Archive of Our Own

Tim’s parents promised to come back in time for his birthday. They booked tickets to return home the morning of and made a reservation at this fancy restaurant they’d go to the same night. 

The last time Tim got to spend his birthday with his parents was two years ago. Last year they’d told Tim the same thing. They’d be home for his birthday and they’d get him a cake, and Tim had believed them. And then their flight got canceled and they came home two days later. The year before they’d told Tim that they’d miss it. And then they came home weeks later, his birthday completely forgotten.

This year, Tim was only tentatively hopeful. For an entire week, he kept expecting texts from his parents that they wouldn’t make it in time. But the closer July nineteenth came, the more Tim’s hope grew. This year they wouldn’t change their plans and stay on their dig longer. This year, their flight wouldn’t be delayed. This year, Tim would get a cake, presents, a nice night out, and, more importantly, his parents at home.

Saturday finally rolls around and Tim wakes up at six sharp. He quickly gets dressed and rushes down the stairs. He’s too excited to even think about breakfast. He’ll eat something when his parents get home. 

Jack and Janet Drake’s plane is supposed to land at six-thirty, which means they’ll get here by eight-thirty. Nine if he factors in traffic. Later if there’s an unexpected rogue attack. 

Tim sits in the living room, bouncing the balls of his feet on the expensive oriental rug, and waits for his parents to arrive with impatience. 

The clock strikes eight-thirty and Tim’s standing in the hallway and stares at the front door. 

Nine rolls around and he doesn’t hear car wheels crunching on gravel.

By ten, he’s chewed his nails to the quick and a familiar dread settles in his stomach. He ignores it. 

At ten-thirty he rushes back to his room to retrieve his phone. His parents didn’t leave any emails or texts or calls. There hasn’t been a rogue attack. His parents' plane has landed right on time. 

At eleven-fifteen, Tim is sitting curled into an armchair in the living room and checking his phone every minute. Dread has let way to barely contained panic. He’s moments away from pressing his emergency signal.

He doesn’t.

It’s Saturday morning. Bruce Wayne doesn’t need to be bothered just because Tim’s parents are late.

Maybe they’re getting him a gift. Maybe there was a complication at the airport and they missed their flight. 

He checks the flights again, double-checking to make sure their plane landed and didn’t crash in the middle of the ocean instead.

It landed at six-thirty that morning. Right on time. 

Tim’s hands are trembling. 

His mother calls at twelve twenty-seven. Tim fumbles and answers.

“Mom?” he asks, breathless, swallowing past the lump in his throat, dizzy from the relief.

“Timothy,” she greets him brightly. 

He licks his chapped lips. “Mom, where are you? Are you almost back?”

There’s a short pause. He hears voices in the background. 

“Timothy, I’m sorry I couldn’t get in touch sooner and wish you a happy birthday,” his mother says. “Your father and I found out that our request to dig in Turkey got greenlit right before we boarded our plane to Gotham.” She laughs and Tim’s heart sinks. “Right in time, or we would have missed it. We’ll be back in a few weeks and we’ll go out to dinner then, okay? Your father wishes you a happy birthday. We’ll get you something nice, okay?”

Tim feels numb. There’s pressure building behind his eyes. His breath trembles when he exhales.

“Yeah,” he says mutely. "Okay."

“I’m glad you understand. I love you, Tim,” she says. “Your father and I will call when we arrive at the hotel.”

She hangs up before Tim can say anything. Tim’s heart feels like a used piece of paper crumpled up into a ball. His chest tightens until it’s hard to breathe.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

When he finally sits up, it’s only because his stomach is growling and he remembers that he has yet to eat anything. He scrubs at his tear-stained face with a trembling hand and gets up. 

He checks his phone despite being fully aware that he hasn’t received any texts. 

He still opens his messenger app unsure if it’s because he wants to make sure that his parents really actually aren’t coming back for their son’s birthday and crush his own spirits again, or if it’s because he’s hoping that however improbable it is, he might just have hallucinated all that or dreamt it and his parents are on their way.

They’re not.

Tim’s hopes go right down the drain and join his earlier elation about spending his birthday with his parents for the first time in two years.

He thinks, next year, but can’t bring himself to feel excited.

That’s three hundred and sixty-three days away. 

Next year doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is that they’re not here this year. Or last year. Or the year before that. What matters is that every time Tim thinks that the universe is finally done trying to kick him to the dirt, it kicks him back down from behind and mocks him cruelly. 

What matters is that Tim’s in a great empty house that feels more like a museum than a warm home. Wayne Manor feels warm and lived in. If Tim didn’t leave his stuff lying around-- proof to himself that he’s here, he’s not some ghost haunting the halls and never leaving a trace-- Drake Manor would look like the stock image of a perfect home. Clean, elegant, always in order. Tim couldn’t even make a mess big enough to make a difference. The house is just too big, too empty, too quiet.

He checks his other messages, unable to muster up enough energy to reply to any of them. He opens the fridge distractedly and scowls at the options there. 

He closes the fridge and simply decides to make himself coffee.

Maybe he’ll order himself a pizza tonight. And maybe go down to the closest grocery store and buy himself a cake, maybe stick a few candles on it to try to make it look like a real birthday cake. He knows where his parents keep the alcohol, he might open himself a bottle of the expensive champagne they only open for special occasions. Watch a movie. Definitely won’t cry himself to sleep, or cry during the movie, or cry for the rest of the day and maybe the weekend. 

He’ll be fine Monday, because Monday he has patrol, which means he won’t be alone.

Maybe Bruce will wish him a happy birthday. Wouldn’t that be nice.

His phone buzzes as he pours his hot coffee into the biggest mug they own. 

He checks it to see that Bruce is wishing him a happy birthday. 

His hands start shaking so badly he has to set down his cup before he spills scalding coffee all over himself. Or worse, drop the mug and stain his parents’ pristine white kitchen tiles.

He can’t stand for long. His legs feel like jelly. His eyes blur and he hits the ground on his knees before the tears can fall. 

He spent an hour crying and he’s going to spend another hour crying.

This isn’t how he expected to celebrate his fifteenth birthday. 

He’s thankful for the quiet because it allows him to dispel the pain and anguish tearing his heart apart, right there on his kitchen floor. He wails and cries, he allows himself to be pathetic and weak, allows himself this small moment of vulnerability where no one can see him and tell him that he’s a grown boy and shouldn’t cry like this.

Tim cries until his eyes are dry and irritated and until his throat feels so raw it’s almost painful to swallow. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt such a raw pain. He definitely doesn’t remember the last time he’s allowed himself to cry this openly for so long. He’s gotten good at bottling up every bad emotion and shoving it so deep inside that he’s never quite sure if they’ll ever resurface again. 

Once he’s calmed down and his hands have stopped shaking violently, he takes his cup of coffee and makes his way back to the living room. He’s planning on going back to his room, but the simple thought of climbing a whole flight of stairs seems herculean, so he simply settles for the breakfast room. He can’t stand the idea of being in the living room right now, and their breakfast room has a bay window that overlooks their garden. 

