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The State mandates that until a trial can take place, Jack and Janet Drake are only allowed supervised visits with their son. So, three weeks after he’s released from the hospital, a social worker with a clipboard shows up at Wayne Manor with Tim’s parents and their lawyer in tow, and Tim proceeds to have the most awkward ninety minutes of his life.

They’re on their absolute best behavior—the whole lot of them. They sit on the stiff, antique settees in the parlor of the public wing and chat politely about Tim’s classes, and their most recent travels, and the strange weather they’ve been having lately.

It’s not the most comfortable arrangement, but Tim was adamant they do the meeting on this side of the mansion. He didn’t want them in the family wing, if only to avoid seeing Jason’s stink eye in the background every time he walked past to get to the kitchen (and Jason would absolutely take every opportunity to do so, even if it meant getting water ten times in the span of an hour and a half).

They avoid discussing absolutely anything related to the incident that brought him there, which Tim finds incredibly strange. His parents are both business people. They never just engage in social pleasantries for the sake of them; they always go in with a goal in mind.

He just can’t for the life of him figure out what that goal is.

That is until one morning in March when the daily stack of hall passes gets delivered to Tim’s fourth period classroom.

“Oooh, somebody’s in trou-ble…” Coach Miller, who also serves as the study hall monitor in his off periods, sing-songs as he flips through the slips of paper with his thumb. He tosses one of the passes onto Tim’s desk, causing the boy to look up from the game he’s been playing on his phone in surprise. Miller grins. “What’d you do, Drake?”

Tim flips the pastel pink paper over and reads.

Timothy Drake, conference room 2B, meeting with Ms. Wilcox.

Tim blinks. “I… have no idea,” he answers honestly. He can’t recall anything he’s done recently to warrant the vice principal’s disapproval but there also aren’t very many good reasons to be pulled out of class for a meeting with a school admin. Something is clearly wrong. “Should I take my things with me?”

“I would,” Miller says with a little chuckle. “Who knows, kid, you might be getting expelled!”

The coach likes to think he’s hilarious, even if it’s only the football team who tends to give him pity laughs. Still, the banter does nothing to calm Tim’s nerves. He gathers his laptop and backpack as quickly as he can and heads out of class, bracing for the worst.

Conference room 2B is a private room just off the main office, usually used for IEP and 504 meetings. Ms. Wilcox meets him just outside, a smile plastered across her face that looks just a little too tight to be real.

“Um. You wanted to see me?” Tim asks nervously.

“Oh, it’s nothing bad,” the vice principal assures, still smiling. “I just have a couple visitors here who would like to speak with you.”

She ushers Tim into the room, shutting the door behind them. The second Tim’s eyes land on his ‘visitors,’ they go wide.

“Mom?” He blinks in surprise. “Dad?”

“Timothy!” Janet gushes. She closes the distance between them in a few strides and pulls him into a hug. Maybe it’s his imagination, but she looks older somehow, her makeup a little bit heavier than he remembers and fresh strands of silver hair amidst the blonde in her neatly-styled bun. “It’s so good to see you, dear.”

“Put her there, sport!” Jack says, opening his arms. His mother releases him, and Jack tugs Tim into a quick side hug turned hair ruffle, exactly like he used to do when they’d return from a trip. “You’re getting taller, aren’t you? Gonna catch up one of these days if I’m not careful,” he chuckles lightly.

Tim’s head is swirling. Still, he can’t help but to lean into the familiar touch. “Wait, but… how are you here? I thought the State said we couldn’t see each other without a social worker, and—”

“Ah yes, ‘the State.’” Jack rolls his eyes, making finger quotes around the term. “The same State we can’t trust to fix the damn potholes on I-95…” He gives Tim a little wink, like they’re both in on the same joke.

“We have some connections,” is all Janet says before giving him another fond smile that sends a rush of warmth through Tim’s body. “Anyway, it’s so good to see you, dear. Your father and I have been just sick with worry about how everything went down.”

Ms. Wilcox clears her throat, and Tim startles a bit. In the shock of seeing his parents, he’d completely forgotten she was still there by the door.

“I think I’ll go ahead and let you three catch up,” she says simply. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

“Of course,” Jack says, his smile never wavering. He moves over to shake hands with the vice principal and Tim catches a flash of something green passing discreetly between their palms. “Thank you again for setting this up, Candice. We’ll be in touch.”

“Oh the pleasure’s all mine,” Ms. Wilcox replies. She slips her hand into her pocket before stepping back out of the room. The door closes behind her with a soft click.

Tim blinks dumbly at his father. “Did you– did you just bribe her?”

Jack waves a hand dismissively. “Please. It’s hardly the first time money’s exchanged hands to get around some bureaucratic nonsense within these walls.”

“And anyway, we only did it for you, dear,” Janet says quickly. “We just wanted the chance to see you without all that red tape. We want you to know how hard we’re fighting to bring you back home.”

Okay, now Tim’s head is really swirling and he needs to sit down. He moves over to one of the padded conference room chairs and settles in it before his legs can make that decision for him. “You are?”

“Why, of course,” she says earnestly. She sits down in the chair beside him and takes his hand in hers. “Timothy, we’re your parents. There’s nothing in this world more important to us than you.”

Tim is tempted to point out how that seems a little unlikely, given that his parents haven’t taken up the State on even half of the supervised visits they’ve qualified for since Tim was removed from their custody. But then his mother brushes a stray lock of hair away from his eyes and his father gives him a reassuring shoulder squeeze, and the protests die in Tim’s throat.

God, he’s missed them. He’s missed them so much.

“This has all been a terrible misunderstanding,” his mother says. “We never would have left you alone if we’d known you were so sick. Surely you know that, don’t you, dear?”

“Well, I–” Tim stammers.

“Yes, and you didn’t exactly tell us, did you?” Jack points out. His tone is still light and playful, but there’s a hint of something stern lurking below the surface. “Seems a bit unfair of the State to punish us for something we didn’t even know was occurring, you know.”

Tim feels his cheeks heating up at this. “Yeah, I said the same thing,” he murmurs. “Um. Back when I was in the hospital.”

He doesn’t add how after he’d tried to insist it was all his fault Bruce, Alfred, CPP, the hospital social worker, and two separate nurses had all assured him that the responsibility of recognizing the symptoms of sepsis still fell to the adults in the situation. Doesn’t tell them how a rotating intern marveled at him for enduring something that a thirteen-year-old should not have been able to hide for as many days as he had. Doesn’t mention the warring feelings that bubbled in his gut, of the sagging relief, the anxious guilt, all throughout the entire ordeal.

The term they’d used on his file in big bold letters was ‘CRIMINAL NEGLECT’ but Tim is still on the fence about that one. After all, he’d made a lot of mistakes himself that week, too.

(Like, getting stabbed in the first place, for starters.)

“Not that we’re blaming you, dear,” his mother says quickly, shooting a look up at Jack that Tim’s too busy to translate himself.

“No, no of course not,” Jack affirms. His lips twist up in thought before he adds, “Though, I might have expected a bit more”—he flaps his hand, searching for the word—“shall we say, discernment, from my little man of the house.”

Tim winces at the familiar moniker.

“After all, I golf with three of the top physicians at Gotham General. We could have arranged a way to keep your little indiscretion out of the public eye.”

Tim winces again. He hadn’t thought of his parents’ connections extending much beyond the business arena, but of course that makes sense. 

They are Drakes, after all.

“I know I screwed up not telling anyone,” he admits. “I guess I just… really didn’t want to mess things up for you guys.”

“Yeah, that worked out so well, didn’t it…” Jack mutters under his breath. Janet fixes him with a pointed glare, and his face relaxes back into a smooth smile. “Not that it’s important now,” he says aloud, waving a bored hand. “What’s done is done, eh, sport?”

“Yes, and it’s not as though this will be forever,” Janet throws in, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Our lawyers have a plan for getting you back, don’t you worry.”

“...They do?” Tim asks. There’s been so little contact from his parents since the State intervened that he’d sort of assumed they’d just given up on him.

“Of course! That’s why we pay them the big bucks,” Jack chuckles. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re home in time for us to finally take that trip to Italy this summer…”

And just like that, the familiar pangs of hope and longing are back in Tim’s chest. His parents launch into stories of their honeymoon and how much they’ve been looking forward to revisiting that small Italian coastal town, this time with their son by their side.

It’s nothing new. They’ve talked about this trip for years, even going so far as to book tickets the summer Tim turned ten. Their plans had changed at the last minute, however, when a once-in-a-lifetime archaeological opportunity popped up the day before they were scheduled to fly out. Jack had simply exchanged his and Janet’s tickets for ones heading to Chile instead, promising his little man of the house that they’d find another time.

