Chapter Text
It starts stupidly — like most things in Tim’s life. A throwaway line from some long-forgotten elementary school counselor, buried in the back of his mind like background code. “If something’s important, you should always tell a trusted adult.”
Simple. Straightforward. Normal advice for normal kids.
Except Tim had never been normal. His parents weren’t... well. And by the time he landed in the Batfamily, the phrase had warped into something else entirely — something painfully literal.
Trusted adult.
Singular.
One.
It’s late. Not patrol late — just Wayne Manor late, where the house feels too big and too quiet when everyone’s home but pretending they aren’t. Bruce passes by the garage on his way to the cave and notices one of the Batcycles sitting half-disassembled, parts spread across the floor like the aftermath of a crime scene.
And of course, there’s Tim, cross-legged, grease on his face, elbow-deep in the mess.
Bruce steps in, folding his arms. “You’re modifying the braking system?”
Tim doesn’t even glance up. “Yeah.”
“You know you can ask me if you’re unsure about the hydraulics. The suspension can be tricky if you bypass—”
“Oh, I know,” Tim cuts in, tightening a bolt with too much casualness. “I already called Dick.”
Bruce blinks. “...Dick?”
“Yeah.” Tim adjusts his glasses, checks the alignment, completely unbothered. “FaceTimed him like an hour ago. He walked me through the pressure valve adjustments.”
There’s a pause.
“You FaceTimed Dick.”
“Yep.”
“About the Batcycle.”
“Correct.”
Bruce’s eye twitches. “Tim... I literally built the Batcycle.”
“Yeah, but Dick modded it,” Tim says, like that’s the most obvious answer in the world. “His upgrades make more sense for the kind of patrol routes I take. Plus, you explain things like I’m signing a contract with NASA. Dick explains things like... an actual human being.”
“I—” Bruce opens his mouth, then slowly closes it again. “I do not.”
“You do. You absolutely do.” Tim wipes his hands on a rag, then glances up, deadpan. “Bruce, you literally said the words ‘torque calibration coefficient’ to me last time I asked how to change a tire.”
“...It’s a real term.”
“Uh-huh.”
Silence stretches between them. Bruce looks at the cycle. Then at Tim. Then sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“So you’re not gonna ask me?”
“Nope. Already called Dick.”
“...Of course you did.”
Tim offers zero remorse. “Why would I call you?”
Bruce groans, turns on his heel, and walks away muttering something that sounds a lot like, “I should’ve gotten a dog.”
From behind him, Tim yells, “You did! It’s named Damian!”
Bruce doesn’t even argue. He just keeps walking.
It’s supposed to be a normal day.
Well—normal for the manor, which means at least one minor electrical fire, half the family ghosting Alfred’s breakfast, and someone probably committing a felony in the garage.
Bruce finds the felony first.
“Tim,” he says, already pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why is the east wing’s power grid rerouted to the server room?”
Tim doesn’t even look up from where he’s crouched on the floor, elbow-deep in a nest of wires that would make an electrician cry. “Oh, yeah. I’m moving the server.”
Bruce frowns. “...Why?”
“Better airflow.” Tim waves a hand. “It overheats in the west hall. Dick said moving it here solves it.”
Bruce’s brain buffers. “...Dick said.”
“Yeah.”
“You called Dick.”
“Obviously.”
There’s a long pause. Bruce folds his arms. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Tim glances over like Bruce just asked him if he wanted to build a sandcastle in the middle of rush hour traffic. “...Why would I?”
“Because,” Bruce gestures at the absolute mess of servers, cables, and Tim’s four open laptops, “this is my house. My server. My system.”
Tim shrugs, completely unbothered. “Yeah. I called Dick.”
Bruce stares. “...But why Dick?”
Tim stands, dusting off his hands, already moving to plug something in with the reckless confidence of someone who fully expects the breaker to survive sheer luck alone. “Seemed like the move.”
“No, but—” Bruce steps forward, frowning harder. “You—I’m right here.”
Tim nods like he’s agreeing. “Yeah.”
“And you didn’t ask me.”
“Correct.”
“...Why.”
Tim opens a drawer, rifles through some spare hard drives. “I called Dick.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Tim tilts his head. “Isn’t it?”
Bruce’s eye twitches. “Tim.”
“Bruce.”
Bruce inhales slowly, like maybe if he counts to ten the situation will change. “You know I built this system.”
“Uh-huh.”
“From scratch.”
“Yeah.”
