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"There is no lighter burden, nor more agreeable, than a pen." -Francesco di Petrarch.
After the near miss with Crane at the zoo, Tim had made an executive decision and invested in some subtle protection for emergency situations. The pocketknife he had purchased was hardly a lethal weapon, but in experienced hands, it would have been greatly effective.
Sitting at the breakfast table before school, Rory and Dick looked half-asleep while Bruce didn't appear to have slept at all. Tim, on the other hand, was rested and refreshed, feeling completely secure with his knife hidden away in his pants pocket.
He ignored the glances Bruce was throwing his way up until his father gave up on hiding it and gave Tim a full-body scan.
"You're really not that subtle," Rory had once told him, and Tim cursed that he'd never demanded elaboration on his tells.
It was like Bruce smelled it on him. "Show me what you have," he calmly demanded, and Rory's head picked up immediately.
Tim raised his fork innocently. "A pancake."
Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Now, Tim."
Tim pouted. "Blueberries?"
Bruce's hand darted to his pocket, and Tim abandoned breakfast. His hand clenched around the knife as Bruce snatched it out of his pocket, as though his weak baby grip had an ass of a chance against Batman. His little fingers had no choice, and the knife was pulled away and out of reach moments later.
"No!" Tim's voice rattled off the walls, high-pitched and outraged like a tantrum. But it was Bruce who was being unreasonable; didn't he know this could have been—and likely would someday be—life or death?!
"Give it back!" he demanded, reaching up desperately and climbing Bruce's leg as he walked across the room.
Bruce grunted, his surprise causing a moment of hesitation. But he placed one gentle hand on the back of Tim's head while the other set the knife atop the fine china cabinet, far higher than Tim would ever have been able to discretely reach under Alfred's watchful eye.
"You don't need this," he said, as if Tim hadn't needed a weapon multiple times by the ripe age of four this time around.
"Yes, I do!" Tim set his hands against Bruce's leg to push himself away. "I need it for the bad guys!"
A deep sadness rippled around Bruce's eyes. He dropped to one knee, meeting Tim face-to-face. "You don't need to worry about bad guys, sweetheart. That's what your grown-ups are for: me, Alfred, and your teachers are all there to protect you."
"Me, too, Timmy," Rory added from the table.
Dick immediately chimed in, "That's what brothers are for."
And while it was everything Tim had always longed to hear, it was meaningless platitudes, and they all knew it.
He looked Bruce in the eye, breath choking in his chest as he whined, "But what about when you're not there?"
Bruce looked cracked open, like Tim had personally chipped off a piece of his heart.
"I'm so—s-small!" Tim complained, throwing his tiny and useless little hands around. He swiped his wrist across his eyes when he felt hot tears welling up in them. "I can't even reach the back door."
He'd even gone so far as to dig up the forgotten key to the doggy door to give himself a way in and out only for Alfred to lock it back up and this time hide the key.
"You'll grow," Bruce reassured him.
But Tim knew that, obviously. Of course he would grow bigger and stronger eventually, but he was little now, so he needed an emergency weapon now.
But Bruce was ignoring the logic, which was terrifying.
"Why don't you understand?" Rage bubbled up, tense in his lungs. He glared at Bruce through his tears, and when he realized that Bruce had made up his mind, those tears rolled down his cheeks.
Bruce reached out to brush them away, but Tim backed out of reach. Despite the loss in his eyes, Bruce let his hand fall. "It's not your job to worry about this, sweetheart. It's your daddy's job to keep you safe."
"But I'm not safe!" Tim cried. His words came out choked, carried on the tails of wheezed breaths: "You're—leaving—me def—en—se—less."
Suddenly Bruce was reeling him in, one hand rubbing circles on his back while the other pulled his hand away from his chest. Tim hadn't noticed that he'd clawed his shirt into his fist. "Shh, take a deep breath, baby."
And Tim tried, but it immediately came rushing back out with a broken noise.
He was gathered into Bruce's arms, who shushed him and cradled him into his chest. "With me, Tim. In…" He demonstrated a deep breath. Tim tried to follow, but his lungs felt frozen. "And out…"
The breathing exercises were familiar, one of the first trainings he'd received from him personally during his Robin years. Yet suddenly, the simple task felt as out of reach as the knife on top of the china cabinet. Another strangled cry stuttered out of his throat.
"Is he okay?" he heard Rory's panicked voice ask, muffled despite coming from just the other end of the table.
"He's okay," Bruce assured him, and he rose to his feet, hugging Tim close. "We're going to go for a walk."
Despite his even tone, Tim could feel Bruce's heartbeat thumping staccato against his forehead. He grabbed fistfuls of his button-up, holding on for dear life even as Bruce held him snugly against his chest. He continued to rub firm circles on Tim's back, but now his other hand cupped the back of his head, blunt fingernails lightly scratching Tim's scalp as his fingers ruffled through his hair.
They moved through the manor with quick yet steady steps.
"Breathe with me, baby," Bruce encouraged, all gooey edges where he'd been strict commands and infrequent praise in his last life. "You can do it."
"I c-can't," Tim choked out.
"You can. Breathe in and try to hold it for as long as you can." Bruce demonstrated with an exaggerated inhale.
Tim's own shaky attempt followed, and although he only managed to hold it in for a half second, Bruce acted like he'd just won gold at the Olympics.
A gentle breeze ruffled his hair as they stepped outside. The wafting scents of lavender and sage informed him that they were in the garden.
He followed Bruce's example, forcing in another deep breath that came rushing back out a moment later.
"Good," Bruce said. "Again."
They lowered into a rocking chair, Bruce reclined back and Tim resting on his chest.
"D-Daddy," Tim desperately choked out.
Bruce shushed him, rocking them gently and cradling Tim close. "I've got you, sweetheart. Just breathe with me for a bit."
Shuddering, Tim slowly managed to get himself under control. Tears fell down until his eyes finally ran dry. Bruce wiped them away with gentle fingers.
That sucked. Tim hadn't had his first panic attack until he was in his teen years, last time around.
"We're going to figure this out," Bruce murmured into the top of his head.
The promise did little to reassure him, but Tim was too exhausted to fight anymore. Shivering, he huddled into his father's hold, already dreading when he would be put back down.
He was sent to school without the knife. Everything was fine. The next day and the next were also uneventful.
Tim spent his class's transition times in the hallways scoping out the security of the building. Bruce must have made some hefty donations because he was sure the number of cameras and guards patrolling the school was atypical, even for a high-ranked private school.
He started to let his guard down. He wanted to believe that his dad had it handled, even when they were apart.
Then Ms. Julie was shot dead in front of him.
Immediately, Tim stopped struggling, going limp in his captor's hold. His shoulders slumped. He'd really liked Ms. Julie.
He tuned out the nine screaming and crying and scream-crying kids to take stock of the situation.
Two invaders were in the room, dressed head-to-toe in tactical gear. Each had a full-coverage mask over his face and an automatic rifle in hand.
Tim was dangling from the arm of one of them, held horizontal to the ground by the middle while his arms and legs hung down. He could see where the armor panels in the legs didn't meet in the seams. If he had a knife, this man's femoral artery would have been decimated by now.
His other teacher, Ms. Lexi, looked between the group of children behind her and Tim, hesitating.
Their eyes met and Tim shook his head. There was nothing she could have done and they knew it. Besides, the other kids needed her.
Eddie sobbed as Tim was carried away; Tim liked to believe his powerful sense of empathy was the only reason he teared up, too.
"Package secured. Three casualties. Headed to the drop-off now," one of the men said into his comm device, sliding into the passenger seat up front while his colleague tossed Tim unceremoniously into the back of the van. The moment the doors were closed, the driver took off.
Tim crawled into a corner, eliminating his six to keep his captors in his field of vision at all times. He was lucky that they hadn't tied him up yet. If he really hammed up the helpless-baby act, they might not think to do so at all.
The inside of the van was uncluttered and nondescript, although he wouldn't have described it as clean; the fabric of the seats and floor mats had soaked up the smell of cigarettes and there were streaks of mud and specks of sand scattered around in the back. There wasn't enough dirt to indicate work boots or transported carpenting equipment; it was small amounts that put together a scene of somebody stepping out onto the bank of the bay and not wiping off their shoes on their way back in.