Tim's ticket on the other hand was left unused, stored in his box of oddities and trinkets.

Tim had assured them that he understood, that he wasn’t too upset, that he could be flexible and reasonable and mature about this, just like they taught him to be. He had waited all the way until his parents’ car was packed with bags and they'd pulled out of the driveway before going back to his room and curling up atop his still-packed suitcase to cry.

In spite of everything, Tim can’t help the smile on his face as he watches his mom throw her hands up in the air, voice pitched up and engrossed in her story of a runaway luggage cart down the slopes of Sicily.

“...We’ll be there over your birthday,” his mother promises, “and we know just the place to take you. There’s a sea cave your father and I went snorkeling in once. Not one of the touristy ones, mind you, those are far too crowded. No, no, our friend Tomasso showed us one known only to the locals, and…”

It shouldn’t work on Tim. He’s known his parents for thirteen years after all; he should really stop being so naive. But he’s always been a sucker for the way his mother’s voice goes wistful when she’s discussing her travels, for the way his father’s face lights up and that wry smile of his surfaces.

It’s been nearly three months, and he’s missed them, dammit.

So he lets them talk. He lets them hug him and touch his shoulder and run their fingers through his hair and promise him that this was all just a big misunderstanding—that they’ve loved him forever and they always will. He smiles when they bring up the good times they’ve had together over the years. Of pizza nights at that restaurant on the corner of 17th and Lancaster that every true Gothamite knows is a front for the mob, but still makes the best crust in town. Of that one Hanukkah when they’d tried to play Dreidel, but it’d been so many years that none of them could remember the rules. They’d made up their own, his parents in high spirits from a bit more wine than they generally indulged in, which had ended up getting so ridiculous that they were all nearly in tears from laughter. Of that snowglobe they’d bought him in Australia for his eighth grade graduation with a figurine of a boy sharing an uncanny resemblance to Tim skateboarding a wave rather than surfing it, and how perfect and utterly ridiculous of a present it had been for him.

Tim’s parents aren’t around all that often—no one is denying that. But they’re still his parents. His.

They’ve known him forever and they love him in their own way and they try to show it, even when they don’t always get it right.

Isn’t that what family is?

The bell rings, and their meeting comes to an end all too soon. Reluctantly, Tim gets to his feet, lingering a few extra minutes into the passing period. This whole thing has felt like some kind of fever dream and he’s not eager to wake up again.

“We’ll be back tomorrow, sport,” Jack promises, giving him a little clap on the shoulder. Even after all these weeks of healing, the muscle still twinges a little beneath his scar. “We still have to iron out some of the details, alright? But we’ve got it all under control, never fear.”

Janet pulls him into a warm embrace, tight enough that he smells her perfume and feels like a little kid again watching her get dressed up for an event. “We love you so much, Timothy,” she whispers, a little watery, into his ear, and Tim finds himself tearing up, just a bit too. “Don’t you ever forget it.”

“I love you too,” Tim murmurs back.

Because he does.

He really does.

The rest of the day passes in a haze. Tim goes through the motions of school, getting home, and eating dinner on autopilot while his brain busies itself replaying snippets of his parents’ conversation on loop.

We only did it for you, dear.

We want you to know how hard we’re fighting to bring you back home.

We love you so much, Timothy.

The Waynes wouldn’t understand. Their opinions on Jack and Janet Drake range from ‘criminally neglectful’ to ‘absolute fucking assholes’ depending on who you ask. But honestly? They could have been worse.

It’s not like they ever beat Tim, or starved him, or locked him out of the house overnight, or made him ‘earn his keep,’ if you catch Tim’s drift. That’s what real abuse looks like: the stuff that makes kids flinch when someone goes to high-five them, or make up excuses to explain their bruises, or wet the bed from night terrors. Being left home alone a little too often isn’t even in the same ballpark as that.

Tim has never once lacked access to food, or shelter, or clean clothing, or a decent education. How many of the State’s other ‘neglect’ cases can say that?

Hell, half the kids growing up on the north side can’t say that, and that’s excluding the actual street kids! It seems kind of ridiculous of the system to waste resources on Tim when he’s always had it good.

Sure, his parents aren’t around very much, and yeah, that bums him out sometimes. But that’s because they’re busy people with important jobs and pressing obligations all around the globe. They don’t have time to waste playing catch and attending PTA meetings, or whatever it is other parents do.

He’s gotten to the point now where he can admit that some of the things his parents have done and said (and not done and not said) to him over the years were kind of shitty. They’re far from perfect people, and they’ve definitely dropped the ball on him a time or two. He can admit that.

But… isn’t that true of all parents?

And anyway, it’s not like Tim made it easy on them. How many other people have to worry about their children sneaking out to prowl around the city after dark from the age of nine? How many other kids from Bristol end up getting stabbed?

That shit’s on Tim, not them.

“So how was school today?”

The sudden question startles him out of his thoughts and back to the dinner table so fast that he chokes a little on the water he’d just sipped. Bruce raises an eyebrow at him as he coughs into his elbow. “Are you alright?”

Jason reaches over to thump Tim on the back a few times. “Yeah, don’t drown on us now, Timmy,” he jokes. “I just reserved your seat for opening night.”

(It’s musical season for the drama club, and Jason is playing Audrey II in Gotham Academy’s rendition of Little Shop of Horrors. While he complains at every opportunity about how hot it gets in that ridiculously large man-eating plant costume, he’s been doing an absolutely terrible job of convincing everyone he’s not actually thrilled with the role.)

Tim’s throat clears with a final sputter.

“Sorry,” he croaks, blushing a bit. “Wrong pipe.”

Bruce hums a little in acknowledgement over a bite of mashed potatoes. He lets Tim recover with another, more successful sip of water, before repeating his question. “Did anything interesting happen at school today?”

(You mean like my parents showing up in the middle of study hall and causing me to doubt literally everything I thought I knew about these past ten weeks? Nah, other than that, nothing worthwhile has been happening, how about you, Batman?)

And okay, fine, Tim can admit it: his parents paying off a school official to circumvent social services just to see him was sketchy at best—probably illegal at worst. They really shouldn’t have done it. Bruce and Alfred would be furious to find out that they had. Not to mention Jason, who would go absolutely apeshit.

But–

But it was also just really fucking sweet of them.

Tim hasn’t felt this loved, this cherished, this fought for and desired by his parents in years. Doesn’t he at least owe it to them to hear them out?

“Not really,” Tim says aloud. He shoves a bite of meatloaf into his mouth, hoping to avoid any further scrutiny.

“That’s a lie,” Jason scoffs, and the meatloaf turns to ash on Tim’s tongue. How the heck did Jason find out? It’s not like they share any classes aside from lunch, which Jason had forgone for yet another drama club meeting.

Did another student tell him Tim got pulled from class? Or did the Coach mention it to him in passing? No, that doesn’t make sense. Jason has gym first period this semester, so he’d have already seen Miller for the day, and it’s not like Jason’s close enough friends with anyone else in the sophomore class that they’d gossip about him. Unless maybe–

Jason bumps Tim’s shoulder lightly with his own.

“Go on,” he encourages, breaking into a grin. “Tell B what you got on your history paper.”

“Oh! Right.” An instant wave of relief washes over him. Tim turns to Bruce, who is looking at them both with interest.

“Um, I got a ninety-one,” he says, then before Bruce can say anything, quickly adds, “Which I know is only barely an A, but it was a summative grade and history’s always been my worst subject, so it actually pulls my overall percentage up to a B- now, which is at least progress, right? And I’m still definitely going to try to do that test retake to see if I can get it up further, but like, especially because I missed that unit while I was in the hospital, it’s kind of–”

“Tim,” Bruce cuts him off, and Tim’s mouth snaps shut on reflex. “That’s wonderful, bud,” he says sincerely. “I know how hard you worked on that paper. I’m really proud of you.”

Tim blinks at him, thrown off by the unexpected praise, but Bruce’s face holds nothing but kindness. A knot Tim wasn’t even aware he’d had loosens inside his stomach and warmth floods through him from his chest to his toes.

“Really?” Tim’s voice sounds small, even to his own ears.

“Of course,” Bruce assures him. “That’s fantastic news. We should do something to celebrate.”

“Indeed,” Alfred agrees, his lips twitching upwards into a rare smile. “In fact, I dare say there’s an empty space on a certain kitchen appliance reserved for such occasions.”

Tim blushes. The last time someone pinned something of his to the fridge, he’d been four years old. (He can still remember his eggshell mosaic hanging there like it was yesterday, and how his mom praised him for his creative eye.)

“Oh, no you don’t have to–” he begins, but Jason’s already out of his seat.

