Chapter Text
It wasn’t the reunion Tim had envisioned when he was seventeen and still elbow-deep in his depressed, morally gray stint around the world.
That reunion, the one Tim would dream about a little too often to be anything other than fantasy, usually involved Bruce as the haggard one: pale-faced and weary, maybe even injured from his time away, with once-strong hands that shook slightly as testament to his trials, but that reached directly toward Tim in an ultimate show of trust. Tim imagined Bruce would lean on him, a moment of tangible support to parallel the metaphorical sort that Robin always performed for Batman, especially in those tense early years. The weight of Bruce’s bulk would finally be what made everything feel real, that grounded Tim in reality after so long floating away from himself.
But that wasn’t how it happened. Of course it wasn’t. The years had distanced Tim even further from an already impossible dream.
Reality left Tim as the one returning from a journey; left Tim as the one injured, leaning against Dick’s side as the jet circled overhead and touched down beside them. It was unlike Bruce to pick any of them up in their civilian identities with one of Batman’s toys for anything less than a tragedy. Oracle would need to scrub security feeds and monitor social media for ages, to make sure civilians hadn’t accidentally happened across the spectacle.
In that moment, Tim couldn’t care about any of that. Even the blood sluggishly seeping out of his side and the pounding in his skull felt inconsequential, because… because the jet’s maw opened just as soon as it touched down, and then a figure was there, dressed all in black.
Batman seemed to freeze at the sight of the three of them, of Carter cradled in Dick’s arms, of Tim leaning into Dick’s side. Tim might have tried piecing together Bruce’s thoughts from his body language if he’d had the mental capacity for it. But he was frozen, too, mind blank of anything other than the peculiar, swirling mix of desperation and dread elicited by that familiar cowled face.
Dick helped Tim hobble up the incline, and then strong, gauntleted hands pulled Tim properly inside. The interior of the Batjet aligned well with what Tim remembered, though he could see glimpses of updated tech as Batman led him to the medical cot. His eyes kept getting stuck on the small inconsistencies to his memory, snagged like feathers caught against thorns.
“Take her up,” Batman called, and Tim nearly startled at the sudden boom of his voice. Who was flying? If he had the energy, perhaps he’d try to find out. As it was, the interest seeped out of him just as quickly as it trickled in.
Finally safe, Tim felt tension and awareness both slough off his shoulders like physical weights. He felt disoriented, disconnected. Blood loss could do that. So could concussion. Shock. Standard disassociation.
Pressure under his thighs indicated he’d been deposited on the cot. Stench of disinfectant felt like a slap to the face. Air against the bare skin of his torso preceded the repetitive drag of needle through flesh.
Before Tim knew it, lights flashed in his eyes again and hands—wide and solid, warm flesh to replace cool leather—cupped his cheeks. It was the warmth that really drew him back to himself, the intimately gentle touch of another person willingly choosing proximity. No matter how many times it happened, Tim couldn’t help but be taken back.
The world re-focused.
There, inches from his face, a man not Batman and yet not fully Bruce Wayne: dark hair graying at the temples, haphazard in the way it always looked immediately removed from the cowl; face with wrinkles more defined, notably around the mouth and grooved into the plane of the forehead; body wide and powerful, still dressed in the suit but with the gloves, cowl and cape stripped away; eyes the cold, icy blue Tim remembered, but pinched with an emotion he struggled to name.
A man somewhere between the masks of Batman and Bruce Wayne: the man Tim had loved like family long before he had ever been allowed the privilege. The man he’d upended his entire life to find; the man whose approval he would have done anything for; the man he’d missed so much he could hardly stand it.
His dad, assuming Bruce still wanted the title.
The thought made Tim hesitate, because… well. Because the thought of Bruce having given up on him in any capacity filled him with… something. A lot of somethings, more like. Nausea. Dread. Crushing loneliness.
Bruce had adopted him, sure, but Tim knew parental love wasn’t always unconditional. What would it say about him, to be given up on by a third parent?
Self-doubt was one of Tim’s usual enemies. It wormed its way beyond the nerves, the excitement, the yearning, to plant itself at the forefront. Self-doubt was ugly and bitter and hurtful, but almost comfortable in its familiarity. It was easier to lose himself to doubt than to hope. Easier to have no expectations than to have them dashed.
