Chapter Text
Tim couldn’t say his life had ground to a halt. There was no crash, no searing rush of a train flying off the tracks, no sudden moment he knew he couldn’t go back to what he once had. No, his life had dried out like a river in a drought, leaving behind a ghost of cracked and deadened earth where rich soil had once let plants grow. His life had slowly crumbled away like a cliff-face eroded by waves, the border between the land and sea slowly retreating in on itself, day after day.
He had a room at the manor, technically, but he hadn’t stayed there for months. He couldn’t anymore. Not with Dick trying to smile wide, hug hard and act like nothing happened, like Tim’s time away was a teenage rebellion to brush under the rug. Not with Damian’s sharp-edged presence and ice-cold silence constantly trailing in his wake. Not with Steph practically living there now, being polite and cordial but clearly missing what they used to have. Not with Cass away in Hong Kong, and Duke arriving, the shiny new member of the family. Not with Bruce barely even looking his way. Not even Alfred could make the manor home again.
He had been living in The Nest, his penthouse apartment/base-of-operations, but when Bruce invited himself there as a secondary base after Vicki Vale’s pernicious eye turned his way, Tim had vacated to a still-unfurnished apartment just outside the Bowery, sleeping on an inflatable mattress (if he ever got the chance), working on his laptop, eating takeout and drinking too much coffee. His suits for Wayne Industries, which he was still majority shareholder of even if he’d handed CEO off to Lucius Fox, were laid out on the floor to keep them flat.
He didn’t think it was quite working, judging from the weighted gaze of half the boardroom on him as he sat down for that morning’s meeting. Lucius sent a strained smile his way.
“Good morning, Tim,” he said. “I’m glad you could join us today.”
Tim nodded, bleary-eyed, and sipped on his coffee. It was already cold—he thought mildly that it might actually have been his coffee from the day before yesterday’s meeting. “And you, Lucius.”
“There are a few investment strategies people have been hoping to run through,” Lucius said, sliding a file across the table. He noticed everyone else already had one. “We’ll start with the one proposed by Mr Wayne. Ms. Mondego will be presenting on his behalf.”
Mondego stood up from next to him with a polished smile as a slideshow flicked on behind her. “If I could direct you all to the first insert.”
Tim had to squint at the page in front of him to see through the blur where the letters merged into one.
“Sorry,” he said, “but hasn’t this already been discussed, a few weeks ago? We voted not to pass the changes.”
“Mr Wayne has made edits to the third and seventh points that he hopes will be more agreeable to the board,” Mondego said. “If you’ll allow me—"
Tim flicked to the pages and scanned through them as best he could, using the speed-reading skills Bruce himself had trained him with. He held the file up and passed it back to Lucius. “Am I missing any substantive changes or is it just these word games?”
Mondego pursed her lips in displeasure. “There are no unseen changes, Mr Drake.”
“In that case, would you be so kind as to tell Mr Wayne that it's his duty not to disrespect the integrity of the board’s decisions by wasting mine and my colleague’s time like this when the vote doesn’t go in his favour?” Tim gestured to the others at the table, pulling as much of Janet Drake into his tone as he could muster. “We have already made our decision last time. We will not change the course just because he asks nicely.”
“Do you not think you’re being reductive?” Mondego asked. “Mr Wayne has prepared a presentation—”
“Mr Wayne has not bothered to attend,” Tim said. “I have.”
He hated publicly feuding with Bruce—it made him look immature, like a child rebelling against his father for the sake of his own ego. But, that said, he hated it just as much when Bruce thought he could walk all over Tim in public personas with the gentle pressure of a parental figure—it made Tim feel infantilised. It made him sick.
Lucius coughed loudly. “Perhaps we should move on to the next strategy proposal.”
“Yes,” Tim said. “Lets.”
