Chapter Text
“My dad never did—never does anything like this with me.” Tim admits, an hour or so into an impromptu afternoon game of golf, cheeks flushed and hair damp with sweat even under the shade of the golf cart Bruce has been lugging them around in. It had been Alfred’s idea, of course, to get Tim outside and focused on something other than training for a little while.
It’s the middle of spring. Tim’s mother passed away months ago. His father, Jack, remains paralyzed in a hospital bed.
Bruce hasn’t seen Tim cry since before the funeral.
“Your father is a busy man,” Bruce offers, because it’s the truth. He’s never formally met Jack, but they run in close enough circles. Both of the Drakes were known for being rather abrasive and neither particularly charming, but they were still a successful family nonetheless. Still, it wasn’t a surprise for Bruce to find out that Tim came from parents who left him feeling unwanted and forgotten, even if he never really expressed that part out loud.
Tim himself is hardworking and stubborn, but also sensitive and soft-spoken. Naive in a way Bruce’s own sons had never been.
It’s a good thing—it means he’s always able to see the good in Bruce.
“I know,” Tim replies with a nod, and Bruce understands from the thinness in his voice that he hadn’t responded in the way Tim had hoped he would. Tim turns his gaze downwards, fidgeting with the white leather golf gloves Alfred insisted he wear. “But so are you, you know?”
Bruce doesn’t need another son.
Tim doesn’t need him.
Bruce sighs.
“I’ll always make time for you,” He reassures, placing a hand on Tim’s shoulder.
Tim looks back up at him, blue eyes wide and searching. It makes Bruce want to look away, but instead he keeps his expression steady, giving the boy’s small shoulder a light squeeze.
“Maybe we should visit your father together today.”
-
“It’s probably fine,” Tim reassures him. “You really don’t need to—“
“Just let me check.”
They’re down on the training mats, alone in the cave. Tim relents, awkwardly pulling himself up into a sitting position so he can extend his foot out towards Bruce.
He’d let himself get tripped up while they were sparring, despite how painfully slow Bruce thought he was being. They’re both well aware of the fact that Tim isn’t a natural at the more physical aspects of the job, and while Bruce tries to hide it, he can’t help but feel a little disappointed that Tim isn’t picking up on things as quickly as his predecessors did.
But he tries very hard, and that’s worth something to Bruce.
He crouches down in front of the boy, gently grabbing his foot and examining his ankle. Tim's practice uniform has grown shorter on him in the last few months, exposing a little more leg than when he first tried it on. He rolls his foot around a little as if it show Bruce it’s fine.
“See? All good.”
Bruce hums and rubs his ankle between his thumbs anyway.
“It isn’t good, Tim. I can’t be expected to keep going easy on you.”
Tim briefly looks as though he’s been slapped, before diverting his eyes towards the ceiling, searching for the right thing for Robin to say.
Bruce doesn’t feel guilty, because this isn’t about Tim’s ego, but he does let his hands travel to Tim’s heel. Looking to soften the blow. He squeezes and rubs in a circular motion.
“We’ll keep working. You’ll get there.”
It’s enough to make Tim look at him again, at least.
“I know,” Tim agrees, eyes flickering to where Bruce’s hands have now moved to the arch of his foot. Bruce squeezes again and Tim tenses, eyes and mouth squeezing shut.
“Did that hurt?” Bruce asks, but before he’s done speaking Tim is already hastily shaking his head.
Concerned, Bruce squeezes the same spot again, lighter this time.
Tim jerks, making the quietest squeaking sound in the back of his throat.
“It—that tickles,” He admits, cheeks turning pink. He pulls back against Bruce’s hold, but Bruce doesn’t yield.
The gasp he lets out at the next squeeze makes Bruce’s eyebrow quirk.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Tim complains, but he’s unable to hold back the accompanying giggle as he attempts to squirm away, nudging Bruce with his other foot.
Bruce rubs the spot relentlessly now, enjoying seeing the boy act a little more his age than usual. He’s sweet like this, red faced and grinning in a way that Bruce hasn't seen since the night he’d told him there was a chance he could try being Robin. He’d been so serious since that moment, so eager to be as mature as Bruce needed.
