Chapter Text
“Get the orange juice, will you, Timmy?” Tim heaved a heavy, long-suffering sigh, but peeled himself up from where he was draped over the breakfast table, trudging over to the fridge and pulling it open, reaching for the- wait. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Four new- no, wait, there was a carton of pulp-free in the back. Five new containers of orange juice. Why were they all half-empty?
“We had one bottle yesterday,” he said slowly. He heard Jason snort behind him. A chair scraped against the floor.
“Yeah, I went grocery shopping. Keep up, twink.”
Had he been out of the hold of exhaustion and functioning properly, Tim might have been offended by that analysis. Irked, maybe; certainly rankled, and maybe even a little enraged. But fortunately for Jason, Tim was without coffee and without any motivation for neural processing, so he just sighed very heavily again and pulled out one of the bottles of orange juice, turning around to- oh, hell no.
“That’s my chair.” He definitely sounded irked now. “Why are you in my chair?” He shuffled back across to the table, trying to hide his pout with a glare but only managing to look like an indignant child. “Get out.” He kicked his brother’s leg. “Up, up, and away, bitch.”
Jason leant back, settling into the chair even more. “No, I don’t think I will.” Tim huffed and hit him with the bottle of orange juice. “Hey, fuck off, twerp.” Tim hit him again. Jason kicked him in the knee.
There was a loud crash from the general direction of the stairs and an exclaimed, “Damn cat!” that rang through the house. Jason snorted and took the bottle from Tim’s hand, unscrewing it and taking a swig, unruffled by his brother’s disgusted stare. The coffee machine made a low whining noise, and they both sighed.
Slowly, Dick came into the kitchen, flat on his stomach, pulling himself along with his hands. “Is it broken again?” he asked, sounding exhausted. Maybe exhaustion runs in the bloodline, Tim thought, and then he remembered it was six-thirty in the morning. Maybe I’m stupid, he thought instead. He nodded in response to the question, feeling a wave of gloom come over him.
"I'm going to die," he moaned, collapsing on top of Jason since he wouldn't move. Jason yelped and pushed him off. Tim slid miserably to the floor. Jason rolled his eyes.
“You’re not going to die, dumbass. It’s just coffee.” Tim and Dick both instantly gave him such scathing looks that he physically recoiled, putting his hands up in surrender. “Just saying. It’s just a hot bean bath.” Tim sniffed and turned his head away with all the dignity he could manage, refusing to validify Jason's blatant blasphemy with a response. He's just going through his rebel phase, he reminded himself, and leant his head back onto Jason's knee, his eyes closing slowly.
Dick started to speak, but a door upstairs slammed open, and all three of them went silent. Jason gave a heavy sigh and took another long drink of orange juice. “Guess the brat's up,” he muttered. Dick opened his mouth and then closed it again. Tim just got to his feet sullenly and took the bottle of orange juice out of Jason’s hand, fetching a flask from the fridge to replace it with. Jason toasted him before drinking from; normally Dick got pissed at Jason when he drank, but he remembered last night as clearly as they did, so he looked away and pretended the drinking age was seventeen.
Heavy footsteps dragged downstairs, each one thudding against the steps like a landmine. It amazed Tim, actually, how loud the footsteps were- you’d think someone so small wouldn’t make so much sound- but he could feel every thud in his bones. Dick pulled himself into a chair, sinking down and staring at the table.
Damian didn’t say a word as he came in, heading for the cupboard with a blank expression. He took the tea off the bottom shelf- Tim squinted at the label and almost laughed because Damian hated that tea and he knows damn well that he only picked it because he wouldn’t have to stand on his toes. He held back his amusement, though. He remembered last night too well.
“Morning,” Dick tried, his voice bursting with a false cheer that made Tim feel sick. Damian turned his head to look at him and then looked away again. He pulled a spoon from his pocket and stuck it into the box-what the fuck? Tim thought- to take a bite of the raw tea leaves. No, seriously, what the fuck?
"Fuck off, Richard," he said. He didn't sound bitter or cold like he usually did, and Tim felt something in his chest curdle. The demon just sounded blank. Empty.
Damian shoved the tea back in the cupboard and stuck the spoon back in his pocket before he turned around fully. The bruise on his face had worsened, not gotten better like Tim had hoped- it was dark and angry, purple rippled through with black, yellow ringing it across half his face. Tim put down the orange juice. It was making him feel sick suddenly. Dick half rose from his seat, concern creasing his face, but a stern look from Jason was enough to make him sit back down. “Bruce will be down soon,” Damian said, his voice flat. “Clark will not.” He left the room.
Jason and Tim exchanged a baffled look. “That was cryptic,” Jason whispered, taking another drink from the flask and then shoving it in his pocket. Bruce would kill him if he caught sight of it. “Maybe he’s dead,” he added hopefully. Dick chucked his spoon at him.
“Don’t be a dick, Jase. That’s my job.”
Jason threw the spoon back. “At least I can get it.”
“I fucking hate you.” Jason shrugged and leant back his chair on two legs, propping his feet on the table. He pulled out his phone from his pocket and didn’t bother answering until the sounds of Candy Crush were loud and clear.
“Don’t we all.” He turned up the volume.
