Archive of Our Own

Timothy Jackson Drake  

He was to be perfect; he was perfect until he wasn’t. 

It wasn’t the first time he royally screwed up but it was the first time it really mattered and it was the first time he’d truly spoken to someone outside of his immediate family or a nanny. 

He hadn’t planned it but everything just seemed to fall into place one day and he seized it in the hopes it would fix everything. 

The night before, he had accidentally fainted in the hallway, taking down one of his mother’s favourite, large vases as he collapsed to the floor. After an extensive shouting match when he regained consciousness, his parents locked him in his room for the night, only to forget to let him out before they left for Italy or something the next morning.

He wasn’t mad, just inconvenienced seeing he had to leave through his third-story window and return through another third-story window that led to a sitting room (this one he was used to going in and out of to go Bat-watching). Then he had to pick the lock on his bedroom door, which was also just terribly inconvenient because he forgot his makeshift lock picks in his room and still hadn’t found a way to get back into his room through his window. 

All day, it took all day to find things to pick the lock on his bedroom door and when it finally clicked open, he sighed, chest heavy with exhaustion, and pushed his door open. Instead of clambering onto his bed, he knelt down on a rug and promptly found himself lying down, curled up, tears in his eyes.

He felt horrible.

Whether it was the lack of food and water for the day due to just forgetting or the fact that he hadn’t slept for more than a few hours in the past week, he felt like utter shit, like everything was awful and gross. 

Tim didn’t want to fall asleep on the floor but apparently, his body had other ideas and he jerked awake a little while later, the moon much higher in the sky than before. He still felt awful, head pounding and stomach churning. 

Maybe he’d go for a walk, walk down to the bridge. Yeah, that would clear his head, make him feel less shitty hopefully. The outside was nothing more than a biting cold mess but he didn’t care. 

Tim Drake was eleven when he found himself dangling his legs over the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge, staring down at the dark and rushing waters of the Gotham River. His parents had left for a trip that morning and Mrs Mac wouldn’t be over until the day after tomorrow. 

He stared down at the dark, rushing waters. God, it would be so easy to just slip and fall and end everything—

“Hey, kid. Can I ask what you're doing here?” He felt a jolt run through his body. He recognised that voice all too well. 

Nightwing?

“The one and only.” Tim looked behind himself to see the tall, overpowering figure of Richard Grayson-Wayne, Nightwing, staring down at him through that very cool-looking domino mask of his. “What’re you doing up here?”

“Just lookin’.”

“At the river?”

Nod. 

“At eleven-thirty at night?”

Nod. 

Nightwing let out a heavy sigh. “How old are you, kid? Seven? Eight? How’d you even get up here? Where’re your parents?”

If he wasn’t feeling so shitty, Tim would’ve been freaking out to know that Nightwing was talking to him, asking him questions, here, next to him. “I’m eleven.”

“Eleven?!” Nightwing’s eyes went wide. “Alright, come on, let’s get you home. It’s freezing out here.” He held his hand out but Tim made no move to take it. 

“I’m fine. I’d like to stay here.” He turned his gaze back down to the water. It was calling him, urging him to slam into its deceptively soft-looking surface like a body to concrete or, if he was lucky, he’d fall in feet first and his foot might break the surface tension and he’d drown instead of having his bones crushed—

He felt a rough hand grasp his wrist, yanking him back. “Fuck. You can’t do this.” He didn’t even realise he was leaning forwards, closer to the water. “Come on, where’s your home? Can I call your parents?”

“They’re away. Italy or something.” Tim tried to jerk his arm away from Nightwing but the man wasn’t having it. “Let go.”

“No. Please, kid—what’s your name?”

“Tim.”

“Tim. C’mon, I’ll take you home on my motorcycle. It’s too dangerous up here for you.” Tim’s eyes broke away from the piece of wood he’d been watching sail through the water, wishing that was him. 

“I know.” His voice had cracked and Nightwing had definitely heard it. The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t you have someone else to save?”

“No. Tim, why are you up here?” He didn’t respond, just fruitlessly tried to tug his arm back, hoping Nightwing will just let him go. 

“Please, I’m tired. I’m so tired. Just let go.” 

“I know. I can see it. I know you’re tired but I can’t let you go. I can’t let you make this mistake.” Tim closed his eyes and leaned back, resting his head on one of the various metal beams around them. “Hey, hey. It’s alright, Tim.” He flinched when he felt Nightwing’s thumb brush across his cheek. “It’s okay to cry.”

Fuck. He was crying in front of goddamn Nightwing. 

“I’m a mistake. I shouldn’t be here anymore.” He tried to object as Nightwing’s other arm slipped around his waist, pulling him away from the edge, at least until his legs didn’t dangle over the side but he could barely find it in himself to speak anymore, let alone argue, feeling like his throat was being squeezed. “Nightwing—“

“Tim. Listen to me.” Nightwing’s hands rested on his shoulders, steadying his swaying and shaking body. “You can’t do this. You have a whole life to live. You're too young.” Tim curled in on himself, as much as he could with the man’s hands gripping his shoulders like his life depended on it. He just wanted Nightwing to let him go—both hands leave his shoulders but one returned to his wrist, holding tight. “What’s your parents’ phone number?”

“I can’t. I can’t bother—“

“I’m sure you won’t be bothering them,” Nightwing tried to reassure him but he knows differently. His parents would throw a fit if someone called them up and said ‘oh hey, I’m here on a bridge with your son. He’s trying to kill himself’. 

He let out a weak laugh at his own thoughts. “I’m not allowed to call them while they’re on their digs. Nothing is important enough that I have to distract them from that.” 

“You’re sitting on the edge of a very high bridge, in a t-shirt and sweatpants, nearing midnight, with the intent of killing yourself. You’re important to them. They’ll accept this call.” Nightwing had his phone out, the screen lighting up the concerned ridges of his face. 

“They won’t. They don’t accept calls from me or strangers when they’re away, only emails.” He lowers his phone. 

“What happens if there’s an emergency?” Tim shakes his head. 

“There isn’t. There can’t be. I’m a good boy. I can fix any emergencies.” He can fix any emergency but this isn’t an emergency. This would fix all of the emergencies though. His parents wouldn’t have to ever worry about him making a mess of the house nor would they have to deal with his unfortunate habit of fainting in places where he could damage things. None of this would be a problem if he was dead. “I can’t make mistakes.”

“Kiddo, Tim, what’s your last name?” Nightwing had his phone back up to his face, quickly typing something with his thumb. 

“Please. Mr Nightwing. I just wanna—“

“I’m not letting you jump, Tim, nor am I letting you ‘fall’. Understood?” The man’s voice went firm, not harsh but firm, like his grasp on Tim’s wrist, and then Nightwing brought his phone up to his ear. “Hey, Batman. I’ve got a kid here at the Kane bridge, says his name is Tim…“ 

Oh, god. 

That’s all that Tim needed to hear. Nightwing had called Batman, goddamn Bruce Wayne. He was in deep trouble.

His heart raced and his head felt a little dizzy. 

Nightwing’s grip on his wrist had loosened just a little bit but Tim decided to seize the moment he had. After muttering a quick apology, he swatted Nightwing’s phone from his hands, and without watching it land on the pavement, he jerked his arm from the shocked man’s grasp and bolted. He hadn’t gone very far up on the bridge but that didn’t seem to matter. Nightwing was in shock long enough for Tim to get a good enough head start on him then, he could lose the man in the dense collection of trees and shrubs ahead. 

Somehow, Tim managed to do just that. Even with the vigilante hot on his heels in under a minute, he wove between tree trunks and shrubs until he spotted one he could duck behind and clamber into, Nightwing’s line of sight blocked by some particularly leafy trees. Staying as silent as possible, he heard Nightwing walk past him, slowly, most definitely listening for Tim’s running footsteps and being confused when he heard none. 

“Tim. I’m sorry, I won’t call Batman. Just… come out. I’ll help you get home then I’ll leave you alone. Promise. It’s too cold for you to be out here.” When he got no answer, Nightwing started rustling through the trees and bushes, somehow skimming over Tim’s curled up form. 

He felt bad. Nightwing seemed desperate to find him but Tim couldn’t let him. 

“If you’re still here, please, it’s not worth it. Suicide isn’t worth it.” When Nightwing got no reply, he turned tail and dashed off, presumably back to the bridge to see if Tim had snuck behind him. 

Goddamnit.

He fucked up. 

Now, if he was to try and toss himself off a bridge, it’d have to be another one. Tim had no doubt that Nightwing would have someone watching the bridge the next night. It had taken him about three hours to walk to this bridge and the next closest bridge was probably a good seven-hour walk away. 

Fuck.

He didn’t want to but he slowly picked himself up off the ground and with as much resolve as he could gather, he ran through the woods in the direction he thought his house was in. He was so fucking tired, physically and mentally, and he was cold but he managed to get back to Drake Manor, the cold, empty house he wasn’t expecting to come back to. After he climbed back in through one of the first-story windows, he just trudged into the first-floor kitchen and collapsed on the floor, fighting and losing to keep his eyes open. 

He didn’t go out the next night because, to his surprise, he hadn’t woken up until four am, a whole twenty-four hours later and then, again, he couldn’t go out the next night because Mrs Mac actually showed up and somehow managed to pass out on a couch. 

He didn’t go out the night after that, nor for the next week because he just couldn’t pick himself up off his bed except to go to school. Everything felt heavy and weak and he was so tired but he couldn’t fall asleep. 

It wasn’t for another three years that he saw Nightwing that up close. 

It was a fairly warm August day, a nice eighty degrees Fahrenheit but storm clouds were rolling in. Tim was thankful everyone was allowed to move between the outdoor gardens and the indoor ballroom. 

The Waynes were throwing a charity gala at their mansion and it was the first time that Tim’s parents allowed him to join them at a fancy party. 

He hadn’t forgotten the last time he was face-to-face with Richard Grayson-Wayne but gods, did he wish he could. 

He stood out in the garden beside his parents when Bruce Wayne, Batman, of all people came up to them. 

“Ahhh, Mr and Mrs Drake! Welcome. Glad to see you’ve come!” Mr Wayne smiled widely at them, his trio of children reluctantly following close behind. “And this must be little Timothy Drake. Hello, kiddo! Don’t think I’ve met you before.” He knelt down and held a hand out towards Tim, trying to coax the boy out from behind his parents. Tim stretched a shaking hand out after his mother’s finger jabbed at his back, keeping his head down, staring at the neatly trimmed grass, and hoping Grayson didn’t recognise him. “Your parents have spoken quite highly of you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr Wayne,” he spoke as loudly as he could, knowing that his voice liked to fail him at important times. Judging by Mr Wayne’s face, it was still a little too quiet. The man straightened up and Tim struggled to keep his gaze down. 

“You can just call me Bruce. These are my sons: Damian, Dick, and Jason.” Bruce’s hands clasped both Jason’s and Dick’s shoulders. 

Tim would’ve laughed at the fact that Nightwing’s nickname was Dick but instead he flinched, his mother leaning down to his ear, whispering only ‘you must make eye contact’ before she straightened up again. “So sorry. Timothy here is quite the shy one.” Cautiously, he looked at each of Bruce’s kids, feeling his heart plummet when he locked eyes with Dick. A look of confusion and then recognition completely took over his face, his eyes wide, pupils blown. 

When his mother nudged his back again, Tim broke eye contact and gave a little smile, waving to the trio before dropping his gaze. “Hello. I’m Tim.”

“Timothy has been begging for years to come to one of these events,” his mother gushed, continuing on to completely falsify some ‘funny’ story about how Tim had tried to sneak out to join his parents at a party and wound up getting lost for a whole day. While Bruce went on to give an almost genuine-sounding laugh and as Damian tried to join in, Jason and Dick shared a look before silently excusing themselves. 

Bruce glanced back at them before his laugh changed to a more nervous one. “Please excuse us,” he said, curling his fingers around Damian’s shoulder. “I have to have a bit of a chat with my sons but I would like to catch up with you three later! Enjoy the party.” He gave a little bow before physically urging his youngest away in the direction of where his other two sons went, past a bunch of tall hedges. 

“Could you be any more awkward?” Tim felt his mother’s fingers dig into his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry Mother. I’m just nervous.”

“Fix it. Now go, your father and I have to speak to some other people.” He was shoved forwards. “And smile, you look too upset.”

Tim put on his ‘totally-not-forced-perfectly-practised-smile’ and turned to his mother for a moment to show her. “Yes, Mother.” He didn’t know where to go so he just wandered, slowly drawing closer to the open French doors that led inside. When he finally stepped inside, the lack of violent wind pressing against him made him realise he was exhausted. He didn’t go out the night previous but he did have a lot of trouble sleeping in general so he spent most of the night tossing and turning in his bed. Maybe he should go out more often. The running around might tire his body out enough for sleep to take him. 

Letting out a yawn, he walked over to the beverage table and grabbed a glass of water, sipping from it as he puttered around the outskirts of the ballroom. 

A few of his parents ‘friends’ (business associates, clients, the works) had approached him, telling him all the good things his parents had told them. He smiled awkwardly and put up with it until they moved along, only to be replaced by another. 

When it started raining outside, everyone made their way inside, the noise of mindless chatter doubling and Tim found himself slipping outside through one of the porches’ doors, covered from the rain by the overhang as he sat down, back pressed against the moistened walls. He loved the way rain smelled, only once regretting sitting outside in a rainstorm but that was because it wasn’t a rainstorm, but actually, a thunderstorm and thunder scared the shit out of him. 

“Tim?” Tim jerked upright, meeting the eyes of Batman—Bruce. “Hey, what’re you doing out here, kiddo?” It was still raining, just past the porch’s overhang, pouring. The temperature had dropped significantly. “It’s nice and warm inside. Would you like to go back in with me?” Tim shook his head, pulling his knees closer to his chest. He broke eye contact with Bruce. 

“‘M good.” He wasn’t expecting the man to kneel down then sit alongside him. 

“I noticed you were quite jumpy earlier when you were with your parents. Is everything okay?” Tim froze. 

“My parents are good parents,” he said stiffly, glancing to look into Bruce’s eyes again. “I don’t appreciate you insinuating otherwise.”

“I know. I wasn’t accusing them of anything kiddo. Just wanted to know if you were okay. You look exhausted and I wanted to ask if you need a place to take a nap.” 

Tim sighed and rested his head on his knees. “I’m sorry I assumed.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve had my own kids say worse to me. I promise you, it’s not going to affect me.” Bruce gave him a bright smile, one that even made Tim’s chest feel warm. 

The door creaked open again and they both turned their attention to it. “Hey B. Alfred is looking for you—“ Dick stood at the door, face blanching when he noticed who Bruce was sitting with. “He wants you in the kitchen for a minute.” Bruce turned his attention back to Tim. 

“Please, feel free to come back inside or at least come find me later and let me know what I could do to improve my parties,” he joked, hand outstretched. “Alright?”

“Alright.” Tim gave him a smile and shook his hand again. “Thank you, Mr Wayne.” Without another word, Bruce got to his feet, shot Dick a look that Tim didn’t understand, and slipped past him to go back inside. 

“Tim, right?” Oh god, Dick was speaking to him. 

“Yeah.”

“It’s nice to meet you. You’re our neighbour? The closest house in that general direction?” Tim nodded, internally panicking. Oh fuck. Nightwing knew where he lived. “That’s pretty cool. I’ve never gotten the chance to meet our neighbours unless you count these parties but I don’t think I’ve ever talked to your parents before.” 

The tension was so palpable you could’ve cut it with a knife. 