This was a work van, Tim decided, but not for any legal type of work.
Which brought him back to his captors. Trained. Experienced. They'd managed to kidnap Tim from a well-secured building with only three total kills along the way. They must have planned their route to pass by the fewest number of guards possible.
He really wasn't liking the picture this was painting. Him being "the package" meant that he was the target. That was obvious enough considering he was the only one here. There were other students even just within his same classroom who came from rich families. Something wasn't right.
"My—my daddy can pay you a lot of money," Tim said, stretching the tremble in his voice to its maximum potential.
"I'm not putting up with any tears," one of the men up front said. A roll of duct tape was swiftly tossed from the front to the man watching over Tim in the back.
Tim pressed his lips firmly together. Less tremble, then.
The man in the back with him spun the tape around in his fingers and looked at Tim consideringly.
"That's really not necessary," Tim supplied cooperatively.
He ended up with a strip of tape stretched from cheek to cheek and from his upper lip down under his chin. Tim sighed through his nose.
Bruce would have heard about his kidnapping by now. He could very well already be on his way.
"Passing through the Alley," the driver called back to them. He was lisping, maybe missing a front tooth.
"Alright, kid," the man in the back with him said. "What kind of trackers do you have on you?"
Tim gave him an exasperated look. He shook his head. Nope, no trackers here.
Playing dumb got his sweater ripped off of him and his shoes yanked away. They even took his sweet Superman watch, to which Tim let out a muffled sound of protest. That one didn't even have any trackers, as far as he knew. His belongings were passed to the front then tossed out the window.
He glared at the kidnapper-turned-thief and tried to soothe the nerves that jittered in his veins. Those were the only tracking devices Bruce had smuggled onto his person, as far as he knew. For once, he found himself really hoping that Bruce's invasion of privacy ran deeper than he knew.
Now that things had gotten personal—because it was one thing to steal Tim away from school and another entirely to steal his things—Tim renewed his focus on memorizing every identifying detail of his captors. He saw a mole on the neck of the guy in the back with him and vindictively filed it away in his memories.
He ended up in a warehouse by the docks—because of course he did. The salty smell of the bay mingled with the eau de rust of the abandoned industrial building.
He stumbled as they pushed him inside, eyes flickering for clues. He didn't see anything extraneous—no crates, no chairs, no hyper-functional equipment like ropes or handcuffs. They weren't planning to be here long.
Tires squealed just outside the door. Tim had an instant to hope it was the Batmobile before the door opened and a well-dressed man with slicked-back hair strutted in. He wore a peculiar quarter-coverage mask over his mouth and left cheek and didn't take off his sunglasses even as he entered the dim building, tossing a duffel bag to one of the kidnappers.
"Get him changed," this mystery man said. "The other half of the payment is being wired now. It was a pleasure."
Tim stared at him, trying to place him. He was young, in his thirties or forties, and had a vaguely European accent. Tim didn't recognize him as any of the mobsters he'd known before. He belatedly realized that he wouldn't have recognized him; he and Slade had destabilized the Gotham underworld in recent months. This could have been an underling rising through the ranks or could have been a new player entirely. The uncertainty was scarier than anything else.
The duffel bag was tossed by Tim's feet. "Change," one of the men demanded.
Tim startled. He stared at the open bag uncomprehendingly.
"You have ten seconds," the man warned. "Or I'm cutting it all off of you."
"Bring him out when you're done," Mystery Mobster said.
As he opened the door, bright sunlight shone a spotlight on the bag. There was a pair of children's pajamas inside.
The man from before made a threatening step towards Tim, who quickly changed his clothes. Maybe they were worried about extra trackers on him, he reasoned. Getting rid of all of his clothes was probably the easiest way to make sure.
The pajamas fit him perfectly, covering his skin without sparing an extra inch for comfort.
He ended up transferred into the custody of the Mystery Mobster, who drove them to his base across the city. The backseat where Tim ended up was caged off with the windows blacked out on either side.
Of course, the doors were locked, and while he figured he could manually get one open if he took apart the body, he discovered that the inner panels couldn't detach unless the door was already open. Shattering the thick plastic could have been a decent plan, if he had any tools.
But of course, Tim was entirely unarmed, and there wasn't even a piece of trash on the floor that he could have found a creative use for. What was up with the clean carriages of the criminal underworld? He didn't remember things being so pristine back in his day.
To make matters worse, he found himself hopelessly lost in streets he should have remembered even blind. He was distracted by the thump of his heart and the unanswered questions that swirled in his head and after a handful of turns, he had no clue where they were.
When the car stopped, he prepared to bolt. He was snatched by the wrist and dragged into a two-story brick house. Maybe New Gotham?
The interior screamed "mob base" from every corner: instead of a couch and television, the living room was taken up by a large poker table; the dining room table had no placemats but an abundance of card decks and full ash trays; the kitchen cupboard was cracked open and instead of food, the shelves were stocked full of liquor and bitters.
That last one was especially disappointing; he'd been kidnapped during snack time and hadn't even been able to finish his milk and little oranges.
He was taken up the creaking wooden staircase to a small office. The moment his captor let him go to unlock the door, Tim made a break for it back down the stairs.
He didn't even make it to the front door.
"Sit," the Mystery Mobster demanded, shoving him into the office and pointing at the floor beside the radiator.
Tim huffed. He sat on a decent armchair and was yanked off and to the floor. A handcuff locked around his wrist and the other around the radiator.
He glared at the handcuffs. If he had a knife, he probably could have picked those, even with the mobster right there.
"I don't normally put up with you brats," the mobster said, looking down his nose at Tim. "Cooperate and this will be a lot easier for you."
Translation: Tim was an exception. A son of Bruce Wayne could be a high-value commodity to criminals.
"My daddy is Bruce Wayne," Tim said, because of course peeling the duct tape off his mouth had been his first move when he'd been unsupervised in the backseat. "Call him. He'll pay my ransom."
Mr. Mystery turned away, sitting at the desk and flipping through paper files. "I don't work in ransoms. Too many variables, too messy."
Tim paused. Suddenly, his alternate theories became a lot more concerning. This couldn't have been a Batman thing, right? He wouldn't have gotten rid of the SWAT team if he were trying to lure in the Bat.
"Then why?" Tim asked. He craned his neck to try to get a look at the papers. When he didn't receive an answer, he pressed, "What are you going to do with me?"
Mr. Mystery didn't deign to look at him. He pulled a roll of duct tape out from a drawer and waved it. "Shut it or I'll shut you up myself."
"Am I a hostage?" Tim was hoping for the new best-case scenario.
He was promptly shut up.
Tim stayed sat on the floor for hours, stewing in his own nerves and boredom. Rattling the handcuff against the radiator earned him some reading material—Playboy, very age-appropriate—and a hissed threat. Tim wasn't very keen on getting chloroformed today, so he forced himself to keep quiet while the mobster worked.
He stared out the one window in the room, eventually deducing that it was facing West when he watched the sun slowly descend outside of it. Utterly useless information, but having a fact—any fact—about his situation granted a small semblance of stability that he clung to. For hours, he waited for Batman to appear in that window.
Eventually, a couple of thugs came in and led him back to the car.
They arrived at an upscale hotel in the Diamond District, a high-rise that he avoided dilly-dallying on as Red Robin due to the many skylights of the penthouse suite.
That penthouse suite was their destination.
Somebody from the hotel was in on it; a back door was unlocked for them as they pulled up, so Tim didn't have any opportunity to throw desperate glances at bystanders as the goons held him by an arm each and forced him inside.
The Mystery Mobster led the front of their group, navigating the hallways with practiced ease. In the elevator, he swiped a keycard and was granted access to the top floor.
The penthouse suite was overstimulating in its gaudy extravagance. Golden-yellow- and orange-tiled flooring created a mesmerizing mess that fought for attention against the golden, lattice-patterned wallpaper that stretched up to the ceiling on three walls; the fourth wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a clear view of the city. The baseboards were wide and detailed, painted in an off-white that matched the scattering of decorative columns posted about. Paired with the warm lighting, he got the impression that the vibe they were going for was "heaven in the clouds," but it landed closer to "candy corn hellscape."
