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“I- I don’t feel good,” Tim said, breaking the soft silence that had formed around them, forcing Bruce to finally address the quiet chatter of teeth he had noticed 10 minutes ago.
Tim looked ill when he arrived at the manor that evening before patrol, but it was starting to get harder and harder to tell. Tim always looked unhealthy in a way that Bruce couldn’t quite pinpoint.
He was smaller than he should be for his age, not in just stature but in weight as well, his skin was white as snow, and he always looked like the weight of the world was placed on his shoulders.
It didn’t make sense.
But Bruce didn’t care enough to worry.
Or so he told himself.
He worried too much and too often about the kid next to him.
But the kid wasn’t his.
“Then go home,” Batman said, keeping his gaze locked on the warehouse doors. He refused to look at the kid—he knew if he did, he would no longer be able to manage the fragile distance he built between the two of them.
It was a healthy distance.
They were still able to work together as a team, but that’s where it ended. They would never become more; they would never be a father and son duo. The days of that were dead and buried; exploded and burnt somewhere between Ethiopia and Jason’s grave.
Tim didn’t need another parent. He already had two very loving ones from what Tim had said of the matter. Some things didn’t line up—the gaps in their appearances in Gotham and the stories Tim would tell of them eating dinner together but Bruce figured the Drakes FaceTimed and ate with their young son.
He wasn’t going to pry.
He wasn’t Tim’s parent.
He had to distance himself from the role.
It wouldn’t be fair to Tim; it was taking everything in his power not to beg the young boy to stay longer, visit more frequently, but it was wrong to ask that of Tim. Tim had a family to go back home to.
Bruce caused the ones around him to die and burnt the bridges of those who remained alive.
He would face the consequences of his actions and he would face them alone.
So, no, he would not embrace the shivering child beside him like he would Dick or Jason. He would not coddle him up, wrap his cape around him, and carry him to the car. He would not stop the stakeout and gently grab the kid's arm and guide him into warmth. He would not take on the role of a caring father even if he wanted to—even if it physically pained him not to—because he had more control over his emotions; they would not interfere and cost him another Robin.
“Right,” Tim muttered, taking a concerning amount of time to stand up from their crouching position; Bruce remained quiet even as his mind swirled with worry. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
No, Bruce wanted to say. Stay home and be with your family.
But he was selfish and so those words would never fall from his lips. The manor didn’t feel as empty, as dead, as it did when there was no one running through the halls, when it was vacant aside from Alfred and Bruce.
He grunted instead.
Tim stumbled off; his footsteps sounded heavy and robotic. Bruce waited until the sound faded before standing up from his position just as Tim had done only moments before.
The intel he received for the night was good. People, criminals, would be arriving within minutes bringing with them several containers of illegal ammunition and guns. It would be a hell of a bust—one that he was going to leave to the GCPD.
Batman knew they were aware, more importantly, he knew that Gordon was aware. The city would be safe for the night.
He turned away from the soon-to-be crime scene and trailed after his… child.
That’s what Tim was, even if Bruce refused to acknowledge it out loud.
Tim was his child.
His responsibility.
His…son.
And Bruce wasn’t going to lose another son.
He’d keep his distance, he’d only make sure that Tim made it home safe, and then all would be well.
-----
Catching up to Tim was easy work.
Too easy.
The boy had barely made any progress, any distance, and Bruce couldn't help the sense of dread he felt building in the pit of his stomach.
Bruce watched, from a distance, as Tim stumbled into the side of a building, gripping the wall for support. He was mumbling to himself; words Bruce couldn’t make out.
He moved closer, trying to blend in with the shadows the best he could. He didn’t want Robin to feel that he didn’t trust him, he did—trust Robin—he was just worried.
Dick would have scolded him about his trust issues.
But this wasn’t Dick, it was Tim, and this wasn’t about trust, it was about Bruce losing another child.
It was stupid, but Bruce couldn’t help it.
He was worried.
Bruce watched as Tim forced himself away from the building wall, he went unsteady for a moment before standing upright. His steps were uneven and shaky, Bruce moved before he could think.
He hit the asphalt behind Tim, moving with less urgency than he wanted to. He watched as Tim’s knees buckled and he fell to the ground.
Bruce was beside him at a moment's notice; his hand outstretched but not touching Tim.
“Robin-” Bruce began but cut himself off when Tim held up his hand.
Bruce wanted to come closer, but he remained where he was.
“I’m…” Tim started to say something, his breathing still rapid, “I’m sorry.”
Bruce peered down at Tim, trying to figure out what Tim meant. Why was he saying sorry?
Bruce should be the one apologizing—he told Tim to go home even when he knew the kid was sick because of his own issues. Issues unrelated to Tim but that had now affected him.
Tim drew further into himself.
“Just need…just need a second and I’ll go-” Tim paused, unsure, “wherever I’m supposed to be going.”
Tim swayed and Bruce silently asked for forgiveness as he closed the distance between the two of them.
He quickly removed the glove from his right hand and placed the back of it against Tim’s forehead; the kid was burning up.
