Chapter Text
Timothy Drake has come by once again to pester him regarding his night time behavior. The first few times had been irritating; he’d been too angry about this random child who understood nothing yet kept telling him he needs to find a new Robin to replace his murdered child to focus on anything other than getting the boy out of his house as fast as possible.
But it’s hard to stay mad when the boy is swaying on his feet, his face flushed and he’s repeated his last argument three times, getting less comprehensible with each attempt. Looking back over his past visits Tim’s complexion has gone from a normal shade of Gotham pale (the sun so rarely breaking through the smog left the Gotham population averaging a few shades lighter than their Metropolis counterparts) to fluctuating between stark white and ruddy faced. There’s an audible wet noise to his breathing and he’s panting as though standing through giving his lecture is a form of strenuous exercise.
From the way the kid looks it might as well be.
Bruce sighs and cuts of Tim slurring through a fourth repetition on why “Robin is the light”.
“I think I need to call your nanny.”
Unfocused damp eyes blink at him.
“It’s Tuesday, Mr Wayne.”
“It’s Wednesday.”
“It’s Wednesday?” Tim mumbles in confusion. “That’s still not Thursday. Or Monday.”
As much as he’s determined not to let this child through the walls built on Jason’s corpse a seed of concern is slowly growing. How has no one seen how sick Tim has gotten? Bruce has the excuse of being blinded by grief and only interacting with the boy in short bursts of time but surely whoever is looking after him should have noticed. How did he get past them? And what did the day matter?
“Why does it need to be a Monday or Thursday for me to call your nanny?”
“Because Mrs Mac only comes over on Mondays and Thursdays.” The seed of concern grows faster at Tim’s answer. “And she’s a housekeeper, not a nanny. I’ve been too old for one of those for years.”
——
That’s how Tim comes to stay at Wayne Manor.
After confirming the only supervision Tim has is an elderly housekeeper that comes by for two hours twice a week, has no way to contact his parents, and whose total medical home options is “take some cough syrup and man up” (given by one Jack Drake to a seven year old Tim when they fired his last nanny) Alfred bundles the boy up and takes him to bed. He’s put in the family wing, not a guest room as someone will need to check on him frequently and this way Bruce can do it as he’ll be nearby. All of Bruce’s protests die a quick death to the butler’s cool glare as he’s reminded none too gently that Alfred is getting on in years and contracting Tim’s illness could be fatal to the older gentleman, that what he’s done already was enough of a risk.
A quick call to Leslie and a home test show that Tim has a particularly bad case of influenza, likely exacerbated by his late nights running around after Batman. The diagnosis confirms the need to keep Alfred from getting too close to the boy so reluctantly Bruce becomes his main carer.
Despite his misgivings looking after a sick Tim is…easy. It’s soothing. He’s reminded of Jason but for the first time it’s in a way that doesn’t hurt. Instead of remembering those last few weeks of mistrust and fights or a burnt, broken body he remembers when his son finally trusted him enough to care for him when he was ill. Of late nights reading Austen to a sniffling little boy, bringing him soup to sooth his throat and tucking him in when he drifted off to sleep.
Caring for Tim is different enough that he doesn’t get too lost in the past. The classics that Jason loved are more likely to bore him to tears. Once he felt secure in his place his son had always been loud about his needs even when confined to bedrest, as though challenging Bruce to meet them, while Tim is quiet, only speaking up once his issue became to great to ignore. And sometimes not even then.
(He’s not sure if it’s Tim not wanting to be a burden or if he’s so used to being alone that he just forgets to say anything.)
Combine his silence with the fact Tim is much sicker than anything Jason, with an immunity built from his exposure to the grime of Crime Alley and fed on a healthy diet of Alfred’s cooking, had ever managed to get it means Bruce has to carefully and constantly monitor Tim’s wellbeing. The boy is often too weak to hold a glass of water and won’t say when he’s thirsty so Bruce has to track how much he’s drinking - are his lips chapped? Does his voice sound raspy?
As Tim’s condition gets worse Bruce has to help him eat, walk him to the toilet, make sure he has a clean bucket on hand in case he needs to throw up. His thoughts are so consumed that he doesn’t have the mental space for the anger that has been fueling him, burning him alive from the inside, burning Gotham along with him. He continues going out as Batman but the unrestrained violence lessens as his wildfire fury returns to its bonfire level that had led to him becoming the Caped Crusader. He is still the scourge to Gotham’s criminals but he no longer leaves petty thieves and purse snatchers with permanent cranial damages.