Dick looked like he had so much to say, probably because the first and last time he laid his eyes on the boy in front of him, he was trying to kill himself but he couldn’t mention it because said boy wasn’t supposed to know that Dick was Nightwing. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. 

“How old are you? I think Damian’s around your age. He’s ten, almost eleven. Quite the menace, hardass, you know, but we still love him. If I could find him, you could meet him—“

“Thirteen. I turned thirteen about two weeks ago.” That did not ease the tension in the slightest. In fact, Dick sharply inhaled and looked away from Tim. 

“Sorry. You just… remind me of an old friend of mine.” He straightened up again and let out a nervous chuckle. “I should go, make sure Damian hasn’t blown up the punch bowl yet.” Tim was about to bid him goodbye when he felt a sob fight its way up his throat. He didn’t realise there were tears welling up in his eyes until they started falling and he reached up to frantically wipe them away because god, he would not cry in front of Nightwing—Dick again. 

“Oh, kiddo.” 

Why can’t he just leave—  

Instead of turning and walking back inside, Dick decided to step closer to Tim, cautiously, like he was approaching a stray cat before kneeling down. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Tim wanted to get up and bolt but he couldn’t with the rain coming down in big, fat drops. He buried his head in his knees, hands thrown over his neck. He couldn’t ruin his suit in the rain, his parents would kill him. So, he let Dick sit beside him, flinching when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Are you hurt? Tim—“

“Nightwing.” That was all he had to say. The illusion broke immediately. Dick started stuttering out some question, presumably something to do with how exactly he knew but Tim could feel a shift in the atmosphere. “On the bridge… I—“

“Oh my fucking god—“ when Dick’s arms wrapped around Tim, he swore he felt his heart stop for a moment. “You're alive. ” Tim had never heard someone sound so close to tears because of him after that night on the bridge but Dick had easily surpassed himself in that category. His voice broke as he whispered his name again, ignoring the way Tim tensed up in his arms. 

Tim tried to both stifle the sobs that fell from his mouth and keep his hands from embracing Dick but he failed in both categories, hands grasping the back of Dick’s dress shirt as he cried his eyes out into the man’s shoulder. 

Dick spoke so gently to him. There was no undercurrent of manipulation, just a voice that wanted nothing more than to comfort him. He pulled the boy into a closer embrace, one hand curled around his back, the other slowly carding through his hair as he whispered nothing but comforting words and thanks that the kid didn’t jump that night. Dick was much larger than he was. He fit in the man’s lap much like a kitten would; completely covered by Dick’s all-encompassing form. 

Why isn’t Dick yelling? Only children cry like this. 

“‘M sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry about?” Dick’s voice is soft. Tim likes it. 

“Getting tears on your shirt,” Tim mumbled. 

“It’s not a problem. Shirts are replaceable.”

Tim’s cries slowly subsided with the rain until they remained only as shaky breaths and the occasional sniffle. Dick spoke up again; still holding the boy close, he uttered a question, the question. “Are you doing better?” The boy’s silence was all he needed. 

No. No, I’m not I’m still so tired please help me—

“Do you have trouble sleeping, baby-bird?” Oh, gods. His heart fluttered at the nickname. 

“Yes.”

“Thought so. Let’s see if we can fix that. I’m going to pick you up, okay?”

“Okay.” Dick shifted beneath him, readjusting Tim in his arms so he could slip his arm behind the boy’s knees and around the back of his torso before standing up, holding him close to his chest. Dick strode into the ballroom, seemingly unnoticed as he moved into a formerly closed-off hallway and through another closed door. 

“You looked exhausted.” It was a statement, a very correct statement. “I’ll help you touch up your makeup before you have to leave. I’m guessing it’s not waterproof.” 

Tim didn’t even think about how awful he must look. Crying always did that to you, especially when you’re wearing under-eye makeup. 

He blinked and they were in a kitchen, a fairly large but very homey-looking kitchen that had various cooking utensils scattered across the counters. He was shifted in Dick’s arms so the man could hold him with one arm, the other reaching into a cabinet and pulling out a small box. He set it beside the sink and grabbed a mug from the opposite side. “Do you like tea?” Dick inquired as he flicked the water faucet on, turning the handle all the way down. 

Tim managed a quiet ‘yes’ and Dick nodded, filling the mug up with water from the faucet and then shutting it off. 

“That’s good. Everyone in this house loves tea, even Damian, mostly because he’s not allowed to have coffee until he’s at least thirteen but partially because Alfred makes tea to die for. Grows his own leaves to dry and everything.” Dick chuckled, opening the little box he took from the cabinet and pulling out a teabag. “Jason has trouble sleeping sometimes so we always have melatonin-infused tea around. It tends to help him most of the time.” 

Tim wanted to argue that ‘no, he didn’t want to go to sleep now. His parents would be upset but he was too tired to even open his mouth. 

He blinked again and then they were seated on a couch, him still in Dick’s arms, a mug held out in front of him. His nose was filled with unfamiliar smells, clashing with the now somewhat familiar scent of Dick’s cologne and the spiced orange tea in front of him. “Here, drink.” He reached out for the mug and slipped his hands around it, holding it to his lips. It was warm, warm enough to soothe the chill that had settled in his chest but not scalding, leaving his tongue unburned. As he drank, Dick tucked a blanket around his torso and curled up legs, his free hand gently carding through his hair. 

Tim had to resist the urge to lean into his hand. 

He didn’t know how long they’d been sitting there but he did try to finish all the tea in his mug and only got a little more than halfway through when he felt his eyes drooping… and then he felt panic. 

Dick quickly took the mug from him and set it aside. “It’s okay, baby-bird,” he murmured. “Just sleep. You need some rest, okay? I’ll protect you.”

That did little to soothe his anxiety because even Nightwing wouldn’t be able to keep his parents' wrath at bay. But, that was okay because he managed to fall asleep for the first time in a few days, in the arms of probably his favourite person in the world. 

~~~~~~~

“—parents are looking—“

“—wake him up—“

“—hasn’t slept in days. Leave him—“

“—Dicky, we have—“

“—can it, Jaybird. He’s awake.” 

Confused, Tim forced his eyes open, looking around with sleep-filled eyes and taking in his unfamiliar surroundings. He was about to jump to his feet when he felt hands wrap around his torso. Someone pulled him into their lap. 

“It’s okay Timmers. It’s just us.”

Us?

“We're in the Den, the living room. My dad and Jason are also here. Don’t panic, they just wanted to know where I went.”

“Dick—“

“Shut it, B. I’m not giving him back yet.” Dick’s hands pull Tim into a hug, despite his back being to the man. 

“Tim, please tell Dick to release you. Your parents just want to know where you are.” Tim tried to find his words, his mouth deciding it didn’t want to voice his thoughts. He just settled on letting out an almost inaudible grumble, hands grasping the blanket tucked around his shoulders. “What am I supposed to tell his parents?”

“Tell them to go fuck themselves,” Dick hissed. Tim didn’t really care. The man’s hand was in his hair, scratching gentle circles and just for that moment, he felt like he was in heaven. 

“Language, Dick.” 

“I’ll go talk to them, say Tim is throwing up in the bathroom or something.” Flamewing. He watched Jason walk out of the room. Bruce seemed to be sharing unsaid words with Dick, staring just above Tim’s head and pulling a face. 

“Kid probably thinks you’re glaring at him.” Dick chuckled, confirming Tim’s thought process. Bruce rolled his eyes and tossed something to the other man. 

“Go to the bathroom and help him clean up. I’ll help Jay stall his parents.” With that, Bruce was gone and Tim was left with Dick. 

Dick groaned and his hand finally left Tim’s head, the boy stifling a noise of displeasement. “Guess we should fix up your makeup. Think you can walk?” Tim nodded and Dick carefully stood up, placing him down on his own feet and steadying him when he swayed. “C’mon, kiddo.” Blanket now wrapped around his shoulders, Tim followed the man down another hallway and into a fairly large, half-bathroom. He was steered to the toilet and sat down on its closed lid, Dick digging around in the cabinet under the sink. 

“How long did I sleep for?” 

Dick straightened up, a washcloth in hand as he checked his phone. “About nine hours, give or take. It’s almost ten pm.” Wow. He turned the faucet on and stuck a finger under the running water. “How’re you feeling?”

Tim was about to respond when he heard light, running footsteps coming towards the bathroom. 

“Habibi! Get back here!” Bruce was yelling from down the hall, his footsteps heavier as he chased whoever down the hall. 

Dick was wringing out the washcloth when a kid with a black mop of hair skidded to a halt in the bathroom’s doorway, darting in just behind the man. It was Damian, panting a little and holding out a… knife? 

“Timothy Drake! Please take this dagger and stab your inferior parents!” Tim stared at him, bewildered as Bruce also joined them in the bathroom. 

“Please put the knife away. You’re going to scare Tim.” When Damian didn’t move, Bruce moved to snatch it away, Damian sidestepping him and holding the knife behind his back. “Habibi—“

“Dagger. Father, when one’s parents are inadequate, is it not customary to be rid of them?” 

Dick joined Damian at Tim’s side, crouching down beside him and holding up the washcloth. “Ignore them. Dami’s still adjusting to a ‘normal’ family. He grew up with a bunch of weirdos.” Tim cracked a smile. “I’m going to clean your face off a little before I put more makeup on. Close your eyes for me.” He obeyed, unconsciously flinching when Dick’s knuckles and the washcloth rested against his cheek. Dick was gentle as he wiped away dried tear tracks and now smudged concealer.

Tim tried to tune out Damian and Bruce’s ‘argument’ but when Damian said something along the lines of ‘why can’t we take him in?’, he tuned back in. 

“Dami, can we go speak in another room please?”

“No. I am staying with Timothy. I am protecting him.” The youngest Robin, Damian Wayne, was standing at his side, trying to forcibly gift him a knife to protect him. 

His heart hurt. 

“We can’t just take him from his family, Damian! He’s got parents!”

“Yeah, shit parents.” Dick snorted.

Bruce sighed, heavily. “Damian, don’t make me haul you out of here.”

“As if you could. No offence, Father, but I could kick your ass any day.” It was Tim’s turn to snort, biting back a laugh, even as he felt something cold pressing under his eyes. 

Damian let out a little yelp. 

“You can open your eyes now,” Dick said, hands pulling away from his face. Tim did so and took in the scene before him. Bruce was trying to grab the knife away from a very angry Damian, the boy hoisted up and under Bruce’s arm, frantically swinging the blade around. 

Tim took a quick glance in the mirror Dick held up for him, checking to make sure the dark bags under his eyes weren’t visible before turning his attention back to the child. “Damian! I’ll take the knife if you stop trying to stab your father.” Damian paused. 

“Dagger.”

“Yes, the dagger.” 

“Deal.” Much to everyone’s horror, Damian's hand shot out and he tossed the knife—dagger straight at him. Without thinking, Tim snatched it out of the air and… he didn’t feel any pain. 

He blinked. 

Oh, thank god. 

“You threw it handle first,” he said, staring down at the blade. 

“Of course I did. That way, if you did not catch it, it would have bounced off of your protruding hip bone and landed on that tile.” From his place still under Bruce’s arm, he pointed down to one of the bathroom floor tiles and rolled his eyes. “I am no idiot Timothy.”

“Just Tim. Call me Tim please.”

“Of course, Tim.” The dagger was actually incredible. The longer Tim stared at it, the cooler it became to look at. It was not a straight and completely smooth blade but it was very sharp and had some super cool carvings on it along with what looked like writing. 

“Protector,” Damian grunted, now standing beside Bruce and brushing invisible dirt off of his suit. “It says ‘Protector’ on it in Arabic because in the—my old family, it is customary to gift a handmade dagger to a new baby and it is said that the words on the blade will affect the baby.”

Tim squeaked. “Handmade?” 

New baby?

“Oh yes. When I met you, I could sense your parent’s inferiority so I made it for you.”

Bruce abruptly turned away from his quiet conversation with Dick. “Damian! What have I said about blacksmithing in the basement?”

“It was a necessity, Father! You said it yourself! Tim’s parents—“ a hand slipped over Damian’s mouth and he stopped, jerking the hand away and glaring at its owner. Dick. “Apologies. I will refrain from creating metal weapons in the basement and from speaking ill of Tim’s parents.” 

Tim’s thoughts were going absolutely wild. 

But, they were cut off when he heard Jason down the hall, purposefully speaking very loudly for them to hear. “Oh, Mr and Mrs Drake, there’s no need to worry! Tim’s alright, just a bit ill.” Bruce suddenly opened a door Tim originally thought was a closet and revealed a dimly lit hallway before he quickly urged Damian in, giving Tim an unreadable look as he shut the door behind himself. 

Dick placed a finger to his lips as he took the dagger from Tim’s hands, sticking it into one of the sink’s drawers just before he saw Jason in the doorway. His mother and father lightly shoved him out of their way, his mother frowning quite deeply. 

“I told you, you shouldn’t go around eating too much,” was all she said. He expected nothing else. 

His father piped up from her side. “We wanted to tell you that your mother and I are going with the Ryans to visit a dig site in Morocco. Mrs Mac will stop by in the morning. Feel free to leave whenever.” Before Tim could respond, they both turned and walked away, Jason staring after them in mute shock. 

“Did—“ Dick and Jason locked eyes, exchanging silent words before both looked back over to Tim. He was picking at a string on his pants when Dick handed the dagger back. “Your parents are still leaving you alone?” Tim looked up at Dick. 

“Yeah. They do it a lot,” he hummed, thumb running along the dagger’s leather-wrapped handle. 

“Alone?”

“Mrs Mac comes twice a week-ish.”

Jason suddenly spoke up. “Wait. Still? Dick. Did you tell him—“

“He figured it out.” Dick stepped across the bathroom and opened the fake-closet door, peering around inside. 

“He figured—Tim. How’d ya know?” Jason’s sounded almost exasperated, or maybe bewildered. 

“Hmm?”

“That Dick was…” Tim knew what the unsaid word was. Nightwing. 

“Quadruple somersault. Grayson and Nightwing are some of the very few ones able to do it.” 

“Figures Dick was the one to give us away,” Damian hissed, stepping back through the faux-closet door. “Father went back to the party. He heard Tim’s parents though and said that you are to stay here, at least for the night, no arguing.” Tim opened his mouth but Damian shot him a glare and he promptly closed his mouth. “No arguing. Also, he said desserts are out so we should go back.”

“Okay.” Tim stood up and then remembered he couldn’t exactly carry a dagger around with him at a charity gala. “What do I do with…” he absentmindedly waved the blade in his hand. Damian promptly grabbed his wrist and held it still as he slipped a leather sheath over the blade, quickly tying the strings dangling down it into a little bow. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Of course Tim.” Damian first tugged the blanket off of Tim’s shoulders, handing it off to Jason then he grabbed his free hand and started pulling. “Put the dagger in your pocket.” 

Tim obeyed and let Damian ‘drag’ him back to the ballroom, Jason and Dick following close behind them. The boy was right. A cake sat on one of the tables, half-eaten already and surrounded by various other desserts and people chatting to each other. Jason snatched up a plate of cake and after spotting Bruce, sauntered off in his direction, muttering something about ‘rescuing him from speaking to the Adessas’. 

Dick reached for a plate and stabbed a fork into it before offering it to Tim, eyes widening when he shook his head. “My parents wouldn’t be very happy,” he explained. 

“Fuck your parents. Eat the cake, baby-bird. It’s probably the best you’ve ever had.” Tim didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was the only he’d ever had. 

A look of satisfaction spread across Dick’s face as Tim took the plate without another word. He grabbed a plate for himself and gently steered Tim towards a small and empty table, Damian trailing behind them with his own plate in hand. 

When they were all seated and settled in, Tim picked up the fork and tentatively took a bite of cake, aware that Dick was peering over his shoulder, watching him intently. 

“Whatcha think?”

Tim chewed, brushing crumbs from the corner of his mouth. “‘S’good. Lot of sugar though.” 

“Sugar is fine in small quantities, like in a few slices of cake after a horrible ball, especially if you run around later and burn all the calories off.”

“Ha. You said ball.” Jason was back, sliding into the free seat beside Dick with his half-eaten plate of cake. 

Bruce took the final empty seat with a heavy sigh that only a single parent of three vigilante kids could make. “Language, Jason.” In all his pride and glory, Jason stuck his tongue out at his father. Chewing another piece of cake, this one with more icing on it, Tim caught Bruce’s eye and swallowed the bite. 

“My parents…?”

“Have left,” Bruce finished. “Alfred told me. No thirteen year old should be staying alone in a house so we’re keeping you here for a while. 

Tim’s face blanched. “I can’t—“ Damian grabbed his hand, squeezing gently. 

“I am not letting your parents even lay their eyes on you again. One day, Tim, you will understand.” 

Bruce sighed, reaching across the table and resting his own hand on top of Damian’s. “That’s enough, Damian. We appreciate it but it’s not kind to assume the worst of his parents. It just seems like they’re a little… misguided into thinking Tim is old enough to be left alone for weeks at a time.“ 

Tim tried to protest that, ‘he was old enough and responsible enough’ but Bruce didn’t want to hear it. 

“No kid under eighteen should be alone for weeks at a time. I wouldn’t even leave Dick alone for a month. He’d probably burn down the house.” Jason choked, failing horribly to suppress a laugh. 

“Hey! I have my own apartment!” Dick barked, pointing his fork at Bruce and waving it with a huff. 

Damian leaned closer to Tim. “He burnt down the kitchen once,” he whispered, pulling away with a smirk. 

Tim couldn’t stifle his gasp of shock fast enough.

His stay with the Wayne’s lasted only a day because his parents conveniently ‘forgot they had to be home to celebrate Tim’s birthday’. Everyone in the house knew that was a bold-faced lie but Bruce said nothing as Tim’s parents led him back to their car. 

There, he got a very stern talking (screaming) to and he couldn’t answer his father when he asked ‘why the fuck didn’t you leave?’ because neither wanted to believe that Bruce didn’t want him to leave. They promptly kicked him out of the car at the end of their driveway and left. 

They didn’t return from that trip for another two months. 

On the upside, he got all the Waynes’ phone numbers so that was cool. 

On the fifteenth of August, there was a knock on the front door and Tim stood on his tiptoes, peering through the glass. Jason freaking Todd stood on the front porch.

Tim unlocked the door and opened it. “Jason?”

“Hey, Timbo. Got something to show you.” Jason held up a notepad and gestured vaguely to the basket in his other hand, a wide grin on his lips. “Can I come in?” 

Tim was shocked dumb for a minute. After he got over the fact that Jason was standing on his porch, he nodded and stepped back to allow the man in. He led Jason into the living room, watching as he glanced around at everything, the smile slowly fading off of his face. He sat down on the couch and placed the basket on the coffee table, Tim standing on the opposite side of the table. 

“So…” he began. “It’s Damian’s birthday on the twentieth. Tater-tot is going to be eleven this year,” he hummed, flipping through his notepad and then handing it to Tim. “Me, Dick, Alfred, ‘n Bruce are throwing him a surprise party and we know he’d want you there.” 

Tim read the scribbles all across the notepad, none of the words on the lines. 

• Get Damian out of the house at 10am
• Zoo? Pet store? K̶i̶d̶n̶a̶p̶p̶i̶n̶g̶?
• Make Bruce and Timmers go with
• Lots of glitter
• Lots of streamers and shit
• Cat face birthday cake from that one bakery near the bank
• Make sure he has no weapons on him when he gets home
• Maybe keep bandages on hand if the surprise goes awry
• Don’t let Dick perform Shakespeare again

Tim glanced up from the notepad to see Jason pulling a paper-wrapped something, maybe a sandwich out of the basket. “Also it’s my birthday tomorrow and I wanted to know if you would come over for a little family thing. I mean, everything we do is a little family thing at this point but anyways. I don’t like having parties or anything for myself so we’re just going to make dinner together.” He tossed the sandwich to a shocked Tim. 

He wants me at his family dinner?

“You—“

Jason cut him off. “Yes, we want you there. Damian would probably throw a fit if we didn’t invite you.”

“No.” Tim shook his head. “You want me at your birthday dinner?”

“Oh.” Jason flushed and awkwardly looked away, hand scratching at the back of his head. “Yeah. You’re our baby brother now, Timber. Of course, I want you there.”

Baby brother. 

You’re their baby brother. 

Jason fucking Todd just called you his baby brother. 

“Hey hey hey, what’s wrong?” Tim hadn’t realised he dropped the sandwich and notepad until Jason picked them up, setting them on the coffee table. “Don’t cry Timmers. Shit, are you hurt? Oh, Damian’s gonna kill me—“

“‘M’okay. Not hurt,” Tim sniffled, reaching up to brush tears from his eyes. Jason knelt down beside him. Standing on his knees, he was almost the same height as him. “Jus’… you called me baby brother.” 

Jason’s hands gently gripped his shoulders. “Oh, I’m sorry. It just kind of slipped out. I didn’t know you didn’t like being called that—“

“No. It’s okay. I liked it. Didn’t expect it though. You’ve only known me a couple weeks.” 

Carefully, Jason drew him into a hug, arms wrapped around the younger boy’s chest. “Doesn’t matter. You’re family now.” Tim didn’t protest, he couldn’t. He just looped his arms over the man’s shoulders and hugged him back, a little sob fighting its way out of his mouth. “It’s okay, you’ve got us now,” Jason murmured, hand reaching up to pet the back of Tim’s hair. 