Tim had learned that lesson young. Often.
“You with me, Tim?” Bruce asked, voice as warm and soothing as it always was when he sat at the side of Tim’s sickbed. Tim had thought he’d never hear it again.
Tears threatened to fill already stinging eyes; Tim blinked rapidly to clear them away and swallowed down the rough lump in his throat.
It was really him.
Despite everything, some part of Tim had still doubted the validity of Bruce’s return. Without himself there to oversee, how could it have possibly happened? He’d kept up with Wayne news, of course, even though it had hurt. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from collecting the fluff pieces and paparazzi photos of his family over the years. Call it sentimentality, call it weakness. Either way, he’d known that Bruce was alive on a logical level.
More than just alive—Tim knew that Bruce was okay. Okay enough to host a charity event a month past, to be pictured making social flubs and showing up half an hour late to an important press conference. Tim had collected as many signs of Bruce’s life as a person removed from his family could for years: the articles, the photos, the press releases. But even then, there had been some amount of disbelief. Hadn’t they fooled people with doppelgangers before? Could Tim really recognize that it was truly Bruce even while a country away just because he told himself a good son would?
And even with Bruce returned, Bruce alive, it was still surreal to think that the last time he’d seen the man outside of a candid photo and bullshit gossip column was before Darkseid, before the timestream nonsense, before Tim had lost Robin, before everything with Ra’s and his League.
Before Carter.
Tim sucked in a sharp breath and cast his gaze around the space with sudden anxiety.
“Where—?”
Bruce gestured to the second medical cot, set up not far from Tim’s. There, Carter slept, curled up in his favorite blanket. Huh. Dick must have pulled it from Tim’s luggage—must have somehow gathered Tim’s bag from where he’d abandoned it on the train. It was the familiarity of the cartoon robins printed on the soft fabric, coupled with the steady rise and fall of Carter’s chest, that truly made Tim calm. Carter was safe.
They were both safe.
And Dad was—Bruce was—
The image of Bruce wavered when Tim looked again; he had to clasp his hands together tightly to keep from desperately clearly the tears from his eyes.
“Bruce,” he croaked, already struggling through a speech he’d long rehearsed, “I’m so sor—”
Arms reached before he could finish and drew Tim against a solid chest. The grip was strong, nearly crushing, fueled by a desperation Tim matched with fingers gripped tight against smooth Kevlar, like anchors keeping him from drifting off into the ocean. Bruce’s bulk enveloped him, steady warmth and safety like Tim hadn’t felt in years.
To hear Dick tell it, Bruce rarely hugged. But after a childhood with Janet and Jack Drake, Tim had never noticed the lack. Bruce gave hugs more frequently than his birth parents ever had—held tighter and lingered longer, too. Hugging Bruce felt like being engulfed, but in a comforting way. The darkness of night made tangible, with shoulders so broad as to completely keep the rest of the world at bay. Each one felt like a gift that always managed to both overwhelm and sustain him.
But he’d never felt anything like the hug Bruce drew him into there in the middle of the jet’s medbay. One strong arm like a band across his back, a warm hand cradled against the back of his head to gently pet through his hair in an action that made him feel young and precious. But it was those world-blocking shoulders that were the most mystifying. They trembled slightly, uncharacteristically, in what Tim could only describe as the most open display of emotion he’d ever seen from the man he’d once known so well. It was just as well; Tim darkened those trembling shoulders with his own tears. It might have embarrassed him, once, but the moment felt removed from pesky concerns of pride.
In that moment, he wasn’t Tom Connell; wasn’t even Tim Drake-Wayne.
Just a son, held tight by a father. It was all he’d wanted to be for so very long.
“Bruce.” The name punched itself out as a sob, muffled into Bruce’s shoulder. The timing sucked, all things considered, but their reunion was bringing back so many emotions Tim had long buried, forced into boxes deep within his mind for the sake of survival.
Without the danger and the distance and the doubt, he was all of sixteen years old again, shouldering burdens on his own, feeling forced from his home by a displaced, murderous child and the one person left alive he thought he could trust, so confident that his dad was alive because the alternative would have shattered him beyond fixing. He’d lost so much so young and never properly healed from any of it. Part of him was afraid he never would, that he would always be on the edge of a nervous breakdown from the sheer weight of the memory alone.