He was led across the room without pause, giving him little time to categorize the cocophany into useful observations. There were couches and plush chairs that could potentially provide cover, mystery doors that likely led to additional offices or activity rooms, and a well-stocked bar with a dozen stools lined up.
Despite the space, they were the only ones there, and the only sound was the echoing steps of the mobster's dress shoes and the thugs' heavy boots.
A curving staircase led to the second floor, which had wooden flooring and a long rug that ran down the hall. Just to the side of the staircase was a second, shorter set of stairs, framed by a potted plant on either side and leading up to a large metal door. Rooftop access?
The long hallway was lined with closed doors, but Tim was led straight forward to the end of the hall, where a wide doorway with intricately-carved columns on other side indicated the master bedroom.
Tim's heart thumped harder in his chest. His questions were muffled into senseless mumbling, trapped inside by the duct tape covering his lips.
The bedroom was large and well-furnished: a coffee table framed by a couch and an armchair, a fireplace, a wide television, and an attached bathroom with a large bathtub and a shower.
This room, too, was empty of visitors.
As they led him towards the end of the room, Tim's heels dug into the floor, nerves and unanswered-questions causing his body to freeze up on him. His resistance didn't cause even a moment of delay, his socked feet providing no friction.
He looked at the floral paintings on the walls, at the Gotham skyline out the window—anything to distract himself from where he was being led.
He stared at the clouds of smog in the sky. They obscured the moon but provided a dark backdrop for the Batsignal, which shone brightly tonight.
It was equal parts a warning to criminals and a reassurance for Tim. It was a reminder that Batman was out there now, looking for him. There was a reason his dad was called The World's Greatest Detective. Even if the trail had gone cold—which Tim had to assume that it had, otherwise B wouldnt have left him with his kidnappers for so long—he still had multiple avenues to base his search from, even in this technological Dark Age.
He was coming; Tim just had to hold out.
The thugs sat him on the edge of the bed.
"Take care of him," Mystery Mob Boss said before he left, jutting his chin towards Tim without actually looking at him. From his tone of voice, this care was probably going to be less fun than a bedtime story or milk and cookies.
One of the thugs let go of Tim's arm to root around in his satchel. The other kept a tight grip, preventing any fantasy of escape. He grabbed the edge of the duct tape and ripped it off Tim's face without fanfare.
It tore the skin of his lips and a gasp out of his chest.
Tim had once gotten blown up off the top of a building and walked it off. How was a little piece of tape ripping off his peach fuzz bringing tears to his eyes?
Despite the stinging pain, the moment his mouth was uncovered, Tim was rambling: "Whatever you're being paid, my dad can decuple it. That's times ten."
"You got it?" the tape-ripper asked, ignoring Tim and looking at his buddy.
"Hang on," the other one grumbled, still sorting through his bag.
"My dad is Bruce Wayne," Tim continued, in case they were unaware of that part. "He'll make it worth your while. He can protect you, too. And set you up with better jobs. Life insurance, health care, dental…"
"Alright," Satchel said, giving Tim a brief spark of hope before he was suddenly shoving a rag against Tim's mouth and nose.
Tim held his breath and struggled hard against them, fists flailing uselessly but foot kicking directly into Satchel Guy's groin.
When Satchel doubled over, forgetting the rag, Tim gasped in a deep breath of habitable air and shoved his elbow into the gut of the other guy.
He ran but only made it a couple of steps before Satchel was snatching him by the arm again, yanking him back so hard he was afraid his shoulder might pop out of place. He was thrown belly-down onto the bed and put into an arm-lock while the other guy pinned his legs.
Even as he struggled with all his might, he couldn't budge them. He was just too small.
As the rag covered his face again, he held out for as long as he could, struggling in vain while his tiny lungs quickly were overcome by the need for oxygen.
When he inhaled the chemical on the cloth, he didn't recognize the smell. The bright side was that it wasn't sweet like chloroform or sulphuric like the DIY junk he'd been hit with once. And whatever it was was mild; even long seconds later, his vision wasn't going black, and he still had feeling in his extremities.
"Alright, alright, easy," the one holding down his legs said. "Boss wants him chilled out, not unconscious."
"You want a repeat of what happened ten seconds ago?" Satchel retorted, although he removed the rag a few seconds later.
Tim blinked slowly, staring down at the mattress. He added two-plus-two then multiplied twelve by thirty-three. He wiggled his fingers. He wiggled his toes. He was good, he was just…slow.
The situation was looking worse and worse. He didn't want to be here. All of the clues were leading him to one answer for his kidnapping, but it couldn't be true.
"You…won't get in trouble," Tim said, words tripping clumsily off his tongue, so similar to the "baby-talk" Rory had once mentioned he hardly ever slipped into.
He pushed himself to his knees and forearms, pulling in and pushing out deep breaths. The sooner he could dilute this from his system, the better.
"You gave him too much."
"He's awake, ain't he? Sit him up against the headboard for a minute."
Tim was grabbed under the armpits and dragged up to the head of the bed. It was a king-sized bed with a mountain of pillows and a nightstand on either side.
He surveyed the nightstand closest to him, considering his options. He was too weak to make the lamp useful, and if they weren't listening to his words, he doubted that scrawling a number on the notepad would have been any more convincing to these guys. The phone could be an option, if he could get a minute alone with it.
His eyes slipped shut. It was for the best, to rest them for a moment. Besides, it would be easier to envision a plan with his eyes closed.
"Shit," one of the thugs hissed.
"If he's asleep when Boss comes back, we're fucking dead," the other said.
"You think I don't know that? Shit. Damn it."
Hands landed on Tim's shoulders, shaking him. He whined, screwing his eyelids shut tighter.
"Give him some of your adderall."
"Are you fucking stupid? Do you want him to have a heart attack?"
"I want him awake so my wife doesn't have to start planning my wake!"
"We—then…"
"What?"
"Downstairs got a coffee pot, don't it?"
Recreationally, Tim knew that mixing caffeine with sedatives was generally ill-advised—but the situation was fraught enough to make an exception this time. He still felt loose-limbed and clumsy, but at least his mind and body weren't moving through syrup anymore.
"Timothy Drake is inside, docile but conscious, as agreed."
Semantics were truly the least of his concerns, but actually, it was Timothy Wayne now, thank you.
"Here's the other half, then, plus a little something for your troubles."
"It was a pleasure doing business with you. Gentlemen, let's go."
"Please," Tim whispered, desperate now. "I will personally pay each of you five million dollars."
It would have cut into his savings, but as the sand in his hourglass dwindled, his worries for his future stock portfolio evaporated, overcome by the gripping need of the present.
Of course, he was four, so there was no reason for the hired mob goons to believe he had any liquid assets besides apple juice.
The thugs left his side, pushing the door open and walking out without a backwards glance. Tim watched them follow their boss down the long hall until the client stepped in, shutting the door behind him.
And then there was no more procrastinating, no more hoping the inevitable might somehow miss him. He was lying on a hotel bed, drugged and defenseless. There was only ever one reason for that.
From his peripheral, Tim watched as the client sat on the edge of the bed, facing him.
"Timothy," he murmured, his voice not ringing a bell but his accent all Bristol, "how are you feeling?"
Tim forced deep breaths, hearing Bruce's encouragements echoing in his ears. He looked over his shoulder at the sky.
"You must be exhausted." The client's voice was soft, a snake's equivalent of sympathetic.
The mattress dipped as he shifted closer, and Tim didn't think he'd ever felt colder in his life.
"Don't be afraid, Timothy."
The Batsignal was still shining brightly outside, but Tim was trapped behind layers of glass. Like a zoo animal. Like a doll for sale in a shop window.
Shaking, he turned away from blind hope, laying eyes on his dark reality. The client was an older man, his thinning hair a freshly-dyed brown. His green eyes roamed over Tim's body and glinted with excitement when Tim looked at him.
"There you are. Look at you." The client crawled closer, forcing Tim to huddle against the headboard, hugging his arms around his knees. "You pretty little thing."
