Archive of Our Own

In the middle of the damp July heat, the clock hits twelve, Tim Drake turns sixteen, and the sun rises just as quietly the next morning. There’s no celebration, no fanfare, no streamers or candles or cake. If he’s being honest, it’s not as if he likes all the commotion and fuss around getting older, but a little bit of recognition wouldn’t hurt. Really, it’s just another day in a very long sequence of days. He’s not really any different from yesterday, and he won’t really be any different tomorrow. But it’s still his birthday, and he’s still sixteen, and there’s a childish bit of hope that today will be distinct, be special in some intangible kind of way. Instead, it's just Tim, by himself, the way it’s always been. It figures that nothing would suddenly and dramatically change just because the calendar reads July 19th, but a little bit of wishful thinking never killed anyone. Probably.

He’s always had a weird relationship with birthdays, anyway. He can’t remember the last time he’d actually celebrated with his parents, or with anyone. It’s a bit hard to plan a birthday party for yourself when you’re not really able to go anywhere or do anything without a parent’s permission. And with them traveling more than they were ever home, it wasn’t like they were going to make the trek back from another continent just to give him a present and offer some empty platitudes when they could just order him a gift and send a quick text. Somehow, they just always seemed to be gone when his birthday rolled around. They assured him it wasn’t on purpose, and Tim was inclined to agree. Nothing they ever did was on purpose. They just made choices with no regard to the fallout, and he was left to deal with them. All by himself.

At least this time, his father’s finally home, but Jack isn’t one for birthday parties. That morning, at breakfast, while Tim stumbles into the kitchen and stuffs a bagel into his mouth, he just offhandedly mentions that they should stop by the DMV at some point during the week, for Tim to take his driver’s test. He’d told his father that he’d been getting Bruce to take him out while he’d been gone, and thankfully Jack hadn’t taken an issue with it. He seems to slowly be warming to the role that Bruce had been playing in his son’s life, after the whole “being kidnapped by villains” debacle, but Tim still doesn’t plan on tempting fate.

For once, it’s not even a lie, either. He’s still not allowed to drive the Batmobile by himself, and after their disastrous first lesson together, Bruce announces that maybe he should start allocating more Wayne Enterprises funds for public transportation, and that Alfred should step in, seeing as he’s more available in the afternoons when Tim gets home from school. Tim knows this is patently untrue, because he can see Bruce’s work calendar, and there’s a disproportionate amount of “executive time” scheduled between the hours of three and seven, but he’s not going to bite the hand that gives him a lot of really cool things to throw at people. 

So Alfred has been taking him driving when he gets a chance, letting him take one of the old sticks in the garage and tackle the hills in the suburbs outside of Gotham. It’s been rough, but after a healthy amount of stalling, backsliding, and wearing out the brake pads, he’s gotten the hang of it. Bruce even let him drive into the city for one of their night patrols, his white-knuckled grip on the door handle slowly loosening after they made it past the steep back roads and into Gotham proper. Even after midnight, the city streets were lined with cars, and if you asked him, Tim’s parallel parking was downright sexy, with only a tiny bit of flinching from the passenger’s side as he slowly edged out of the space on the way back.

Regardless, he’s going to take anything he can get, from Bruce, from Alfred, from his father. Even if it’s this, a short comment about scheduling which happens to coincide with the fact of his birthday, at least his father remembered. But years of experience have taught him that waiting for anything else is just going to disappoint him, which is why Tim assumes that this will be the defined end of his so-called party. He’s in the front hallway, busy attempting to tie his shoes, and succeeding at dozing off, when he hears his father clear his throat and call out, “The doctor also sent through a prescription. We’ll need to make an appointment to remove the implant, but now that you’re sixteen, you’re approved to start hormones.”

It’s the kind of bomb that his parents loved to drop right before he had somewhere urgent to be. Usually, right before he was leaving for school.

“Hey, kiddo, we know that parent-teacher conferences are tomorrow night, and we’d love to meet your teacher, but we’re extending our visit to Singapore for a few more days. We hope you understand.” Or, “Tim, just wanted to call and tell you that we’ll be missing your graduation. There’s a new developer in Brazil that we’re just dying to meet with. See you soon!” Or, “Sorry, honey, but your mom and I won’t be home for Hanukkah. Christmas either, for that matter. No, I’m sure you can find the prayers online. Be careful with the matches, and let us know what you want as a gift.” 

It was always something. Tim had learned how to handle disappointment, how to roll with the punches. He was good at plastering on smiles and keeping his voice bright. When it came to his parents, he was almost used to it by now, expecting them to let him down in one way or another. Which, in hindsight, sounds a bit shitty, but Tim was only being realistic. It didn’t help anyone to get his hopes up, day after day, just to end up exactly where he’d started. He lived his life waiting for the other shoe to drop, and he was prepared for frustration.

He wasn’t exactly prepared to handle this.

Between his parents being gone a considerable portion of the time, and their general hands-off approach to parenting, him being trans was never something they really sat down and talked about. He’d told them when he was about six, and they’d pulled a few strings, had a few government documents carefully changed, and booked him a doctor’s appointment. Within a few weeks, they’d gotten him on hormone blockers, changed his birth certificate, replaced his wardrobe, and that was that. It wasn’t something they ever needed to discuss. They trusted Tim to make his own choices, they’d walked him through the informed consent process, and they’d signed all the necessary forms. They couldn’t grease every wheel in Gotham’s healthcare system, so he’d have to wait until he reached sixteen to start testosterone, but they’d made the process as streamlined as possible. 

