Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tim would really, really like to blame the Riddler for this.

After all, if the jerk hadn’t made them spend two nights in a row scampering all over Gotham trying to solve his latest stupid puzzle (which didn’t even end up being all that challenging, just time consuming, which is the most insulting part), Tim wouldn’t have forgotten that his English report was due this week and not next week, and he wouldn’t be staring with a sinking heart at the report card his mother has just placed in front of him.

“Honestly, Timothy, we’re only a few weeks into the school year,” she says, a disappointed twist to her lips. “That you’re allowing yourself to slip like this, especially so early on is...concerning.”

The problem is, his mother is completely correct. He can’t blame the Riddler, much as he’d like to. He knew when he took up the mantle of Robin that he would need to be extra responsible, and find a way to balance his extracurricular activities with his schoolwork. The B glaring up at him from the paper is a stark reminder that he doesn’t have room to allow himself such unnecessary and easily avoidable mistakes.

He should be more disciplined than this.

“You’re right, Mother,” he murmurs, bowing his head respectfully. “It’s only because there aren’t very many assignments in the gradebook yet. I promise, I’ll be able to bring it back up before the semester ends. It won’t appear on my final transcript.”

His father sighs heavily from his position beside Janet on the couch. “You know Timothy, most children would jump at the chance to have the kind of life we give you. A beautiful house, a high quality education, not to mention plenty of freedom,” he adds, and takes a sip of his scotch. “Your mother and I are simply concerned that perhaps you’ve started to take it all for granted.” He gives Tim a stern look.

Tim shakes his head quickly. “I know how lucky I am, I prom- ”

Janet speaks like she hadn’t even noticed he was talking. “We really don’t ask for much in return,” she says, straightening a nonexistent wrinkle in her skirt. “All we ask is that you attend diligently to your schooling, and behave in a manner in keeping with our family name.”

Her phone buzzes from where it sits on the table, and she picks it up without missing a beat. Even without her gaze on him, he keeps his shoulders back and straight. “Now, your father and I have agreed that there need to be consequences for this little fit of irresponsibility. We will be suspending your allowance until such a time as we feel you’ve developed an appropriate amount of respect for the privileges our work is able to grant you.”

Tim’s blood runs cold, and he has to take a deep, calming breath, one of the ones Bruce taught him, to keep his tone even when he speaks. “I completely recognize the reasoning behind this punishment, and I’m very sorry for my distraction in regards to my grades,” he says steadily. Her eyes have brightened as she looks at her screen, and his father has pulled out his own phone and is smiling a pleased smile. He knows he doesn’t have much time left, and he rushes out: “But, Mother, I need at least some of that money to pay for groceries.”

She and his father share a glance, neither of them even looking at Tim, eyes bright and distant with whatever new discovery they’ve just been called to. “I’ll check and see if there’s a flight to Cairo that we can catch tonight,” his father declares, already tapping out an itinerary.

“Mother,” he says, growing desperate.

She looks up from her phone, annoyance flashing across her face. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she says sharply. “We have a housekeeper to make you meals for a reason, and you can get lunches at school, stop behaving as though we’re starving you. Honestly, Timothy, perhaps we should have done this much sooner if this is how you react. You’re clearly becoming spoiled.” She stands up, and his father does the same. “Now, your father and I need to go pack, we have just received some excellent news about a new dig site.”

Tim stands up as well, swallowing thickly as he follows her to the base of the stairs. “Mother please, without an allowance, there won’t be enough, I need to be able to buy food. Please, isn’t there some other punishment that would be suitable?”

He has never argued with a punishment, not since he was a toddler, if then. Surely she’ll listen, surely she’ll see this is too harsh, that he wouldn’t be disrespecting her like this if he was simply sulking over not getting his way. He needs that food, needs to be able to eat enough if he wants to be Robin.

He’s been hungry before, but back then, it never mattered if he was a little weak or dizzy. It never risked his life or the life of his partner when he was a kid.

She turns, sighing softly and pursing her lips. She reaches out to pat his cheek, and for a moment his heart soars hopefully, and he barely restrains himself from leaning into the rare bit of contact and soaking up his mother’s touch. “Oh, Timothy,” she tuts. “This is for the best. And honestly, I think it’s wise for you to cut down a bit on the snacks. I’d hate to have to listen to anyone tittering at the next gala that you’re getting chubby.”

And without another backwards glance, she turns and heads upstairs, leaving Tim alone and frozen at the bottom of the steps.

…

It’s not like Tim doesn’t know this is going to be a problem. Nutrition was one of the first few things Bruce put on the Robin curriculum; a healthy diet is important when your life depends on your body being strong enough to go through all the abuse they put themselves through. He knows how many calories he needs to keep himself fueled, knows the proportional amount of protein his diet requires to maintain the muscle mass he’s started to build, knows how to make sure he’s getting enough calcium to keep his bones from snapping the next time some goon lands a punch.

He knows failing to tend to his own body’s needs could get him in serious trouble.

He stares at the sheet of notebook paper in front of him, and blinks back frustrated tears. Taking a deep breath, he picks up his pen and draws out seven boxes, writing out “Meal Plan” across the top.

This is no one’s fault but his own. Being Robin is a responsibility, and that means when obstacles arise, it’s his job to find a way to handle them.

He just needs a plan of action, that’s all.

Ideally, he would have three meals per day, seven days a week for twenty-one total. He draws three smaller boxes for each day.

Alright. So first, let’s map out what he does have.

His mother was correct when she said Mrs. Mac brought home-cooked meals, but she only brings them on the days she’s working, and generally only dinner. So that’s dinner accounted for on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. And healthy dinners too, so off to a good start! He writes down ‘Mrs. Mac’ in one box for each of those days.

His mother was incorrect when she said he could get lunch at school. School lunches cost money he no longer has, and “my parents cut off my allowance” is definitely not going to be enough to get him put on the reduced lunch program.

Though honestly, with the amount his parents pay to send him to Gotham Academy, he’s not sure the school even has one of those.

He could potentially sneak off campus for lunch, though that’s still going to cost money. But if he goes to the Batburger down the street, he could order off the dollar menu, which would be significantly cheaper than the five dollar school lunches. Healthy? No, but calories are calories. He does keep a stash of cash in his room for emergencies, though he really doesn’t love the idea of having to tap into it just to pay for lunch, but it’s an option.

He’ll come back to the middle square for the weekdays.

Breakfasts are just going to have to be out, he decides. That’s okay, he’s usually not that hungry when he first wakes up anyway. He’ll also have to start rationing his coffee, which he’s already mourning.

But maybe his mother is right, he is getting a little spoiled. He can stand to cut down on his caffeine intake. Alfred would probably be pleased.

He goes to draw a line through the entire top row, but hesitates on Sunday. Alfred, now there’s a thought. He knows Alfred makes brunch every Sunday. The first time he’d heard about it, the butler had very kindly and politely told him he was welcome to come over to the manor and join them. He knows it’s a family tradition for the Waynes, knows Dick tries to come home every weekend for it, knows it started back when Jason first joined the family.