Tim pulled away quickly at the contact.
“You’re burning up-”
“No,” Tim interrupted, attempting to stand. “Cold.”
He stumbled, and Bruce caught him, rough hand encircling his wrist.
“Sorry,” Tim muttered, gripping onto Bruce before going completely limp in his arm.
-----
The Batcave was quiet.
It was unnerving.
Usually, when Tim was in the Batcave, things felt lively.
Everything felt dead at the moment.
Bruce lingered near the cot. He wouldn’t stand by it, refusing to invade Alfred’s space as he hooked Tim up to an IV, but he wouldn’t leave the space either.
He watched as the needle poked through the skin as Alfred’s steady hands did the procedure with practiced ease.
“There’s a chair beside you, Master Bruce.”
Alfred was always the first to break the silence. Tonight, however, Bruce didn’t want to speak. He wanted silence even though it suffocated him.
“Alfred-”
“Sit,” Alfred said, removing his gloves and disposing of them in the bin beside the bed. He turned and looked at Bruce, Bruce looked away.
“What happened tonight?”
“He’s sick-”
“Believe it or not, Master Bruce, I was able to make that observation for myself. I’m asking you what happened?”
Bruce sighed, sitting down in the chair and running his hands through his dirty hair. He hadn’t taken a shower yet, too worried about the sick child in front of him to focus on anything else. Maybe he should have. Maybe that would have given him an out to this conversation. But that was a fool’s thought. If Alfred wanted to have a conversation, a conversation would take place.
“I don’t know-”
“You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?”
There was no point in trying to lie to Alfred, the man always managed to see right through him, still, he wasn’t sure what to say. There were no words that he could string together to help make sense of the situation. There was no way to make sense of the situation because in trying to protect himself, he hurt Tim.
“I knew he was sick,” Bruce began, twisting his fingers and avoiding eye contact, “but I didn’t care-”
“And I actually thought you were done lying to me.”
Bruce’s head shot up.
Alfred sighed, checking Tim’s IV despite there being no need to. Tim groaned it was a small sound and hardly noticeable, but Bruce was up in a second, coming close to peer at the boy. If it was just lingering pain, there would be nothing Bruce could do but the reaction was instinctive.
Alfred met Bruce’s eyes and let out a small knowing laugh.
“I thought you didn’t care.”
“I thought you knew I was lying,” Bruce retorted, sitting back down.
“I did. I know a great deal of things about you. I know you are still feeling the pain we all felt when Master Jason passed. I know you are punishing yourself for a death that is not on your hands. But most importantly, I know that you cannot continue like this,” Alfred paused, staring Bruce dead in the eye, “I will not let you continue like this.”
Bruce nodded. He wasn’t sure what to say, but no matter the shortcomings of his words, he knew that Alfred would understand.
“I-” Bruce paused, picking his next words carefully. “I’m scared, Alfred.”
“A wise thing to be in your field of work
Bruce sent the older man a pained smile.
“I don’t want to lose him,” Bruce muttered, reaching for Tim’s hand. He stopped himself just short of making contact.
Alfred frowned.
“If you keep pushing him away, you may find that one day he will not come back.”
Bruce grabbed Tim’s hand gently.
“I know.”
“Good.”
And with that Alfred was gone leaving Bruce alone with an unconscious Tim. This wasn’t the first time they had this conversation, but Bruce was hoping it would be their last.
Bruce always lingered when Tim was sick or unwell, hurt or injured, but only when Tim was unconscious. He made sure to leave before the boy woke up in fear of suffocating the younger one with his presence.
He cared about Tim.
He cared about Tim a lot.
Too much.
And that was dangerous.
He wasn’t sure he would be able to survive his heart being ripped out of his chest another time. If something were to happen to Tim, Bruce wasn’t sure he would be able to continue.
He’d lost so much already.
Bruce closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat.
-----
Bruce woke with a jolt.
He wasn’t sure what had woken him up or when he had gone to sleep.
He was in the Batcave, next to Tim’s cot.
There was a moment of lingering daze from his sleep where Bruce couldn’t quite recall why they were there. It all came crashing back as he looked at the worn-down child.
“You’re awake,” Bruce said, his voice hoarse from sleep. He saw the way Tim tensed, immediately becoming fully awake, and frowned.
“Yeah.”
“Do you feel better?”
Bruce wasn’t sure why he asked it. He knew that Tim still felt bad just by looking at the kid, yet some part of him wished that Tim would trust him enough to truthfully answer the question.
“Feel fine.”
A lie, but what did Bruce expect? Maybe he finally pushed Tim far enough away that he was out of reach.
“Are you sure?”
Bruce watched as Tim did a quick, yet unsubtle, double take. His eyes were wide, and Bruce sighed.
It wasn’t like with Alfred.
None of this was part of their normal routine.
Usually, Bruce would have left by now.
Usually, Bruce would have let the lie slip by, refusing to call Tim out on his bluff.
Tonight, was different.
“Yeah,” Tim lied again.
Bruce coughed, once then twice. He kept twisting his hands in his lap, there was so much he wanted to say but he didn’t know how.