Which worked out in his favor, with his mother murdered, his father in a coma, and the only adult in his life being a millionaire moonlighting as a vigilante who didn’t have any legal right to make decisions on his behalf. Thank God for private doctors who weren’t so tied to the medical code of ethics. A forged signature here and there didn’t hurt anyone, anyway. 

But now, his father is back, and it seems like this time, he really wants to be present, to be there. He remembered that Tim’s birthday was coming up, and he remembered exactly what this birthday would mean. He’d been paying attention and actually followed through, instead of just shunting the work off to his son, or asking that they table it, waiting for a better time. After a lifetime of being a perpetual afterthought, Tim doesn’t know how to be someone’s priority. He didn’t know he could be someone’s priority, and the feeling leaves him unsettled. Unbalanced, the way you stumble on a landing but still find yourself on your feet. He shakes it off, reminds himself how to shape his mouth into words. Recalculate, pivot, readjust.

“Thanks, dad,” he manages, slipping back into his composure like a second skin, “I wasn’t even thinking about that. Do you know if you need anything from me?”

As far as he can tell, his tone is normal. Pleasantly businesslike, just the way his father likes it. But Jack Drake pauses before answering, and something sounds caught in his voice when he replies, trepidation that verges almost toward guilt. “I’ll make the appointment. Everything’s handled, no need for you to worry.”

While taking stock of the wholly strange behavior (and poor acting skills) of whichever alien has clearly replaced Jack Drake is an important task, Tim really doesn’t have time to dissect this conversation. His eyes drift to his phone, where the clock is a few too many digits past late, and because Tim’s an idiot and makes bad choices, he has summer classes starting in twenty minutes. He opts for filing it all into the back of his head and marking it for further study. “Okay!” Tim calls back, slinging his bag over his arm and grabbing the doorknob so hard the wood frame rattles, “I’ve gotta run. Bye!”

He just barely makes it outside, almost tripping over his feet in an effort to get to the car parked outside his door as quickly as humanly possible. Alfred’s waiting in the driver’s seat, his expression carefully expressionless, but there’s an extra line between his eyebrows as he asks, “Late start this morning, Master Timothy?”

In spite of all his training, Tim’s just the slightest bit out of breath–he’s choosing to blame it on the grenade his father decided to drop just after breakfast–and it takes him a moment to answer without sounding like he’s about to collapse. “I really am sorry, Alfred, I swear. My dad, he just wanted to talk before I left, and it caught me by surprise, and, well, I really didn’t mean to make you wait so long.”

Alfred’s mouth doesn’t seem to move, but he sounds like he’s smiling, and Tim thinks he sees the harsh creases of his face soften ever so slightly. "It’s quite alright. I suppose I can cut you some slack on your birthday, after all.”

Today is just a day of surprises, apparently. Tim’s glad that Alfred’s focused on the road, because he can already feel the way his face is burning. He turns to look out the window, pretending to be distracted by the view. Suburbia blurs indistinguishably, house after house bleeding into a drab beige and gray shape, studded with lonely trees and tightly manicured lawns. It’s not really anything to write home about, but it buys him a second to think.

“Oh, thank you,” is what he settles on, pitching his tone so it sounds as if he were lost in thought, and not just avoiding the conversation. “To be honest, I didn’t expect you to say anything. I didn’t plan on really making a big deal about it.”

He thinks Alfred huffs, but it could just be the car. He’s choosing to believe it’s the car. “We’ve noticed,” he answers dryly. “After two years passed, it finally clicked for Master Bruce that we had not yet celebrated your birthday. So, he took it upon himself to do a bit of sleuthing. He found the date rather easily, but was quite proud of himself nonetheless.”

For some reason, Tim feels strangely chastised, but he can’t put his finger on why. He keeps his head turned to the window, watching his own reflection in the glass. His face is carefully neutral, calm and collected as always, but the mirrored image looks almost hollow, empty. He’s out of his depth, and he doesn’t understand where exactly the conversation is going, so he keeps quiet and lets Alfred continue. 

“You’ve cheated him out of quite a lot of extravagant purchases, that’s for sure,” he says. “But it’s no matter–he plans to remedy that immediately.”

And now the situation seems to be spiraling just a bit out of his control. First Bruce was irritated that Tim didn’t tell him when his birthday was, but now he’s buying gifts, plural ? Between his father and Bruce, it just feels like he can’t get his footing today, no matter how hard he tries. As if every single person in his life is trying to confuse him, and Tim doesn’t know how much more of it he can handle. “I appreciate the gesture, but Alfred, he really doesn’t have to get me anything.”

He exhales, shaking his head in a subtle shade of wry amusement. “Oh, it’s a bit too late for that, I’m afraid. Once he gets an idea, you and I both know that he tends to be rather attached to it. Regardless, I expect that you’ll have plans with your father tonight, but I do hope you’ll join Master Bruce and I for dinner tomorrow evening. Do you have any requests for the menu?”

“You also don’t have to make me a birthday dinner. Really, I don’t want to impose–”

Alfred deftly cuts him off. “Nonsense. There’s no imposition, I’d merely like to invite you over for dinner. There’s a standing invitation, as you know, but I do enjoy the chance to celebrate any events that may occur, and I just so happened to inquire as to what you might like for dinner, as I seem to be right out of ideas. It’s simply a casual affair, Master Timothy. No need to worry yourself over it.”

There’s no way he can argue with Alfred. Even if Tim wanted to, he knew that Alfred wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and it’s not like he’s being forced into something he vehemently doesn’t want to do. He knows that neither Alfred nor Bruce is going to turn his birthday into a ridiculous spectacle, and it would be nice to celebrate with someone. He could think of worse things to do.