Knows it is absolutely not for him, no matter how kind Alfred might be.

He crosses out Sunday’s breakfast too. But Alfred has asked him before if he would like to stay for dinner after patrol. Even Bruce, once he begrudgingly began to accept Tim’s presence, has offered more than once for him to grab something to eat before heading home for the night.

They’re just offering out of good manners, of course, because it would be awkward to just dismiss him outright after patrol. He’s very familiar with the intricate dance of unspoken words.

They will offer, because it is the correct thing to do whether they really want him there or not, and he will politely decline and remove himself before he completely outwears his welcome, because it is the correct thing to do whether he really wants to go or not. Because he is aware of how many boundaries he has already crossed, and he doesn’t want to cross any more if he can help it.

But right now, staring at a chart with only three meals out of twenty one accounted for, he realizes he might not have much of a choice.

He gnaws on the end of his pen for several long moments, before hesitantly putting down ‘Mr. Wayne’ in the bottom box for Tuesday and Thursday, too paranoid to put the name Bruce in the unlikely scenario anyone finds this notebook.

There. Two nights a week, that’s not so bad. Not too much of an intrusion. That will guarantee at least one balanced and full meal per weekday, that’s doable. If necessary, he can supplement by tapping into his emergency cash for an extra lunch here and there to tide him over.

He’s small anyway, he really doesn’t need that much.

Weekends will still be rough, but in a burst of inspiration, he remembers the stash of nutrient-dense protein bars Bruce keeps in the cave. Tim’s taken advantage of that stash plenty of times, surely Bruce won’t mind if he grabs a handful once a week. He can ration them out over the weekend, enough to tide him over.

He’s lasted longer with less. He can do this.

He settles back in his chair, the knot in his chest easing slightly with the knowledge that he at least has a plan, that he will still be able to eat, just a little less than he’s used to. He can make the adjustment, it won’t be that bad.

He’s Robin, he can handle a bit of discomfort.

It’s his responsibility.

…

He had told Bruce that his parents were going to be in town through Monday, which leaves him with another three days before he can go out on patrol again. Luckily, there are still enough groceries in the house to carry him through the weekend.

By the time Tuesday’s patrol finally rolls around, he’s...fine. A little hungry, since he hasn’t eaten yet today, but not bad.

It’s easy to push the faint ache in his stomach aside and forget about it, especially with the rush of exhilaration and joy that always comes from soaring above the city, and the five days apart have only reminded him how much he loves it, how grateful he is to be allowed to fly like this.

It’s a good night.

Even Bruce seems to be in a good mood, and Tim even manages to make him laugh once.

Well, okay, it’s more of a slight upturning of his lips and a small huff, far from the deep chuckles he knows the other Robins were able to coax out of him, but it still counts, damnit.

It gives him enough courage that when they reach the end of their patrol and Bruce asks if he would like some dinner before heading home for the night, he’s able to take a deep breath and say, “Yes, actually, thank you, sir.”

Bruce pauses in the middle of entering in their report for the night, already showered and changed back into exercise clothes, and Tim’s boldness wavers in the face of his clear surprise. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he adds hesitantly.

He blinks, turning back to his screen, probably to cover up the annoyance at Tim actually accepting his offer, but he handles it with grace, naturally. “Of course, Tim, you’re always welcome.” He types out a last couple lines before shutting the computer down for the night and standing up, gesturing to Tim to follow him. “And I believe I’ve already said there’s no need to call me sir, Bruce will do just fine.”

Tim winces internally. He did already tell him that, repeatedly. Of course he’d slip up when he was already making himself an inconvenience. “Sorry, Bruce.”

His mentor graces him with a small, but genuine-looking smile. “Good. Now, I believe Alfred is making baked chicken tonight.”

Tim grins back at him, the sound of their footsteps on the stairs thankfully covering up the pathetic growl of his stomach.

It really is amazing how kind Bruce manages to be to him, even when he tests his patience.

…

Tim had already resolved when he decided to include these meals at the manor into his plan that he wouldn’t force it. If he was invited to stay, he would, but he was not going to ask to stay.

If Bruce had decided not to invite him again after he stepped across the line and accepted his last invitation, he would have backed off and found another way, somehow.

But Bruce does ask again on Wednesday if he would like to join them for dinner, and he relaxes a little bit, even as he’s relieved to be able to decline and return to Drake manor to eat the spaghetti carbonara that Mrs. Mac left. Two nights in a row would have been pushing it.

But the invitation comes again on Thursday, and dinner might be stilted and quiet, but he leaves with a belly full of some of the best casserole he’s ever tasted, and the growing confidence that this might actually work.

…

This Tuesday is...bad.

It’s neither of their faults, just bad luck, a few last minute changes to the security roster that carelessly didn’t get recorded anywhere they would have been able to see ahead of time, which means there’s twice as many guys in the building as there were supposed to be, a fact which doesn’t become apparent until it’s too late.

Even for Batman, there’s only so much his armor can do against high-power rounds at close range.

Tim doesn’t flinch at the gunshot, but he’s close enough to hear Bruce’s short, punched-out grunt, and it distracts him for just long enough for the man he’s fighting to slam the butt of his own gun into Tim’s ribs. He feels the dull crack of bone in the center of a starburst of pain.

He keeps moving, doesn’t let himself stop and hunch around the stabbing ache the way he wants to, cold dread flowing through him as he weaves his way across the room. “B!” he cries, sweeping up to his side and taking out another goon at the knees with his staff before throwing down a smoke grenade.

Bruce allows him to take some of his weight as he guides them out through the side entrance before the smoke has a chance to clear, and Tim’s dread grows.

He gets them into the Batmobile, sending out a silent thanks that the car has autopilot as he punches in the code and the car roars off towards the cave without any other guidance from him.

His ribs are still burning with every breath, but he’s not focused on that at the moment.

Bruce has a hand pressed to the gap in his armor that the bullet punched through. Tim can see the glint of blood on his black gauntlet where it’s seeping out. He opens one of the compartments, pulling out a pressure bandage with shaking hands, even though he knows that until they can get to the cave and get his armor off, it’s probably not going to be any more helpful than just pressing down on it.

Bruce accepts the bandage anyway. “Are you injured?” he says through gritted teeth.

“Just bruises.” The lie slips out without him even needing to think about it. If he tells the truth, Bruce will do the heroic thing and insist that Alfred check on him before tending to his own obviously more critical injury. Besides, there’s not a ton they can do for a few cracked ribs. If need be, he’ll just lie again and say he didn’t realize they were actually broken.

Fortunately, Bruce doesn’t press him on it, just grunts an acknowledgement.

Tim contacts Alfred to let him know what happened. The rest of the drive is spent in silence, fear churning quietly in Tim’s stomach the entire agonizing way.

The butler is waiting for them in the medbay when they arrive, and helps Tim assist Bruce over to the cot he has ready. He’s slumped more than he was the first trip, blood loss and lack of adrenaline sapping away at his strength.