But Bruce’s arms were tight around him, his warmth all around him. And in his ear, Bruce’s voice, steady despite his own emotion and sounding so confident, saying, “It’s okay. I’m here, Tim. I’m here. It’s okay.”
Finally, finally, Tim could believe it.
After a long time, the band across his back and the hand against his skull moved away, settled onto his shoulders to pull him away from the comforting crook of Bruce’s neck. Immediately, one large hand drifted up to cup his cheek; Tim blinked away a fresh round of tears as a wide thumb swiped against the tracks, and then again as Bruce angled his face just enough to meet his eyes, the way he always used to when he thought Tim was concussed, or while checking in after a particularly heavy night.
Those eyes searched Tim’s the way they always used to, too, with an intensity that made Tim feel exposed, his secrets all laid bare. Tim remembered once feeling uncomfortable under the weight of those intelligent eyes. But in that moment, they made him feel light, his disasters finally someone else’s to shoulder; his fires someone else’s to extinguish.
“Hey, B,” Tim said, lips quirked in an exhausted, damp smile. It felt like he’d cried everything out, until all that was left was a tear-streaked shell. And yet it felt so much better than the emotional turmoil he’d been holding onto for so long, even with his stitches straining.
“Hello, Tim.” Bruce’s smile was just as watery, and wasn’t that something? Tim had never seen Bruce so openly emotive before in his life. He’d never felt Bruce linger so long with physical affection, either. But there he was, still gently rubbing Tim’s swollen tear-streaked cheek with a thumb and looking at Tim like he was the answer to life’s biggest questions. It was intimidating and strange but made him feel warm. “I think I should probably check your stitches.”
Tim hummed his acquiescence and tried not to feel disappointed as Bruce finally pulled away.
Bruce took a moment to slide on a pair of medical gloves before lifting the gauze and gently poking at the edges of the wound.
“Still looks good,” he announced, assumingly once he was satisfied. The gauze only had a little blood on it so far, but Bruce dutifully replaced the pad anyway. “How’s your pain? And your head? You seem to have a minor concussion but, barring any recent traumatic injuries, it shouldn’t be a major concern.”
“I feel okay,” Tim said, as he allowed his shirt to fall back into place. Only a half-truth, and Bruce would probably see through it immediately, but he had so many other things on his mind that a little pain was easily overlooked. Sure enough, Bruce was already turned away from him, rummaging in the medbay cooler. Tim couldn’t wipe the small smile from his face at the characteristic mother-henning. “B, I didn’t lose that much blood.”
“You lost enough.” Bruce pulled a small vial from the cooler and set it beside a wrapped hypodermic needle. “Once we get to the Cave, Agent A can administer an IV treatment. In the meantime, I’d like to start your first round of antibiotics.”
Over-protection wasn’t new for Bruce. During the years spent at Batman’s side, Tim had learned that fussing was both how Bruce showed affection and how he dealt with stressful situations that he felt he had no direct control over. It made sense that Bruce would be looking for something to do with his hands, particularly during such an emotional reunion.
But Tim had a feeling that…
“You saw my bracelet.” A gift from Rose, leather banded and engraved: Asplenia. Even though it was modern and stylish, he’d felt uncomfortable wearing it for a long while. In part because he hadn’t felt that it was necessary, another part because it broadcasted what had felt like a very personal mistake to anyone that happened to look hard enough at his wrist. Years of use had turned it into just something he wore for his family’s peace of mind.
Bruce’s pause was just long enough to be hesitation.
“And the scar,” he finally confirmed.
Though Tim had known Bruce would find out about the spleen fiasco, he’d naively hoped he could delay that part of the long, exhausting conversation the two of them would need to have. Already, he could feel the awkwardness creeping back in; Bruce’s reluctance to push, Tim’s lack of desire to speak.
“It happened a long time ago,” Tim offered, quietly. “And I’m fine now. I learned how to manage it, and it’s probably the least important thing we need to talk about right now.”
Tim watched Bruce take a deep breath, probably to keep himself from ruining their fragile truce with demands and disagreements, before he nodded his assent and held out the needle.
“And what would you say is the most important thing we should talk about?”
