Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Timothy Jackson Drake has always had an interesting relationship with food.

Well, he wouldn’t classify it as interesting. In fact, when he was younger, he never noticed anything at all. Nothing to notice. He ate what he was given, no matter if he liked it or if it made him want to puke, and that was that. It was no good to be wasteful—there were children poorer than them, Mom reminded him, who would kill to have what the Drakes had.

Of all the things Mom ever told him, that one was true. He saw it each night in the darkest nooks of Gotham, the hunger-dazed eyes of the homeless population, the frail limbs of children clustering together beneath rotting cardboard when it rained. 

Sometimes, he thought of raising his camera and taking a photo, but then thought better of it. He’s no muckraker, no Jacob Riis, legend of photography; he’s just a seven-year-old. What would a photo like that on the internet do but serve to humiliate them, to strip them of what little dignity they have left?

Who was Timothy Drake, little nepo baby extraordinaire, to expose them like that?

So he’d go home to his cold mausoleum of a manor, curl up in his bed with his Canon camera tucked against his chest, and scroll through photos until Ms. Mac called him down for dinner. She always made one of the same five or six meals she knew he’d eat all the way through.

By the time Tim was eight, his parents decided he no longer needed a housekeeper to cook meals and do his laundry. Isn’t that what housekeepers are for? he doesn’t say. Maybe that’s his upbringing and money talking but he can’t help but think it. It’s not like he isn’t cleaning up after himself anyway! 

They began giving him an allowance, a $150 direct deposit that went into his bank account on the first Saturday of every month, and told him to go buy groceries.

The first month was an interesting trial. He bought a few ingredients online—not as much as he expected he’d get with $150, damn the economy—and looked up a few easy YouTube recipes. The cooking blogs were more of a storytime than a recipe, anyway. A good way to pass the time and fill the silence.

In the end, he decided it was too much work. He was eight—he wasn’t interested in learning dozens of recipes, budgeting his money, or experimenting with “add as desired” measurements. What nonsense was that, anyway? He wanted the exact numbers! How was anyone supposed to figure out what they liked best in the first place if the recipes never gave them a baseline?

Snacks were easier. And cheaper. Tim bought baskets of fruits, boxes with assorted flavors of chips (and donated the one flavor he didn’t like to food banks), and stocked up on Rice Krispies and Goldfish. He got baby carrots and pre-made salads for a balanced diet and then bought 3-minute ramen in bulk. The one with beef-flavored broth. It was the only one he liked, he quickly discovered.

During the school year, it was easier. Gotham Academy provided free lunches courtesy of Bruce Wayne’s donations, and the tasteless chicken nuggets and square pizza were enough to hold him over (even if those were only served on Tuesdays and Fridays, and the rest of the week was nasty slop he tended to skip out on).

In the summer, he struggled to keep himself fed. The stuff he had got old quickly, so Tim let himself go hungry most days. He spent hours of daylight lazing away in his bed watching videos on his phone or reading conspiracy blogs, waiting for nighttime to go birdwatching, and didn’t need as many calories. Doritos started to make him feel sick, the smell nauseating. Sweets lost their appeal, and he grew bored with the same fruits as a side in every meal.

Foods that felt safe before stopped being safe, and the cabinets grew sparser than before. He found that he’d rather be hungry than eat something he wasn’t craving.

The summer Tim turns ten, his parents forget to send him his monthly allowance. Probably. They don’t pick up when he tries calling to remind them. So, he eats the perishable items in the fridge first, those with the earliest expiration dates. 

When those run out, he moves onto the last few cabinet foods. His ramen, of course, and then he’s down to his back-of-the-cabinet last resort, the stuff imbued with chemicals that make the shelf life last longer. Gummies and the like. But those aren’t exactly filling, and soon, he’s out of options.

Two days after he runs out of junk to eat, Tim stares at his phone.

His parents aren’t reachable. No service at their dig site in Tajikistan, most likely. He can’t call a shelter or food drive service to get food, or he’ll get caught when the authorities stop to wonder why a Drake is scrounging around like he isn’t rich enough to buy the entire shelter three times over.

Maybe…maybe he can ask his neighbors for a few things. That’s normal, right? Neighbors sometimes ask each other for ingredients or food when they’re out. He can drop by the Waynes’ house, ask for…something edible, he guesses, and no one will be the wiser! It’s only, what, a ten-minute walk? If that.

It has to be worth it. He’s skipped breakfast and lunch, and now he’s too hungry to ignore it any longer. His limbs are shaking and his stomach feels hollow, neither of which are good signs. Batman himself wouldn’t deny a hungry child food, right?

Unless he decides that his resources are better suited for a poorer child than Timothy Drake. He wouldn’t blame Mr. Wayne for scolding him for trying to waste good food on a rich boy. It is selfish of him, after all. The idea is almost embarrassing enough that Tim talks himself out of it, but when his stomach growls, he realizes he may not have much of a choice.

Tim waits until late in the evening when most people are eating dinner. At five, he grabs his jacket and ventures onto the front porch. The driveway stretches a long distance to the road, trailing off in a way it doesn’t usually. 

There’s something a lot more menacing about an empty driveway during the day than during the night, ironically—if he’s caught on his own during the day, he’s screwed. People will think things, things that aren’t true, and his parents will never forgive him for disparaging the Drake name.

After a few minutes of staring and hyping himself up, he starts on his walk. It takes a full three minutes to get to the main road on the other side of the gate, but it could just be his stupidly short legs. He can’t wait until he’s tall.

Reluctantly, he allows himself to take his time. He clutches his jacket tighter and inhales, getting a noseful of earthy pine and pollen. As much as he goes out to Gotham, he doesn’t spend enough time appreciating the outdoors or nature, and the roads are lined with flower bushes and other assortments. That’s how someone knows they’re in a rich neighborhood—the funds to plant flowers for no other reason than aesthetics. 

Every time a car passes on the road, his throat seizes up and he ducks behind a bush, waiting for a decent amount of time until the sound of a car engine is long gone. The painstaking process of walking, dropping, and waiting turns what should’ve been a ten-minute walk into at least a twenty-five minute walk. Tim curses himself mentally for failing to plan for the stuttered intervals of hiding time, the shaking in his limbs getting worse. He’s supposed to be smart.

He’s panting by the time the gates of Wayne Manor come into sight. 

The thin, spiralled bars are wide enough that he can slip between them, completely bypassing the intercom system. His stomach turns with guilt, making him want to throw up, but there’s nothing in his stomach but bile. He prays to whatever deity is out there that Mr. Wayne doesn’t immediately throw him out and call the cops on him for trespassing. He wouldn’t even be in the wrong. Tim is a criminal.

But he’s so hungry.

When he gets to the porch, he takes slow, reverent steps up the short staircase, eyes as wide as saucers. He’s standing on the porch of Wayne Manor! Batman lives here!

The shocking thought knocks some sense into him. He looks down at his outfit, abruptly wishing he’d worn something more formal than the itchy turtleneck his mother bought him a year ago and his stiff school uniform shorts. He hurriedly brushes it off to get rid of the wrinkles and knocks firmly on the door, heart thudding anxiously.

Absently, he begins to count backwards in his head, needing something to occupy his thoughts so he doesn’t lose his mind. Ninety-nine…ninety-eight…ninety-seven… The door opens and Tim startles. That didn’t take long.

“Hello,” Jason says, blinking in surprise. His thumb fiddles with a dent in the wooden door.

“Hi,” Tim says shyly. This is Jason Todd! Robin! Up close! The same hero that saved him from falling off that fire escape just mere months ago!

“Did you…need something?”

He’s already making a fool of himself. “Oh! Um, yeah, I was just wondering if you guys have any…food?”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you come in?” he says, opening the door wider.