“As long as you’re sure it’s not too much trouble,” he acquiesces, a small smile tugging at his lips, “I do really like salmon.”

Alfred nods. “A wonderful idea, indeed. I’ll see you for dinner tomorrow night, then. Have a pleasant evening with your father.”

“Oh,” Tim adds, “I actually don’t think we’re doing anything today, but thanks anyway! I’ll probably just be working on some of my cases tonight.”

He pauses, taking his eyes off the road for the shortest of moments to turn and look at Tim. Alfred’s gaze is heavy, and he feels it again–this inexplicable feeling of shame, that he’s done something wrong. But all that Alfred does is shift his focus back to the road, and go, “In that case, why don’t you come by for dinner this evening? I think Master Bruce would be happy to give you your gift on your birthday, if you’ll allow him this much. He’s rather excited about it, I must say.”

“Are you sure?” Tim asks, concerned. He’s not used to all this planning and rescheduling on his behalf, and no matter what Alfred says, it really feels like a lot of hoops are being jumped through, just for him. “I really don’t want you to change up your plans for tonight.”

“I assure you, there were no plans. I’ll see you at seven sharp–and truly, you should be on your way to class. I do believe that it starts in about ninety seconds.”

With a mumbled curse and a frantic fumbling with the latch, Tim grabs his things and beelines for the main doors, trying his best not to scratch or scrape the perfectly maintained leather interior. He knows how much this car costs, and that number has a lot of zeroes. “Thanks, Alfred, you’re the best!”

He hears the car pull out of the parking lot with a soft purr, and sprints the rest of the way to class. For once, he’s really, really thankful that Gotham University has all of its math buildings so close to the entrance, and that their introductory programs are situated similarly inside. It makes it really easy to be the guy who’s perpetually running late. He slips into a seat in the back of the lecture hall, pulls out his laptop, and gets ready to do absolutely nothing for the next fifty-odd minutes of his life. 

It’s not like he’s slacking off on purpose. The class is honors-level, sure, but it’s still just calculus, a topic he could do in his sleep. He appreciates Bruce for sending a few emails and getting him in, but it’s really only padding his transcript. He could probably teach this class if he tried. But it’s still a great opportunity, and even if he isn’t learning anything new about integrals, there’s always another type of problem for him to chew on. Usually, he works on cases, taking a few notes on the lecture and then turning his attention back to the latest string of unsolved crimes in the city. This week, there's a new rash of armed robberies down near the waterfront. There’s a pattern to the targets that he and Bruce haven’t picked up on, and he needs to figure it out before anyone else gets hurt. It’s a perfect setting, and normally, he gets a lot done. But something isn’t clicking. He just can’t focus.

It’s not like him to be so distracted, so untethered, especially when there are so many things he should be doing, but his mind is going a mile a minute, and he doesn’t think he could make any meaningful progress on his cases if he tried, so he lets himself drift a little. The sound of the lecturer in the background fades into soft white noise, and he just zones out. Stops trying to fix his attention to anything, and just tries to take in everything that’s happened in the last hour or so. Objectively, he’s only talked with two different people, but it feels like a month’s worth of problems, and he doesn’t even know where to start.

If Tim's honest with himself, really honest, he's always felt like he was drowning in other peoples’ expectations, but it’d be much easier to cope with if he even knew what they were. It seems like they’re constantly changing, shifting, as soon as he starts to understand how to reach them. Lately, with his father, it’s like he’s disappointed with how Tim talks to him. They’ve never had a close relationship, and Tim’s always been a step closer to professional than familial with everyone, and especially with his parents, but it always seemed to be what they wanted him to do. They liked how organized he was, how prompt and attentive and put-together he could be. He spent most of his life doing things for himself, and that’s what they always expected from him. He bought his own school supplies, filled out his own forms, arranged his own doctor’s appointments. Tim was independent, and his parents appreciated it. They were too busy to really schedule things for him, anyway, and he understood it. He’d just adapted, and it was fine. 

But maybe now that his mother’s gone, his father wants to be more involved. It’s not an out-of-context reaction, and Tim understands it, on some level, but he can't shake the feeling that that’s for other people. He already grieved his mother, and then he moved on. He doesn’t need his father to try and fill the gap she left, especially when it doesn’t seem like Jack knows what he’s doing, either. It’s like his wife’s death has him suddenly jumping into gear, determined to be an active and present figure in his son’s life, when they just don’t work like that. They never have, and Tim doesn’t know how to adjust to this, just like that. He’s thankful for everything his father is doing for him–God, he’s thankful that Jack even remembered his birthday–but he’s just not used to these new expectations, and he feels like he’s letting his father down in the process. 

And starting testosterone is another can of worms. He’s excited, because of course he’s excited–really, he’s ecstatic –but it’s such a big change, too, and Tim’s never been one for seismic shifts of any sort. It’s not an impulse decision, it’s something he’s always wanted, and it’s something he’ll continue to want for the rest of his life, but it’s still something big. It’s not permanent, but it’s close enough. It’s overwhelming, too, the idea that he’s so close to something so important, and that even when he gets it, he’ll still have to wait. Nothing is going to change overnight. And it’s not like he’s ever been too worried about passing–he’s doing the best with what he’s got, and so far, everyone’s accepted the story that he’s just a late bloomer (which is fairly close to the truth)–it’s just that he’s not sure what he’s going to look like after. It's not like he’s really nervous, but excitement and anxiety feel just about the same when they’re chewing through the lining of his stomach. It’s all just such a thing, capital T.

