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Bruce Wayne is getting old.
It is an undeniable fact. Gray streaks shine in his once dark hair, wrinkles cut deep at the corners of his eyes, and there are some nights that he falls asleep inside the Batmobile, unable to straighten his aching knees after a hard patrol.
He never lets his children see him falter; he remains strong in front of them, forcing his spine ramrod straight, and it is only in front of Alfred that he allows himself to acknowledge the aches and pains that have settled deep into his bones.
There are some days where Bruce will bury his face into his pillow and cry as Alfred works the knots in his shoulders and back free, a rare display of weakness as he is forced to acknowledge the fact that his time as Gotham’s protector is nearing its end.
Bruce dreads that day, knows that he would do anything to keep this mantle out of his children’s hands as long as he is able, but he cannot ignore the way his own body continues to protest his nightly routine.
He sits in the Batmobile waiting for Damian to meet back up with him after they had split off during patrol. The seat warmers are turned as high as they will go, and Bruce sags against the leather. The boy shouldn’t be much longer, so Bruce closes his eyes and dreams of his bed, of Alfred’s gentle hands, of hot packs pressed up against his trembling muscles.
The door opens, but it is not Damian that sits in the passenger seat. Tim collapses his staff and slides into the seat, bringing his knees up to his chest and resting his feet on the leather chair.
“You lost fair and square,” Tim yells out of the window as Damian marches towards them furiously. “First one back to the Batmobile gets shotgun, Robin, that’s been the rule since before you were born.”
“I am going to rip out your eyes and feed them to my cat.” Damian kicks the back of Tim’s seat hard as he gets into the car. “You cheated!”
“Boys.” Bruce starts the car and heads away from the Manor and towards Tim’s home. It’s unusual for him to catch a ride, so Bruce asks, “Tim, did you get hurt?”
“What?” Tim looks up from where he had been digging in the glove compartment for the snacks he knows Damian keeps in there. “No, I’m fine. Oh, you don’t have to take me back to my place. I’m going to spend the night at the Manor.”
The boy’s tone is deceptively light, but ice runs down Bruce’s spine because somehow Tim knows. He knows that Bruce is in pain because he’s Tim, and Bruce has spent years of his life trying and failing to hide things from this boy.
He doubts Tim knows the extent of his chronic pain, but Bruce is certain of the fact that now he’s figured out something is wrong, he won’t stop until he discovers just how bad Bruce has let things get.
“Hey, babe,” Tim says into the personal line of his comm. There’s a false lightness in his tone, and Bruce’s knuckles tighten against the wheel. “I’m sorry, I’m not coming home tonight. Something came up. Yeah, yeah, I know, but it’s family stuff. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Yeah, okay. Sure. Love you, too.”
“Is there a reason you forced us to listen to that drivel?” Damian isn’t wearing his seatbelt, and he rests his elbows on the center dash as he sticks his head between Bruce and Tim. “None of us are forcing you to be here. Go be disgusting with that troglodyte and leave Father and I to our business.”
“Troglodyte, Damian, really?” Tim shoves him into the backseat. “You know, Bernard has nothing but nice things to say about you. You could stand to be a little kinder to him.”
“And you could stand to have better taste in men.”
Their bickering fades to background noise as Bruce drives towards home. He is dreading having to drag himself out of the car under Tim’s scrutiny. There is no doubt that Tim is going to say something, and if Damian overhears, then he is well and truly screwed. His deepest shame will be shared to all of his children, and he will be swarmed with their attention. It will be well-intentioned, but Bruce has no need for their worry. He will surely break under the weight of it, and he cannot break. He cannot.
Damian sprints towards the showers, shouting about his plan to use all of their hot water before Tim can, and Bruce tenses now that he is alone with Tim.
“Little brat.” Tim pulls his mask free and rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna go stretch before I wash off. Join me?”
Bruce knows exactly what game Tim is playing, and he refuses to partake. “I need to check out a lead,” he replies. “I’ll be up late. Don’t bother waiting for me.”
There. A perfectly believable excuse.
Tim arches one dark brow. “Seriously? I mean, come on, Bruce, you can’t expect me to-”
“Get out of the car, Tim.”
Bruce is being unnecessarily cruel, but his patience is wearing thin. The longer Tim keeps trying, the longer Bruce must remain infallible. If he can just get the boy to retreat to his room, Bruce will be free to begin the agonizing process of stripping away his armor and dragging himself up to bed. He doubts he’ll have the strength to stand in the shower long enough for the hot water to chase away the pain in his muscles, so he won’t bother showering at all. He could ask Alfred to draw a bath, but he worries he won’t be able to get himself out of it.