Bruce is getting better, finally able to remember Jason as something other than deaddeaddead.
Batman is getting better, his bloody rampage returning to a fight for justice rather than mindless brutality.
Then Tim starts getting better.
At first it seems like a good thing; Tim, so used to independence, is happy at being able to take care of himself again, able to hold down solid food, able to get out of bed on his own power. And Bruce is happy for him.
Until Tim starts talking about leaving.
Somewhere along the line he’d forgotten that Tim isn’t his, that he has his own home and living parents (absent as they are) to return to. After this brief flash of light after so long consumed by grief Bruce doesn’t think he can handle losing another child even if it is just to the house next door. He manages to postpone for a few days, convincing Tim to stay until he’s fully well instead of well enough, but the excuses are quickly drying up. It gets to the day where there is nothing keeping Tim from going home; the few things he brought with him are packed, his shoes are on, and they’re just waiting for Alfred to finish making up some pre-cooked meals for the boy to take with him. His window of time with Tim is closing like a noose around his neck.
“You’re looking a little peaky. Why don’t I get you some juice?”
“I’m fine, Mr Wayne,” Tim huffs but, ever the agreeable child, doesn’t protest when Bruce comes back with a glass.
With the Bats night life tendencies high grade medication is stored in several key places around the manor, the kitchen being one of them. In a moment of impulse it was too easy to add a high grade pain killer to the juice - this particular one they all usually avoid because while it helped dull the pain the side effects were extreme drowsiness, vertigo, and nausea.
(Alfred, being as hyper observant as he is and also in the kitchen when Bruce made up his concoction, had to have noticed what he was doing. He hadn’t said anything which was as good as permission when it came to the British man.)
By the time the butler emerges with the boxes of food Tim is swaying in his seat. Bruce has to dive to catch him when the boy tries to stand despite this only for his legs to crumple under him like tissue paper.
“I think we should get you back to bed, chum,” he says as he scoops Tim up in his arms. “It’s ok, we can try again tomorrow,” Bruce lies.
—-
The pain killer is too harsh on the body for prolonged use, especially for someone as small as Tim, but the med bay in the Batcave houses plenty of alternatives. He keeps it simple; a muscle relaxant combined with a mild sedative is enough to keep the child in bed, too weak to leave it without assistance. That’s all Bruce wants - for Tim to stay, for Tim to need him.
Leslie would see through it in a heartbeat, most doctors would, but Bruce has a suspicion about the doctor the Drakes have on file. Sure enough when it comes Dr John Goodfellow what goes on a medical record is a matter of simple math. Bruce can pay more than Tim’s parents so while they had things removed (the referral for an autism specialist, the “skateboard” injuries that somehow included hand shaped bruises) he can have a diagnosis added on.
A firm hand shake and a hefty sum and Tim is diagnosed with extreme chronic fatigue and severe muscle weakness as a result of his bad flu.
“It’s a rare outcome but not unheard off,” the doctor says when he comes to the manor to make a show of at least seeing the patient. “There’s no telling when it will clear up, if it ever does. Sorry, Tim, but this may be your new normal.”
Turning to Bruce he adds “it’s not uncommon for this condition to lead to a compromised immune system. I recommend making sure he stays inside as much as possible to reduce his risk of picking up anything else.”
For all that he was governed by money Dr Goodfellow wasn’t stupid; Bruce hadn’t even asked for that last part to be added.
—-
The level of medication he gives Tim is kept on a careful balance, a careful sliding scale as he grows and develops resistances.
Too much sedative and he becomes difficult to keep awake long enough to get food into him. Too much muscle relaxant and he looses control of his functions - more than once Bruce has had to carry Tim to the bathroom to clean up while Alfred strips the bed.
(Bruce is perhaps not as opposed to that last side effect as he should be. For one thing it’s what gets him custody; Janet suddenly became much more willing to sign over custody after she returned to Gotham, stormed into her sleeping son’s room and ripped the blankets off only to be hit with the smell of urine, Tim’s first sight of his mother in months being the woman recoiling in disgust.
For another Tim always clings to him afterwards, hiding his face in his chest, fingers curled in Bruce’s shirt as he quietly cries no matter how many times the man reassures him it’s alright. He tends to hold tight to Bruce for hours, grip only slacking when he drifts off to sleep.)
