time he gets to fight alongside Batman, but tonight he almost dreads it. He lands in the middle of the fight, staggering slightly when one of the men immediately swings a baseball bat at him. He misses, but it’s a close call. Bruce shoots him a glance while he punches the guy with the knife, and Tim gives him a big smile. He tries out a kick Dick has taught him the week before, and lands a perfect hit, before spinning away again. Some of the spark of Robin returns to him and this time his smile is a real one.
It doesn’t take long before the exhaustion catches up with him again, though. His reactions are slower than usual and after a few minutes his vision starts to swim every time he turns too fast. Bruce is fighting against four men, while Tim is busy trying to avoid getting hit with the baseball bat. He doesn’t seem to get a good hit and lets out a frustrated growl as he jumps up on a trash can, kicking the thug in the face. He glances over to see how Bruce is doing and doubles over when the baseball bat connects hard with his side. Before the bat comes down again, he rolls away, his ribs protesting at the movement, but he finally gets a good swing at the man’s legs, and he tumbles to the ground. The baseball bat rolls away, but Tim gives it a kick anyway, just to be on the safe side. His ribs are burning and there are bright flashes dancing around his vision and for once he is glad when Bruce takes over securing the thug.
Sirens blare in the distance and it doesn’t take long before the street is flooded with blinking blue lights. Bruce pats him on the shoulder as he passes him on his way to the police car and Tim supresses a wince at the sharp stab of pain. He slumps against the wall behind him, closing his eyes for a moment in the hope that the world might stop spinning around him. The pain is making him slightly nauseous, and he wraps a protective arm around his stomach. He tries to concentrate on Bruce’s low voice as he talks to the police man, doing his best to get his breathing under control.
If Bruce notices… A shudder runs through his body as he imagines the scowl of disappointment on Bruce’s face. He knows he’s not good enough to be Robin, could never even come close to being a respectable replacement for Jason, and tonight has just proven it again. Still, seeing the fact reflected on Bruce’s face after the disappointment of his parents’ broken promise would crush him.
“Robin?” Bruce calls, and Tim’s eyes snap open again.
He straightens, trying not to wince, and walks over to where Bruce is waiting for him.
“All done?” he asks, doing his best to sound cheerful.
One of the thugs glares at him while the police man shoves him into the car and Tim sticks his tongue out at him. He doesn’t miss the way Bruce’s lips quirk up with a small smile and his chest gets all warm.
“We can go.”
There’s an undertone to his voice that Tim can’t quite decipher, but he’s far too tired to try anyway. The walk to the Batmobile seems to take ages and at one point Tim seriously considers just lying down on that nice pile of cardboard boxes on the side of the street for a few minutes, until the world isn’t as fuzzy anymore.
And what would Bruce think about that?
The thought sobers him up in an instant and he forces his tired and aching muscles to keep moving, trailing a few steps behind Bruce. Breathing still hurts, but he doesn’t think anything’s broken.
When they finally reach the Batmobile, Tim all but slumps into the passenger seat, his eyes slipping closed without his permission.
“Robin, are you hurt?”
He cracks his eyes open and turns to look at Bruce. He’ll be littered with bruises tomorrow and he’ll definitely need some painkillers for his ribs, but he’s had worse, so he shakes his head.
“All good.”
A frown appears on Bruce’s face, but he doesn’t question him further.
“Buckle your seatbelt.”
Tim does so with trembling fingers and a moment later the car rumbles to life underneath him. He fights hard to keep awake all the way back to the cave. His eyes burn and the monotone humming of the motor doesn’t help, but every time he feels himself drifting off to sleep, he digs his nails into his palm, leaving behind crescent shaped indents. It feels like an eternity until they leave the winding streets of Gotham behind and even longer until they finally arrive at the cave.
His legs feel like jelly as he climbs out of the car and he’s a bit surprised they actually hold his weight. He follows Bruce to the computer, hovering behind him as he opens a file.
“You can go shower,” Bruce tells him without looking up, and Tim startles.
“But…” he hesitates. Is this a test? Did Bruce finally realise that he isn’t good enough to be Robin and now he wants to catch him in another mistake? “But we need to do the debrief.”
This time, Bruce does turn around, fixing Tim with a stare.
“There isn’t much to debrief today, we can go over it tomorrow. You look tired. So, go shower, let me check for injuries and then off to bed with you. Alfred made dinner if you’re hungry and there is a bed made up for you, as always, if you don’t want to walk home.”
Tim ducks his head so that Bruce can’t see the longing on his face. Every night he falls asleep wishing it was at the manor. Wishing he wasn’t alone, but he has already stolen the Robin suit from Jason, he can’t steal his place in the house as well. He’s under no illusions that Bruce would never think of him the same way. Would never consider him a son, even though everything in Tim aches for it. He has parents, after all, even if they show time and time again that they don’t care for him.
“It’s not that far home,” he says instead, turning before Bruce can see the look on his face or the tears glistening in his eyes.