The truth is, when it’s just him and Bruce out on quiet patrols, or in the dead of night when he’s too wired to sleep, Tim wonders if his transition is the final nail in his mother’s coffin. If it’s a betrayal of her, to bury her image when it’s all he has left of her. He always ends up comforted by the fact that she’d hate his worrying and ruminating. She couldn’t stand indecision, and she’d definitely be more pissed off by the fact that he was considering backing out of a process that she’d spent a lot of time and money on. She’d never blamed him for this, and she wasn’t going to start anytime soon. (For a multitude of reasons, ha.)

And then there’s Bruce. And Alfred, by extension, because even though the conversation was only with one of them, it often feels like they’re halves of a two-headed beast with the sole task of keeping Tim from getting too comfortable. He’s not self-centered enough to think it’s ever on purpose, but he can never get a read off of them, and it drives him crazy. Alfred is so put together, and unnervingly careful with everything he does, while Bruce is just closed-off and enigmatic, and the two of them seem hell-bent on confusing Tim until he finally breaks down. It’s certainly working, at least. Among other things, he doesn’t understand why they’re both so fixated on celebrating his birthday. It’s never really a good time to tell your vigilante boss that you just turned a year older, and to ask if you could pretty please have a break from patrol? Honestly, between Tim’s parents, and the various array of villains targeting Gotham, and everything else, he never felt like Bruce needed a new distraction. Tim didn’t feel like this was important enough to make a fuss over, and he’s surprised that the two of them are so hung up over it. It’s not awful for them to want to be involved in his life, and he can’t say he hates the attention, but it’s just weird. And the fact that Alfred seemed so bothered by the fact that he wasn’t doing anything with his father tonight? It just didn’t make sense. He couldn’t wrap his head around it.

The sound of shuffling feet and muffled conversation drag him out of his head, and he grabs his stuff and follows the rest of his classmates out the door. He doesn’t feel more present, exactly, for having spent most of an hour thinking about everything going on in his life at the moment, but he does feel somewhat lighter. Even if he’s resolved just about nothing from sitting and thinking, he doesn’t feel as engulfed by it all. He’s starting to break it down, parcel it out into manageable sizes, into something that he can actually deal with. Less tsunami, more high tide. 

It’s what carries him forward as he sees Alfred pull up outside the math building and he slides on an easy smile. He’s spent enough time worrying about everything under the sun. It’s his birthday, goddamnit, and he’s going to enjoy it, in spite of himself. He’s going to go home, and then have a lovely dinner with Alfred and Bruce, and let them get whatever birthday mania this is out of their systems, and it’s going to be a little strange, but he’s going to grin and bear it, because they’re just trying to be kind, and it’s going to be fine.

“Hey, Alfred!” He calls, jogging over to the car and hopping into the front seat. “Thanks for picking me up, I really appreciate it.”

“Someone’s in a chipper mood,” Alfred replies, droll. “Did the professor allow you to partake in the faculty lounge’s coffee pot?”

Tim snorts. “Nothing like that, unfortunately. I just had some time to think, I guess? You know, I like this class, but I’m not exactly learning anything cutting edge, so I just kind of use it as scheduled time for… doing stuff.”

“What an eloquent way to phrase it, indeed.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, Alfred,” he sighs. It is remarkably clear that he’s just being messed with, but Tim can’t really say he minds. 

“Illuminate me, then, perhaps.”

Tim hums for a moment, trying to figure out what he wants to say. “Like, sometimes I use it to work on cases. Most of the time, actually. But today I kind of just sat around and spaced out–which does sound bad, I know, but I was thinking while I was spaced out. So I was like… working stuff out. In my head. And it was nice to finally not have a bunch of things bugging me that I hadn’t actually sat down and thought about.”

Alfred pauses, either to make sure Tim doesn’t have anything else to say, or to figure out his own response. “Well, then,” he finally says, “I’m rather glad you’re beginning to learn the importance of processing emotions. You seem to have beat Bruce to the punch on that one, my boy.”

“I’m telling him you said that.”

“Do,” Alfred replies smoothly. “It’s something I’ve been trying to impress upon him for the last thirty-odd years. I’m hoping that competition will finally stir him into action.”

Tim laughs. “Something tells me it isn’t going to work.”

“Perhaps not,” he relents, “but you’ll not deny an old man his optimism, now, will you?”

“Course not. I’m rooting for you, Alfred.”

“And I value your support above all else, Master Tim.”

The rest of the car ride passes in relative quiet, as Alfred fiddles with the radio dial until he finds a station advertising classic rock. The surround sound blares out a Judas Priest song, and he deftly fields a querying look from Tim. “I’m sure this comes as no surprise to you, but Master Bruce had a heavy metal phase when he was younger. I suppose that some of the music stuck with me.”

“Sure, sure,” Tim says. “It’s just a remnant from Bruce’s metal phase.”

Alfred raises a single, perfectly arched eyebrow. “Young man, are you implying that I have a personal taste for such a genre of crass, brutish music?”

“Oh, would you look at that,” he yelps, “we’re here. You know, I really gotta go, Alfred, but thanks for the ride! See you at dinner!” He all but leaps out of the car in an attempt to break free from the conversation, and he thinks he can hear Alfred laughing as he pulls the car out of the driveway. Tim’s fairly sure that his life isn’t in jeopardy, but there’s really no point in pushing his luck, so he opens the door and as soon as he’s inside, almost immediately locks it. A few deadbolts won’t do much against a vengeful butler, but the illusion of safety has to count for something, right?