When his parents are away, he likes to sit there in the afternoon, either doing homework or working on cases.

He settles on the seat and curls up against the windows. His house always feels cold, and he’s only grateful for that during the crux of the summer. It’s mid-July, but the temperature is still somewhat bearable, only reaching the high eighties in the middle of the afternoon. It’s usually at the start of August that the temperature rises to ninety the moment the sun comes out. 

Tim takes a long sip of coffee, cringing at the bitter taste. He doesn’t add milk to his coffee, but he does like to mix a ridiculous amount of sugar in his coffee. He unlocks his phone again, and ignores the shaking. He rereads Bruce’s text several times. It does little to cheer him up. 

His fingers hover over his keyboard before he chickens out.

He idly scrolls through his texts. He’s about to scroll away when a text from Ives catches his eye. He scrolls back up and clicks on his name. 

He remembers.

Last night, Ives had texted Tim about this party someone on the soccer team was hosting Saturday night. 

Tim had told him he wouldn’t be going because his parents were in town.

He angrily fights back the renewed surge of tears. 

He quickly texts Ives asking when the party is and where.

You ok man? Ives texts back.

parents got delayed. wont be back today. might as well still enjoy my bday , Tim replies. 

Technically not a lie.

He just won’t add the fact that they’ll be gone for three weeks. Maybe more since Tim knows they’ve been looking forward to their dig in Turkey and depending on what they find, their trip could last longer. Always longer. 

Ives takes a while to reply. Tim sees the little text bubble appear and disappear for a while and feels his chest tighten with mounting anxiety. He hopes and prays Ives won’t pry. 

Finally, his friend just texts back: ok.

Followed by, i actually can’t go :(

were visiting relatives rn

party’s at 7 at oliver marshall’s place

he texted the soccer team and someone texted a bunch of popular kids and one of em text me

p sure no one’ll notice u if u show up lol

they like to get shitfaced pretty early on 

Tim only knew where the Marshall house was because the Marshalls were friends with the Drakes and Tim had been dragged along for fancy dinners and parties at their house for years. 

Unlike their parents, Oliver Marshall and Tim Drake did not, actually, get along.

At all. 

And it’s only because Oliver is one of the most popular kids at Gotham Academy and Tim is not. Sure, as Robin, Tim could beat him in a fight without even breaking a sweat, but Tim Drake was the fifteen-year-old soon-to-be sophomore who talks too much and too fast and who was the shortest kid in his grade. Oliver, on the other hand, is a few inches past the six-foot mark and far too charismatic for someone with such a shit personality. 

At least in Tim’s very honest opinion. 

thanks ives, Tim replies.

The little text bubble pops up.

don’t do anything dumb without me man

im serious

Tim smiles but it wavers and falls quickly. It’s nice to know he’s got people worrying about him.

i wont do anything dangerous

promise

With that, Tim’s finalized his plans for the evening. 

He decides that spending his evening wallowing in self-pity sounds far too lonely. It’s his birthday, he might as well have a party.

Besides, he has all of Sunday to throw himself a pity party for one. It’ll all be forgotten by Monday. It’ll be like the worst weekend of Tim’s life won’t have happened and he’ll be Tim Drake, future sophomore during the day, and Robin, crime-fighting vigilante during the night. Back to normal. 

His phone buzzes and he expects another text from Ives. It’s from Dick. his phone buzzes again, this time from Alfred. Both wish him a happy birthday. Alfred asks if he will join them for brunch. Tim declines. 

Sunday brunches are a Wayne family tradition. Tim is a Drake. He’s not a Wayne. He knows better than to let himself hope. Tim knows they’re only asking to be polite. 

Since becoming Robin, he’s joined Sunday brunch exactly four times. Three had been when he’d been so injured that Bruce and Alfred wouldn’t let him go back home and had forced him to rest and stay the weekend at Wayne Manor. The fourth had been when he’d been kidnapped and tortured for a few days and Bruce had refused to let him out of his sight for the week that followed his rescue. The fifth time had been the most recent. His parents hadn’t been able to make it home for Christmas-- he’d told Bruce that their plane had been delayed a few days due to a snowstorm instead of admitting it was because they flew to Greenland-- so Dick had invited him over for brunch.

Tim had broken down crying the night before and he’d been so emotionally wrung out that he’d accepted without even thinking it through.

Alfred accepts it without asking questions-- either because he’s used to Tim declining brunch offers or because he assumes he’ll be spending Sunday with his parents. Tim is more inclined to assume it’s the latter.

He sips his coffee quietly for a while, observing the vast gardens, the manicured hedges and topiaries, the green grass dotted with daisies and dandelions. In the lounge, there’s a glass sliding door that opens onto a terrace. Tim remembers spending the occasional summer morning there, eating breakfast with his parents on the rare days when they were home and didn’t have to go down to Drake Industries for work. 

Those days are rare, and they keep getting rarer.

The terrace and gardens are well kept despite how little they’re used. Like their house. Always perfect and orderly. Hardly looking lived-in at all.

Tim thinks it’s a shame, to have such a big house for people who are never around long enough to really enjoy it. Big homes, Tim’s come to realize, feel cozier when there’s a big family to make it feel lived in. Tim is a wandering spirit in a house that has never managed to feel cozy and welcoming.

Tim finishes his cup of coffee and debates what to do. His head is starting to ache a little, probably from all the crying and the caffeine. He’ll go into the bathroom cabinet and get some ibuprofen. Then maybe he’ll catch up on casework, since he won’t be busy enjoying his birthday today. 

He looks down at his mug.

First, more coffee.

Steph texts Tim at half-past five. 

He ended up completely forgetting about the ibuprofen, far too busy immersing himself in his work while playing loud rock music to fill the deafening silence of his house. His head is pounding when he finally takes a break to get ready for the party. 

He checks his phone as he shoves two pills in his mouth and smiles when he sees her text wishing him a happy birthday.

When Tim reaches Oliver Marshall’s house at almost half-past seven, there’s already loud rock music playing from speakers set up on the front steps. Tim can hear it playing from the front gate. He grimaces, wondering if the neighbors will call the police about a noise complaint. 

The wrought-iron gates are wide open and there are several shiny cars parked along the driveway near the front door. Tim hesitates a moment before simply walking right in.

The closer he approaches the house, the louder the music gets, until it’s almost deafening.

There are students Tim recognizes stumbling around the front lawn and sitting on the steps, their faces flushed, most of them holding cups filled with what Tim guesses to be alcohol. 

The music is so loud that the windows are rattling along to the beat. 

Tim starts to second guess himself. 

And then he thinks about spending an evening at home, sitting in the empty living room eating a large pizza and birthday cake alone, and presses in, steeling his resolve.