He shuffles to the showers and strips out of the Robin suit, hoping the warm water will cure his aching limbs and rid him of the blinding headache. The water feels heavenly on his skin, but the warmth of the shower makes him feel even more drowsy and after quickly washing off the grime and dirt of the night’s patrol, he turns off the shower. The cool air of the cave makes him shiver and he hurries to dry off and slip into his black sweatpants and a hoodie he’s pretty sure has once belonged to Dick.
He walks out to where Bruce is still hunched over the computer, hesitating when he doesn’t notice him right away. For a second Tim even considers slipping away while Bruce is distracted to escape his probing gaze, but Tim doesn’t want to get scolded, so he waits patiently for him to finish writing, before he clears his throat.
Bruce turns around to him and gives him a tired smile.
“You did good today.”
Tim almost flinches at the praise. He can’t mean that. Tim knows that he was slow and unfocused, and Bruce surely noticed.
“Any injuries? That one guy got a good hit at your ribs, I think?”
Tim shrugs, even as it makes his ribs shift uncomfortably.
“Just a few bruises.”
Bruce nods, and Tim dares to hope that he can go.
“Can I see? I want to make sure nothing’s broken.”
Dutifully, Tim lifts his hoodie, and Bruce gets up and steps closer. It takes all his willpower not to sway and hold still as Bruce carefully presses against his ribs. At least the sharp stab of pain wakes him up a bit.
“Doesn’t seem to be broken,” Bruce confirms Tim’s earlier assessment. “But you should still put some ice on it and take it easy for a few days.” Is he firing him? “Are you staying for dinner?”
Tim shakes his head before he can mourn the loss of Alfred’s cooking. Bruce nods, and there’s again that strange expression from before on his face, that Tim just doesn’t know how to read.
He can think about it some more tomorrow, when his head doesn’t feel like it’s about to explode.
“Bye, see you tomorrow.”
There’s a slight question there, because he half expects Bruce to tell him to never come back, but Bruce just nods and gives him a smile.
“Good night, see you tomorrow, Tim. Text me when you get home.”
Tim almost wants to roll his eyes, but he’s already dizzy as it is and Bruce’s worry might not be that unfounded for once. He might only live a ten-minute walk away, but right now that feels like a small eternity.
His legs seem to have turned to stone as he walks up the stairs and his vision swims slightly, when he turns his head to fast. It’s been a long time since his sleep deprivation has last been that bad. He really hopes the cold January air will wake him up a bit.
“Tim!” a voice calls behind him, and he spins around, startled, and suddenly his whole world is tilting, and the ground is rushing at him fast. He tries to catch himself, but his limbs don’t respond and he resigns himself to his fate, anticipating the pain. Before his body hits the ground, strong arms wrap around him, carefully lowering him down.
“Tim!” a frantic voice says, and then there is a hand cupping his cheek. He tries to open his eyes, but they feel so heavy and maybe he can just slip off to sleep for a little while. That would be nice. The voice doesn’t stop though, and he feels hands patting him down. He lets out an annoyed huff.
“Tim, are you hurt? What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head, or at least tries to, and mumbles: “Just tired.” His tongue is heavy in his mouth and doesn’t quite cooperate.
Now that he is not standing anymore, the dizziness from before is slowly fading and the world comes back to him. He feels the scratchy carpet under his cheek and smells the dusty fabric. After a minute he even manages to open his eyes. Bruce hovers above him, his face full of worry and alarm, and suddenly there are tears in Tim’s eyes. It’s been a long time since anyone has looked at him like that.
Bruce is still holding him awkwardly, half kneeling, half sitting on the floor, and Tim twists around so that he can press his face to his chest, hiding his tears. He’s sure Bruce has seen them already, can feel the wetness seeping through the fabric of his shirt, but maybe he’ll allow Tim just this one moment to fall apart. He’ll be fine in a minute and then he can go back home and… and be alone again. A sob tears out of him, muffled by Bruce’s shirt but still so obvious, and he stiffens when he feels a hand settling on his head. He expects Bruce to grab his hair and rip him away, disgusted by all the tears and snot. It’s how his parents reacted when he didn’t yet know better and still came to them for comfort. But instead, he feels gentle fingers running through his hair, untangling the still damp curls. The gesture is so soft that it rips another sob from his throat. His lungs and ribs burn with the effort to keep it all in and stop shaking.
“Shh, you’ll be okay, Tim, I promise. I’m here, I got you. Everything will be okay,” Bruce says, his voice painfully soft. He shifts him around, mindful of his injured ribs. “I’ll pick you up and we’ll go to the MedBay, and I can make it stop hurting, okay?”
Tim shakes his head and takes a shuddering breath, forcing himself to stop crying. It’s harder than usual, but after a few seconds he manages to swallow back the tears.
“I’m not hurt,” he says, his voice shaky. He is, but that’s not the problem, only a part of it. “I’m just… I’m just really tired.”
The hand in his hair stills for a moment, and Tim squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to see the disdain on Bruce’s face.