He’s slipping off his shoes when he realizes that through all his overthinking, he’d never told Bruce that he was trans. It wasn’t on purpose, it had just never seemed to matter, and like his birthday, there never seemed to be a good time to bring it up. It seemed self-explanatory to begin with, really. If Bruce was looking, really looking, he would’ve been able to tell. If Tim could see it, so could everyone else. For all his planning, all his contingencies, there was only so much that he could cover up. He’s sure to have slipped up at some point, made some mistake and made it clear to Bruce exactly what kind of kid he’d chosen to be his new Robin. Tim was careful, but not a machine, no matter how hard he tried to be. And Bruce would’ve known, anyway, seeing as the Waynes and the Drakes ran in similar enough tax brackets to stay up to date on each other's goings-on. Sure, they’d had all the articles and records changed, but there had to be something out there that they'd missed–and besides, Bruce was in the same social circles as his parents, and had been since before he was born. He knew the Drakes. He would’ve known about Tim. 

And maybe it’s avoidance, maybe it’s cowardice, or maybe it’s just fear, but Tim’s never wanted to officially broach the subject. It seems like there’s already a tenuous balance between him and Bruce, between Batman and Robin, and Tim refuses to be the one to rock the boat. It could just be a hazard of the job, or it could just be that Tim’s a lot to deal with. Regardless, he’d always done his best to be dependable and stable, someone Bruce can trust, and he’s not going to do anything to ruin that. He doesn’t need to, because all the clues are right there, just as they’ve always been. Bruce has to know. Telling him would only insult his itelligence, really, and just make for an uncomfortable conversation that never needed to happen in the first place. There’s just no reason to address it.

Tim does his best to stop thinking about it, but the next few weeks fly by and it’s the only thing he can think about. Which is vaguely concerning, seeing as he’s Robin and he kind of has a lot that he should be focusing on instead, but it’s not the end of the world if he’s a little distracted. It’s not like he’s enjoying being stuck in his head, but it’s not like he’s just daydreaming. Lately, everything in his life has started piling up, every stressor rising to a fever pitch, and if something doesn’t give, he’s going to explode.

Bruce bought him a car, for starters. A car. Batman bought him a car for his birthday, and that’s just supposed to be a normal thing. Bruce calls her the Redbird, which fits the whole Robin theme perfectly (because Bruce is nothing if not on brand), and Tim loves her, even if she is neon red and way too nice to be driven just about anywhere in Gotham. Bruce spent about half an hour going over safety protocols and emergency plans with Tim before he was allowed to so much as touch the hood, but he couldn’t really be too bothered about it, because it’s a really, really nice car. Tim doesn’t know enough about makes and models, but considering all the modifications and tech alone, it’s a gorgeous vehicle that Bruce's just about hand crafted for him. Even drawing up the schematics for this must’ve taken forever. 

He was almost afraid to test it out it, but Bruce had looked so pleased with himself and it wasn’t like Tim could refuse. He’d been itching to get in as soon as he laid eyes on it–he also just happened to be running through everything that could possibly go wrong. But he’s sure there’s a hefty car insurance plan that goes along with it, and so he didn’t argue when Bruce suggested they take it on a drive after dinner.

And it was… really nice, in all honesty. Maybe it’s selfish, but Tim loves moments like this, when he can spend time with Bruce and it’s not just for work. When they can be something closer to normal, when Tim can forget that the only reason Bruce keeps him around is because he needs a sidekick. Because he knows that Bruce isn’t his father, and that he isn’t owed this, isn’t owed anything from him, but times like these he’s able to forget, just for a while. It was a good birthday gift, to have someone step in and make an effort to be there, even if just for the night. Things would be different the next day, when it would just be Batman and Robin again, where there are defined rules for how this is supposed to work. Tim knows that Bruce isn’t his father, but it’s easier to remember that in the daylight.

Of course, there was still his actual father, who had started doing all the right things, all of which felt perfectly fake, and Tim didn’t know how to feel about it. His father, who he used to see a few times a year, who would send him holiday cards from around the world and only ever said “I love you” through the phone. Who took him to get his license and picked up his testosterone from the pharmacy and awkwardly clapped him on the shoulder on the way out of the car and said, “Congratulations, son,” and maybe Tim is just emotionally stunted in all the ways that matter, but he almost burst into tears on the spot. He kept it together all the way inside, but he was shaking as he tried to do his shot. It took him a few minutes to chill out, and the most frustrating part was that he didn’t even know what exactly he was upset over. Sure, it was a big day for him, and his dad was more affectionate today than he had been for the majority of Tim’s life, and his parents never really acknowledged him being trans, but now his dad was finally here and he was trying, and he should just be happy that he finally had what he wanted instead of focusing on how wrong it all felt. He was trying his best to keep it together, but he just felt strangely strung out, overwhelmed, and his feet were really cold–which wasn’t a pressing emotional problem, but having poor circulation sucked. Luckily, at least one of these problems had an easy fix.

Tim grabbed a pair of socks, stopped losing his mind long enough to do his shot, and promptly chilled out. The routine started to become something comfortable, giving him a task to focus on instead of macerating in everything else going on in his life, and when he finished, the lack of fanfare was equally comforting. He didn’t spontaneously combust or sprout a beard on the spot, and the notion that this would be the rest of his life gave him something to hold on to, to tether him. This would be a constant, no matter what else happened, and he could trust that. His problems with his father, with Bruce, with himself –it was all temporary. It wasn’t the only thing in the world, and he could deal with it, just by taking it day by day. 

