Chapter Text
And sometimes, he feels bad when his parents go away on an extended trip to a dig or an unveiling. He feels bad because it makes him happy since his parents leaving for a while means he gets to stay with Mr. Bruce, Jay, and Alfred at nights instead of being home all alone. It means he gets to do his homework in the kitchen across the table from Jay, and can, you know, sometimes ask for his help on the harder things (sometimes it makes him feel more bad because he doesn’t need help, not really, but it’s so nice when Jay scrunches up against his side and explains his way of solving a problem).
But, it’s the best, the absolute best, when he asks Jay for help with his Reading homework because Jay’s voice is starting to get deeper like Mr. Bruce’s, and he reads out loud in such an easy, effortless way it makes Tim wanna snuggle down and let the rhythm roll over him.
And sometimes, after dinner, if he’s full and happy, he might fall asleep on his favorite couch in the downstairs lounge, but when he wakes up, he was always tucked in to “his” bed in “his” room, the one Mr. Bruce said would always be for him, so he would always have a place with them.
(Every time he comes over, his Spider-Man bedspread is there and his Sully slippers in the same place he left them last time he came over. Sometimes there’s new books. Sometimes there’s a few games on the desk, puzzles for him to solve! When he does solve them and explains to Mr. Bruce how he figured it all out, he likes how Mr. Bruce tries to hide his smile behind one hand while Jay’s eyes get all wide and surprised.)
Sometimes when he gets there, it’s just Mr. Alfred and Mr. Bruce. He just tells Tim that Jay is visiting Dick for help on a project so they would just have a movie night without him. How does that sound?
And it’s fine! Because Mr. Bruce is really nice and tries to be silly sometimes, bantering back and forth with Alfred or Jay or him, absently ruffling Jay’s hair and Tim’s immediately after.
But sometimes, if he’s lucky, very, very lucky, Dick will come in from the Haven with the excuse of checking up on his adopted Father and proclaimed “Little Brother.”
So he thinks he must be so lucky because when he walks into the foyer of Wayne Manor, still in his uniform from the private school in the middle of Gotham, his backpack featuring Batman and Robin (of course he noticed Mr. Bruce smiling when he saw it) still on his shoulders with homework he’d already finished, and Dick is just right there.
He might squeak just a little because Mr. Alfred looked down at his shoes contemplatively, probably thinking no one in existence could make a noise like that.
“Hey Timmy!”
And the little boy goes a little hazy when Dick says his name in that fond tone, already coming close so he can swing Tim up in his arms and hold him close for a hug.
“Hi Dick,” the younger boy returns shyly, but absolutely throws his arms around Dick’s massive shoulders, snuggles himself down into the hold.
**
But sometimes…sometimes he makes mistakes.
It’s after three when he has to get up out of bed and go downstairs. He woke up from a nightmare and can’t go back to sleep, so he needs a glass of milk and he doesn’t want to wake Mr. Alfred to get it.
When he finds Mr. Bruce, Jay, and Dick sitting at the kitchen table in sweats and t-shirts, looking bruised and battered and exhausted, his heart starts pounding so hard he think he might throw-up.
“Oh no,” and his eyes are getting hot and heavy, “no, no no.” His little fists clench hard by his sides, his small body trembling because they have bandages and bruises, because there’s blood and they got hurt.
Three heads immediately turn when they hear him, hear the pain in his voice, hear the thick quality to it.
“Shit,” is Jay’s immediate answer, one hand already up in a hold-on a minute, you feel me? Kind of motion.
“Tim,” Bruce is half-rising out of his chair, obviously wincing while he does.
“Hey! We were just–um, we couldn’t sleep, Timmy, okay? It’s all right, we’re going back to bed–”
“You got hurt,” is trembling and angry and his jaw clenches so hard he can barely get it out. “You went after the Riddler and you got hurt.”
And since he’s feeling so many things, since his eyes are heavy and the first tears start to fall even though he’s trying to be a big boy and hold it all in, he takes a shaky step forward and forgets that he probably shouldn’t say anything to give himself away.
By the absolute shock on their faces, he’s already messed that up.
“And I knew where he was and I didn’t tell you,” is full of anger and recriminations, something so out of place from a kid his age, “I saw all the trucks heading down to the Narrows on my way home from school. I knew it had to be the Riddler’s goons. I knew they had to be planning something big because there were five whole trucks, and I didn’t say anything.”
His voice picks up the more he talks, the faster he gets, his eyes going wildly from the bandage around Dick’s hand to the one Jay’s cheek to the nasty scratches on the lower part of Mr. Bruce’s arm.