He bumps into several people on the way in, and he recognizes a few of them as students in his own grade. He spots several other familiar faces belonging to future eleventh and twelfth graders and maybe a few students who graduated back in May.
It’s difficult to make out faces with the undulating multicolored lights flashing through the dark living room. 

People keep bumping into Tim. The floor seems to be pulsing along to the beat. He bumps into someone. When they turn around, he sees that there’s body glitter and mascara smudged under her eyes from perspiration. She grins at him, half her face bathed in glowing purple light. 

Tim smiles back, stumbles, and she quickly disappears back into the crowd. 

The whole room stinks of sweat and alcohol and Tim’s seriously thinking about going back. He’s feeling claustrophobic around so many people jumping along to the loud music. 

Until he spots a table pushed into a corner of the room.

He pushes past people with determination in his stride and finally breaks away from the main group of people dancing in the middle of the living room floor. There are smaller groups standing further from the dance floor, swaying and talking amongst themselves.

The couch and armchairs have been pushed to the back end of the room. He sees a dozen people squeezed onto the couch and talking raucously. Several people are just sitting or straight up laying on the ground.

Tim reaches the table. There’s a thin tablecloth that, upon closer inspection, is covered in small cartoon owls. The table itself is covered in an array of alcohol, from cheap six-packs of beer piled on top of each other to bottles of vodka and gin to really fancy and probably very expensive bottles of wine or whiskey. Near the edge of the table sits several stacks of plastic cups.

Tim thinks about what his parents would say if they found out he went to a party that served alcohol without telling them. He thinks about how they’d react. And then he thinks about how they didn’t show up for his birthday for the third year in a row and how they left him to cancel their dinner reservation as well as everything else he’d booked. 

He grabs a can of beer and cracks it open. Fuck that.

Tim isn’t sure how much time has passed since his first can of beer and his second cup of-- Tim frowns at the liquid in his cup, not quite sure what he’s currently drinking. 

He just knows he’s had a few and his mind is already spinning.

He stumbles across the dance floor, swaying slightly, mind buzzing, and bumps into someone. His drink spills all over his shirt and his cup clatters to the ground among countless others, now flattened by dozens of shoes.

He stares at his cup and his ruined shirt, dumbfounded. 

“Hey,” the girl he bumped into says, yelling to be heard over the loud music. She’s smiling at him. “Sorry ‘bout your shirt,” she says, giggling breathlessly. “D’you… lemme--” she stumbles forward, almost falling on top of Tim “lemme get’cha ‘nother one. ‘Kay?” 

Tim blinks, shrugs, but she ignores him and easily drags him through the crowd and down a hallway. 

Tim protests sluggishly, but she keeps dragging him by the wrist further away from the living room. The rational part of Tim’s buzzed mind panics, wondering where the hell they’re going, until they reach the kitchen.

The light is bright and Tim groans and squints his eyes. 

There are a few people in the kitchen, chatting easily. Someone is juggling two apples and an orange while her friends giggle and clap.

There’s an even more extensive display of bottles of alcohol on the huge marble island, the liquid content of some in colors that surprise Tim. There's someone behind the counter-- he’s tall and lanky with a face covered in acne and wearing a beanie. In the middle of July. Tim thinks he’s seen him around school. 

He grins. “Lauren! What are we looking for this evening?”

The girl is still holding onto his wrist. She sways and smiles, her eyes unfocused. She makes a wide arc with her free hand. 

“I bumped into him,” she says, her words slurred together. “Said I’d get’him a ‘nother one.”

The guy grins. Dimples appear on his cheeks. His smile reminds Tim of Dick’s.

“A bit of everything?” he asks, winking at Tim.

Tim’s brain catches up slowly. “Of what?” he asks dumbly. 

The guy raises an eyebrow and gestures at the selection of drinks. Tim shrugs. 

“Hell yeah,” he says, grinning widely. “It’s my birthday.”

If that surprises him, he doesn’t show it. But Tim’s senses are dull so maybe he did react. The girl giggles and pats his cheeks, smushing them a bit. 

“You’re very big,” she says brightly, letting him go and patting his head. “H’ppy birthday.”

He grins easily as the guy behind the island mixes several colorful drinks together. He pours the mix into a plastic cup and drops a little paper umbrella before handing it to Tim.

“For the birthday boy,” he says. 

Tim takes a sip and immediately gags, which makes the girl and the guy burst into laughter. He laughs along, ignoring the warm tingling on his lips and the burning sensation in his throat. He takes another sip-- smaller this time. Then another. Quickly, he finds that the bitter taste isn’t that bad. 

He sways slightly, tilting so far until he catches himself on the counter, nearly knocking a fancy crystal decanter to the ground.

Tim blinks and he finds himself out of the kitchen, wandering around the halls. He blinks again and suddenly they’re back in the living room, noises drowned out by the music and the world distorted by the dizzying flash of the lights. They’re a vivid green and blue now. He stumbles and trips out of the sliding glass doors that lead to the garden.

The fresh air'll do him some good, he thinks dimly. It's getting too loud inside.

The warm summer breeze is warm on his face despite the night being several degrees cooler than the day. There’s the distinct smell of flowers and chlorine that overpowers the pungent smell of alcohol that lingers even outside. It’s more peaceful, quieter, the music a dull thrum behind Tim’s back.

There’s a lot of people wandering around the garden. Some are swimming in the pool fully clothed. Plastic cups are laying on the deck and in the water. The pool water casts a shimmering reflection on the walls and ceiling of the patio.

he stands in a corner quietly sipping his drink most of the time, happy to just drink in the calm summer night that for once doesn't smell like car exhaust and sun-baked trash.  

Tim's wandering mind finally drifts back into the real world, becoming aware of the noise around him. He's tired, he realizes. He has no clue what time it is. He should probably go home.

Tim tips his head back, and drains the rest of his drink in one go.

His mind spins and his stomach rumbles unhappily, bile rising up. Tim's muscle memory knows what's happening before his brain catches up. He stumbles back inside the house in search of the bathroom. He barely makes it before he’s emptying his stomach into the bathroom, sweaty arms braced on the cold porcelain bowl. 

When he’s done, he sits back, his head spinning like a carousel, his warm cheek resting against the tile of the bathroom wall. 

He eventually pushes himself to his feet, flushes the toilet, and stumbles back out in a daze. 

What time is it? His parents will get worried--

Tim stumbles into the wall, anger, and grief surging up from the depth. They’re not home.

He doesn’t remember where they are.

He remembers that it’s his birthday and they’re not here. There’s no one home to worry about him. 

He fills a new cup with the first bottle he finds. His tongue doesn’t tingle as much when he drinks but he hardly thinks about that. 

The noise around him is too loud and his chest feels tight. He pushes past people, uncaring about who he shoved aside on the way back to one of the hallways. He doesn’t remember if this one leads to the kitchen.

Tim just leans against the wall and stays there until he can finally breathe again, until the familiar burn of tears goes away. He presses his palms into his eyes, losing his struggle against the tears. 