"Don't do this." Tim's voice wibble-wobbled, and hearing his fear only made him feel it worse, a crescendoing feedback loop.
"Nothing's happening." The client smiled at him, and the shape of his teeth triggered a whisp of déjà vu. He set a large hand on Tim's side and Tim's stomach rolled.
Tim pushed at the hand with his own, first one and then both of them, but it wouldn't budge. "Don't—don't touch me." Each word had to be individually forced out of his throat. He felt himself growing breathless, but it was harder to remember how to regulate his breathing when Bruce was so far away, when even his memory felt out of his reach.
"Don't be afraid," the client repeated, as if it were possible to be optimistic in this situation. His hand smoothed down Tim's side, under his shirt, then back up. He shifted closer, so much taller even crawling on his knees, and his eyes never stopped moving, looking at Tim all over. "I only want to get to know you."
His cigar breath puffed into Tim's breathing space. He felt like it was choking him and his next breath came out as a wheeze.
The hand moved down, spawning writhing black worms under his skin. It wrapped around his upper thigh. "That's all I've ever wanted."
The hand squeezed his thigh, and Tim froze as sudden, vague memories unburied themselves from somewhere he hadn't known they'd been hiding, half-formed recollections from his past life, of sitting on a man's lap in his parents' office, wandering hands holding his thighs while his parents cemented a business deal.
Tim was shaking all over, feeling at once like his brain had frozen and like it was moving a mile a minute. Suddenly, he placed the client, remembered him as Mr. Smith. He only had the one memory, but he didn't recall what came before. Did he climb onto Mr. Smith's lap of his own volition, or had he been placed there?
The last time he remembered seeing him was in passing at the Wayne Christmas Gala, the man standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching. Making a business deal with the Drakes wasn't an option for getting to Tim this time around, so Mr. Smith had had to go through an alternate route.
He felt like he needed to vomit, but nothing was coming up. While he had been dancing and playing with Eddie, he hadn't known he'd been watched. Watched, wanted, like a pretty little thing.
Tim was breathing too fast to beg for mercy. He wasn't strong enough to get the hand off of him.
In his last life, Mr. Smith had only touched him above his clothes, on his legs, where everything could be written off as an honest mistake. Since he'd already hired human traffickers to steal Tim away this time, there was no reason not to go all the way, right?
Tim didn't want to be here. Why had he let himself be caught off-guard, utterly defenseless, again?
The hand was squeezing, and those green eyes wouldn't stop looking, and Mr. Smith was talking, but Tim could no longer hear.
He wanted his dad. He wanted his dad. He wanted his dad.
He wasn't strong enough to get the hand off, so he gave up on pushing it. He took the pen from the nightstand. He stabbed it into Mr. Smith's eye.
Mr. Smith fell back, clutching at his injured eye, and Tim pounced forward, stabbing the other one, too, finally finding his words to yell, "Don't look at me! Don't look at me!"
Hysteria bubbled up from his lungs while he scrambled off the bed, throwing himself to the floor when Mr. Smith tried to make a grab for him. He crawled around to the other side of the sofa while Mr. Smith stumbled from the bed.
"Oh, god!" he cried. "My eyes!"
Tim crouched low, creeping towards the closed door.
"Timothy," Mr. Smith growled, pawing the armrest of the sofa with one hand while blood leaked down his face behind the other. He must have been in considerable pain, but he was fucked if Tim got away at this point, and he knew it.
Just as Tim looped around the side of the sofa, one of the wooden floorboards creaked, and Tim had to throw himself to the side to avoid Mr. Smith's lunge. He sprinted to the door and threw it open but rolled away, finding a hiding spot behind an armchair and waiting, shoving his hands against his mouth to muffle the sound of his panicked breathing.
Mr. Smith stumbled to the door, hand fumbling on the furniture to guide his way. As he reached the doorway, he paused, listening. When Tim's throat let out a small whine, he smiled. "Timothy," he sang, turning towards the room. "Come out. We can talk about this."
Tim snuck around the side of the armchair then across to the sofa again.
Mr. Smith growled as he stubbed his toe on the corner of the coffee table but continued his prowl, reaching the end of the sofa right as Tim looped around to the other side, carefully stepping over the squeaky floorboard.
Approaching the door, Tim stopped, holding still while Mr. Smith pawed around the sofa, searching for him. Tim chucked the pen across the room as hard as he could. It clattered onto the bathroom tile.
He waited until Mr. Smith smiled and approached the bathroom doorway. Then he turned and left the bedroom, freezing as a floorboard squealed underneath him.
Tim ran, stealth forgotten. He sprinted down the hallway, hearing Mr. Smith curse from inside the bedroom as he tried to give chase around all the furniture.
Tim threw open the rooftop access door then crouched behind a potted plant, heart thundering in his throat. He hid silently while Mr. Smith crept down the hall, straight towards the rooftop access—straight towards Tim.
"You can't run, Timothy," Mr. Smith called. He toed along the bottom of the staircase, right next to where Tim was hiding, and Tim squeezed his eyes shut, too scared to look.
The moment Mr. Smith was out the door, Tim slammed it shut, listening for the auto-lock, then stumbled back down the stairs as fists pounded against the door from the other side.
He ran down the grand staircase, tripping and falling down the second half. Thankfully, he'd been doing a lot of tumbling with Dick in the "basement" lately, so he tucked and rolled and sprang back to his feet at the bottom. He ran across the candy corn hellscape, looking up through the skylights, seeing the corner of the Batsignal in one and Mr. Smith in the other, pulling out a cellphone.
He covered his eyes and cried in the elevator, the terror overwhelming him. It shouldn't have been possible to fit this much emotion inside such a small body.
He had fantasies of running to the front desk for help, but as he stepped out of the elevator, a man grabbed him by the arm. Tim bit him so hard one of his baby teeth fell out.
The moment the goon let him go, Tim sprinted out the door and down the street, avoiding the strangers on the sidewalk. He didn't know who was working for the mob, so he couldn't trust any of them to be safe.
He turned down alleyways at random, searching for familiarity, for a plan. He knew these streets like a roadmap on his heart, but he knew them as they had benefitted his twelve-year-old stalker self and later Robin and Red Robin. The fire escapes in his memories were not low enough for his current body to reach, and the abandoned buildings and safe spots weren't abandoned yet.
Eventually, he felt confident that he'd lost the mob goons, but he was still moments from losing his mind. It wasn't safe on the streets, but he was too small to get up to the roofs. He couldn't remember which police stations were safe these days and which were so corrupted they would deliver him right back to the mob on a silver platter.
He paused behind a dumpster to clear his head. It was a horrible, stinking place for deep breathing exercises, but it was hidden and safe.
So he couldn't trust strangers to help him. Big whoop. As he looked up into the sky, he remembered that it wasn't only strangers in the city tonight. Batman was out right now, searching for him—maybe even Robin, too.
Batman could have been anywhere, depending on the leads he was following, but Tim knew one place where he could definitely, one hundred percent get his attention.
The main police precinct was a hike and a half from here, especially on small legs, but he'd come this far.
Without further hesitation, he turned towards the source of the Batsignal.
Only blocks from the main precinct, Tim's heavy, autopiloted steps continued to carry him forward. He'd had a couple of close calls but had managed to go unnoticed by the petty criminals of the city. His feet were sore, and he'd stepped in things that were never meant to be stepped in by socked feet.
Regardless of the hassle of the journey, he was almost there—which was why it was so devastating when he was suddenly grabbed when he was so close.
"No!" he wailed, struggling against the strong hold that had wrapped around his back and was pulling him away. "Let me go, don't touch me!"
He flailed as hands clutched his shoulders, screaming bloody murder and pushing at his attacker with all his might.
"Timmy, it's me, it's just me." The hands left his shoulders and caressed his face instead, and Tim fought to pull away until he finally made sense of the words being spoken. "It's just me."
Tim blinked through his tears, holding the wrists of the person but not trying to pull them away anymore. He'd panicked himself half-blind but eventually recognized— "Rory?"