Tim wordlessly helps pull off armor until Alfred has room to work, stepping aside the moment he can see he’s just getting in the way.

His heart clenches at the sight of the blood streaking its way across Bruce’s skin, too much of it, but his anxiety eases a little as he gets a better view of the wound itself. It’s a straight shot, through and through, and while there’s no good spot to be shot, he knows there’s much more dangerous locations.

Alfred clucks his tongue disapprovingly as he injects a local anesthetic into the skin beside the wound, though concern is still painted heavily across the lines that crease his brow. “I certainly hope that if I tell you it could have been far worse, you’re not going to take it as permission to let this become a pattern, Master Bruce,” he tells him, and Bruce huffs.

“Trust me, I’m not having nearly as much fun as it looks like,” he responds tiredly, slumping back against the pillows as the anesthetic kicks in. He doesn’t even flinch when Alfred prods gently at the edges of the injury.

He looks exhausted, dark circles stark against his pale face. Tim quietly begins to edge towards the changing rooms, reassured by now that Alfred has this well under control.

The butler doesn’t miss the motion, glancing up and sparing him a weary but genuine smile. “Thank you for your assistance, Master Tim,” he says. “You’ve done well tonight, getting him home in mostly one piece.”

Tim shuffles self consciously. “I really just got him to the car, that’s all.” Alfred gives him a piercing look, and Tim jerks his head towards the showers, eager to escape it. “I’m just going to -”

To his great relief, Alfred releases him without further comment, only nodding before turning back to patching up Bruce. “Do not hesitate to come find me if you need anything,” he calls after him as he flees.

He takes his time, changing and showering, making sure he gets every last flake of dried blood out from under his fingernails. Some careful poking at his side confirms what he already knew: that cracked ribs hurt like a bitch.

But more importantly, that they are only cracked and not broken, and therefore he’s both unlikely to die from a punctured lung and also there really is no point in crawling to Alfred with his tail tucked between his legs and admitting that he took a hit. There’s nothing much to do except ice them and be careful.

When he comes out, Bruce is still right where he left him, eyes closed and breathing even. He still looks awful, skin so pale the thick white bandage plastered across his abdomen barely stands out, but his face is relaxed in sleep, and he looks more peaceful than Tim thinks he’s ever seen him up close, exhaustion scrubbing away all his usual stress.

Tim wavers.

He could go upstairs, even though no one explicitly invited him tonight. Alfred would feed him if he asked, wouldn’t turn him away after the night they’ve had, probably wouldn’t even hold it against him that he invited himself. Bruce might not even find out.

It would never have felt more like taking advantage.

No one stops him from slipping out and making the long walk home, his stomach and chest aching with every step.

…

He’s not surprised by the text he gets the next day as he lays sprawled on his bed with his laptop and phone, letting him know that there will be no patrols until Alfred clears it. He can perfectly picture Bruce’s sullen tone, and he snorts.

Rubbing at his eyes tiredly, he sets his phone back down beside him. He’s been trying to get his homework done for the past forty minutes, but his brain just isn’t cooperating today, refusing to just buckle down and focus on the math problems that he should have been able to breeze through.

He is surprised when his phone buzzes a second time, and even more surprised when he picks it up to see another text from Bruce.

You’re still welcome to come over at the usual time, if you would like to use the computer here to work.

The on your cases goes unspoken in text. Tim chews on his lip. It’s tempting, the excuse to get out of the empty house practically dropped in his lap.

Alfred would bring down snacks, at some point, because that’s what he does when they’re working down in the cave for long enough, Tim wouldn’t even have to ask, though he imagines the butler would have some thoughts about Bruce working…

Ah.

Quit trying to use me as an excuse for why you’re not in bed resting the way Alfred told you to, he texts back, a smile tugging at his lips.

I do not need an excuse to be out of bed in my own home, his phone buzzes within moments, followed immediately by: I’m Batman

Tim rolls his eyes. Sure you don’t, Batman, he sends. He hesitates for a moment, fingers hovering over the keys, before adding, You should call Dick. He’d want to see you.

He waits for a couple minutes, the phone silent in his palm, before he sighs and turns reluctantly back to his homework.

He never gets a response.

That’s okay. He wasn’t really expecting one.

…

“Timothy, dear, do try to swallow the food and not inhale it, won’t you?” Mrs. Mac eyes him across the kitchen island, and he freezes, mouth full of chicken parmesan. He forces himself to chew at a regular pace, shooting her a sheepish smile as he swallows what was admittedly a rather large bite.

“It’s very good, Mrs. Mac,” he says earnestly. “Is it a new recipe?”

There’s a concerned furrow across her brow. “It’s the same as last time I made it. Are you feeling alright, dear? You’re looking a bit peakish.”

He gives her another sheepish grin. “I, uh. I might’ve skipped lunch today. I had a project I was working on, I sort of lost track of time.”

She finally looks mollified, pursing her lips as she returns to tidying the kitchen. “As long as you don’t make a habit of it, you hardly have any excess meat on your bones as is. But I suppose it’s a good thing that you’re valuing your studies so highly. You’re a very responsible boy, Timothy.”

The smile sits on his face like a domino mask. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Mac. I’ve actually still got some homework to work on tonight, so if you’ll excuse me.” He climbs down off the kitchen stool, carrying the plate of precious food to his room cradled close to his chest.

He should really save the other half for later, he thinks as he sets it at his desk. It will stave off the hunger for longer if he turns it into a couple smaller meals, he tells himself as he picks up his fork.

He’s Robin, he’s got the willpower to resist shoveling the whole plate down his gullet at once.

Wouldn’t it be nice to have breakfast before school the next day?

…

Morning dawns, and he leaves for school with nothing left in his stomach but shame.

…

Batman keeps looking at him.

His eyes are covered by the blank lenses of the mask, and of course his head never tilts in Tim’s direction, but he can sense the weight of his gaze anyway. He resists the urge to fidget.

They perch at the edge of their rooftop like a pair of stone gargoyles, keeping watch over the possible business deal going down between two of the gangs tonight, and Tim has the petty, vicious thought that he hopes Bruce feels every inch of the strange, awkward atmosphere between them tonight.

He doesn’t even really know why he hopes Bruce is as uncomfortable as he is. The man hasn’t done anything wrong, they haven’t fought or even disagreed over anything. They haven’t had time to; this is the first patrol they’ve done since the shooting.

By all rights, Tim should be practically giddy with joy at being back in the air and on the streets.

Instead, there’s a buzzing tension under his skin, a rubber band stretched too tight, and he swears to god that if Bruce keeps studying him like that he’s going to snap.

It’s only his stubborn concentration on remaining perfectly still in spite of Bruce that keeps him from flinching when he clears his throat. And then, he immediately breaks his concentration to look over at him in surprise and slight concern.

Making a noise just to break the silence is...not what Batman does.

“How are your cases progressing?” Bruce asks, all Batman gravel.

Tim blinks at him. “Fine,” he says carefully. “Was there one you were concerned about?”