He’s almost screaming when the truth finally comes out, “you got hurt because I was too scared to say anything! I know you didn’t want me to know your secret, so I didn’t tell, and-and it’s my fault you got hurt!”
And his chest hitches because he’s trying hard, so hard, to stop crying, to keep the sobs in, “I didn’t want you to kick me out, so I kept your secret! I like being here, I like–” having a real home, a real family “–so I never told! And-and look what happened! Look what I did!”
And now that they know he knows and that he didn’t give them the evidence they needed against the Riddler, they weren’t going to let him come back anyway. They couldn’t chance he would find out anything else, so he would have to go back to staying with Mrs. Mac, to promising he would never tell, to hearing the sound of the big car going past his empty, silent house on the way to the city. By not telling them everything, he was literally going to lose it all.
And the realization makes the small boy choke.
He doesn’t know he’s backing up until he hits the kitchen wall, slaps both tiny hands over his mouth with his wet eyes wide with horror at what he’d just said.
“I’m sorry,” he sobs, muffled behind his hands, “I’m so sorry!”
He turns to run, manages to dart around Mr. Alfred still in his pajamas, coming down to see what the commotion is, doesn’t turn when his name is called.
Instead, he takes the stairs fast, already throwing off his pajama shirt by the time he hits the door to his room and locks it. His hands shake when he throws on his clothes and shoes without socks, when he snags his backpack and shoves the window up in his room (not his anymore. They’re not going to be mean about because they’re so nice putting up with him, dealing with him, being good to him, but of course he can’t come back, not when he just screwed everything up so badly).
He’s sobbing without realizing it when he slides his arms into the straps and throws his small legs over the sill, feet trying to find purchase.
He’s crying so loud, his chest hitching with breath that he doesn’t hear the voices on the other side of the door calling to him, doesn’t know the small clicking sounds are someone picking the lock.
He gets to the window below his and has to turn because there’s no other purchase for him to find from there. With the small amount of rooms he’s got, he bends his knees, steadies himself with a hand on the side of the sill, and balances, calculates with the weight of the backpack and books.
When he finally springs, leaping from the window to the tree right next to the Manor, he doesn’t really think about how far down it would be if he doesn’t get hold of the branch in time to catch himself. He really doesn’t think about anything else but leaving before they can tell him he can’t come back.
(Because that would be worse than not being able to after this. Seeing Dick’s face so sad and Mr. Bruce tight-lipped. Even Jay not looking him in the eye.)
The bark scratches his hands, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls himself up, small arms straining with his weight and the books on his back.
“Oh my God, Tim!” Dick’s voice sounds completely panicked.
The riotous, “How in the utter fuck did he–!” is absolutely Jay.
But it’s Bruce Wayne that launches himself out the window almost too fast to be seen, dives like he’s in the cape, like one of his boys is in trouble (because one of his boys is) and easily snatches Tim in one arm, holds the little boy securely against his chest, and uses the other to swing around the branch to propel them back up to the third story window.
It’s easy and effortless, Mr. Bruce swinging them both back up to the window, holding on with one hand and him with the other, sliding his legs back in and ducking so they don’t hit their heads.
Dick doesn’t wait even a second, just scoops him out of Mr. Bruce’s arms and hugs him tight enough to hurt.
“D-Dick!” he whimpers but the vigilante just falls down on the messy bed and refuses to let up even a little.
“Timothy Jackson Drake,” is shaky but still makes him huddle tighter into Dick’s chest and neck, “if you ever scare me like that again!”
“All right, Dick, calm down,” because Mr. Bruce has to keep order somehow. “He just scared himself, so we’re going to talk about this, then everyone is going to bed.”
Mr. Bruce sits down on Dick’s right and Jay scowls while he plops down on the left.
“I…I’m sorry, Dick. I’m sorry.”
“Tol’ ya he was a smartie,” Jay just shakes his head and lays back, throws a forearm over his tired eyes.
“Thank-you, Master Jason. It would seem you have an eye for detail. I suppose those detective lessons are coming along nicely,” Mr. Alfred comes through the doorway with a tray, still in his pajamas and robe. Coffee smells good but the tall glass of milk is for the shaky boy perched on Master Dick’s lap.
A thumbs-up is all Jason has to say in return.
“There now, Master Timothy. Time to be brave, yes? Here, your milk is quite ready.”
Wiping at his face, Tim climbs off Dick’s lap, stands to face the four looking at him expectantly, sniffling and staring down at his sneakers. Mr. Bruce reaches out for coffee and pats his head gently, pulls a Batman move to slide the hand down to his his backpack and slip it down his arms, puts it by the bed at the same time.
