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Tim knew his parents weren’t good parents. He felt bad whenever he thought about it because he knew other children, other children in Gotham had it much, much worse. Tim was wealthy. Most of the time, when various nannies or his parents weren’t there, he was left to his own devices and could do virtually anything without having an adult reprimand or punish him for it. If that lack of supervision also resulted in finding things out the hard way and led to a few injuries that could have been avoided, well, it was a fair trade for his freedom.
When Tim’s parents were home, that’s when he had to worry. Between his father's hot temper and his mothers unmeetable and unrealistic expectations, his home during their visits was like playing jump rope with a live wire.
The first time his parents ever hit him, he was six. Looking back on it, it wasn’t bad, Tim thought. His parents were already in a bad mood because of a deal that fell through with a Taiwanese company with Drake industries, so when Tim tried to bother his dad to play with him, it was only natural that he got slapped away. It wasn’t hard, just enough for him to know that he had to back off. He kept himself from tearing up until he got to his room.
At the time, it felt like something more, like a sign that things were going to get worse, that this wasn’t going to be the first time. Tim was scared that there was something wrong with him or wrong with his parents. He wanted to be a normal child with normal parents, but worse than the pain it hurt to realise that he likely wasn’t going to have that.
Tim was sombre after that, a bit meek for a while. When his nanny asked him what was wrong the next day, he said nothing happened and that he was just thinking about something on last night's news. She told him not to watch grown-up things anymore.
The first time his father left a bruise was rough. His mother had yet to touch him, but she never stepped in either. At this point, Tim was 9, and he found out that Dick Grayson was Robin and Bruce Wayne Batman a year prior. They weren’t home for his ninth birthday, he celebrated quietly with his nanny. At this point, he had come to peace with the fact that his parents were bad. Bad parents, bad people. It was fine, he knew about DI’s less-than-stellar business practices, and he also knew that some of the artefacts in their house were illegally imported.
Tim had been practising coding for a while now. He learned from YouTube tutorials and free online classes. He thought he was pretty good or good enough to fool the school board at least. So the next time Tim didn’t feel like going to his painfully boring science lab, he tried hacking the school's online system to have it mark him as present. It worked, and Tim got to sit back and make pointless sites on his laptop. It became a habit every time Tim had a test based on a book he couldn’t be bothered to read, or he wanted to sleep in, or he had a class with Mr Byreonson, who stared at him just a bit too long and just a bit too intensely for it to be socially acceptable, he didn’t go.
His life was perfect, most of his school days now lasted 4-5 hours instead of 7-8, that was if he even bothered to show up at all. Unfortunately, he hadn’t accounted for the fact that the school still kept paper records and that the teachers noticed his sudden absence in the classroom. The school got in contact with his parents, or tried to get in contact with his parents. They did manage to call his nanny, though, who, the next time Tim’s parents bothered to visit, told them as much.
“Tim’s school called me, they said that he hasn’t been showing up to class,” she said before they could dismiss her.
His parents stopped in their tracks. They had just gotten back from a trip to Cambodia and were more than likely jetlagged. Tim knew this wouldn’t end well for him. His mother turned around to face him. “Timothy, is this true? Do you not appreciate the money we pay for you to go to that school? How hard we work?” she asked, her usual calm and steady tone harsh.
She continued yelling, Tim tuned her out, scared of what would come next. He looked over at his father, he hadn’t said anything yet, hadn’t moved. He was staring at him intensely as if he was thinking, deliberating something. Tim didn’t know what, he didn’t think he wanted to. Eventually, though, he spoke up.
“Ms- I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name. Could you help hold Timothy down? Over the sofa is fine”
“I’m sorry, what-” she tried to say, but she was cut off
“You are under our employment, but that can be changed. I suggest you do as you're told” said his father, seething
She put her hand on Tim’s shoulder and slowly led him over to the coach. He kneeled over until his stomach was on the sofa’s soft cushions, and his face in a pillow. His father took off his belt and pushed his shirt up. Tim cried out as the first strike landed and tried to wiggle out of his nanny’s grip. The next hit hurt just as much. Eventually, his father's grip slipped, and the belt buckle flew out of his hand where he was holding the belt folded and struck his back. A sharp pain erupted in the already aggravated area, and some sort of hot liquid slid down his back. That seemed to snap his father out of his fit of rage. He stepped back, looked at his violently red back, turned, and left. His mother helped him up and told him to go to his room.