But this—this is important too.
He lets Tim laugh and laugh until it seems almost uncomfortable, and then slows down his efforts, letting him catch his breath.
“I didn’t take you for the type,” Bruce muses, gently setting the boy’s foot back down onto the mat.
Tim sits back up a little, grabbing hold of his foot as if he needs to take back ownership of it.
“I didn’t know,” He admits, voice breathy as he begins to calm down. He seems to consider it for a moment, eyebrows furrowing before meeting Bruce’s gaze.
“I guess no one else has ever tried that on me before.”
-
Bruce shouldn’t be here.
They had already been in the city, and Tim insisted he didn’t mind if Bruce sat in the room with him while he visited his father. Bruce didn’t protest must on the chance that maybe Tim really wanted him there for a little extra comfort, but sitting in the room with him now only leaves Bruce feeling utterly useless.
He’s in a chair as far away from the pair as possible, doing his best not to overhear whatever Tim is telling his father in a hushed tone. Tim says he usually just gives him updates on what’s going on at school, but the way seems to practically wrap himself around Jack’s hand—the only part of him that Tim can really touch—makes the one-sided conversation seem far too intimate for Bruce to be involved in.
It says a lot about Tim, that he can be so devoted to a man that he’s never felt particularly close to.
Bruce has to wonder how things will change if Jack ever gets out of that bed.
For Tim’s sake, he hopes they’ll be able to mend their relationship.
But, selfishly, he worries about how that would get in the way of his own partnership with Tim.
And did Jack really deserve another chance to have a relationship with Tim?
Bruce watches as Tim brings the man’s hand up to his cheek, almost like being caressed. Bitterly, he wonders how often Jack did this when he was awake—if he had ever.
“I wish I could do more to help you, Dad.” Tim’s whisper carries itself all the way over to Bruce, sounding like a confession, as if Tim had something to feel guilty for. His bangs hang down over his eyes, and he looks skinny in the T-shirt Alfred bought for him when he started staying at the manor. His skin is somehow still paler than the man who hasn’t seen the light of day in months.
It’s not about what Jack deserves, really.
When it’s a little past time for them to leave, Bruce walks over and places a hand on Tim’s back. Tim doesn’t say anything, but he pulls Jack’s hand away from his face, tracing the lines on his palm. He presses a soft kiss to the center of it.
Bruce averts his eyes for the short duration of the display.
“I’ll be back soon.”
Back in the warm air on the streets of Gotham, everything feels a little less suffocating, a little more loud. Bruce is hanging back a little behind Tim, keeping a close watch, giving himself the space to think a little more freely. But there’s really only one thing on his mind:
Tim is an extraordinarily good son.
-
Months later—when they’re huddled together in the back of the car, forcibly separated by heavy layers—Tim admits something to him.
“I’m scared for when he’ll get better,” He murmurs, searching out Bruce’s hand through their winter coats. “I’m scared it’s easier to love him like this.”
-
It’s a small thing.
When Alfred calls and off-handedly mentions that Tim has been sulking around the manor due to Bruce’s extended time on business out of the country, he knows he isn’t expected to do anything to make up for it. Bruce hadn’t intended to be gone longer than originally promised, and he knows Tim understands that. Everything will be fine when he gets home.
But the boy’s father is in the hospital, and his mother only recently passed away, and Bruce can’t help but feel a little guilty.
It’s funny. He’s raised boys Tim’s age before, there’s really no excuse for his uncertainty about what kind of gift he’d like. There’s plenty of ways to reassure Tim that he had at least been thinking about him while he was gone, even a book could do the trick.
But when he thinks about the boy beside the hospital bed, curled up around his father’s hand, it doesn’t seem like enough.
That had been the image stuck in his brain as he had perused the aisles of a quiet toy shop.
Bruce looks down at the soft, yellow toy duck stuffed into one of the pockets of his travel bag where it rests at his feet. He’s sure it belongs in an infant’s crib more than it does the bedroom of a thirteen year old boy. Tim will likely be embarrassed, he’ll struggle to be polite before he hides the gift away somewhere he won’t have to look at again.