The only issue was that Bruce had been acting spectacularly weirdly lately, and Tim didn't know what the hell he should do about it. Like, weirder than normal, not just cagey and strict and touchy about stuff that Tim’s just barely able to keep track of. Instead, he seemed almost worried. Not in his usual way, either, not overbearing and critical and obsessed with perfecting Tim’s every move, with the kind of stress that Tim knows comes from seeing exactly what happens when a Robin wasn't perfect. He’d actually been laying off, trying to convince Tim to dial it back and take a break, complimenting him more than he ever has–and on things that Tim knew he'd done poorly. It’s like he thought Tim was fragile, or needed reassurance, when all Tim really wanted to know is what exactly made Bruce think that, because he needs to remedy it right now. He didn’t sign up for this just for Bruce to start going easy on him, and he certainly doesn’t want a participation award. It just feels like there’s been this shift that came out of nowhere, and now everyone’s walking on eggshells around him, and he doesn’t know what’s going on. 

This goes on into early September, with both Bruce and Alfred walking a strange line between keeping their distance and watching his every move, and really, Tim’s about to lose it if someone doesn’t explain what the problem is. It’s not just that it’s frustrating for them to be treating him like a child, but Bruce has started acting differently in the field, too, giving Tim much easier targets, and then throwing himself into the throng like he’s a martyr. Which isn’t exactly uncharacteristic behavior for him, but the fact remains that they don’t work like this. The whole point of Batman having Robin is that they fight together, and Tim can’t watch Bruce’s back if he’s halfway across a warehouse trying to put out a fire–and a small one, at that. He’s not going to make a scene during patrol, but he’s done dealing with whatever this is, and he needs to talk to Bruce about it. But Tim’s not going to start an argument in the Batmobile, and he thinks Bruce might be nursing some bruised ribs, so they ride back to the Manor in heavy silence. 

They split off as soon as they get into the cave, Alfred hovering over Bruce while Tim quietly gets changed. He grabs some of the clothes he’s left here for after patrols, hangs up his costume, and heads back to the cave. He’s not exactly sure what he’s going to say, which is usually a bad sign, but Tim’s pissed and he’s not really interested in finding a way to say that nicely. Bruce is lucky that he only ended up with bruised ribs, and Tim doesn’t know why everyone is suddenly treating him like he’s about to shatter, but he needs to know, now. This is only going to get worse, and someone’s going to get seriously hurt, and it’ll be Tim’s fault, even if he doesn’t understand why. Thankfully, Bruce is already in the cave when he heads back in, and Tim takes a moment to steel himself before saying anything. If it goes badly, at least he has the Redbird. And if it goes really badly, Bludhaven is less than an hour away.

“Hey, Bruce,” he calls out, “how are the ribs?”

“They’re fine. Not an issue,” he answers lightly, clicking through a few open tabs on the Batcomputer. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you before you wandered off. Does Alfred need to take a look at anything?”

“Maybe if I’d actually been within ten feet of anyone, sure,” Tim mutters. It comes out a little too snarky, but he can't help it.

Bruce turns around in his seat, eyes narrowed, but before he can respond, Tim sighs sharply. “Look, can we just talk? Everything's been weird lately, and I want to know what’s going on.”

“There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, too,” Bruce says, and there’s a weight in his voice that makes Tim really uncomfortable. He’s getting better about gauging what Bruce’s different tones and voices mean, but he’s never heard this one before. Which means, of course, that he’s fucked up irreperably and his broken body will be found abandoned in a corn field somewhere near Smallville, and God, he can already imagine the news reports. Get it together, Tim.

He watches as Bruce crosses his arms, as he stands from the chair and walks closer to Tim so he can make direct eye contact. Nothing about this can be good, and Tim’s really starting to wish that he’d just gone straight home after patrol. But Bruce starts talking, and suddenly Tim has zero idea where this is going.

“When I allowed you to join me as Robin, I knew there were high expectations placed on you. Large shoes to fill. Between Dick, and… and Jason, there’s a lot of pressure there. To be just as good as them, to measure up. I should’ve realized, from the start, that you were struggling with that. But I failed to see that, and I’m… well, I need to apologize, Tim.”

He takes another step closer and puts his hand on Tim’s shoulder, who has just about stopped breathing, because what the hell is happening. “You will always be a good enough Robin. To me, to Gotham, and hopefully–eventually  to yourself. It’s my job to make sure that you know that, and I need to do a better job about that. It shouldn’t have to come to this for me to realize it.”

It’s like the world has slowed to a crawl, and all Tim can hear is his outrageously loud heartbeat, drowning out whatever nonsense it is that Bruce is saying. He just can’t process it. For the life of him, he can’t understand what’s going on. He needs to double check that Bruce hasn’t been drugged, or replaced by a clone, or kidnapped by aliens, or something even worse than he could imagine. What the hell?

“I—thanks?” Tim splutters, finally understanding what it means to be at a loss for words. “Um, I really appreciate this, Bruce. I think.”

“I just want you to know that you’re doing well,” Bruce says, and even though his face is as stoic as ever, his eyes are earnest and surprisingly sad, “and that you don’t have to take any sort of steroid or performance-enhancing drug to be Robin, Tim.”

He blinks, pauses, and then blinks again. “Excuse me. You think I’m doing what?”

Bruce keeps an even, steady tone, but worry creases the space between his eyes as he talks, as if Tim will try and cut him off before he’s finished. Tim, however, is trying to remember how to breathe. “I know you tried to keep it a secret, but it's my oversight that kept me from recognizing it sooner. It didn’t even cross my mind at first, but that was before I noticed the injection sites. I took a small blood sample the other day, and the results should be in soon enough, so I can figure out what the exact compound is. I understand that you might be angry with me, but it would be helpful for you to tell me what you’re taking and where you've been sourcing it, so I can work on tracking the supplier. Even when they're marketed as natural, these drugs can really do some damage. I'm going to do further testing before I consider putting you back on rotation, and—”

Tim can’t help it. He really can’t. He’s trying to wait to interject until Bruce has said his piece, fighting valiantly to keep a straight face, but he can’t hold it in any longer. He bursts out laughing.

