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Like every day in Gotham city, the sky was dark with her citizens called overcast, using the term in a general sort of way because it was never quite clear whether it was clouds, smog, or some strange mix of the two that blanketed the sky. Today, the news had forecasted a light shower in the late afternoon, but the jury was still out on whether it was a rain shower or an acid one. A fog had settled over the city as well, and a crisp wind swept through the hills of Bristol.
All in all, the day was gloomy. The sort of gloomy that wasn't enjoyable in any sense of the word, for the air was humid and stuck to Tim’s skin like sweat and his face felt oily because he hadn't slept the night before and overall he was miserable.
Not the good kind of miserable or gloomy either, which only added to his mood. He loved Gotham’s doom and gloom, relished in rainy days and dark nights made near indistinguishable by a pitch black sky and broken street lamps. But today was not one of those good gloomy days. Tim adjusted his tie for the third time that morning, smoothing down his suit for the fifth and looked at the clock for the hundredth. Today, they put his father in the ground next to his mother. Today he would truly be orphaned.
God, maybe Bruce would actually be interested in him now, with his shiny new title that seemed to be the moth’s flame to the older man. Not that Tim was interested. He was legally an adult now, had himself emancipated during the whole Brucequest debacle, and was turning 18 next year so the whole thing would be moot in only a few short months. Either way, he had distanced himself since Damian’s entrance and promotion (hostile take over was another way to put it, if Tim was feeling bitter, but he was numb at this point, so promotion it was) and hadn't actually spoken to any of the Waynes since he had sent over the proof Bruce was alive to the JLA and pulled him out of the Timestream. He hadn't even done much patrolling, in all honesty, since then either, opting to stay home and work on cases from his office, only donning his uniform (the new one, not the Robin suit) if he needed to gather intel or set up something.
A soft knock on his door startled Tim out of his thoughts and he turned as it opened. Morbidly, Tim thought Dana looked beautiful in her dark dress, the color suited her and made her eyes pop even as red as they were. Her hair was curled and her face was made up, and she looked on the verge of tears despite having already been crying all night. “The car’s here.” she whispered, voice hoarse and scratchy.
Tim hated seeing her like this, hated seeing his stepmother reduced to a shell of herself. She had only gotten worse since that day, since his father’s murder, her mind slipping more and more. The kind women who had taught him recipes and always hugged him before he left the house was no longer. He smiled at her, gently, and nodded. She left, closing his door with a click and Tim was left alone again.
His phone buzzed, likely another message from Dick, who hadn't stopped blowing his phone up since the morning after his father was pronounced dead, and Tim moved into a hotel while cleaners came to the house after the police took down the crime scene markers. He flipped it face down, leaving the message ignored like all the others.
He didn't want to talk with Dick, didn't want to talk to Bruce. He had planned the entire funeral on his own, from the seating to the flowers, to the wood of the casket that was going to be lowered right next to his mother. They were the same wood, the black walnut that Janet had always loved, with plush silk linings bearing black embroidery. Such was tradition on Janet’s side of the family.
Frankly, Janet didn't expect to die so young, had said so herself, so it was left to Tim to do the traditional embroidery by hand. It was easier the second time around with Jack’s, now that his hands were surer. Jack always did appreciate the traditions of his in-laws, so it felt only right that he should be included.
Tim grabbed his phone and silenced it as he made his way downstairs, a numbness in his limbs that had threatened to keep him abed today. He had fought with himself to move, to peel back the covers and force his feet to hit the cool tile.
He had cried only once in the two weeks since Boomerang killed his father, when he burst through the doors praying he wasn't too late only to find his father's body cooling in tandem with the blood on the wood floor. They had been preparing, in the months after Janet’s death and Jack’s awakening from his coma. Honestly, Tim didn't think he had ever been as close to Jack as he was in those months when the man pulled himself together and began making an active effort to bond with his son.
Late nights spent watching movies, days exploring museums, and evenings they tried to cook dinner but ended up laughing so much they didn't notice the food was burning. Gone.
Jack Drake was dead and Tim was alone, truly alone for the first time in his life. He had no family in Gotham city, all his father’s side was dead and his mother’s side lived upstate. They would be attending, as per the RSVP he received, so at least he had that.
The Wayne’s would be too. No doubt for appearances sake.
The car ride out to the cemetery was silent save for Dana’s murmurings, soft words that held meaning to no one but her. Tim stared out the window dully, eyes tracking two drops of gathered condensation racing down the window with his printed eulogy sitting lightly across his lap.