~~~~~~~

Tim did wind up agreeing to both parties. 

The sun was practically gone when they finally separated and despite his weak protests, Jason had decided to stay the night. After forcing Tim to eat the almost forgotten sandwich, he took the basket to the kitchen and placed its contents into the refrigerator (various sandwiches, a glass Tupperware container full of broccoli, and what looked like another container filled with cookies. That one was placed on the counter). 

When Jason returned to the living room, he had decided to lay down on the couch and pull Tim into his arms, refusing to let the boy get up. When Tim had grumbled something about being cold, he had pulled the blanket off of the back of the couch and tucked it around them both. Jason’s bicep was a nice pillow and as the man hummed some unfamiliar tune, Tim’s eyes drooped. He fought to stay awake but ultimately he lost and drifted off with Jason’s hand carding through his hair. 

~~~~~~~

Surprisingly, Tim woke up feeling the most awake he’d ever had before. It took a few minutes of prodding to wake Jason up. Turned out, the man snored, loudly, and slept like the dead, but Tim found himself not minding in the slightest. 

Jason ate a cookie for breakfast before Tim shooed him out with a quiet ‘happy birthday’, promising he’d be ready to be picked up by three pm and that he needed time to make a gift for the man. Jason seemed endeared by that and left without much complaint, hopping into his car and waving Tim goodbye. 

Tim decided he was going to use his less-than-perfected sewing skills to make a bird plush, one for Jason (and one later for Damian), inspired by their vigilante outfits. It took him about an hour to create a pattern for Jason’s and locate all of his sewing supplies (most of that time was allocated to redrawing various pieces of the pattern, trying to get them to fit together). 

Three hours later and with about six bandages to his fingertips, he had a lumpy, Flamewing inspired plush bird in his hands that most definitely didn’t have slightly lopsided bead eyes. 

Tim couldn’t help but laugh at it (then promptly straighten out the eyes). 

He found a little cardboard box and some shredded paper to place it in and wrapped a little fabric bow around it to keep it shut. 

Then, he got dressed and puttered around his room until he heard Jason knocking on the front door again. He knocked the same as he did the day previous. 

He grabbed the box and flew down the stairs, almost tripping on the last step as he leapt towards the door. 

Why was he so excited?

Because it was Jason fucking Todd of course. 

Duh. 

He unlocked the door and Jason was there, grinning down at him. “Hey Timbers. Ready to go?” Tim nodded eagerly and followed Jason out to his car, climbing into the passenger seat and clutching the present box in his lap. “Did you eat?”

Tim didn’t respond. 

Jason didn’t push but he did toss a granola bar to Tim, a little smile on his lips when Tim looked up at him. 

~~~~~~~

He felt awkward just standing in the Wayne’s kitchen. It was made better though by Damian, the boy standing, pressed against his side, and looking just as awkward as he felt. He had a tight grip on one of Tim’s hands and surprisingly, Damian’s hand trembled. 

“I… do not know how to cook,” the boy mumbled, so quiet that Tim struggled to hear him even though he was mere inches away. They were nearly the same height, though it seemed like Damian had an inch or two on Tim, or maybe he just held himself taller.

Nope. I’m just short. 

Tim groaned internally. 

“I've never cooked with other people before,” he admitted quietly, looking to Bruce as he entered the kitchen. “You did mention that Dick burnt down his apartment kitchen once. I guess he can’t cook either.” Beside him, Damian let out a little sigh of relief and his shoulders seemed to untense. “Have you guys never done this before?” Before Damian could respond, Dick stepped into the kitchen, sunglasses over his eyes and a large, cream-white box in his hands. 

“What’s up, gang?” He laughed, tugging off his sunglasses and placing the box on the counter. Jason walked up to him and playfully punched his shoulder before pulling the older man into a hug. 

“You’re late.”

“Shhhh. It’s okay, Birthday-Wing. I bought the best cake ever.” Bruce moved to peer into the box but got his hand gently slapped away. “It’s a surprise for later.” Dick picked it back up and placed it in the fridge. He then turned around and clapped his hands together. “So, what’re we making?”

Bruce shook out the few papers he had in his hand. “I got these recipes from Alfred.” He cleared his throat. “Chicken noodle soup and spaghetti carbonara.”

“Hey, those are my favourites!” Jason grinned, peering over Bruce’s shoulder at the recipes. 

“Probably why Alfred chose them.”

“I never told him they were my favourite.”

“He just knows,” Dick said, joining Jason and looking at the recipes. “He also went out and bought all the ingredients we need. Bruce, can you please start on the noodles?” Bruce was already way ahead of Dick’s plans, bag of uncooked noodles and a large pot in his hands. “Alright then. Damian, Tim, you two are in charge of cutting up two carrots, two celery stalks, and one onion. Dames knows where the cutting boards are. Jaybird, you and I will get everything else together, ‘kay?”

Everyone responded with a chorus of an excited “okay”. 

~~~~~~~

Tim had cooked by himself a few times, all within the past two years because he’d finally gotten the courage to steal one of his parents’ credit cards. They’d never noticed. Mrs Mac used to bring dinner for him every day but when that dwindled down to maybe twice a week, he felt like he had no choice. There was no food in the pantries, even when his parents were home (they went out to eat all the time). He couldn’t function if he didn’t eat at least once a day, didn’t have the energy to get out of bed. He had started stocking up on and storing non-perishable foods in a hidden slot in his closet (along with his camera). 

He was deep in his thoughts when he managed to nick the side of his thumb with the knife and after having Dick freak out on his behalf, he was escorted to Alfred via Bruce. The man carried him to what looked like Alfred’s office/room, fingers tightly gripping Tim’s thumb in an attempt to staunch the bleeding with a few paper towels. 

Once his thumb had been poked and prodded and carefully cleaned out, Alfred had concluded that he didn’t need stitches but he did get his thumb bandaged, very tightly, and Alfred made him promise he wouldn’t get hurt again that night.

Tim and Bruce made it back to the kitchen just in time to see Damian chucking pieces of onion at Jason, the younger’s eyes watering horribly. Tim thought for a moment that the boy had also hurt himself and panicked until he heard Damian shriek something along the lines of, “ Jason, you are my least favourite brother! I cannot believe you did not tell me onions had this much allicin in them!”

Turns out, Damian had never cut an onion before. Who knew?

Tim also learned that Damian was a vegetarian. 

While the chicken noodle soup was simmering and Jason was reading through the next recipe, Alfred emerged from somewhere and handed Bruce a pot that had chicken noodle soup but it was made with vegetable broth and had no chicken pieces in it. Damian’s face lit up when Bruce told him and then he gently bumped his forehead against the man’s bicep. Tim wasn’t quite sure what that meant but Bruce looked endeared by the action, reaching up to ruffle his youngest’s hair. 

Tim had watched Bruce do that a lot to his kids. 

He then shoved down the thought of how nice it would feel. 

While they were working through the next recipe, Tim and Damian watched Jason chop up little pieces of bacon. There were very few steps so Bruce, Jason, and Dick decided to take over, relegating Tim and Damian to the barstools. As he watched, Tim wondered whether or not he could snag a few tips from Alfred to make his cooking a little better. Maybe it would make him more interested in eating when he was by himself. 

Similar to the soup, a couple servings of pasta were heated separately from the bacon pan and Dick had also omitted the eggs from the sauce. 

Damian did not like eggs. 

At all. 

He told Tim he hated the taste and texture and occasionally the smell when he was feeling particularly overwhelmed. Tim could half agree. He ate a lot of egg whites but the yolk, eugh, he couldn’t stand it in any form unless it was completely mixed into the egg whites. 

Damian gave him a nod of approval when he said that all out loud. 

“Welcome to the neurodivergent gang, baby-bird,” Jason giggled from behind Tim, carefully looping his arms around the boy’s shoulders and hugging him. 

It took everything in Tim not to jump fifty feet into the air when he first felt Jason touch him. He didn’t like how it made his skin crawl even though he loved the physical contact. It made him feel warm and fuzzy, right underneath the anxiousness. 

Hang on, what’s neurodivergent? Neuro means brain; divergent means developing in a different direction.

“What’s neurodivergent mean?” Tim’s nose scrunched up. 

“Means your brain’s just wired differently, whether it be genetics or trauma. Jay’s joking though because he knows a lot of neurodivergent people that despise eggs, mostly for the smell.” When Tim’s nose didn’t unscrunch, confusion still present in his furrowed eyebrows, Dick went on. “baby-bat here,” he gestured to Damian with the spatula he had in hand. “Is autistic. Diagnosis officially boils down to ‘impaired’ communication but it can include a lot of other things. One of those is sensory sensitivities and his severe hatred for eggs. We’ve all got some form of PTSD. Not fun, don’t recommend.” 

“Oh. That’s…” he didn’t quite know what to say to that. 

What does someone say to that?  

“I’m sorry,” he quickly burst out, trying to think of something else to say. ‘I’m sorry’ was usually a safe choice. “What’s PTSD?”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder. It occurs when a person has trouble recovering from a traumatic event, can include anxiety, stress, depression, nightmares, and vivid flashbacks.” Dick noticed Tim’s grimace and gave him a gentle smile. “Not pleasant, but can be dealt with. Oh, and you’ve got nothing to be sorry about. Being curious isn’t a bad thing, Timmers. Hey, B. Watch out, I’m gonna bring the sauce over.” Picking up the bowl he was mixing eggs into, Dick made his way over to the stove where Bruce stood, stirring up a pot of spaghetti. 

“Tim, do you like bacon?” Jason asked, letting go of the boy’s shoulders to walk around the counter so he was now facing Tim and Damian. 

Did he? 

Tim shrugged. “I had it once. I think it was in another pasta dish when I went out with my parents.” Jason responded by tossing a piece of bacon in Tim’s direction before handing off the bowl of chopped bacon bits to Bruce. 

“Good?” He asked, giving the boy a thumbs up when he nodded back, still chewing. “Good. Timmers is good with bacon!” 

“Thank you, son. I’m right here.” Jason rolled his eyes at his father. “Dick, Dames, please set the table.” He then sidled up to Tim, claiming Damian’s now empty seat beside the boy. 

“Tim-Tam. How ya doin’?” Jason placed his arms on the bar counter then rested his head on his arms, looking up at Tim with a smile. “You look like you’re contemplating really hard.”

“M’good. Just… thinking.”

“About?”

“Jus’ stuff, I guess. Ya’know?” 

“Mmm. Fair enough, but you should start thinking about the awesome dinner we’re about to eat!” He ruffled Tim’s hair and jumped up again as Bruce carried one of the pots of pasta towards the dining room, Dick following close behind with the smaller pot of Damian’s pasta. 

“Come, Tim. Soup.” Damian appeared behind the boy and grabbed his hand, gently tugging until Tim slid off the barstool. Jason pulled bowls from the cabinet and handed one to Damian. 

“Do you like chicken noodle soup?” He asked Tim, holding out a bowl for him when he nodded. 

“‘S my favourite too,” Tim said quietly. 

Jason’s face lit up and he let out a little laugh. “Hell yeah! You’ve got impeccable taste in food, Timmy. Unlike Dicky-bird over there.”

Spaghetti carbonara was really good. He vaguely remembered the flavour and assumed it was because he’d had it before. It was a safe assumption. His parents had (somewhat reluctantly) brought him to a few fancy dinners before. 

Alfred’s recipes were just the best Tim had ever had and he wasn’t terribly reluctant to say that. The older man just smiled gently at him from across the table, a quiet ‘thank you’ falling from his lips after he swallowed a mouthful of soup.

After everyone had finished their soup and plates of pasta and broccoli, Alfred stood up and started gathering the dirty dishes. Dick, Jason, and Bruce were deep in conversation when Tim also started grabbing dishes. Alfred gave him another smile and walked with him back to the kitchen, taking the dishes from his hands to place them in the sink. Tim tried to reach for the dishwasher’s handle but Alfred stopped him. 

“There’s no need for that, young man. You’re a guest here. You don’t have to help clean.” He wanted to protest but Alfred continued. “Just take this into the dining room for me, please.” Alfred picked up the cake box that Dick brought earlier and placed it in the boy’s arms, adding some paper plates, candles, and a small lighter on top. 

“Yes, Sir!”

“Thank you.” 

Clutching it carefully to his chest, Tim carried the cake box into the dining room where Bruce took it from him and set it on the table. “Thank you, Tim. Now, Dick. Would you like to show us what cake you got for Jay-bird?”

“Of course I do!” Dick scrambled to his feet and moved to open the box before his family and Tim practically saw a lightbulb go off above his head. “Waitwaitwait! Jason, stand here and close your eyes,” Dick said excitedly, whipping his phone out. He handed it off to Bruce who took it without much fuss. 

Jason sighed but stood up. “I swear, if you push my face into it this time—“

“That’s not it. I promise. Please, just close your eyes.” 

Tim swore he heard Jason sarcastically grumble something along the lines of ‘the things I do for this family’ as he walked over to Dick, standing beside the closed cake box. He closed his eyes and Dick, with the excitement of a kid in a candy store, pulled the cake out. The box was discarded to the side and when Tim got a good look at the colours, he held back a snicker. 

It was Flamewing inspired, definitely, judging by the bright colours and the red stripe jutting across the top in the duo’s angular symbol.

Bruce’s reaction to the cake design was Tim’s favourite. He had a look of exasperation crossed with mild embarrassment for Jason and had resorted to cradling his head in his hands as he resisted laughter. 

Dick smirked at them. “You can open your eyes, Jaybird. 

Jason obeyed, and then he facepalmed, and then he inhaled and, “RICHARD DICKFACE JOHN GRAYSON-WAYNE, I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE AND I’M COMING FOR YOUR LEFT KIDNEY—“ he was cut off by the shutter-click of Dick’s phone camera, Bruce finally letting out a little chuckle as Jason’s face grew less red. “Betrayed by my own father and my brother, oh gods above, this is the end of me.” He pretended to swoon, falling backwards in a wonderfully performed stage fall, arms splayed out beside him. Damian and Tim were giggling quietly from their seats, watching the trio like they were at the theatre.“You’ve killed me! I’m dead!” He even stuck his tongue out to the side. 

“Jason is quite dramatic. I believe Richard has called him a ‘theatre nerd’,” Damian said, peering over at his still pretend-deceased brother. He shook his head and then reached for his father’s butter knife. “Would you like some cake, Tim?”