“I know you might be overwhelmed right now,” Bruce says, frowning, “Tim, but—” 

“Bruce, I am so sorry,” Tim cuts in, between wheezes, “but this is not what you think. Like, at all. One hundred percent off the mark.”

“Tim,” Bruce replies firmly, his mouth set in a tense line,  “there’s no need to lie to me.”

“You don’t understand,” Tim says, more insistently. “Yeah, I’m doing injections, but I’m not on steroids or anything—God, I wish. I’m just taking testosterone.”

Bruce sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You and I both know that just because it’s a natural compound doesn’t exclude it from being a steroid. There’s no need to keep arguing. I can tell you’re upset, but this isn’t necessary. I’m not changing my mind about benching you.”

Tim just puts his head in his hands. This is not how he was expecting the conversation to go. It’s almost painful to have to spell it out, but this night is ridiculous enough that he can’t be bothered with feeling embarrassed. “Bruce, I know it can be a steroid. I’m not taking it as a steroid. I’m taking it because I’m trans. Hormone replacement therapy. It’s prescription. Don’t freak.”

Bruce’s face is so confused it’s almost comical, but Tim’s suddenly finding the situation less funny. “But why would you…” He asks, trailing off.  “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Tim says, hands stuffed in his pockets so he has something to do with them. Suddenly he feels on edge, wired, simultaneously exhausted and wide awake.  “Sorry I didn’t tell you. I just kinda assumed that you knew.”

“How was I supposed to know?” Bruce says. His tone is unreadable, impenetrable and still—yet another one that Tim can’t decipher, no matter how hard he tries.

He doesn’t even look at Bruce, not sure if he can handle the disappointment or frustration or anger on his face, and just shrugs. If he stares at the floor long enough, it might open up and let him fall right through it. It'd be a waste of a good sidekick, he supposes, but at this point maybe he doesn't qualify as a "good" sidekick anymore. “I mean, you knew my parents when I was born. I’m kind of a big deal,” he adds, hoping to get a little bit of a reaction, some laugh to soften the landing, but when Bruce stays stoic as ever, he just keeps talking. “Sorry. Anyway, I thought you could tell. It’s not that hard.”

The sentence comes out more bitter than he means it to, and he can hear Bruce’s sharp inhale. He tips his head up, against all reason, because he can’t keep watching dust fall against the stone. Bur Bruce doesn’t seem mad, no matter how hard Tim tries to categorize his expression. Really, he just looks confused, and underneath that, just the slightest bit sad. He takes another deep breath, and looks Tim dead in the eyes for a few seconds without saying anything.

“I’m sorry this was something you didn’t think you could talk to me about,” is what finally comes out, and Tim can finally place the emotion in his face. It’s grief. Shit.

“It’s really not your fault,” he blurts out, desperately trying to regain even a shred of control over the situation. Everything is falling apart faster than he can try to pick up the pieces, and now he's just made another mess that someone else will have to clean up. “It’s not something I like to talk about. I thought you knew and just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Which was fine with me, really.”

Bruce shakes his head, slowly. “No. I’m not… no. I want you to be able to trust me, and clearly I haven’t done that well enough. I may have misunderstood what was going on, but my earlier point still stands. You should be able to talk to me about important things in your life. You're my partner. This is my failure, Tim.”

“I don’t talk about this with anyone, Bruce.” Tim says. “It’s not just you, okay? I just wanted to avoid the conversation entirely. If it mattered, I’d bring it up, but there was never a good time, and it never ended up being important that you know. So I didn’t say anything. I just didn’t want it to be another thing.”

“Another thing?” Bruce echoes. 

Tim feels like all he's doing is repeating himself tonight, and each time it seems like he's only saying the wrong things. He would rather be anywhere else in the world, having any conversation other than this, but he fixes his gaze back on the ground and finds solace in a new patch of dirt on the floor. “Another reason that I’m different from the other Robins.”

“Tim,” Bruce says quietly, “this doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t have changed my mind then, and it doesn’t change my mind now. You’re just as much Robin as anyone else. I don’t want anyone else to be my partner, okay? You’re doing just fine, and that’s all that I care about.”

Tim doesn’t answer for a long minute. If he says anything else, he knows he’s going to start choking up, and he can’t handle that tonight. Instead, he settles on saying, “So this is the reason you’ve been sidelining me? Because you thought I was stressed and on drugs, so you tried to give me a break?”

Bruce blinks, utterly thrown by the change in topic. “I mean… I suppose, yes. I thought maybe giving you a few less strenuous assignments and being more outwardly supportive would help reinforce the notion that you didn’t need… outside help, let’s say, in order to do well as Robin.”

“Huh.”

Bruce huffs. “Look, that’s not the important part. I don’t want to get derailed. This is a serious conversation.”

“Yeah, it is,” Tim agrees, firmly interested in keeping the topic something that doesn’t make him feel like he’s on the verge of a total breakdown. “You can’t completely change up the way we do things, the way you trained me to fight, because you think I’m losing it. I mean, I guess technically you can. But I can’t do my job properly if you keep giving me softball assignments instead of actually addressing what’s wrong.” And, because he’s feeling just the tiniest bit spiteful about this whole thing, Tim adds, “Or at least, what you think is wrong.”