Despite fitting his bed with waterproof sheets for easier cleanup Alfred gives him a look if it happens too often so Bruce tries not to overdo it.
However if he uses too little then Tim moves.
Like the time Bruce carried Tim down to the movie room so they could watch one of the true crime documentaries the boy loved together on the couch. He’d had to step out for a moment due to an urgent call from Lucius - a minor issue but one that needed immediate attention so it didn’t become serious. He’s back in under 10 minutes only to find an empty room.
Tim was gone.
Like Jason.
His son is gone.
He found Jason.
But he’s not moving
Burnt and broken
Not breathing
“-uce? Bruce!”
Bruce gasped, not having realized it was him who stopped breathing. The glass of water Tim had gone to the kitchen to get is dropped, splashing both of them, as Bruce pulls the boy into a too tight hug, desperate to reassure himself that Tim is here, that he’s not (and will never) leave.
(Bruce over does the meds that night.)
—-
As the years go on his grief heals yet Bruce can never seem to bring himself to let go of Tim. He should have stopped when Jason returns to life even if he doesn’t return home. He should have stopped when Damian arrives - another child entering the manor with high needs. He should have stopped when Steph, when Cass, when Duke…
He never does.
He thinks it’s over when he gets lost in time yet when he returns Tim is still in his sickbed (and he really should look into who took over his role but for the moment he’s just too thankful that he lets it slide).
Caring for Tim remains his guilty pleasure, his calming focus, one constant where he can bask in someone being wholly reliant on him - his one child who can never grow out of his place at Bruce’s side.
—-
As more of his children return to the manor in the wake of his own return Jason remains stubbornly separate so it’s a surprise to hear the voice of his second son in his home.
A bigger surprise that it’s coming from inside Tim’s room.
“You’re not sick, he’s making you sick.”
“Jason, please don’t-“
“He’s putting these pills in your food. And they’re not there to make you better, Tim.”
“I know.”
“They make yo- what do you mean you know?”
“I’ve known since the start, Jay. Bruce isn’t as subtle as he thinks he is.”
“And that’s ok with you? Him drugging kids is ok with you?”
“It’s just me,” Tim’s voice goes so low Bruce struggles to hear it through the door. “He needed help. And, yeah, there’s a lot of things I can’t do now but I can help him. I’m not like you, or Dick, or Damian. Even if I never got sick I would never have been strong enough to be Robin but like this I get to help Batman, Jay. How can I not be ok with that?”
There’s an angry huff that’s definitely from Jason.
“Look, I get that Talia lied and Bruce wasn’t the paragon of mental health when I died but that was years ago. You’re still here. How exactly are you helping him?”
“He’d stop if he didn’t need me any more,” Tim sounds so sure that it almost makes Bruce shrivel from the guilt. “I think he just needs someone he can be sure won’t leave. I can give him that.”
“Dammit Tim! He’s a grown ass man! And you’re a human being! He doesn’t get to keep you like a damn therapy doll! If you don’t tell Alfred about this then I will!”
Tim laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “Jay, who do you think kept me medicated whenever Bruce ran off on League missions?”
The silence rings. There’s no more words. Bruce only gets clear of the door because of the intentionally heavy stomps of Jason’s boots.
His son takes one look at the tray in his hands - Tim’s dinner - and gives him a glare that would put Kryptonian heat vision to shame.
“This is sick, old man. And you know it.”
With that the younger man shoulders past, stalking angrily down the hall.
Bruce has a sinking feeling he won’t be seeing his second oldest for a while.
Tim is clearly trying to gauge how much Bruce had overheard of the conversation but the man hasn’t figured out how to deal with what he’s learned just yet so he dips into his Brucie persona and plays dumb.
“Did you two have a fight?”
It was perhaps too much and he can see that Tim is suspicious but his most obedient child plays along (as Bruce now realizes he’s been doing for years).
“Nothing major. I don’t think it’ll come up again,” Tim says as Bruce sets his food up on the C table. Bruce helps his son sit up and wheels the table into position so he can reach everything easily.
“Bruce…” Tim starts. And for a moment he thinks they’ll talk about it, talk about what has happened, what Bruce has done. There’s a weight to the air, a heaviness of everything unsaid.
That will remain unsaid for at least one more day.
“Can you pease help me cut it? I’m really tired and the pieces are a bit too big for me.”
“Of course, chum,” he kisses his son’s forehead before taking the utensils.
“I will always take care of you.”