Chapter Text
There's a car waiting in the driveway.
Tim’s teeth clench as he approaches the house, and his feet pick up speed as he frantically wracks his brain for where it is that he is supposed to be jetted off to so early on a Saturday morning. It isn’t until he reaches the driveway proper and he sees the chauffeur pulling a tan suitcase from the trunk that Tim realizes that the car is not there to pick up - it’s there to drop off.
His parents are home.
Cursing under his breath Tim scans the car for any sign of his parents. There is no movement behind the tinted windows, so they must have already entered the home. The home in which they surely expect to find him occupying, seeing how the sun has not yet fully risen.
Under normal circumstances, Tim is very good at remembering his parents schedule. Until a few months ago he lived and breathed by it, counting the days until they returned and he would get a brief reprieve from the crushing solitude of Drake Manor.
Nowadays though, Tim is more than a little preoccupied, what with the whole becoming Robin thing. Having daily training sessions and weekly patrols with the caped crusader is a fairly legitimate reason to have forgotten that today was the day his parents were returning home, he thinks. Unfortunately it’s not an excuse he will be able to share with them.
A morning walk then. He looks down to double check the plausibility of his outfit. A pair of comfy jeans and an old shirt he had pulled on after patrol. The shirt is an old one of Dick’s, but Tim doesn’t think his parents will notice. It will do.
He slips in the front door casually, as if he’s coming home from a quick stroll of the grounds and not a night full of crime fighting. He had been looking forward to collapsing into bed, but that will have to wait. Perhaps he can sneak a nap in later.
His parents don’t even notice when he enters the kitchen, his mom at the table with a business journal in hand, and his dad fussing with the coffee machine. He stands there awkwardly, waiting to be acknowledged. After a moment he clears his throat.
“Welcome home.”
His mom holds up a finger, signifying she’s in the middle of her reading and shouldn’t be disturbed. Tim turns to his dad who has placed two mugs on the counter. His eyes flutter over to Tim and he does a double take as if he has just now noticed his presence. He turns to grab a third mug from the cupboard, and Tim’s heart does a happy flutter as the smell of the brewing coffee finally reaches him.
“Hiya champ,” his dad says, a grin splitting his face. It makes Tim uncomfortable for a reason he can’t pinpoint, but he’s glad that his dad is happy to see him. “Come here.”
Tim rushes over and his dad pulls him into a side hug. One hand ruffles his hair (Tim prays he doesn’t notice that it’s still damp from his post-patrol shower). The other hand lowers from Tim's shoulder down to his waist. It squeezes. Tim’s face goes warm.
His dad pats his hip and then pulls away to busy himself with the coffee machine. He pours Tim’s first.
“How's school?” He asks. Tim jumps and almost spills his precious coffee.
“Good,” he replies, steadying the mug with two hands. He brings it to his face and inhales deeply, letting it waft over him like ambrosia.
“Keeping your grades up?”
Tim looks at him over the rim of his mug.
“Straight A’s,” he says before taking a large gulp. The coffee burns as it goes down. He takes the next sip more carefully.
“Good, good,” his dad replies, but Tim doesn't feel certain that he was actually listening to Tim's response. His eyes are raking over Tim’s body, settling at the cuff of his jeans that sits a bit above his ankles. “You’ve gotten bigger.”
Bruce had said something similar recently, and it had made Tim’s cheeks flush with pride. The way his dad says it though makes Tim feel disgusted with himself. Logically he knows he can’t control his growth spurts, but he hates that he has somehow disappointed his dad all the same.
“You’ll have to run by the tailor today. Get a new suit made up.”
Well, there goes Tim’s plan for sneaking in a nap.
“A suit?”
“Yes, the Ashford’s are hosting that soiree tonight. You’ll need to be looking your best.”
Tim’s internal organs seem to collectively reach failure.
“Do I have to go?” he stutters out when his lungs remember how to breathe again.
“Of course,” his dad says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. It squeezes just a bit too roughly. “It’s been a while since we’ve made an appearance at one of these things. We need to put on a good face, as a family. What would people think if we showed up without you?”