He wanted to ask Tim for the truth.
“Are you hungry?” Bruce asked instead.
“Alfred mentioned soup; I said I would eat some,” Tim replied, looking away from Bruce.
Bruce nodded.
Awkward silence covered them.
If Bruce were a better man, a man who wasn’t so broken, maybe the silence would not have been as awkward. But Bruce wasn’t a better man. Bruce was Bruce.
“I can leave after I eat.”
Bruce didn’t want Tim to leave.
But he wasn’t Tim’s parents. If Tim wanted to return home, Bruce understood.
“Okay,” Bruce finally managed to get the word out.
Tim was blinking rapidly, eyes closing for several seconds every so often. The boy was beyond tired.
“You…” Bruce began, cutting himself off when Tim turned his head to look at him. “You could stay… until you feel better, I mean.”
He didn’t look at Tim.
“Cool,” Tim muttered.
“Cool?”
“I’ll leave as soon as I feel better,” Tim clarified. “You won’t even notice I’m here.”
Bruce let out an internal groan.
“I promise,” Tim added after a few seconds of growing silence.
He didn't want that. He didn’t want Tim’s presence to be hidden.
Bruce continued to stare at the ground even as he felt Tim’s eyes on him.
He didn’t know how long Tim would be staying. He wasn’t sure how fast Tim would get better, or what Timm meant by better.
He needed to contact Mrs. Mac.
“I’ll inform Mrs. Mac that you will be staying here for-”
Tim cut him off with a small laugh.
“She won’t answer.”
Oh?
Bruce looked away from the floor and back up at Tim.
“Why?”
“She’s gone.”
Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed in response.
“Gone?” Bruce parroted back.
What did Tim mean by gone?
“Ireland.”
Bruce didn’t know how to react.
“When will she be back?”
“Never.”
How long, Bruce wondered. How long had Mrs. Mac been in Ireland? Was she in Ireland the whole time Tim was Robin? Had Tim lied to him?
Bruce tried to recall conversations about the woman but there weren’t many that stuck out. Even still as he tried to grasp onto memories that evaded him, he knew one thing.
Tim always talked about Mrs. Mac in the past tense.
She was never doing; everything was always done.
“I see,” he muttered, still a bit stuck in his head.
Bruce frowned. He wasn’t sure how he had missed it. The whole time he had been sending Tim back to an empty home-
“I can leave if you wan-”
“Why would you leave?” Bruce cut in quickly, trying not to focus on the Mrs. Mac situation.
“I meant,” Tim paused for a second, “since you don’t want me here-”
“I never said I don’t want you here.”
“Right, but you don’t have to-”
“When are your parents back?” Bruce derailed the conversation quickly. It was clear the question caught Tim off guard. “I’d feel better if you stayed here until they came back.”
Tim just stared at him. The clarification Bruce offered did nothing to wipe the confusion off of Tim’s face.
“They won’t be back until…” Tim trailed off.
Bruce knew. Some part of him always knew that things were askew with Tim’s stories, but they were easy to write off when he wasn’t looking at the boy. Now though, it was all becoming clear. Too clear.
Jack and Janet always seemed like distant parents to Bruce, but he knew better than to judge especially when he didn’t have the full story.
He was not in the position to judge other parents either, after all, Tim was still alive.
Bruce hadn’t been able to keep his son alive.
“Until?” Bruce asked, prompting Tim to continue.
Tim shrugged; Bruce frowned.
“Sometime after October.”
It was March.
That was fine.
Well, it wasn’t fine.
It was anything besides fine.
But Bruce could work with it.
October had always been a fun month in the manor. Dick always came down, dressed in various costumes that put a smile on Bruce’s face.
When Jason was alive, he would make Bruce help him map the best places to stop—all the houses with the king-sized candy bars—and ask that they go there first.
Bruce didn’t know if Tim still went trick-or-treating, the boy was thirteen.
“Do you still…” Bruce trailed off. He cleared his throat, pushing on with his sentence. “Do you still go trick-or-treating?”
“I- I don’t,” Tim spluttered, clearly caught off guard by the question. “I’ve never gone.”
Oh.
Bruce hadn’t expected that answer, not from the boy who used to chase Batman and Robin on the rooftops as a kid.
“We could,” Bruce found himself offering. “... Go. I mean- if you wanted to.”
Tim looked at him and gave a shy nod. Bruce wasn’t sure if Tim wanted to go or didn’t want to tell Bruce no.
“We don’t have to,” Bruce added, quickly.
Tim sat in silence for a moment. Bruce didn’t speak.
“I’d like to go trick-or-treating-”
“Trick-or-treating in March?” Alfred interrupted, joining the two of them. Head a bowl of steaming soup in his hands.
“Tim’s going to stay at the Manor until November,” Bruce offered, looking up to see Alfred’s smiling eyes and knowing expression.
“I see. Do you know what you want to be for Halloween?”
Tim shook his head.
“We’ll think of something,” Bruce said, sending a small smile Tim’s way. Tim sent a small one back.
Bruce was going to be okay.