“Ooh, I’ll get the good magnets,” he announces, hopping up from the table to jog out of the room. “The ones shaped like dog butts!”

Alfred and Bruce both exchange a smile, while Tim just covers his face in his hands. “You guys are so embarrassing…” he mutters, with absolutely no conviction.

“There, there, lad.” Alfred pats him on the back in faux sympathy. “You’ll get used to us soon enough...”

As quickly as the knot in Tim’s stomach had undone, it returns twice as tight. If what his parents are saying is true, then he probably won’t have that much longer here with the Waynes.

Is he really ready to give all this up?

But then he remembers his mother’s warm embrace and his father’s promises to see him again tomorrow and of his parents waiting for him in that small conference room, and all of that hesitation melts away.

Besides, foster care was only ever supposed to be a temporary arrangement.

Tim belongs at home.

The next day, Tim gets pulled out of his study hall again, and again Coach Miller jokes about his upcoming expulsion from Gotham Academy, courtesy of whatever “hanky panky” little Timmy has gotten himself into now, wink-wink.

This time, Tim laughs a little at the gentle ribbing. It’s easier to play along now that he knows what’s waiting for him behind those conference room doors.

…Or, at least he thinks he does, until he steps inside to see his parents’ lawyer sitting alongside them at the table and his grin instantly dissolves.

“Uhh…” Tim says, his gaze shifting between his parents, J.D. Mulligan, Esq., and back to his parents again. “What’s going on?”

“Oh don’t worry, Timothy. Everything is alright,” Janet is quick to assure him, sliding out of her chair in a graceful manner to welcome him with a hug. “We just thought it might be helpful to have Mr. Mulligan here to go over some details of the case with you before you sign the affidavit.”

“The affidavit,” Tim repeats, blinking dumbly.

Mulligan clears his throat. “An affidavit is a sworn, written statement, admissible in court,” the lawyer explains in an airy tone that makes the back of Tim’s neck prickle. “It’s usually used in lieu of in person testimony.”

Tim shakes his head. “No, no I know what it is.” He’s listened to enough true crime podcasts to have an above average grasp of legal and court proceedings, thank you very much. “I’m just not really sure why I have to sign one.”

“Why, to get you back of course!” Jack chuckles like it’s obvious. He reaches out to place a hand on Tim’s back, steering him towards one of the chairs.

“It will all make sense in a few moments, dear,” Janet says earnestly, taking Tim’s hand in hers. Her perfectly manicured nails contrast the rough calluses on her palms from her work, and Tim finds himself relaxing just a little bit at the warm, familiar touch. This is his mother, after all. She’d never do anything to harm him.

“Like we said before, this is all just a big misunderstanding,” Jack says. “We just need to set the record straight.”

“Precisely,” Mulligan agrees. “Which starts by holding Marjorie McIlvaine responsible for her actions.”

“Wait, what?” Tim says, utterly blindsided. “What does Mrs. Mac have to do with any of this?”

“Well,” Mulligan explains slowly, like Tim is five years old, “as your primary caregiver during your parents’ frequent travels abroad, she’s been the one responsible for your wellbeing over the past four years. Failure to perform her contracted duties nearly cost you your life.”

Tim is honestly too taken aback to speak. Mrs. Mac has never been a ‘caregiver’ to him. Sure, she’s done the grocery shopping, and cleaning, and the occasional cooking for as long as he can remember, and she’s always made sure to check up on him while his parents were away, but it’s not like she was ever his nanny or anything. She’s a housekeeper in her seventies with a family of her own to come home to everyday.

Looking after Tim was never her job.

Mulligan uses Tim’s stunned silence as an opportunity to reach into his briefcase. He produces a typed document, which he sets down on the table and uses two fingers to push over for Tim to read.

It’s an official contract, detailing Mrs. Mac’s daily housekeeping duties: cleaning services, grocery shopping, food preparation, general housekeeping, and so on. Each line item has a short description of the Drakes’ expectations, as well as a clearly established hourly rate, complete with yearly bonuses and percentile raises to adjust for inflation. It’s signed and dated over a decade prior by Mrs. Mac in her signature cursive scrawl.

Tim looks up, frowning at the lawyer. “Okay? So she’s been our housekeeper for a really long time. I still don’t get what this has anything to do with my case.”

“May I?” Mulligan asks, nodding to the paper. Tim bobs his head a little, and the lawyer reaches out to flip the document over.

Stapled to the back, there’s a second, updated version of the same contract. This one is dated only four years prior, just after Tim’s last nanny quit.

Most of the contract looks to be the same, except for an added section towards the bottom. It details various childcare duties to be performed as arranged during his parents’ occasional absences—daily meals, transportation to and from activities, supervision at home, help with homework, and so on—with the hours for her services charged at a premium rate.

Tim can only stare at the paper, dumbfounded. Mrs. Mac’s signature is written clearly across the line at the bottom, as big and loopy as ever.

“I don’t understand,” Tim says, even though he’s afraid he’s starting to see his parents’ plan falling into place. “Mrs. Mac has always come twice a week, and that was only to do the housework. She’s never done any of this stuff.”

At least not with any regularity, anyway. She’s picked him up from school once or twice when he’d been sick, and she’s helped him on a few math problems he’s gotten stuck on over the years (‘helped’ being a very loose term—mostly she just babbled on about her days working as a receptionist for an accounting firm until he figured it out himself), but it’s certainly not a daily occurrence.

Same with meals. She always makes sure there’s plenty of food in the house, but when it comes to what Tim eats day to day, he’s pretty much on his own.

Same with everything really.

Jack shrugs innocently. “Well that’s certainly not what she agreed to in her contract, is it?”

“Nor is it what the records show your parents paid her for,” Mulligan throws in. He reaches into his briefcase again to retrieve a manilla envelope. Inside are stacks of check stubs and account transaction receipts, the dates on which go back several years.

Tim swallows hard, trying not to think of what lengths his parents must have gone to—which palms they had to grease, which favors they must have called in—in order to fabricate this much evidence.

“Do you see now, Timothy?” Janet asks, her voice dripping with sweetness as she cards her fingers through his hair like how she used to when Tim was young. “This proves that your father and I did everything on our end to ensure that you were being adequately looked after at home. It’s hardly our fault if the help we hired failed to perform her duties.”

Tim’s head is reeling. He wants to flinch away. “You seriously expect a judge to believe this? That all this time you were paying her and you were just— just totally unaware she wasn’t there with me everyday?”

His mother stiffens, fingers sharp on his scalp and her sweet voice turns suddenly icy. “No, we don’t expect them to just take our word for it. But we do expect the combined weight of all of this corroborating evidence, plus the key testimony of several prominent community figures”—she inclines her head in the direction of Ms. Wilcox’s office—“and a sworn statement from our son that he was being coerced by her into keeping us in the dark on this matter, will be enough.”

Tim’s starting to think he might be sick. “But she didn’t even do anything wrong!” he protests.

Jack raises an eyebrow at him, all no nonsense in his tone. Gone was Jack, his father, and before him is now Jack Drake, majority shareholder and face of Drake Industries. “Are you sure about that?”

A chill goes down the back of Tim’s neck. “What do you mean?” he asks carefully.

Taking this as his cue, Mulligan produces an electronic tablet from that stupid briefcase that Tim is starting to hate with every fiber of his being. On it, he pulls up footage from the security camera positioned over the Drakes’ front door showing Mrs. Mac entering the Manor with a bucket of cleaning supplies. The time stamp in the bottom corner reads ‘3:07 p.m, January 2nd.’

(A mere ten hours before Jason Todd would climb through Tim’s upstairs window to find him lying in his bed, half-dead from a septic stab wound.)

Mulligan fast-forwards through the footage. At 5:12 p.m, she’s seen again exiting the Manor through the same door, her sleeves rolled up and an apron tied around her waist.

Tim’s throat goes dry. “She was there?” He doesn’t remember much about that day, but he knows he was crying out for his parents, for anyone, to help him.

For months now, Tim’s been convinced that he was alone in that house all day, and all this time Mrs. Mac had been just downstairs?

She has gotten a bit hard of hearing in her old age—not that it matters much, as she’s usually the one doing the talking—but it’s not like she’s completely deaf either. Was she vacuuming or something?

She had to have been. There’s no way she would have heard him crying and just left him there, right?

…Right?

“So you see, Timothy,” Janet concludes, “there’s really no need for you to feel bad about not protecting someone who’s been so demonstrably negligent.”

He blinks at his mother. “You mean like what you’re asking me to do for you?”

The words are out of Tim’s mouth before he can think better of them. Janet’s icy facade cracks. She looks as though he’s just slapped her across the face, and Jack’s eyes are so full of fury that for a split second, Tim almost wonders if he had.