He pauses, then nods. “Yes. You’re right. I could’ve handled this much better. But,” Bruce adds, before Tim can jump in, “you’re changing the topic.”

“It’s not something that warrants a conversation, Bruce,” Tim argues, and his voice is dead tired, stretched thin in a way that he can’t filter out anymore. He’s really trying to keep it together, but it’s late, and this has been such a long, weird day, and his grip on his composure feels so, so tenuous, like water cupped between his hands. “Really, it’s fine.”

Bruce just sighs, slowly. “I believe that the fact that you didn’t discuss an important part of your life with me because you were concerned with my reaction does warrant a conversation, Tim. I’m not going to force the issue tonight, because I don’t want this to be an interrogation, but I do want you to feel comfortable talking to me. About anything, any time. Okay?”

“Yep,” Tim says, popping the 'p' more to sound more casual than he feels. “Got it.”

The room feels strangely hollow, empty, like there's a negative pressure system down here that's sucking out all the air. The two of them are silent as they stare everywhere but at each other, and it feels like some sort of spell has been broken, a bubble popped. Something has changed, now, but for once, Tim’s not interested in dissecting exactly what that is. He barely stifles a yawn, his eyes closing as his body practically pulses with exhaustion. Normally, he’s good at running on empty, and he did get some sleep last night, but all he can think about is curling up and passing out. The location isn’t even important—right now, he'd curl up on the stone floor if Alfred would let him get away with it.

Bruce, of course, doesn’t miss the yawn, or the way that Tim keeps absently rubbing at his eyes. “It’s getting late. I’ll drive you back,” he says, with a tone that doesn’t invite disagreement. 

Luckily, Tim’s fresh out of antagonism, and simply nods. He could argue about driving himself home, but the fact is, he’d probably fall asleep at the wheel, and that’d just be another thing that they’d have to have a conversation about. There’s no point in making a fuss over something he doesn’t really want to do, anyway, so he just trudges over to the Batmobile and concentrates very hard on placing one foot in front of the other. He’s not so out of it that he’s worried about falling flat on his face, but it’s a closer thing than he’d like. Bruce follows, even more wraithlike than usual, and starts the car. 

A few minutes of stifling silence later, and they’ve pulled in front of his house, Tim's fingers wrapped around the door handle. The air outside is just as oppressive, so damp and humid he can almost taste it, and he’s not sure if he prefers the thick, late-September heat or the way Bruce’s face has drawn into tight, unreadable lines. Over his shoulder Tim hears him exhale, slowly. “Goodnight, Tim.”

“‘Night, Bruce,” he calls back. And then, because the words have been ready to slip off his tongue for the past half hour, “I’m sorry about tonight.”

Bruce just shakes his head. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” he says finally, and for once, it really sounds like he means it. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, his words soft and stretched around another wide yawn. “I’ll be there.”

The headlights flicker, and the Batmobile disappears back into the night as Tim gives his head a brief shake before heading inside. 

His father’s a heavy sleeper, but it’s still late and Tim doesn’t want to take any chances, so he pads slowly through the house. He’s suddenly thankful for all the hours Bruce spent training him on how to slip unnoticed through the city. Skulking around definitely has its own share of practical, non-vigilante applications. He makes it to his room and promptly collapses on his bed. He can shower in the morning, it’s about time for him to wash his sheets anyway, and he’s just spent. This is why Tim doesn’t like heart-to-hearts and dramatic revelations in the middle of the night. They’re annoying, sure, but they're also just exhausting. He’s missed his pillow by a solid margin, but his eyes are already closing, and he’s asleep before he can remember to turn off the light. But that's tomorrow’s problem, and already, they seem to be piling up faster than he can take note of them. Wake up, go to class, get his car from the Manor. Figure out if things are going to be weird with Alfred now, figure out how to deal with things already being weird with Bruce, decide how he feels about everything. Talk to his dad, remember to eat lunch, work on his cases. It’s like it never ends. 

Sometimes, it seems like everything has to be his responsibility, all the time, and he’s just supposed to live like this. That if he just stays organized, and keeps busy, and doesn’t think about anything but the task at hand, he’ll just barely get by, keep going, power through. It doesn’t matter if he’s fraying at the seams and worn so far down that it feels like he’s nothing but skin and bones, so long as he gets everything done. And now that things are finally changing, Tim’s trying to do better, to balance and delegate and not pile everything onto his own plate like it’s some sort of martyrdom competition. But breaking habits takes time, and it’s hard, and he’s still not convinced that there will be someone there to pick up his slack, to watch his back, to be there. But he’s learning how to slow down, and he’s learning how to trust. He’s learning that it doesn’t have to be Tim Drake, party of one, anymore. 

The first thing Tim does, when he wakes up in the morning, is turn on his laptop and log into the Batcomputer’s remote systems. After he’s made his way through about seventeen different passwords, firewalls, and security measures, he’s finally able to access all its online files. Instead of starting research on one of his numerous active cases, however, Tim opens up the folder with his personal records. He knows Bruce keeps files on everybody, but the important ones are especially dense: those for himself, Alfred, Dick, and of course, Tim. He opens his own file, scrolls past the extensive array of data—why does Bruce need to know his exact time of birth?—and into the medical section. He doesn’t normally mess around with Bruce’s files, but this time, Tim doesn’t think he’ll mind too much. He’s only adding one thing, anyway. All the way at the bottom of the page, Tim fills in the section for any current medications. Testosterone cypionate, 50mg.

It’s not the best way to start the morning, but it’s not the worst, either.