He grabs the mugs from the counter and walks past Tim to join his mom at the dining table. She picks up the mug and brings it to her lips without looking up from her journal.
“Think of the business, Timothy,” she says after a sip. “I thought we’d already taught you well enough. These events are a chance to make connections. A simple concept like that shouldn’t be difficult for you to understand. What are they teaching you in that school anyways? Perhaps we need to reevaluate switching you to a private tutor-”
“No, you’re right. I’ll go.” Tim says in a rush. Giving up Gotham Academy is unthinkable - he doesn’t think he could bear to spend anymore time alone in this huge house while his parents are gone.
Neither of them give a response, too lost in their reading and their caffeine. Tim returns to the driveway and manages to catch the chauffeur before he leaves.
—
The new suit is nice. It certainly fits him better than the old one. Tim had already begun growing out of it the last time he’d worn it, and that was well before his most recent growth spurt. The last time he had come to one of these events with his dad, Tim hadn’t even become Robin yet. Despite the fresh tailoring, Tim’s skin feels like it’s crawling.
“Why don’t you take your suit off and lay it over there, baby? We wouldn’t want your nice new suit getting wrinkled now, would we?”
“Yes, dad.”
Tim begins working down the buttons. He refrains from pointing out that Mister Ashford’s suit is much more likely to get wrinkled than his own, as he will be the one doing all the moving. If he were Robin he might have made a quip about it, he supposes, but now he is Tim Drake and needs to make a good impression on his dad’s business partners. Mister Ashford is not the type of man who appreciates a good quip - which incidentally is Robin's favorite type of man to quip at.
Drake Industries is what keeps their family afloat. Mister Ashford is a valued business partner. Pissing him off will only hurt Tim's parents and himself.
When he gets down to his underwear Tim hesitates, but only for a moment. They are going to have to come off regardless. He folds them and adds them neatly to the pile. He keeps his fists clenched at his sides in an effort to refrain from covering himself.
“He’s gotten bigger,” Mister Ashford comments to Tim’s dad. Based on where his eyes are directed, Tim suspects the comment is not about his height. “I don’t suppose you’ve thought about shaving him?”
Tim wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
“Yes, that would certainly suit him better.”
Pinpricks of pain tingle his palms where his nails bite in. He prays his dad won’t make him follow through with it - he’s only just started growing enough to be proud of. Real men have thick pubic hair. He’s caught glimpses of Dick when they were changing after patrol; what would he think if he caught a peek back and saw Tim was bald?
“Why don’t you lay down on the bed sweetheart?”
At least this part Tim is familiar with. He lets himself slip into the routine. The uncomfortable shifting of the plug as he walks is something he will never get used to though - it leaves him in a perpetual state of feeling like he needs the toilet. It will be a relief to take it out, if only temporarily.
He lays back on the bed and bends his knees so the jeweled end of the plug is on display.
The first time they’d done this, he hadn’t used the plug. Tim didn’t have any preparation, no forewarning. He'd barely even known what sex was back then. All he knew was that it was embarrassing for his dad’s friend to see him naked. And then the pain.
He’d spent a week in bed after that. His dad told the nursemaid that he was sick. Neither he nor mom had come to check up on him.
After that dad had gotten the idea for the plug. Tim’s crying had disturbed his partner, dad had told him. The plug was uncomfortable, but it meant that whatever came next was also only uncomfortable.
Robin certainly couldn’t afford to be bed ridden.
Mister Ashford tugs on it and Tim grimaces when the largest part stretches him and pops out.
The mansion belonging to the Ashford’s was built in the early nineteen hundreds when the QueenAnn style of architecture had been in vogue. Tim traces the patterns on the textured ceiling with his eyes as Mister Ashford chatters away, tracing the lines of Tim’s body with his hands. Whatever he’s saying he certainly doesn’t expect a response from Tim anyhow - it’s Tim’s dad with whom he is doing business.
Someday it will be Tim’s business. He should do what he can to help their deals go smoothly.
Once he had asked his dad if he had done this same thing when he was Tim’s age. He laughed at the question, but never answered.