~~~~~~~

Jason is built like a brick wall if a brick wall was actually a wall of muscle. Basically, Jason is just very strong and muscle-y. Dick is much more lithe, slender, built for acrobatics as if it was in his blood, still strong as hell though. Tim only knew this well because he found himself curled up against both of them at some point. 

He was currently in Dick’s lap, the man’s arms sleepily hugging his body. Damian was pressed against his side and Jason against Dick’s, Bruce on Damian’s other side, more than half-asleep with a mug of soporific tea in his lap, courtesy of Alfred. 

The TV was quietly running through Treasure Planet again, the remote out of Tim’s reach. Everyone else was fast asleep. 

Tim couldn’t sleep. He’d always had trouble sleeping, even now, surrounded by warm bodies. He felt so loved and the sheer warmth that spread to his chest was almost enough to lure him to sleep. 

Almost.

Almost.

He tried, so hard. Last night, he’d been able to just doze off, Jason’s arms wrapped around him, but it seemed like it wasn’t going to work this time. 

Shifting in Dick’s arms, he turned his body so he could rest his head against the man’s shoulder, tugging the blanket up and over his shoulders. His eyes burned with prickling tears, so he sighed and settled back down, letting his eyes shut, even though he knew it would do nothing. 

If Dick felt a wet patch on his shoulder the next morning, he said nothing. 

Jason loved Tim’s present. 

It took up residence on one of his shelves, next to a framed family photo. 

He couldn’t help but smile every time he passed it. 

Dick definitely did not post a picture to his civilian Twitter that was just a picture of Jason facepalming beside his cake and the caption was definitely not ‘Happy birthday to the biggest Flamewing lover ever! Yes this is a callout post @Jason_T_Wayne’. 

“We should take the peacocks,” Damian said, eyeing the large-feathered birds as they walked towards the zoo’s entrance. It was his birthday and Bruce definitely looked like he would’ve given Damian a peacock. 

“I don’t think the zoo would appreciate us stealing their animals,” Tim mused. 

“As if they would notice. They just let the birds roam without a fence. See, that one nearly got hit.” Damian turned and nodded his head in the direction of one of the peacocks as a white van swerved around it and screeched to a halt at the head of the little cul-de-sac road. 

Suddenly, the back of the van opened and a man, the self-proclaimed Condiment King, shot out, cackling and wielding a weird, almost machine-gun looking device in his hands. 

“Oh. That’s not good,” Tim heard Bruce mutter, the man (probably unintentionally) roughly pushing both Tim and Damian behind himself.

“Is that the Condiment maniac?” Asked Damian, the boy peering around his father’s waist. “Father—“

“Boys, back up.” Bruce’s voice shifted to what Tim later deemed his “demanding Dad voice” (not to be confused with the demanding Batman voice) and he slowly started backing up, pushing the two behind him. 

The Condiment man was saying something as the van sped away and Bruce clearly did not want to hear any of it. He grimaced when the Condiment man started spraying a bright yellow liquid. 

“Is that… mustard?” Tim watched, nose wrinkled.

“Yes. Turn around and start moving.”

“To where?”

“Away.” Tim and Damian gave each other a look, turned, and obeyed Bruce’s command, walking swiftly away from the chaos, the man just behind them. 

When they heard people screaming, they stopped. Condiment man had turned his mustard sprayer onto a small crowd of people huddled behind a fat tree trunk and Bruce did not like that at all. “That’s really not good,” Bruce grumbled again. He stuck a hand into his inner jacket pocket and pulled something out, tossing it to Tim. “Damian, go and hide with Tim.”

“Is this a gun?” Tim shrieked, fumbling with and almost dropping the handgun-looking thing Bruce threw at him. 

“Tranquiliser gun, Tim. Usually nonlethal,” Damian answered. 

Usually? Oh dear. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Go, you two! Call Dick and Jason.” Bruce tossed Damian his phone. “Go!” Damian grasped Tim’s hand and immediately started running, tugging him along. 

It was utter chaos. Apparently, people weren’t too keen on getting drenched in mustard and no one could blame them. 

As Damian pulled him, Tim was surprised at how calm the boy seemed, even as he looked down at the phone in his free hand and typed something. His expression didn’t change when he pressed the phone to his ear. 

“The Condiment nutcase is threatening the wildlife. Please come and subdue him. I would like to see the otters today.” Damian paused, following the brick path they found themselves on and jerking Tim to the left. “And call the police and possibly an ambulance. Thank you.” Damian then stuffed the phone into his pocket and stopped, Tim almost losing his balance in the process. They were standing in an empty courtyard, unoccupied food stalls standing open. 

“Damian.”

“Yes?”

“Isn’t it strange that Condiment King showed up at a zoo of all places?” 

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Continue your thought process.”

“I mean, he likes to garner attention and this zoo is huge but it’s not going to be as crowded nor as publicised as downtown Gotham would be. Do you think it’s a coincidence that he showed up when we did?” 

Something is wrong. This is wrong. What is he missing—

Damian’s hand tightened on Tim’s. “Give me your dagger,” he demanded, head turning and eyes darting around. “You are carrying it in your bag, yes? Father made me leave my weapons at home.” Tim handed Damian the tranquiliser gun and pulled his bag open, hands shaking as he extracted the dagger he was just gifted. He exchanged it for the tranquiliser gun and Damian held it out. “Get behind that counter.” He let go of Tim’s hand and pointed to the food stall behind them.

Tim was rooted to the spot. If Damian was suddenly on edge, then he was probably correct. But who—Damian’s elbow roughly nudged his shoulder and he snapped out of it, stepping backwards until he was next to the food stall's closed door. Damian had his back to him, slowly backing closer, the boy’s head whipping around as he looked everywhere, searching for something. Tim stepped into the food stall, unable to take his eyes off of Damian. 

Someone, he was searching for someone.  

“Damian—“ Damian shushed him, closing the door behind Tim and standing in front of the food stall's service bar, dagger outstretched. 

“Whoever is out there, show yourself!” He hollered, ear suddenly twitching. “Show yourself, cowards!” Tim jumped when he heard two loud thumps on top of the food stall's roof. 

“Once again, the Demon’s Heir never fails to impress,” a voice hissed, Damian whirling around, his front facing Tim as he looked up. 

A black-clad figure landed beside Damian, glaring down at him. “Protecting the Detective’s spawn we see. How cute.” They turned their head and stared at Tim, smirking when they locked eyes. 

Tim couldn’t help but stare back. He watched as Damian bent his knees and settled into a offensive position, dagger poised and ready as his eyes darted between the roof and the figure standing before him. 

“Feisty little thing.” A second figure landed beside the other, the two of them watching Damian back against the food stall's serving bar. “We’re merely here to observe but Ra’s never said anything against a little spar. What do you say, Demon Heir?” Tim did not like watching both figures pull long, thin swords from their backs nor did he like the grimace on Damian’s face when he looked down at the dagger. 

“Did Ra’s never tell you you shouldn’t bring a knife to a sword fight?” Both figures cackled and Damian let out a little huff. 

“Ra’s told me not to talk down to others unless I plan on backing it up with a blade. Shame he never mentioned that to you.” 

Tim blinked and suddenly Damian was launching himself at the two, dagger slashing through the air. He’d watched Robin fight many times before but now he was watching Damian Wayne fight and he could see the differences. 

Damian aimed to kill. He went for their throats, eyes, biceps, and thighs with the dagger and it made Tim feel… scared? intimidated? protected?

Whoever these people were, Damian didn’t want to fuck around and find out why exactly they were there and quite honestly, Tim was there for it. As he watched, he clutched the tranquiliser gun to his chest, knuckles white with how tight he gripped onto it. 

The two figures together were a fair match for Damian, avoiding major injuries while failing to injure him further than a few punches to his stomach and back. The closer he looked though, he could see that his dagger Damian wielded and the potentially-fatal-but-failed strikes were only for show. He only truly understood Damian’s goal when the first figure dropped like a bag of rocks, free of any major wounds. 

The vagus nerve is the longest cranial nerve. Vagus nerves regulate heartbeat and breathing among other things and are critical to the parasympathetic nervous system. When compressed, you can feel faint, breathless, and dizzy. When struck well with any force behind it, the person is almost surely going to pass out, even if it’s for a moment.  

Damian hit the person with a vagus nerve strike. 

Ouch. 

“Tim! Tranquilise him!” Tim jerked his head towards the currently unmoving figure, not wanting to take his eyes off of Damian and the other’s dangerous dance. 

“Gotcha!” He fumbled with the tranquiliser gun but without hesitation, pointed it to the downed and now stirring figure. When he pulled the trigger, he half expected a regular bullet to come flying out faster than he could see but Damian was right. A small, slower-moving-than-a-bullet dart shot out and embedded itself in the figure’s arm, right where Tim aimed for. 

The other person probably had it a little easier. 

All Damian did was land a good punch square in their solar plexus and they were stumbling backwards, probably winded as Tim readied the tranquiliser gun and without the younger’s command, fired, hitting the other figure’s arm in the same spot. It took a good minute of them swaying for them to collapse, still not fully unconscious but definitely not aware enough to fight. 

Tim straightened back up, peering over the counter at a heaving Damian. The other boy was staring down at one of the figures’ chest, where a circular symbol sat. “Damian? Are you okay?” asked Tim as he clambered over the food stall's serving bar and moved to stand beside Damian. 

“My grandfather.” He pointed to the symbol and pursed his lips. “Do you have zip ties?” 

Tim did have zip ties. Damian didn’t bother to ask why, just took a few and bound both figures’ wrists to their necks and then their ankles to nearby picnic tables. He tossed their swords and other weapons he found on them onto a further picnic table then handed back Tim’s dagger, not a spot of anything on its blade. Tim quietly thanked him, sheathing it and stowing it and the tranquiliser gun away. When he slipped his bag back onto his back, he was not expecting Damian to launch himself and wrap his arms around Tim’s shoulders, burying his face against the side of the older boy’s head. 

“Damian?” 

“Shh. Just… I was just concerned that you would get injured.” Tim’s heart clenched. He pulled Damian closer to him and when he felt the boy’s body tremble, breathing still heavy, he hugged him tighter. 

“Hey, you’re shaking.” He slowly knelt in the grass, bringing Damian down with him.

If Tim felt warm tears on his neck, he said nothing. 

It took Damian a few minutes of sniffling to loosen his grasp on Tim’s shoulders, pulling away as he wiped his eyes. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Talk to me, Damian. What’s going through your head?” Tim’s hands stayed on the other’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

“My mother and grandfather trained me to be the best but you have had no training. If one of them went after you—“ Damian got choked up and stopped. He leaned back into Tim’s arms, head pressed against his chest and Tim laid his arms over his back. 

When Tim heard multiple footsteps running towards them, he felt Damian tense up in his arms, the boy ready to jump up and defend him again. It was a voice calling out both their names that made him stop. 

Bruce was yelling out for them, and Tim didn’t have it in him to yell back. Thankfully, Damian did. He straightened up, grasping onto one of Tim’s hands, and called out for his father. 