During his time in the cowl, Dick had replaced the chair to the Batcomputer with some high-tech, ergonomic thing that was supposed to relieve the tension on his joints. Dick’s pain is almost as bad as Bruce’s, but he has no problems with letting the family see it. It makes Bruce sick to see how easily Dick can ask for help and let his siblings help him stretch out his limbs when Bruce cannot even bring himself to let slip the slightest inkling that he might be in pain.
Bruce hates this chair. His own is still being cleaned after an unfortunate run in with Condiment King had stained the plush fabric with mustard, so he perches on the edge of Dick’s terrible contraption and waits.
Tim is a stubborn creature, and Bruce can see him staring as he stretches on the mats. Bruce pointedly ignores him and begins to type. He can’t focus on anything other than the tingling in his fingers and toes, but he does his best to seem busy.
He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Tim get up off the mats, strip out of his suit, and vanish upstairs. It is only when he knows for certain that he is alone that Bruce lets himself collapse forward until he is slumped across the desk. His legs splay out in front of him, and he pillows his forehead on his arms.
I’ll get up in a minute.
He does not get up in a minute. The strength it would take to get up and out of the chair seems unattainable, and so Bruce just groans into his arms.
“I made you tea.”
Bruce does not flinch.
He doesn’t know how he hadn’t heard Tim approach, but the boy is now standing next to the desk, holding a steaming mug of tea. Dark hair clings to his head and drips water down his forehead, and his pajama pants pool around his bare feet. They’re likely stolen from Jason based on how massive they are on his slight frame.
“There’s pain meds, too.” Tim shrugs. “I know you say they make you drowsy, but you-”
“Stop, Tim.”
“Bruce, I’m just trying to help.” He takes a step forward, and Bruce feels his control slipping. He’s panicking, terrified of Tim’s careful gaze, and he can’t even find the strength to get up and run. “Please, if you would just let me-”
“I said stop!”
Ceramic shatters against the floor, and Tim leaps backwards with a soft cry of pain. His hand is red and trembling as boiling water scalds his skin, and Bruce’s heart stops dead in his chest when he realizes what he’s just done.
Once, when Tim was just starting out as Robin, Bruce had pushed him too far as they sparred. The boy’s wrist had snapped beneath Bruce’s weight, and his blue eyes had gone glassy with tears. He’d looked up at Bruce as his mouth had fallen open with shock, and he’d flinched away when Bruce had tried to reach for him.
Tim does not flinch now. He looks down at the shards of the mug, at the burn spreading across his hand, and then back at Bruce.
“Get up,” he whispers. “Get up out of my chair, and go to bed.”
“Tim, I-”
“Go to bed, Bruce.” Tim’s mouth is set in a firm line. “You’re not going to finish a report like this. You’re in pain, and you’re sloppy when you’re in pain. Go upstairs. I’ll finish it.”
“I can-”
“No, you can’t.” Tim’s voice is flat when he bends down to pick up the mug and dump it in the trash. “It’s not like I haven’t taken care of it before. I’ve been picking up your slack since I was twelve, Bruce, what’s one more night?”
“You should have gone home.”
“Oh, you think I want to be here dealing with your bullshit?” Tim’s yelling now, and a crimson flush blooms on the high points of his cheeks. “I would much rather be at home, actually, but once again, I’ve got to keep you from killing yourself. So get the fuck out of my chair and go lie down before you leave me an even bigger mess to clean up.”
Bruce stares at Tim’s chest as it heaves with every furious breath. His hands are shaking, and he cannot make himself look any higher than the faded logo of Tim’s shirt.
With a massive sigh, Tim’s hands wrap around his wrists, and he braces before helping to pull Bruce to his feet. Bruce’s head spins, but Tim holds him steady. The boy slips under Bruce’s arm and helps him hobble over to the elevator. He pushes the button, helps Bruce inside, then turns smartly on his heel and storms over to the Batcomputer. Bruce watches him as the doors to the elevator close, and then he is alone.
He doesn’t sleep.
Alfred’s disdain is evident as he piles hot packs on top of Bruce’s bed, and he tucks Bruce in with a disappointed huff of breath before he, too, turns on his heel and leaves Bruce alone with his thoughts.
Sleep comes in fit and starts, restlessness caused by physical pain and guilt over how he had treated Tim. He hadn’t meant to lash out like that, and the look on Tim’s face haunted him every time he tried to close his eyes.
At breakfast, Bruce drowns out the sounds of Duke and Damian as they shovel breakfast down their throats before school. His stomach turns when he looks at the food on his own plate.