Tim feels his eyes widen. “You don’t have to do that, I just—”

“Jason? Who is it?” Tim hears from inside the manor, and he lets out an embarrassing squeak.

“Mr. Wayne! Hi!” he says as the giant man appears in the doorway, a protective hand on Jason’s shoulder. He looks as surprised to see Tim as Tim is to see him. “I’m Timothy Drake. I’m your neighbor!”

“He said he wants food,” Jason says matter-of-factly. Something crosses over his and Mr. Wayne’s faces too quickly for Tim to catch it, let alone interpret whatever silent communication the two of them must’ve had.

“Well, I was—” Tim’s mouth clicks shut as one of Mr. Wayne’s giant hands settles on his back and gently maneuvers him inside. 

“Why don’t you come in? It’s not often we get visitors,” Mr. Wayne says, his voice a light, floaty tone that Tim recognizes from galas. It all happens too fast for him to protest, and then they usher him through a maze of halls and rooms until he’s being seated at a long, luxurious table.

Tim rubs the pads of his fingers along the wood grain. It’s a rich mahogany, decorated with a long red cloth and an abstract bronze centerpiece. Nothing like the sleek black dining table in his own modernized house, every uncushioned seat collecting dust, save for one.

Jason plops down in the seat beside him, and Mr. Wayne disappears into the kitchen. He hears the low voices coming from there and wonders if Dick is home or if he’s speaking to the butler.

“So,” Jason says, grabbing Tim’s attention again. If it were his mom, he would’ve gotten a smack on the wrist for that. “You live next door?”

Tim dips his head eagerly. “And I go to school at Gotham Academy, too!”

“Hm. Yeah, I feel like I’ve seen you around the halls before.” He pauses. “You look a little too young to be in middle school already.”

“I skipped a grade. My parents want me to be ahead,” Tim explains, hoping to impress his hero. GA has the best education in the county (read: most funded), but it’s only 6th through 12th grade, so his parents had him take a placement test to move up. Of course, he passed. 

“Oh. Doesn’t sound great for making friends, though,” Jason says. His eyes are bright and never stray. Tim squirms in his seat, both unsettled and excited to have so much attention focused solely on him. To have Robin’s attention on him.

“No, but that’s okay! I don’t need friends,” Tim says happily. His parents have reminded him of this often enough that he knows for certain that it’s true, and he knows the more important thing is getting a superior education. Socialization comes last, and his parents have repeatedly told him that the kids at school are bad influences anyway.

At that moment, Mr. Wayne returns, an older man following behind him. He must be the butler, Mr. Pennyworth. Tim has seen him in photos before while researching, never far from the rest of the Wayne family, and at the occasional gala.

“How would you like to stay for dinner, Timothy?” Mr. Wayne asks, his voice lower than before, almost comforting. Tim can feel his eyes widen even more, shocked again by his hero’s hospitality. Staying for dinner is more than he even imagined. It’s not exactly a long-term solution, but he can’t say no to the one they’re offering now, either.

“That– that would be nice, sir,” Tim says, trying to remain polite and formal the way his parents would expect of him. “If it’s alright. I don’t want to impose.”

Mr. Wayne nods, sitting at the head of the table. “It’s no trouble. My eldest son is on his way over for dinner, and I’m sure he and Jason would love to have another young face at the table.”

Tim swivels his head to check with Jason, who shrugs but doesn’t seem against it, so Tim takes it as a win. There’s a rich smell seeping into the dining room from the kitchen; the food must already be cooking. He recognizes the sharp scent of spices in the air, but he can’t name any of them. His stomach growls, and he’s eager for it to be done.

“You look like you need a hug,” Jason says, “and Dickface can have someone to cuddle that isn’t me for once.”

Tim feels his face heat up. He doesn’t want to further indebt himself. “He doesn’t have to—”

“Oh, look, he just texted me,” Jason says loudly, drowning out his protest while he waves around his phone. “‘Any huggable children at the manor right now?’ Boy, do I have news for him. ‘Hey, Dickie, the perfect kid just landed on our doorstep—”

“Jason, quit messing with Timothy,” Mr. Wayne chastises gently, and Tim wonders if his discomfort was that obvious.

Jason grumbles, but shoots Tim a small smile. Tim smiles back, unsure of why the other boy looks apologetic. He would never need to apologize to Tim. Robin is the greatest.

Mr. Pennyworth enters, placing glasses in front of everyone. He pours Mr. Wayne a pitcher of water and Jason tea, and then turns to Tim, hands clasped in front of him.

“It is a pleasure to meet you properly. I am Alfred Pennyworth, and you may call me Alfred,” the butler says. “Now, what would you like to drink, young sir?”

“Water’s fine,” Tim says quickly. “Thank you, Mr—um, Alfred.”

When Alfred leaves, an awkward silence settles over the table. Jason’s thumbs fly over his phone screen as he texts. Mr. Wayne has his hands clasped together, gaze moving between the two boys.

Just before Tim can work up the courage to apologize for disrupting their routine and making things tense, Mr. Wayne speaks.

“So,” he says, a physical weight resting on all of them. Jason’s head snaps up as though he knows what Mr. Wayne is going to say, and Tim braces himself. “Who usually makes you dinner, Tim?”

Mr. Wayne’s eyebrow barely twitches as Jason very obviously kicks him under the table.

It’s okay, though. Tim has his excuses practiced and ready to go, and he plasters a big smile on his face, the one that has never failed to get adults off his back. “My parents, but they have meetings on the weekends. Normally, they leave something for me to heat up, but they must’ve forgotten this time. It’s not a big deal!”

Mr. Wayne’s brows pinch together. “They have meetings every weekend?”

Tim nods. “They don’t usually forget. This is a one-time thing, honest!”

Jason and Mr. Wayne eye each other again, but the man sighs and nods. “Alright. I’ll give them a call to let them know you’ve come over. I don’t want them to worry.”

Tim chews on his bottom lip, unsure. Chances are, his parents won’t respond. They don’t check their phones often, and there isn’t usually service on their dig sites. But maybe, if he can distract Mr. Wayne into forgetting to call them, then—

“Little Wing!”

Tim jolts, sitting upright in his chair. 

Jason stiffens beside him, before losing the tension and slumping. “Dickhead.”

Dick Grayson, the acrobat vigilante extraordinaire himself, walks through the archway entrance of the dining room as though he owns the place. Well, he is Bruce Wayne’s son. Tim’s sure he’s got some claim over the manor, right? Not the point.

He looks perfect as ever, windswept black hair that’s messy but stylish, light golden-brown skin, deep blue eyes, all front-cover-magazine ready. But he smiles the same as the boy who gave Tim his first hug, who let him get a picture on his lap, grinning all the while. The same boy who said, “I’ll do a quadruple flip just for you!” and performs one all the time on the streets at night, and Tim can only pretend that those are for him, too.

Dick strolls over and ruffles Jason’s hair, wrapping his arms around the boy’s shoulders from behind for a quick squeeze. Jason tolerates it, but just when he begins to get antsy, Dick unfolds and slides into a chair across from them.

He leans forward and offers his hand across the table, beaming rays of sunshine at Tim. “Hey, kid. I’m Dick Grayson,” he says.

“I know,” Tim squeaks, and then, embarrassed, quickly reaches out to shake his hand.

Dick just laughs, evaporating any awkwardness that Tim scrounged up. “And you are…?”

“Timothy Drake. From next door.”

“Nice to meet you, Tim. I hear you’re staying for dinner?”

“I was going to? If that’s okay?”

“Of course it is! Jason needs friends,” Dick says, leaning back in his chair as his younger brother sticks his tongue out in annoyance. Dick is squinting ever so slightly, looking at Tim as if he’s trying to spot something. “Y’know, I swear you’re familiar. Have we met before?”