“So, you figured us out,” Dick leans in to take the next offered cup, and tries to duck a little so Timmy would look up at them.
Sucking in a breath, the little boy just nods, ashamed and shaky.
“How?” Mr. Bruce tries to make it gentle, but Timmy still flinches and has to wipe his face with his sleeve again. “It’s okay, Tim, but you need to tell us how you found out our identities.”
Biting down on his lip doesn’t help stop the tears in his eyes again, doesn’t stop the knock to his knees, or the trembling in his belly.
“Dick…Dick can do quadruple flips,” is half-sobbed out, “just like Nightwing and-and the old footage of Robin.” He wraps his arms around himself, hugging himself tight, trying to keep himself from breaking down completely, “then there was a new Robin and it was because Jay came to live with you. And how else could Batman pay for all the things he has? Where would he get all the technology? It just…it just all added up,” and his knees give a wobble, his chest hitching a little because they’re going to let him stay the night and then take him back home. This room will be a guest room again, all his things gone, like he’d never stayed at all–
“I’ll-I’ll never tell,” the little boy sobs, “no matter what happens, I’ll never tell! Please believe me, please!”
Jay sits up to take the hot chocolate from Alfred and look the crying little kid over. He sighs when Timmy covers his eyes and tries to hide. He side-eyes B and Dickie, has a silent conversation with his partners using facial expressions alone in their own Bat-language.
In a singular motion, all three of them turn to look at Alfred sitting comfortably in the slipper chair, his wizened eyes softening. The butler merely raises an eyebrow.
Bruce gives a firm nod since they’re all in agreement, and puts his coffee cup down decisively.
“Tim,” and Mr. Bruce is being gentle again, trying to be so nice that Timmy knows what’s coming, knows what he’s going to say.
“I’ll go back home,” he sniffs, keeps his hand over his eyes, “I’ll never,” hic, “I’ll never bother you again and I’ll never tell anyone.”
“Oh Timmy!” Dick’s eyes go wide.
“Now hold on a minute, kiddo–”
“Master Tim–”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, please don’t hate me. Please–!”
Jay’s eyes blow wide with shock and Dick’s mouth falls open. It’s Bruce this time that stands off the bed to kneel by the little boy and put both hands solidly on his shoulders.
“Tim. Look. At. Me.” This time it’s firm, dark and growly like the Batman. There’s no question, it’s a tone that demands the worst criminals throw down their weapons and give up.
His eyes watery and face wet, little Timmy blinks up at Mr. Bruce and hastily wipes his face with his sleeve.
“There is absolutely no way we could ever hate you, and nothing, nothing is your fault, do you understand me?”
Uncomprehending, Tim just stares up at him with those dark eyes.
“You’ll go back when your parents are there, just like we’ve been doing until now. And when they need to leave, you’re going to come home and stay in your room. You’ll do your homework with Jay and me and Alfred. You’ll eat all your vegetables or no dessert. You’ll do your chores and keep up your grades, just like the boys.”
And the blooming hope makes him catch his breath, his eyes wide with it, his small hands come up to clench fists full of Mr. Bruce’s t-shirt.
“But no crime fighting until you’re at least in middle school! Absolutely none, Tim, am I making myself clear?”
“Yes,” the boy breathes out with a last sniffle, “yesyesyes I promise! I promise!”
“Good. No more talk of leaving, not ever again. You’re part of the family and that isn’t going to change, okay?”
His eyes are full again and it’s for the happiest reason ever, and he’s nodding quickly because his throat is thick (Mr. Bruce called this his ‘home’) and he doesn’t want anyone to change their minds.
Jay grins at him widely, swigging the last of his chocolate milk and giving him a wink.
Dick laughs out loud and snatches him from Mr. Bruce’s hold, holds him up off his feet even with a bandaged hand and bruises. “See, Timmy? Everything is fine, and someday when you’re bigger, you can come hang out with me in the ‘Haven. I’ll totally teach you to train surf.”
He wraps both arms and legs around Dick to squeeze back and laugh, too. He’s so full of happy even when Mr. Alfred says to put him down, he needs to drink his milk, but perhaps a late movie night could be in order.
Jay doesn’t say anything when Timmy holds on the hem of his t-shirt while they troop downstairs and presses between him and Dick on the couch. He gets hair ruffles and some popcorn, nods off with a smile before Coco even gets to the good musical part.
When he wakes up surrounded by everyone, the television off and the smell of coffee and breakfast wafting from the kitchen, when he does his chores and sets the table, gets the best French Toast to ever exist, when he gets to be in the banter around him, he thinks how nice it is.
To be part of their family.