Someone taps his shoulder and he looks up. One of the soccer team guys is standing there, looking disheveled and giggling uncontrollably. His eyes stare at Tim unfocused.

“If y’re lookin’ for a good time,” he stumbles over his words. “These’ll do the trick.”

Tim looks down at the pill he’s handing Tim.

He’s drunk, but not that out of it. He’s dealt with several drug cases in his time as Robin. He knows the effect it has on people and just how serious it can get real quick. He thinks of all the factors working against him. He doesn’t know what drug it is, how watered down it is, where it came from, and he knows no one at the party. No one sober enough to think to call a hospital if he overdoses and seizes.

With all he drank tonight, this could kill him. 

(somehow, that thought doesn’t scare him as much as he thinks it should)

(his next depressing thought is, would anyone notice?)

Ives would. Steph would. Eventually, his parents would know. 

He falters, knees shaking. Would his parents notice? Would they feel disappointed when they find out he OD’d at a party? Would they feel guilty for leaving him alone all this time and never getting to know him? Would Bruce feel disappointed?

(Probably.)

And suddenly, Tim feels so very alone. 

He’s surrounded by bodies reeking of sweat and covered in body glitter, and music loud enough to shake the walls and make the floorboards creak, and he’s never felt more alone. A tiny speck in a vast universe where no one was currently looking his way, wondering where he is, if he was safe. 

No one but Ives knows he’s here.

No one will think to worry about Tim Drake, who can take care of himself, who’s fine doing everything alone, who sits in a silent house every day, just hoping that his parents will walk in and pay attention to him. Hoping that Batman will treat him the way he treated the other Robins. 

Maybe just this once, Tim tells himself. Just this once he won’t have to be alone. Maybe if he keeps up, he’ll stop caring or thinking about it too hard. 

He takes the little pill he’s being handed and shoves it in his mouth, washing it down with whatever’s in his cup.

It takes Tim less than ten minutes to realize that this might have been the worst decision he’s made all day. 

At first, he started to feel lightheaded and dizzy, his drunken sadness easily replaced with a floating feeling of euphoria.

At first, it’s pleasant. It’s what Tim’s looking for. He can’t remember what he’s been trying to forget all night. Something sad. He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel sad again, not with the warm tingling in his body and the way his head feels like it’s floating.

And then the tingling spreads to his limbs and turns into numbness.

Faces swim in and out of his field of vision and his mouth goes dry. He can’t remember where the drinks are. He can’t remember how his feet work.

He sees double, then triple. 

That’s before he stops seeing details altogether and the other people around him turn into abstractly human shapes undulating around him. 

And that’s when he starts to panic.

The panic comes easily.

He breathes in and chokes halfway, chest constricting painfully. He breathes harshly, wondering where he is. 

He has no idea. 

He should call someone. 

Phone. 

Tim has a phone.

He can get help. 

He blinks and stumbles into a wall and flinches when he hears picture frames rattle. He flinches when he hears someone’s footsteps past him.

Bathroom. He should try to find a bathroom.

The loudness of everything is making it difficult to think. The music makes his teeth rattle and his bones vibrate until he feels like he’s gonna cry and claw at his skin to rid himself of the uncomfortable feeling. 

The world is a kaleidoscope of neon colors.

He stumbles into people and objects alike and he’s sure he’s gathering up quite the collection of bruises. The floor vibrates under his feet and the bass feels like it’s hammering directly into his skull. He clutches at his head, tugging at his hair, trying to blink the blurriness away. 

The world is a vibrant pink and purple.

His skin burns.

He thinks he’s crying.

Someone says something, but he can’t understand.

“You okay?” a voice filters through the loud music and the buzzing in his ears.

He forces his heavy tongue to work. His lips are numb. “Bathroom?” he croaks out.

A warm hand wraps around his damp wrist and pulls him along. 

They leave the technicolor dance floor and Tim breathes in relief. He can’t see details, but the colors are muted and dark here and his skin goes from burning to an uncomfortable prickling. 

“Here you go,” the voice says. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Tim replies automatically, the word already out of his mouth before his numb brain catches up.

It feels like he’s in two different realities, with his brain slow and glitching and the rest of him going dizzyingly fast.

He can see the knob. 

Actually, he can see three knobs, and it takes him a few tries to grab the real one.

At first, he opts to keep the lights off, but his heart starts to panic, his brain slow and thinking he’s gone completely blind, so he flicks the interrupter. 

The lights burn against his eyelids and he gasps sharply and grabs his head again. 

He’s on his knees, bent over, forehead touching the ground. He’s breathing harshly and shallowly, swallowing through a dry throat. 

Phone. Call someone.

“Gotta--” he mumbles.

His hand fumbles and he realizes that he doesn’t remember where his phone is. His throat closes up, scared he might have lost it. 

He finds it in his back pocket, intact. 

The brightness is too high and sends a sharp pain through his skull, hardly piercing the veil of drunken exhaustion and delirium. The panic is still there, threatening to swallow him, but he feels strangely serene. He finds the whole situation a little funny.

“Call Dick,” he reminds himself, forcing himself to focus. 

His fingers shake as he attempts to unlock his phone. It takes a few tries before he unlocks it. His contacts icon is green, he thinks. 

Maybe. 

He looks for green, grimacing at the bright screen, nausea roiling in his stomach. 

He finds a green icon and clicks on it. He squints, trying desperately to find Dick’s contact through his blurred vision. His limited vision swims, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

Tim presses on what he thinks (hopes) is Dick’s name. He’s pretty sure he saw the letter D, somewhere.

His phone rings. The sound grates against his sensitive ears.

It rings again.

And again.

Tin’s stomach sinks further the more it rings. 

Then, after a few seconds of steady ringing, he hears a click, then a gruff, “who the fuck is this?"

Tim doesn't know why Dick sounds so weird. Probably just the phone quality. 

"'Wing, heeeey," he laughs breathlessly as if he wasn’t choking on panic a few moments ago. "Uhh... I maaay-ah. Need'ta be picked'up."

His tongue hardly cooperates in his mouth. 

Dick swears.

"Replacement, How. The fuck. Do you even have this number?"

There's a pause. Tim needs to answer, he thinks dimly. His tongue won't work. “Ya g’ve it t’me.”

"Are you drunk?" Dick asks carefully.

Tim hums and giggles. "I can't see anything."

On the other end, Dick is cursing vehemently. Tim’s never heard most of these words come out of his mouth before.

Tim blinks and rubs at his eyes, trying to clear his technicolor vision, to no avail. He sits up and bumps into something cold and hard and jumps violently. His heart is beating too fast. His body feels too hot.

"I don't know wha's happ'ning," he mumbles, panicking. "Dick--" His breath hitches and cracks over a sob. “I pr’mise I’ll n’ver do it ag’n. Please. Please come.” 

He’s crying pathetically. To Nightwing. Who’s probably all the way in Blüdhaven. Who will be so mad when he finds Tim.