“I have the network architecture memorized.”
“Cool.”
“Then why—”
“Dick knows,” Tim says simply, cutting him off like this is the most obvious thing in the world.
Bruce opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “That doesn’t—what does that even mean?!”
Tim shrugs, leans down, and yanks a cord from the wall with a spectacular shower of sparks.
“Tim—”
“It’s fine,” Tim waves off, completely unfazed by the light flickering violently. “Dick said this might happen.”
“WHAT?!”
Tim checks his phone, hums. “Oh. He’s calling. Give me a sec.” He turns his back, puts the phone to his ear. “Hey. Yeah, the east grid popped. Nah, it’s fine. Bruce is here, but—yeah. No, he asked that too. I told him. Mhm. Yeah, no idea why he’s confused.”
Bruce stares at him. Then at the phone. Then at the server rack. Then back at Tim.
He feels his soul leave his body.
Tim gives him a thumbs up without even turning around.
Bruce drags a hand down his face. “I hate this family.”
“Yeah, Dick said you’d say that too.”
Bruce is halfway to the Cave when he notices something’s wrong. Not wrong in the Gotham-is-on-fire way, but wrong in the manor-is-too-quiet way. Specifically, Tim is nowhere to be seen. No keyboard clicks. No arguments with Damian. No hacking noises.
Bruce frowns, checks the security feed—and spots Tim. On the couch. Cocooned in three blankets, hoodie pulled tight over his head, looking like a soggy goblin. There are tissues everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. A veritable snowstorm of tissues.
Bruce’s instinct kicks in immediately. Sick kid. Protocol initiated.
He grabs water, Tylenol, a thermometer, soup. He’s ready. This is fine. He can handle this. Alfred trained him for this.
When he walks into the room, he opens his mouth to offer the obligatory Dad Speech™.
“Hey, I brought you—”
Tim holds up a hand weakly. “Shh.”
Bruce stops. Blinks. “...Shh?”
Tim gestures vaguely at his phone, which is propped against a mug. FaceTime.
And there’s Dick. On screen. On speaker. Sitting cross-legged in his apartment, holding a thermometer in his own hand, miming how to take a temperature.
“Yeah, buddy, just check if it’s above 38ºC, and if it is, take the purple pill first,” Dick says, completely ignoring Bruce. “Then ibuprofen every six hours. Got fluids?”
Tim nods, muffled under the blankets. “Yeah. You said Gatorade and broth. I got both.”
Bruce stands there. With soup. And medicine. And a carefully selected sick-kid survival tray.
“...Tim,” Bruce says slowly, “why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”
Tim shrugs under the blanket. “I called Dick.”
“I live here.”
“Yeah, but Dick knows.”
Dick waves from the phone. “Sup, B.”
Bruce glares. “I am perfectly capable of handling a flu.”
“Yeah, but Dick explains it better,” Tim mumbles, half-asleep already. “You would’ve brought... I dunno. A mission briefing. On viruses.”
Bruce’s jaw works uselessly. “That’s not— I wouldn’t—” He stops. Realizes. “...Okay, I might have.”
Dick grins. “Yeah, I figured.”
Tim sneezes. “Dick’s got it.”
Bruce stares. Considers his entire existence. Then silently puts the soup on the table... and leaves.
The alarm blares through the manor. Ear-splitting, shrill, echoing through every floor.
Bruce practically teleports from the Cave, cape half-dragging behind him, assuming the absolute worst. Gas leak? Firebomb? Joker?
No. No. It’s Tim.
Standing in the kitchen. Under the smoke alarm. Holding a pan of what might once have been grilled cheese, now charcoal black, emitting a level of smoke that violates the Geneva Conventions.
Bruce skids to a stop. “Tim.”
Tim waves a dish towel lazily at the alarm, utterly unfazed. “Yeah?”
“What happened?”
“Cooking.”
“Why didn’t you call me?!”
Tim side-eyes him. “I called Dick.”
Bruce stares. “WHAT WAS DICK GOING TO DO FROM BLÜDHAVEN?!”
“Walked me through turning off the fire alarm.” Tim points at the wall, where the fire panel is half-unscrewed and several wires are suspiciously loose. “He said cut the green one.”
“You what.” Bruce lunges for the panel. “Do not ever cut wires in my house without—” He freezes. “...There ISN’T a green wire.”
Tim blinks. Looks at the panel. “Huh.”
A loud POP, and the lights flicker across the east wing.