By the time Tim was in his room, he hadn’t stopped sobbing. He went to his bathroom, looked in the mirror, and saw a long gash on his back. He took a shower and, still crying, went to sleep.
Tim didn’t try to skip class again, that was also the last time he saw his nanny. He thinks she tried to call the police, and when his parents found out, they fired her, or maybe she quit. Tim didn’t know, and he didn’t care enough to find out. After that incident, his dad got worse. It was almost as if he realised that nobody was going to stop him, that hurting Tim wouldn’t lead to any consequences.
Tim used to think that getting hurt was the result of doing something wrong, he knew that wasn’t the case now. When his dad was home, any small thing could set him off. Dishes in the sink? Smack. Open window causing a draft? Smack. Tim just being there? Smack. Tim didn’t get belted often though, he mostly got slapped or shoved around. Tim’s dad wasn’t around to notice his major slip-ups.
He knew his father loved him, but he was deeply dysfunctional. The way his mood changed so suddenly often left Tim confused and disoriented. One moment, they would be talking like a normal family, sharing stories of their travels and Tim’s school life, and the next, his back would be on the floor because Jack had gotten fed up and irritated with the conversation. Tim’s dad wasn’t a heavy drinker- Janet wouldn’t stand it. The natural conclusion then was a psychological problem.
So the boy poured himself into research. He thought that his dad might be bipolar or maybe have BPD. He wasn’t sure, but he’d found enough that he could potentially try breaching the topic of finding a psychologist with his parents. He knew he couldn’t talk to his dad about it- it would only set him off. The last time Tim mentioned a classmate being autistic at dinner, his father ranted about how autistic people didn’t exist and were draining the government's disability aid funds. It's safe to say his dad wouldn’t take Tim's suggestion that something was wrong with him psychologically well.
Tim decided it would be best to broach the topic with his mother. The next time his parents came home, he waited for the perfect opportunity. It came when his father was asleep, and Janet was still working on her laptop in one of the sitting rooms. He came up to her, and she nodded at him.
“Mother, I think Dad might have a psychological disorder that causes him to have mood swings, and I think it would be prudent if he sought a therapist or psychiatrist to help him” Tim said smoothly. He’d rehearsed this conversation in the mirror countless times.
“What? Timothy, why on earth would you even imply such a thing? Your father is perfectly fine,” she said “Jack is fine”, she repeated, though it seemed as though she was saying it to herself as much as to Tim.
Tim hadn’t prepared for this to be simply brushed off, he had hoped that his mother would see reason, would see that what Jack was doing wasn’t normal. He had to make her see reason. The next words he spoke hadn’t been rehearsed at all.
“But Mother, what Dad’s doing isn’t normal or fine or anything. He hits me, you know, he hits me! Well aju- normal fathers don’t hit their kids-”
Tim was cut off by an echoing smack, his left cheek started to sting.
“Don’t talk about him that way. Don’t speak to me that way. Your tone is abhorrent, and you are behaving like a child, Timothy. What right do you have to judge Jack's parenting when you’re a child in need of parenting yourself? Go to your room, I want you out of my sight.”
That was the first and only time his mother ever hit him. It didn’t hurt much, it was just a slap after all, and yet it stung much more than any of the bruises his father ever gave him.
Jason died, and Tim became Robin. He had training now, he could punch, kick, dodge. He never did, though. Dodging would only make his dad angrier, but now, if things ever got too heated, if Jack got so angry he couldn’t stop, then Tim knew he could fight him off. Tim was confident that if worst came to worst, then Tim could take Jack easily.
Things were looking up, though. His life wasn’t nearly as grim as it had been months ago. He had Bruce now. He was rough with him at first, he wouldn’t stop training unless Tim either couldn’t get up anymore or it started leaking into patrol, but over the next few months, Bruce became happier, his grief softer, and he slowly started getting to know his new Robin under the mask.
Bruce was the best adult in Tim’s life thus far. Even during the first few weeks, Bruce would always pull his punches during sparring, and if Tim did get hurt, he got Alfred to patch him up. It was amazing having someone that he could rely on and trust, unlike with his nannies or teachers, he knew that anything he told Bruce would never make it back to his parents.