“How dare you speak to–” he starts.

“Jack,” Janet cuts him off with a hiss. He turns sharply, but whatever he sees in her expression must change his mind because his face twitches, then relaxes back to normal.

“Sorry, champ,” he tells Tim with an almost sheepish smile. “Your mother and I… Well, we’ve just been under a lot of stress, you see?”

“Yes this certainly hasn’t been easy for us,” Janet agrees, causing the familiar pangs of guilt to twist in Tim’s stomach.

“All these meetings with lawyers, PR reps, social workers…” She sighs. “Timothy, do you have any idea what these rumors are doing to our business equity?"

He does, actually. Tim's been keeping an eye on the daily stock exchange on Marketwatch, as well as the increasingly desperate 'please call me immediately' emails from both their PR and Finance departments (which Tim may or may not have hacked his parents’ private server to read). Despite their obvious efforts to keep this out of the press, shares in Drake Industries stocks have dropped nearly seven percent in market value since January versus their projected ten percent growth this quarter.

(Tim figures this is pretty bad, considering the amount of ‘re:re:re:re:re's’ there were between Janet and a very frustrated Charlie Weathers, their ICT product manager. Tim’s been low key debating the merits of also hacking the company’s HR database to give the guy a few extra paid vacation days to make up for it.)

If it were only his parents losing money, Tim wouldn't mind it so much; they've got plenty to burn through before it really starts to hurt. But it's all the other people involved that makes the guilt bubble in the pit of his stomach—the investors, the developers, the management, freaking Charlie himself—who are really going to feel it when it comes to the profit sharing.

“Not that that’s our main concern by any means,” his mother is quick to add. “We’re here, first and foremost, because you are our son. We’ve always provided for you, and you must know that we’d never do anything to knowingly harm you.”

“That’s why we really need you to sign this for us, sport,” Jack says, nudging a typed document with ‘AFFIDAVIT’ stamped across the top in bold letters towards him. “So we can set the record straight, once and for all. Show all those sleazy reporters that they’ve got it all wrong. That the Drake family sticks together and always will.”

Tim stares at the paper, his mouth going as dry as cotton. As much as he wants to believe them, this is Mrs. Mac they’re asking him to betray. The woman who’s so convinced he loves carrot cake that she takes money out of her own paycheck to bake one for his birthday every year. The woman who sat in the bathroom prattling on about homeopathic remedies for hours when he’d been sick to his stomach back in middle school just to give him a little company between the constant dry heaves. The woman who noticed him moping around in his room after his parents tacked another three weeks onto their latest adventure, and insisted he come outside to help her weed the flower beds while she told him story after story of her two french poodles terrorizing their neighbor’s garden. The woman who’s so convinced that Tim is the spitting image of her own son that she routinely calls him ‘Matthew’ by mistake—despite the fact that at Tim’s age, Matthew McIlvaine was a lanky, five-foot-nine, freckled redhead kid with horn-rimmed glasses and an intense though short-lived obsession with becoming a lumberjack.

(The guy now works for a start-up tech firm in Arizona.)

The thing is, Mrs. Mac is kind of ridiculous. She’s nosy, she’s gossipy, she’s overly chatty, and she can take an entire room of hostages just by opening her mouth and launching into another one of her three-hour-long tales. But she’s also reliable. She’s been about the most consistent adult presence in Tim’s life for as long as he can remember, and as much as he wants to make his parents happy, he just can’t imagine throwing her under the bus like this.

He slides the affidavit back across the table toward the lawyer. “I… I can’t.”

“What, you can’t sign your own name?” Jack says with a chuckle that’s just a little too strained. He shakes his head slowly back and forth. “What with the cost of tuition around here, you’d think they’d at least be teaching kids the three R’s these days...”

Tim’s in no mood for his dad’s attempts at levity. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I just– I can’t.”

He starts to push his chair back away from the table, only to have his father stop the wheels with a shoe, holding him in place.

Tim’s heart rate instantly accelerates. “Let me go,” he says, voice wobbling a little.

“Go where, sport?” Jack chuckles again, but there’s a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there a spit second ago. “We’re just talking here.”

“Jack…” Janet warns again under her breath.

Tim shakes his head, firmer this time. “This isn’t right. I mean, what if… what if she goes to jail or something?”

Now Jack rolls his eyes. “Son. She is a seventy-two-year-old pensioner with cataracts and a bad back. She’s going to get a slap on the wrist, if that. Maybe a fine, which your mother and I are perfectly capable of covering for her via anonymous off-shore account transfer. Mrs. Mac will be fine.”

“Unlike our family,” Janet adds gravely, “who will face irreparable social, emotional, and economic consequences if the State moves forward with their prosecution. Do you know that Drake Industries employs over 70,000 workers across the globe? Can you imagine how devastating a blow like this could be, not only to us, but to them?”

Just then the bell rings, signaling the end of the period. Tim honestly could have cried with relief.

“I– That’s the bell,” he stammers, grabbing his backpack from under the table and jumping up to his feet. “I need to go.”

Jack reaches for Tim’s arm like he’s going to pull him back, but Janet grabs her husband’s wrist, stopping him. Tim’s too much of a coward to look them in the eyes as he hefts the bag over his shoulders, stealing a longing glance at the door instead.

“Just think about it, Timothy,” his mother says. “Think about what all of this will mean for you, for us, for our family. Will you do that for me?”

(Honestly, it’ll be harder not to think of it at this point.)

“Okay,” he agrees, voice tight.

“We’ll be back tomorrow, alright dear?” she promises. “Just take some time and think it all through.”

Getting to his feet, Jack sighs and pulls Tim into a very unwelcome side hug. It’s stiff, short, and Tim thinks if he closes his eyes, he could feel the disapproval radiating from his father just below the surface.

“We love you, son.”

“I know,” Tim says quickly, slipping out the door.

Tim goes to bed early that night, but he barely gets a wink of sleep. He alternates between lying flat on his back, staring up at the spinning ceiling fan, and pacing the floor of his room whenever he gets too worked up to lie still any longer. His mind is racing so fast that he wouldn’t be surprised if all the pelting thoughts give him a concussion.

Just two days ago, he’d been thrilled to see his parents, to breathe in the scent of his dad’s woodsy cologne and let his mother brush her fingers through his hair. Now, less than forty-eight hours later, they’re the last people on this planet he wants to see.

He can’t bear the thought of letting his parents down, especially after all the hoops they’ve clearly been jumping through on his behalf. But he can’t in good conscience go along with their plan either. Not when it betrays one of the few people in his life who has always shown him kindness.

He doesn’t see any way out of this one.

Eventually, pure exhaustion wins out, and Tim passes out sometime around five a.m, but it’s a short lived relief.

He wakes up less than an hour later, gasping, his sheets drenched in cold sweat. He’d dreamt about the upcoming meeting, of his father forcing him to sign the affidavit, hand over hand, like Tim’s nannies used to do when he was first learning to write his name. In the background, Mrs. Mac was being escorted away in handcuffs. She was sobbing, begging him to think of her family, of Matthew and his wife, of those poor poodles.

Tim gives up on sleep after that.

Instead, he sits at his desk chair, heart thumping, and watches the numbers on the alarm clock creep closer and closer to his usual wake-up time. He’s not sure he’s ever dreaded anything more in his life than he does fourth period study hall.

In what simultaneously feels like it takes decades, and like no time at all, ‘6:29’ blinks to ‘6:30’ and the mechanical tones of the clock shatter the silence of his room. He quickly turns off the alarm, forgoing the snooze button for what’s probably the first time in years.

It’s not like five more minutes is going to help him today.

Dread pooling in his stomach, Tim forces himself through the motions of his morning routine: getting dressed, washing his face, brushing his teeth. He didn’t so much as touch his homework last night, so there’s no need to repack anything in his school bag. He steadies himself with a few deep breaths before heading down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Tim,” Bruce greets him at the breakfast nook, face buried in the morning paper and hand wrapped around a mug of coffee. Its funky green script of ‘Yoda best father!’ is sickeningly too cheery for this horrible day.

“Morning,” Tim replies. His hands are shaking and he can feel his heart thumping against his chest, but he does a pretty decent job of keeping his voice even. He slides into his seat and tries to act casual as he pulls out his phone to scroll through instagram. It’s moments like these that he’s grateful the Wayne family's ‘no electronics at the table’ rule only extends to dinnertime.

(Probably because Bruce himself is the main culprit at other meals.)

Across the table from him, Jason looks uncharacteristically alert for the hour. He’s already halfway through a bowl of oatmeal and is reaching eagerly for the plate Alfred sets down, which is heaped with sizzling bacon.