“Yeah... Dick said that might happen,” Tim mutters.
Bruce drags both hands down his face. “Tim. You could have—I was right here.”
“Yeah, but...” Tim squints, genuinely baffled. “...Why would I call you?”
“BECAUSE I LIVE IN THIS HOUSE.”
“Yeah, but Dick picks up.”
Somewhere, something shorts out again. Bruce screams internally.
Bruce walks into the library to the faint sound of muttered swearing.
He finds Tim sitting cross-legged on the rug, holding his palm under a trickling stream of blood. One (1) very ineffective paper towel is stuck to it. Several others are crumpled nearby, looking equally useless.
Bruce rushes forward immediately. “What did you do?!”
“Nothing.” Tim squints at the wound. “It’s shallow.”
“You are bleeding on the carpet.”
Tim shrugs. “Dick said it’s fine.”
Bruce stops. “...Dick said?”
“Yeah. Sent him a picture.” Tim holds up his phone. Sure enough, there’s a photo of his hand—with blood on it—and a text reply that simply says: “It’s fine. Band-aid and superglue.”
“...You sent a MEDICAL EMERGENCY to Dick over TEXT?!”
Tim shrugs again. “Yeah. I called him. He said if it doesn’t go past the second knuckle it’s fine.”
“I AM RIGHT DOWNSTAIRS”
“And Dick picks up.”
Bruce grabs the first aid kit, shoving Tim’s phone aside. “This needs stitches.”
“Nah. Dick said—”
“I don’t care what Dick said!” Bruce huffs, yanking gloves on. “You’re getting proper wound care, and next time, call the person who can actually perform minor surgery in-house.”
Tim side-eyes him. “...Alfred?”
Bruce nearly throws the antiseptic across the room.
Alfred prides himself on many things. Clean silver. Flawless table settings. Being the calm in the storm of Gotham’s most dramatic vigilante family.
There is one constant in the world: if something breaks, burns, bleeds, cries, or explodes in this house, they come to Alfred.
Always. Without question.
Until today.
It begins when Alfred notices the thermostat flashing a red warning: “ERROR — SYSTEM FAILURE.” Curious. The manor’s heating has been flawless for decades. He heads downstairs and nearly drops his tray of tea when he finds Tim.
Tim is in the utility room, kneeling in front of the HVAC control panel, screwdriver in hand, wires dangling, manual open... sideways.
“Master Timothy,” Alfred says slowly, approaching like one might approach an armed raccoon. “What, precisely, are you doing?”
“Fixing the heat.” Tim doesn’t even look up, tightening something. “The system kept shorting. I’m rewiring the sensor hub.”
Alfred adjusts his cuffs. “And why, pray tell, did you not inform me?”
“Oh. I already called Dick, what do you mean?”
The words hit Alfred like a brick. “...I beg your pardon?”
“Yeah. FaceTimed him like half an hour ago. He walked me through the wiring schematic. Apparently, the dampers were stuck and causing the blower to overheat.”
Alfred stands perfectly still. Unblinking. “...You called Master Richard. About the heating system. In m- this house.”
“Yeah.” Tim adjusts his glasses, pulling a wire free. “He said the firmware’s ancient and the pressure valve’s misaligned. Said it was an easy fix.”
Alfred clears his throat. “I have maintained this heating system for forty years.”
“Yeah, but Dick said—”
“I am the one who installed it.”
Tim shrugs. “Dick answered first.”
Alfred’s eye twitches. “I am literally PSYSICALLY down the hall.”
“Yeah, but...” Tim tilts his head, genuinely puzzled. “...I called Dick.”
A long, long pause.
“I... see.” Alfred folds his hands behind his back, very dignified. Very polite. Very quietly dying inside. “And did it occur to you that I am the one who holds the master schematics for this system?”
Tim leans back. “No offense, but Dick kinda walked me through it faster.”
Alfred blinks. Slow. Mechanical. Processing. “Faster.”
“Yeah. Plus, he remembers the time the duct motor seized in ‘09? He said it’s the same issue.”
“I told him that,” Alfred replies, scandalized.
“Exactly.” Tim nods. “He passed it on. Efficient.”
There is a sound behind Alfred. A slow inhale. He turns.
Bruce is standing in the doorway, arms folded. “...Yeah. Welcome to the club.”
Alfred’s jaw actually drops a fraction. “Master Bruce. Surely this is... an isolated—”
“Nope.” Bruce shakes his head. “It’s every time. Every time.”