Bruce hms neutrally, and Tim feels himself tense slightly. He can’t tell if he’s imagining the faint note of frustration in the sound. “No.”

A long pause. “Okay…?” Tim finally ventures, trying to figure out what it is he’s missing.

The man grunts again. “You usually talk about what theories you’re developing,” he says at last. “I just wanted to make sure everything was...okay.”

Ah. Tim relaxes, even though he can’t help but be a tiny bit stung. “They’ve been coming along a little slower without any fresh evidence collection, but yeah, I’m still making progress,” he replies. He injects a bit of playfulness into his tone to cover up the note of hurt. “What, did you think I was going to slack off as soon as you weren’t looking over my shoulder?”

Bruce doesn’t look appeased. The corners of his lips turn down in consternation, and Tim can tell he’s frowning beneath the cowl. “That’s not what I was trying to -”

Tim’s distracted by movement from down below, and he flattens against the roof like a cat prepared to pounce. “That’s Russo,” he cuts Bruce off without thinking. He winces internally, but no reproach comes, Bruce’s eyes locked on the new arrival the same as he is.

“Get to the front of the building,” he commands, readying his grappling hook, and Tim feels the familiar thrum of adrenaline in his chest like a weapon waiting eagerly to be drawn. “Cut off anyone who tries to leave, but do not engage unless I give you the command.”

“Copy that,” Tim says, smiling a too-sharp grin as he gets ready to leap.

The drop feels like flying.

…

Bruce slams the driver’s side door of the batmobile behind him before stalking towards the medbay without looking back. Tim doesn’t need to be told to follow, shutting his own door much more quietly.

His head is pounding.

“Sit,” Bruce growls at him as soon as he follows him through the door.

Tim obeys.

The adrenaline has long since abandoned him, leaving him almost too wrung out to feel anxious. Bruce comes back over with a small penlight, and he forces himself not to flinch back from the light as he shines it in his eyes, even though it feels like being jabbed in the skull with an ice pick. “I didn’t hit my head,” he mutters.

“You were swaying.” Bruce clicks off the pen. He doesn’t turn away, just looms in front of him. The blank white lenses of his cowl reveal nothing of what he’s thinking.

It is only a lifetime of practice under Janet Drake that allows Tim to remain sitting rigidly on the cot without fidgeting under the weight of his inspection.

Finally, Bruce lets out a slow breath through his nose. “The instructions I gave you were very clear.”

Tim waits silently. Bruce is silent too.

Looking for agreement, then. “They were,” Tim replies.

“I told you not to engage unless and until I told you to.”

“You did.”

“Then why,” he grits out, “did you decide to completely ignore my directions and throw yourself into the fray instead of staying outside where I told you?”

Tim digs a nail into the pad of his thumb. He knows it’s not a real question. “I’m sorry, sir,” he responds mechanically. “It won’t happen again.”

A muscle in Bruce’s jaw jumps. “This isn’t a game, Tim! If I hadn’t realized you were in the building and had gone through with my initial plan to drive the gangs towards each other, you would have been caught right in the middle of the fighting. You would have been lucky to only be seriously injured.”

Tim’s head whips up. “You knew there was a second group coming in through the back?”

“Yes,” he snaps.

He digs his teeth into his lip hard enough to draw blood, willing himself to stop digging himself a deeper hole.

His willpower falls far short. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a plan?”

“There wasn’t time!” he snarls. “I should be able to trust you not to directly defy me without stopping in the middle of a fight to let you in on everything I’m doing!”

Tim feels his shoulders slump, helpless frustration draining away into bone-aching tiredness and shame. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t know. I was just trying to help.”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

He raises his head, jaw set even though he knows he should just be quiet. “Sometimes you need it anyway.”

Silence falls over them both like a shroud.

Tim looks back down. This time, he stays quiet. It doesn’t feel as much like a victory as it should.

Bruce sounds deeply weary when he finally breaks the silence, and Tim feels a heavy weight in his stomach for making him sound like that. “Take off your undershirt so I can stitch your shoulder.”

Still staring at the ground, he obeys, not realizing his mistake until he hears the sharp intake of breath. He stiffens sharply, fingers clenching in the fabric of his shirt as he resists the urge to yank it back on over his head.

The damage is already done.

“What happened?” Bruce demands.

Tim looks down at the purple and green marks brushed across his ribcage, beginning to yellow at the edges but still dark and visibly deep towards the center, blood pooled in the sharp grooves between his ribs. He shrugs as nonchalantly as he can manage. “Unlucky hit. I iced it.”

There used to be more flesh under his skin. Under the fluorescent lights of the medbay, he feels stretched thin, wrapped around a frame too brittle and jagged to support him.

Bruce’s hand twitches, but he doesn’t reach out to touch. “This isn’t right,” he says blankly. “These shouldn’t still be this dark,” he continues, a growl slipping in. “They’re at least cracked. Why didn’t you notify me or Alfred that you were injured?”

He can’t take the sharp gaze raking over him any longer. He tugs the shirt back over his head, not caring when the fabric drags across the cut on his shoulder. “It wasn’t a big deal. They’re not broken, just cracked, and besides, you had other things to worry about.”

Bruce’s mouth presses into a thin line. “This happened the same night I was shot.”

It’s not a question, so Tim doesn’t try to answer.

“This is absolutely, as you say, a ‘big deal’,” Bruce says in a hard voice. “You hid an injury from me, one that could have been fatal far more easily than you seem to believe. One more unlucky strike, one bad landing, and I could have been rushing you back to the cave with a punctured lung.” He’s not shouting, but he puts the full weight of his voice behind every word, and they hit like physical blows. “Keeping it a secret was incredibly irresponsible and reckless, and you could have put yourself in serious danger! Tim, what were you thinking?”

There’s no padding left for him to draw on, no energy he can put towards softening his hard edges. “Don’t you think that’s a little hypocritical of you?” he says coldly. “I mean, we both know if you followed your own advice, I wouldn’t be here.”

Bruce goes very still, his face just a little too pale. When he speaks, his voice is quiet. “Right now, I think perhaps that would be for the best. You’re grounded until further notice.”

He’d known it was coming as soon as he’d opened his stupid mouth, but he still flinches as though struck at the words.

Until further notice. Meaning indefinitely, a term he’s achingly familiar with. Meaning it could be months before he sees a rooftop again, and that’s if Bruce isn’t just using the phrase to avoid having to say he’s fired already.

He’s too tired to feel more than numb.

“Fine, sir,” he murmurs. Trying to defend himself will get him nowhere, it never has. Talking back will do nothing but dig himself a deeper grave.

The acknowledgement that there’s nothing he can do tastes like ash on his tongue nonetheless.

He pushes himself off the cot, and Bruce steps back automatically to give him space, blinking in shock. His eyes narrow slightly. “I mean it. You may not go out as Robin in any capacity until I approve it.”

Tim just looks at him. “I understand, sir,” he says, monotone. “I’m going home now. If I’m not Robin, there’s really no reason for me to be here, is there?”