A cold hand wraps around his thigh, making him flinch. He's steadied by its tight grip as it pushes his leg out further, making enough space for Mister Ashford to slot himself between them. Something hard presses into him.
There's a plaster medallion carved into the center of the ceiling. Originally there must have been something affixed there - a grand chandelier perhaps - that had somewhere along the way been thrown out in favor of fluorescent standing lamps casting their oppressive white light across the room. The design of the medallion is quite beautiful. Branches and leaves intertwine in a crown-like circle which seems to be growing out into the room. Amongst the branches Tim swears he sees a robin perching.
Tim bites the inside of his cheek when Mister Ashford grunts and he feels something wet shoot inside him. He wishes Mister Ashford were the type who preferred to look at his mess on Tim's stomach or chest. If they do it outside, his dad will clean it up. If it's inside, it will be left there until he can go home and scrape it out in the bath.
“Wonderful boy you've got here,” Mister Ashford says as he tucks himself back into his suit. Tim is still examining the medallion. Medallions of this time period tended to be symmetrical, to balance out the asymmetry in the rest of the architecture. Try as he might though, Tim is failing to find a second bird amongst the intricate carvings.
“Certainly you're not going to deny yourself the same pleasure?”
“If they offer, it would be rude not to,” dad had told him long ago, after the first time he'd done it. Tim's going to take over the business someday. He needs to show he has what it takes to run the company. Sometimes that means getting a little uncomfortable if it's in Drake Industries best interests. It's not just their family, all the employees are counting on them too. Mister Ashford offered, so dad has to do this. It's not that he wants to, he has to. That's why. Everyone is counting on them.
Tim's eyes search desperately for the second bird. The medallion is growing blurry, and the details are slowly going out of focus. The robin should be there. It has to be.
—
They return to the party. Tim never managed to find the second bird.
He wishes they would leave soon. Usually his parents don't like to stay at these events, preferring to attend just long enough to let their presence be known and to get enough gossip to complain about in the car on the way home. The stuffy parties are insufferable at the best of times, but with the sticky wetness inside him it's almost unbearable. It might be his imagination but he swears he can feel it dripping. He clenches his butt and prays that the plug is big enough to keep anything from leaking out. If he got a wet spot on his pants he doesn't think he'd ever be able to show his face in public again.
Today things are not going his way. It seems his parents are craving attention after such a long trip abroad where they were deprived of it. His mother is excitedly regaling anyone who will listen with lengthy stories about their most recent dig that she hadn't bothered to tell Tim. Apparently mom had found a large dentary bone that they suspect is from the late Cretaceous period.
His dad's arm remains a heavy weight on Tim's shoulder the whole night as he ushers him around the room, forcing Tim to hear the same comments (Wow, you've really grown!) and answer the same question (How's school?) over and over until he thinks he's going to lose his mind. Thankfully after they get the so-called pleasantries out of the way, Tim is free to zone out for most of the remaining conversation.
The semen inside him feels closer and closer to dripping, and Tim is on the verge of doing something senseless like asking his parents if they can leave when his dad clenches his arm and leans down to whisper in his ear.
“Perhaps that growth spurt of yours wasn't as damaging as we thought.”
The statement settles heavy over him like the arm wrapped around his shoulder, sinister and foreboding.
“What do you mean?”
“Bruce Wayne has been staring at you all night.”
He follows his dad's gaze and sure enough there is Bruce. Tim hadn't known that he was planning to attend tonight's event. He's chatting with Mister Ashford, a champagne flute gripped lightly in his hand. He is smiling jovially, but Tim knows him well enough to tell that the little crinkle at the corner of his eye signals a deep loathing for the man in front of him.
For a split second, his gaze leaves Mister Ashford’s face and flickers towards Tim.
The grip on his arm tightens.
“Mister Wayne would certainly be good for business.”
It feels like all the air has been ripped from Tim's lungs.
“I should have known with him - taking in those two boys...”
“No!” Tim chokes out. His dad turns to look at him, displeasure written clearly across his face.
