Chapter Text
Tim had kind of figured galas were going to be like balls in movies: ballgowns, dancing, excitement…literally anything happening…
How had his parents liked these things? Tim had spent the first half of the gala doing his best to mingle till he got so absolutely sick of so sorry for your loss, and how is your dad?, and let me know if we can do anything to help.
He was counting down the hours till he could leave. Bruce needed to stay because he was the guest of honor, but Bruce had told Tim he could probably leave by nine. Everyone would understand a child having a bedtime.
Bruce had been teasing—Tim felt very included, now that he got to be teased too—but Tim wasn’t really a kid. He was fourteen, and he was also Robin.
Well, most nights, he was Robin. Tonight, Drake Industries had appointed Tim as the face of the company for this charity gala. What that really meant was that Tim got to bring a check from the company, put it in a box, and then wait around for hours till polite society was done with him.
Being a grownup must suck, really. Was this all it was, soft music, no dancing, and inane chatter? Gee, if people wanted to talk, they could just have dinner parties and not invite Tim. It would be more cost productive that way.
At least Bruce was there. Tim couldn’t really talk to him or interact with him, obviously, because Tim Drake had no reason to know Bruce Wayne. Technically, Tim could be “officially” introduced, but Tim figured it was best if no one knew he was hanging around Bruce.
It was part of why he wouldn’t let Bruce take him in. Bruce seemed all cold and calculating to most people, but he was actually really emotional sometimes and wouldn’t understand what a big clue it would be to Batman’s identity if Bruce Wayne, someone rich enough and built enough to be Batman, had a third black-haired boy under his care.
Tim had figured out who Bruce was because of Dick, and his suspicions had been completely confirmed when Jason was adopted six months before Batman had a new Robin. Gotham was a big city, and a lot of people were smarter than a nine-year-old.
So, Tim couldn’t say hi, but it was nice to know that even if he was attending the gala by himself, he wasn’t actually alone.
Hands down the weirdest thing about the gala was watching Bruce in his full Brucie Wayne, Gotham’s Darling persona. Dick had warned him about this and how weird it was, insisting that Bruce actually hated galas, but Bruce seemed to be having just a bit too much fun regaling the lovely ladies flocked around him with another story for Tim to believe he fully hated galas.
Tim doubted he’d ever be able to prove that Bruce likes social events, but he could suspect for the rest of his days.
Tim sipped his sparkling apple juice and looked away. He shouldn’t be staring at Bruce, that was just as weird. The juice tasted funny, not alcoholic, but not as good as regular juice. He was pretty sure it was more for recovering alcoholics who wanted to look like they were also drinking champagne without actually falling off the wagon. Unfortunately for Tim, the waiters were all too fast keeping him from the champagne.
From his vantage point at one of the back tables, Tim watched the party and tucked into his heaping plate of hors d'oeuvres. Really, he’d mingled to an unreasonable degree. It wasn’t nine yet, but surely he could leave soon, right? No one would notice. If they did, he’d just pretend to cry.
In the center of the room and attention, Bruce was illustrating a story with broad gestures—Tim was pretty sure that was the surfing board story Bruce had come up with as his latest excuse for his notable injuries.
Tim took another sip of his juice. He’d also been injured on patrol, but no one had noticed the black eye, so he hadn’t had to give his spiel about walking into a cabinet. Tim hadn’t expected makeup to be such an important part of being a bat, but he’d gotten pretty good with concealing bruises.
As Tim was eating, someone dropped into the chair right next to him. Tim side eyed the guy—a man probably about Bruce’s age with sandy blond hair and a well-cut cheap suit—because not only were there were empty chairs at literally every other table, every other chair at Tim’s table was empty except for the one he was actively sitting in.
That probably meant this guy thought he knew Tim and was about to give him the script: he was so sorry for Tim’s loss, his parents have been so missed, and please won’t Tim let him know if Tim needed anything. Either that, or he was going to start suggesting they go into business together like Tim was in charge of that.
“Timothy Drake,” the man greeted familiarly, leaning in to be just a little too far into Tim’s personal space.
Tim tried not to grimace. “Uh, hi. Mr….”
“Marchand, Julius Marchand,” the man said with a shark-like smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met in person.”
Tim chuckled awkwardly. If they hadn’t met in person, did that mean they’d met some other way? Not that Tim remembered, but maybe this guy, like, had heard stories about him from his parents.
Okay, not likely. Maybe Marchand had just been reading the newspapers.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Tim said as politely as he could.
The vibes coming off Marchand were weird, but it was hard to put his finger on why till Tim realized that Marchand wasn’t looking Tim in the eye, he was looking at Tim’s face. It was a subtle but really disconcerting difference.
Tim found himself shifting uncomfortably and evaluating his escape options. They guy hadn’t done anything, but Tim got the distinct impression that something was wrong.