There’s no answer on the other end. 

“Please,” he sobs. “I j’st did’n wanna be lonely.”

“Jesus fuck, kid,” Dick breathes. “I’m gonna kill you when I find you.” There’s rustling on the other end. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Uh--” his memory is a foggy bank of nothing. “I can’t--”

Dick sighs. “Whatever. I’ll find you. Just-- don’t fucking move. I swear if you move a single muscle before I get here, I am skinning you alive, kid.”

Tim nods jerkily and he hears the dial tone. He drops the phone and pushes himself into the closest corner he finds. He scratches at his skin, trying to get rid of crawling under his skin, and waits for Dick to arrive.

Time moves slow and Tim feels like he’s moving too fast, vibrating in place. The nausea gets worse.

He thinks he's scratched his arms hard enough to draw blood.

He hopes Dick comes soon.

Tim hears shouts and commotion outside and the music suddenly cuts out. 

He starts crying in relief when he finally stops feeling like his bones are going to vibrate out of his body. 

He hears footsteps get closer, the knob rattling, the door opening. Tim looks up, squinting, and sees black hair and dark clothes. 

“Dick?” he asks, voice small and rough even to his own ears.

The person makes a rumbling sound and crouches down. “Guess again, Replacement.”

Tim blinks at him. “...Bruce?”

After a long pause, the person who isn’t Dick sighs. “If you didn’t look so pathetic right now I’d kill you where you stand.”

The person stands up and drags Tim up along with him. It’s too much for his nausea to handle and he throws up on the ground.

“Aw hell,” the person shouts, jumping back.

He lets go of Tim, who collapses to his knees and throws up again. He heaves, and he thinks he might be throwing up everything he drank all night. 

His arms shake and he feels someone holding up his weak body while he coughs and convulses and cries pathetically.

“‘M sorry,” he says, his voice ruined. “‘M sorry. I j’st didn’t wanna be alone tonight.”

A hand braces against his back and tentatively starts rubbing slow circles. 

“You ain’t dying yet, kid,” the person says softly. “You will be when I call Dick, though.”

Tim hums. If he speaks, he’ll either start sobbing again or throw up some more in a stranger’s bathroom. He’s so tired. His head is full of static. His head falls against the person’s chest.

“Sorry,” he mumbles again before the world fades to black.

Tim wakes slowly. 

The first thing he notices is how heavy his body feels. His head is pounding. He groans softly, eyes fluttering open. His thoughts are scattered and he’s struggling to form a coherent one.

He’s laying in a bed. A really nice and comfortable bed.

He sits up and is almost knocked back down by a wave of nauseating dizziness.

He groans and presses his aching head to his knees, both hands knotted in his hair. A door creaks open and Tim’s immediately on high alert, body tense. He carefully looks up, ready for a fight. 

His heart plunges into his stomach when he sees a familiar towering figure standing in the doorway, familiar scowl etched on his face, body leaning against the doorway. There’s a shock of white in his black hair and his eyes are a duller green now, not nearly as luminescent and acidic as before.

“Hood,” Tim says, mouth dry.

He scoffs. “Just Jason, thanks. Now that you’re awake, I can call Dick, and then I can wring your neck.”

Tim’s heart sinks even further and he crawls further back to get away from Hood-- Jason. His back hits the frame of his bed. He finally notices that he’s in his own bedroom. And more importantly, Jason is in his bedroom.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice is rough and he probably sounds as small as he feels. “What did you do to me?”

Jason’s face twists. “Nothing, kid,” he snaps. “You did it to yourself. I dragged your sorry ass back home so now you owe me a fucking explanation.”

Tim’s hands are shaking and he belatedly realizes he’s been clenching his teeth together. He unclenches. His headache steadily gets worse.
“I don’t owe you anything,” Tim replies.

He tucks his shaking hands under his armpits and glares at Jason as well as he can. He feels like he’s going to throw up.

It must show on his face because Jason heaves a deep sigh and steps forward. Tim flinches violently and the nausea spikes. He looks at Jason who wastes no time and grabs his arm, forcing him off the bed and towards the bathroom. 

Tim barely reaches the toilet before he’s throwing up again, and again. He coughs and vomits and his whole body is shaking, wracked with goosebumps, his skin hot to the touch. 

He throws up and he tastes salt on his lips and then he finally slumps down on the bathroom tile, burning forehead pressed against cool porcelain. 

“You’re a sorry sight,” Jason says, and forces a water bottle in Tim’s shaking hand. 

“Had a bad day,” Tim gasps, shakily trying to twist the cap off.

Jason snorts. “I’d say.”

Tim’s too busy draining the bottle to glare at Jason. He reaches down and tries to pry the bottle away.

“If you drink too fast, you’ll just throw up again,” he snaps.

Tim takes the bottle back and cradles it in his lap like it’s his most prized possession. He grimaces as the pain behind his eyes spikes painfully.

Jason grumbles as he searches through the pockets of his jeans and pulls out a little pill bottle. He shakes out two orange tablets.

"Here," he says, sounding aggravated. "Can't even bring myself to be mad at your dumbass. Jesus fucking Christ, kid."

Tim stares at the tablets in his palm. His head feels foggy and stuffed with cotton, but he’s still present enough to be wary. He took a pill last night and though he doesn’t remember much of what happened after he took it, he still remembers enough.

Jason seems to notice his reluctance and scowls. "I swear to God, kid if you’re assuming I'm trying to drug you I will put a bullet through both your eyes."

Tim's face twitches but he swallows the pills Jason gave him. 

He sits on the bathroom floor until he finally feels his pain ebb away gently and he sighs in relief. 

He looks at Jason again. “Why are you here?”

Jason’s face spasms and Tim could swear he saw a trace of concern underneath the annoyance. “Because you called me,” he answers.

Tim wants to snark back, “yeah sure, in your dreams maybe” but with how drunk and out of it he was last night, he couldn’t tell for sure. He doesn’t remember trying to call Dick. 

It’s a terrifying thought that sends ice crackling through his veins.

He doesn’t remember anything that happened after he took the pill he was handed.

Jason straightens his back in triumph, taking Tim’s silence as defeat. 

“Now that you’re more awake, get up,” Jason orders. “We need to talk.”

Tim likes his position on the cold tile but doesn’t want to sour Jason’s mood further, so he stumbles to his feet, arm braced against the wall for support.

He follows Jason down the long hall and belatedly realizes that he’s barefoot. He’s also not wearing the jeans and hoodie he wore to the party, but rather the Nightwing shirt he stole from Dick long ago and a pair of plain sweatpants.

He looks at Jason in surprise, but he doesn’t turn around or acknowledge Tim in any way. 

He ignores the way that leaves a sour taste in the back of his mouth.

Tim glances at the windows lining their left side and his heart jumps in his throat when he sees how dark it still is out. 

“What time is it?” he asks, hoping his voice doesn’t tremble as much as it does to his ears.