Rory's thumbs swiped away his tears before pulling him into a hug. "I've got you, buddy."
A breath gasped out of Tim's chest. He threw himself into Rory's arms, squeezing him as tightly as his little arms could.
Rory held him close, and the Ragman surrounded them both, cocooning them in protective warmth.
"How did you find me?"
"Why was it you who found me?" he wanted to ask. "Why wasn't I found sooner?"
"Batman and Robin are looking, too. They've been trying to track a car they think you were in. They offered for me to come along, but I…" Rory squeezed him tighter for a moment. "I had a feeling you would figure it out on your own."
Tim sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve and resting his head on Rory's shoulder.
"And I was thinking, if you were lost on your own in Gotham, where would you go? And well…" He gestured up, and the Ragman opened for them to get a clear view of the Batsignal above them.
Tim had to swallow around the lump in his throat. "You're so smart, Rory."
"You're the smart one. I was just trying to think like you."
Rory's fingers threaded through his hair. It felt so soothing, it made more tears roll down Tim's cheeks.
"Batman, Robin, come in. I got him," Rory murmured.
Tim squirmed, poking around Rory's ears in search of the comm.
Rory gently pushed his hand away, relaying their location before saying, "No, I don't think so. Yeah. Yeah, I think he wants to talk to you. Hang on."
He tugged the comm off his ear and leaned back far enough to see Tim. The Ragman ballooned wider, soft fabric shifting to give him space. Rory hooked the comm onto Tim's ear then moved Tim's hand to hold it steady when it was too big to fit him.
"Tim, are you there?" Bruce's voice carried frantically over the comm.
Tim's breath hitched. It was strange hearing Bruce over the comms; this was normally a Batman-only territory. He opened his mouth to answer yes, but all that came out was a shuddering whine.
Evidently, it was audible enough to carry over the line because Bruce promised, "I'm coming, baby. I'm coming right now."
"ETA?" Tim asked, voice high and breaking.
"Six minutes, Tim." Already, Tim could hear the roar of the Batmobile through the comm. "Give me six minutes."
He made it in four.
Batman jumped out of the driver's seat before the car even came to a complete stop.
Hopefully Rory took no offense when Tim shoved himself out of his arms to meet Bruce halfway. He jumped into Bruce's waiting arms, immediately wrapping his legs around Bruce's waist and hiding his face in his neck.
Bruce held him close, a hand protecting his back and the other the back of his head. "I'm here. I'm sorry it took so long. I'm here now."
Finally, for the first time in what must have been hours, Tim pulled in a full breath. He breathed in the smells of Kevlar and sweat and the last remnants of Bruce's cologne from this morning. For the first time since he'd been taken from school, he relaxed, all of his muscles going limp at once. He was safe now.
Swaying back and forth, Bruce soothed him with murmured reassurances. When he finally coaxed Tim's head from his neck, he looked over his face then pulled a baby wipe from his utility belt.
"Oh, my baby," he said, cleaning the blood off Tim's mouth and chin. He pulled his upper lip back to examine the new gap in his teeth. "What happened to you?"
Tim only clutched Bruce tighter. It's not my blood, he figured he probably should say. Or, at least not all of it.
Instead, he rested his head back down on Bruce's shoulder, letting out a sigh.
"You're trembling," Bruce murmured, maybe to himself.
"Gave me coffee," Tim mumbled while Bruce unhooked his cape. "'Nd a sedative. Dunno which one. Didn't recognize it."
The cape wrapped around him, a warm and grounding weight.
"We'll take care of it. Get you home, warm, and fed."
That all sounded great to Tim until he belatedly remembered that going home meant going in the Batmobile, in his car seat.
He held tight onto Bruce as he tried to set him inside, something inside him cracking. He found himself crying, wrapping his limbs around Bruce like a monkey and hollering like one, too.
"No! No, don't—don't put me down! Don't put me down!"
"It's just for ten minutes, sweetheart. Just until we're home." Bruce rubbed his back to soothe him, but Tim was inconsolable.
"No!" he sobbed. He knew it was at least fifteen minutes back to the Cave from here, and that was if B wasn't following traffic laws, which he always seemed to nowadays.
Even if it was ten minutes—even if it was just five—Tim still couldn't have beared it. He cried harder than he had in the elevator, harder than he maybe ever had, shaking and clutching Bruce. He cried until he gagged, at which point he was put down, but Bruce was right beside him, holding him up and rubbing his back as he puked coffee and not much else onto the sidewalk.
"Rory, can you drive us home?" Bruce asked lowly while Tim hiccuped and dry heaved.
"Oh my god," Dick whispered. "He gets to drive the Batmobile?"
Rory was hesitant. "I don't…" He seemed to reconsider, sounding resigned as he asked, "It's an automatic, right?"
"Thank you," Bruce said. "Boys, get in the car. Don't forget to adjust the mirrors."
When it was just the two of them, Bruce pressed a kiss to Tim's temple then walked him a couple steps away from his coffee vomit. "Did you hear that?"
Tim nodded a yes.
Bruce held Tim's hands in his palms, looking him in the eye. "I will sit next to you in the car."
Shaking again, Tim whined, "Can't you just hold me?"
Bruce gave him a sad smile, raising one of his hands—and one of Tim's, by extension—to Tim's face to wipe away his tears. "With Rory driving?"
He found it a little funny but not enough to stop him from being upset. He searched Bruce's eyes, and when he saw that this was the best deal he was going to get, he asked, "Will you hold me when we get home?"
"I'll carry you all night if it will make you happy," Bruce promised.
Tim didn't think that anything would be able to make him happy, but it definitely couldn't hurt.
He let himself get buckled into the car seat, clutching Batman's cape and Bruce's hand the entire drive home.
True to his word, Bruce picked him up out of his car seat the moment they were parked in the cave and didn't put him back down even as he brought Tim around the med bay to check a blood sample (the sedative and caffeine were both working their way out of his system) and his various bruises (turns out he'd banged up his back pretty good falling down those stairs) then up into the manor when it was determined that he'd survive.
Alfred doted on him with a rare forehead kiss and offerings of snacks of varying nutritional content, but food was the furthest thing from Tim's mind right now.
"What about nuggies?" Bruce pressed, coercion that would have worked any other day.
Tim shook his head against Bruce's shoulder. "I don't want nuggies."
He could feel the concern coming off of them in waves, and he didn't need to look to know that Bruce and Alfred were having a full conversation with just their eyes.
"I want to change my clothes." It felt like every other sentence came out as a whine tonight. He hated sounding like a baby, but it was taking everything he had to hold back the tears that wanted to keep pouring out of him all night long.
Bruce's hand tensed on Tim's back for an instant before relaxing, and Tim hid his face back in the crook of his father's neck, praying that Bruce would let it go without asking questions. Nobody needed to talk about why his kidnappers had changed his clothes.
One fresh pair of Voltron jammies later—because the dinosaur ones weren't speaking to him tonight, and he didn't want to think about superheroes right now—and after Tim had directed Bruce to the kitchen so he could toss the horrible pajamas his kidnappers had put him in directly into the trash can (he would've preferred to see them burned, but it was a little late for a bonfire)—they ended up in the living room, Tim sitting on Bruce's lap while Alfred tried to ply him with tea and cookies.
Tim accepted the tea cup so his hands were too busy for cookies. He still felt like there were horrible black worms squirming inside him—worse, they seemed to have multiplied, spreading out from where Mr. Smith had touched him, wriggling between his lungs and ribs and filling up his stomach—and the last thing he wanted was to add food into the mix. He managed to sip some tea without feeling like it was going to come right back up, but mostly he just laid back against Bruce's chest, smelling the soothing lavender-chamomile-honey tea and trying not to think about the last twelve hours of his life.
They watched cartoons… Okay, Tim watched cartoons; he was certain that while Bruce was staring at the TV, he was actually picking apart clues and reevaluating Tim's case. Every now and then, Bruce tried to ask him for details, but Tim just… He couldn't do it. He was so tired. The worms kept having babies inside him. If he tried to do the debrief tonight, he was going to break, and it would probably turn into a Humpty-Dumpty sort of situation.