He glanced at Bruce, who was now miming his epic wipeout. Tim couldn’t talk to Bruce, but he could stand nearby for protection. Or maybe he could go formally introduce himself just so long as that was as much interaction as they had so no one would put the pieces together.
Tim looked back to Marchand, opening his mouth to excuse himself, when he noticed that Marchand had followed his gaze and was looking straight at Bruce. A dangerous smirk cracked his lips.
“I notice you keep looking at Mr. Wayne. Why don’t you just go talk to him?” Marchand’s tone had a note of teasing, but not pleasant like Bruce.
Whatever the wrong thing was, Tim couldn’t place it, but he could feel his pulse quickening and his fingers twitch longingly for his bo staff.
“I guess you do already see enough of Bruce,” Marchand laughed. “And after all, absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
Tim’s blood ran cold. No. Tim had been careful to make sure no one knew he had any kind of connection to Bruce Wayne. Who was this guy? How did he know? And what did he know?
“I don’t—” Tim forced a chuckle. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know what you’re—”
“You know, makeup doesn’t cover swelling.”
He knows.
Tim tried to cast around for an easy answer to divert suspicion, but he couldn’t even figure out what Marchand was accusing him of. He hadn’t said Robin, but that had to be what he meant, right? What else could he mean?
Just play dumb, just play dumb.
“I—yeah, pretty silly.” Tim shrugged with a self-deprecating smile. “I walked into a cabinet. Thought no one would notice.”
He laughed awkwardly, hoping Marchand would laugh along, but Marchand just smiled.
“Really? Is that what happened?” Marchand was all but purring, slowly reaching his spindly fingers up to trace along the edge of the bruise. Tim wanted to shrug him off, but he froze. What was he supposed to do? What would Tim Drake, ordinary civilian, do?
Tim glanced back at Bruce, desperately hoping Bruce’s Batman sense would kick in, and he’d notice Tim’s distress. Bruce had given Tim all kinds of training in lying and concealing the truth, but he’d never told Tim what to do if someone already knew the truth.
“It is sweet, young love,” Marchand said offhandedly.
Tim frowned, actually confused by that, but Marchand just laughed and leaned back in his chair.
“You think you’re being subtle, don’t you?” Marchand pulled a yellow envelope from his coat pocket. “But I know exactly what you and Mr. Wayne are doing together.”
Marchand set the envelope on the table between them. Tim hesitantly opened the envelope and looked inside.
The envelope was filled with pictures, at least two dozen from different days and different times. His throat tightened with anxiety as he flipped through them.
Somehow, Marchand had managed to photograph Tim arriving at Wayne Manor around sunset several times without Tim or Bruce noticing, and other photographs caught Bruce or Alfred driving him home late at night.
Tim bit his lip. On their own, the photos didn’t prove that he was Robin. If the pictures went to the press, though, what then? Bruce’s enemies didn’t need to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, if Marchand had done even the slightest bit of research to compare the Robin vs. Wayne kid timelines, he’d be able to make a strong circumstantial case for the public.
This is a shakedown, isn’t it? Tim couldn’t access most of his family’s funds with his dad in a coma, but Bruce could pay Marchand handsomely and get him to sign an NDA to incentivize Marchand not to tell, right?
Tim glared over the top of the envelope. “What do you want?”
Marchand leaned closer, bracing one hand against Tim’s chair. Tim recoiled and almost fell out of his chair, thinking Marchand was about to grab him or attack, but Marchand just reached past Tim with his other hand.
Marchand lingered for a second, his face so close to Tim’s that Tim could feel Marchand’s breath hot on his cheek. When Marchand leaned back, he was holding Tim’s flute of sparkling apple juice.
“Why don’t we talk outside,” Marchand suggested, swirling the juice before taking a sip and leaning back. “I’m sure you don’t want anyone else hearing about your little…secret.”
Tim glanced at Bruce one more time, but Bruce’s back was to him.
Tim could handle this himself. After all, Marchand had no incentive to hurt Tim or spill their secrets in the next twenty minutes. If Marchand was going to kill him, he would’ve just killed Tim when Tim was on his own instead of approaching him in the middle of a party and telling Tim that he knew all Tim’s secrets.
Tim rose from his seat without breaking eye contact. “Fine. Let’s talk.”
Marchand just laughed loud enough that a couple people glanced their way. Tim’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment and stress. Was this Marchand’s first time blackmailing someone? It was Tim’s first time being blackmailed, but he was pretty sure Marchand was supposed to be trying to be at least a little subtle. It was like Marchand wanted everyone looking at them.
Marchand pushed back from his chair so fast it would’ve fallen and drawn more attention if Tim hadn’t snagged it in time.
Marchand raised an eyebrow, looking almost impressed. “Fast reflexes.”
“Comes with the territory,” Tim said icily, shoving the chair back into place.
Marchand huffed a laugh and brushed past Tim, snaking an arm around Tim’s waist and pulling him toward the door in an overly familiar gesture that made Tim’s skin crawl. Before Tim could tell Marchand to get his hands off, Marchand had already walked away.