Years of practicing field medicine allowed Bruce to inject the needle with barely a pinch; Tim’s wince was entirely for the thought of explaining Carter’s existence to his family. Even years later and with plenty of scripted conversations under his belt, he felt completely speechless.
It was fear. Fear of rejection. Of judgement. Disgust. It was that fear that had kept him away so long, too, and god… Tim was so tired of letting fear control him. He’d been Robin, once. Robin wasn’t supposed to let fear dictate his actions.
Most important information only. He could do that much for now.
“Ra’s is after my son.” Tim’s eyes were on Carter: the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the curly head of dark hair. Bruce was probably cataloguing it all, assuming he hadn’t already while Tim was floating outside himself.
Tim didn’t dare look up to gauge Bruce’s reaction to his news, even as he continued. “His name is Carter. He’s five.” Tim paused, took a deep breath. His next line was slow, halting, cautious. “There isn’t anyone else in the picture. But… there are civilians that we were close to.”
Bruce hummed, the note that meant he was thinking. “Yes. The Carvalho family. Ra’s was keeping tabs on them.”
Tim’s head snapped over to regard Bruce. “What? Dick didn’t mention that. Are they—”
“They’re fine,” Bruce assured him. “We’ve tried to convince them to relocate, but they were adamant that they would stay. Ra’s is unlikely to involve civilians, and we’ve already arranged a rotation of JLA-approved liaison to monitor them. If I feel that it isn’t enough to ensure their safety, we can think of something else.”
Of course Bruce and Babs would have already figured something out. Tim allowed himself to breath out, not quite relaxed but certainly relieved. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to defer to Batman and Oracle.
“Thank you.”
Something strange happened to Bruce’s face. He opened his mouth like he might speak, pursed his lips closed, paused, furrowed his brow, and opened his mouth again in a cycle that repeated more than once. Lack of words wasn’t unusual for Bruce, who struggled to communicate in a typically accepted way. Tim had once been well acquainted with the subtleties of what Bruce managed to convey, a skill acquired from years at his side and a sympathy born from recognized similarity. But though Tim knew Bruce struggled, to see him grappling through his frustration so openly was unusual.
“Tim,” Bruce started, slow and stilted. “Whatever happened while you were gone, while I was gone… I don’t know the details. I’d like to know those details, I’d like to understand, but…” Bruce released a breath of frustration, and placed a hand against Tim’s arm, as if the contact could speak more clearly than the words. “Regardless of those details, of the things that I wasn’t here for, I need you to know that I’m here now. I’m here, and I can help you. You don’t need to handle things on your own any longer, Tim. You’re my son. Carter is…” Bruce hesitated, stumbled, regained his footing, “I can be whatever you want me to be for him. I’ll do whatever it takes to be there for you both.”
A fresh wave of tears stung Tim’s eyes; he rubbed them away before they could fall and nodded, too choked to speak. They truly were alike, in that way. Often unable to speak, choked by emotions they struggled to name.
But the time apart had changed them both, it seemed, because Bruce mystified him by choosing proximity again: an arm around his shoulders, a gentle kiss pressed against the top of his head. Bruce had never been this physically affectionate before. But they’d never gone nearly five years without seeing each other before, either. And it was nice. To know that he was wanted, that Carter was wanted. Maybe Bruce would change his mind when he learned what Tim had done to bring Carter into the world, but for now he could imagine them as a normal, happy family.
It was… yeah. It was nice.
It was still dark when the jet touched down in the hanger hidden amongst the manor property’s tree line. Carter remained asleep, even as the wheels hit the asphalt: either a commentary on their pilot’s skill, or the amount of energy that Carter’s new power had drained.
As worried as Tim was for his son, it did make the transition from jet to car easier, particularly when Dick reappeared with their pilot in tow.
Like Bruce, Damian had changed into a set of civvies, and for that Tim was grateful. Even years removed from the issue, he wasn’t sure what he would do upon seeing the Robin suit in person again, particularly not with Damian behind the mask. His heart gave a little lurch, anyway, just seeing Damian stand beside Dick without the capes. Bitterness rose to the forefront immediately, as if Tim had been reinfected with teenage jealousy and betrayal just from the proximity to the source.
It took a few moments to wipe all evidence of that particularly unkind emotion from his face, if the constipated twist to Damian’s mouth was any indication.