“Oh my god—Damian! Tim!” Bruce rushed towards them, Nightwing and Flamewing following close behind. He knelt down beside them both, a hand on each of their shoulders as his eyes darted towards the two restrained and sort of conscious figures laying off to the side. “Are you two okay? What happened?” 

Flamewing went over and kicked one of the figure’s knees, Nightwing standing beside him and glaring down at them. 

“We—I was attacked. They were sent by Grandfather to watch us but decided they wanted to spar with me. I took them down and Tim tranquilised them,” Damian explained, Bruce nodding along slowly. 

“Are you hurt, Dames?”

“Tt. I should feel insulted that you think I would let them hurt me.” He couldn’t keep the small, affection-filled smile off his lips. “I am alright. Thank you, Fa—Dad.” Bruce reached up and gently ruffled Damian’s hair. 

“He took a few punches,” Tim piped up, getting a glare from Damian. 

“At least someone’s honest with me.” Bruce chuckled, standing up and holding both his hands out to help them up. “Tim, did they hurt you at all?” 

Tim shook his head. “They didn’t touch me. I was hiding behind the counter there.” He pointed behind himself, towards the food stall. 

“Good. Nightwing, Flamewing, you good?” The two were hoisting the figures over their shoulders, their weapons in hand. 

“All good! We’ve got it taken care of.” Nightwing shot Bruce a thumbs up before they both darted off. 

The remaining trio brushed dirt and grass off of their clothes, Damian immediately latching back onto Tim’s hand when he straightened up. 

“So… maybe we should go somewhere else.” Bruce pulled his phone out, swiping around the screen for a moment before stowing it away again. “The zoo is staying open but—“

Damian gently rubbed his eyes then pursed his lips, reaching for his father’s hand as well. “No buts. I still would like to see the otters.” 

“Alright then. Lead the way, kiddo.”

They did get to see the otters. After the zoo’s employees recovered, they started wandering around. When they found the otters, Damian excitedly spoke to Tim about the Eurasian otter, also called the Lutra, going as far as to mention the average basal metabolic rate (whatever that was exactly). He would then turn to Bruce and it made Tim’s chest feel warm as he watched Damian speak quietly in another language to Bruce, hands gesturing wildly. 

When they moved on to see other animals, Damian told Tim all sorts of fun facts about them all and Tim was incredibly impressed that he knew all that. Some of those included lions are six times more light-sensitive than humans, capybaras are actually the largest rodent and sometimes other smaller animals use them as moving chairs, capuchin monkeys can run up to thirty-five miles per hour, European turtle doves migrate for about 6,800 miles, and that snake babies are officially called snakelets.

To be completely honest, Tim felt endeared. It was nice to just listen to Damian speak and each time he looked over at Bruce, it seemed like the man felt the same way, a small, affectionate smile never leaving his lips. 

Sometime around noon, they ate the sandwiches they brought and then Damian eagerly led the other two towards the insect building. He was incredibly knowledgeable on all the insects too, especially the ones that could kill you. 

When he was running after a butterfly in the butterfly garden, Bruce offhandedly mentioned that Damian was taught the properties of fatal insects by his grandfather, as if it was a normal thing in most families.

Tim was starting to wonder who the hell Damian’s grandfather was. The two attackers had called him “Demon’s heir” and had mentioned someone named Ra’s but those names meant nothing to Tim. 

“Tim! Look!” Damian shouted, and for a moment, Tim’s heart rate spiked, fearful that Damian was being attacked again. When he looked over, he calmed down. 

The boy was giggling, butterflies crawling around on his head and outstretched arms. 

Tim looked over to Bruce and smiled when he saw the man was using his phone to take pictures of his son. “He’s got such a penchant for all creatures but I think they love him even more.”

Tim watched as another butterfly landed on the tip of Damian’s nose and the boy turned back to him. “Tim! Did you know that butterflies like to drink blood? It can help boost their sodium levels!” Delightful. 

“Sometimes he scares me.” Bruce sighed, tucking his phone away again. He strode towards his son, the butterflies scattering when he got within three feet. A very uncharacteristic pout appeared on Damian’s face and he waved to the ceiling, probably towards the butterflies. Hopefully towards the butterflies.

Tim jumped when he noticed bright orange wings flapping in front of his own face. 

“Oh! Did you know that monarchs fly up to 3,000 miles during migration?” Damian was standing in front of him again, staring at the large, monarch butterfly perched on Tim’s nose. 

“That’s really cool, Damian.” The boy gave him a grin and reached a finger out to Tim’s nose, the butterfly crawling onto it. 

“Many cultures have myths saying that butterflies are the souls of people as they move on or that are too restless to move on.” Damian’s arm stretched towards the ceiling and the butterfly flapped away. “My mother said they were childish myths.” The grin on his face faded a little, the boy’s eyes going a little unfocused for only a moment. 

Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder and that seemed to jerk him out of it. “What have we said about your mother?”

“She was not a very good judge of anything.”

“That’s right,” Bruce said as he reached out to ruffle Damian’s hair. 

“Does that mean she chose wrong when she had intercourse with you?”

The gasp of absolute and utter betrayal that Bruce let out was enough to have Tim clutching his side in pain as he laughed. 

~~~~~~~

As their car rolled up to Wayne manor, Damian, being very concerned, took note of all the dark windows and asked Tim for his dagger again. It took Bruce five minutes to convince him everything was okay and that everyone was probably in the basement. Even then, Damian had Tim stand behind him and Bruce as they stepped through the garage door that led into the room just before the kitchen, just in case. 

“Alfred usually leaves the kitchen lights on,” commented Damian, the boy pushing open the door leading to the kitchen. “Father, if Tim gets injured, you and I are going to have a very angry conversation—“

The shriek of surprise and then a long strand of what Tim assumed were curse words in a different language that Damian let out when he flicked on the kitchen light will forever be imprinted in his mind, filed under favourite memories. 

Turns out, Jason failed to mention that the glitter and streamers were going to be inside of one of those party poppers (a thankfully silent one), a large party popper and that it would be aimed at the trio when they walked in. Tim only knew because one moment he was watching Damian step cautiously into the room and the next, Dick and Jason were absolutely losing it as Damian tried to brush extremely-fine glitter and paper confetti out of his hair. None of it got in anyones’ eyes but Damian and Bruce definitely got the brunt of it, Tim sheltered by Bruce’s much larger frame. 

“Surprise!” Jason and Dick both cackled, doubled over in laughter as Damian strode over to them.

“Don’t hurt them too much, habibi,” Bruce joked, Tim stepping around him so he could witness the youngest throw hands with his brothers. 

Curiously, that was not what happened. 

The two were probably expecting Damian to start wailing on them like Bruce and Tim had expected but when the youngest leapt up and wrapped his arms around Dick’s shoulders, Dick didn’t resist. “Whoa there, baby-bat. Careful, you might break my collarbones,” he joked, wrapping his arms around Damian and hoisting him into his arms. Damian then reached one of his arms over to Jason and pulled him close as well, hugging them both. 

“Well, that’s not what I expected,” Bruce mused, watching his trio of sons with adoration glinting in his eyes. 

Tim shifted his stance beside the man and watched as well, a smile on his lips as he thought about how it would feel to know that someone looked at him like he was lovelier than the world. He suddenly let out a yelp, Bruce’s arm now slung over his shoulders. He was pulled to the man’s side, subconsciously relishing in the warmth it brought. “You uh… don’t have to…” Tim said weakly, looking up at the man. 

“I know.”

~~~~~~~

“We got baby-bat’s favourite pizza! Margarita with…” Dick's mouth drew into a thin line, mock disapproval across his face. “French fries to put on top. Little weirdo.”

Tim’s mouth pulled into a line, mirroring Dick’s as he resisted the urge to laugh. “Damian, what the fu—” he was cut off by Bruce giving him the side-eye. Damian just shrugged at him, joining Dick at the oven where the pizza boxes and fries were stored and kept warm. 

“We’ve also got regular cheese pizza, pepperoni, and just plain tomato pie in case you’re not a fan of cheese pizza,” Jason piped up, coming back to Tim’s side with paper plates in his hands. “Hey, B. Did you wind up finding ‘The Emperor’s New Groove’ ? Dames hasn’t seen it yet.”

“It’s in the Den, Alfred brought silverware for Dames.” Bruce took the three pizza boxes and the plates from Jason and strode off towards the Den, Damian following close behind with a paper bag full of fries. Jason carried a pitcher of water and some red solo cups and he too disappeared into the Den, Dick lingering behind with Tim. 

“Tim-Tam, my little man, how’re you doing? You’re looking rather tired.” He rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder, squeezing gently when he felt him tense up. “You okay?”

“Just tired.” Dick didn’t seem convinced but nevertheless, he pulled Tim into a quick hug and then guided him to the Den. 

The pizza was pretty good and he got to see Damian's strange ‘ritual’ for eating pizza (according to Jason, he did it every time). Damian would slice his pizza into smaller triangles, chop off the crust and eat it, then make little sandwiches out of the triangles and the fries. Tim just supposed that that was one of his idiosyncrasies. 

The movie was also good, pretty funny, and definitely catchy. 

“Pull the lever, Kronk—Wrong lever!” kept echoing in his brain. 

Once again, Dick knew all the songs but this time, opted to just quietly sing along because he ‘wanted Damian to hear the awesome music’. 

Tim thought he might’ve wanted to watch that movie in the first place just so he could sing along and recite every line. 

By the end of the movie, Damian was gently bobbing his head to the music as the end credits rolled. Bruce had disappeared off to the kitchen with the pizza boxes in hand, right when the last line was uttered. Dick waved it off, telling the trio that he was grabbing the cake.

“You got me a cake?” Damian asked, looking genuinely surprised. 

As Damian was beside him, Dick pulled the boy into his lap, hugging him tight despite the grumpy expression on his face. “Of course we did, baby-bat! We got you one last year, didn’t we?”

“Yes, but I assumed it was just because it was my first year here.”

“You’re getting a cake every year.”

“Really? Even when I am fifty?”

“Especially when you’re fifty?”

“Cheesy.”

“I know. It’s my job as a big brother.” Tim watched as Jason rolled his eyes before laying himself over Dick’s knees, a groan of discomfort coming from his mouth when Damian kicked his legs out and plopped them square on Jason’s chest. 

“Then it is my job as the youngest brother to piss you off.”

“Dames, I don’t think that your short-ass could even piss off a horsefly.”

“You take that back, you fucking—“

“Boys.” A shiver ran up Tim’s spine. Bruce had returned, a cake box in his hand. “I can’t leave you alone for one second, can I? Such aggressiveness.”

“Much wow.” He heard Jason whisper-giggle. 

Bruce let out his Tired-Dad-Sigh. “I swear, you guys take twenty years off my life.” He placed the cake box down on the coffee table. 

Tim was… confused. 

Why is Bruce not yelling? If he’s upset, shouldn’t he be expressing that—

“Timber, you okay?” He jerked his head up, Dick’s hand on his shoulder. “You’re staring at the table like it murdered your family.”

Family, this is a strange family.

“Yeah.” He cracked a smile. “I’m fine. Just havin’ a moment.” 

Dick, once again, did not look convinced. His face got all serious. “Tims, you know you can talk to us, right?”

Weird.

“I know. Nothing’s wrong, promise.” Tim reinforced his smile and Dick nodded in return. He felt Dick’s hand leave his shoulder and move to the top of his head, fingers running through his hair a few times. 

He watched Bruce pull the tape off of the cake box, the four of them leaning forwards to better look at the design as he pulled the lid off. 

“Oh, it turned out so well!” Dick exclaimed, laughing when he noticed the faux-grumpy look on the youngest’s face. 

“Is that… a cat?” Tim asked, despite knowing the answer. 

It was a cat… ‘s face, a cat-face cake, coloured like a calico. 

“It’s a lemon-flavoured cake with swiss meringue buttercream. Dames’ favourite cake combo, for some reason,” Jason added, grunting when Damian lifted his legs up and dropped them back on the man’s chest. “You’re gonna leave a bruise.”

“Cry about it.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose but smiled a little. 

“Dad’s gonna be crying about it.”

“Dad loves you all very dearly but he would appreciate it if you didn’t bruise each other.” Bruce picked up the lighter and a singular, giant birthday candle, one that Jason probably suggested. “Damian, would you like to do the honours?”

The trio untangled themselves, Damian scooting onto the floor. He took the candle and said, “do we have to eat it? He is too cute.”