“I’ve been to a couple galas before,” Tim offers. There’s no way Dick would remember Tim from the circus. Not some random little boy, not when he must’ve seen dozens upon dozens of at every show.

Dick drums his fingers on the table, staring. “Maybe.” But that seems to be the end of that, and Dick jumps topics like a hummingbird between flowers. “Jason! How was rehearsal?”

Rehearsal. He must be in the theater class’s play, then. What was it? Something Shakespeare. Tim isn’t a huge English fan, and he’s never paid much attention to the theater department, but acting must take a lot of courage. He can’t imagine getting up on a stage in front of tons of people and being expected to remember lines on top of all that.

Jason, impossibly, turns red. Tim doesn’t know what he could have to be embarrassed about.

“Good,” he mumbles. Dick just looks fond.

“That’s really cool,” Tim says shyly, swirling his cup of water around. The smell coming from the kitchen is stronger. Almost familiar.

“It is,” Mr. Wayne says, smiling like a proud father, and Jason goes even redder. Tim’s chest aches. “He has one of the leads in The Tempest. Do you know that one?”

Tim shakes his head. “Um, not really. I don’t read a lot.”

“What?” Jason exclaims, scandalized. “The Tempest is a literary classic! In play format and in book format. You don’t know culture, Timmy.”

“Oh,” Tim says, abashed. “Sorry.”

Both Jason and Dick open their mouths to speak, but Alfred enters before they can, pushing in a wheeled silver tray topped with four bowls.

“Your timing is excellent, dear boy,” Alfred says as he begins to pass out dishes. “I was almost finished when you arrived.”

“Thanks, Alfie!” Jason says, and laughs at something Dick says in response.

Tim stares at his bowl, mouth dry.

No wonder the smell was so familiar.

“You can finish it, or you can go to bed hungry and eat it for breakfast,” Dad said. It was years ago since they’d last had it, when his parents still stayed at the manor for longer periods of time. Chili. They kept making it, over and over, because Dad insisted that “taste buds change.” Mom used the “you won’t know if you dislike it until you try it” argument every single time.

Tim was pretty sure he knew he didn’t like it.

He’d tried. He’d sat at the table for hours, not allowed to leave until it was all gone, and cried until he didn’t have the energy for it anymore. The bowl of chili sat untouched. He’d plug his nose and force it down, but he was pretty sure that was a myth, because it still tasted horrid every time. He ate it with saltines, hoping to dilute some of the taste. Eventually, he’d stuff his mouth full and chew, and go to the bathroom to spit it out in the toilet.

His dad caught on. That hadn’t gone well, and he was grounded for weeks after that. He wasn’t allowed to leave his room or use his electronics or toys. Dad was enraged, determined to make life miserable, so he’d covered everything in Tim’s room with a sheet so he couldn’t even look at it. He was meant to sit on his bed—he wasn’t allowed to lay down—and think about what he’d done. Tim spent eight to nine hours like that for days, doing nothing but sitting and thinking until he'd long forgotten why he was in trouble in the first place.

He was pretty sure they forgot to unground him before they left, so he’d gradually risked undoing it himself, but was paranoid for months that his parents would somehow know he was breaking their rules. Years later, he’s sure they wouldn’t have cared enough to check.

It was an amalgamation of his most-hated foods: beans, peppers, onions, with soggy, cooked tomatoes. Oh, the beans. They’re the worst food in the world—mushy, disgusting, with that rancid aftertaste he can feel on his tongue and on the roof of his mouth. All of that, sat in some reddish, brownish sludge of a sauce. The smell was nauseating.

Just looking at it now makes the back of his throat burn. Tears prickle at the back of his eyes. His blood sugar is low and he’s hangry, and he feels sick to his stomach.

But this is a gift, so kindly offered to him when it didn’t need to be, and he has to show them he’s grateful. So he reaches a shaking hand for a spoon and tries not to look as he scoops, shoving it in his mouth, one hand already on his glass of water to wash it down.

It tastes about as awful as he remembers, and trying not to cry becomes an even greater fight. The little chunks of meat are something he can’t recognize, and that part isn’t so horrible. He chews quickly and swallows at the risk of choking, but if he can spread things out enough to look like he ate more than he did, he may pull it off. His stomach quivers.

No, no, no. He can’t throw up, or this will all be for nothing.

He takes another bite and has to hide his gag with both his hands, dropping the spoon with a clatter. The conversation cuts off as all three of the others turn to look at him.

“Timothy? Are you alright?” Mr. Wayne asks him, brows furrowed in what almost looks like concern.

He nods, taking his hands away.

It’s still in his mouth it’s still in his mouth it’s still in his mouth—

He swallows, stifling another gag, and offers a weak smile.

Dick frowns and rounds the table. Jason puts a hand on his shoulder as the eldest crouches beside him.

“You don’t look so good,” Jason says, and Dick places the back of his hand on Tim’s forehead.

“He’s not feverish,” Dick reports, brushing Tim’s bangs behind his ears. He wants to be able to focus on it, to enjoy that little touch so he has this memory to dream about for the next– forever, but his head is swimming and the moment has passed before he can beg for it back.

He goes to reassure them, to sweep this little incident under the rug so they don’t think he’s some helpless child, but his tongue feels thick and clumsy. Come to think of it, his throat feels swollen, too.

“Wha’ wa’ in tha’ chi’i?” he slurs, leaning into Dick’s hand.

Mr. Wayne joins them a moment later. “It’s Alfred’s shrimp and red bean chili,” he says. “Tim, do you have any allergies?” He tilts to the side, but then there are large hands on his shoulders, keeping him upright. “Go grab an epipen. Quickly,” he hears in Mr. Wayne’s low tones, and running footsteps a moment later.

The unidentified meat. Shrimp. Of course.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Dick is saying, and his voice carries so softly that Tim doesn’t know how to handle it. He keels to the side and vomits. It's repulsive. He's repulsive.

To his utter horror, he feels tears begin to run down his face.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

The hands move under his arms and he’s moving, being sat on the floor and settled against a chest. His tummy hurts so bad, and it’s hard to breathe. Every inhale makes a loud wheeze noise. They’re going to hate him, aren’t they? He’s being inconsiderate and making a mess, and being such a little kid right now. 

He remembers he just threw up on their floor and starts crying harder. 

Time moves fuzzily after that. There’s a sting on his thigh and then a comforting pair of arms around him, and the crying is making him tired, so he leans back and lets his eyes fall shut.

When he wakes, he’s in an unfamiliar bed with two warm presences on his either side.

He sits up quickly, confused and then surprised as the memories of earlier return to him. Jason Wayne and Dick Grayson. They’re here—still here. Jason’s head is tipped back against the pillow, mouth open and snoring quietly, and Dick stirs when Tim looks over at him.

Why didn’t they just take him home? He gets waiting a little bit to make sure he didn’t, like, die, but he’s fine. It was just a minor allergic reaction, nothing he can’t handle on his own. He appreciates that they didn’t take him to a hospital, at least, so that he doesn’t have to worry about the bill. His parents would be furious if they found the hospital bill records, and he knows at least his mother would certainly notice.

“Timothy?”

Tim startles, head snapping toward the voice. Mr. Wayne is sitting in an arm chair beside a bookshelf that seems to be used for holding everything but books—trophies, framed photographs, dusty boxes, even a few old stuffed animals.

He glances around, getting steadily more panicked. The room is lit with low lamplight, there are tapestries and awards on the walls, and a recognizable poster above the bed. The Flying Graysons.

He’s in Dick Grayson’s room. He’s on Nightwing’s bed.