“Don't talk back to me, Tim. I know what's best for our business. I thought you knew how to be obedient.”
“Not him. Please. Not him.”
Tim's protests don't matter, because to his horror he sees Bruce excuse himself from Mister Ashford and head straight for them. The grip on Tim's arm feels like it might snap the bone, but the angry look on his dad's face smoothes out into a pleasant smile before he whips around to greet their neighbor.
“Bruce! It's been so long! How have you been?”
“Jack! Great to see you here! And surely that can't be little Timothy with you? He's gotten so much taller since I saw him last!”
The last time Bruce had seen him was approximately thirteen hours ago, a gap during which Tim is fairly confident he hasn't grown a millimeter. He plasters on a fake smile to match Bruce's own.
“Good evening, Mister Wayne.”
On another day this could have been fun: Exchanging fake pleasantries with Bruce and trying not to laugh while his father looks on, none the wiser. Today, the only thing Tim can focus on is the grip on his arm. He desperately tries to think of something to say that could make Bruce go away, but that grip is somehow traveling up into his brain and squeezing out any thoughts.
“Hello, Timothy. You know Dick was exactly the same way when he was your age.” He looks back to Tim's dad, “Like weeds. Hope you're prepared for a lot of shopping trips. I think there was a point when Dick needed a new pair of jeans every single month.”
“We had to tailor him a new suit just this morning,” his dad laughs. “Fits him well, doesn't it?”
Tim wishes the Giganotosaurus his mom had discovered were still alive so it could crash through the room and bite off Tim's head. He prays that Bruce somehow missed the subtle tonal shift in his dad's question.
“Certainly.”
“You know it's quite loud in here. It's been a while since we've seen each other, perhaps we can go somewhere a little quieter to catch up in private? Mister Ashford has kindly arranged a room down the hall.”
“Sounds perfect.”
For a brief moment everything feels very far away. Then a tight squeeze on his shoulder brings Tim back to reality and he's being forcibly ushered out of the room while his dad shoots him a quick dirty look that screams get it together.
It never crossed Tim's mind that Bruce would actually take Tim's dad up on the offer. He had mentally steeled himself for the humiliation of Bruce learning how he's supporting their business, but he wasn't prepared for Bruce to accept.
It's normal business practice at these kinds of events, and Bruce would want to keep up appearances after all. He couldn't risk his secret getting out.
His dad closes the door behind them.
“I knew a man like you would have good taste,” he says as he ushers Tim towards the bed before himself striding towards the corner chair where he’d sat earlier when Mister Ashford had been in here. He pours himself a glass of the brandy still standing on the side table, and settles back comfortably. Bruce remains by the door, eyebrows pulled down. Tim can’t tell if his confusion is real or for show.
“Timmy. He’s become a real looker, hasn’t he?” his dad asks after taking a sip of his drink. “Not that different from your own boys actually.”
Bruce turns his head slowly to look at Tim. “No, I guess not.”
Tim feels his stomach roll as Bruce’s eyes rake over him. He briefly wonders if vomiting would be enough to get him out of this. It will only serve to anger his dad though, so Tim clenches his fists in the comforter and swallows down the bile threatening to rise from his throat.
His dad swallows down another sip of amber liquor.
“Well, no need to be shy, Bruce. Timmy’s all ready for you. Kid’s experienced, so you can do as you like.”
Tim stares down at his shoes. He should be kicking them off, getting prepared, but he can’t seem to make his body move.
Bruce doesn’t seem to be moving either.
“Pardon me, Jack, but I don’t think I’m following.”
His dad snorts.
“Oh don’t play all innocent, it’s unbecoming. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. You have your fun today, and we can hash out the rest of the details later. Say, Monday morning, in your office? A joint contract with Wayne Enterprises would help Drake Industries greatly, and well, if it’s a long term project I’m sure we’ll be meeting up a lot. Of course Timmy would join the meetings as well.”
“Are you offering to let me rape your child in exchange for business favors?”