Some part of him, the angry sixteen-year-old part, wanted to make a comment about Damian being too young to pilot the jet, but, like everyone else, Damian had grown in the years Tim was away. He was inches taller than he’d been at ten and now, at fifteen, Damian Wayne was both taller and wider than Tim was at twenty-one. That same angry sixteen-year-old part of Tim wondered if Dick felt reaffirmed in his choice, now that he could see the two of them standing next to each other.
But no. Tim couldn’t think like that. He wasn’t that desolate teenager anymore. He was an adult. He was a father. And regardless of what originally drew him away from the nest, it had been his own decision to stray as far, and as long, as he had.
Though far from an innocent, Damian was also not a villain. Anymore, anyway.
It was awkward regardless. Neither of the two so much as nodded to each other. Dick looked torn, as if he wanted to force a confrontation, but Bruce breezed down the incline with Carter secure in his arms without so much as a moment of hesitation or expectant glance between them. They all fell in line, then: Damian at Bruce’s heel, Tim much slower behind, and Dick hovering at his elbow in case he stumbled.
Despite Damian sitting in the front, the drive from hidden hanger to manor door was similarly tense. Tim didn’t mind the quiet so much, particularly after such a harrowing night. It gave him the excuse to look out the window as they came up the drive.
With the sun having long set, there wasn’t much to see. It was unfortunate; Tim had imagined what it might feel like to watch Wayne Manor come into view after so long away. He’d imagined the gothic opulence would be striking against the brightness of the rising sun, the spires and old stained glass molding the light into something awe-inspiring. Tim had imagined his fingers itching for his camera, as he both yearned for and dreaded immortalizing that first moment back.
But it was dark, the grounds illuminated only by artificial light. Still, those few transitionary moments as they drove up the long, winding driveway did feel a bit like he’d imagined coming home might. Not like coming home after a long day, but instead after a tragedy: the outside the same, but interior a mystery. Who knew what he might be walking into? How much hidden away had changed?
Tim nearly felt sick from the nervous yearning as the car slowed and the doors opened.
There wasn’t much in the way of luggage. Tim had packed a single bag, filled with essentials and things he thought Carter might miss. It worked out in their favor, all things considered: Dick had had time to grab it and Carter’s small backpack during his own mad dash from the train. Tim wasn’t sure what he would have done if Dick hadn’t, how he would explain years of lost memories to his son.
It was Bruce that carried Carter from the car, and so Dick insisted on carrying the bags. He lifted them from the trunk as if Tim were arriving home from a planned trip, finally returned to them from an airport and not self-imposed exile. Tim might have insisted on taking them himself, but his head was aching faintly, and it wouldn’t do to pop the stitches in his side before he’d ever even made it to the door.
Without Carter or the bags to keep his hands busy, and in an effort to keep himself from gnawing on his knuckles, Tim clenched and unclenched his fingers as he steadily approached the front door. The anxiety felt like a physical thing within him, high enough in his chest to restrict his breathing. He had no idea what he was walking into, who he would be seeing, what would be expected of him. Seeing Bruce and Dick—that was good. But they hadn’t mentioned anything else, anyone else, and Tim hated uncertainty. An innate desire for control was something most of their family had in common.
But then the large, ornate entryway doors were open, and Tim could instantly breathe a little easier when the person standing on the other side was someone Tim thought he’d never see again: Alfred Pennyworth. Though slightly whiter haired and marginally more wrinkled than Tim remembered, it was the open shock present on Alfred’s face as their eyes met that truly rocked Tim to the core. No matter the circumstances, Tim had never seen Alfred so openly emotional as he was then, with trembling fingers pressed to slack lips.
“Master Tim?”
The sound of that accented voice nearly broke something within Tim. He smiled, warped and damp, and stuttered around his next breath when steady arms wrapped around his shoulders and drew him into a warm, suited chest.
“Alfie,” Tim croaked, as gloved fingers ran soothingly through his hair. The smell of Alfred’s cologne hit Tim with a wave of nostalgia; he blinked rapidly to keep a new wave of tears at bay.
“Oh, my boy, how I’ve missed you.”
For a moment, they simply stood together, clinging with a desperation rare for them both. As he’d yearned to do for years, Tim leached as much of Alfred’s steady strength into himself as he could, until finally Alfred loosened his hold and pulled away.