“Feeling any better?” comes from beside him. Dick has sat up against the headboard, rubbing his eyes. Jason, on Tim’s other side, groans as he wakes. Guilt threatens to suffocate him as he takes everything in.

They really let him stay, and even cuddled with him? Don’t they know he doesn’t deserve it?

“Timmy?” Jason asks, poking him in the ribs. Something about the nickname breaks the dam and Tim bursts into tears for the second time.

“I’m sorry!” Tim wails. “I didn’t mean to– to throw up on your floor or– or waste your food or make y-you care for me,” he hiccups, disgusted with himself. His face is wet and his nose is running. He’s gross. How they can even stand to look at him is beyond his understanding. 

“Woah, woah, it’s okay!” Dick says immediately. Jason sits up, looking concerned, and Tim is so confused.

“You have no reason to apologize,” Mr. Wayne says, and a strange look passes over his face. “If anything, it should be me apologizing. I should’ve made sure you weren’t allergic to anything before giving you food.”

“What?” Tim gasps, swiping at his cheeks. Where did he get that idea? Tim knows better, he should have informed them beforehand or simply been stronger. It isn’t up to the rest of the world to cater to his needs. “No, you were so kind! It was more than I could’ve asked for. I should’ve been able to handle it, I—”

“You can’t ‘handle’ an allergy,” Jason says matter-of-factly. “It could’ve killed you.”

Tim winces. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

“No more apologies,” Dick declares, and it takes everything in him not to apologize again. “We know now. Let’s get you some clean clothes. We washed your sweater while you were out.”

It’s then that Tim realizes he’s shirtless, and he thanks Mr. Wayne profusely when the man hands him his fresh-smelling turtleneck.

“Please, call me Bruce.”

Tim blushes and agrees. If it’s what the man wants, right? It would be impolite to call him anything else.

The sweater smells like Jason because of the detergent, which isn’t surprising, but is strangely comforting. It smells like a family, like a warm summer breeze, like it’s been worn and loved before.

He doesn’t like the turtleneck sweater, truthfully. But his mother got it for him as a birthday gift (even if she'd been off by two months—it’s July 19th, not May 19th—she’d gotten the day right! It’s the thought that counts, right?). His parents never bought him things, so his mom must've felt especially affectionate that day.

So, he doesn’t like the shirt. But he loves it anyway because it’s a gift and he never gets gifts, and he spent many nights when his parents were gone cuddling with it in bed. Not that anyone needed to know that. 

“Is there anything you want to snack on to settle your stomach?” Dick asks with a smile, rubbing at the tear tracks on Tim’s face with his thumb. “I bet you’re still hungry.”

“Yes, please,” Tim says, overcome with relief but taunted with dread. What if it’s something else he doesn’t like?

“How does fruit sound?” Bruce asks, and Tim could jump for joy.

“Good,” he says, a genuine grin spreading across his face.

“You’re not allergic to any fruits, right?” Jason asks as he gets out of bed, dodging a hair ruffle from Dick.

“Nothing else,” Tim agrees happily as the eldest brother goes for Tim instead, something he happily doesn’t protest. Instead of just messing with his hair, though, Dick picks him up, swinging him in the air. Tim laughs excitedly as they descend the stairs, and when they’re all gathered around the table, munching on watermelon with juice running down their fingers, Jason clears his throat.

“Would you…want to see us perform The Tempest?” he asks, focused on his snack as if Tim was going to say no.

“Really? You want me to come?” Tim gapes.

Dick lights up. “That’s a great idea, Jay! We’ll swing by your house and pick you up. It’s next Saturday, is that okay? Would your parents mind?”

Tim quickly shakes his head. “No, that’s perfect! They wouldn’t care. They’ve got a meeting anyway, so…”

“Right,” Dick says, and now his smile is slightly more strained. 

Tim panics. He didn’t mean to ruin the mood!

Jason, somehow sensing the stiffness in the air, stretches his arms over his head with a loud groan. “Yeah, well,” he starts, “if you don’t know about The Tempest, I bet you haven’t seen any other classics. I have to prepare you for greatness before you watch our play.”

“I’m sensing a movie binge in our near future!” Dick says, grinning and clapping his hands together. Their plates empty, Jason pulls him from his seat, and they begin walking down the hall. Tim worries about his dish, not wanting to leave a mess in a guest’s house, but Alfred sweeps in as the three of them leave the dining room. Bruce stays behind, smiling at their departure.

“A…movie binge?” Tim asks. He doesn’t watch a lot of movies. He’s seen a few, of course, but watching things on his own gets boring quickly. There’s no one to share his predictions or theories with, no one to laugh at the jokes with him. If he wanted to watch something on his own, he’d watch Youtube streamers play games he doesn’t have, or conspiracists who think Batman is Oliver Queen.

“Pride & Prejudice, Titanic, then Princess Bride, and Great Gatsby just for the culture…” Jason is listing, sticking out a finger for each one.

“And Tangled!” Dick says cheerily.

“That’s not a classic, Dickhead, not even close—”

“Legally Blonde?”

“No.” Jason scowls and Tim smiles as the brothers start bickering, leaning into Dick, who tucks him into his side as they walk.

“How about Pitch Perfect?” Dick suggests, and finally, Jason pauses. Dick cheers, already knowing he’s won.

The living room is smaller than Tim had imagined a manor like this would have, so much so that he has to assume the room is some kind of den for hangouts instead of a formal living room like the one he has. He isn’t really allowed in his living room—all the white furniture is covered in plastic dust protectors and the modern decor is not meant to be touched or played with. He doesn’t want to track dirt onto the carpet or Persian fur rugs, either.

Jason flops down on a big, brown, leather couch. The center is drooping slightly, clearly worn with use, and the leather is soft when Tim tenderly sits down. There’s blankets, one crocheted and the other some kind of thick cotton fluff, draped over the back.

“Relax, kid. We ain’t gonna eat ya,” Jason drawls, poking at Tim. He has to consciously force himself out of his stiff-backed position, but it’s easier when Dick sits down on his other side, sprawling out on the protruding L-shaped part of the couch. Dick grabs the remote and tosses it, nearly nailing Jason in the forehead if the boy hadn’t caught it. Without his Robin training, he probably wouldn’t have.

Jason puts on a movie. Alfred appears with bowls of popcorn about twenty minutes in, and though Jason is obviously invested in the story (Dick is not, repeatedly sneaking looks at his phone and only half watching), Tim has a hard time focusing. He’s warm. It’s strange. The blankets tickle the back of his neck, Jason’s shoulders and knees rest against Tim’s, and Dick’s bundled up close enough that he could reach out and tug him to his chest like a teddy bear. Tim always wishes Dick would.

The popcorn tastes good, fresh and buttery. The lamp lights are low. He’s tired. When he falls asleep as the woman on TV confesses her love, he feels safe.

Dick picks Tim up two hours before the play. Perhaps he expected Tim to be surprised, but he’d been ready since noon, his hair combed and camera prepared by the door. He was waiting in the foyer, bouncing with energy, and had forged a note from his parents.

As soon as Tim gets into the back seat, he passes Dick the note, written in delicate cursive from hours of practice. It was short and sweet, exactly the sort of thing he’d expect his mother to say.

Richard Grayson-Wayne, we appreciate you allowing Timothy to join you for the night while we are busy. We trust you have the best intentions and will take appropriate care of our son while he’s under your watchful eye. Best wishes, the Drakes.

Dick takes it from him, reading it quickly and glancing out the window toward the house with furrowed brows.

“I wish I could’ve caught them before they left. Thought they might want to meet me…” Dick trails off, deep in thought.

“Oh, uh, yeah. They’re just like that,” Tim says, nervously laughing as he buckled his seatbelt. “Work comes first, you know how it is.”