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Dick grumbled, reaching for the pie… errr, cake server.

~~~~~~~

Damian was just joking, as Tim thought. 

Five seconds after Dick picked up the cake cutter, Damian stabbed the candle into the centre of the cat’s face and reached for the lighter. 

He was not allowed to light the candle. 

The cake was actually really good, Tim thought, and Jason certainly wasn’t complaining as he ate his piece. Alfred had even appeared to sit down and eat some cake, bringing with him a photo album that Damian very much wanted to not be seen. 

Apparently, going through all the photos they had during one’s birthday was a family tradition and the only reason they didn’t do it for Jason was because the photo albums mysteriously went ‘missing’ for the day.

It was rather suspicious but Jason said he didn’t know where they were so…

An hour later, Bruce had carried all the remaining plates and silverware to the kitchen as his kids and Tim watched an animal documentary (it was about birds, different types of robins to be specific). 

When Bruce returned, Damian scrambled off the couch and promptly latched onto his father’s shoulder, pulling himself up so he could cup a hand around Bruce’s ear, his own ears flushing as he whispered something. 

“Mmhmm, I think that’s doable, habibi.” Bruce grinned, reaching an arm around so he could scoop his youngest into his arms. “Tim. Would you like to sleep with us in my bed? We’re having a cuddle night as per Damian’s request.”

Tim contemplated for a minute, then agreed. 

And that’s how Tim learned that Damian slept like a corpse, literally laid the same way someone would be placed in a coffin: on his back, pin-straight, with his hands laid loosely across his chest. 

After pulling on pyjamas and brushing their teeth, all five of them clambered into Bruce’s bed, Bruce laying down in the middle, Dick and Jason on his left side, Damian and Tim on his right. Bruce laid down on his stomach and once Damian was settled in his unsettling position, he rested an arm over the boy’s shoulders before mumbling a quiet ‘good-night’ to everyone. Dick and Jason responded with a chorused ‘night’ and Tim made a noise akin to a sigh of satisfaction. 

Unlike the past four nights, sleep came easy and Tim nearly cried when he felt his eyes droop and his mind haze with sleep. It was pure bliss, and as he drifted off, he could’ve sworn he felt a large hand gently carding through his hair. 

The rest of the summer passed by without much incident. His parents weren’t around much but he did have Damian, Dick, or Jason pop in every once in a while with the claim they wanted to just ‘hang out’ but in reality, he knew they wanted to make sure he was okay, it was expected, but nevertheless, it made him melt. 

A few times, he went out with his camera. They never saw him, but he had a few close calls. 

He was good at hiding. 

What he was not expecting was for a car to pull up beside him as he biked his way to his first day of high school. He stopped, cautious as he craned his neck to try and see through the windows’ tint, hand inching into his bag and grabbing the handle of the dagger Damian gave him (he couldn’t help but carry it with him everywhere). The passenger window rolled down and he met piercing green eyes. 

“Damian?”

“Good morning, Tim.” Damian had a ceramic mug in his hand, the strings of a few tea bags hanging out of it. Just past him, Bruce leaned forwards and smiled at Tim. 

“Need a ride?” That’s when he realised Damian was wearing the same uniform as Tim had been for years: white shirt, dark blue blazer, Gotham Academy’s golden and emblazoned crest, and a similarly dark blue tie with two white stripes slanting across it. Tim’s hand let go of the dagger and he rezipped his bag up. “Damian decided he wanted to enrol in the same school as you and who am I to deny him?”

“Father lies. I enrolled myself and he only found out last night,” Damian deadpanned, taking a sip of his tea. “Ra’s always said that school was a ‘terminological inexactitude and a blunder’ so I took it upon myself to use the money I stole from him to pay for an education. I hope he gets put in a grave soon so he can roll in it.” Tim had to bite back a snort because Damian looked incredibly serious. 

Bruce reached over and ruffled Damian’s hair, earning a glare from the boy. “What he said. Anyways, would you like a ride? We’re going to stop for breakfast on the way.” 

Tim had to pause for a minute, debating with himself. He could go with them but that felt like intruding, didn’t it? I mean he was invited but that’s typically just a nicety and people that invite him anywhere don’t actually want him there—

“You’re not intruding, Tim, and we’re inviting you because we want to, not because it’s what’s expected of us.” He didn’t realise his mouth fell open until Bruce chuckled. 

“How—“

“You and Jason are quite similar it seems.” The car shut off and Bruce climbed out, the trunk opening. “Come on. Damian talks about you endlessly, he misses you.”

“It’s been a week!” 

“I’m well aware. He won’t be happy until he can lay eyes on you at least once a day, hence…” Bruce gestures vaguely to Tim’s uniform. “School. So, what do you say?” 

Nervously, Tim looked up at Bruce’s eyes, trying to gauge if he was lying but then he realised he didn’t know what Bruce’s tells were for lying like he did his parents so he averted his gaze again. “I… Yes, I would like to join you.” 

“Excellent! Let me get your bike for you.” 

Tim pulled his bag out of the front basket and watched as Bruce effortlessly picked his bike up and slid it into the trunk before shutting it. Bag dangling off one of his shoulders, he stood there until Bruce opened one of the backseat’s doors. That’s when he realised the man was very serious about this. 

Unable to say no, he climbed into the car, thanked Bruce for opening the door and set his bag on the seat. Bruce climbed back in, shut the door, and started the car again. 

Tim had buckled his seatbelt in when he spared a glance up and saw Damian’s eyes looking back at him, a curious and almost concerned expression on his face. “‘S’wrong?”

Damian pointed to his own cheekbone. “You have a bruise.”

Tim’s hands flew to the spot just under his eye where his apparently shitily-covered bruise sat. 

“You have a bruise on your face? What happened?” Bruce quickly asked, looking back at Tim through the rear-view mirror and squinting, probably trying to search for the bruise he somehow missed. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Tim. I want to take a look. Please, just tell me.” Tim clutched his bag to his chest and slumped down in his seat. 

“I… I uhhh… embarrassingly, I fell into my door.” Damian raised an eyebrow. “I tripped on some clothes in my room and fell.”

…

“You are a horrible liar, Tim,” the boy declared, reaching a hand back to gently pat Tim’s knee. “We will work on that.”

“Damian, no—“

Because Tim was in high school and Damian was in middle school, they shared only one class: a study hall on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fortunately, they were able to eat lunch together most days. On most mornings, Bruce would pick Tim up before school. He’d take Tim and Damian to get some breakfast then drop them off at school with a ‘love you two!’. On the rare occasion his parents were home, Tim would bike to school as if nothing was different because he knew his mother would lose it if she found out he was slacking on his exercise. 

Tim had found himself looking forwards to time spent with the youngest Wayne. Whether it was the ridiculous stories he told about Dick and Jason or just his protective presence, Damian never failed to make Tim’s chest feel warm. 

It wasn’t love, not the romantic-attraction-type at least, more of a brotherly I-would-murder-for-you-without-hesitation kind of love which was good because for a split second one day, while he was in the shower, he had the horrible thought that maybe he had a crush on Damian and it made him feel a little sick. 

Luckily, he came to his senses a moment later when he remembered you can love friends and see them as family and be all touchy-touchy without romantically loving them. That soothed his racing heart. 

They liked to eat lunch in Mr Hank’s classroom together, mostly because the teacher was never there and no other students ate there. Over the past two months, they’d gone from awkwardly sitting side to side at one of the desks to turning their chairs to face each other, Tim’s legs always propped up on Damian’s lap. Tim had placed one of his legs in Damian’s lap one day as a joke but the younger boy just patted his ankle and left it there, much to Tim’s surprise. 

Now, it was customary for Damian to hoist the other’s legs onto his lap before eating. They never spoke about it, just gave each other a little nod of approval as they sat down to eat. 

“Richard and Jason are hanging out at the apartment in Blüdhaven. They like to stay there every once in a while when there’s a lull here so they can, you know.” Damian threw a few weak punches to the air, cursing when a piece of lettuce flew out of his sandwich. “That was unintentional,” he muttered, picking the lettuce up off the table and tossing it towards the trash can. 

Sandwich finished, he had been explaining the two older men and their tendencies towards being annoying, arms flying in exaggeration when he accidentally whacked Tim’s shin, words in a language Tim didn’t understand falling from the boy’s lips. 

“Sorry. I did not mean to—“

In a split-second decision, Tim leaned over and playfully (and very lightly) punched Damian’s shoulder. He was half expecting Damian to freak out or something or maybe yell but he didn’t. He did, however, reach over and pinch the skin on the back of Tim’s hand, much to the boy’s annoyance. 

“Excuse me, I don’t appreciate that very much,” Tim grumbled, despite the smile on his face as he leaned over again and grabbed the back of Damian’s hand in the most uncomfortable way he possibly could, squeezing. 

Damian rolled his eyes. With his free hand, he grabbed Tim’s other wrist and guided his hand to the boy’s face, gently smacking Tim’s palm against his own cheek. 

“Tim.”

“Yeah?”

“You are my favourite brother.” If anyone asked, Damian would’ve said that Tim had not cried after hearing that but, that would be a lie.  

“You’re looking…. fatter,” Tim’s father pointed out as he stepped in through the front door on Saturday. It’s been a few weeks since he’d seen them. They were back for the night. 

His mother was in a mood, as usual. 

“Timothy, what the hell?” 

Tim flinched. 

He did notice that his uniform pants seemed ever so slightly tighter but he chose to ignore it, swapping them out for a bigger pair at the school’s uniform exchange. He rarely wore other clothes anyway. 

“I’m… I know,” he mumbled, averting his eyes from his parents’. His mother stared at him, her eyes raking across his sweatshirt and sweatpant-covered frame. He didn’t even know how his father could see the weight he gained, his sweat clothes were always incredibly loose. 

His father sighed dramatically and moved for the stairs. “Janet, take care of this. I’m going to bed.” 

His mother walked slow circles around him, almost like a predator. “Timothy, how much are you eating?”

“I’m—I’m not eating any more than usual,” he lied. He was finally eating a decent breakfast and lunch, snacks in between meals (courtesy of Damian) and a good dinner if Bruce invited him or sent him home with something which he usually did.

His mother was still staring at him, trying to intimidate him into cracking. “You’re visibly fatter, even under those baggy clothes of yours. How much do you weigh? Don’t say you don’t know.”

Tim didn’t say anything, just looked away from his mother.

“Get in the bathroom and get on the fucking scale.” When he didn’t move right away, his mother rushed towards him, seized his upper arm, and dragged him towards the bathroom. As Tim’s breathing quickened, his mother kicked the scale on and pushed him onto it, releasing his arm for the quick second it took to register. “ Seventy-five? You weighed sixty two months ago! I’m going to have to tell Mrs Mac to stop bringing you dinner. This is absurd Timothy.”

Tim didn’t say anything. His eyes were burning with unshed tears for reasons he didn’t want to address. 

His mother sighed heavily and exited the bathroom, telling him to ‘go and grab our suitcases from the car’ as she walked away. 

When she was out of view, Tim let a few tears fall before he gathered himself up and made for the front door. 

~~~~~~~

“Did you know we got a call from your friend’s parents? That Aaron Martin kid?” His mother was in the kitchen, sitting at the bar. Tim had brought their suitcases in, about to ask his mother if she wanted them upstairs. 

“Not a friend,” Tim grumbled. He barely even knew who his mother was talking about. 

“His parent’s asked why you were driving with the Wayne kid.” 

That’s when Tim’s chest tightened. 

His mother held her phone out, a picture of him and Damian leaning against each other as they walked up to the school’s entrance, a smile on both their faces. He couldn’t help the little curl on his lips when he thought of Damian. 

He would die for the boy.

The next thing he knew, his mother’s hand came down on his cheek, so hard that he already knew it would leave at least a little bruising. It stung, both because of the sheer force behind it and also because it was his own mother slapping the ever-loving hell out of him, not that that was a new thing. It always hurt like hell. 

“I didn’t know I was raising a faggot .” Tim froze, a chill settling in his chest. He started stammering, shocked that that word had even come out of his mother's mouth. They’d had lectures in school on why slurs were bad and how they shouldn’t be used unless they pertained to you and that they should never be used as an insult. “I can’t believe you’re fucking that kid!” He looked away from his mother, disgust replacing the chill and shock that crept up on him. “Oh my god, you’re spreading your legs for those Wayne faggots.” His mother grabbed his shoulders and shoved him, roughly and he fell back into a wall. 

“He’s only eleven! I’m only thirteen ! We’re not having sex! He’s like my brother! Why would you even care? You used to sell me off to whoever gave the most money—“ Tim was suddenly seeing stars, his breathing cut off as his mother’s hands squeezed his throat. 

“Your father and I are the only family you’ll ever have,” she hissed, tightening her hold. “I don’t want to hear anything else about you and that god-forsaken Wayne family. No one there would even want you anyway.” 

Tim’s vision was going black. His hands had clawed at his mother’s with no result. He tried to say something, get his mother to realise she was hurting him but nothing came out of his mouth other than a weak gasp for air. 

She’s never done something like this before, always stuck to singular slaps and emotional jabs. 

Right when he felt like his head was on the verge of exploding, his mother’s hands threw him backwards and finally let go. All he knew was that his body had fallen to the floor before he passed out. 

If Bruce had driven by Drake manor the next day and spotted Tim’s mother getting into their car with deep scratch marks on her wrists and hands, he didn’t tell anyone, just took pictures and went along his way, the feeling of dread definitely sneaking up his spine. 

Tim’s phone dinged from his pants pocket with a notification, one he wouldn’t read for a couple days. 

Mother [11:47 pm]: You have a special client picking you up at 11:30pm on the eighth of November. I left the outfit he requested on your dresser. 

Tim woke up on Monday morning with a killer headache and a very sore neck, the product of his bed actually being the floor of the kitchen. He looked towards the digital clock on the oven and squinted at it, not liking how the light made his headache explode behind his eyes. 

When he could finally read the time, he saw it was 6:30 am and he realised was going to be late for school. It took him ten minutes to pull himself off of the kitchen floor and another twenty minutes to gather all of his clothes and books. Usually, Bruce and Damian would’ve shown up at 7:00 to pick him up. As he was pulling his bike out and running through the conversation he would have with the man where he explained that he’d have to decline the ride, Bruce never showed up so he left, muscles screaming at him because of his horrible sleep position and place. 

Along the ride, he had the horrible thought that maybe his mother had called Bruce and now the man was purposefully avoiding him. 

He had to stop biking for a minute, vision suddenly blurring. 

Oh, and he’d forgotten to bring something to eat. 

Didn’t his parents come home on Saturday? And now it’s Monday? Did he sleep through Sunday?