The rest of the meeting dragged on by, Tim sipping intermittently at his cold coffee and avoiding eye contact with the board as he went through his usual mental routine of trying to pick out five interesting things to tell Bernard about the day. The coffee made one. Bruce’s disrespectful corporate bullshit made another.
…Was it depressing when you could only pick out two interesting stories from a day, and both were about negative things? Was it normal? He thought it probably wasn’t, but he also knew he wasn’t the best judge, life experience's considered.
Bernard was the one good part of Tim’s life, the one part of any day Tim looked forward to. It felt cliché to say—that, or dangerously codependent—but Bernard was everything Tim never could be, in all the best ways. Gotham had chipped at Tim’s edges, left him sharp and rough and ragged where he’d once been smooth and cool, eroded away his defences then seeped inside like fog. Tim was Gotham in all the ways that hurt, but where the city had sunk its claws into Tim, it had smoothed Bernard’s nicked edges into something warm and light. It had shown him pain—when they first met in high school only to lose Darla to the smoking barrel of a gun, the cult that had sucked him in when he was lost and directionless, the cruel coldness of his parents as they all but cut off his funds—and then it had shown him how to see through it. Bernard was like a breath of fresh air in the thick smog of the Gotham skyline, or a sliver of sun from between roiling storm clouds. His compassion and joy were just as hard-won as they were infectious, and he’d grown up so much from the fast friend he’d made back at high school—Tim only wished they had reconnected sooner.
Tim focused on the picture of his boyfriend in the back of his mind, faint beneath his eyelids, to carry him through the rest of the day. He focused on remembering the way his blonde hair curled around the nape of his neck and under his ears through the meeting, the dimple when he smiled through his journey home, the slight breathless parting of his lips when they kissed through his wait for Bernard’s visit.
And then Bernard was there in his apartment with a smile and two cups of coffee he’d picked up on the way, and Tim felt like he could finally breathe.
He knew Bernard found his apartment depressing—and when his boyfriend’s eyes drifted to the growing patch of mould (not black mould, he wasn’t stupid) on one wall, he felt it even more.
“Tim, darling,” his boyfriend was saying now, combing his hands softly through Tim’s hair as Tim lay on the mattress with his head in Bernard’s lap, “please come live with me.”
“I can’t,” Tim said, and his voice cracked. He wanted to, more than anything he wanted to. But while he was Red Robin, he knew he couldn’t. While his life revolved around Bruce’s business and Batman’s cases, dumped unceremoniously into his computer or his comms with no sign of the family he once thought he’d had, he couldn’t. He couldn’t lie in bed with the boy he loved and still get up to be a cape in the middle of the night. “You know I can’t.”
“When was the last time you slept?” Bernard’s voice was smooth and gentle, like his hands against Tim’s scalp.
“Last night,” Tim answered honestly.
“For more than two hours?”
“Last…Tuesday?” Tim corrected himself. “I think.”
It was probably true. He’d been losing patches of time, had become sluggish and slow, failing to fill out reports and letting mugs slip from between his fingers. His reflexes were all but dead. That meant it was probably last Tuesday.
“Darling,” Bernard said sadly, but Tim just shook his head.
His civilian phone rang, and he shuffled to get it from his back pocket. It was Bruce.
Bernard’s face creased when he saw the name, and he squeezed Tim’s leg in a silent show of support.
“Email,” he mouthed. A reference to the gene they always played, the one that was only half a joke. Every week Bernard would write a rude resignation email threatening to sell all of his stocks and give up his controlling interest, then schedule it to send from Tim’s account on a different day and time, and every week Tim had to find and cancel it.
Bernard was telling Tim to let go.
Tim shook his head again and raised the phone to his ear.
“Hey B,” he croaked. “Sorry about the investment strategies, but you can’t just—"
“Are your comms unavailable?” Bruce grunted. Oh, so it was a Batman thing. “I’ve been trying to contact you.”
“They have been,” Tim answered. Tim kept his Red Robin gear under three loose floorboards in the far-left corner of the room; they couldn’t be out when Bernard was here. He still didn’t know. “Is everything okay?”