Bruce shifts uncomfortably. “Your shoulder -”

“I’ll take care of it myself,” Tim tells him shortly. “If it gets infected, I promise I’ll let you know.”

Bruce’s shoulders slump ever so slightly, and suddenly he once again looks more tired than angry. He nods once. “Go home and get some rest. Call me or Alfred if - if you need anything.”

Tim doesn’t say anything else, just brushes past him and heads for the exit, refusing to look back.

It isn’t until a couple hours later, curled up in bed in his empty house, the steady throb in his shoulder almost in time with the sharp cramps in his stomach, that he thinks numbly that he really should have grabbed some extra protein bars on the way out.

…

Dick has been studying him for the entire fifteen minutes they’ve been in this coffeeshop.

He’s doing a good job at disguising it. He keeps up a steady stream of lighthearted chatter, body language open and at ease, and his eyes crinkle genuinely everytime he laughs.

If Tim hadn’t been expecting this ambush, he might have even missed the way the seemingly random questions he peppers into his rambling are sprung at him a little too quickly, trying to catch him off balance, the faint trace of concern in the line of his mouth in the moments he pauses to let Tim respond.

Conscious of the observation, Tim is careful to nibble slowly on the croissant Dick bought for him, rather than shoving the entire thing down his throat in a manner that would make his mother’s lip curl in disgust.

It’s probably a good thing he’s forced to go slow. Lately, he’s found it difficult to keep food down when he eats too fast.

It’s still a hard temptation to fight.

“So how about English?” he asks cheerfully. “What are they making you read these days?”

“Catch 22,” he answers, washing another tiny shred of the croissant down with a sip of his hot chocolate, Dick having flatly refused to buy him any more coffee.

“Ooh, nice!” Dick grins. “I never got assigned that one myself, but I remember Jay -” he cuts himself off, looking down at his coffee and clearing his throat. “Anyway. I heard it was really good.” He looks back up, and his smile is just as bright as before. “Do you like it so far?”

It makes Tim’s stomach churn uncomfortably. In front of him, the croissant is only half gone. “Just tell the truth, Dick,” he sighs. “You didn’t drive all this way to talk about my English homework.”

His smile dims, but doesn’t disappear entirely. “Maybe I just want to hear what’s going on in your life. Even the small stuff.”

Tim levels him with a flat stare.

Dick’s gaze doesn’t waver as he looks him in the eyes. “Bruce is worried about you,” he says gently. “He told me what happened a few weeks back. I thought maybe you’d want to talk about it with someone who wasn’t so…” he gestures vaguely. “Bruce.”

Tim blinks, surprised. “I didn’t know you guys were, uh…” He knows they talk, obviously, but the tension between them is still often high. He didn’t think they were exactly calling to chat about Tim’s screw ups.

The thought makes something in his chest curl uncomfortably.

Dick shrugs, picking up his own mug. “We talk,” he says, too nonchalantly to be comfortable himself. “About important stuff. And now I’m talking to you.”

Tim huffs in spite of himself. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he dismisses. “I messed up, I got punished. I do understand the concept of consequences for my actions, believe it or not.” He’s being rude and he knows it, but he can’t seem to help it.

Dick’s brow furrows. “I’m not saying you made a good decision,” he says carefully. “It just…it seems a little out of character for you, kiddo. And if I know Bruce, he probably freaked out and yelled at you and then didn’t take the time to actually talk to you and see why you did it.”

Tim shrugs a shoulder, staring down at the table between them. “Does it really matter?” he asks, and it comes out sounding tired. “Actions have consequences. I have to take responsibility for it either way.”

“You’re a super smart kid, Tim.” Dick leans forward, putting his elbows on the table as he tries to catch his eye. “Why don’t you put aside everything about actions and consequences for a minute and just walk me through your thought process?” Tim doesn’t answer, and he sighs. “Does it maybe have something to do with B getting shot?” he asks softly.

Tim looks up, startled. “What? No,” he says immediately, and promptly regrets it as Dick’s eyes flicker with victory even as he tips his head sympathetically. “No, I mean, yeah, I didn’t tell him I was hurt because I didn’t want him to worry while he was injured, but -” he lets out a frustrated groan. “You’re taking this the wrong way. I’m not traumatized by it or whatever. It was strategic.”

“It’s okay if it freaked you out, Tim,” he says sincerely, and Tim stifles the urge to bury his head in his arms. “Me and B, of all people, get it, it’s okay to not be totally okay after seeing something like that.”

“I’m not traumatized!” Tim says loudly. Too loudly, he realizes too late, as several heads turn to look at them in the small shop, and he hunches in on himself, embarrassed. “Look, I’m fine, okay?” he hisses. “Yes, that night sucked, and I should have told Al I was hurt, but we see violence all the time, I can handle it, and B is fine, and we should stop talking about this.”

Dick leans back in his seat at last, expression still uncomfortably sympathetic, and not looking the slightest bit disturbed by his little outburst. “You should come have dinner tonight at the manor.”

It sounds like a change of topic. It’s not.

Tim mirrors him, leaning back in his own chair. “I can’t.”

“Just because you’re grounded doesn’t mean you can’t come over for dinner.”

Sure it doesn’t. “My parents are flying in this afternoon.” It’s not even a lie.

“Tomorrow night.”

“We’re going out. To that new Italian restaurant up on 22nd street,” he counters. His parents have pushed back their flight home twice now. He’s woken up with the taste of garlic on his tongue and the urge to cry more times than he wants to admit these past few weeks.

“Sunday brunch, then.” He gives him the patented Dick Grayson puppy eyes, huge and earnest. “Please? I’m only in town for the weekend.”

Tim scowls at him. “You’re coming back next weekend.”

“Details.” He blinks at him, and his eyes impossibly seem to get larger. It’s cartoonish.

He fiddles with his hot chocolate cup. “Look, I really can’t this weekend,” he tries. “Maybe next weekend.”

Dick purses his lips, and then suddenly beams, and Tim is suddenly extremely wary. “Awesome!” he says, in a tone of voice that would be more fitting to receiving an expensive new car for his birthday than for Tim saying he’d maybe come for brunch next weekend. “Next weekend it is!” He pulls his wallet out. “Now, do you want a chocolate chip or blueberry muffin?”

Tim blinks. “You already got me a scone,” he says automatically. “And hot chocolate. You don’t have to get me anything else.” He blinks again. “Also, I said maybe.”

Dick shoots him another smaller, this one a little too picture perfect to not be covering up something. “Well, baby bird, I decided you looked like someone who needed a muffin. C’mon, you can eat it on the drive back.”

Tim suppresses a sigh. He knows when he’s beat.

He also knows a week is plenty of time to come up with a reason why he can’t come to brunch.

He thinks, as Dick sings horribly along to a pop song on the radio and the muffin sits heavy and warm in his palm, that he should probably tuck it away for later.

But maybe he doesn’t need to, he decides as Dick pokes him eagerly with an elbow to try and get him to sing along to the chorus with him, and he can’t hold back his answering grin.

After all, his parents are coming home this evening.

If he plays his cards right, he might finally be able to stop worrying about the sharp ache that lingers in his stomach even now.