“I’ve got rehearsal after school today,” he tells Tim, around a mouthful, “so I won’t be done until like five o’ clock. Did you want to wait for me, or get a ride home with Alfie?”

He says it so casually, like surviving this day at school isn’t going to take monumental amounts of effort and willpower (and unless his stomach stops flipping around soon, probably some Pepto Bismol).

“Before you answer,” Alfred says, laddeling a scoop of oatmeal into Tim’s bowl, “please note that it would be of no inconvenience at all. I have to pick up some of Master Bruce’s dry cleaning this afternoon, so I’ll be headed that direction at some point anyway.”

Tim doesn’t even know how he’s going to convince himself to get in the car this morning; the ride home might as well be eons away.

What if he just skips study hall? Would his parents wait around and pull him out of a different class instead? Would they send security to track him down? Is security in on this too?

How many classes can Tim skip in a row before the office calls Bruce on him?

Two? Three?

And what would Tim even say if they caught him? “Sorry, B, I couldn’t go to geometry today. I was hiding out in the bathroom, avoiding two people who aren’t supposed to have any contact with me. What? No, it’s nothing new— I’ve seen them twice already. Sorry for not telling you sooner, I just didn’t want you to get them reported to CPP and their visitation rights revoked because I actually do still love them, even if they occasionally try to get me to sign false documents so they can pin their problematic behavior on our decades-loyal housekeeper.”

Bruce wouldn’t understand. Hell, Tim barely even understands why he still feels the need to protect his parents after all of this. They’re about to destroy an innocent woman’s reputation with a horrible lie, and they want him to just go along with it. It’s insane.

But–

But that’s what Tim’s always done, hasn’t he? He’s lied about them being home when they’re not. He’s lied about going along with them on their trips when teachers ask what he did over the summer. He lied about still having nannies for two years after the last one quit when he was nine—told everyone his housekeeper was looking after him.

Wait.

Holy shit.

Was Tim the one who started that lie? How many people has he made that claim to over the years? Students, teachers, school nurses… Hell, it’s what he told Bruce his first night at the Manor.

Oh no. Oh no no no no…

“I don’t want to go to school!”

Tim doesn’t decide to say it; the frantic plea leaps from his throat all of its own accord.

Bruce snaps his head up from the paper, instantly alert, while Alfred and Jason are both just staring at him with equal amounts of confusion on their faces.

“I- I mean I don’t feel good,” he says, his whole body starting to tremble. He wraps his arms around himself to try and keep it contained. “I’m sorry, I know school is important and I need to go but– ” His breath hitches on the inhale. “I just– I feel really, really bad.”

All three of them look alarmed now.

Jason’s halfway out of his seat, like he’s about to run for first aid supplies. Alfred presses the inside of his wrist to Tim’s forehead, his brows knit with worry, and Bruce’s sharp eyes are scanning him head to toe, like Batman does when he’s checking Robin or Nightwing for injuries.

The pure concern emanating from all of them is enough to make Tim choke out a little sob.

God. The Waynes are so fucking nice to him, and what does Tim do to repay them? Lie, and keep secrets, and go around their backs to meet up with people he’s not supposed to see so he can get sweet old ladies wrapped up in legal scandals.

He just keeps on hurting the people he cares about with his own stupid mistakes, and he’s so fucking sick of it.

A second sob slips out. Tim hunches over himself even further, arms wrapped around his stomach, like if he holds himself together tight enough, no one will see him. Vaguely, he’s aware of the others’ murmured voices in the background, but none of their actual words are recognizable over the internal whirlpool of Tim’s self-loathing.

He hates his parents. He hates them and he loves them, and they disgust him and they’re a part of him, and he never wants to see them again—except that also he wants them to wrap him in their arms forever and never let go. He’s known them since the day he was born. They were the first people to hold him, to smile at him, to tell him they loved him. He has his mother’s sense of humor, and his father’s grin and half of both of their DNA coursing through his veins, and he is utterly terrified to see them at school today.

Tim doesn’t know how long he sits there, not quite crying, but not quite not-crying either, but by the time he finally stops trembling enough to uncurl, it’s just him and Bruce in the kitchen.

Tim blinks around in confusion.

“Where–” he gets out before his breath hitches again.

“Alfred drove Jason to school,” Bruce explains quietly. He’s moved from his spot at the end of the table at some point during Tim’s breakdown and is sitting in the chair next to him now, angled so that he faces Tim. “It’s okay, Tim. You and I are going to stay home today.”

Tim doesn’t really have the energy to unpack why Jason didn’t just drive himself right now, so he doesn’t even bother trying. A tiny stab of guilt at the thought of keeping Bruce home from work twists in his chest, but not enough that he’s even tempted to protest.

It’s far outweighed by the utter relief of getting to skip study hall.

Bruce reaches up and gently brushes a tear from Tim’s cheek with his thumb. “Do you think you can tell me what’s going on?” He turns his hand over and touches Tim’s cheek lightly with the back of his knuckles. “I know you said you weren’t feeling well, but I don’t think you have a fever…”

Panic seizes Tim yet again. “I wasn’t lying,” he blurts. “I– I really don’t feel good, I swear!”

“Shh, I know, it’s okay,” Bruce soothes. He places a hand on Tim’s shoulder and rubs it up and down. “We already decided that you’re staying home today. I just need to get a gauge on your symptoms so we can figure out if you need to see a doctor or anything.”

Tim feels his face flush. “I don’t need a doctor,” he mumbles, embarrassed.

(Although if the choice is between being unnecessarily poked and prodded by a medical professional, and conference room 2B, he’d gladly take the former.)

“I’m not saying that you do or you don’t,” Bruce says, placating, “but it’s my job as the adult to make sure, okay?”

Tim’s mind filters back to his first ever migraine back in sixth grade. He didn’t know what was happening, just that there were these weird flashes of light and it was hard to talk, and then his head felt like it was splitting in two.

He’d watched a TV show a few weeks before where one of the characters had died suddenly of a brain aneurysm, which resulted in Tim going on a research spiral looking up everything he could find about aneurysms—several symptoms of which he was now experiencing. Needless to say, by the time he finally managed to reach his mother on her international cell number, he was thoroughly freaked out.

He’d asked her if he should call 911. Janet told him to stop being so dramatic and that there was a bottle of Excedrin in her medicine cabinet upstairs.

(She’d been right, of course. He’d been perfectly fine in the end.)

Tim swallows the memory down along with the lump in his throat. “Okay.”

“Now, you said you didn’t feel well,” Bruce begins. “Can you be a little more specific?”

“I, uh–” Kinda feel like bugs are crawling all over me and like I might shake apart at any second? “Um, I don’t know. Just like… bad.”

Bruce hums softly. He thinks for a second, then offers, “Would it help if I asked you some questions?”

Tim shrugs a little.

Slowly, so that Tim can see him coming, Bruce takes Tim’s wrist and turns it over, pressing two fingers against Tim’s radial artery. “Your heart’s going pretty fast,” he says after a few seconds of taking his pulse. “Are you feeling dizzy or lightheaded at all?”

Tim hesitates. He does, a little bit, now that Bruce mentions it. But he doesn’t think he’s in danger of passing out or anything, so he just shrugs.

“Do you have a headache?” Bruce asks.

Not anything like that migraine. There’s a nagging tension across his forehead, no doubt from existing as a tightly coiled ball of anxiety for the last two days, but that’s about it.

“A little,” Tim admits softly. “Not bad.”

Bruce hums again. He pours a glass of water from the carafe on the table and hands it to Tim. “Let’s see if this helps.”

Tim nods and takes a few sips before putting the glass back down with a grimace when it settles uncomfortably in his twisting gut.

Bruce frowns. “Sore throat?”

“No, it’s just–” Tim shakes his head. “Um. My stomach doesn’t feel good.”

“How so?” Bruce tilts his head to the side slightly. “Does it hurt? Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?”

The answer is yes to both, but less in the ‘potential virus’ way that Bruce is probably thinking, and more in the ‘kind of feels like he swallowed a pit of writhing baby vipers and every few minutes they get so pissed about their current predicament that they twist themselves into knots that would put the boy scouts to shame’ way that it’s been doing since yesterday.

He lifts one hand, rocking it side to side in a so-so motion.

Bruce is quiet for a moment. Then, very carefully, he asks, “Do you think this feels more like a physical thing, or like more of an anxiety thing?”

(What Tim hears is: “Is this real, or is it all in your head?”)

As if reading his thoughts, Bruce immediately adds, “You’re still staying home today either way. I’m only asking so I can figure out how to help you best.”

Tim’s head is down, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He knows that Bruce cares and he isn’t going to think any less of him for admitting it, but it’s still hard to put the feelings into words.