Tim also knew that if Bruce was aware of how his dad treated him, he wouldn’t stand for it. He’d seen personally what the man did to child abusers. Tim fantasised about it sometimes, especially when he was lying flat on his back after a beating. He imagined how it would go, maybe Bruce would see a bruise his dad gave him and realise it wasn’t from patrol, then he’d investigate and come running to ask Tim to move in with him. Tim’s even considered telling him, but he’s scared that his fantasies are just that, fantasies. Scared that Bruce would just tell him that he’s Robin and needs to man up, to take it so it wouldn’t interfere with the Mission.
The next time anything major happened, he didn’t even realise his parents were home. He had just finished a great patrol with Dick. After Tim became Robin, he started visiting Gotham more. His relationship with Bruce is still strained, but it's been getting better.
Tim returned home for the night. He didn’t bother sneaking in through his bedroom window, it was a waste to exert himself that way when he knew that his parents were meant to be in Bolivia for at least another month.
All the lights were off, just as he’d left them. Tim neared his bedroom and got a sinking feeling he couldn’t explain. As he opened the door, he saw a figure sitting on his bed. He turned on the light, and before him sat Jack Drake, a dark scowl painted on his face.
“Timothy, what were you doing out this late?”
“I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t realise you were home, you’re meant to still be-” Tim was cut off.
“I asked where were you damnit!” Jack stood up and screamed. Tim didn’t say anything else, he knew no matter what he said, the night would end the same way. Jack grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and tried to pull him up. He used to hold him up by it as a kid, it worked well as an intimidation tactic and boosted his dad’s ego. Tim didn’t budge this time. During his last couple of months training as Robin, he’d put on a lot of muscle, almost 20 pounds of it. His dad struggled to lift him up for a couple more seconds before getting frustrated and pushing him to the floor.
He punched him. Jack used to use a belt, Tim thought it was because a belt felt more like discipline than actual abuse, but he eventually got over his hiccups and now prefers using his fists. Tim didn’t fight him, he tried to make as little noise as possible and avoided eye contact with his father at all costs. He could tell this wouldn’t end well for him, his dad was being harsher than he normally is.
Tim was drawn out of his line of thought when he felt something warm on his face. Some sort of liquid. Tim looked down at his cheek, it was spit. His father had just spat on him. Tim felt tears welling up in his eyes. He could take a beating, he understood his dad wasn’t well and needed to take his frustrations out on someone, but this, this was demeaning, deliberately humiliating. Tim let himself cry, it wasn’t heaving sobs, just silent tears with a soft tremor. His father stepped away, looked down at him, then at his own hands and left without a word.
The next time he saw his father after that was a year later. His father was in a coma, Tim was staring at him lying on his hospital bed, and his mother was dead. After that, he went to live with Bruce, his fantasies of being whisked away to safety sort of came true. Bruce didn’t know about the abuse, but the abuse didn’t matter because his father was unlikely to ever wake up. Tim mourned him, he thought that he shouldn’t after all he did to him, but he did. He grieved the relationship they never had, the relationship they could have had. After all, his parents hadn’t returned home for a year after Tim started crying during the last beating, he hoped that maybe his dad had finally seen reason. That he would try to get better.
He would never get to try now.
Life at the manor was amazing. He felt safe in his bedroom, and he was never alone in the house. There was always someone there, just a couple of steps away. Bruce was present too, he started to take on more of a role in Tim’s life than just as his mentor. He helped Tim with homework, they watched movies together and played chess. Tim had never felt so safe, so happy. Dick came around, too. His relationship with Bruce was rectified, almost repaired now.
He was happy, and then his dad woke up. He was quieter than normal. Tim didn’t know whether it was because of grief or for Tim’s sake. Maybe he had actually been trying to take responsibility for how he treated Tim before the accident. Either way, whenever Tim visited him at the hospital, he didn’t yell, but he didn’t engage in conversation either.
Then he got better and moved back home. The house wasn’t quiet, they lived with Dana now, his dads live in nurse/physical therapist. Tim and his dad didn’t talk, though. They avoided each other whenever they could. Eventually, Dana moved back out, his dad was well enough to live on his own, and it was quiet again. Things were nice, Tim thought. It wasn’t the constant background noise of Wayne Manor, but this was the best their relationship had ever been. It wasn’t good per se, they were still ignoring each other, but his dad hadn’t screamed at him once since he woke up, and for Tim, that was enough.