"You're so quiet, baby," Bruce murmured after Tim shook his head on another question. "It's not like you."
Tim gave up on the tea, abandoning the cup on the coffee table and crawling into Bruce's arms again. He laid on Bruce's chest, ear over his heart. Bruce's heart rate was somewhat elevated from his norm but steady and calming.
He didn't have the words to describe the betrayal that was sitting rotten on his tongue. He couldn't stop thinking about—about the first time. Last lifetime.
His parents couldn't have known, right? They wouldn't have let a pedophile get handsy with him just for a business deal…right? They may never have loved him, but even still, as people, they would never have…
He squeezed his eyes shut, holding onto Bruce's shirt and snuggling in when his father pulled a blanket on top of them. One of his hands ran gentle fingers through Tim's hair while the other alternated ice packs and heating pads on his sore back.
The return to consciousness was accompanied by a stretching haze of disorientation. His eyes searched blearily across the room, picking up clues: soft blankets, glowing night light, white-noise machine.
The one he recognized first was his teddy bear, which he squeezed tightly, burying his face into his fur while his brain processed the conclusion: he was in his bedroom at Wayne Manor.
He'd been spooked by some dream, half-memory and half-nightmare but already disintegrating, falling out of his fingers like sand.
He set his head back down onto his pillow and brought his thumb up to his mouth. He was trying to kick that habit, but it was just so convenient and relaxing, quick stress relief like a cigarette between meetings. He closed his eyes, hoping to convince himself to fall back asleep, but the moment he got close, sand started to pool at his feet.
Next thing he knew, he was halfway to Bruce's room, tiptoeing past Rory's open door. It was odd, since he normally slept with the door shut. But then, it had been a long night for all of them.
Despite his hopes, Bruce's bed was empty when he crawled in. He glared at the alarm clock on the nightstand, glowing red analogue numbers telling him it was already past when Batman would usually have ended patrol.
It was Tim's own fault, he realized as he curled up into the blankets, sucking his thumb with renewed vigor. He really hadn't given Bruce much to work with. The investigation would obviously take way longer if he was still following whatever dead-end leads he'd picked up yesterday.
Quiet footsteps approached Bruce's room. The door pushed open slowly, and Rory peeked his head inside.
"Tim?" he whispered, standing uncertainly in the doorway.
Tim didn't pull the thumb out of his mouth, but he at least sat up so Rory could see him.
"Hey." Rory sounded relieved. He closed the door behind himself as he stepped fully inside. "Couldn't sleep?"
Tim shrugged, cuddling into Rory's side when he laid down with him.
"It's okay. Uncle B will be home soon."
Tim sighed and closed his eyes. He really hoped so.
Tim hunched in on himself as he watched Rory measure the laundry detergent.
"I'm sorry, Rory," he repeated, for what might have been the hundredth time.
"Don't worry about it, Timmy. I've done it before, too."
Rory was kind enough not to mention that having been when he was a toddler. When Tim opened his mouth to argue this fact, he remembered that he, himself, was still a toddler, and therefore in the "acceptable" age range for this kind of thing.
There was nothing acceptable about it, in Tim's eyes. He was supposed to be a big boy now! He hadn't even been in diapers when he first came to the manor when he was two, and he'd drop-kicked the nighttime pull-ups soon after.
He rubbed his eyes, which felt raw from sleep deprivation and endless emotion. He watched the bedding spin around as Rory started the wash.
"There you are," Bruce said.
Tim jumped, not having sensed his arrival. He didn't know if he was more relieved that his dad was finally home or mortified to have another witness. He kept his eyes trained on the floor, stubbornly forcing his fresh tears back.
"Hey, are you okay?" Bruce asked, voice gentling as he crouched beside Tim.
Tim tucked his chin into his chest, wishing he could disappear.
"I was just telling Tim that it's not a big deal and has happened to everyone," Rory said.
"That's true," Bruce said, quickly figuring out the situation and putting a reassuring hand on Tim's shoulder. "The last time I was in this situation, I was way older than you are now."
"…See?" Rory asked, rolling with the punches and probably assuming B was referring to an age still in the single digits.
Tim knew better and had to imagine Bruce was talking about his college years, or maybe the aftermath of a particularly bad injury. It did make him feel a little better, even if he really didn't want to know this.
"Let's get you cleaned up and we can go back to bed," Bruce said, stroking a hand down Tim's back then lifting him up.
Tim squirmed, trying to hold himself away. "No, don't. I'm icky."
Bruce set Tim on his hip, unbothered. "I don't think you're icky, Tim."
The shame that threatened to swallow him was interrupted by relief, which warred with fresh shame about feeling relieved. Tim hid his face in Bruce's chest, accepting that he'd now ruined three sets of clothes tonight.
"Thank you, Rory," Bruce said, pulling him into a sideways hug.
"No problem." Rory trapped Tim in the hug, too, adding, "Sweet dreams, Timmy."
"…Love you, Rory," Tim mumbled.
Rory rubbed the top of his head. "Love you, too, little buddy."
One quick bath and a fresh pair of jammies later (one of the Batman sets, because it wasn't making him sad to look at anymore), Bruce brought him back to his room, where they discovered Rory had come back and put fresh bedding on.
Thankfully, Alfred had insisted on a waterproof mattress cover after Bruce had bled through the sheets however many times, so the damage was mitigated. Didn't make it any less humiliating, though, especially since…
"Daddy," Tim whispered as Bruce pulled the blanket over them, curling into his side and looking up at him. "I peed on Rory and the Ragman."
Bruce cupped his cheek, brushing a strand of semi-damp hair behind his ear. "It's okay. He didn't look mad."
"Can he even wash the Ragman?"
"…I'm sure there's some way." Bruce was obviously uncertain but lying for Tim's sake.
Tim pouted. He'd have to try to make it up to him somehow, but he supposed there was nothing to do about it now.
Tim kept his face hidden in Bruce's neck while he sat on a plush chair in the waiting room. Normally, he was all over the sweet train set Jonas had set up in here, but not even the promise of Thomas and Friends was tempting enough to be worth letting go. Thankfully, he'd dragged his feet for long enough on their way out the door that the wait wasn't very long.
He heard the door to the office open. "Good morning, Tim."
"Hi, Jonas," Tim mumbled, not lifting his head.
"Morning, Bruce. How are we holding up?"
One of Bruce's hands left Tim's back for a handshake. "We're hanging in there. Thank you for accommodating a last-minute appointment."
Jonas invited them in to the office. "I'm happy to be here for you." Quieter, he added, "I printed the consent forms. You can record at any time for the official statement."
Tim's arms tightened their hold on Bruce. He knew that he couldn't avoid the debrief forever, but it had been nice putting yesterday out of his mind for the past twelve hours. He didn't notice the high-pitched whine leaving his throat until Bruce swayed them from side to side and shushed him.
"Did you eat breakfast already, Tim?" Jonas asked him while they settled down, Bruce, and Tim by extension, on the couch.
When Tim lifted his head out of its hiding place, he saw Jonas seated at the activity table. That's how he knew shit was about to get real. That 96-pack of Crayolas had accompanied Tim through numerous trauma-dump sessions by this point.
"Alfred made me teddy-bear pancakes," he said. He winced after, offput by the wrecked sound of his own voice. All that screaming and crying had really done a number on his vocal cords. He soldiered on, "With chocolate chips and sprinkles."
"Yum," Jonas enthused, and he always sounded so genuinely interested in what Tim enjoyed that he honestly couldn't get an accurate read on whether he was just a skilled actor or actually found enjoyment in childish things.
Tim supposed that it didn't matter. His forty-year-old self would have cried tears of joy over those teddy-bear pancakes.
"I think I made him worried." Tim explained, "They're only allowed as 'an occasional treat.'" His Alfred-accent was spot-on.
"I heard you had a tough day yesterday," Jonas sympathized.
The bland understatement caught him off guard. Tim cackled, but Bruce must have taken it as a sob because one palm cupped the nape of his neck and scratched soothing fingers against his scalp.
His mind flashed back to green eyes and cigar breath and the pounding of his heart as he attempted to sneak around squeaky floorboards.