He didn't quite register the procession. Honestly, Tim felt like he had separated from his body at some point, he was so detached. It was like he was watching a movie, not experiencing the funeral himself. He knew this was a part of the grief, knew that many people did not cry or mourn outwardly, but it was strange to experience such a thing himself. He had been near inconsolable after Janet’s death - sure, he was much closer to his mother than he was to his father at the time, but still. He had hidden his mourning well from Bruce and the Waynes, to the point where they didn't even ask how he was holding up at the time.
Or maybe they just didn't care. He had bullied his way into being Robin. At most, he was a trusted ally, one who helped Bruce break out of his self-destructive (and generally destructive) grief.
Slim hands, with long, manicured nails sharp as razors came to rest on his shoulders. They cool in that familiar way his Aunt’s hands always were and the familiarity of her gentle touch made Tim want to sink back into her embrace. His nose was filled with that hypnotic scent of jasmine and vanilla and some deeper note he never could quite put his finger on.
A similarly cool presence wound an arm through his in a silent hello. His cousin never was quite of physical contact, and for the longest time, she shied away from it completely. They made their own little work around after many years of the cool glances and sharp words that bonded them : a simple twining of their covered arms, a linking, was contact enough for when it was truly needed. She walked with him up to the podium, their strides habitually mirroring, stopping only steps before it so that he could give his eulogy alone.
He unfolded his written speech and looked out at the sea of blacks and grays, his words sounding far away as he spoke in an even, low tone that sounded detached even to his own ears.
Bruce had come, as had Dick, though neither were very surprising. He was too tired to care, really. And then Burce had shifted to turn slightly and murmur something to someone behind him that had previously been hidden. Damian.
The fact that the brat who had tried to kill him more times than he could count, who was a large part of his being driven out of the Manor, was here at his father's funeral was almost enough to ignite the long dormant rage in Tim’s soul. It was an ugly thing, his rage, for it was a cold thing that never exploded, but by God did it freeze his being and turn him into an icy and calculated thing that scared even himself at times.
But then that exhaustion washed over him again like a weighted blanket on his shoulders and he couldn't find the energy to be angry anymore. Who cared, quite frankly, if Damian was here. There was no point in being angry because he should have expected they would bring him, so it was on him really.
Tim finished his speech, unseeing as he glanced out at the crowd before he moved away from the podium. Some old business partner that abandoned Jack Drake the moment DI went under started talking about him as if he hadn't spoken to the man in over a year, reminiscing about outings and how smart Jack was. Tim moved back into his previous position and those hands returned to his shoulders, grounding him. He felt eyes on him, coming from the right, and Tim knew it was the Waynes. Their stares were uncomfortable, but he was so tired. He was so tired he couldn't even muster the energy to simmer in his discomfort. Someone stepped up onto his right side, effectively blocking their view of him.
His uncle placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled at Tim easily, as though they weren't at his brother-in-law’s funeral. Tim supposed he should have expected the nonchalance. He and Jack never meshed as well as he and Janet did, but either way, death was a celebrated thing in their family. “What a wonderful funeral, my boy! Well done, well done!” He patted Tim’s shoulder proudly and Tim couldn't help the smile that pulled his lips.
His aunt’s family stayed around him throughout the service and after he dropped the first handful on the grave, he went with them to the reception under the graveyard's ornate pavilion followed by the rest of the attendees. People milled about under the stonework, plates filled with sandwiches and chips and whatever drinks available, making idle conversation.
Aunt Tisha cupped his face, gently wiping away some invisible dirt with her thumbs, nails scratching lightly against his cheek. “Such a wonderful occasion, Timothy dear, and your embroidery is as beautiful as ever. We so rarely get together as family and for it to happen like this! How are you, Timothy dear?”
Tim shrugged lightly, “Father’s passing was unexpected and unavoidable, I suppose. I hope you wouldn't mind helping me speak with him later?”
“Of course, dear.”
His uncle appeared at his side, cigar drooping slightly out of his mouth as he grinned. “You should come visit more often, my boy! I know Wednesday and Pugsley love it when you stay with us! Cousin Itt will be visiting next month as well! It'll be a family reunion!”
“A funeral and a reunion in the same month, Father? The family will be overwhelmed.” Wednesday cut in dryly, appearing out of nowhere at Tim's side. He didn't even jump at her presence, which his cousin rewarded with a nod.
“I did want talk about staying with you for a little while, actually.” Tim started, catching the attention of both his aunt and uncle by the way both their heads turned to him, eyes alight. They had always been this way; endlessly kind and welcoming, and they always wanted him closer.
When he was little, he used to spend summers at their home upstate while his parents were gone on their trips. Hell, Pugsley and Uncle Fester taught him how to use explosives, how to work around a hairpin trigger and fashion a bomb out of any available materials. He and his Aunt used to have tea and scry on gloomy nights, and Wednesday often liked to collaborate with him on many of her schemes. Gomez taught him most of his initial swordplay!