As if a flip had been switched, in the next moment Alfred stood straighter and arranged his face into something more composed. Finally, his eyes wandered over toward Bruce—only to blanch anew at the child resting against his shoulder. Wide eyes watched Carter for a moment before narrowing into something wry as he finally stepped aside to allow them entry.
“I expect an explanation,” he said, tone blasé, as they filed inside.
Just another Wednesday at Wayne Manor.
Another part of Tim, probably the obsessive part, wanted to wander as many halls as possible, categorize every miniscule change and hunt for clues and insights into his family’s lives like the stalker Jason once accused him of being. But there would be time for that later, when the confessions were over and the introductions carried out, when Tim could spare mental power for anything beyond following Bruce in step from main foyer to family wing. Even that was proving more difficult than Tim expected; he flagged halfway through the house and had to pause to catch his breath while Bruce tried and failed to cover up his concern.
At least, it seemed, Tim remembered enough of the winding layout to know where they were going. A flash of anxiety over the possibility of seeing his teenage bedroom so soon curdled as the door caught his eye, but Bruce thankfully chose to push his way through a closer door instead.
The room Bruce chose was outfitted as a standard Wayne guest room: furniture elegant and dimensions large enough to comfortably fit Tim’s entire Canadian apartment within its walls. It was surreal, being back in such grandeur after so long struggling to keep his head above water.
But even more surreal was the sight of Bruce tucking Carter beneath the sheets of a comically large four poster bed. There was such tenderness in the way he arranged Carter’s robin blanket beside him, carefully gathered and slipped beneath one lax arm. The scene made Tim’s heart clench, particularly when Bruce paused, first to smooth the curls from Carter’s sleep-slack face, and then to watch him breathe, truly like a grandparent seeing their grandchild for the first time.
Was he hunting for Tim within Carter’s features? Attempting to find other relation in his face? Or was he just awed to have the chance with a grandson he’d only just discovered?
After Bruce had presumably gotten his fill, his back straightened with an unfamiliar pop. When he turned to regard Tim, the edges of his face were still uncharacteristically soft.
“Ideally, I would have liked to have a family meeting tonight.” Bruce’s voice was gentle, his tender expression twisted with concern as he watched Tim lean heavily in the doorway. “But I think we’d all benefit from some rest. We can talk in the morning.”
Waiting to have their discussion was less than ideal. Tim needed to know how to introduce Carter in the morning, needed to know if he would still be welcome in the manor after Bruce and the rest of the family learned of his mistakes. But he was exhausted, bone-weary in a way that made it hard to stand. Maybe one more night of blissful ignorance was an acceptable risk.
“Okay,” Tim breathed. It felt like accepting charity, but he’d done plenty of that in his lifetime already. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
Bruce’s face still looked gentle, like he was seeing Tim for the first time, too. When he stepped forward, he paused to grip Tim’s shoulder.
“Good night, Tim. Get some rest. And don’t think I forgot about that IV treatment. If necessary, we’ll start you tomorrow.”
Tim didn’t try to suppress his quiet laugh. “Night, B.”
It was only once the door was shut that Tim stepped into the room. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t case the perimeter of the room before allowing himself to relax. Instead, he changed into a too-big set of guest pajamas and dragged himself beneath the covers.
Carter was still asleep, eyes closed and mouth slightly open as he breathed slow and deep. His heart was beating, and his skin was warm. He was fine. And he would still be fine overnight, while Tim let his guard down. They were at Wayne Manor, surrounded by some of the most capable people alive. For years, Tim had convinced himself that returning to Gotham wasn’t worth the risk. But if Carter was safe anywhere, it was right where he was.
Tim curled up close regardless, laid on his side with an arm caged around Carter’s small body so he could pull his son close. Not because he was truly concerned about an attack, but because he could. Because the proximity made the anxiety in Tim’s chest ease and let his weary eyes slip closed.
Because Tim always thought it would have been nice to wake up like that when he was a kid, safe and protected.
“Good night, Carter. I love you,” Tim murmured, into the undisturbed quiet of the dark room. Carter might not have been awake to hear it, but Tim needed to say it.
Tim would say it every day, for as long as he drew breath.
I love you.