Eventually, his father did start to slip back into old habits. He wasn’t quite yelling at Tim, not yet, but whenever he did something that irritated him, he’d always say a scathing remark in a tone just high enough for Tim to hear. That’s how it started, after that it escalated into yelling, but only at major slip-ups, then yelling at minor things. His father had yet to hit him, though. Tim saw that as progress that no matter how angry his dad got, he set himself a boundary and he wouldn’t cross it. No matter the bad blood between them, Tim was proud of his dad, not many men can make such a change to be better.
His dad had bad days sometimes, of course, he’d push Tim. His hand would be in the air, but then just before he’d make contact, he’d stop himself. He always stopped himself, which is what made it different from before.
And then one day he didn’t. Tim thought it was a fluke, nobody can quit cold turkey, and somewhere deep in his mind, Tim knew that comparing his dad hitting him to quitting an addiction was insane, but if he didn’t rationalise it, then nothing had changed. Tim wouldn’t be that little abused kid anymore. His dad didn’t try to stop himself from hitting Tim anymore, though.
After putting his dishes away, Tim forgot to close the dishwasher. His dad called him down, yelled at him and then pushed him into the open dishwasher and kicked him in the stomach. Tim looked up at his dad, breaking his rule of never looking him in the eyes during a beating. In that moment, the only thing he could see in his father's eyes was hatred, pure seething hatred. It was like it was before, and before Tim realised it, he had turned into that abused little kid that he used to be.
Looking back, Tim wishes he had pushed his dad off of him and then angrily stormed out of the house. That’s not what happened, though. He waited until his dad backed off, and then he went to his room, packed a light bag and as quietly as he could, sneaked out of his window.
The walk to Wayne Manor drew out longer than it usually did. It was a combination of Tim being deep in thought and how sluggishly he was dragging his feet. What would he say to Bruce? Would Bruce let him stay? Would his dad get arrested? Do rich people even get arrested? But eventually, he stopped at the intercom, Alfred let him in, and then he was at the front door.
“Master Tim, we weren’t expecting a visit until late evening. Please do come in.” Alfred said after looking at him appraisingly. His eyebrows were pinched in worry.
“Hi Alfred, I was hoping I could talk to Bruce. You know where he might be?”
“Master Bruce is in his study, he should just be finishing up his work. Don’t be afraid to interrupt him”
Alfred turned away, and Tim went in the direction of the study. After he arrived, he took a controlled breath, knocked on the door, and then opened it before hearing an affirmation to come in.
“B, I need to speak to you about something”
Bruce looked startled but he turned away from whatever he was reading and sat on the small couch next to his desk and patted the space next to him. Tim sat down.
“Ok, uh, there’s no easy way to say this, and if you’re too busy for this right now, then go ahead and interrupt me, but uh” Tim stopped. This was the moment he’d dreamed about, the first time he’d tell anyone, and he realised he was scared, he was terrified. He looked down at his lap a slight tremor wracked through his body. Bruce put a hand on his shoulder and moved it around comfortingly. He inhaled and tried to calm himself down, he didn’t want to let himself get emotional, not in front of his mentor, not before he said what he needed to.
“My dad, he, he hits me” Bruce’s hand stilled. “He hits me a lot, and he’s done it for as long as I can remember, and I don’t want to go through that anymore. He stopped for a while, but a couple of weeks ago, he started again. I have proof I have like scars and stuff, and a bruise from today and a couple of days ago. I promise I’m telling the truth.”
Tim finally dared to look up at his mentor and saw his pinched expression. He looked harder, looked for anything that might suggest what he’s going to say next. All he noticed was that his eyes were glassy and he was looking directly at Tim.
“Tim,” Bruce started “I’m so sorry I never noticed, I’m sorry you had to go through that, I’m especially sorry that you had to face that man while under my care”
Tim stared, a tear finally falling down his cheek.
“Thank you for telling me, for trusting me with this. You’re not going back to that house, and I’ll have custody as soon as I physically can, unless you want to stay-” Tim interrupted him before he could finish.
“No, please, I want to- I would love to stay with you, please. If you’ll have me.”
“Sweetheart, you’re the most amazing boy in the world. Anyone would be lucky to have you, I’m sorry that anyone ever made you think otherwise,” Bruce said before pulling him into a hug.
This was more than Tim could have ever expected. Bruce was usually a man of few words, but he just gave Tim a whole speech. He let himself cry into Bruce’s shoulder. Let himself imagine that he would never have to hear his dad scream at him ever again. Let himself imagine living at Wayne Manor again, being a part of a family again. And for the first time in a long time, he felt safe.