Eventually, Jack put a stop to the visits. Tim never quite knew what happened between him and Gomez, but one day he had asked to visit and received a slap in the face and was told to never bring them up again. It was only after they attended Janet’s funeral was Tim able to reestablish a relationship with the Addams, and they happily picked back up where they left off despite Jack keeping his distance.
“A little while?” Gomez laughed, “You can stay as long as you want, dear boy!”
Tim huffed, “I just need to get out of Gotham for a bit, you know?”
“You need to be with your family, dear.” Aunt Tisha hummed, brushed a stray lock of hair out his face.
Tim leaned into the touch and opened his mouth to respond when a throat cleared. Tim turned around and fought the urge to go rigid at the sight of Bruce and Dick standing there, shifting uncomfortably. “Hey, Timmy.” Dick gave a weak smile that was probably meant to be comforting. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grayson.” Tim replied, ignoring the flinch that racked Dick’s entire frame. “I appreciate your being here. You as well, Mr. Wayne.” He paused and looked towards Damian who was standing far off to the side looking annoyed, “Mr. Wayne.”
“Tim, I was hoping we could talk if you have a moment.” Bruce cut in, glancing briefly behind Tim, likely at his uncle. He did have quite the presence about him.
Tim glanced back to see Gomez tilting his head curiously at Bruce, his signature smile gracing his lips easily and to anyone who wasn't around his family often, Tim could see how unsettling it was. “Oh. Mr. Wayne, this is my Aunt Morticia and my Uncle Gomez. My cousins are around here somewhere. Aunt Tisha, Uncle Gomez, this is Mr. Bruce Wayne. He lives next door. And this is his son, Dick Grayson.”
“Wonderful to make your acquaintance!" Gomez grinned, reaching out to shake Bruce’s hand eagerly. “I’ve heard such things about you, Mr. Wayne.”
“A pleasure.” Tisha hummed, arms crossed, smiling even as her eyes looked bounced between Bruce, Tim, and Dick. She likely knew something was up, she always did, and her cool greeting reflected that despite her politeness.
Bruce shook Gomez’s hand, despite his look of slight confusion at the man. Tim had never mentioned Janet’s side of the family (something he had done on purpose, as it was near impossible to find the Addams in any true records. Maybe some part of Tim wanted a way out in case it ever got bad enough with his parents..with the Waynes. Somedays, Tim didn't think he would survive the ‘training’ Bruce put him through when he became Robin), so it wasn't a surprise that Bruce had no idea they existed.
Aunt Tisha placed a hand in the air, which was quickly taken by Uncle Gomez. “Gomez, dear, let us go check on the children.” She ran the back of her hand across Tim’s cheek in goodbye before turning and gliding away, his uncle at her side murmuring sweet nothings.
“I wasn't aware you had family coming.” Bruce started, watching them walk away with the glint in his eye that was all the Bat.
Tim leveled the man with a look that could cut glass. “I’m lucky to have them, Bruce. What would you like me to say on the matter? Is that what you wanted to discuss with me? My family attending my father’s funeral?”
Dick startled and shook his head a bit too quickly, clearly trying to save the already derailing conversation. “No! No, that is not what we wanted to talk about at all.”
“Dick’s right. I shouldn't have led with that.” Bruce sighed, and slipped his hand into his suit pocket. “I was hoping to talk with you about you coming home.”
“Home?”
“Yeah, moving back into the Manor, babybird!” Dick’s voice was strained, like he wanted it to be cheerful but he was looking at Tim’s expression, unchanging and cool and knew this conversion wasn't going to be the happy reunion he thought it would be. Happy reunion was maybe a bit unfair, Tim supposed. Dick’s thoughts were probably in the right place, thinking that their invitation would be a sort of a relief for Tim, whose father had just died and whose stepmother was likely going into a care facility soon. Tim, who they thought completely isolated and alone, would obviously be happy they reached out. Saviours that they were.
Clearly they hadn't expected him to have any family left.
Tim sighed, biting back a sharp reply. They meant well, but Tim knew he didn't have a place in the Manor anymore - didn't want one, in all honesty, not with Damian there. He lacked self-preservation instincts, sure, but he was actively looking for a knife to split him ear to ear in his sleep, or arsenic in his coffee (both would be a nightmare to clean, after all. He had inherited his mother’s blood more than his fathers, and that meant it took more than a little to kill him dead. Such was true for all Addams, which was what made Janet’s death such a shock.) “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m going to be staying with my family, Bruce.” If he put an emphasis on ‘family’ that was Tim’s business.