Dick hums noncommittally, and they’re off.

Turns out Dick picked him up early to go get ice cream and buy flowers for Jason as an opening night gift. Tim vibrates with excitement when they get to the shop. He hasn’t been to get ice cream since he was six.

“What do you want?” Dick asks, smiling warmly. Tim beelines straight for the glasses cases. He only likes two or three flavors—strawberry, vanilla, and mint chocolate chip. Luckily for him, he spies a full container of the pink ice cream and points to it.

“Is that okay?” Tim asks, buzzing with nervous energy. He doesn’t want to overstep and assume Dick is willing to spend a lot of money on him.

“Cup or cone?” Dick returns, already getting out his wallet.

His ice cream is devoured before they even get to the GA theater. They sit somewhere in the middle of the center row, far back enough that they can see the entire stage but close enough that they don’t have to squint. The lights are dim, the curtain still closed. Anticipation buzzes in the air with a chorus of quiet voices. When the lights blink, signaling the show's start, everyone falls silent and the thick curtains draw back.

Jason performs like he was born to do it. It’s strange, Tim thinks, seeing the kid Tim’s followed for the longest time, watching from afar, become someone entirely different. Like this, Jason displays emotions Tim’s never seen on him before. His face is open, voice expressive, and when Tim glances over at Dick, he’s watching his little brother with a visible pride. Filming, too, for Bruce, who had a Wayne Enterprises thing he couldn’t miss.

When it’s over nearly two and half hours later, they wait with the other crowds of family members down by the stage for the actors to come down the steps, and Jason runs down and jumps into Dick’s arms with a breathless grin. 

Dick whoops and swings him around. “You did so good, Little Wing!”

Jason steps back and straightens his shirt—plain, white and buttoned, one of the undershirts for his costume—and tries to tamp down his wild excitement. He can’t seem to suppress it entirely, though, and Tim tugs on his arm.

“You were amazing!” he says.

Jason laughs and throws his arms over Tim’s shoulders, hugging him tight. “You came!”

“Of course I did!” Tim says, astonished Jason would ever think that he wouldn’t.

Dick gives Jason the flowers and they wait as he goes and grabs his stuff from the back. He returns and leads them out to the parking lot. 

“You’re not going to some afterparty with your theater friends?” Dick asks.

“Nah. I’d rather spend the night with my brothers,” Jason says, grabbing both of them by the arms and leaning back and forth between the two of them. Dick sags dramatically when Jason leans his weight on him, making Tim giggle.

When they get back to the manor, Bruce and Alfred are waiting for them. Bruce had just gotten off work and Alfred made Jason’s favorite desert—apple pie.

Instead of collecting in the dining room, they go to a much more casual corner Tim hadn’t seen before. It’s set deeper into the floor, a cushioned bench wrapping all the way around and a rectangular table in the center. 

They pile into the little breakfast nook, Jason flushed and pink from all the praise and thrill of the night, Bruce and Dick glowing with pride. Even Alfred stands a little taller. Tim almost feels like he’s intruding on something meant for family, an important moment that he’s not meant to witness. He’s just the neighbor’s kid, after all.

But Dick and Jason insist on him sitting between them, so he does, and Alfred sets the desert in the middle of the table. Bruce slides into the bench across from them.

“Dad,” Jason was groaning, “you weren’t even there! How do you know how good I was?”

“I just know,” Bruce says, chuckling. “And I’ll be there for the next one, Jaylad. I promise.”

Jason’s embarrassed grumbles dissolve as the largest piece of pie is placed in front of him.

Dick reaches over to cut his own, and Tim shifts uncomfortably. Would this be a horrible time to tell them he doesn’t like apple pie?

“How much, Timmy?” Dick asks as he grabs a second plate.

“Oh, um, no thank you,” he says, sitting back. He tries for a smile, but even he feels like it comes across as fake. It’s always a bit disappointing, not being able to share in desserts. But he isn’t going to complain when it’s his own fault. They owe him nothing.

“You don’t like apple pie?” Jason asks, bewildered. Tim winces. Here it comes. “Well, what do you want, then?”

Huh?

He must’ve voiced his thought out loud, because Jason rolls his eyes. “I don’t want you to have nothing. We’ve got some sweets already made. What do you like? Danishes? Brownies? Pastries?”

“Brownies?” Tim ventures quietly. 

It’s just his luck that his pickiness doesn’t stop at vegetables and dinner meals. It had to include sweets, too. He didn’t like most kinds of desserts—they were too sweet or too mushy or had that white cream in them, which he didn’t like the texture of. But brownies? Brownies he can do.

Alfred disappears, presumably to go plate him his own, separate dish (which is humbling on its own). Dick starts idly braiding little strands of his hair, and Jason starts teasing Bruce.

“Hey, Timmy,” Dick says, quietly enough that only Tim hears. He’s sure the others could listen in if they wanted to, though, being the Bats and all. “How would you like to spend the weekends with us? Since your parents are busy and all, and they wouldn’t have to remember to make you pre-made meals if you ate with us.”

Tim can’t believe it.

“Really?” he asks, high-pitched, and blushes when Jason and Bruce turn to look at him. Alfred appears with a full plate of gooey chocolate brownies a moment later.

“We’d love to have you,” Bruce says warmly. They were listening, then.

Of course, he agrees without a second thought. They end up building a fort in one of the many living rooms, this one large enough to hold the furniture meant to keep the blankets up. The TV is playing something on mute in the background and the multicolored lamps cast a pretty amalgamation of colors on the sheets making up their fort.

It’s not until that night, cuddled up on a layer of pillows and surrounded by stuffed animals and two boys—one snoring, the other not—that Tim realizes Jason called him brother.

Over the next several weeks, Tim falls into an easy routine. There’s still nothing to eat at his house, but now that he’s so close to the Waynes, he starts bringing a little backpack to the manor with him to sneak a few snacks in. He never takes enough from the cabinets that Alfred will notice—one trip to the kitchen every other night is good enough. He piles his overnight clothes on top of the stolen food, even when they don’t have a sleepover. He also cuts back on his nighttime escapades to preserve energy.

He starts coming over more often; not just the weekends. When a new Mario game comes out, Dick and Jason both text him about it, and Dick with a lot more exclamation marks. They play for hours. To Tim’s utter delight, the brothers make a game of guessing what foods he does and doesn’t like. They never say anything, but he’s sure they’ve realized he’s a picky eater. The meals Alfred makes when he comes around begin to dwindle in number, but they’re always something he likes, and it never ceases to make him feel…cared for.

When July rolls around, Tim doesn’t tell them about his birthday. His parents never come back, but they do have a cake ordered and delivered to his doorstep. That alone is shocking—they remembered his birthday! It’s small, not decorated or anything, but he opens the white box with more anticipation than he expected himself to have.

It’s a chocolate cake. He doesn’t like chocolate cake.

He puts it in the fridge and when night comes around, he carefully tapes the package closed and makes the trip down to Gotham proper to donate it to a local soup kitchen. They’ll split it among the children, at least, and people who want it more than him will enjoy it.

He spends his eleventh birthday in the quiet of an empty mansion, but he goes to the traveling fair with Jason, Dick, and Bruce the next day, so it’s as if he got to celebrate anyway. Dick is more energized than usual, which is saying a lot. It's no circus, but the smell in the air must be similar, and the screams and shouts of joy seem to lift him higher.

Eventually, it gets to a point that he’s spending too much time with them for their nightly activities to be…subtle. Tim considers breaking it to them that he knows, but quickly brushes that idea away. He doesn’t want them to lose all trust in him, after all. It would be devastating to go from having an almost-family to having no one at all.

In the end, they’re the ones who tell him. They try to, at least.

