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Tim's heart races with trepidation.
The batcave is as cold as he remembers. Cold, but lively.
He hangs back to watch his brother's bother Bruce. Damian pouting about an inane observation, bragging about his latest bout of kicking ass, discretely asking to patrol alone. Dick constantly moving all over the room, sitting at the console one minute, flipping at the uneven bars the next, all the while babbling about his day.
He watches them live their life, function as a unit.
Dick gives Damian a proud noogie, painful, unwanted. The young boy screams, threatens bodily harm. Dick chortles, dances off with a parting taunt. Damian, furious and loud, follows after him, yelling all the way to the entrance of the cave.
Bruce... Bruce stays silent. He knows Bruce is in the cave, his brothers wouldn't be there, wouldn't be loud without him somewhere in the cave. He remembers his and Dick's rambling bickering, Bruce's amused offhanded comments.
He walks past the computer, the blue screen actively scrolling with new information cross-matching with old. Always vigilant, always needed.
He walks through the trophy cases, trailing his fingers through familiar glass cases, feeling undercurrents of pleasurable nostalgia.
He continues to wander the trophy room, looking for Bruce he hits foreign objects mocking him, questioning why he's invaded their solace. The bone white owl mask staring, unnerving in it's blankness.
A reminder. He wasn't there. Bruce was hurt.
Tim's breath rattles little, wishes to turn the mask the opposite way. The visit's already heavy in his heart, guilt gnawing in all directions.
He tears himself away from its sight and walks past them, where the cars and jets rested.
Oil stained jogging pants under the current batmobile, the one Damian had fixed, enhanced.
"Hello Tim," muffled, deep voice drifts from under the batmobile.
"Hi Bruce," feels pride at his steady voice, "Good to see Damian and Dick get along like usual."
Bruce hums his agreement.
Quiet blankets the cave, the comfort, casual air that usually comes with it is absent, to Tim at least. "It's great to see y- everyone," Tim bites his lip.
"Let me finish with this," Tim hears more clinks and clunks.
"Damian's pet project finally broke?" Tim touches the juiced up, older batmobile beside him. His resentment of Damian familiar on his tongue.
Bruce pauses, one, two, three seconds maybe more. "No," there's something in his voice, something Tim's not familiar with, "merely improving it."
"You mean it's not perfect,"
"Nothing's perfect, Tim."
We were, "He sure as hell acted like it."
"...Language." There's that pause again, like Bruce is planning his next move, solving a puzzle only he can see. A puzzle with Tim in it.
"I'll put money in the jar," he kicks the tire in front of him, notices that he's right there, standing beside the hover batmobile, inches from Bruce's inert legs.
A non-committal hum.
Walking on eggshells. He kicks the tire again, the relief the action supplies out of place.
Bruce hits something accidentally, mutters "Damn" loud enough that Tim laughs. Ignores the frantic start and rolls with it.
His skin stops crawling. The oppressing tension in the room lessens enough for him to breath a little more naturally. Not the short, almost pained not-gasps he's been keeping quiet.
Bruce lets out a frustrated huff, pushes and rolls himself out from under the batmobile, into the open, into Tim's sight.
The form fitting tank leaves nothing to imagination, the jogging pants loosely hanging on sharp hips. Tim swallows.
Bruce rises with grace Tim's dreamed for years, shakes himself a little, and holds out his arms.
"Welcome back."
Tim's not, he'll never be, but he rushes the older man. Hold's his arms around that strong corded neck. It's the safest route, he can't trust his hands from wandering. He breathes, shaky, opens his mouth and stops, squeezes himself against Bruce instead.
Bruce strokes his back, offering comfort that Tim can't feel.
"I missed you," Tim whispers soft, halting, hiding himself against that strong chest, "so much."
Bruce's patting freezes, hesitates just a fraction enough for Tim to notice, resumes, "We missed you too."
Tim buries his face, rubs his nose harder against Bruce's chest, "I said I missed you," he says, voice rising, "Me, Tim. I missed you."