“I guess, um. I guess I’m feeling pretty anxious,” he says without looking up.

Bruce puts his hand back on Tim’s shoulder, rubbing comfortingly up and down. “Did something happen at school?”

Tears prickle at the corners of Tim’s eyes, and he does his best to blink them back. How is he supposed to answer that one?

‘Yeah, something definitely happened, but it’s kind of the last thing in the world I want to discuss right now for a whole multitude of reasons, so how about we just pretend it didn’t?’

When Tim doesn’t answer, Bruce presses on. “Is it something with another student?”

Tim shakes his head. He wishes it were that simple. Skipping two grades as he did means he’s dealt with his fair share of bullies over the years. They’d never gotten him worked up like this.

“A teacher?”

Ms. Wilcox used to be a social studies teacher back in the day, but she hasn’t been in the classroom since getting promoted to admin a few years ago, so he’s technically not lying when he shakes his head again.

Bruce pauses, lips pursed. Then he asks, “Is there anyone or anything at school that’s hurting you?”

And hoo boy, what a loaded question that is.

Physically? No, not unless he counts Coach Miller’s infamously chaotic floor hockey units.

Emotionally?

Well, does it still count if they’re not supposed to be there at school?

“It’s not–” Tim starts to say, then changes direction. “Nobody from school is hurting me. I just, um–” He pauses for a breath, and Bruce gives him an encouraging nod. “I - I think maybe I’m just really stressed out?”

Tears well up in his eyes once more.

“Like… Like it’s just been really hard with everything going on, um, with my parents, and trying to catch up and do everything everyone needs me to do, and like, I don’t know, I just think… I might need a break?”

It sounds so pathetic when he says it out loud. He scrubs his eyes with his palms, practically seeing his father’s eye-roll (“Welcome to the real world, kid. You think your mother and I built this company by taking breaks whenever we got a little stressed? You think that attitude puts food on this table?”).

But Bruce just sighs. Then he wraps his strong, heavy arms around Tim, and pulls him into a hug.

The tears immediately start to fall. “‘M sorry,” Tim chokes out, burying his face in Bruce’s shirt.

“Don’t be,” Bruce says simply. “I’m proud of you, Tim.”

Tim’s next sob morphs into a single choked-off laugh. “You’re proud of me for needing a break?”

“I’m proud of you for asking for one,” Bruce corrects. “For recognizing that you were struggling and actually reaching out for help for once.” He pulls back, giving Tim a soft smile. “You’ve come a long way, bud.”

Yeah, Tim thinks guiltily, two steps forward, one step back…

After Tim changes out of his uniform and into some sweats, they migrate to the family room. Bruce gets him set up with some chamomile tea and a small bowl of reheated oatmeal to try and settle his stomach, as well as a lined trash can in case that doesn’t work.

Tim eyes the bin skeptically. “I don’t think I’m actually going to throw up…”

Bruce huffs out an amused breath. “Dick Grayson, age eleven, claimed the same thing once.” He pauses a beat. “First time in Alfred’s whole tenure to consider an antique Turkish settee unsalvageable.”

He grabs the remote and hands it to Tim.

“Personally I’ve always found nature documentaries to be the most relaxing,” he offers, “but Jason is a big ‘Top Gear’ fan when he’s not feeling well. Dick’s got a thing about ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’—we watched five seasons in a week when he had pneumonia once.”

It’s kind of sweet how Bruce knows all of that. Tim has no idea what his own parents like to watch when they’re sick; they usually just keep to themselves, and Tim tends to return the favor.

“What does Alfred watch?” he asks curiously.

“When he’s not feeling well?” Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Horror.”

(Tim can’t explain why, but somehow that sounds about right.)

Despite Bruce’s best efforts to make him more comfortable, Tim’s overall anxiety level doesn’t improve all that much over the course of his little mental health day. He spends the majority of it curled up on the sofa, binge watching some show called ‘Dark,’ which he picks out in particular for three reasons:

First, he’s never seen it before, so he has no idea what to expect.

Second, a quick Google search deems it to have one of the most complicated plots of any of the current offerings on Netflix.

Third, it’s entirely in German, thereby forcing him to read the subtitles if he is going to have any hope of understanding it.

These three factors combined means that the show requires about fifty percent more brain power for him to follow compared to any of Bruce’s more lighthearted suggestions, leaving him with slightly less mental capacity to devote to angsting over exactly how he’s going to fix this nightmarish mess he’s in.

Bruce stays nearby the entire day. He doesn’t force Tim to talk or anything, but he makes sure to let him know he’s available in case he wants to.

Every single time Tim thinks the baby vipers in his stomach and the acidic taste in his mouth has subsided and that he could maybe talk to Bruce about it, the moment the man’s eyes gaze at him—the openness, the tenderness, the absolute fucking warmth—his stomach comes back heavy with a vengeance and he’s snapping his mouth shut so hard his jaw hurts.

How can Bruce look at him with so much fondness when Tim’s basically betraying his kindness for his parent’s approval?

There’s a part of him that knows what his parents are doing is illegal, and that they’re probably going to get into a lot of trouble if anyone finds out. But the thing is, knowing something is so different from feeling something.

Logically he understands that his parents are in the wrong here, but emotionally? Tim still hears his mother’s promise that they’re fighting for him echoing in the back of his mind, still sees Jack’s proud gaze at how tall he’s gotten every time he blinks.

They’re still his family.

God this is such a mess.

And so he swallows the vipers back down and doesn’t tell Bruce anything, and he focuses on watching the little German town on TV pull him out of his life’s drama and into theirs instead.

T.G.I.F. at least, right?

Saturday morning, Tim nearly has a heart attack when Monica, his CPP caseworker, calls during breakfast. He’s convinced that the State must have gotten word somehow and everything is about to come out.

It turns out he shouldn’t have worried. Monica is simply calling to inform them that Tim’s parents canceled the supervised visit they had scheduled for later that afternoon.

Emergency business came up in Portofino, the Drakes had told her. They had no choice but to fly out immediately.

(Portofino of course being the coastal fishing village along the Italian Riviera where Tim’s parents honeymooned.)

Tim doesn’t think for one second that his parents are actually in Italy. He’s pretty sure they’re sitting at home fuming that he wasted their time yesterday. Canceling the visit is just their passive aggressive way of reminding him they’re still the ones in charge.

Either way, he’s grateful for the reprieve.

By the time Sunday night rolls around, Tim’s worked himself back up to anxiety levels comparable to Friday morning’s.

This time, however, he pushes through. Two days off in a row would be far too suspicious, both to his parents and to the Waynes. Besides, he knows he’d only be postponing the inevitable. At some point he’s just going to have to get this over with.

When Tim crosses the threshold into his study hall classroom that day, he feels as though he’s walking to his own gallows.

Forty-five totally uneventful minutes later, the bell rings to signal the end of fourth period, and Tim’s knees go weak with relief.

Nothing happened.

Zip. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

No passes were delivered, Tim’s name was never called, no jokes about his juvenile delinquency crossed Coach Miller’s lips. For forty-five minutes, Tim sat through study hall, sweating buckets, and his parents never came.

(He takes all of three minutes to bask in relief before he starts getting anxious again about tomorrow.)

But then Tuesday’s study hall passes in the exact same way.

And so does Wednesday’s.

By Thursday morning, Tim is starting to wonder if his parents might actually be in Portofino after all.

Meanwhile, Jason’s final dress rehearsal is scheduled for Thursday after school. In preparation for it, he’s spent the week going full-on plant-zilla. Shouts of ‘Down on Skid Row!’ and ‘Feed me, Seymour!’ have been issuing from the shower at ungodly hours of the morning, Alfred keeps finding specks of glitter all over the Manor, and Robin has had to be reprimanded twice already for running lines with Nightwing and Batgirl over the comms during a stake out.

Tim, who has never really been one for show tunes, even caught himself humming a few bars of ‘Somewhere That’s Green’ while cleaning his room the other day.

(Jason is an absolute menace.)

As Alfred is busy running some errands, Tim agrees to hang out in the library after school to wait for Jason. It’s not much of a hardship; he’s got plenty of homework to catch up on now that he finally has some brain cells to spare on something other than around the clock panicking.

He’s about halfway through his chemistry study guide when the librarian lets him know that he’s going to have to relocate since they’ll be using that area for a staff meeting. She suggests the student lounge over in the new wing, which should be pretty empty by now.

The fastest way to get from the library to the new addition is via a covered outdoor walkway that cuts through the school’s courtyard. As he walks, Tim scrolls through his text thread with Jason—who must be on a break, because he’s apparently been blowing up Tim’s phone while he had it on silent.