Tim’s head snaps up. It’s not that! he wants to yell. Bruce doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know that Tim agreed to it. But the expression on his face is enough to keep Tim silent - it’s crinkled up in a way he’s only seen when Dick comes over and they’re about to get into another shouting match. Bruce is a powder keg about to explode. Somehow Tim’s dad does not get the memo that he needs to tread lightly.
“Such an ugly word, Bruce. I prefer to call it, learning the family business.”
“You know I’m friends with the commissioner-”
His dad’s lips twist into an ugly snarl.
“Don’t act so high and mighty! Taking in those two boys, acting as if it was out of the goodness of your heart! We all know what was going on behind closed doors. Taking in orphans was brilliant. No one to check on them, no one for them to tattle to- ”
“You’re disgusting, Drake. I never-”
“And that little one, dying mysteriously? I’m guessing you got a little too rough with him, right?”
Tim freezes. His dad doesn’t know, mentioning Jason’s death in front of Bruce is on the list of things absolutely forbidden. Before he can even register what’s happening, Bruce is across the room. There’s a resounding crack, and his dad goes toppling to the floor.
“Fuck,” he snarls, holding his hand to his nose now bleeding profusely. “Wayne, you-”
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
His dad’s head snaps against the floor and he stops moving.
Crack.
“Stop! Bruce, please!”
He doesn't stop - Tim leaps from the bed, throwing himself across the room and landing in front of Bruce's fist. It glances off Tim's shoulder.
“You'll kill him. Please. I don't want to lose my dad.”
Bruce freezes, blood spackled fist still raised next to his face. His chest rises and falls, eyes wide as he stares at Tim like he'd just appeared out of thin air.
Slowly he lowers his fist. Tim waits with apprehension as Bruce looks back and forth between him and his dad. His shoulder throbs, but he ignores it.
“Has he done this before?” he finally asks. Tim wishes he hadn't. His voice sounds rough, as if something were choking him.
Tim shrugs.
“Tim-”
“I'm just helping him with his business partners. Don't hurt him, okay?”
“Tim, this isn't a normal way to help with that.”
“It's not a big deal-”
“It's illegal.”
“Is that all you care about?”
“It's wrong, Tim. He shouldn't do that to you, you shouldn't… Are you hurt?”
“I'm fine,” Tim answers a few beats too late.
“You should have told me.”
Tim looks around the room, as if there may be answers hidden somewhere, but amongst the ornate carvings in the plaster and the sterile modernism of the furniture, there is nothing to be found. A solution remains as hidden as the bird in the medallion. Finally his eyes settle on his dad, bloodied and unconscious, but chest still rise and falling with his breathing.
“You’re not actually going to tell the police are you?” he asks.
“I’m sorry, Tim. This isn’t the kind of thing that we can sweep under the rug.”
Time seems to be both speeding forward and dragging slow as molasses at the same time. Tim could count it by the ticking of the heart in his chest, ringing out through the room as Bruce stares down at him in disappointment.
Tim swallows. Runs his tongue along the sharp edges of his teeth. Looks off somewhere past Bruce's left shoulder.
“So does this mean I have to stop being Robin?”
When he risks a glance at Bruce’s face, the man looks surprised.
“No, Tim. This has nothing to do with that-”
“I did something illegal. You're going to get us arrested.”
Bruce shakes his head. The disappointment in his eyes batters into Tim like a sledgehammer.
“You’ve done nothing wrong Tim, you understand that, right? It’s only him. I want to get him away from you.”
“But-”
“If we were on patrol and we found a dad pimping out his teenage child on the street, what would we do?”
Tim feels like he's been slapped.
“He's not… I'm not being…”
“It’s the same thing, Tim. Just because you slap a few more zeros behind the price and hide it under the guise of doing business doesn’t make it any different.”
Tim nods even if he doesn’t fully agree. That comparison makes him sound like a victim, when all he was doing was helping out. It wasn’t even that hard really, just uncomfortable. He knows better than to argue with Bruce though, least of all Batman. So he sits on the bed while Bruce calls an ambulance, and then the police. He stares up at the ceiling while he waits, and finally spots the second Robin in the medallion.