Bruce should throw it away before he gets home.
I wish I could do more to help you, Dad.
-
Tim isn’t waiting for him in the entrance when he gets home, not that Bruce expects him to be. He doesn’t come downstairs for the few minutes Bruce spends chatting with Alfred in the kitchen, either. If Bruce didn’t know any better, he’d assume he isn’t all that eager to see him after all.
But he does know better, so he swallows his pride and heads upstairs himself, bag still hanging off his shoulder.
He catches Tim in the hallway just outside of his bedroom, the boy’s expression brightening as he turns to shut the door behind him.
“Hi, how was your trip?” Tim asks, and then quickly adds: “I practiced with your new training AI while you were gone.”
Bruce gives him a small smile.
“Good. That’s good, Tim,” He praises, and then suddenly feels unsure of himself. Tim wants to impress him with his hard work, not be patronized with a child’s toy.
But then Tim smiles up at him, and Bruce is forced to remember he is really just a child.
“I have something for you,” Bruce tells him, moving to unzip the bag. Tim leans closer inquisitively as he rummages through it, and Bruce hesitates as he grasps the soft fur from underneath a zip lock bag of shaving supplies.
Tim seems to notice his apprehension, eyebrows lifted and extending a hand out. “Well? What is it?”
Bruce sighs, pulling the toy out of the bag and placing it in his hand.
It takes Tim a second to process what he’s looking at. He raises his eyebrows even higher, if possible.
“A duck?” He’s confused, but he’s not outright rejecting it. Still, Bruce is feeling a little stupid for even attempting to pass this off as a gift. Maybe Ace could still use it as a toy.
“It’s fine if you don’t like it,” Bruce tells him, watching the careful way Tim studies it in his hand. He looks at it as if he thinks maybe Bruce is testing him, or pulling some kind of prank. “If you feel you’re too old for—“
“No!” Tim interjects, clutching the duck with both hands and bringing it close to his chest. “I mean—I like it. It’s nice.”
He looks like he wants to say more, looking down at the duck and running a finger over its fur. So Bruce waits—Tim can never stand the quiet.
“My parents used to always bring me back souvenirs from their trips. When I was little,” He explains, looking at the toy a little more fondly. Bruce doesn’t know if it’s because of the memory or the gift itself, but seeing the slight upturn in the corner of Tim’s lips, he decides it doesn’t really matter.
Tim presses the duck a little closer to himself and smiles at Bruce again.
“Thank you.”
Bruce only nods in response.
-
Janet’s birthday is at the beginning of June, and it’s Tim’s idea to bring flowers to her grave.
Tim had insisted on a bouquet of blue hydrangea, but when Bruce asks if those were her favorite flowers, he just shakes his head.
“I don’t know what her favorite flowers were,” He admits, staring down her headstone with an unreadable expression. “They just remind me of her.”
Her eyes, Bruce thinks. He knows from pictures—Tim is the spitting image of his mother, not a single trace of Jack in him. Janet had been truly beautiful, with big blue eyes and delicate features. Dark hair, straight and thin.
Bruce finds himself wondering if Tim had inherited her brains, too, if maybe he had been born entirely his mother’s son. Maybe Jack looked at him and couldn’t see himself, maybe that aroused suspicion in his marriage to Janet. It could explain, then, why they had been on the brink of divorce before she died.
For whatever reason, the thought amuses Bruce. But it’s an entirely inappropriate train of thought to have six feet above where the woman is currently resting.
“I don’t really have much to say this time,” Tim directs towards the headstone a little awkwardly, fidgeting where he stands. “I just miss you, Mom. Happy Birthday.”
Bruce chooses not to say anything—it’s what he prefers for himself—and instead offers Tim a small smile when he looks back at him.
“I’m ready to go,” Tim quietly informs him, as if he no longer wishes to disturb his mother.
“Would you like to visit your father?” Bruce asks, because it seems like the right thing to ask.
Tim thinks for a moment, before shaking his head slowly.
“No, I think I just want to go home.”