Bruce looked pained for a moment before his face smoothed over. That tick in his jaw stayed, though. “Its been a while since we've been able to really talk is all, Tim. You’ve not been…in the Manor… for a long time. I miss you is all. We all do.” Nice save, Bruce. ‘In the Manor’ meaning the Cave, meaning he's wondering why Tim’s hasn't been as active in their night job.
The exhaustion was back, the one that had been temporarily lifted in the presence of his aunt and uncle. He really didn't want to do this here, hash out his issues with the Waynes at his father’s funeral. He shoved down the resentment that festered towards them for doing this here.
He wondered what they thought. If they knew the toll his training took on him, how Shiva was somehow a kinder mentor than Bruce had been in his grief-filled rage. Wondered if Dick knew how bad those initial months of his tenure were. If they understood the paranoia that was born after Hood’s attack on the Tower, and the pain of it being essentially forgotten after they learned that Jason was alive. Sure, Tim was happy too, but he still couldn't be alone with the man without his entire body tensed and ready for any kind movement that could lead to another near crippling injury, despite Jason’s clear guilt. It hurt more that Bruce seemed to forgive Jason for Tim, never actually waiting for his mind to heal from it before ushering the man back into the Manor as much as he could manage.
He wondered if Dick understood how much his absence affected Tim. He understood, really he did. In his mind, Bruce had replaced his little brother weeks after his death. It wasn't the initial distance that hurt, so much as his pretending to care towards the end. He knew Dick was trying to bond with him, but he knew it was never real. That was even further proven when Bruce disappeared and Dick took away his suit the moment he could, not even bothering to inform Tim, who found out about his dismissal by walking in on Damian wearing his suit - his suit that he had upgraded with his own two hands. It had hurt even more when Dick tried to put him in Arkham and smeared his name in the hero community.
Even when Bruce was back and Tim was right about the whole thing, they went back to their happy little family like nothing happened. Left him in charge of WE because it took the weight off Bruce’s shoulders and they just didn't have to think about it anymore. Because that was Tim’s role, the one who held shit together.
Well, the glue bottle is empty and expired, and Tim was done.
“I appreciate the thought, Bruce, but I’m alright.” he said simply, in that even tone he used to placate the elite of society. “Thank you for coming. Please enjoy the refreshments.”
He turned then, and walked away, easily avoiding the hand that shot out to grab him and ignored their calls of his name. Wednesday stood in the corner, her arms crossed over her black button down and her brow raised as she stared at the exchange in disapproval. Maybe that’s why he felt so bold in his dismissal, he could feel her watching the entire time.
His cousin took after his aunt undeniably, with her pale skin and long dark hair. Her protective nature was another beast entirely, some mutated version of Morticia and Gomez’s personalities that reared its head at the slightest incursion against her family, perceived or otherwise.
Tim joined her in the dark corner, his back still to the Waynes despite their collective gaze boring a hole into his back.
“You have quite the fan-club, cousin.” Wednesday snipped, her dead-eyed gaze never leaving the men behind Tim, filled with a warning.
“Ha. Ha.” Tim sighed. He didn't allow himself to sag. Not yet, not with these people around, and certainly not with the Waynes tracking his every move like he was a Rogue.
“Are they the ones then?” she asked, finally turning eyes towards him. Her gaze softened minutely, a thing he only noticed because he had grown up with the girl and he knew her mannerisms like the back of his hand. “The ones you called about?”
His first stop on the self-proclaimed Brucequest was to visit his aunt, and use her scrying to see if he really was losing his mind (not in the fun way) and if Bruce really was dead. He had called beforehand because that was the polite thing to do despite the Addams’ insistence that he could show up anytime for whatever reason and he would be welcomed in with open arms and a cup of tea.
Tim nodded, rubbing his eyes with one hand. He had ended up breaking down and telling them everything over the phone, overwhelmed and grateful for their nonchalance about their immediate belief in him. As though the first instinct to trust him instead of doubting what sounded quite frankly insane was normal.
It was for them, he supposed. The insane to normal folk was the every day for the Addams, who were not quite normal themselves. They were technically human, but well.
Wednesday hummed, reaching out to loop her arm through his and clicked her tongue disapproving at Pugsley, who was stuffing his face over at the banquet table. She flicked a braid over her shoulder and pulled him along with her as she moved away from the crowd and over to where his aunt and uncle stood.
Tim looked back only once, a mere glance over his shoulder to where Bruce and Dick still stood listlessly staring at him, confused and hurt marring their gazes. The fact that they didn't understand was enough for Tim to steel himself. If they still didn't get it, they never would.
He turned back and put one foot in front of the other towards where his family stood.