Alfred’s eyes narrow slightly. “Even...when he’s sick?”
Bruce nods grimly. “Even when he’s sick.”
Tim glances between them. “You guys good? Dick’s on hold, but he said to tell you both he loves you and the filter’s probably clogged.”
Alfred pinches the bridge of his nose. “...I need a drink.”
Bruce sighs. “Alfred, I tried.”
From the phone, Dick’s voice chirps, “Hey, tell Alfred the intake valve’s behind the left panel. I remembered after last time.”
Alfred closes his eyes. Breathes deeply. “I am going to scream.”
Bruce nods solemnly. “Been there.”
Tim hums, already rewiring, totally unbothered. “Man. You guys are so dramatic.”
It’s a Saturday afternoon. Bruce finds Tim in the library, slumped over a sea of notebooks, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Diagrams. Notes. Scholarship applications. College essays. A dozen half-written drafts scattered everywhere.
“...Tim?” Bruce steps in, softer than he means to. “You okay?”
Tim startles, blinking at him like he hadn’t noticed he was there. “Oh. Yeah. Uh. Working on some stuff.”
Bruce frowns at the chaotic mess. “Why didn’t you ask for help?”
Tim pauses, then taps his phone, where a message from Dick is open. "Send me your drafts when you're done. We’ll go over them together tonight."
Bruce swears the temperature in the room drops.
“You... asked Dick,” he says flatly.
“Yeah,” Tim replies without hesitation. “He’s been helping me with this stuff.”
There’s a long silence. Bruce feels something ugly crawl up his throat — frustration, disappointment, maybe even hurt, though he’d never admit it aloud.
“You could have come to me,” Bruce says, quieter. “I’ve written essays. Applications.”
Tim laughs. Not unkindly, but reflexively. “Bruce... when have you ever written an application? You’re Bruce Wayne. You were born into Gotham’s elite. You don’t write applications. You buy the building and install yourself as CEO.”
“That’s not—” Bruce starts, then falters. Maybe Tim’s not wrong.
Tim gestures vaguely. “Dick gets it. He went to college. He gets... this.” He motions to the tangled mess of deadlines and word counts and the overwhelming dread of teenage future-planning. “You get... other stuff.”
Bruce doesn’t respond. Can’t. There’s a strange hollow ache in his chest, the realization finally sinking in — the weight of it pressing down. It’s not that Tim doesn’t trust him. It’s that Tim trusts Dick for things Bruce doesn’t even realize he’s supposed to be trusted for.
Bruce starts to get pissed off in the smallest of ways. It starts with a missed dinner — not a surprise, considering how often patrol, emergencies, or life in general derails any attempt at normalcy in Wayne Manor. But when he passes by the kitchen and catches Alfred preparing two grilled cheese sandwiches, not three, he quirks a brow.
"Is Tim out?" he asks, casual.
"Master Timothy is in his room, sir," Alfred replies, unbothered, carefully flipping the bread. "Master Richard called earlier. They had a rather lengthy conversation."
Bruce nods, filing that away. It’s not unusual. Dick checks in often, the older brother figure Tim has always leaned on. He lets it go.
Until it happens again.
And again.
And then it starts happening when it shouldn’t.
It’s a quiet morning when Bruce finally pieces together the first real pattern. He steps into the cave, reviewing crime scene reports, when he stumbles upon evidence—literally. A stack of files sits on the floor near Tim’s workstation, half-sorted. Bank transfers. Shell companies. Weapons contracts. Something big.
“Tim,” Bruce calls out, scanning the files with growing dread. “How long have you been tracking this?”
Tim doesn’t look up from his monitor. “About a week.”
A week. A week.
“You should have brought this to a trusted adult.”
Tim clicks a few keys, and an entire web of interconnected data blooms across his screen. “I did.”
Bruce frowns. “No, you didn’t.”
Tim swivels lazily in his chair, fingers steepled. “I told Dick.”
The words land like a gut punch.
“You... told Dick,” Bruce echoes, slow and disbelieving, as if repeating it might force it to make sense.
“Yeah.” Tim shrugs, not even defensive. Not guilty. Just... factual. “We’ve been cross-referencing stuff together.”
“Tim, this is a major weapons smuggling operation with ties to Intergang. You should have come to me.”
Tim tilts his head. “Why? You were in Zurich dealing with that LexCorp thing.”
Bruce feels the tension coil deep in his spine. “That was a corporate meeting, Tim. It could’ve waited.”