And when he reaches for Bruce’s hand to hold as they walk towards the entrance to the cemetery, Bruce doesn’t think much about it at all.
-
The summer storms have been causing Bruce difficulty in patrolling, as they usually do. And while the current thunderstorm hadn’t been enough to keep him from going out earlier in the evening, it’s only a little past two before he finds himself upstairs in the manor, freshly showered and ready to take a break for the night.
He almost makes it to his bedroom door before he hears a loud screech.
Running entirely on instinct, he races down the hall towards Tim’s room. In the back of his mind, he recalls Alfred telling him thunder and lighting tended to disturb Tim at night, giving him nightmares.
He hears the boy cry out again as he rushes though the door.
Tim is sweating under his thick covers, legs trapped and trashing around.
“Dad, dad!”
“I’m here, I’m here,” Bruce chokes out before he can remind himself that Tim isn’t talking about him. He’s next to Tim in a heartbeat, torn between scooping him up in his arms and jostling him awake. He settles from something in between, and he catches blue eyes opening up for him before he’s pulling the boy closer, letting him hide in the crook of his neck.
Tim whimpers and sniffles, probably too disoriented to speak.
“It was only a dream, Tim,” Bruce reassures him, running a hand through the back of his damp hair. He feels Tim nod in understanding against his neck, but he makes no move to break out of the hold.
Bruce’s eyes travel down to the bed, to the tangle of sheets surrounding Tim’s legs. Curiously, he spots a small patch of yellow fabric peeking out from beneath them. Careful not to move Tim, he leans forward only just far enough to pull the sheet aside and confirm his suspicion—the toy duck. Tim must have been sleeping with it.
Understanding, Bruce reaches for the toy.
“Here,” He says against the top of Tim’s head, and Tim looks around for a second before his wet eyes land on the toy Bruce is handing to him. He doesn’t even blush, too upset to care, as he takes it into his arms and cradles it almost like a baby. He squeezes it once and goes back to nuzzling Bruce’s neck.
Such a good boy.
Bruce wraps his arms tight around his small frame.
He’s almost sure he hears it one last time, mixed in with Tim’s stuttered little breaths.
Dad.
He doesn’t make Tim wait.
“I’m here.”
-
There’s been a little change in their relationship. Their partnership.
It’s a good one.
Tim seems so much more comfortable lately, a little less insecure, and it’s done wonders for his physical training. He doesn’t hesitate as much, and he doesn’t seem as caught up in his anxiety over whether or not he’s living up to the previous Robins.
But… Bruce will admit only to himself that it’s good for another reason, too.
Because suddenly he feels like there’s a an actual child in his home again. Tim is more willing to laugh for him, more eager to touch him, more eager to be touched. It’s amazing what it does for Bruce’s spirit, just to have someone like that around.
Tim is currently lounging sideways in his seat in the theater room, long legs splayed out, feet almost on the edge of Bruce’s thigh. He appears to be messaging back and forth rather hastily with a friend on his phone, interest in whatever movie he was watching long gone. Bruce hadn’t even bothered to ask what it was before sitting down, finding himself drawn to spend time alone with the boy while he had the time.
Well, not entirely alone.
Squashed up under Tim’s forearm, right up against his chest, is their new little duckling friend.
Tim doesn’t go everywhere with it. That would be absurd, even Bruce thinks so. But he doesn’t seem to have much shame in taking it anywhere he wishes to feel comfortable, clutching it not unlike the way a small child would. Alfred didn’t have much to say about it, possibly because Tim had been through so much in the last few months, and he cared too much about the boy to discourage him from doing something he found comforting.
Bruce just thinks it’s impossibly endearing.
He pulls one of Tim’s feet into his lap, mainly to get his attention.
“Have you picked a name for it?” Bruce asks, nodding towards the toy when Tim finally looks up at him. He pinches the ball of Tim’s foot, watching Tim squirm.
For whatever reason, Tim being ticklish still amused him.
“Bruce, I’m not a little kid,” Tim insists with a roll of his eyes.
Bruce runs a light finger up and down his arch, Tim’s leg twitching as he giggles involuntarily.