With a slow, shaky breath, Tim pushed the memories away. It was lucky that the worst parts came at the end of the story: he could still procrastinate it for a little bit longer.
"Ms. Julie was shooted dead forever," Tim said. Like any mission debrief, he supposed he ought to start at the beginning.
He recounted his kidnapping with as much detail as he could remember, painting a picture of each suspect with identifying features for Bruce's investigative benefit. He relayed the make, model, and color of the transport van. He described the briny smell of the warehouse, telling Bruce it was down by the docks in as direct of a way as possible without actually saying those words. He took extra care in describing the mysterious new mobster and his home base.
He worked his way through the basket of stim toys while he talked, vice-gripping a stress ball until his knuckles were sore and twisting a Rubix Cube until it was as mixed-up as he felt and watching bubbles of colored oil drip down in a sensory hourglass.
He was able to tell them the name of the hotel he was taken to before his mouth wouldn't move anymore and he had to take a break violently shaking a maraca. It was definitely terribly obnoxious, which was why he typically left that one at the bottom of the basket, but maybe Alfred was right and this was just the day for "an occasional treat."
By the time he decided he'd had his fill, his brain felt numb and tingled from the echo of the cacophony.
He flopped back, laying his head on Bruce's lap. Bruce's thumb traced soothing strokes from the bridge of his nose up to his forehead.
"My brave boy," Bruce murmured, and Tim's eyes flew open to meet his. Bruce was looking down at him, and Tim couldn't even hope to parse his own emotions, but he could read the concern and regret and care written in Bruce's expression plain as day. "I'm so proud of you."
It took him back to that night in the hospital, what was now half of his current lifetime ago. Were things ever going to be easy?
It hadn't even been one of his harder fights, was the thing. Tim had fought villains who'd majorly outclassed him, before—and with far worse outcomes. There was really no reason for this—this incident to have taken so much out of him.
But regardless of what he knew objectively, the truth of the matter was that Tim was being very brave right now. And it was nice to have it acknowledged.
Tim maintained the eye contact, feeling tangled up in every crevice except for where Bruce was holding him steady.
"I think we should try one of our calming exercises," Jonas suggested. "Would you like to play ABCs or should we do some deep breathing?"
Now that he mentioned it, a little extra grounding could probably do him some good. He'd used up all of the words he had in him for the moment, so he inhaled deeply into his belly to show his decision.
He was feeling a bit less like a space cadet by the time Jonas asked him if he wanted to do some drawing.
Tim looked between Bruce and the activity table, gauging the distance with trepidation. His arms weren't long enough to reach the table from the couch. He'd have to get off Bruce's lap.
"Go ahead, sweetheart," Bruce encouraged. "I'll be right here."
Tim hesitantly dropped to the floor. He moved the child-sized chair away so he could sit on the floor in front of the table instead, pulling Bruce's feet forward to be at his sides.
He drew a sick tiger with rainbow stripes, which he made Bruce fold up and keep safe in his pocket so Tim could hang it up above his art table when they got home. Then he drew Red Robin on a rooftop, backdropped by the moon and standing tall, shoulder-length hair blowing in the wind. He avoided answering questions about that one and put it in his own pocket for encouragement.
Finally, it was time to get down to brass tacks. He knew that the point of the activity was to make it easier to communicate his thoughts when he was having trouble verbalizing them, and he also knew that the sooner he finished this debrief, the sooner he could go back to forgetting all about it.
Jonas let him work, making his own doodles and only asking when Tim had put his crayon away, "Can you tell me about what you drew?"
Tim thought it was pretty obvious but supposed they needed him to speak for the audio recording. He pointed to each part of the picture: "That's the bad man, and that's me, and that's the pen."
He could sense B immediately wanting to ask about the pen. Honestly, Tim was impressed that he'd held off on a full-blown interrogation the night before.
Before B could ask anything, Jonas said, "I see you didn't draw your face."
Tim frowned. "I don't want one anymore."
Bruce shifted, briefly leaning forward to rub Tim's arms. "I like your face." He sounded way more sad than Tim thought the situation deserved. "It tells me when you're feeling happy or sad."
"Daddy can look at my face," Tim amended. "And Jonas, I guess."
"Why is it okay for Daddy to look at your face?" Jonas asked.
Tim shrugged. After a couple seconds, he found the response: "Because Daddy calls me clever and funny when he looks at me."
"Does anybody ever call you something else?" Jonas's voice was casually inquisitive, as if he wasn't poking at a bleeding wound.
Tim grabbed the scarlet crayon and scribbled on pedo Mr. Smith's eyes, muttering, "'Pretty little thing.'"
He felt Bruce's foot twitch, and he heard his fist clenching on the arm of the leather couch. Bruce remained silent, letting Jonas lead the conversation.
"Who called you that?" Jonas asked.
"The bad man."
"What were you thinking when he said that?"
Tim couldn't remember doing much thinking at all, actually. It was mostly panicking. "I didn't like it."
"I don't think I would like it either." Jonas loved these basic expressions of empathy. He especially loved to use them when he was kindly making Tim spill his guts. "Did the man do anything else you didn't like?"
The crayon snapped in his hand. He hated that he felt tears popping into his eyes. He didn't remember case reports being this difficult before, even the really personal ones. "I need tape," he said, voice watery.
He sniffled and went to wipe his nose on his sleeve, but suddenly Bruce was on the floor with him and cleaning him up with a tissue.
Jonas set the tape dispenser on the table. "Do you want to tear it yourself?"
Tim's head jerked in a nod. "I want to."
He taped the crayon back together then stared down at it. He leaned into Bruce as he quietly admitted, "He touched my body."
He felt Bruce tense up.
"Do you want to use the doll to tell me about it?" Jonas asked, ever prepared.
When he was handed the doll, Tim's shaking hand went up its shirt then down to its thigh. "I didn't like it, but my words weren't working."
Jonas's sympathy only made his stomach hurt. "Were your words stuck, or was he not listening?"
"I was going like this—" Tim mimicked his hyperventilated breathing. "—so they couldn't come out."
Bruce had gone completely still.
Tim rubbed his head on Bruce's arm and said, "Daddy, will you braid my hair?"
Bruce's voice was rough. "Of course, sweetheart." He reached into his pocket and pulled out some tiny hair ties.
The preparation, the silent care, made Tim feel shattered all over again.
"That sounds like it was really scary," Jonas commented.
"It was," Tim agreed. "And I'm really small, so when I pushed him with my hands, it didn't work."
Jonas pointed at the drawing. "What did the pen do?"
"It was for poking his eyes."
"What happened when his eyes got poked?"
"He said, 'Oh god! My eyes!' and then I ran away really fast."
Bruce kissed his temple. "Good job, baby."
Tim started slipping into Bruce's room basically every night. Sometimes Bruce came to him, alerted by the baby monitor when Tim started crying in his sleep.
He silently put himself back in pull-ups. Just for a little while, he promised himself, until his body could prove that it was back under his control. Unfortunately, it was the right choice. Bruce must have noticed but politely didn't say anything. Alfred definitely noticed, because the pull-ups in his bathroom magically restocked. He, too, let it pass without comment.
Judging by the pervading smell of Kevlar that stuck to Bruce's skin, Batman was going out every night. Tim had served plenty of clues to sus out the mob boss but didn't give him anything to work with regarding Mr. Smith, who Tim was still only referring to as "the bad man."
He knew that it must have been driving Bruce insane finding no answers as to who had touched his kid, despite his increasingly-desperate attempts to violently beat the information out of anybody who might have had answers. Bruce's knuckles were red and split these days. The padding in his gloves could only do so much.
Normally, Tim would have jumped at the chance to help Bruce close a case. But he had his own plans for this one.
Bruce had given him a strange look when he'd requested inviting "Uncle Slade" and Aunt Adeline for dinner. Tim supposed that he hadn't been all that subtle about his dislike for the grizzled man who he was frankly surprised Bruce hadn't sleuthed out as a mercenary yet. Still, Bruce had invited them over without question, and it wasn't all that hard for Tim to find some alone time with Slade.