“Could it?” Tim quirks a brow. “Every time I bring you something like this when you’re mid-case, you tell me to table it. Or worse—you take it out of my hands completely.”
Bruce stiffens. “For your protection.”
“No,” Tim corrects, voice suddenly quieter but sharper, “for control.”
It’s not said cruelly. It’s not even angry. It’s... disappointed. Bruce hates how much that stings.
Tim stands, stretching. “I needed someone to help me think it through. Dick helped. He always does.”
There’s something deeply unsettling in the simplicity of it. The way Tim doesn’t even consider that Bruce would be part of that equation. Like it’s already a settled truth in his mind — Dick is the one you go to.
Bruce doesn’t even remember dismissing Tim. His mind spins the whole afternoon, turning that phrase over and over like a stuck record. I told Dick. I told Dick. I told Dick.
It escalates again three nights later.
A mugging gone wrong in Burnley turns out to be the tip of something bigger — a trafficking ring disguised under the umbrella of a shell charity. The situation devolves fast. A hostage standoff. Backup needed. Bruce scrambles coordinates, issues the command. “RedRobin, fall back and wait for me.”
No response.
“Red Robin. Fall back.”
Silence.
His heart spikes. A sick dread crawls down his spine.
He reroutes the Batwing to the scene, expecting the worst — but when he arrives, the worst isn’t there. Instead, the hostage situation is already resolved. Half a dozen gang members zip-tied. Victims safely escorted out of danger. Gotham PD rolling in confused, wondering why the chaos diffused before they even set foot on the block.
Bruce’s comm finally clicks on. Tim’s voice, breathless but steady. “Copy. Situation handled. Standing by.”
“What happened to fall back?” Bruce growls, cape whipping in the wind as he stalks through the aftermath.
“Nightwing told me to handle it,” Tim answers, way too casual, perched on a rooftop edge.
Bruce physically jerks. “Excuse me?”
“Nightwing checked the schematics. Walked me through disabling the back entrance, cutting power to the west wing, and isolating the ringleader. Worked perfectly.” Tim shrugs. “It was more efficient.”
“You—Red—I—” Bruce’s words trip over themselves. “You were under my command.”
“I needed a second opinion,” Tim replies, unfazed. “I trust Wing’s judgment.”
Bruce stares up at him, fists clenched so tight his gloves creak. His brain scrambles for something — anything — to say that isn’t why not me? But that’s the only thing screaming in his head.
The straw that broke the camel’s back happens in the Cave. Of course, the Cave.
Jason’s the one who triggers it, pacing around with his helmet under one arm, ranting halfway through a debrief no one’s really paying attention to.
“—and that guy, the one with the stupid tattoo, kept flirting with me mid-fight. Mid-fight! What is it with Gotham’s criminals and bisexuals who want to stab me and kiss me?”
Tim, lounging sideways in his chair, absentmindedly sips his coffee and mutters without looking up, “Mood.”
Silence.
Dead. Absolute. Silence.
Jason stops moving.
Damian’s head snaps up so fast it’s a miracle his spine survives.
Bruce freezes mid-keystroke.
Dick, standing by the Batcomputer with a batarang in hand, doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t react. Just hums, spins the batarang once, and keeps scrolling.
Tim notices none of this until several seconds pass, and no one says anything. He blinks up from his tablet. “...What?”
Bruce’s voice is sharp enough to cut through kevlar. “What do you mean, ‘mood’?”
Tim blinks. Once. Twice. Then slowly lowers his coffee. “...Did I say that out loud?”
“Yes,” Damian hisses, wide-eyed. “You absolutely did.”
Jason’s eyebrows are in his hairline. “Wait. Hold on. What?”
Bruce steps forward, crossing his arms, looming in that way that makes grown criminals confess their sins without prompting. “Tim. Are you telling us you’re bisexual?”
Tim stares at him, incredulous. “What?”
“That’s what you said.”
“No—” Tim pinches the bridge of his nose, realizing in real time that, yes, that is what he said. “I mean—yeah—but I didn’t realize we were... doing this right now?”
Jason’s still stuck on the first part. “Back up. Since when?”
Tim shrugs. “...Forever?”
Bruce’s eyes narrow. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Tim deadpans. “Dick’s known for years.”
Bruce’s entire brain bluescreens.
“Dick’s known for years.”
The words echo around the cave like someone fired a gun indoors.