“But you like it?”
Tim nods through his laughter as Bruce’s feather-light touches move up his bare ankles and legs, and then back down again.
“Come on, Tim. What did you name him?”
“I-I’m not little,” Tim repeats indignantly, playfully kicking Bruce’s hands away to no avail.
“I don’t believe you,” He relentlessly assaults the back of Tim’s knees, causing the boy to shriek and beg for him to stop. His eyes are watering from laughing so hard, and he’s squirming and pressing his legs together like he might lose control over his bladder if Bruce isn’t careful.
“Ducky!” Tim near shouts, and Bruce’s pauses to let him catch his breath. “I think of his name as Ducky. It’s not very creative.”
“It’s sweet,” Bruce tells him without really thinking, because it is. Tim is a wildly intelligent boy, but the fact that he could only think to name his stuffed toy something so simple was a testament to his innocence.
Tim furrows his brows at him. He holds Ducky a little higher. “You don’t think it’s stupid?”
“Of course not,” Bruce reassures him. He doesn’t have to guess where this insecurity came from. “There’s nothing wrong with a child taking comfort in a toy.”
Tim seems to accept this, stretching his legs back out and nudging Bruce’s thighs with his toes as he turns back towards the movie.
Bruce runs his hands over the boy’s legs and all but prays his feet don’t accidentally nudge the tent in his pants.
The change might not be entirely for the best.
-
But it’s hard not to indulge.
Bruce uses his next short trip as an excuse to buy another stuffed animal, and then another soon after that. By the end of the month, the head of Tim’s bed seats five different animals lined up neatly in a row, lovingly placed there every morning by their young owner.
Alfred certainly notices, but he refrains from commenting.
Tim’s smile gets sweeter and sweeter with every gift presented to him.
-
It’s raining the next time Bruce accompanies Tim on a trip to visit Jack.
So, Tim smuggles Ducky under his shirt on the way in to keep him from getting wet.
It’s summer break, so there’s less for Tim to update his father on. This time, Tim pulls up a chair for Bruce beside him, rather than letting him sit on the opposite side of the room.
Jack’s eyes are open, unsettling Bruce in a way he’d rather not think about.
Rather seek physical comfort from Jack (or Bruce), Tim strokes Ducky’s head while he talks.
“—And I’ve been helping Bruce practice his tennis skills,” Tim explains, despite the fact that they’d really only played together once a few weeks ago. Really, Bruce should be thankful that Tim is so careful about picking which anecdotes are appropriate for his father to hear. Tim seems to instinctively understand that it would set off alarm bells if he portrayed his relationship with Bruce as even a little bit too close.
Not that Bruce is even sure that it matters. He doesn’t completely believe that Jack can actually hear Tim.
This time, Tim decides when it’s time to go. Standing up and handing Ducky to Bruce, he leans over and presses a kiss to Jack’s wrinkled forehead.
Bruce’s chest feels tight.
“I’ll see you soon.”
-
Later that night, after Tim has showered and Bruce knows he’s planning on going to bed, he makes an excuse to go upstairs with him. He asks Tim about the names of the other stuffed animals.
(It turns out, Ducky is a bit of an outlier. The rest of his animal friends are seemingly named after various Sherlock Holmes and sci-fi characters.)
And when they’re done talking, Tim allows himself to be tucked into the covers tightly, a halo of toys surrounding him.
When Bruce leans down to kiss his forehead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Until Tim fists a hand in the collar of his shirt, holding him in place.
Bruce kisses the same spot again, and again and again. And then his cheek, and his other cheek, passing over his sweet little nose. His chin. Tim makes noises like a small wounded animal, like he doesn’t know what they’re doing, and all he really tastes like is soap but Bruce can’t get enough of it. He’s halfway straddling the bed before he realizes what he’s doing, hovering over the boy’s lips. Threatening.
Tim’s eyeslids are closed for him.
Bruce kisses those too.
“Sweetheart?” He tries, and Tim’s eyes flutter back open. They both study each other. They both try to let themselves be studied.
“Dad.” Tim answers back, and it’s not unlike a kiss.