Did he eat on Saturday?

~~~~~~~

“I got benched.” Tim felt his heart jolt when someone plopped down beside him on the couch, their body slumping down. Damian had just arrived, late, and suddenly Tim felt guilty for thinking Bruce was avoiding him. 

“What happened?” The boy was sporting a blue cast on his arm, a sling, and a little Superman bandage plastered onto his cheek that just screamed ‘Jason’s doing’. He also didn’t fail to notice the bruise forming around one of his eyes. “You look horrible.”

“Thank you. I feel horrible.” Damian glanced around before he awkwardly shifted his damaged arm, fingers pulling open the space between two of the buttons on his shirt to reveal white bandages. “After getting fucking shot, I was dropped by the flying bastard. Forgot his name but he was really keen on dropping us out of the sky.”

“Shit. Why did Bruce make you come in? You should be resting!”

“Tt. Father tried to stop me but I wanted to make sure you were okay. Also—” Damian reached into his bag that sat at his feet and pulled out a foil-wrapped object. “Alfred sent a sandwich. We know you well enough to know you didn’t eat breakfast so here’s lunch.” Tim took the sandwich and sighed a little. “Tim?”

“I’m sorry you got hurt.”

Damian waved his good hand. “I will survive. What I am concerned about is you. Do you think I am daft enough to miss an entire fucking handprint across your face?” Tim didn’t even bother to point out that he had tried to cover it in makeup. 

“I don’t think you’re stupid.”

It was Damian’s turn to sigh. The boy brought his legs up onto the mini sofa and leaned into Tim’s side, Tim bringing his own arm around to lay across Damian’s back. “What else is hurt?” Tim just shrugged so Damian’s uninjured hand reached up to his neck, a finger hooking on the edge of the turtleneck under his dress shirt and tugging. “I am going to stab them.”

“They’re not criminals. That makes it illegal.”

“I am pretty sure slapping your kid that hard and attempting to strangle them is illegal.” Of course, he knew. “We are going to get you out. I promise.”

Tim let his head fall back against the back of the sofa. “I know.”

“I want to help you.” Bruce blinked at him, confused. They were standing in the Wayne’s kitchen, Bruce looking for something to feed Tim because Damian was ‘angry’ he hadn’t eaten breakfast on time. 

“With…?”

“Crime-fighting. You and Damian, mostly Damian because he’s young, need more help now that Damian’s got a broken arm.” Bruce looked like Tim just asked him to stab a kitten. 

“No.” Tim stopped. “Before you say anything, you’re too young and—” He opened his mouth but Bruce cut him off again. “Damian is younger than you, yes, but he was trained by the League of Assassins.” Bruce ignored the confused look on Tim’s face. “If I didn’t let him fight, he’d find a way to do it anyway and I like having my eyes on him at all times. You have no training, you’re skinnier than Dick’s bo staff, and you struggle to eat enough to even sustain you, let alone to allow you to build muscle. I can’t have you fighting, not like this, not now.”

Tim perked up a little at that last bit. “Wait—“

“Yes, I was planning on training you to join us if you wanted to and I still am but I need you to get up to a certain weight before you start. If you’re not physically healthy enough, it’ll be more damaging to your body to even attempt anything. Got it, kiddo?” Tim’s heart fluttered and he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. 

“Yes sir!”

“Good. Now, come here.” Bruce opened his arms and Tim hesitated for only a moment before he almost launched himself at the man, burying his face in the collar of his shirt when he was hoisted up, Bruce holding him like a baby. 

“How much do I have to weigh?”

The man’s hand was gently rubbing circles on his back as he stood and thought for a minute. “You’re about four-nine so you should weigh anywhere between eighty and one hundred and ten, preferably around one hundred though. We’ll get your actual weight but I think you’re around—“

“Seventy-five pounds.” 

The man grimaced. “I guessed as much. We’ll draw up a meal plan for you to safely gain weight then go from there.”

“I did gymnastics and various forms of martial arts from ages two to ten. Mother insisted, even though she wasn’t around.” Bruce nodded and Tim let himself go completely limp in his arms. 

“That will be beneficial for you.” He paused for a minute then asked, “would you like to see the Batcave?” 

Of course, he said yes. 

He was expecting Bruce to set him back down but no, the man grabbed something out of the cabinet before readjusting him so he was carrying Tim with both his arms. He made his way to the first-floor living room, the room that Dick had first brought him to that night of the charity gala. He was not expecting Bruce to walk right up to the grandfather clock in the corner and pull its front open like a door. 

“ Oh! ” He stared at it for a minute, in absolute awe before Bruce descended the stairs, the clock-face door shutting behind them. There were very faint lights dotting the corners of the ceiling, lighting it up enough to see the stairs beneath them. About halfway down, he stopped.

“Turn that light on for me.” Bruce tilted his head towards a wall and Tim reached a hand out to flick the light switch on. When he reached the end of the staircase, he glanced around and practically vibrated with excitement. He couldn’t describe everything, even if he tried super hard but a few things immediately caught his eye. 

“Is that a dinosaur?” Bruce looked in the direction he was pointing and chuckled, gently setting Tim back down on his own feet. 

“Yep! It’s an old animatronic T-Rex that Jason and I restored.” He leaned down and stage-whispered the next part. “Don’t tell anyone but we stole it from a rundown amusement park.”

Tim couldn’t help but giggle at the thought of Batman and little Jason Todd (dressed as Robin, of course) stealing a dilapidated dinosaur ‘carcass’. Bruce then handed him a few granola bars. 

After he pointed out and explained everything surrounding them (including the line-up of old costumes, some really high-tech equipment, the medbay, what looked like a while gymnastics course, Dick’s motorcycle, and the Batmobile), Tim turned his attention to the raised platform in the centre of the room. “Ahh. That’s been dubbed the Batcomputer. Bet you never saw that one coming.” Bruce led him closer to it, pulling the chair away from the myriad of computers and large desk. “Please sit.” Tim’s excitement practically hit the roof as he plopped down in the oversized desk chair, the centre and largest computer lighting up along with the desk, revealing multiple digital keyboards. Bruce gently moved the chair aside to type in his password. 

Tim tried to not look but curiosity took over and he counted eighteen letters/numbers judging by the almost silent clicks of the digital keyboards. “Everyone has their own password for the Batcomputer.” Bruce clicked enter and the rest of the computer lit up. “You should see Damian’s. We’re all convinced he typed out the alphabet multiple times, it’s so long,” he joked, reaching up and double-tapping on a folder on the screen, its contents opening up on the middle screen. “These are a few of the cameras we have around Gotham. Barbara, Oracle, has access to all of them though. I’ll have to show you sometime.” Then his voice suddenly went serious. “I knew who you were.”

Tim blinked. 

Bruce closed the camera file. “Everyone’s mask has a camera in it. After… the bridge incident, I ran your face through the databases I have access to and it matched with a family photo from when you were seven. As far as I know, it was the only photo of you anywhere until the charity gala last August.” Bruce opened up the file and Tim was faced with the one photo he remembered ever being in with his parents. It was from six years ago, one of the very few memories he had from the past thirteen years. They had sat down and taken near a couple hundred photos just so his parents’ company could have a nice Christmas photo that one year. It was never hung up in the house nor did Tim think he’d ever see it again. 

“Dick told me everything that night, thought you’d gone back and jumped while he was looking for you in the forest. He cried himself to sleep a fair few times.” Tim realised Bruce wasn’t even talking to him anymore, just staring up at one of the smaller screens off to the side where what looked like a group selfie of the Bats on patrol (minus Damian), the trio of them looking a few years younger. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t tell you this but it really beat him up. When your parents introduced you to me, I was relieved. Dick was… overwhelmed, to say the least. I never told him I knew who you were before that night but he recognised you anyway.” 

Tim felt… guilt. He had had the exact same feeling all through the walk back home because of the minuscule chance that the idea of him actually succeeding in committing suicide would affect Dick and now he learned that that thought wasn’t unfounded. 

“—what was that?” He glanced up, Bruce’s eyebrows furrowing with concern. 

“‘M’sorry.” 

“Oh… don’t be, kiddo. It’s not your fault. Don’t stress about it. That’s all behind us now. Everything’s okay,” the man reassured him with a tender hand on his shoulder. With his free hand, Bruce reached up and closed Tim’s old family photo, hand hovering above a subfolder in the Tim-folder only labelled ‘evidence’. “I don’t think…” he muttered, staring at the folder as thoughts flashed across his eyes. 

Tim broke the silence. “What’s ‘evidence’?” Bruce visibly stiffened and then looked over to the boy, eyes suddenly looking like they carried an immense weight. 

“When you’re ready, I have evidence to prove that your parents… aren’t the nicest to you. I know you probably don’t want to, but they’ll lose custody of you and you’ll never have to see them again.” Tim wanted to scream at him, tell him ‘how dare he? His parents weren’t bad’ but at this point, he knew. He knew Bruce wasn’t wrong and that he was offering him an out. “I could take custody of you or I could help you find a different family and you’d never have to see me again if that’s what you want.”

Without a word, Tim reached over and wrapped his arms around Bruce’s waist, hugging him close. The man’s hand gently stroked through his hair and later, neither of them mentioned the horrible sobs wracking Tim’s small form. 

“If or when you tell me you’re ready, I’ll pull the trigger for you.”

On February eighteenth, Tim was told by Damian that it was Bruce’s birthday the next day but that the man didn’t like acknowledging it. 

He was then invited to sleepover and help the trio and Alfred make a nice breakfast for Bruce. 

The word ‘birthday’ was never mentioned but Bruce carried a heart-warmed yet distant look in his eye all day. 

It was a month later, on a cold March night, when Tim jerked awake, throat burning and heart racing so fast he felt like it would explode in his chest. When his ears stopped ringing, he was expecting to hear nothing but the silence only a snow-filled night could bring but that wasn’t what greeted him. It was the sound of footsteps pounding down the hallways and two people, his parents, arguing, screaming at each other. They had been around for a week, one long, miserable week. 

On the nineteenth, he’d asked his parents if he could visit the Wayne’s the next day because it was Dick’s birthday. 

That did not help their already sour moods. 

He sat up and pulled his knees to his chest, trying to soothe the pounding headache he felt coming on when his door burst open. 

The next thing he knew was a searing pain running down his back and his father screaming something about ‘how dare he wake them up with such a horrendous scream on the night before they were to leave for another dig’. Shit . His vision went white-hot with pain and he fell forwards, barely catching himself on trembling arms. Oh god, he cansmellblood—

“Oh for heaven's sake! He’s bleeding all over the bed you idiot!” His mother screamed as his father’s large hand seized the back of his neck, squeezed, and managed to hoist him off of his bed and onto the hardwood floor before he was lifted up again, this time bridal style with his father’s hand pressing against whatever wound he had and making Tim see stars. A sudden rush of bone-chillingly cold air hit his exposed skin and then he realised he was falling, the sound of his bedroom window slamming shut as he hit the snow. 

What—  

Tim was cold. 

His face was cold. 

He regretted going to bed in sweatpants and a hoodie many times before but… this time he didn’t because as he lay face-first in the nearly two feet of snow, an almost electric pain pulsating through his chest, he realised he couldn’t get back inside. Usually, when he left he would unlock the window he’d use to get back in but that was locked now, and he couldn’t use any of the doors without waking his parents again as the security system would always beep when it was successfully unlocked. 

Bruce. He could go to Bruce. He knew how to fix injuries and the man had said that Tim was always welcome. 

But… it would be wrong to show up this late. 

Wouldn’t it?

Maybe they’d be awake after a patrol or something. 

In this weather though?

Fuck. 

Either way, he had to get up and pull his face out of the snow. He didn’t quite like the idea of losing his nose to frostbite. 

With a groan, he struggled to get up on his hands and knees and promptly he felt like someone had skewered him through with a spear, most of the pain radiating from the left side of his chest. The biting chill of the snow was not helping in the slightest. 

He stood up, legs trembling as he looked around. Snow was coming down lightly but it was the dead of night so he couldn’t see very well. He didn’t need to look at the Tim-shaped indent in the snow to know that blood stained the snow yet, he looked. 

Ah, shit. 

There’s no way that much blood dripped down from his back. Tim looked down at his chest and let out a strangled noise akin to an exhausted groan. 

Blood gushed from what looked like a hole in his chest. 

The fuck?

Hand pressed against his newly yet somehow unknowingly acquired chest wound, he stumbled down to the street, grateful it had been salted the night before. The near-complete lack of ice made the mile-long walkway easier than tromping through a foot of snow.

When Wayne manor finally came into view, Tim was feeling incredibly woozy. Whether it was the cold or blood loss, he didn’t know but it was not helping the ball of panic curling around his chest and squeezing until it made breathing hard.

Actually, that might be a broken rib, he thought as he stepped onto the porch. 

Should he ring the doorbell? 

Should he knock?

What if I wake them up?

I’d rather wake them up than leave my dead body on their porch. That’s just rude. 

Tim rang the doorbell. 

He was fighting the urge to collapse right then and there when, to his surprise, someone opened the door. 

“Holy shit.”

Damian.

Damian was screaming for someone as he pulled Tim in through the doorway and subsequently into his arms. “Fuck. You are bleeding!” Tim didn’t say anything, just let the boy drag him further into the foyer. “Oh fucking—hey! Do not fall asleep on me!“ 

He was so tired and now that he had Damian’s warmth on him, sleep just called for him. “‘M tired, Dami.” Maybe if he just squinted his eyes a little—a jolt of pain shot through his chest and his eyes flew open again. 

“Stay awake! I swear, I am going to bring you back to life and kill you if you die!” Oh, Damian. Everything felt hazy, even the pain starting to subside. He fought to keep his eyelids open as Damian’s hands pressed down on his chest wound. Suddenly, he hears multiple heavy footsteps and then someone’s body falling down beside him. “Dad! Dad, Tim’s hurt—“ large hands stole him from Damian’s arms, the jostling causing a horrible ache in his chest. 

“Tim. Hey, look at me.” He can vaguely feel one arm carrying him, another gently grasping his chin and forcing him to look up. “Tim—“

“Mmmgh…” he tried to say something but his voice didn’t want to obey him. He couldn’t pry his eyes open anymore but he could still hear Bruce trying to rouse him, roughly shaking his shoulders as he swiftly walked somewhere. 

~~~~~~~

“Dick! Pull yourself together! The kid is going to be okay! Yes, he’s not looking too hot right now but he will be physically alright in time. His life is not in danger anymore.”

“We can’t send him back there! You agree, right?”

“Of course I do, Dick, but that’s not for us to decide! If he fights tooth and nail to leave—“

“Look at him! He’s skinnier than Jason was and little-wing came off the fucking streets! We’ve even been feeding him! Bruce—“

“Silence yourselves. Master Tim is awake.” The first person he saw was Alfred, hovering just in his periphery, looking down at him with a twinkle of concern in his eyes. “Master Tim, can you turn your head and look at me please?” 

Tim did as he was asked, even as a dull ache started to flare up in his back. He watched as Damian’s mess of hair came into view just next to Alfred, the boy clinging onto Alfred’s shirt. 

“Is he alright?” 

“It will take a few minutes for him to wake up completely. For now, please back up. I don’t want you all crowding him.” 

“Wha’appened?” He slurred, trying to move his arms behind himself so he could sit up. 

“Don’t move so fast, Master Tim. The anaesthesia is still wearing off and you’re in no place to be sitting up yet. Dick, Bruce, go get Leslie, inform her Tim is awake.” 

He didn’t know how much time had passed but he felt the haze that he was in slowly lift and suddenly he remembered everything, all of it crashing down at once. 

“Tim.” His eyes darted to meet Damian’s, the boy sliding up to the side of the bed he found himself on. “Why are you crying?” He gently rested an arm across Tim’s chest, reaching over and squeezing the other boy’s hand in as comforting of a manner as he could. 

“Father… dropped me out the window,” Tim mumbled, flinching when a finger wiped tears away from his eyes. 

“You were dropped out of a window?” Alfred was back, standing beside Damian. “Master Tim. Can you please recount what led you to be out in the snow at 2am with a stab wound and a deep laceration down your back.”

“Nightmare. I woke up screaming an’ it woke up my parents. They weren’t happy. I think my father hit me with something then he picked me up an’ I was outside in the snow.”

“That doesn’t explain the stab wound,” stated Alfred as Damian rested his head against Tim’s side. 

Tim’s eyes screwed up in confusion. “I was stabbed?”

“Quite deeply actually. Your spleen had to be removed because it was damaged,” Alfred explained, turning his head when footsteps came towards them. “Leslie, he told us he was dropped out a window. Did you check him for broken bones?”

Another voice, a feminine one, chimed in. “Yes. He has no broken or fractured bones, just a lot of deep bruising from the fall. I’m assuming the snow broke it seeing he’s not too beat up. No frostbite thankfully. Bruce and Dick went over to Drake manor to see if there was anything useful.” An older woman with long, silvery hair stood beside Alfred, eyes darting between him and the clipboard in her hands. “Hold this please.” She handed the clipboard to Alfred and pulled something out of her pocket. “Mister Tim. I am Doctor Thompkins but you can just call me Leslie. Please straighten your head and stare straight up. I’m going to do a quick check for a concussion. Mister Damian, please scoot away for a moment.”

Tim heard Damian grumble a few curses but the light weight on his chest lifted and he heard the chair scooting away. “What is your full name?”

“Timothy Jackson Drake.” He cringed a little as it rolled off of his tongue. 

“Do you know where you are?”

Tim stared out the medbay’s windows. Rocks. “The Batcave, under Wayne Manor.”

“Good.” Dr Thompkins pulled out a little flashlight and waved it across his face before settling it just in front of his eye. She stared down into his eyes then pulled the light away. Tim blinked rapidly a few times until the black spots in his vision dissipated. “Please follow my finger.” Tim did so with no trouble, Dr Thompkins smiling gently down at him. “Alright. There’s no immediate signs of a concussion. If you still have any signs of a headache in a few days, we’ll get a brain scan just to double-check.” Dr Thompkins pulled away and immediately, Tim felt Damian’s physical presence at his side, the boy’s arm thrown over his chest and head resting on his shoulder. 

It was… nice, actually, to have Damian there, both physically and emotionally. Because if he focused on the boy, the gentle weight on his chest, his slow breathing, and the hand in his, he didn’t have to think about the conclusion he drew once he realised what exactly his parents did. 

Oh god. They’re gonna kill me. 

They’re probably so fucking mad.

He woke them up, screaming, because of a nightmare. 

Why is he so awful to them—

“It is alright. Look, look at me.” Damian was speaking to him, a hand on his cheek. “Breathe, Tim. You are breathing quite fast and it is going to make you lightheaded.” 

Damian’s words don’t quite process in his brain. Tim felt tears in his eyes. 

He couldn’t breathe.

“Tim!” Damian forced Tim to look at him, eyes locking even as Tim heaved for air. “It is going to be okay. You are okay. You are safe,” he spoke firmly, swiping his thumb across Tim’s eyes when they filled with tears. 

Tim still couldn’t breathe. He tried. He tried so hard for Damian but it just wouldn’t—

He suddenly felt a much heavier weight on his chest. It didn’t hurt, the weight wasn’t pressing on his injuries and he felt calmer, only slightly though. Damian’s eyes were no longer in his vision but he could feel the boy’s hand slipping into his and grasping tightly. 