On a cold, dark, early morning in August, about a week before school starts up again, Jason shakes him awake. It’s one in the morning, and Tim sits up groggily in his bed at Wayne Manor, rubbing his eyes.

“What happened?” he murmurs.

“Dick’s hurt.”

Tim wakes very quickly after that. “What? How—”

“Come downstairs,” Jason says quietly. “There’s something we need to tell you.”

He doesn’t give Tim time to get dressed. They go down the steps, strangely solemn, and Bruce is waiting in his office. Tim swallows. This feels important.

“Have a seat, Tim,” Bruce says, voice more growly than usual.

Tim sits.

“We haven’t been…entirely truthful to you. But because you’re part of the family now, and it’s getting more risky to let you go on not knowing, I thought we should tell you…”

“Is this about you being Batman?”

Bruce blinks.

“How do you know about that?” Jason demands, but he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds…impressed?

Tim kicks his feet idly, staring shyly down at his knees. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. I saw Dick’s quadruple flip at the circus, and he did it as Robin, and as Nightwing. Also, at least two of you disappear at night every time we have a sleepover.”

Bruce makes a face that looks distinctly constipated. 

Jason breaks into a large, mischievous grin. “It was Dick that gave it away, huh? Man, he is never going to live that down. Then he laughs. “Tim, you clever little genius! What did we ever do without you?”

Dick. “Is Dick okay?” he asks urgently.

“Yeah, he’s fine. Some thug got a lucky swing and cracked his tibia. He’ll be real dramatic and whiny, though, so watch out.”

Dick finding out that he’s the one that revealed their identities makes him pout. Bruce tells him no more quadruple flip, and Jason laughs at the groan Dick makes, and Tim gets a hug from Nightwing and Robin and Batman.

Time passes; school starts, Jason turns fifteen, Tim practically lives at the manor, and life is good.

His parents return in late September. 

Tim deep cleans the entire manor, waits for the weekend maid to clean again, and then does a third sweep-through when she leaves, ensuring that every vase and artifact is glistening as though brand new. That Monday is the cleanest the house has ever been. 

Jack and Janet get back to the manor on Tuesday night, even though they were supposed to arrive mid-Monday. Tim decides to assume that the flight was delayed. 

Rocking on his toes as he stares at the door, he bounces excitedly on the bottom step of the stairs as he hears them come in. His mother looks the same as ever, face caked in makeup and hair done up, and his father in a business suit. He sets his briefcase down to take off his jacket, and Tim waits for one of them to notice him.

Mom’s gaze passes over him and back to her phone, tapping away with long manicured nails.

Tim’s smile wavers. Maybe he was so still that she didn’t see him?

“Ruth says they moved the time up to five tomorrow,” Mom says tersely.

“We’ll have to leave our meeting before Myers presents the profit margins for next quarter. He was bitter about us missing it before.” 

“I’ll have him email me, then.”

“Tell him to add it to the drive. And share it with Karen—he forgot last time. That was a paperwork nightmare.”

They’re passing words he doesn’t understand, focused on their work as always, and Tim’s heart sinks. When he swallows, it feels like swallowing around rocks. He doesn’t know why he’s disappointed. Nothing has changed.

Of course nothing has changed.

He let the Waynes’ attention get to his head. He’s come to expect something he should’ve remembered is a rare privilege that the Waynes have chosen to bestow upon him for a reason he’s too stupid to understand, but his parents are an undying constant and a lesson he clearly needed to relearn.

He’s a burden until he’s useful. Until then, Tim is better kept quiet and out of the way.

The one bit of the conversation he does manage to pick up is that there’s a gala tomorrow at five, and a business meeting for Drake Industries at one. There’s another meeting with a new client on Thursday. And then they’re leaving for a dig on Friday. They aren’t here for him—obviously. He just thought, maybe…well. It’s been a long while since they’ve been home. He missed them.

Tim clears his throat. “Mom?”

Dad brushes past to go upstairs, never glancing once at him. He tries not to let the complete lack of acknowledgement get to him.

“What is it, Timothy?” his mother asks, irritation clear in every line of her face as she tears his eyes away from her phone.

“May I come to the gala? Please?” he asks timidly, taking another breath and continuing. “Since, um, I won’t get to spend time with you otherwise.” He doesn’t like galas, really, but he can’t stand the idea of his parents being in the same city as him and still never seeing them.

Mom frowns. “If you’re on your best behavior, I suppose I don’t see a problem with it.”

Tim perks up instantly. He hadn’t expected her to say yes, but this is great! Maybe now he’s older, they will want to take him places more often. It’s his chance to prove himself. He can be quiet, well-behaved, and make the Drakes look good. His parents will have no choice but to be proud of him. If he’s lucky, they’ll decide to stay an extra day just for him!

He quickly banishes that idea. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up. Like his father always says: if he’s going to place his own expectations and be upset when they aren’t met, it’s his own fault for placing them.

“Of course,” he agrees amicably, settling his tone to something between flat and pleasant. 

“Now go do your chores, won’t you? There better not be a single dish in the sink when I come to check.”

Tim nods quickly and gets out of her way, heading to his bedroom instead of the kitchen. There won’t be any dishes; he only uses one plate, and it’s easily cleaned and put away after every use. And even if there were, it wouldn’t matter. Mom will forget to check anyway.

They get groceries delivered the next day. Tim puts them away, mentally tallying everything they got and memorizing the expiration dates. Most are meant to be consumed quickly, things that can be used up before his parents leave again. He plans how he’s going to ration what’s left once they’re gone.

The evening of the gala, Tim is suited up and ready two hours in advance. It’s scratchy and uncomfortable, stiff from its newness. But it has to be perfect. He has to be perfect. Always perfect. 

For all his time spent longing for his parents, sleeping in their bed and imagining them on either side of him, daydreaming about that time four years ago when his mother had caressed his face—he has to admit that in his guiltiest moments, he can’t wait for them to leave again.

They always brought a suffocating presence with them—a weight that sat heavy on his shoulders, only lightening when they left again. Without their expectations, he can just exist, and life can go back to how it always is.

But then he comes back to his senses, thinks about the sacrifices they’ve made to put a roof over his head and food on the table—in a manner of speaking—and he’s grateful. How can he not be?

He eats two of his chewy chocolate-chip granola bars, the ones he keeps hidden in a stash in the back of his closet for when his parents are home. He knows getting caught snacking is just asking for trouble—his mother says it’s unbecoming and gluttonous, and it will make him fat, which he knows is just one of her words for “failure” because a Drake must always be a flawless image.

Personally, he really doesn’t think he eats enough for that to be a risk. But, well, his mother is older and wiser, surely. She knows about stuff like calories and…carbs, or whatever. Of course she knows what she’s talking about. 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and brushing down his suit, ensuring there’s no crumbs left behind, he stuffs the wrappers under his mattress and rushes down to wait by the door.

His parents come down together, Mom stopping in front one of the hall mirrors to worry at her earrings. She doesn’t glance at him as she asks, “You haven’t eaten since lunch, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tim agrees, the lie easy on his tongue. He ate a few of his granola bars for breakfast, but hadn’t eaten lunch. His parents had left early for their meeting and gotten lunch at Drake Industries; there still wasn’t enough in the cabinets for him to eat three meals a day. What he snacked on a few minutes ago was meant to hold him over.

“Good,” she says. “There will be plenty to eat at the gala. I believe they’re serving dinner.”

“I hear it’s buffet style,” Dad grumbles as he checks Tim over, disapproval evident in his voice. This time, it’s not clear what it is that he disapproves of. Perhaps buffets aren’t classy enough.