“Excuse me?” Bruce sputters, taking half a step back like Tim physically shoved him. “What do you mean, Dick’s known for years?”
Dick finally, finally looks up from the monitor. He blinks, perfectly deadpan. “...Yeah? I’ve known for years.”
“You—how?!” Bruce gestures wildly between them, as if the air itself is betraying him. “When?!”
Tim shrugs, sipping his coffee again like this is an entirely normal conversation. “I told him. Years ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bruce’s voice cracks halfway through, and it’s a sound none of them have heard in years. It’s not angry. It’s not disappointed. It’s—God. It’s something worse. It’s hurt.
Tim lowers the mug. “...I didn’t think it was... a thing.”
“A thing?”
“Yeah. I told Dick. That was... enough?”
Jason looks between them, snorting. “Oh, this is gold.”
Damian folds his arms, scowling. “Father, are you genuinely upset that Drake did not entrust you with irrelevant personal details?”
“It’s not irrelevant!” Bruce fires back immediately, ignoring the fact that yes, if you take this out of context, it’s absolutely hilarious. “It’s... it’s important!”
Dick sighs, rubbing his temple. “Bruce. Not everything has to be an interrogation.”
“This isn’t an interrogation,” Bruce grumbles. “I’m just... I’m just—why didn’t you tell me?”
Tim sighs, shoulders slumping slightly. “Bruce. Look. You’re... you. You would’ve made it a thing. You would’ve asked a million questions about how I know, am I sure, do I need to talk to Leslie about it—”
“That’s—” Bruce opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “—a reasonable concern.”
“It really isn’t,” Tim counters, crossing his arms. “I figured it out. I told Dick. He was cool about it. We got waffles.”
“Wait, wait,” Jason interrupts, “this was over waffles?”
“Yeah. At that 24-hour diner on Sixth.” Tim’s tone is deeply casual. “Told him. He said, ‘Cool. Do you want chocolate chips or strawberries?’”
Dick grins, leaning against the console. “Yeah, sounds about right.”
Bruce runs both hands down his face. “I just... I don’t understand why you wouldn’t come to me.”
Tim bites his lip. Hesitates. Then answers, carefully. “Because you... make things heavy. Even when you’re trying not to. Even when you mean well. You... make it a thing.”
Bruce opens his mouth to protest, then stops. He looks down. Shoulders tense. “...I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” Tim says softly, not unkind. “But Dick made it easy. He always makes it easy.”
There’s a long pause.
Damian breaks it with the flattest voice imaginable. “So... we are not going to discuss the fact that this entire conversation started because a criminal flirted with Todd?”
“HEY,” Jason snaps, finger raised. “We’re not derailing this onto me.”
Dick grins. “Yeah, Jay, let’s circle back. Sounds like you’ve got something to unpack.”
“Don’t deflect!” Jason jabs a finger at Bruce. “This man is experiencing the stages of grief because his son is bisexual and told someone else first.”
“I’m not—” Bruce starts, then sags. “...Okay, I’m experiencing some grief.”
Tim actually softens then. Really softens. He sets the coffee down and walks over. “Bruce... it’s not about not trusting you. It’s just... sometimes, with you, it feels like a performance review. With Dick, it felt like... talking to family.”
Something in Bruce’s face fractures. His shoulders fold in. His hands fall to his sides, helpless. “I didn’t realize I made you feel like that.”
Tim shrugs, sheepish. “It’s not always. Just... sometimes.”
Dick steps in, ruffling Tim’s hair before Bruce can spiral harder. “B. You’re not bad at this. You just... try too hard. You think there’s a right way to do everything. There’s not. Sometimes, you just listen. No mission brief. No ten-point checklist.”
Jason grins. “Yeah. Sometimes you just eat waffles and say ‘cool.’”
Damian snorts. “What an emotionally bankrupt response.”
“Worked,” Dick fires back.
Bruce takes a long, deep breath. “Okay. Okay. I... I hear you.”
Tim smiles, small but real. “Yeah?”
Bruce nods. “Yeah. But... next time, just... let me be part of it. Not as Batman. Not as... the guy with the rules. Just as...” He falters. “As your dad.”
Silence.
Dick beams.
Jason mutters, “Gross,” but he’s smiling.
Damian scowls, but even he doesn’t have the heart to ruin it.
Tim’s smile spreads wider. “Yeah. Okay. Deal.”
“And also,” Bruce adds, dead serious, “I’m buying waffles next time.”
Dick winks. “Now you’re getting it.”