…

He’s waiting at the door when they come in, has been for nearly an hour just in case their flight was early, posture perfect as he greets them politely. His father greets him with an amiable nod.

“Be a dear and help us with the luggage, won’t you?” his mother asks as she passes. As an afterthought, she bends to kiss him on the cheek, and his heart lifts.

The warmth that fills him feels a lot like hope.

He carries their suitcases up the stairs, weighing his options. He had planned on discussing his allowance with them the following evening, when they went out to dinner, but maybe he shouldn’t wait. They’re clearly in a good mood, not too tired from their flight and not yet impatient with being home. With him.

This mellowness is temporary. It will probably last through the following evening, especially if the food at the restaurant is as good as the reviews say. But it’s not a guarantee.

Sometimes, plans must be fluid.

He doesn’t spring the conversation on them right off the bat, of course. He goes back downstairs, joins them in the living room where they’ve retreated with a bottle of wine, asks the right questions and listens to them talk excitedly about the expedition and their findings.

Soon, they’re two glasses in, and his mother has the faintest tinge of flush on her elegant cheekbones. He knows better than to hope they’ll give him an opening by asking what he’s been up to. Instead, he waits until she reaches the end of a story, and stops to take another sip of wine.

“I’ve gotten my English grade back up to an A,” he tells them. “I even took some extra credit assignments.”

His father sips his scotch, but his mother graces him with a small, tight smile. “Well, I’m certainly glad you haven’t let them slip any further.”

Tim smiles back automatically, the same polite, society smile that he learned from mimicking her. “I wondered if perhaps you would consider reinstating my allowance.”

His father scoffs sharply. “Oh, you’ve been waiting this whole conversation to ask for that, haven’t you?”

His mother purses her lips disapprovingly. “It’s our first night back, Timothy. I would think you would at least wait until breakfast to start making demands of us.”

This isn’t going the way he’d hoped. “I’m not demanding anything, Mother,” he says, hoping to soothe her. “I had just thought perhaps - since I fixed my grade, the way you’d asked -”

“I believe what I said was that we would discuss giving you an allowance again once we felt that you had developed some gratitude for all that we provide for you,” she says coldly. “Which you clearly haven’t. Honestly, Timothy, waiting for us to return so you could pester us like this? Spoiling our first night home in months to demand money? This behavior is beneath your name as a Drake.”

“The pantry has been empty for as many months,” he says abruptly, and she blinks like she’s been slapped. “Is that really what you call providing for me?”

The glass of scotch slams down onto the coffee table. “That is enough,” his father snarls. “You will not speak to us like that.”

He knows he could break the wrist of the hand that grabs his forearm and yanks him to his feet, knows he’s run through the motion a hundred times with both Dick and Bruce.

As it is, it’s all he can do to keep from stumbling as his father drags him towards the stairs.

His mother stands, watching them with an icy gaze.

Something about it gives him the strength to plant his feet, halting their progress just long enough for him to meet her eyes.

“When I was seven, that week you locked me in my room,” he says, the words tumbling out between his lips without needing to be pushed. “I always told myself you just forgot. That you left, and you forgot I was locked in, you forgot the nanny wasn’t scheduled to come that week, that it was just a mistake. Did you? Did you forget?” Her eyes are the same blue as his, and he can’t read a single emotion within them. “Or were you secretly hoping that by the time you got back, you wouldn’t have to think about me ever again?”

The hand around his forearm tightens to the point of pain, and he knows he’ll have bruises the next day. “You spoiled, ungrateful brat,” his father hisses. “Clearly, in spite of all your complaining, you’re surviving just fine.”

His mother doesn’t say a single word as he’s hauled up the stairs to his room.

…

His parents don’t stick around the house the following day, which was to be expected. They needed to tend to their social life some time, after all. They leave in the morning, probably for brunch with one of the other wealthy couples in their circle. He listens to their car make its way down the driveway, buried under a pile of blankets on his bed.

He spends the day in his room, working on a case to try and distract himself from the pain nagging at his abdomen.

He’s dressed and ready ahead of the time they’re supposed to be coming by the house to pick him up for dinner, waiting in the front foyer. He scrolls absently through his social media, one ear listening keenly for the sound of their car returning.

It never comes.

Two hours past the time they were supposed to come, his phone chimes, and he already knows what it says before he even looks.

He looks anyway, and hates himself for ever expecting anything different.

Your father and I were able to catch an earlier flight out than expected. We should be back sometime next month.

For once, as he falls back into bed, not caring if he wrinkles his nice shirt and pants, he doesn’t bother to hold back the sound of his sobs.

It’s not like there’s anyone to hear him anyway.

…

Two hours later, he’s run out of tears, curled up under the covers feeling exhausted and numb. There’s a hollow where his heart should be.

Or maybe that’s his stomach.

He picks up his phone, and imagines the warm weight of a fresh muffin in his hands.

The text is surprisingly easy to type up and send. He cried his way past the ability to overthink this an hour ago.

Can I still come over for brunch tomorrow? My parents are meeting some friends for breakfast.

The response comes within a minute. ofc!! I’ll make sure al makes enough pancakes :D

He lets out a shuddery breath.

Pancakes. He can push aside everything else for the promise of pancakes.

…

Alfred lets him in with a kindly smile, one he returns as genuinely as he can. The smell of cooking bacon and pancakes greets him as soon as the door opens, and Tim’s stomach cramps so hard he has to disguise a wince. The butler’s gaze is keen, but he doesn’t ask if he’s feeling okay, so he must not have caught it.

He tugs anxiously on the sleeves of his sweater as he tails after him to the dining room. Bruce and Dick are already there, Bruce seated at the head of the table and Dick a couple chairs down. The moment he steps through the doorway, Bruce’s gaze locks on him over the top of the newspaper he’s reading.

Tim freezes for a beat. Bruce looks like he had a late night, hair still mussed from sleep and dark circles rimming his eyes. But he smiles at Tim as soon as he spots him, ever the master socialite.

He pushes past his momentary hesitation, back straight as he comes over to sit across the table from Dick, who beams at him, though the signs of exhaustion are written across his face too.

“Did you guys have a late night?” Tim blurts out, before remembering that bringing up their nighttime activities probably isn’t the best move while Bruce is still mad at him. He chances a glance at the older man, but he doesn’t look mad, more…slightly embarrassed?
“No later than usual,” he responds, as Alfred tops off his half-full mug of coffee, and Tim almost misses what he’s saying as the coffee makes its wonderful way over to his mug a moment later. “Generally, our brunches tend to be more on the, ah, lunch side than breakfast, but Dick told me your parents were out for breakfast, and we weren’t sure you’d still be free later in the day.”

The coffee hits his empty stomach heavily. “I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean for you both to wake up early, I could have come later.”

Alfred sets a plate of eggs down in front of Bruce sharply, and Bruce and Tim both look up at him. His face is carefully neutral, but the rebuke is clear, and Tim swallows. Of course, he should have kept his mouth shut and just been grateful. Now they know they missed out on precious sleep for absolutely no reason.