Bruce entered the room, wrapped up in his green robe, took a look at the coffee maker, and groaned loudly. “Which one of you did this?” he asked, his exasperation almost a growl. “We fixed it two weeks ago, didn’t we? Tim, it was you, wasn’t it?” He turned a sharp glare on his third son. “You’re banned from coffee,” he decided. “For two weeks, since that’s how long it took you to break the coffee maker.” He nodded as if very proud of himself and sat down at the table. “Dick, can you go get the newspaper?”
“Are you sure you should read it without coffee?” Dick asked, already standing up. “It might just put you back to sleep.”
Bruce gave him a disgusted look. “I’m not going to read it. I just want to look classy. Get out of here.” Dick laughed and gave a salute before heading to the front door. Tim punched Jason’s leg and pointed to the empty chair.
Jason shrugged, still focused on Candy Crush. “Why don’t you sit there?” he asked, his voice utterly bored. Tim punched him again, but Bruce answered before he could.
“That’s not his seat, Jason. Give him his chair back.”
Jason rolled his eyes, but moved to Dick’s vacated spot, and Tim scrambled back up into his. Sweet, sweet victory, she was his again. Jason leant this chair back too and ignored the look on Bruce’s face. “Hey, where’s Clark? He finally gone?” he asked. Bruce sighed.
“I’ll tell you when Dick gets back.”
Jason raised an eyebrow, looking up from his riveting game in curiosity. “Wait, is he actually gone?” Bruce just ignored him, taking an apple from the fruit bowl. Jason’s chair thudded back into its regular position, and he and Tim shared a look. Unfortunately, judging by Bruce’s apparent good mood, nothing had happened. But then what the hell was happening? Clark Kent wasn’t a secretive person by nature- it was one of the few things about him that Tim could muster respect for. There was rarely any mystery over him and his whereabouts, not when his footsteps fell like anvils on their hardwood and his voice boomed like a loudspeaker in a Walmart parking lot.
Dick tossed the paper into Bruce’s lap and tossed Jason a betrayed look before situating himself on the counter. Bruce gave him a nod. “Thank you, Dick.” Dick saluted again before reaching up to get the cereal from atop the fridge. Bruce didn’t say anything else. Jason’s fingernails tapped impatiently against the table, his gaze boring into his father. Jason didn’t like having to wait. It was one of the many things about him Tim couldn’t stand.
“Well?” he finally snapped. “Are you going to tell us or not?”
Bruce looked up, quirking an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he drawled. “I wasn’t aware you cared.” Jason growled, crossing his arms. Bruce was unimpressed. “He got a call late last night. His mother in sick and about to go into hospice. He’s on his way to Alabama to see her.”
“I thought he was from Kansas,” Tim murmured, sipping the bottle of orange juice.
“Retirement moves people,” Bruce replied, shrugging. “And use a cup, Timothy.” Tim stuck out his tongue and took another drink from the bottle. Managing the entire title of family disappointment at age sixteen really was such a life. Such a life. Bruce put down the newspaper to stare at the wall, his face clearly reflecting a dear regret for every choice that had conspired to bring Timothy Drake Wayne into the world. Honestly, mood, Tim thought, snorting silently.
“So he’s gonna be gone? We won’t see him for a bit?” Jason pestered, doing a god awful job of hiding his excitement at the idea. The irritation on Bruce’s face grew, and Tim tried to give Jason a warning look, but he was ignored. “Will he be gone? How long do we get?” Goddamn, Jason, do you ever shut up?
“You’re only half right,” Bruce said. Jason raised an eyebrow and holy shit they looked a lot alike which scared Tim for about twenty seconds until he remembered they were father and son and DNA and shit. Was his brain really going to be this lagged for two weeks? He’d get pissed on his neurons’ behalf when he was more awake. “Your grandmother wants to meet you.”
Jason shut down Candy Crush and stared at Bruce in dramatic silence, his face twitching towards anger through a fake smile. “Fuck no.”
Bruce flipped open the newspaper. “Don’t swear at me. This isn’t optional, Jason.”
“What the fuck,” Jason said, his voice very calm. “Why would I want to meet her? What’s the fucking point, huh?” He shoved back his chair, standing up abruptly. “Why’s it fucking matter, huh? Why should I have to go across the fucking country to fucking Alabama of all fucking palces, to Alabama, to the pit of literal hell, to God’s great mistake, to meet a woman that’s dying, that I’ve hardly even heard of, that doesn’t even matter to m-”
In an instant, Bruce was on his feet, his hand wrapped tight around Jason’s wrist and his eyes narrowed darkly. “She is your grandmother,” he growled. “She’s the only grandmother you’re ever going to have. I don’t care what you think of Clark, let that go for five seconds and think about what you’re saying. You’re going to be that selfish?”
The room was silent again. Dick slid the cereal back atop the fridge slowly, getting off the counter. Jason glared back defiantly, but he didn’t say anything, and Tim stared blankly at his orange juice, still trying to process what was happening.
“We’re leaving in the morning,” Bruce said before he left the room, and Jason growled after him, glaring with an intense loathing that only Jason ever seemed to manage. Tim had tried, back when he was little and the kids at school made fun of him, pulling his hair and calling him names and shoving him off the swing set, but that kind of anger had been exhausting, so he’d settled for a comfortable numbness instead, and it had served him well. He took another drink of orange juice and cleared his throat, a question coming unbidden to his mind.
“Who’s telling the brat?”
“Like you have any right to ask,” Jason growled, tugging the flask from his pocket, and Tim almost flinched. The kitchen went silent again.
What a picture-perfect day.