He feels Bruce withdraw, body stiffening, arms raising.
"Bruce, please," Tim holds on harder," just... please."
Say you want me back.
"Tim..." Bruce's arms first drop to Tim's hips, then slips to rest near his body imitating an unmoving pole wrapped, trapped, by Tim's arms. "I...I missed you too."
Tim rips himself away with a cry, "Gee Bruce, way to sound convincing," blinding anger without target. He's not crying, yet, but his throat feels raw, like he's swallowed a spoonful of glass, breathed in a plume of smoke.
"Tim I-"
"No you didn't."
"What."
"I looked for them. Cameras," Tim spits, cutting off the panicked laugh bubbling to the surface, "you had camera's all over Dick's life."
"Tim that's-" Bruce reaches for him.
"That's you. All you," Tim advances, hands clenching, "you cared enough to spy on him."
"I've learned from that. Privacy."
"Bull shit!" Tim can't stop, can't shut his mouth from hurting both of them, "Your cameras are all over Gotham. All over. Except for one place. My studio. All but my studio."
"Tim," Bruce grips his chin, levels him an uncertain, wary look, "You needed space, I..."
Tim tries to wrench his head out of that sure grip, finds himself caught, gives an unwavering stare in return, "That didn't stop you with Dick."
"I didn't want to smother you," Bruce's voice rises with frustration, "Drive you away like I did him."
"So you drop a note and never come by?"
"You needed space."
"Me?!" Tim lunges, surprising the older man. Pushes and trips Bruce down against the batmobile, "I didn't need space. You did."
His chest hurts, his head pounds. Bruce's hands settle on the hood, pointed, no contact to tell him everything's going to be all right.
"You did..." Tim repeats, voice cracking, stumbling. He climbs higher on the batmobile, drops his head on a calm chest, bowing his back to corner Bruce's hips between his knees, "You did."
Bruce stays quiet as Tim cries his frustration into the white shirt gripped tightly in his hands.
"We...we can't, Tim," A shaking palm lands on his left shoulder, applying pressure opposite his own.
"I know," Tim hears raucous sounds coming from the study room entrance.
"You are Timothy Drake-Wayne," Bruce's other hand join to push the Tim's other shoulder, firmer this time, with more force.
"I know," Tim looks up, sees answering sadness in haunting blue eyes, "I know".
Tim breathes in once, grabs a hand while he rests on his haunches. Kisses the white wrist in his grip before shimmying down.
Bruce gives him some time to right himself, to vigorously scrub at the tears in his face, to hide the evidence from the world.
Bruce rises, walks to the medical bay, runs a towel under the faucet before the tossing it his way. Tim wants to thank him, to smile, but it's too soon.
He'll break.
He rubs his face with the warm towel as the the batcave entrance groans, opening, shifting the air between them.
"Man, I was just joking Da- Hey, Timmy!" Dick calls him from the stairs, his voice racing through the cave, "I missed you soooooo" Dick flips towards them, catching him in a bone grinding hug, “So much little bro!” Dick singsongs.
Tim laughs, knows he's failed at sounding happy by the way Dick’s hug loosens. “I missed you too, Dick,” he hugs the older man with as much force as he can, hoping it distracts him from thinking.
“What have you been doing?” Dick asks, with his face inches from Tim’s face, “I bet you’re having fun,”
“Not much, and not really.” Tim sighs, tired, bone deep tired.
“Well that’s no fun,” Dick frowns, glance switching from Bruce and Tim, eyebrows furrowed and confused. “Here, lemme show you what I did when I flew the nest,” Dick holds his wrist in a sure grip that Tim can’t shake.
Tim wants to leave, he feels too tender, exposed. A glance Damian’s way reveals a frowning, almost worried face. At Dick? At Tim? At Bruce? He’s not sure. He doesn’t want to be sure.
He spares a look at Bruce, sees an unreadable expression on his face.
Squishes the weak willed hope blossoming in his chest.
He’s not ready for another round.
He’ll prepare next time.
He’ll stay strong, be in control.
Next time.