He looks down at the table shamefacedly as Alfred slips another plate smoothly down in front of him. His stomach growls loudly at the sight and smell so close.

“Aw, don’t worry baby bird!” Dick chirps. “We’re just happy you’re here! And besides, it’s not even that early. It’s good for B to act like a civilized human being once in a while.”

“I run a multi-billion dollar company, I’m fully capable of waking up before noon,” Bruce grumbles, before clearing his throat. “But yes, what Dick said.”

“Lucius runs your company,” Dick counters, stabbing a fork into a sausage. “He dreads the days you wake up before noon. It means you’re planning on being involved.”

Tim feels himself relaxing, the gentle banter washing over him, and his stomach uncoils itself enough to let him pick up a piece of bacon.

The taste washes over his tongue like ambrosia.

Even distracted by what must be the best bacon anyone has ever cooked, he doesn’t miss the glance Dick and Bruce exchange when they think he’s not looking.

“You should try some of Al’s pancakes!” Dick says brightly. “You’ve never had them before, right?”

Tim looks up warily. “No, I haven’t.”

“Well, they’re right here every Sunday,” he continues.

Tim can’t help glancing at Bruce.

“Hm,” he says helpfully, sipping his coffee. There’s a dull thud that sounds suspiciously like a foot connecting with a shin bone, and Bruce chokes slightly, shooting Dick a bewildered look and receiving an innocent expression in return as Tim looks between them in confusion. He sets his coffee back down, dabbing at the spot where it sloshed onto the table. “Yes. That is. They are right here every Sunday.”

Tim cocks his head, trying to piece together the something that it’s blatantly obvious he’s trying to say.

He looks up from his napkin and meets his eyes, and his shoulder slump. “Look, Tim,” he sighs, and Tim’s heart sinks. “You’re still in trouble for lying to me before.”

The bacon tastes like ash in his mouth. He should have known this was coming, that Dick’s invitation shouldn’t actually have been taken as permission to come over to family brunch, what the hell was he thinking?

“Bruce!” Dick hisses sharply.

“But what I’m trying to say,” he hastens to continue, “is that I don’t want you to feel like anything that happens in our other life should make you feel like you can’t talk to me. Or Dick, or Alfred. I just -” he lets out a frustrated breath. Tim is frozen where he sits, waiting for the shoe to drop. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. As Robin, and as Tim Drake.”

That’s… Tim isn’t sure what to do with that. Bruce is watching him very earnestly, and… it didn’t sound like he’s in trouble? At least not anymore than he already was. It’s very annoying, the way neither Bruce or Dick seem to just want to come out and say what they’re thinking. He’s spent his whole life learning to read the unsaid things between carefully chosen words, but they’re not writing the language he can read.

Or at the very least, Bruce’s handwriting is illegible.

“I can still eat the pancakes, right?” he asks, deciding to establish the important things first.

Bruce’s brow furrows, looking baffled.

“Yeah, baby bird, of course you can eat your pancakes!” Dick says quickly, though he also looks a little confused. Tim doesn’t wait for them to take it back, reaching out to grab the bottle of syrup from the center of the table as he’s still speaking. “Why wouldn’t you? It’s not like B’s going to -”

He cuts off with a gasp.

At the same moment, Tim’s fingers close around the neck of the bottle, but quick as lightning, Bruce’s hand captures his wrist before it can withdraw. “Hey!” he tries to protest, tugging against the grip, but Bruce is already pushing up his sleeve.

The edge of purple bruising that had peeked out when the fabric had ridden up becomes a full, vivid handprint, encircling his forearm where his father had grabbed him.

His heart stutters in his chest.

He yanks against the grip still restraining him again, and this time Bruce lets go like he’s been burned. He can feel his breath coming too-quick as he tugs his sleeve back down, knowing the damage is already done. Dick’s face is pale, Bruce’s mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. Even Alfred has gone very still where he stands, a carafe of orange juice forgotten in his hands.

“It’s just left over from patrol,” he says, the lie as automatic as it is pointless. “Someone grabbed me, that’s all.”

Bruce’s expression is inscrutable. “Those bruises are two days old at most.”

“Tim,” Dick says quietly, and he can hear it, the pity, the dawning realization of Tim’s weakness, and he can’t stand it.

“It’s not whatever you’re thinking,” he cuts him off. “It’s - I bruise really easily, that’s all. My dad wasn’t trying to hurt me, he was just taking me to my room because I mouthed off. He had every right to be annoyed.”

Dick makes a sharp, protesting noise. When Tim looks up, he’s startled to see his eyes actually look damp. “Tim, that’s not okay,” he says hoarsely.

And - okay, Tim knows how fingerprint-bruises look to an outsider, some concern is to be expected, but Dick looks far more devastated than the situation really calls for, and frankly it’s scaring him.

“It’s fine,” he says through his teeth.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce moves, and he can’t suppress the flinch. Abruptly, it’s too much. All of it. The weight of their gazes, the smell of syrup.

He pushes himself to his feet so quickly the chair clatters as it’s pushed back, and, oh.

That was much too fast to go from sitting to standing.

His vision whites out to the sound of alarmed shouting.

…

He comes around to the feeling of something pricking his arm. He tries to jerk it back, but a hand braced against his elbow stops him. “Shh, it’s okay, it’s Bruce, we’re just taking some blood.” Dick’s voice is tense above him, though his fingers are gentle where they card through his hair.

He resists the urge to groan. “I’m fine, I just stood up too fast,” he mumbles, though he takes care not to move his arm until he feels the needle disappear.

“You collapsed, that is not fine,” Bruce says tightly.

As much as he would like to curl up in a ball and avoid this entire humiliating situation, Tim opens his eyes, the need to assess just how much trouble he’s in outweighing his need to hide from his problems.

Bruce has turned back to the medbay batcomputer, dropping the vial of blood he just drew into the slot for analysis. “Can you think of any ways you could have been exposed to any toxins or dangerous substances recently?”

“Or did you hit your head? Even just a little bit?” Dick adds. “I can’t feel any bumps, but sometimes these things can be internal. It might not have seemed like a big deal at the time, but you still need to let us know, okay?”

The hand in his hair suddenly offers no comfort.

He jerks away from it, ignoring the way the fingers snag on the lingering tangles as he pushes himself upright. His ribs flare dully at the motion, probably re-aggravated by his fall in the kitchen. Dick’s hands follow him, prepared to catch him if he topples over without warning again. Even Bruce tenses, half-turning in his seat like he’s ready to jump in if Dick somehow fails.

It’s the scent of syrup in a kitchen not his own all over again.

“I’m not drugged, I’m not poisoned, I haven’t been exposed to any toxins, I’m not sick, I didn’t hit my head,” he rattles off, agitation and emotions he doesn’t even know how to name swelling sharply in his throat. “I’m just -” his voice cracks and breaks, and he has to blink back tears, the final nail in his coffin of humiliation.

“I’m just really hungry.”