He takes one of Tim’s wrists and messes with the cuff links, a shockingly paternal action that makes Tim beam up at his father. Jack Drake, for once, smiles back as he moves to adjust the tie, and his hands pause, the warmth between father and son lingering. Tim’s heart feels so full it could burst.

It’s hard to remember, in quiet moments like these, why Tim ever questioned their love. It only serves to make him feel worse—how can Tim be so judgemental, so unkind? Some people simply show their love in different ways. It…it doesn’t mean they love him any less.

Dad pats him on the head carefully as his mother finishes up, careful not to mess up Tim’s gelled hair, styled the way Mom likes it. When she steps away from the mirror, she looks him up and down, giving a small nod. Tim lights up even more. This is great—everything he wants, really. Her full attention on him, her approval, her pride. He’s on top of the world.

She turns and walks out the door, joining Dad by the car.

Tim scrambles to follow.

The gala is at a manor on the far end of Bristol, smaller than Tim’s or the Waynes’, but no less prestigious. Tim squirms in the backseat, adjusting his seatbelt so he can look out the window better. The long driveway is flooded with limousines and Bentleys and Rolls Royces, all delivering some gowned woman or suited man to the entrance, which is lined with finely trimmed rose bushes.

They follow the line of cars and pull up to the front. There’s so much going on, Tim doesn’t know what to look at. The lights, flashing everywhere as paparazzi try to get shots, and the glow from inside the manor. Voices, so many voices, coming from every direction all at once. It’s been a long time since he’s been to one of these.

His parents get out of the car and pass the keys to someone, heading towards the grand entrance without a look back. Tim quickly gets out and hurries toward them, trying to keep a calm composure so the press doesn’t get a picture of him looking frazzled or panicked. It stings a little, but he presses it down. Mom and Dad aren’t used to bringing him with them. They probably just forgot to wait. He’s sure it happens all the time with other kids.

The ballroom, for lack of a better term, is marvelous. Tim feels like he’s walking through an old-fashioned, Great Gatsbian party, albeit much classier and less exciting. The smiles on the rich folks’ faces feel plastic and practiced, their laughs judgmental and pointed. Mom pulls him close and reminds him to pay attention. He’ll be doing this one day, after all.

He observes as best he can. He takes it all in and commits it to memory—the way his mother dances around her words, never saying what she means outright, leaving the other person to make their own assumptions. Janet Drake is silver-tongued, and while Jack Drake unleashes his charm and personable facade, his mother has these businessmen stumbling over their words, agreeing to her wishes before they even realize what they’re getting themselves into.

Tim hates it. 

On the other hand, he envies it. It could be so easy—life, that is. A few sharp words or a carefully crafted gentle tone, and you’ve got a person right in the palm of your hand. So easy to manipulate. He wants that ability.

“Oh, yes, this is my son, Timothy,” Mom says, and he snaps back to the present.

“Delighted to meet you,” Tim says, offering his hand and a wide smile that doesn’t show his teeth. Mom loves when he plays up the “innocent but refined” bit.

The man across from him is older, balding, in a navy suit with a tie that matches his much-younger wife’s burnt-orange gown. He reaches over to shake Tim’s hand.

“What a well-behaved young lad,” the man says, speaking about him as if he is a particularly well-trained pet. When he introduces himself to them, he directs it to his mom, and Tim allows himself to blend back into the decor. They bounce around the room for a while, making polite conversation.

He doesn’t see the Waynes, to his dismay.

At hour three, bored out of his mind of the same song and dance—a compliment, an introduction, a deal being made—he begins to get peckish. Worse than peckish, really. He eyes the refreshments table, and a short nod from Mom frees him from his parents’ sides.

The table itself is long and narrow, adorned with a white cloth that drapes to the floor. It’d be a great hiding place, he notes as he strolls along the table’s length. The food is…disappointing. There’s a few large dishes and a stack of plates to the side, the parts meant to be an entree, but they all look unappetizing.

Lasagna. Gross. Mushy in all the wrong ways, makes that squelching sound between his teeth when he chews. The flavor is awful, too, like rotted tomatoes.

Meatballs. Eh. He doesn’t hate the meat itself, but rich people can never make an average, plain dish. It has to be filled with bits of onions and spiced with some kind of pepper flakes and what almost looks like baked ketchup coating the top, decorated with something green. Tim makes a face as nausea threatens to make a comeback.

The last dish at the end is casserole. Something white and thick, speckled with a sickly greenish color that might be green beans or cauliflower. No, thank you.

The finger foods aren’t great either. He doesn’t like hors d’oeuvres or the weird seafood concoctions like caviar or crab cakes, and the baked bacon-wrapped figs let off a stench that he’s surprised anyone here can tolerate. Seriously, are chicken tenders too much to ask for?

But that’s it. That’s the end of the table.

Yet when he weighs his options—be hungry, or eat something here—the answer seems obvious. He turns away and searches for his parents.

Joining his mother’s side again is an art. He appears at her hip as a conversation finishes up, acting as though he’d never left. Dad glares and Mom seems irritated about whatever the businessman she’d been speaking with said, picking up a flute of champagne from a server standing with a tray nearby.

“Timothy,” she says.

Tim startles at being addressed. “Ma’am?”

“You weren't gone long.”

“I…was not a fan of the cuisine,” he says, carefully choosing his words before he says them, cautious of sounding too rude or ungrateful.

Still, it’s not good enough. Mom frowns at him, her dark red lipstick scrunching. 

Dad hmphs. The way he’s leaning suggests that he’s had more than a few glasses of wine. “If you’re going to be so picky, you don’t need dinner at all,” he declares, a little louder than is socially acceptable. Tim winces when eyes turn in their direction, and even his mom glares at her husband.

But then, she turns her disappointed gaze back on to him. “Your father’s right. We went out of our way to take you to the gala with us.” She sighs as though this is Tim’s greatest misdeed. It’s worse that she’s not yelling. The roiling condescension in her tone makes him feel humiliated. “This is embarrassing for everyone.”

“Janet! Is that you?” an older woman steps easily into his mother’s orbit. Janet puts on her pleased face quicker than Tim can process.

“Darlene, it’s been so long. How’s your husband?”

Tim drops his gaze to the marble tile, dragging his shoe back and forth to see the scuff marks it makes on the glossy, perfect surface. 

When Dad’s heavy hand comes to rest on Tim’s shoulder, he looks up to find the man frowning, placed between Tim and the women as if to hide him from view. “You’re repaying us by acting like a spoiled little brat,” Dad says, undoubtedly what his mother was thinking.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s not sure what else to say.

They go home an hour later. 

Mom sends him to his room and he doesn’t risk leaving. He lays on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Hunger travels, he’s learned. It’s not just in his stomach, but in a strange place at the back of his throat, and in his arms and muscles. But it’s easy enough to tune out most of the time.

His parents taught him to always be grateful.

“Always say thank you when you’re given dinner,” Dad told him, not because it’s good manners but because Tim should always “be grateful when someone does you a favor.” Eight-year-old Tim thought it was funny because Dad also told him not to lie, and it’s hard to be grateful for something he’ll puke up later. He knows that makes him sound like a brat. He also knows that it’s why he doesn’t complain when they make him go without dinner: he deserves it, plain and simple. Pickiness is a privilege, and the ache in his stomach is the price he’s willing to pay for it.

Most of the time, Tim doesn’t think about his picky tendencies. It affects his daily life, true, but in a minor enough way that he can often forget about it. He sticks to what he knows he likes, and eating is tolerable. Enjoyable, even, on rare occasions, when something sweet hits a craving just right, or Alfred makes something special for Tim on a bad day.

But other times, he feels crushed by the weight of a suffocating guilt: just eat what you’re given, he hisses at himself, and he tries. He really does. But his hatred for food grows every time he chokes down a bite, every time his parents give him an irritated glare, every time an adult rolls their eyes. And he hates himself, too. Other people would kill for this food.