Jason’s steps slow just a bit but don’t stop. “You called at three a.m.,” he replies. “It’s probably almost five or something. I wouldn’t know, I was taking care of your sorry ass.”

Guilt pools in Tim’s stomach. He wraps his arms around his middle and stops walking. 

“You don’t have to stay,” he says and oh, how pathetically choked up his voice sounds. 

Jason stops walking too. The distance between them is full of tension, thick and palpable and Tim’s afraid he might be the spark that sets off the explosion. 

Jason hasn’t turned around to face Tim, but his shoulders are tense, his hands curled into fists at his side.

Tim looks down at the polished hardwood floor. “You don’t want to be here,” he states matter-of-factly. “Thank you for coming to get me, but you really don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I can take care of myself.”

“If you can take care of yourself, then you can explain to me why I found you crying in a bathroom drunk as hell and stoned out of your fucking mind,” Jason growls. He turns to glare at Tim who flinches on instinct. “So what was it? What finally drove Bruce’s perfect little replacement Robin to drink his problems away? Mommy and Daddy didn’t give you enough attention?”

His words are acid and they land exactly where Jason wanted them to. He flinches violently and drops his gaze back to his feet. Fresh tears gather at the corner of his eyes and he hates himself a little more. It’s just a birthday, he shouldn’t get this worked up about it. 

Some of the tension dissipates and there’s less of a bite to Jason’s tone when he speaks again. “Whatever. Not my problem.”

He turns and starts walking again and Tim obediently follows. His mind flashes to the last time he was alone with the Red Hood, months and months ago, before the shaky truce he formed with Batman. A hopeful tentative at fixing the broken mess between Jason and Bruce. It was clear his truce didn’t apply to Robin. Jason hasn’t actively tried to kill Tim since his attack at Titans Tower, but it’s not like he’s made any attempt at an apology or extending any olive branches, which only sucks marginally. At least that’s what he tells himself when he’s feeling particularly bitter about it all. 

Tim liked to think of himself as someone who thinks ahead, who focuses on the details connecting to form a bigger picture. Which was why-- despite the fact that Jason really really disliked Tim-- he’d asked Babs to get him the Red Hood’s phone number, never really planning on ever using it.

It served more as a last ditch just in case. A plan Z when all else failed. 

Maybe it also served as Tim’s own attempt at trying to salvage a bond that didn’t exist between him and Jason.

He never thought he’d ever use it. 

When they reach the living room, Jason shoves Tim in an armchair and disappears around a corner. Tim doesn’t even want to think about how his parents would react if they realized that one of their artifacts on display was missing if Jason had decided to take advantage of Tim, drunk and completely lost to the world, and taken a few priceless objects his parents had brought back from their digs.

Tim bleakly thinks that there’s a pretty good chance they wouldn’t even notice it for a while. Or maybe it would be the first thing they notice. 

He tries to not feel bitter about it. 

He knows how this tune goes. He’s played it enough times that it’s now ingrained in his brain. 

Tim’s not his parents’ priority. He gets it. 

He’s not Batman’s priority, or Bruce Wayne’s. Or Alfred’s. Or Dick’s. He gets it. 

He just wishes it didn’t hurt so much. 

He wishes it didn’t make him feel so hollow. He’s giving all of himself to his parents, to being Robin, and he never receives back. It feels so selfish to think those thoughts, but he’s just tired. He wants to sleep. He wants a hug. 

But it's fine. Because Tim’s Robin. Tim is fifteen. He can take care of himself. 

He can take care of himself, but his friends at school get picked up by their parents each afternoon, and they get to spend their birthdays with their families.

And oh, doesn’t that hurt to think about. 

Jason comes back into the room holding a steaming mug in one hand and a packet of saltines in the other. Tim blinks at him. He was so lost in his own swirling thoughts that he didn’t hear Jason moving about in his kitchen.

He accepts the mug and inhales the steam. It calms him a little.

“Ginger tea,” Jason grumbles, “it helps.”

He sits on a couch and glares at Tim as he takes a small sip of the scalding tea. He didn’t even know they had ginger tea. 

“So,” Jason starts. “What the fuck was that all about?”

Tim blinks. “I’m fifteen,” he mumbles. “I can take care of mys--”

He falls silent when he sees the dark scowl Jason’s giving him and he shrinks further in on himself.

“I’m not a patient man,” Jason hisses. “And I’m even less patient when some scrawny twerp calls me at three in the fucking morning asking for a pickup.”

They lapse into tense silence. Tim nibbles on a saltine. 

“It’s my birthday,” he says in a small voice. “Well-- was my birthday. Saturday. My parents said they’d be home and it would’ve been the first time in two years they came home for my birthday. Stupidly, I got excited and then they called me yesterday morning to tell me they were flying to Turkey. Some guy on the soccer team was throwing a party and I decided to go. Got carried away, took some drugs, didn’t think about the consequences, and now we’re here and I don’t--” his voice stutters and he casts his eyes down into the dark orange of his tea “--I don’t remember what happened after I took the pill, I don’t remember calling you. I just remember waking up in my bed.”

For a moment there’s silence. 

“Your parents aren’t here,” Jason says. “And you didn’t call Batman or Dickwing?” He scoffs. “You’re dumber than I thought, Replacement.”

Tim flinches at the nickname. “Please don’t call me that,” he mumbles, sinking further in the seat.

“You replaced me,” Jason points out. “I’ll call you whatever I damn well please.”

On any other day, Tim would engage with Jason and bite back. He’s just too tired and too drained to do more than curl further around his tea. He doesn’t protest. It’s not like Jason’s wrong. 

(He is. Tim was never supposed to stay Robin. Just be him long enough until Bruce got better.)

“Bruce and Dickwing wouldn’t have turned you away,” Jason says eventually. “If you’d wanted to spend your birthday with someone.”

It hurts to breathe. “They’re not my family,” he says, voice hardly above a whisper. “I’m not their family. I’m not their priority.”

Jason laughs and it startles Tim. “Sure. it’s not like they immediately start freaking out the moment you disappear for more than ten minutes.”

“As Robin,” Tim points out. “Not as Tim Drake.”

He doesn’t matter to Bruce and Dick as Tim Drake as much as he did as Robin. It’s a fact that Tim’s known for years. It’s not like his parents don’t provide for him. Tim can handle himself just fine without help.

Tim’s parents love him. He knows this, he doesn’t doubt it. He’s just not as important to them as their job. He was a surprise baby. They never wanted to have a child and settle down, they wanted to travel the world. Jack and Janet Drake’s first love is archeology. Tim only falls in second place. 

Tim never needed Bruce to rescue him, whisk him off to the Manor and adopt him. He didn’t need his help. He was the one who needed to help Bruce. Because Batman needed a Robin, and Bruce needed Jason. Tim couldn’t bring back Jason, but he could be Robin. He could be there and keep him from destroying himself. 