[4:10 pm] Well this production is going to crash and burn

[4:10 pm] Little Shop of Horrors??

[4:10 pm] More like ‘horror stories of the private education system’

[4:11 pm] Turns out Hunter, aka Seymour, aka THE MAIN CHARACTER somehow made it to opening weekend without learning the difference between stage right and stage left

[4:12 pm] Like seriously what has he been doing all this time??

[4:12 pm] And Rachel can’t remember half her lines

[4:12 pm] Which is impressive because she’s only got like 6 of them

[4:13 pm] She says she “lost her script” last week while she was vacationing in Cancun

[4:13 pm] Like dude

[4:13 pm] This is the age of information

[4:14 pm] Print one off the fucking internet

[4:14 pm] Idiots

[4:14 pm] I am surrounded by idiots, Timberly

[4:15 pm] And Mikey came down with mono so he’s out and his understudy Oliver is a major douche canoe

[4:16 pm] Like he was mad about not getting a bigger role? But like he fucking sucks and he’s the DENTIST now who objectively has one of the sickest songs of the entire show so like…???? Show some fucking gratitude, Ollie

[4:16 pm]  Douche canoe

[4:16 pm] Not to mention I didn’t get lunch so I’m fucking starving and–

“Hello, Timothy.”

At the sound of his mother’s voice, Tim shoots his head up so quickly it nearly gives him whiplash. Janet emerges from behind one of the concrete support pillars in the courtyard, his father a few steps behind.

Tim stares at them both, horrified, like all his nightmares are coming true.

“No,” he breathes out. “No, I don’t want to do this.”

Jack holds both hands up in front of his chest in a placating gesture. “Hey, it’s okay, champ. We just want to talk.”

Tim shakes his head. “I–I don’t have time,” he stammers. “Jason is waiting for me.”

His mother crosses her arms, fixing him with an unimpressed look.

“Timothy, we both know that’s not true. His rehearsal goes for another hour, at least.”

(Fuck. Tim should have figured that if his parents were willing to go to such lengths as forging documents and paying off school officials, then they’d have bothered to do their homework.)

“Yeah, but I was going to go meet him there,” Tim says, which is only half a lie. He usually sits in on the last twenty minutes or so for the chance to see Jason in his element. Speaking of which, his phone vibrates a few more times in quick succession.

“Well it’s a good thing that this should only take a few minutes then,” Janet replies airily.

“I’ve got the paperwork right here, son,” Jack says, holding up a folder. He inclines his head in the direction of the parking lot. “Why don’t we go sit in the car and get it signed there?”

Tim swallows hard. “Look, I’ve thought a lot about it and… I just, I’m sorry. I don’t think I can give you what you want.”

“Sure you can,” Jack says with a forced chuckle. His tone is still light, but that glint in his eyes is back. It makes Tim’s blood run cold. “We’ve already done the hard part for you. All we’re asking for is your John Hancock, and all of this nonsense can be behind us.”

Tim’s phone buzzes rapidly with more incoming texts. “I’m sorry,” he says, “But I can’t do that to Mrs. Mac. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“But you think your father and I do?” Janet demands, stepping closer, and Tim thinks he should be backpedaling out of there right now, but his feet have suddenly turned to lead.

“No, no I just meant that—”

“But that’s what it all boils down to, isn’t it,” she says icily. “At the end of the day, the State is obligated to hold someone responsible, and what you’re telling us is that you’d rather it be the people who birthed you, and supported you, and provided for you for thirteen years, rather than some housekeeper who's probably going to retire in a year or two anyway? Do you have any idea the lengths that we’ve gone through to get you back? The time and money we’ve invested in–”

Buzz… Buzz… Buzz….

“Would you turn that damn thing off?” Jack snaps at him.

“Sorry, it’s just Jason,” Tim says as his phone lights up again and he somehow manages to find his hands. He pulls up the text thread to see that there are a total of fourteen new messages since he last checked:

[4:18 pm] Okay thank god for Kiarra because she’s got the one brain cell in this production

[4:18 pm] She convinced Ms. Simmeroth to order us all tacos as a cast bonding experience/morale booster

[4:18 pm] From Taqueria Maria

[4:19 pm] Because “a cast that eats together succeeds together” or some cross stitch bullshit idk

[4:19 pm] This is why she’s on debate team and I’m not

[4:20 pm] Lmao

[4:20 pm] I don’t care I just want tacos

[4:20 pm] I think my stomach lining is starting to digest itself

[4:21 pm] FEED ME SEYMOUR

[4:21 pm] Anyway I chipped in a couple bucks so she’s gonna order you some too

[4:21 pm] What kind do you want

…

[4:23 pm] Helloo??

[4:23 pm] Free tacos, Timmy

[4:23 pm] Answer me

Jason is still firing off texts in rapid succession. Jack and Janet both lean over Tim’s shoulder to read them as they come in:

[4:24 pm] You want chicken?

[4:25 pm] Carne asada??

[4:25 pm] Chorizo???

[4:25 pm] Wait was it you or Dick who hates chorizo??

“Is this kid on meth or something?” Jack demands, his tone a mixture of annoyance and genuine disbelief.

“He’s normally not like this,” Tim says, wincing. “Just like, when he gets really stressed out...”

[4:25 pm] They’re placing the order now

[4:26 pm] I’m getting you beef tongue if you don’t answer in the next 30 seconds

[4:26 pm] 29

[4:26 pm] 28

[4:26 pm] 27

“Good Lord, you’d think the world was ending…” Janet mutters irritably, which startles Tim a little because he can count on one hand how many times he’s ever heard his mother swear. “Just answer him already.”

Tim nods, his hand trembling a little as he opens the chat bubble. His parents are both watching him like a hawk, and Tim is starting to regret not letting Bruce install that panic button he’d mentioned a few weeks ago in Tim’s phone. He still wasn’t sure if Bruce had been joking or not.

Tim pushes those thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter now. He’s got one shot at tipping Jason off that something is wrong without his parents catching on. He needs to come up with something, and quick.

Then it hits him.

Tim takes a deep breath, types out his message, and hits send.

Well, Jason decides, this rehearsal has been a fucking disaster.

It started with Amanda waiting until the costume team was literally pulling her dress over her head to announce that oh yeah, by the way, I have a crippling allergy to synthetic fibers, and it’s been all downhill from there. News of Mikey’s mono diagnosis hit everyone hard—especially Cynthia, who everyone knows has been making out with him backstage before rehearsals (even though she’s currently dating Ryan). Coincidentally, she’s also been complaining of a sore throat all day. Then to top it all off, one of the main set pieces collapsed mid-musical number, hitting Miranda—aka, Audrey herself—square in the face.

(She’s fine, mostly, but the makeup crew is gonna have a heck of a time covering that shiner of hers tomorrow night. Jason might have to give them a few tips.)

All that to say, when Kiarra proposed they all take a well-earned taco break, he honestly could have kissed her on the mouth. Oliver actually tried to, but Kiarra shoved him off, shrieking something about ‘pathogen containment.’

And that’s how the rest of the cast found out that Ollie has also been secretly snogging Cynthia.

Whatever. Point is, tacos.

And, because Jason is dead-set on winning the title of the World’s Best Older Brother™ (suck it, Dickface), he decides to chip in a few dollars out of his own wallet to buy his little bro a delicious snack as well.

So he shoots off a couple messages to confirm Tim’s preferred filling variety, and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Feeling his blood sugar dropping with every second a morale-building taco’s not in his hand, Jason sends him a few follow up texts.

This is, after all, clearly the most exciting development of an otherwise terrible day. Timmy deserves to take part.

Nothing.

He checks the time stamps. It’s been a full two minutes since his initial question.

Who the hell waits two minutes to reply to free tacos??

They’re.

Free.

Fucking.

Tacos.

Finally, when Jason’s about to say ‘screw it’ and get him chicken, his phone dings with a two-word message from Tim:

[4:27 pm] Shrimp please

Jason groans, rolling his eyes. “This kid thinks he’s a fucking comedian…” he mutters to no one in particular. Leave it to Tim to make shrimp jokes when his little anaphylaxis scare a few weeks ago now has Jason carrying an emergency Epi-Pen on his person at all times.

(Not that he’s told Tim that. The kid would never let him live it down.)

Ha ha, very funny, Jason types back in reply. Lengua tacos it is, white boy

He’s expecting a snarky comeback and a more serious taco order from Tim any second, but his text doesn’t even change to ‘read.’

“What, do you text me and then chuck your phone across the room?” Jason mutters irritably.

“Huh?” A junior boy watching TikTok videos on his phone glances up, brow furrowed.