“There’s been an Arkham breakout,” Batman said. Tim could hear shuffling in the background. “Croc got out through the sewers, you’re on him.”
Tim winced. His immune system wouldn’t be able to handle that, not normally but especially not as weak as he was in that moment. “B, I can’t—”
“I need Red Robin to be reliable,” Batman cut him off. “I have to handle Joker before Red Hood gets there; it’s the only way. Dick’s agility and Damian’s size make them the logical choice for Bane. Steph is after the Riddler because of similar experience with her father. You need to play your part, Tim.”
“You know I can’t—”
“You are wasting time. If Joker dies, it’s on you.”
The line went dead.
“Jesus,” Tim said.
“Darling?” Bernard asked. “Is everything okay?”
Tim swallowed air. “No. I need to go. Fuck, Jesus.”
Bernard nodded and kissed him gently before standing up. “I’ll clean up your takeout.”
“You don’t have to clean up after me,” Tim said softly. “Go home, Bear, I’ll message you.”
“I love you,” Bernard said.
“I love you too,” Tim whispered against his lips.
If you didn’t have a spleen, Killer Croc was the worst rogue to be sent after. He was also the worst to get captured by.
Tim knew the first from logic alone. He discovered the second one that night.
Red Robin’s hands were trembling around his bo-staff as he dropped nimbly into the sewer. He’d broken back out his old cowl, as well as a spare rebreather he really hoped would work—he felt like a plague doctor, trying to hide from bad humours behind a goggled bird mask and pleasant smells. He knew it was futile, but he had to hope.
He couldn’t let this be what took him out.
He pressed a gloved finger to his comms. “Oracle, any luck tracing a crocodile through the sewers?”
Her sharp voice filtered through a second later. “Afraid not, Red. You’re on your own. He’ll likely be trying to put as much distance between himself and Arkham as possible.”
Red Robin nodded. “Tell me if anything comes up.”
“I will,” she said, and her voice cut out.
He sighed deeply, knowing that was probably going to be it from her for the evening unless he chased her up again, and advanced through the sewers, padding his footsteps as he ran. He could hear rats squeaking around him, the low dripping of water from the ceiling. A bead of liquid caught him on the shoulder as he passed.
He heard Killer Croc before he saw him, the thunderous splash of footsteps as he ran, ran, ran, probably sending up sprays of sewer water with every step.
Red spoke into his comms again, looking up to the grimy sign on the slick stone above his head as he skidded to a stop. “Oracle, I’ve found Killer Croc. Mark his current location—he's running north-northwest along sewer route b7. How can I cut him off?”
“Ten seconds, Red,” Oracle hissed, then redirected her attention Batman’s way, probably. “Hood’s approaching, T-minus three minutes from east-southeast.”
“Acknowledged,” Batman responded, in a low growl. “Can you do anything with the traffic lights to slow him down?”
“I’ll see,” Oracle said. “A few more minutes, Red.”
“Any blind corners to watch out for?” Red blurted, realising she was about to go.
“Really not the time,” Oracle said, and her voice cut out.
Red Robin grunted in frustration. He had to just go for it, otherwise he’d lose the trail and have to start again with a major disadvantage. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he darted forwards on the balls of his feet and charged ahead. As he ran, he wondered dully why he couldn’t hear footsteps anymore—had Croc realised he was being followed and hidden somewhere, or had he just gained too much ground while Red’s focus was elsewhere?
Then Red rounded a corner and something slammed into the side of his head hard, sending him flying off his feet and landing in the sewer liquid with a winded grunt as the air flooded from his body and the filth seeped into his clothes.
“Found you, little birdie,” Croc roared.
Red forced himself to stand up, his muscles burning and head spinning, the sewers tipping on an axis around him.
Killer Croc loomed above, hefting a mass of ripped metal piping like a baseball bat.