That’s why Tim doesn’t know why it hurts when he thinks of all the times Bruce could have called him bullshit about his parents being home and waiting for him and never did. He’s not Bruce’s son. He’s his partner. It just hurts to be reminded so often that their relationship is strictly professional and that Bruce doesn’t want Tim Drake. He hardly wanted Robin number three. 

“What, so your parents aren’t here and you think that instead of going to the Manor you’re gonna go endanger your fucking life? Do you even fucking know what drugs you took?” 

Something eases in Tim’s chest. Jason’s mad at him again. It’s easier to handle his anger because it’s all Tim gets from him. He didn’t know what to do with Jason’s awkward concern and soft tones he never used when he talked to him. It’s easier for Tim to find his footing in the familiar, shallow waters.

He presses his lips in a fine line. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” he says. 

Jason inhales sharply. He barks out a harsh laugh. He starts pacing the middle of the living room, running a hand through his hair.

“Right. Right. Since I doubt you’ve been paying attention to any drug case you’ve worked on in your years as my replacement--”

“I’m not your replacement.”

“--I'll reiterate. Shit like this is exactly what kills people.”

“I just wanted to stop-- to stop everything. To stop thinking about my parents. I wanted to stop feeling like I was drowning. Stop thinking about how--” how worthless they must think he is. He swallows thickly. “I wanted to stop feeling so fucking lonely, okay? No one ever puts me first. Is it so bad that I wanted to just forget that for one fucking moment?” 

He’s gripping his mug with white knuckles, angry tears stinging and unshed. His voice was steadily getting louder.

Jason’s face hardens. “It is when it can fucking kill you,” he says harshly. “These things don’t just impact you. They impact everyone else in your life, too!”

Tim blanches. If Tim had overdosed, how would Batman react? A second Robin, dead. Batman would spiral. Everything Tim’s been so meticulously trying to fix would crumble to ashes. His head’s spinning again. 

“I didn’t think--”

“I very much fucking know you didn’t think! God, it’s impossible to deal with you!”

Tim’s mouth clicks shut and he stares at Jason. Something akin to grief and devastation threatens to pull him right back under the water and drown him. 

Guilt shadows Jason’s face. “Kid--” 

Tim drops his gaze. There’s white noise in his ears. He presses his lips together and forces the desperate grief away. 

“Kid, look. I didn’t mean to say that. But you have to listen. If you’d died, how do you think Bruce and Dick would’ve reacted? Do you honestly think that they wouldn’t care? They--”

“Please!” Tim snaps. Then, softer. “Please. Stop.”

Jason stops talking. His voice snaps closed with a click. Tim sets his cold mug down on the coffee table and wraps his arms around his legs. He presses his face against his knees and tries to force the tears back. 

“Fuck,” Jason mumbles. “Fucking shit.”

He gets up and leaves the room. Tim’s tense shoulders sag a little when his footsteps fade. He jumps when he hears Jason punch the wall in the hallway and swear loudly. He winces and buries his head further into his knees. 

He doesn’t move for a long time.

Jason doesn’t come back to the living room.

Somehow, Tim manages to doze slightly after silently breaking down into tears for the umpteenth time that day. He’s startled awake when he hears a door slam. 

He jumps upright in his seat before slumping right back down. Jason left. Of course he did. 

Tim’s not his problem. He doesn’t like him and Tim sees no reason why he’d stay after their argument.

God, Tim’s so fucking tired. His brain feels stuffed with cotton. 

He hears footsteps echo on the granite floor of the hall. They stop when they reach the living room and Tim tenses. He doesn’t need to turn around to guess who it is. 

“Hey Tim,” a tired voice greets from the doorway.

Tim bites hard into his bottom lip. “Dick,” he says, his voice thankfully doesn’t wobble.

Dick sighs and accepts that Tim isn’t planning on turning around anytime soon. He walks in and stands in front of Tim. 

“Jay called me.”

Tim shrugs. “I guessed so,” he replies, looking down.

He can’t stand the pitying look Dick gives him. 

They stay like this for a while until Dick clears his throat and Tim hesitantly looks up. 

“You should have called, Tim.”

His tone is so painfully gentle and sad and it only makes Tim angry. 

“I can take care of myself,” he spits out. “I told Jason this. I’m telling you. I was--” 

“Fine?” Dick finishes for him. “Tim.”

His head starts swimming again. He doesn’t feel nauseous but he just really really wants this conversation to end. He wants to cry. He wants to sleep. He wants to be alone in his great big house. 

“No,” he snaps, standing up. 

Blood rushes to his head and he grabs the back of the armchair to steady himself and angrily waves Dick’s hand away.

“No, okay? I became Robin to help Bruce. I don’t need help. I’m fine. I’ve been fine. Neither you nor Bruce cared much beyond that before, and there’s-- there’s no need for that to change now. I can handle myself. Last night got out of hand but it’s fine now. Bruce never wanted me, he never wanted another son, and you didn’t want a brother and I respect that.”

He blinks furious tears away and takes a steadying breath. He’s not going to burst into tears in front of Dick.

“Please. Just--” he waves a hand in the air, the other one reaching to rub his eyes, trying to dispel the headache. “Please,” his voice cracks on the word. “I just want to sleep, okay?”

He finally looks to see Dick’s face. He looks caught between devastation and guilt. 

Tim expects an argument. He doesn’t anticipate the hug that Dick wraps him in.

He inhales sharply. 

“I’m sorry Timmy.” Dick’s voice is muffled where he’s pressed against Tim’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I wasn’t--”

“You didn’t do anything,” Tim interrupts him, unsure why Dick’s acting like this.

Dick pulls away, his eyebrows knitted together. “That’s the problem,” he says softly. 

Tim sags and this time he can’t stop the tears. Dick sweeps him into his arms again and Tim leans into his warmth, his body shaking with heavy sobs.

“I just wanted them to be here,” he cries. “I just wanted my parents. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

There are warm fingers carding through his hair and Tim can’t even remember the last time anyone did that. Such a stupid gesture of casual love and attention.  

“Didn’t even get a cake,” he mumbles, sniffling pitifully. Dick’s hand stills and Tim’s terrified that he might have said something wrong. The hands resume threading through his messy hair, albeit gentler this time. 

“Maybe I’m just unlovable,” he says. The words taste like ash on his tongue, but he won’t deny that he’s been entertaining that thought lately. 

“No, baby bird,” Dick says. “You’re not. You’re not. You’re loved, Tim.”

Tim hums, feeling himself slip further into unconsciousness. He doesn’t believe Dick.

“Happy fuckin’ birthday to me,” he mumbles, smiling faintly. He’s gonna miss this when he wakes up alone the next morning.

Tim’s mind is so much clearer when he comes to. 

He hums and twists in his bedsheets. He can hear the morning birds chirping cheerfully. He opens his eyes and squints at the bright sunlight that streams through his room. He groans softly as he feels the beginning of a headache. Nausea rises up in his stomach and he quickly comes to the conclusion that hangovers really fucking suck.