“Not you, Ollie,” Jason grumbles. Bitterly, his brain tacks on, Not everything is fucking about you…

“Jason!” Kiarra hollers from over by the stage. As the official mom-friend of the group, she’s fallen into the role of frantically scribbling her castmates’ orders down on a paper napkin as they rattle them off. “Gonna need an answer.”

“Yeah one sec!” he calls back.

His message still sits there, unread. Fed up with waiting, Jason makes the executive decision to go old school. He calls Tim’s phone.

It goes straight to voicemail.

And just like that, Jason’s previously hollow stomach fills with dread.

He’s out of the auditorium and sprinting down the hall before Kiarra can so much as shout again.

Shrimp please.

The text is a long-shot if Tim’s ever attempted one. Jason will most likely take it as a joke, so the second Tim’s message is delivered, he switches the device over to airplane mode to prevent any response Jason sends from tipping his parents off.

Not that they should even need a tip. Tim’s shrimp allergy isn’t exactly a secret; after vomiting in the middle of a seafood restaurant at the age of eight, Tim’s parents should definitely be aware of their son’s proclivity to break out in rashes and violently eject the contents of his stomach after consuming crustaceans.

If they question it, his contingency plan is to say it’s an inside joke between him and Jason—some kind of fatalist gen-z humor that his parents would never understand—and that it means Jason should just choose for him because he doesn’t care.

But as it turns out, that whole part of his plan is unnecessary. His parents don’t even bat an eye at Tim’s typed request.

“Now,” his mother says once his phone is safely back in his pocket. “Where were we?”

“You were trying to get me to commit perjury,” Tim says in a deadpan.

Jack rolls his eyes. “It’s not like we’re asking you to testify. It’s a piece of fucking paper, Tim. We just need you to sign your name.”

“Falsifying documents is lying,” Tim points out through gritted teeth. “To a judge.”

Janet scoffs. “Oh that’s right, you couldn’t possibly lie, could you, Timothy?” Her words are dripping with sarcasm. She tilts her head to the side, making a show of pursing her lips in thought. “Hm… or, wait a minute… actually I think you do have some practice with that, don’t you?”

Her faux-sweet voice grates at Tim’s ears like nails on a chalkboard.

“Remember, dear?” she goes on silkily. “There was that one time when the Markovian Embassy tracked us down at our dig to let us know we were being investigated for criminal child abuse charges back in the States because our son had been hiding a literal stab wound from us. But you had no problem lying then, did you?”

A sudden flush of anger rushes over Tim and he feels his face heat up red.

“Oh come on,” he scoffs hotly. “There’s no way you didn’t know something was wrong with me. I told you I was sick. I threw up at a freaking gala, Mom!”

“Well sorry for not being fucking mind-readers!” Jack throws his hands up in exasperation. “We thought you’d caught a bug, Tim!”

“Yeah well you didn’t do anything about that either, did you?” Tim’s whole body is buzzing, everything he’s wanted to say to his parents for months bubbling up to the surface. “You knew I was sick and you didn’t even check on me!”

“That’s not true,” Janet argues. “I checked on you once while you were asleep, and I brought you tea before we left.”

“Yeah, before you left!” Tim explodes. “Just like you always do! You knew I was sick and you left me there in that house all alone! Say what you want about Mrs. Mac not hearing me over the stupid vacuum cleaner, but you knew! You knew and you still left me!”

Hot, angry tears are streaming down Tim’s face now. He hates his parents. He hates them so fucking much.

Why does he love them when he hates them so much?

“That’s because we thought you could handle it!” Jack snaps. He’s starting to look about as angry as Tim feels. “It’s not like we leave you without any resources. I mean, Christ, Tim, you have a phone. You could have called us! Called Mrs. Mac! Called those fucking Waynes you love so much!”

Tim is seeing red. “You leave them out of it!” he shouts.

“Why?” his father demands, taking a step forward. He’s breathing down Tim’s neck now. “You think they treat you better than we do? You think they’re not going to drop you like a rock the second they realize what an ungrateful little brat you really are? You think they love you more than us?!”

“You have never cared about me!” Tim chokes out, throat thick, hands shaking. “You only care about what I can do for you! About how well I reflect on you! Well you know what? I’m done trying to be your perfect kid! If the State wants to take me away, let ‘em! And I hope your fucking company goes belly-up!”

The next thing Tim knows, Jack’s got a fistful of Tim’s school blazer and is shoving him up against the pillar, his forearm pinning Tim’s chest to the concrete. The boy’s eyes go wide with horror, and he suddenly knows he’s gone too far.

“You take that back!” Jack roars in his face.

“Get your hands off my brother you piece of shit!”

There’s a flash of green out of the corner of Tim’s eye and Jack whirls around just in time for the full force of Robin to slam into him from the side. He stumbles backwards, one step, two, just in time for Jason to slam a fist into his face, knocking him flat on his ass.

“Don’t you ever touch him again!” Jason snarls. “Or it’ll be the last thing you fucking do!”

Jack is lying on the ground, propped up on one elbow, looking utterly stunned. Blood is streaming down from his visibly crooked nose.

Jason turns on Janet now. “Same goes to you too, lady! Gender is a social construct—I’ve got no fucking qualms hitting anyone who lays a hand on my family!”

It probably would have come across a lot more threatening if Jason wasn’t dressed head to toe in a gigantic green felt venus fly trap costume, but it still does the trick.

Janet rushes over to help her husband stumble to his feet, and before Tim can so much as say ‘fuck you guys,’ his parents both hightail it back to the parking lot.

Naturally, the school has to conduct a full investigation, but in the meantime, both boys get hauled into the office by campus security and Jason is automatically issued a three-day suspension for using violence on school grounds.

Tim, of course, feels terrible about this, but the other boy can’t seem to stop smiling.

“Fucking worth it,” Jason declares, readjusting the ice pack resting atop his bruised knuckles as the two of them sit on the waiting room bench. “Ten out of ten. Would punch again.”

(Tim only rolls his eyes.)

It takes a little while before Bruce arrives. Having come straight from the office mid-rush hour, he’s dressed in a suit and tie, and he’s brought several members of the Wayne Enterprises legal team along with him like some judicial entourage.

He greets the principal in a frankly chilling version of his Brucie Wayne persona (which Tim has never seen before and hopes never to see again) before stepping into the man’s office for a little chat about school security measures.

Fifteen minutes later, Jason’s record is expunged.

“You know, I was actually pretty proud of that punch…” Jason grumbles, fishing another taco out of the grease-stained brown paper bag that he made Bruce pick up for them on the drive home. “Don’t know why you had to make them take it back off my record. It would totally have helped to bolster my tough guy image.”

“...Tough guy image?” Tim raises an eyebrow, recalling the celebratory rendition of ‘Don’t Feed the Plants’ he’d belted out during the car ride back.

Jason just waves him off.

Bruce rolls his eyes. “Jason, the fact that the school would even attempt to charge you is absurd. First of all, as the security footage shows, you were clearly acting in self-defense.”

Jason snorts humorously. “I mean, not really.”

“Self-defense of a third party,” Bruce specifies, “which is still protected under law in situations of imminent harm.”

“Sure whatever, old man.” Jason’s grinning, clearly enjoying this.

“Second,” Bruce goes on, while Jason opens and closes his hand in a puppet-talking motion, “you were taking action against someone who had no legal right to set foot on school property and who posed a clear danger to a member of their own student body.”

Jason lets out a contented sigh. “Yeah. That whole ‘taking action’ part felt pretty good, not gonna lie...”

Meanwhile, Tim picks at his own taco, the vipers back. Looking back, he still doesn’t think his dad was actually going to hurt him, which is what he’d said to the police too when he’d given his statement once Bruce arrived. But everyone keeps telling him there are more ways to hurt someone than just the physical, and after listening to his mother’s scathing commentary and feeling his dad’s hot breath on his face as he’d roared…

Well. Tim’s starting to think there might be some merit to that.

They’re still always going to be his parents. They’re the people who made him, both literally and figuratively, and that’s not something that’s ever going to change. And somewhere, buried beneath all of their self-centeredness, they probably do love him in their own way.

But as Monica told him in the hospital all those months ago, people can love you and still hurt you.

It doesn’t mean you ought to let them.

“...And third,” Bruce says in conclusion, “if they suspended you, you would also have missed your opening night.”

“WHAT?!”

“You’re welcome, Jay.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, Timmy—I’d drop that jerk again in a heartbeat, regardless.” Jason pauses a beat. “But seriously?! Do they know how hard this nightmare of a production is going to tank already?! Like this is going to be majorly embarrassing for all involved…”

In spite of everything, the corners of Tim’s lips tug into a small smile as he listens to Jason’s increasingly dramatic rant.

It’s good to know that he’s got his family in his corner.