“What, no puns?” Croc growled.
“Fuck you,” said Red, flashing a lopsided grin, and spat a tooth out. He shuddered at the sensation, and felt around with his tongue—back molar, right side. “You’re gonna be sorry, Croc. I liked that tooth.”
“I’m not going back,” Crock roared, and launched himself down onto Red in a blur of motion.
Red staggered back, raising his bo-staff in shaking fingers—he was too slow, he could tell he was too slow, his body wasn’t obeying him, he was moving in slow motion, his bo-staff was slipping from his fingers—before Croc hit him and the world went black.
He was out before he could even hit his emergency button.
When he woke up, half-submerged in thick, grimy sewage water and enclosed in a makeshift cage of a crumpled shopping trolley, he didn’t know what day it was or how long it had been. He tried to move, only to be stilled by a piercing burst of pain from his chest. He winced—that meant he had bruised ribs at best and fractured at worst. His head was ringing, and his throat was dry as sandpaper. He hated that it was probably the most sleep he’d had in weeks. He tried to move his arms but they were all but numb, hanging limply at his side.
He bit down on his lip as he forced them into motion, and by the time he had managed to fumble out his emergency beacon and press on it with trembling fingers, he’d drawn blood that trickled down against the inside of his rebreather and set the taste of iron blooming in his mouth.
He tipped his head back—ignoring the piercing pain in his shoulders—before reaching gingerly out to try at the bent shopping cart. He was lucky Killer Croc had put more value into his escape than getting rid of a bat permanently—he must have known there was a risk Red had a tracker in his suit that would bring the Bats to him if he dragged him along, and a reasonable assumption he’d get a lot more unwanted attention for killing him then just knocking him out and leaving him.
All things considered, Red was lucky. All things considered, he didn’t feel it.
He slipped back into unconsciousness before anyone came to find him.
When Tim woke up next, it was to a soft medical cot at his back and the continuous blipping of a heart monitor. He could feel an IV bag clipped into his arm and an oxygen mask resting over his face. There was no way B would have brought him to a hospital, not like this, not in these clothes. He was in the Batcave, he had to be—but he couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes and confirm it, settling for mentally running over his injuries.
Breathing hurt, badly. His head was pounding. His chest was sore, and his throat was dry. He was also definitely and inarguably alive, and that was enough to give him the strength to crack his eyes open, one at a time. His suspicions were confirmed: he was in the Batcave’s medical wing, brightly lit and perfectly clean.
Bruce loomed in one corner, out of place amongst all the medicinal white tile (Alfred had gotten to decorate this room, since it was his domain) in his full Batman gear. He nodded once, the slightest twitch of his head beneath the cowl. “Rest. There will be time for everything else.”
Tim blinked in acknowledgement and let himself follow Bruce’s orders. He lost track of time, but he thought it was likely a day or two that he drifted in and out of consciousness. Every time he woke, someone would be standing or sitting quietly with him, watching him softly—never Damian, but sometimes Duke, which was a pleasant surprise. He thought he saw Babs once, but he was barely awake at the time.
After that, they switched him from an oxygen mask to a nasal cannula when he needed to eat—soft food and liquid only, Alfred said sternly—then kept him on it for a day or two more. He knew he needed to get word out to Bernard somehow, could only imagine how much pain he was in right now not knowing where his boyfriend was, if he was even alive, but there was nothing he could do when he was barely conscious, on strictly no-screens thanks to his concussion, and pumped full of vital drugs and meds when he was awake.
Then, a day or two more after that, his cannula came out, and life caught up with him, fast.
Bruce stood over the cot, staring silently. He wore his Batman suit, minus the cowl, and his face was cool and impassive. “Tim.”
“Bruce,” Tim said, running his tongue over the ridges of his teeth as he tested out his own voice again after so much time.
“I’m glad to see your condition improving,” Bruce said. Then, after a second: “Your cam footage was irrecoverable.”