“It will be okay, Tim.” Whatever was on his chest rumbled gently as Damian spoke and suddenly, Tim’s vision went black, thoughts fading away. 

~~~~~~~

He was yanked out of his half-conscious state when loud, heavy footsteps tromped towards him, the sudden sound of metal clanging on the floor making his head pound furiously. “Fucking rebar.” Tim realised he’d never heard Bruce curse like that before. 

“Alright, Bruce. Let’s calm down, okay? Alfred, bring that chair over here.” Dr Thompkins.  

He heard Bruce let out a heavy sigh, then ask, “why is Damian laying on top of him?”

“Poor boy had a panic attack. Damian just decided to lay down on top of him and apparently, that did the trick. Kid was out like a light.”

Oh. That’s what that was?

“I can feel you thinking. Quiet your mind or I will knock you out.” Ah, Damian. The boy was laying on his chest, face buried in the crook of his shoulder, one hand’s fingers intertwined with his. 

“I feel so loved,” Tim grumbled, moving his free arm so it laid across the boy’s back. 

“Good. Feel the love or feel my fist in your skull.” 

I wonder if Bruce ever taught Damian about properly expressing his feelings when he’s stressed.

“That was a joke. I am sorry. I would never hurt you, Tim.” 

“I know. It’s okay. I’m used to you expressing your love through threatening violence. I know you’d never hurt me.” Damian huffed but said nothing, his free hand moving to start gently twirling a piece of Tim’s hair between his fingers. 

“Hey, Tim?” Tim turned his head to look at Bruce, wincing at the soreness in his neck. “I… I don’t really know what to say. I’m so sorry.” The man scooted his chair closer, reaching a hand out and resting it on Tim’s bicep. 

“‘T’s not your fault,” Tim mumbled, straightening his head again to soothe the aching. “They never went this far before.”

“And they never will again. You’re not going back to them. I’m not letting you go back.” Bruce’s voice went hard and Tim unconsciously shrunk into the pillow, away from him, Damian squeezing his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Tim. I can’t in good conscience let you go back. Not after this.”

“We cannot let you go back,” Damian said, voice muffled by the crook of Tim’s neck. “I will not allow it this time. Jason and Dick will not allow it.”

“But…” Tim stopped himself. “Are you going to pull the trigger?”

Bruce shook his head. “Only if you say so.” 

“I… can you just ask them?”

“To… give you up?” Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“Yes. Without threatening them.” 

“… I can try.” 

Tim exhaled in relief. “Thank you.”

With that, Bruce stood up again and walked away, leaving Tim to listen only to Damian’s gentle breathing. 

GOTHAM GAZETTE

Jack and Janet Drake - giving up their son?

Written by Clark Kent (Daily Star reporter - Metropolis)

Many people have heard the rumours regarding Jack and Janet Drake and their son, now Timothy (Tim) Wayne, so Mr Bruce Wayne has cashed in one of his favours to me to have these rumours addressed. Mr and Mrs Drake have decided to not accept an interview with me but Mr Wayne, Tim’s now adoptive father, has. On Saturday, the fourteenth of April, I was lucky to have a small chat with Mr Wayne and now I have some answers here for you. 

When asked ‘what exactly happened’, Mr Wayne replied:

“Tim has recently received a severe injury that resulted in his spleen being removed. Now that he is immunocompromised, the Drakes are unable to care for him, due to mental stress and emotional damage so they turned to me, as I am considered a close family friend that Tim likes and trusts. This is not slander. The Drakes have made a very hard decision to better the life of their child and that is truly commendable. I know that if I was in their position, I would’ve made the same decision but it would've been very hard.”

When asked ‘will Tim ever be willing to speak about this’, Mr Wayne replied:

“Let me make this crystal clear. The accident that resulted in Tim’s injury was extremely traumatic for him. The change in his nuclear family has also been extremely draining for him so he will not be available to speak about this event until he gives clear permission for questions. If I hear of anyone attempting to contact my son, there will be hell to pay.”

As of now, it is unclear if this is a permanent arrangement. Mr Wayne decided to not comment on that. 

“It was smart to use Superman’s alias to write this,” Damian commented, handing the paper back to Bruce. “Even if it is bullshit.”

“Language, Dames.” Bruce rolled his eyes before continuing. “Clark Kent owes Bruce Wayne a few favours but collaborating with the Gotham Gazette to write a ‘sensitive’ piece about Tim’s supposed situation was something he’d’ve done anyway.”

“Bruce Wayne is correct.” Damian and Bruce turned their heads to the kitchen’s entrance to see Clark Kent, Superman, dressed in civilian clothing, carrying Tim in his large hands like one might carry a small kitten, a large bag dangling from one of his wrists. “Your little one here is very insightful on the League.” Tim wriggled in his arms to face Bruce, a grin on his face. 

“Wonder Woman is very cool.” Bruce chuckled, setting down the newspaper when Clark moved to hand Tim over. “You never told me she was so cool in person.” Tim had a lot to say about the League but the best he could voice was ‘strong woman cool’. 

He was half expecting Clark to just put him down but no, he was handed off to Bruce, the man’s arms wrapping around him and not letting him stand on the ground. 

“You never asked, but you should talk to Dick. He shares your sentiment, absolutely adores Diana, practically fainted when he first met her. I suppose it’s about time we invite her and Clark to brunch again. Whatcha think Clark?”

“Brunch. Definitely. Alfred’s pancakes are to die for.” Clark reached up and straightened his glasses, smiling at Bruce. “Love to stay and chat but duty calls. Text me when you decide on a date and time for brunch!” He gave the trio a little salute and was gone, leaving the bag he carried on one of the counters. 

“Tim?”

The boy curled up in Bruce’s arms, one of his hands grasping at the sleeve of the man’s shirt. “Hmm?”

“Let’s get you into bed. Damian, can you grab his bag?” 

“M’kay, Dad.” Tim didn’t make any more noises as Bruce carried him up to his room, Damian trailing close behind. 

Tim didn’t quite remember being placed in his bed but he did remember Bruce’s chest rumbling with soft hums as he ascended the stairs. 

He couldn’t have imagined something better, even if he tried. 

~~~~~~~

There was a knock on his door that gently tugged him out of his sleepy haze. “Master Tim. I would like to speak to you about something. May I come in?” 

Alfred.

Tim rolled over in his bed and slowly stood up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he opened the door. “Hi M’ster Alfred,” he said wearily, stepping back to allow Alfred in. 

“Evening, Master Tim. I see you’re settling in well.” Alfred glanced around his room, eyes drawn to the bag resting on the desk, settling for a moment on the old camera perched beside it. 

“Yes. Mister Kent and I stopped by the manor so I could pick up some of my stuff.” Tim had clambered back onto his bed, sitting with his back to the headboard. 

“That’s good,” Alfred said, moving so he stood at the end of Tim’s bed, a hand on the footboard. “So I’m just going to hop into it. when Dr Thompkins and I were examining you during your full-body check-up the other day, we noticed… many abnormally straight scars on your inner forearms and I wanted to do a bit of a check-in with you.” Tim’s blood went cold in his veins. 

No one was supposed to know. No one was supposed to see—

“The scars looked fairly old, a few months old, correct me if I’m wrong. I’m coming to you because it is important that someone who has self-harmed, has a support system at all times.”

Tim gathered all of his courage and looked Alfred in the eyes because ‘ it’s rude to not look someone in the eye when having an important conversation ’, and he regretted it. Alfred’s eyes were heavy, carrying a burden that wasn’t his to carry, little tears prickling at the corners. Tim’s gaze trailed away and his shoulders slumped forwards in exhaustion. 

“I’m sorry.”

Alfred gingerly sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing at his own eyes. “What do you have to be sorry for, young man?”

“I never should’ve… done it.”

“Many young children that are subject to any kind of abuse self-harm for multiple reasons: whether it be to alleviate extreme emotions, to distract oneself from those same emotions, to feel something when they're struggling to feel any emotions, or just because they might be so desperate for a guardian’s attention that they’ve come to the last resort. Any reason you’ve done it is a valid reason, especially when you’re a child under duress or in distress.” 

Tim pulled his legs up to his chest. 

“Master Tim, may I hold your hand?” When he nodded, Alfred reached for one of his balled-up fists and gently uncurled it, saying nothing as Tim’s fingers grasped at his. “I know there is probably a lot going through your head right now. A lot has happened this past month, all very quickly and you need time and help to process it. I wanted to give you a little space before you had to make any decisions but if you ever feel the urge to hurt yourself, please come speak to me or Bruce or even contact Dinah. She’s a licensed psychiatrist and therapist and I think you would benefit from a session or two with her if you agree. I’ll give you her number. Is there anything you want to say right now?”

Tim was conflicted. He wanted to scream, scream until his throat went raw and bled so he’d never have to make the mistake of opening up to people ever again but—that was wrong. He knew that that was wrong. Alfred’s hand squeezed his and it broke him out of his thoughts. “I… I want help.”

“Good. Stating so is a good first step.” Alfred placed his other hand over Tim’s hand, sandwiching it and holding it gently but firmly. “It will get better, Master Tim. I promise. I know it feels overwhelming but we’re all here to help you: Dick, Jason, Damian, Bruce, myself, and even the League. You’ll never have to go through anything alone, ever again. We love you, very much, my boy.”

Groaning internally at how emotional he felt, Tim tried to cry silently, free hand pressing against his mouth but his breathing was too fast and he kept gasping for air—

“Tim, can I hug you?” He didn’t even look up at the older man, just scooted towards him until he felt hands pulling him close. “It’s alright. Just let it out, my boy. There we go.” One of Alfred’s arms wrapped around his shoulders while the other cradled his head, holding Tim close to his body. 

It was nice. 

~~~~~~~

“‘M sorry.”

“Worry not, my boy. I’ve had everyone cry in my arms at least once. You’re just fitting right into this family.” Alfred smiled and gently ruffled Tim’s hair. “Also, I have this for you.” He pulled a tube out of his pocket and handed it to Tim. “It’s top of the line scar removal cream. I’m not saying you have to but if you want to use it, apply it twice a day to scars . Never apply it to open or freshly scabbed-over wounds. Alright?”

“Yes Sir!” 

“There’s a good young man. Now, I also was tasked with telling you that Bruce has recommended a movie night for you all. They’re setting up in the Den whenever you’re ready.” 

Tim didn’t think his smile could get any bigger. 

~~~~~~~

They watched Disney’s ‘Frozen ’ and apparently, Dick had seen it before because he quietly sang along to every song until ‘Let It Go’ came on, opting to belt out the entire song much to Damian’s chagrin. 

As they ate from a tub of ice cream Alfred brought to them, Bruce told them, as he searched through Netflix for another movie to watch, that there would be a gala to celebrate Tim’s ‘arrival’ to the family. It was happening on Saturday. Of course, all of Gotham’s elites would be there, a few Justice League members in disguise, and unfortunately, Jack and Janet Drake. Bruce didn’t want to invite them but due to their cover story of Tim’s separation from them being amicable, it had to happen. 

Damian promised he’d be stuck to Tim’s side the entire night but Bruce assured him that the Drakes would keep their hands and thoughts to themselves, especially with all the blackmail material he had on them. Damian was reluctant to retract his statement. 

There was a knock on his door.

Alfred.

“Master Tim. May I come in?” 

“Yeah.” Tim finished straightening his tie when Alfred pushed the door in, a fancy little cardboard, jewellery box held in his hand. “Hi. I’m almost done. Just need to cover up… this.” Tim gestured vaguely to the horrible bags under his eyes. 

“It’s not a problem, young sir. Master Dick always struggles with his tie for a good half hour. Stubborn man.” Alfred sighed. “ I just have this for you.” He held out the box for Tim to take. 

“Oh? Thank you.” Tim gently cradled the box in one hand, lifting the lid with the other. 

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to but as a newly added official member of this family, we’d love it if you did.”

It was a little lapel pin, a blue chevron arrow atop a black background, gold-rimmed with a familiar white symbol staring up at him. 

The Wayne family crest.

Wayne. 

Family. 

~~~~~~~

“Timothy.”

Tim resisted the urge to jump and run away. He was alone in a hallway with his ‘parents’. “Hello Mrs Drake,” he replied coldly, trying to keep his voice as monotonous and emotionless as possible. 

Just like she taught you. 

Jack huffed. “Please, Timothy, no need for such formalities. We’re your parents after all.” Jack knelt down, trying to level his face with Tim’s. Then his and his wife’s eyes caught on the glint of gold-bordered black metal and they both stopped. 

“Son, what the hell is that?” Asked Janet, stepping closer to the boy. 

Tim took a step back and cracked a sarcastic smile, the Wayne family crest shining proudly from his suit jacket. “It’s the Wayne family crest, Mrs Drake. I’m sorry, was it improper of me to assume you knew?” He loved watching Janet’s nostrils flare in barely-tampered-down anger. She was usually so put together but now, she just seemed one little push away from snapping. “Is something wrong?” Now he’s just taunting her, unable to keep the smile off his lips. 

“Let me get a good look at you.” She moved towards Tim, hands held out to presumably grab his face when she suddenly let out a very uncharacteristically undignified yelp. Tim blinked and looked up to see Janet shoved against the wall, a familiar dagger at her throat, held by a figure that stood a foot shorter than her. 

“Dames—“

“Do not touch him,” Damian hissed, pressing the blade just a little closer to her skin. “Do not even look at him. You do not deserve to share your blood with him.”

“Damian! Let her go. She’s not worth it.” Tim gently pried the dagger from Damian’s hands, 

“Damn right she isn’t!” The boy growled, stepping back when Tim pulled him. 

Janet straightened up and unruffled her dress, the uptick of the corners of her lips making Tim fear what was going to come out of her mouth next. “Keep your rabid terrorist on a leash, won’t you, you fucking cuckoo bird?

Tim felt Damian tense beside him. The younger boy had gone pale, a shaking hand grasping for Tim’s. 

“Ex-fucking-cuse me?”

~~~~~~~

Janet and Jack Drake left the Wayne’s party early, Janet Drake sporting a nasty black eye that she claimed she got by tripping and falling into the corner of a table. She got no words of sympathy from her ‘son’ as she walked out. She did not hold her head high, opting to shoot a very missable countenance of disappointment at her ‘son’ as the doors shut behind her. 

Tim did not seem broken up as his former ‘parents’ left. In fact, he had his head held high, a wheezing laugh coming from his lips as he leaned against Damian, the younger whispering something in his ear. 

From behind them, Dick and Jason grabbed their younger brothers and dragged them towards the dessert table. They got a cake, of course, this time personally designed by Damian (but no one needed to know). 

This time, instead of being some fancy, white, wedding-esque cake, it was a towering mess of navy blue icing and silver dusting, little red fondant hearts scattered around its perfectly smooth surface. It was simple, ugly, out of place and the little bird figure standing on top certainly did not help. When it was brought out, people stared and whispered and laughed but when Tim saw it, his eyes went a little teary. 

And that’s all that mattered to Damian.

Bruce came up behind him, reached up, and grabbed the bird figure off, handing it to Tim before clasping his hands on the boy’s shoulders. 

 “Australian robin. One of the red robins,” Damian murmured, pressing the side of his head against Tim’s. He intertwined their fingers, gingerly squeezing Tim’s hand. 

“It’s official Tims, you’re stuck with us,” said Jason, unable to resist a chuckle as he stared at the cake. 

Dick was the one to reach up and gently ruffle Tim’s hair, hand lingering when he felt the boy untense under his fingers. 

Bruce leaned down, corners of his mouth drawn upwards as he whispered in Tim’s ear, “Welcome home, Son.”

And Tim cries, quietly, with a smile on his face because it’s so wonderful to feel loved.

Isn’t it?

~~~~~~~

Peel the scars from off my back

I don't need them anymore

You can throw them out or keep them in your mason jars

I've come home

Welcome Home, Son by Radical Face

~~~~~~~