Tim rushes in, an energy drink already in his hand as he swipes a slice of toast from Damian’s plate and dunks it into Duke’s eggs.
“Come on, man,” Duke whines. “Get your own eggs.”
“Can’t.” Tim shoves half of the toast in his mouth in one bite and washes it down with a swig of his energy drink. Bruce can smell the sugar from halfway across the kitchen, and he and Alfred’s noses wrinkle in identical disgust. “They moved up my meeting. I’ve gotta run.”
He stands still just long enough to allow Alfred to tie his tie, and then he hurries out of the door. He ruffles Damian’s hair and swipes yet another piece of egg from Duke’s plate before he’s gone, never once sparing a look in Bruce’s direction.
Not that he needed to; Tim’s silent disdain had spoken volumes.
An hour passes before Bruce picks up his phone and scrolls all the way down his contact list.
“Hello?” Bernard Dowd sounds half asleep when he answers the phone, and Bruce resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Bruce.” He pauses, and when he gets no response, says, “Wayne?”
“Huh?”
“It’s Tim’s…Jesus, Bernard, do you know any other Bruce Waynes?”
There’s a shuffling sound on the other end of the line, and then Bernard yawns. “Right, yeah. Sorry, I just woke up. Is this about that family thing? Did something happen to Tim?”
“No, no, Tim’s fine.” Bruce goes to say more, then sighs. “Actually…well, he and I…we sort of…”
“Got in a fight? Yeah, I know, he called me last night. I just wanted to see if you’d actually admit it to me.”
This fucking kid. No wonder Tim likes him.
“I’m going to send you a hundred dollars.” In a test of his patience, Bruce ignores the boy’s previous comments. “There’s a restaurant down the street from Wayne Enterprises that Tim likes. You’re going to buy him lunch, and you are not, under any circumstances, going to tell him that it was from me.”
Silence. All Bruce can hear is the sound of Bernard breathing into the microphone, and he should not be this nervous about talking to a boy who’s barely out of high school, but he finds himself fidgeting as he waits for Bernard to respond. When he doesn’t, Bruce finds himself rambling.
“It’s just, he didn’t eat anything at breakfast. Well, he did, but not enough. And he won’t eat at work, not when he’s upset. And he is upset. I upset him, and…he just…he needs to eat something.”
“Because he never eats when he’s in a mood,” Bernard finishes. The boy hums. “Send one fifty.”
“There is no way that he is going to eat a hundred and fifty dollars worth of-”
“I’m going to have lunch with him, and you’re going to foot the bill.” There’s more shuffling. “Look, I don’t like you, Bruce, but, for whatever reason, Tim does. So, you’re gonna send enough for us both to eat, and then you’re going to go and write up an apology because you and I both know you don’t deserve him.”
And then he hangs up.
It takes almost ten minutes for Bruce to shuffle to his desk, and another five for him to work up the courage to sit down. His body aches terribly, no matter how many painkillers Alfred hides in his morning coffee. Still, Bernard is right. He owes it to Tim to be ready with the right words once Tim is in the right mind to hear him.
He is halfway through a run-on sentence about the importance of holding himself accountable when his phone buzzes. Bruce has two specific ringtones for each one of his children. One for their texts and one for their calls, and he lunges for the phone when he hears Tim’s text alert.
There’s a picture of Tim’s desk covered in food attached to the message, and Bruce sees that Bernard has done a good job of choosing Tim’s favorites. In the corner of the picture, the blond is mid-laugh, eyes crinkled shut as he gestures with a plastic fork.
The message is short, just three letters that Bruce has to look up in order to understand that thx is actually short for ‘thank you’. Three little dots appear, then vanish, then appear again. Bruce waits, and then the dots vanish for good.
His cursor blinks up at him, and Bruce begins typing out his apology with trembling fingers. The size of his texts are large, something his children crucify him for whenever they see him squinting at the screen. Years of being hunched over a screen in an otherwise dark cave have ruined his eyes, and it takes him a moment to type out the right words.
Bruce has often failed to do right by Tim. A single lunch and a clumsily worded text will do little to rectify the hurt he has caused this boy who still, despite everything, stays. He thinks of every time this stubborn little boy had tried to save him from himself over the years, and his chest grows tight.
Bruce Wayne is getting old. He is angry, and scared, and there isn’t a single part of him that doesn’t ache, but as he presses send, he promises to do better for this boy. He may not be Batman for the rest of his life, but age cannot take away his place as Tim’s father, and that is a far more important mantle to wear.