Tim knew that was Bruce’s way of asking what had happened. He didn’t hold it against him…not any more than usual, at least. “Croc caught me at a disadvantage. Oracle wasn’t able to warn me of the blind corner in time.”
“Hmm,” Bruce grunted. “You should ideally be more familiar with the sewer layouts. I will include a blueprint packet in the next debrief.”
“Bruce,” Tim said, slowly, evenly, forcing his voice calm. He was fine to give Bruce another chance to get it, to let it finally click. “That won’t be necessary.”
Bruce cocked his head to one side. “You already have one?”
Tim narrowed his eyes. “I shouldn’t have been assigned to the sewers in the first place, and I won’t be again.”
“Your preferences shouldn’t come before the mission.”
“I shouldn’t have been assigned there,” Tim repeated.
“You’re more than capable of taking down Killer Croc,” Bruce said coolly, and Tim knew that from him it was high praise. It just didn’t feel like it.
Dick rushed in from behind Bruce with a wide smile that faltered almost as soon as he felt the tense air on the room.
“Timmy,” he said, breathlessly, “you’re awake.”
“Dick,” he nodded with a small smile. “I am.”
“I’m so glad,” he said, “I thought—”
Bruce paused him with an extended hand. “Just a moment, Dick. I would like to hear what Tim has to say.”
“I shouldn’t have been assigned there,” Tim said, for the third time. It was growing old now, giving Bruce chances to pick up on what he was saying. To be the adult and know without being told.
Bruce’s eyes seemed to widen minutely in realisation. “I see.”
“You do?” Tim asked, hopeful despite himself.
Batman nodded. “Of course. But Arkham Breakouts come before private missions. I understand you were preparing to go undercover, especially considering your resignation from Wayne Enterprises scheduled during your time captive, but Gotham is always the priority.”
“I resigned from Wayne Enterprises?” Tim said, then realised that Bernard’s weekly email must have sent while he was gone. He decided that was low priority, waving away Bruce’s confused glance. “Never mind, not relevant. But no Bruce, you’re not getting it. I nearly died.”
Dick looked between them nervously.
“If I could have backed you up, I would have,” Bruce said. “Even if I didn’t think you needed it, you only had to ask. But you know in that moment it wasn’t possible. Jason would have killed the Joker if I hadn’t been there.”
“And Killer Croc nearly killed me,” Tim stressed. “Why is it, when it comes between me and someone else, you always choose them? What is it so awful about me you’d choose the Joker’s life over mine?”
“Tim, please,” Dick burst in, like he couldn’t hold his tongue anymore. “Please don’t say that about yourself. There’s nothing—”
“So, was it meaningless, Dick?” Tim shot back. “Was all that pain just because?”
Bruce winced. “Tim, as regrettable as the outcome was, the plan of action was the only logical one.”
“Bruce,” Tim yelled. “I don’t have a fucking spleen! I don’t have a spleen and you sent me into the fucking sewers!”
Bruce froze, and Dick paled. “What do you mean you don’t have a spleen?”
“What do you think I mean?” Tim spat. “I’m not speaking a foreign language. Ra’s al Ghul probably has my skewered spleen in a jar in Nanda Parbat and you tell me to go down and frolic in the fucking sewers?”
Bruce blinked. “Tim, son, we didn’t—”
“Bruce, it’s on my file, it’s not exactly hard to find,” Tim said. “I have a repeat prescription of antibiotics from Leslie specifically for asplenia. What, did you think that was for a case too?”
The pair stared at him in stunned silence.
Then Dick stepped forwards. “Tim, I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”
“You act like that’s an excuse,” Tim said coolly, “and not the entire problem in the first place. Young Justice knows I don’t have a spleen and I haven’t worked with them in months.”
“Well, we’re not Young Justice, Tim,” Dick tried.
“No, you’re just my adoptive dad and brother,” Tim said. “My bad, silly me.”