He’s heard it enough: “There are starving children in Africa, Timothy.” There are starving children in Gotham, too, but his parents only care when they’ve made something Tim has hated his entire life and he hesitates to eat it. But he does. Because, despite their glaring indifference to the issue, his parents are right.

He wonders if he’s the only one who feels this way. That eating is a chore. That dread precedes every meal. The fact that anyone thinks picky eating is a choice is beyond him. Why would anyone choose to be miserable all the time, to miss out on things universally loved, sweet desserts and savory dinners and everything in between?

When the sun goes down half an hour later, Tim curls up at his desk with a blanket over his shoulder and searches. He reads blog upon article upon study:

If Your Child Refuses to Eat, Here’s What You Should Do

my kids hate what i cook. should i make them eat it or let them go hungry? r/ask

Gentle Parenting Makes Picky Eaters: Confirmed

It seemed the general consensus was that kids simply needed more discipline. A lot of the comments agreed that children would eat what parents put on the table if they understood there was no other option. Kids won’t starve themselves. If they’re hungry, they’ll eat. 

That line rang in his head on repeat.

If they’re hungry, they’ll eat.

He informs Alfred of his findings a few weeks later. He leaves out the whys and hows of his research—god forbid any of the Waynes discover that his parents withhold food. They wouldn’t understand that it’s just how his parents are. They would think that there’s a problem.

Even without that context, Alfred vehemently disagrees. “That’s certainly nonsense, to an extent.”

“To an extent?” Tim asks, passing the butler another handful of clothes to wash.

“There are certain cases where it may be true. Very small children who do not want something confuse cravings with distaste. They may say, ‘I do not like eggs,’ but what they mean is, ‘I want cereal instead,’ or simply ‘I’m not hungry.’ Or they may refuse vegetables because they’re healthy, and ‘healthy’ has been attributed to ‘gross,’” Alfred says as he pours detergent. 

“That makes sense,” Tim says, considering.

“Indeed. It’s important for parents to know the difference, as well. But many children like yourself are old enough to make that distinction. Taste buds change approximately every seven years. You’re simply not old enough to have developed a larger palette.”

“So…it’s okay? That I’m so picky?” Tim asks nervously. He felt horrible every time he asked Alfred to make him something different, even if Alfred insisted he was fine with it. For the past few months, they've gotten into the habit of remembering to ask Tim if he likes a meal before they make it, so they haven’t had that issue in a while, but still…

Alfred looks over and smiles at him. “It’s barely an accommodation, lad. Ensuring that you are happy takes very little effort, and you’ll always have a place with us.”

Tim smiles back, chest feeling warm and full.

Jason dies.

Bruce stops asking him to come over. Dick is too lost in his grief to notice.

Tim fades into the background. He stops spending time at Wayne Manor. Batman gets more violent at night, but even when Tim tries to stop him, nothing works. He needs a Robin. Tim goes to Dick’s apartment in Bludhaven, proposes his idea, and gets a sad smile in return. Dick’s eye bags are deep. It’s scary—Tim has never seen Nightwing like this.

“I can’t do that, Timmy,” Dick says softly. “Robin…it’s Jason’s. I haven’t been Rob for a very long time.”

“But—”

“Go home, okay? Please. Your parents will be worried if they find out you’re in Bludhaven.”

They’ll never know! he wants to scream at the top of his lungs. They aren’t here. They never are.

But he turns around and goes home. The bus ride is quiet and solemn, as if Bludhaven and Gotham are mourning too. Everyone knows. Something in the night air has changed, a light extinguished. The city passes in a black and gray blur outside his window, and the hollow feeling of hunger in his stomach matches the hollowness of his chest and in his heart. In every part of him, there is something missing, something he hadn’t realized was gained until he lost it.

His house is empty and cold when he gets back. Fitting, he thinks bitterly.

Tim gets kidnapped.

It was stupid. He should’ve been smarter. There were some thugs, and it was a trap, and the Joker—

Nightwing thinks he’s dead. He beats the Joker to death with his bare hands. Tim escapes and Batman resuscitates the Joker, a choice Tim will never agree with or understand, but one that he emphasizes with. Nightwing was crushed. Worse, he was unrepentant. Regardless of the result, the act can never be taken back, never undone.

They take Tim to the Batcave and wrap his wounds, which are surprisingly few and far between, and write up a doctor’s note for him that his parents will never see. And then Bruce won’t look at him.

Nightwing looks miserable and…blank. He sits on a cot in the medbay and stares at the wall for a long time. It’s no use trying to reach him.

Bruce isn’t much better. He isn’t taking off the cowl, and every time he sees Dick, he flinches. Tim tries to get in his way, to make him say something or go console his son, but finally, the man turns away from him.

“We need to cut ties for a while,” Bruce growls, and it’s as if his internal clock has stopped ticking and everything is frozen, trapped in this horrible, horrible moment.

“What?” Tim breathes. He can’t be hearing that right. He can’t.

“Bruce!” Dick appears out of nowhere, snapped out of whatever funk he was in. He always does that—runs to Jason or Tim’s aid. Just Tim’s, now.

Batman’s gaze is fixed on Arkham’s updated medical records. The Joker’s blood is still drying on Dick’s face, and the man’s hands shake where they grip Tim by the shoulders. “What he means, baby bird, is that…you should lie low for a while. Not be seen with us.”

“Why?” Tim cries, ripping himself away. His lower lip trembles, but he tries to maintain some dignity. He’s better than this.

“It’s dangerous,” Dick says weakly, holding out his hands as though soothing a cornered animal. “You were kidnapped today because of your connection to us. We won’t let it happen again.”

What they really mean is that they don’t want him around anymore, and Tim knows it. He’s dreaded this day. He always knew it was coming, he just didn’t think—he thought it would be his own fault. Maybe it is.

“Train me!” he suggests, desperate. “If you train me, it won’t happen again. I swear it, please, I’ll be better!”

“Baby bird, please,” Dick says, and that perfect composure is breaking for the second time that night. The subtle wobble of his voice, the pleading undertone. Tim hears it, he does. He tries so hard to understand. But he can’t—this is everything he has, and they want to take it away from him. Robin. Family. Everything.

“Train me,” he begs one last time.

The sad look in Dick’s eyes follows him into his sleep. “I can’t,” Dick whispers. “Please don’t ask this of me. I can’t have your blood on my hands, too.” 

Too, he said.

Tim doesn’t have it in him to fight. He can’t sit here and argue against this anymore, not to a man who lost his brother or a man who lost his son, when he doesn’t understand and never could, because he has no family who loves him or that he loves so dearly in return. Other than them. But that’s over.

A few emotions and thoughts flash over him in an overwhelming wave, all within the same thirty seconds, pushing at each other, demanding to be released. His hands ball into fists, nails making crescent moons in his palm.

First, that he hates the Joker. He’s always hated the Joker, of course, but not like this. It began when Jason died. That monster tore apart his family, murdered a little boy, and cut Tim away from the one place he had begun to belong. He made Batman, a symbol of justice, into something that good people feared. He made Nightwing cry. He made Nightwing snap. 

This– this is the fire poker, stoking the flames of a raging hatred that burns in his veins, consuming his every waking moment.

And when the rage is gone, numbness takes its place.

When his senses come back to him and he can finally think straight, he realizes that the Joker just hurried along what was always going to happen, and the only way to get over it is to accept it. 

So he grabs his stuff out of his locker and collects the one or two things he left in his– a room upstairs, and then Dick drives him to his house, promising with an earnest gaze that it won’t be forever.

But Tim knows better.

So he gets out of the car and goes home.