“Okay.” The gentle petting resumes, but he doesn’t sound like he quite believes him. “I’m not letting you go home like this either way. I’ll carry you up to your room and Alfred will bring you some light dinner. I’d still like to run a blood test, just to be sure.”
Tim wants to protest that he’ll be fine, that he won’t be a burden and just go home, but he barely manages to keep his eyes open and his whole body is trembling. Maybe he can be selfish for just one night.
Bruce picks him up like he weighs nothing, careful of his ribs, and Tim feels like a little kid, being carried to his bed by his dad. He buries his face in Bruce’s shirt and he holds him a little tighter.
Tim is half asleep when Bruce lowers him onto a soft surface that must be his bed and only manages to crack his eyes open, when he feels Bruce’s hands leave him. He can’t hold back the soft noise of distress, but instead of being slapped, a warm hand cups his face. Bruce gently wipes the itching tear tracks away and something cracks in Tim’s chest.
“I’m not going anywhere, bud. Afred will have both our heads, though, if you keep your shoes on.”
He lets go of Tim’s face and tucks off his shoes, placing them neatly beside the bed and all Tim can do is stare at him.
“Move over a bit.”
Tim does as he’s told and Bruce sits down on the bed beside him, drawing up the blanket so it covers them both. He warps an arm around Tim, hugging him to his side, and after a second Tim melts against him, exhaustion coming back full force. His head slumps against Bruce’s shoulder and he’s almost asleep when Bruce speaks up again.
“Should I call your parents, or do you want to do it?”
Tim freezes, his heart suddenly beating hard and fast in his chest. He can’t lie, not this time. Bruce would know and then he’d be so disappointed in him.
“There…” His throat is suddenly dry, and he has to swallow to get the words out. “There’s no need. They won’t notice.” Or care, he thinks bitterly.
There’s a beat of silence, before Bruce asks: “What do you mean they won’t notice?”
Tim winces and closes his eyes again. His head is pounding and he really doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. Or ever.
“They… they didn’t come home. Said they’d probably be gone another week, maybe a bit longer.”
Bruce doesn’t answer immediately and with every passing second it gets harder to breathe. Tim’s chest feels tight with panic and there are more tears burning in his eyes. Then Bruce seems to wake up from his stupor and the arm around him pulls him closer, tucking his face against his chest. He feels a light kiss being pressed to his head and he bites his lip to keep from sobbing.
“Okay, Tim, we-“
A knock at the open door interrupts him and Tim glances up from where he is hidden. The smell of chicken soup floods the room and Tim’s stomach lets out a rumble. An amused smile flickers over Alfred’s face as he hands Bruce something Tim doesn’t quite see from his tray.
“You gave us quite a fright, Master Timothy,” Alfred chides, and Tim ducks his head.
“Sorry.”
Bruce shifts slightly, pushing up the sleeve of his sweater and Tim squeezes his eyes shut. He’d already half-forgotten about Bruce’s threat of blood tests. The sharp smell of antiseptic mixes unpleasantly with that of the chicken soup as Bruce wipes down his arm. He winces slightly at the pinch of the needle and the uncomfortable sucking motion as Bruce fills up a vial of blood. He doesn’t mind needles, but in combination with his exhaustion it leaves him feeling slightly queasy. It’s over a few moments later and Tim dares to look again when Bruce bandages his arm.
Alfred hands them the bowls of soup and leaves to run the blood work while they eat in silence. Tim’s arm is only trembling a little bit as he brings the spoon to his mouth, but he still feels Bruce’s heavy gaze on him. The warmth of the soup spreads slowly through him, replacing most of the coldness still lingering in his bones and exhaustion hits him again like a freight train.
Bruce carefully takes the bowl from him once he is done and places it on the tray of the bedside table.
“We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? Right now, you need to sleep.” Bruce hesitates a moment. “Do you want me to stay with you?” There’s a note of uncertainty in his voice, that’s so unlike Bruce that it snaps Tim out of his half-doze.
He wants it so much that it hurts, can’t bear to be alone tonight, but he’s been taught all his life not to be too much, not to want anything, not to be a burden, that the words get stuck in his throat. Bruce must take his silence as a ‘no’ because the arm around him retreats and a surge of panic rushes through him. Before he can stop and think, he is clinging to Bruce, his hands fisted in his shirt.
“Please don’t go. I don’t wanna be alone. Please.”
After a second of frozen shock, Bruce curls his arm around him again, shifting so that they are both lying down. The light turns off with a soft click, and they are cast in darkness. Tim cuddles closer to Bruce, and a warm hand starts rubbing circles up and down his back.
“I’m not going anywhere, bud, you can sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
His parents used to promise the same thing when he was still a child and still stupid enough to believe them. And yet, he feels that same stupid, childish hope blooming in his chest. Because Bruce wouldn’t lie to him. He wouldn’t.
Tim lets out a shuddering breath, relaxing his grip on Bruce’s shirt and allows himself to drift off to sleep.