“Tim,” Bruce said, and Tim didn’t think he was imagining the way he was slipping into Batman voice. “We miscalculated. I understand your anger, but there was no intent to cause harm.”
“That doesn’t change the fact you did cause harm. I’m lucky I didn’t die. I nearly did.”
“Tsk,” came a sharp, smooth voice, and Tim sighed to himself as Damian Wayne stepped primly into the Batcave, arms folded behind his back. “If only you had done us all a favour and finished the job, Drake.”
Dick looked like he’d been slapped. “Damian?”
“Damian,” Bruce said coolly. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Oh, you have an issue with it now?” Tim scoffed. “This isn’t anything new.”
“Drake is an inferior,” Damian said, ignoring him completely, “and now that he is emancipated, incapacitated and no longer relevant within Wayne Industries, it is the perfect time to sever your ties of sentimentality and let the defective bird go.”
“Damian,” Bruce said harshly. “Stop.”
“Father,” Damian said, with an incline of his head. “Surely you can see it.”
“Damian, I really thought we’d gotten past this,” Dick said. “Tim is your brother.”
“There was nothing to get past when Drake saw that his place was outside of the family,” Damian said. “I was content to hold my tongue. But he has insulted Father’s honour too many times for me to sit by any further.”
“What are you saying?” Dick gaped.
“What he’s been saying the whole time,” Tim said. “But no, he’s just a kid. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just too used to the League. Listen to him, Dick, not a word here is new territory.”
“Drake is correct,” Damian said tightly. “For once. I have never sought to hide my intentions or beliefs. Regardless of the value of blood, he is biologically compromised and incapable of following Father’s instructions. He also disrespects Father’s work within the company and has dismissed his recent investment propositions twice.”
Bruce blinked, his gaze ice. “Twice?”
“I resubmitted it to give Drake a chance to atone.” Damian waved his hand. “At Ms. Mondego’s advice, I made minor edits to points three and seven.”
“So, when she said ‘Mr Wayne’ it was you?” Tim gaped. “You had no right.”
“Damian,” Dick stumbled for words, “Please stop.”
“Please stop?” Tim scoffed. “Talk about too little too late, Dick. He pushes me off the dinosaur and he’s just having a bad day, he cuts my line over Gotham and you give me hell for fighting back, but he says a few bad words when I’ve heard so much worse literally from him and you're just done nearly getting me killed and this is where you draw the line?”
“He did what?” Bruce was still.
Dick raised his hands in the air. “I didn’t know about the line.”
“What, you and Babs never looked at the cam footage?” Tim laughed. “Jesus, Dick.”
“I didn’t know,” Dick repeated.
“Yeah,” Tim shouted. “That’s the whole fucking issue! You should have known!”
“We can work this out,” Dick stressed. “If you only—"
“Of course you think you can work it out when your idea of a solution is making me brush it under the rug,” Tim snorted. “You take Robin out from under me and give it to the kid who tried to kill me, and I’m in the wrong for being upset that you didn’t so much as ask when you took away my one role in the family. You—”
“Tim,” Bruce cut him off, “this is not productive.”
“No, Bruce, do you know what’s not productive?” Tim spat. “Tricking a kid into thinking he’s going insane with fake messages from the future on his sixteenth fucking birthday.”
Bruce flinched back like he’d been hit. “Tim—"
“The only reason I took back my resignation is because I couldn’t imagine a world without you in it,” Tim said. “I could see myself not being a vigilante; I couldn’t see myself being without my family.”
Bruce and Dick stared at him, wide-eyed.
“I can now,” Tim said. “I quit.”
Damian’s face split into a sharp-edged grin. “At long last, Drake, you’ve finally had a good idea.”
Bruce stood silent, stunned, eyes wide and mouth pulled taut like he genuinely hadn’t seen the conclusion the conversation had been grimly marching to from its onset. Tim hadn’t realised he was saying it till the words were spilling from his lips, but he’d known deep down that it was coming. It was time to go.