"Uncle Slade, can I tell you a secret?" Tim asked, lowering his voice in case Bruce had bugs subtler than a baby monitor set up in the family room. "You can't tell Daddy."
Slade looked intrigued and leaned forward, raising his eyebrows for Tim to go on.
Tim cupped his hand around his ear and whispered, "The bad man who bought me is named Mr. Smith. He's from Bristol, too, and he's really rich and powerful."
He leaned back and looked at Slade, watching plans come together behind his eyes already.
"Your secret's safe with me," Slade promised.
Tim turned away to hide his grin. Bye-bye, Mr. Smith. He even got the family discount on this hit.
Mr. Smith's handless, eyeless corpse was found just days later.
Tim gifted Slade the rainbow tiger drawing as a tip for personalized and prompt service.
Tim was hoping they could just go back to homeschooling for a little while. Not forever—just a few years, until he grew a little stronger and more coordinated.
Alfred did bring the workbooks back out for him, but he still found himself being brought to school.
"We want to make this the least traumatizing for him as possible," Jonas had told Bruce after their last appointment. "He feels safe with you. That's really good. Encourage independence in daily tasks, but let him latch on to you whenever he feels the need to."
"He's very anxious about leaving home," Bruce had told him, like a traitor. Tim thought it was perfectly reasonable to be more cautious outside the vast security systems of the Manor.
"Start slow. Let's try an hour a day of supervised play time at school or the park and see how it goes."
He'd only been absent for a few weeks, but he returned to an all-new classroom. They were moved down the hall, into a slightly longer and narrower room. Ms. Lexi had a new co-teacher. Most of the toys were the same, but the rugs were different. They probably couldn't save the one from before, after Ms. Julie had bled all over it.
"Do you want to go see what Eddie's doing?" Bruce gently nudged him, when Tim stood just inside the doorway for a handful of long seconds.
Tim leaned against Bruce's leg, resisting the urge to wrap himself around it. "I don't know."
Bruce smiled reassuringly and offered his hand. "How about if I go with you?"
Tim had missed Eddie and was relieved to see that nothing had happened to him while Tim was away on sabbatical. They painted together, two papers balanced on the same eisle, but it worked perfectly because Tim was right-handed while Eddie was a lefty, so they fit together just right.
When Bruce mentioned a trip down the hall for a cup of coffee, Tim threw down his paint brush and insisted that he go, too.
The coffee pot was just a couple hundred feet away, behind the secretary's desk. Tim doubted that he was supposed to be back there, but the secretary happily invited them over, and Tim waited patiently by Bruce's side while he stood around chatting with her for a few minutes.
Following Jonas's recommendations to a T, Tim was brought to school every morning for exactly an hour. Most days, it was Bruce who took him. He liked when it was Bruce because sometimes he could be convinced to read the special school books to him.
A couple of times, it was Alfred, who brushed off Tim's attempts to drag him further into the room with encouragements to play with his friends. He liked that Alfred simultaneously stood watch at the door while still paying attention to Tim, but he preferred Bruce. He tried to remind himself that Alfred was a trained spy and probably had some kind of weapon hidden on his person, but he wasn't Batman. One time, Tim had begged to go home after only twenty minutes, and after that it was usually Bruce who went with him.
Of course, Bruce came with his own set of frustrations. His coffee breaks were announced with increasingly-poor timing, forcing Tim to decide just how badly he wanted to stay in the classroom versus stick by his side.
He finally broke when he had to choose between story time and waiting around while Bruce not-so-subtly flirted with the secretary. Tim had this book at home, actually, but Ms. Lexi told it with really funny voices. He glared at Bruce, who watched him back with humorless curiosity.
Tim sighed. "Be quick," he warned.
Bruce left before Tim could change his mind. He returned two excruciating minutes later but immediately sat on the floor next to Tim and pressed his lips against his temple, his pride in such a small achievement planting satisfaction in Tim's chest.
"Daddy, we need to go to the store," Tim told him one day as they left the school. Bruce's "coffee breaks" had been stretching longer and longer and he knew they were nearing the point where he'd be expected to regain his independence. He needed some tools to help him be brave about it.
Bruce was bemused by Tim's secrecy but followed instructions.
Tim led the way, stopping for bobby pins first. He held up different packs, analyzing how each brand caught the light. He was looking for metal—something that could bend and snap. Plastic would shatter, useless landfill fodder.
Bruce held up a pack of rainbow pins.
Tim couldn't help that his eyes blew wide. They were so beautiful. They were even metal, but—Tim shook his head, forcing himself to turn away. He held up the two options he'd narrowed it down to, holding each to his hair to determine which was the best match. This wasn't about vanity.
He added a pack to the basket then walked away. It wasn't until they were a few aisles away that he realized Bruce had tossed in the rainbow pack as well.
The stationary aisle was their next stop, and of course, everything Tim needed to look at was in the top rows.
He had Bruce pick him up and directed him up and down the aisle, picking out options until he had a small pile to sort through. He would have much preferred a knife, but he was willing to compromise, since Bruce somehow still hadn't changed his mind about that.
The plastic pens were a no-go; it had worked fine at the hotel, but if he had the option, then Tim would prefer something sturdier.
So he went for solid metal casing. He debated the twist extension versus the press extension. The press-style extension would be more intuitive to use in the moment—but then Tim considered twisting into the wound for bonus pen tip damage and instantly knew that was the way. He separated out the press-style extension pens and handed them to Bruce to put back.
The next consideration was clip versus no clip. He held each pen in a variety of grips, gauging the feel. The clip dug uncomfortably into his palm but ultimately provided for better traction than the smooth ones without. All of the clipless pens were dropped into Bruce's palm.
Least important was color, although Tim treated the decision with the gravity it deserved. Depending on the circumstances, the color could have been the most important consideration, actually. A silver pen reflected more light than black. That small glint could make a world of difference if the situation required stealth.
He whittled down his options then whittled them further. The final candidates were functionally compared again, forward, reverse, and sideways holds. The one he liked the most was silver, but the grip was sturdy and the clip provided friction without feeling like it was going to cut into his palm. He was still comparing pros and cons when Bruce set a hand on his shoulder.
Tim startled and met his eyes.
"We can paint it," Bruce offered, gesturing to the pen. He cracked a smile. "We have a lot of black paint."
Duh! Why didn't Tim think of that? "Matte black," Tim agreed, adding the pen to the basket and bunny-hopping towards the end of the aisle.
"Wait," Bruce called. He gestured for Tim to come back then picked him up when he did. "Grab a couple more."
Tim hugged him tight. "I love you!" He grabbed five.
Bruce pressed a firm kiss to Tim's forehead, holding him there for a moment while he pulled in a deep breath. "I love you, too," he murmured. "More than you could know."
It was a team effort.
Alfred helped him sew secret pockets inside his pants. They were deep enough to comfortably hold a couple of pens as well as a few other small things Tim thought he could find a creative use for, if the situation called for it.
Bruce started to wake him up a little earlier in the mornings to style his hair, hiding plain black bobby pins under his hair in the back and accessorizing with bright colors in the front. Sometimes, he added ponytails or braids; others, they left it down. Tim's hair almost reached his shoulders again. He rather liked it.
Incrementally, Tim's time at school grew longer and longer until he was being dropped off in the morning and picked up after lunch and recess. Eventually, he'd go back to full days. Rory and Dick made sure to visit with him when their classes shared the playground.
Campus security also ramped up over time. As they walked through the building in the mornings, Bruce greeted each security guard by name. He'd definitely personally vetted each of them and had probably played a hand in crafting their patrol routes and schedules, just knowing Bruce.
It made Tim feel safe.
"You'd be surprised what kids can bounce back from," Jonas had once told Bruce. "Right now, he has the best circumstances we could hope for: a strong support system, a stable home, and more love than he knows what to do with."
Tim learned to take it day by day. There were times when the fear would sneak up on him out of nowhere and he was left choking on air. If it was really bad, he pressed the alert button on his new Superman watch, and Bruce knew to come get him. If there were a true emergency, he'd hit the panic button, and Batman would come instead.
Even though he felt small, he continued to be brave—and when he couldn't do it on his own, his family was there to brave it with him.