The room falls silent, and he buries his face in his hands, scrubbing at his eyes with his palms so he doesn’t have to see their expressions.

“I had - noticed, that you’ve been losing weight recently,” Bruce says, sounding stilted.

Dick scoffs. “Yeah, I think we all noticed,” he mumbles, but Bruce continues as though there’d been no interruption.

“Is there a reason you haven’t been eating enough?”

Tim sniffs, frustrated at the tears that don’t seem to want to stop now that they’ve started. “It’s not like - I was trying to eat enough, I promise, I didn’t mean for it to impact my work as Robin! I was trying so hard,” he trails off, knowing that he’s crossing the line between explaining himself and trying to defend himself, and knowing full well that there’s little point in the second. “I got a B in English,” he says dully.

Bruce leans forward, hands clasped in his lap and brow furrowed. “You got a B in English,” he repeats, clearly trying to puzzle out the connection.

“My parents took away my allowance,” Tim makes it easy for him. “It’s - I used to use that to buy food. I had to figure something else out.”

And I failed, he doesn’t say out loud. Based on the way Bruce’s face has gone eerily blank, and the way Dick’s arms tighten sharply around him, he doesn’t need to.

There. It’s out now.

They know how much he falls apart as soon as he doesn’t have an adult to hold his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Dick says, and his tone is venomous, “did you just say you’ve been starving because your parents wouldn’t buy you food?”

“I haven’t been starving,” he tries to protest. “I made a meal plan. I was able to account for at least five meals a week, most weeks.”

The blankness on Bruce’s face cracks. “That’s not even a whole meal every day, Tim.” He looks stricken.

Shame burns hot and bright in his stomach. “I tried.” His voice sounds very small to his own ears.

Bruce gets out of his chair, crossing the few feet between them to kneel directly in front of the cot. “Tim, no, that’s not -” he cuts off. He seems to struggle to find words. When he tries again, his voice is carefully even. “What about your parents? They didn’t buy any groceries?”

Tim picks at a split in one of his nails. “They’re, um. They travel a lot, you know? And when they’re here, they eat out a lot. So they aren’t really home enough to make it worth buying groceries.”

Dick makes a strangled sound from behind him, but Bruce shoots him a sharp look over Tim’s shoulder, and he falls silent.

He refocuses on Tim, the sharpness vanishing. There’s still something deeply ominous behind his eyes, in the firm set of his jaw, but his voice is gentle. “Okay,” he says. “And they don’t have food delivered while they’re away?”

“No, they do!” Tim says hurriedly, eager to finally be able to say something that doesn’t make his parents sound like something worse than what they are. “We have a housekeeper who brings dinner on the nights she comes. It’s just…she only comes three days a week.”

“That’s why you finally started staying for dinner,” realization dawns on Bruce’s face. “It was only ever on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Those are the nights she doesn’t come, is that right?”

Tim nods jerkily, and Bruce lets out a slow breath. “And that’s five meals a week, between here and your housekeeper. So on the weekends…?”

He shrugs with one shoulder. “I stole a bunch of your protein bars?”

He chances a glance up, and flinches when he sees the stormy expression on Bruce’s face. “I’m sorry,” he rushes to say. “I know I should have asked, especially since you were already letting me stay for dinner, I just figured… I know how long I can be hungry for before it starts to impact my work, and I knew I couldn’t go two days without eating and still be a good Robin, so I figured a few protein bars was worth it if I was still being helpful, right?” The knot returns to his throat in full force, and Bruce is shaking his head fiercely, opening his mouth to speak, but Tim keeps going. “It was my screw up in the first place, and - I was just trying to be responsible.”

“Tim, honey, no,” he finally cuts him off, the force of the emotion in his voice so strong that Tim feels his mouth snap shut without any input from himself. “That’s - no, listen to me.”

Tim drags his blurry vision back up from his tattered fingernails to look him in the eyes, and freezes when he realizes Bruce’s blue eyes are actually teary. “Listen to me,” he repeats firmly. “You are fourteen years old. It is not your job to be responsible for keeping yourself fed. Where your next meal comes from should never be a concern of yours, and there is no screw up in the world that can justify the adults in your life failing to make sure you are fed and healthy.”

He seems to waver on the last sentence, having to stop and take a deep breath. Tim is still frozen, unable to look away from the sheer sincerity of the pain on his face, a kind of agony that he’s only seen before when faced with a reminder of Jason.

“It’s neglect, baby bird,” Dick says softly, mournfully. “Feeding you is the bare minimum of being a parent. Hell, that’s the bare minimum of having a fucking pet.”

Bruce doesn’t even chide him for his language, just swallows once and sets his jaw. “And it’s not happening anymore,” he says, in a tone that brooks no argument.

The strange, painful relief that Bruce’s words inspired, the aching reassurance that it wasn’t his fault, is instantly overtaken by icy, helpless dread.

“Please,” Tim says quietly. “Please don’t call CPS. I know it’s not great. But I really don’t want to go into foster care. I can’t - I can’t be Robin if I’m in a foster home. Please don’t make me go.”

Bruce’s face spasms, that pain once again surging to the surface, but it’s Alfred who speaks up from the doorway, where Tim hadn’t even noticed him listening. “Master Tim, before you begin worrying about such an unlikely future, I think perhaps someone should inform you that Master Bruce created a twenty-seven step plan quite some months ago, with the goal of bonding with you more closely.”

Bruce’s look of anguish is promptly replaced with one of consternation, the tips of his ears turning faintly pink as Tim stares at him in utter shock. “I didn’t want to push you if you weren’t comfortable,” he almost mumbles.

“And look where that has gotten us,” Alfred says, raising a thin eyebrow. He turns his attention back to Tim, face softening. “He was quite pleased with himself when he believed you felt comfortable enough to begin staying for dinner. If I recall, giving you your own room at the manor was step ten, though from the sound of it, I expect we will be moving that step up in the timeline.”

Tim blinks, turning wide-eyed to look back at Bruce, who’s watching him with a resolute expression on his face. “You really wanted me to stay for dinner?” he asks in a small voice. “You weren’t just inviting me to be polite?”

Bruce’s lips curve up sadly. “I asked because I wanted you here,” he replies simply.

Tim is struck by the strong desire to burst into tears.

“Oh, Tim,” Bruce murmurs, and suddenly he’s enveloped in the best hug he’s ever felt. This must be how little kids feel in their parent’s arms, he thinks, allowing himself to bury his face in Bruce’s broad chest. Safe. Warm.

Wanted.

There’s some quiet words exchanged above his head, and then Dick’s wiggling into the embrace like an eel, plastering himself against Tim’s side so one of Bruce’s arms is wrapped around them both.

“Al’s gonna go make us some more pancakes,” he says, “since you didn’t get to actually eat any of yours.”

Pancakes. Pancakes sound good, he decides, melting even further into the safety of the arms around him.

In a few minutes. He wants to soak this up as long as he possibly can. He has a sneaking suspicion that there will be plenty of pancakes in his future if he wants them.

But maybe, just maybe, there will be more of this too.