He didn’t know if he was quitting being a vigilante entirely, or quitting Red Robin, or his family. The Waynes. He just knew he was quitting. He could figure out what later.
Dick took a faltering step forward. “Tim—”
“You’re all going to leave me alone right now or so help me I’m calling Kon in, and you know he’ll come.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, young master,” came Alfred’s wizened voice from the stairs, and the room looked up as one to see him standing straight-backed in the entrance to the room, a tray of tea and biscuits in his hands. “Masters Bruce, Dick and Damian know when it is best to call a tactical retreat, don't they?”
They stared up at him, silenced. Tim let out a heaving breath that tugged at his ribs—he felt like he was a second away from tears.
“Now, if you will,” Alfred said, tapping his foot twice against the stair.
A second of silence passed, and then they trooped out of the room, Dick looking stricken, Damian smug, and Bruce completely unreadable.
Alfred stared after them as they went, cool judgement written into every line of his face, every harsh angle of his posture, then made his way down the rest of the stairs. “It seems as though you could do with a strong cup of tea, young master.”
Tim hung his head, blinking water out of his eyes as he stared down at his upturned palms, sitting numbly in his lap.
“Alfred,” he whispered, “didn’t you hear me? I’m not a part of this anymore.”
Alfred smiled sadly his way and pressed a hot teacup into Tim’s open hands. “No matter what path you choose for yourself, Master Tim, you will always be a part of my family.”
Tim wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, and now he really was crying.
Alfred held him with an arm over his shoulders. “My dear, dear boy.”
Tim clutched at the tea in his trembling hands as he cried into the crook of Alfred’s neck. “Why did it have to be like this?”
“Why is anything the way it is?” Alfred asked back gently. “If it helps, I daresay some changes will be made sharpish, now that certain things have come to light—but I would never ask you to stay to witness them if it hurt you.”
“Am I cleared to go?” Tim asked.
“Well, you need bedrest for a week at least,” Alfred said, then raised a solitary eyebrow. “Do you have somewhere to go that would allow that?”
“I will,” Tim said. “I just need to make a call.”
Alfred smiled softly. “Very well then. I would have forced them out of the cave until you were healed otherwise.”
“If anyone could…” Tim laughed breathlessly.
“Master Bruce has locked your phone and laptop away,” Alfred said, standing up and setting the tray down where he had been sitting. “But luckily for the both of us, I am much used to his tricks. Just…promise to use that phone of yours to call me too, once in a while?”
Tim smiled weakly back. “Of course, Alfred. I love you.”
“I love you too, Master Tim.”
Bernard’s phone went straight to voicemail.
“Hey Bear,” Tim whispered. His voice cracked, hoarse and drawn after all the injuries, all the shouting and crying. He barely sounded like himself, and it surprised him. “Call me back when you can. I love you.”
He set the phone down with a sigh and had barely taken a sip of the tea Alfred had brought him before Bernard was calling him back—Tim picked up immediately.
His boyfriend didn’t waste a second. “Tim, darling, oh my God, Tim—"
“Hi love,” Tim croaked. “Can you pick me up?”
“Shit, yes, of course,” Bernard said quickly, and Tim could hear the rustle of movement through the speakerphone. “Address?”
“Wayne Manor,” Tim answered. “Alfred will make a distraction.”
“Those absolute bastards,” Bernard hissed. “I’m on my way. What’s happened, love? Are you okay? I’ve been so worried, oh my God, I’ve—"”
“A lot’s happened,” Tim said. “I’ll fill you in, and I don’t know what’s hit the news, but I’ve…I’ve quit my job. Also, I think I’d like to move in with you.”
There was a sharp gasp followed by a long, breathless pause.
“Bernie?” Tim tried.
“Thank fucking God, Tim, thank fucking God,” Bernard said, and it sounded like he was crying. “I thought I’d lost you.”