He sits up, feeling slightly dizzy, but definitely not as much as last night.

The first thing he realizes is that he’s not in his own bedroom.

His heart jumps in sudden panic, his mind flitting through every terrible scenario until he realizes that he’s in his room at Wayne Manor.

The second thing he notices is that Dick is also here, sitting in a chair, bent over, and sleeping on the foot of Tim’s bed. 

The third is that Jason is also inexplicably here, sitting at Tim’s desk, head pillowed in his crossed arms and snoring softly. 

Tim starts to panic for a second, wondering if he somehow got injured last night, his memories frustratingly vague beyond broken memories of loud music, a plastic cup in his hand, sitting in the bathroom, and standing outside near a pool. 

He’s about to fully panic when the door creaks open softly, startling Tim out of his thoughts.

Alfred enters the room carrying a tray with three mugs of what Tim assumes to be tea. 

His face melts into a soft smile when he sees Tim awake.

“Good morning master Tim,” he says, voice soft. “Master Bruce will be glad to hear that you are awake.”

Tim blinks. “O-oh,” he stutters. “Yeah. Good.”

His face turns serious but the smile stays. “I heard you had a late night last night, though I do hope you’ll join us for brunch this morning. It’s a beautiful day.”

Tim looks down at his lap, hand fidgeting with the fabric of his comforter. 

“Yeah,” he says after a while. “I’ll join.”

He doubts Alfred would take no as an answer, anyway.

Alfred glances at the sleeping forms of Jason and Dick. “They were quite worried about you when they arrived at the Manor,” he tells Tim not unkindly. “I think we’ve let too many things go unsaid, Master Tim.”

And Tim simply doesn’t know what to make of that.

The door clicks shut when Alfred leaves and Jason stirs. Tim freezes and watches with careful eyes as he sits up and stretches with a groan, his joints popping. 

“Ugh,” he mumbles sleepily, rubbing at his neck. “Next time I’ll listen to Alfred and crash in a real bed. Fuck.” 

He looks over and stills when he sees Tim staring at him. 

“Morning,” he says, feigning nonchalance. 

Tim doesn’t reply. Jason’s face scrunches thoughtfully. 

“D’you remember last night?” he asks.

His muddled memories are becoming clearer. He remembers the argument with Jason. He remembers Dick looking down at him with those sad, sad eyes. It really doesn’t help Tim’s nausea and headache.

Tim shrugs. “Bits and pieces,” he says. 

“Feel nauseous,” he adds helpfully.

Jason hums. “Serves you right for drinking irresponsibly like a fucking idiot.”

Tim winces. Jason stands up and stretches before crossing the room in three steps and picking up a mug. 

Tim eyes the tea. He’s incredibly thirsty, but would much rather go downstairs and get a glass of water than drink tea. He’s never really liked it as much as coffee. 

He pulls the covers off, then looks back at Dick.

“Should we wake him?” he asks.

Jason snorts. “Nah. Let him sleep. He needs it.”

The look in his eyes is far too gleeful for it to be simply Jason looking out for his brother.

“Won’t he worry?”

Jason grins. “Yep.”

Tim thinks that after last night, he might not really want to worry Dick more, but Jason’s grabbing his wrist and dragging him out the door before he can voice his thoughts. 

They enter the kitchen and Tim’s stomach growls when he’s hit with the wonderful smells of breakfast cooking. He remembers that he barely ate anything yesterday and it’s catching up to him. 

“Smells great, Alfred,” Jason says, giving the older man a tired smile. 

He pauses and turns to face Tim with a strange, pinched expression. “You know I don’t hate you anymore, right?” he asks, then frowns. “Probably not. Sorry for trying to kill you. You’re an idiot but I don’t hate you.”

Tim blinks at him. “Thanks?” 

Jason smiles tightly. “We’ll work on it.”

Tim sneaks around the kitchen island while Jason goes into the pantry in search of an apron and steals a piece of toast. He knows that in any other case, Alfred would’ve slapped his hand away and told him to wait for everyone to get here. 

Today isn’t like any other case.

“Dick’s still asleep,” he tells him in between bites.

“I’ll remember to wake him up,” Alfred replies. 

After that, he’s shooed out of the kitchen after he attempts to reach for the coffee machine. 

Tim’s in the hall, heading for the lounge when hears a door open and slam shut. He barely has time to react before Bruce rounds the corner and sees Tim standing in the hallway looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

There are dark bags under Bruce’s eyes and he looks positively exhausted, but he smiles at Tim.

“Morning chum,” he says, ruffling Tim’s hair with a fond smile that’s only just a little bit sad. 

“Hi Bruce,” Tim says, trying his best to not sound as nervous as he feels.

He’s sure that Dick and Jason filled him in on what happened last night.

“Listen, about last--”

Bruce holds up a hand, effectively silencing Tim. “First let me tell you something, Tim,” he says. “I know the first few months when you were Robin wasn’t… probably weren’t the best. I wasn’t in a good place, and for that reason, I neglected my duties towards you, and for that I’m sorry.” he sighs and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. “It seems I forgot that Tim Drake also needs help from time to time, and I was never there to give it to you. I’m sorry, Tim. I’m sorry I let you believe that I cared more about Robin than about you. I’m sorry I was so caught up in my own and my own problems that I never realized you needed help, too. I’m sorry for ever making you feel like I don’t think of you as my son.”

“But--”

Bruce cracks a wry smile. “I haven’t adopted you, but you’re still my own, Tim. I'm sorry I let it get this bad before I finally got to tell you.”

Tim just stares at Bruce, whatever he’d been trying to say forgotten, replaced by a strange warmth in his stomach.

“Now,” Bruce says. “I really hope you like chocolate cake. Alfred and Jason refused to go to bed until they baked you a birthday cake.”

Tim blinks. Surely he’s dreaming. This can’t be his reality. 

“I like chocolate,” he says, his voice not sounding entirely his own. 

Bruce smiles fondly at Tim. “Good. I had to talk Jason out of making an opera cake at five in the morning last night.”

Tim gapes at Bruce. Surely he’s joking. It’s hard enough to believe that Jason would ever bake Tim a birthday cake. 

Bruce’s smile fades a little when he sees Tim’s expression. He doesn’t comment on it and though Tim’s grateful about that, he’s also sure that at some point today, a lengthy discussion will be due between all of them, and Tim’s not really sure he’s ready for it. 

“I hope you’re feeling better because Dick wanted to take you to the aquarium.” 

No, Tim isn’t dreaming. He’s dead, and somehow he made it to heaven and everything’s perfect now and he’s going to the freaking aquarium on his birthday.

“Uh-huh,” he says dumbly. 

Bruce goes on. “I offered mini-golf.”

Tim blinks and almost stops walking. “You like mini-golf?” he asks, biting back a small smile. 

“It’s a highly entertaining pastime,” he says. “Much better than regular golf.”

Tim’s smile widens slightly. He’s finally home.