Tim waited a few seconds to make it less obvious he was following Marchand out before he slipped from the gala room and into the hall. Glancing to the left, he saw Marchand leaning on the corner, waiting.
Marchand smirked and gave a small wave before ducking around the corner. Tim swore under his breath and gave chase.
Marchand was gone again when Tim rounded the corner, but there were bathrooms halfway down this corridor. Tim took a deep breath, straightened his posture, and marched into the bathroom.
Marchand was waiting just inside the door, as Tim expected. Leaning in again too close for comfort, Marchand flipped the lock to make sure no one else would barge in on their conversation.
“Alone at last.” Marchand reached out and patted Tim’s cheek.
Tim scowled, his skin prickling where Marchand had touched him. “Just tell me how much you want so we can get this over with.”
Marchand laughed at that—did he ever stop laughing?—and didn’t step back this time, crowding Tim against the wall till the light switches were digging into his back.
“You think I want money?” Marchand raised a hand to brush his fingers along Tim’s cheekbone to his throat, feathering his thumb over Tim’s jugular.
Tim glared, but he couldn’t raise a hand against Marchand without the risk of pissing him off, and that could only end badly. The power plays would end when Marchand finally got to the point, so—
Fast as a snake, Marchand grabbed the back of Tim’s neck and pulled him into a kiss.
Tim yelped out in alarm, his cry muffled as Marchand licked into his mouth. Tim braced his hands against Marchand’s shoulders and tried to push him off in a panic, but Marchand grabbed Tim’s wrists and pinned his arms against the wall.
Tim strained to pull himself free—he was Robin for gods sake, he should be able to fight off one guy, but Marchand was much stronger than Tim had given him credit for, and he used every bit of that strength to keep Tim pinned to the wall, pushing his body against Tim’s to keep him from being able escape. Tim whimpered when Marchand rubbed his hard length against Tim’s thigh.
Marchand finally broke the kiss and whispered, “What’s wrong, Timmy? Does Bruce never kiss you before he fucks you?”
Tim gasped and panted, his eyes wide with shock. “I—what are you talking about?” He tried to demand it, but his voice came out small and scared.
Marchand leaned in to kiss him again, but Tim turned his face to block him. Marchand just chuckled and licked along the back of Tim’s ear before planting a chaste kiss on his forehead.
His lips still lingering against Tim’s skin, Marchand whispered, “You asked what I want, Tim. This is it. I want exactly what you’re giving Bruce Wayne.” Tim could feel Marchand’s smile as he added, “We might be here for a while.”
Tim didn’t exactly wake up as much as he became conscious. He was already on his feet. What had he been doing?
His body ached inside and out, but it wasn’t as bad as the dead feeling in his chest. It was like Marchand had reached into the very core of Tim’s being, tore something good out, and filled in the bleeding hole with something rotten and gross.
I have patrol tonight.
Tim drifted till he found the bathroom. He almost didn’t want to look, but he had to know.
I look dead.
Tim’s eyes were dull, his expression blank. His black eye was uncovered. Had he washed away the makeup or cried it off? He didn’t remember.
He didn’t realize how bruised his lips would be. Tim’s hand reached on instinct for his makeup kit, but Marchand’s voice echoed in his ears: makeup doesn’t hide swelling.
Bruce would see, and he’d know what had happened. There was no way Tim was going to be able to convince Bruce this was all the product of a consensual encounter with someone his own age.
Tim drew in a deep, wet breath. He couldn’t—
Tim threw up in the sink. When he thought it was over, he threw up again.
When there was nothing left in his stomach, Tim crumpled to the floor.
He could’ve just texted Bruce to tell him that Tim couldn’t make it to patrol, but…
Tim stifled a sob in his hands. He needed to talk to Bruce, even if he couldn’t ever tell him what had really happened.
Tim didn’t have his phone on him. The stress, thinking Marchand might have taken it and that Tim would have to go to Wayne Manor to explain himself or have Alfred or Bruce show up looking for him, got his mind and body back together.
He found his phone on the floor by the bathtub in his parents’ bathroom. He had a fleeting memory of turning the water up as hot as it would go and slipping in without taking off his clothes. He must have either dropped his phone or had the wherewithal to take it out before he got in the water, but he could remember which.
Tim fumbled dumbly with his phone for a second before he finally managed to get it unlocked.
His phone timed out as he just stared at screen. It took him a while—he didn’t know how long—to open the phone again. Tim needed one more attempt after that to navigate all the way to Bruce’s contact.
Tim drew in a deep breath, running a finger on his free hand along the cold, rough grout to try to ground himself. Bruce would know if something was wrong.
I want him to know, I want him to come here, I want him to save me.
Tim clenched his eyes and bit his lip to hold back a sob. The cry came out as a strangled whimper. He wanted to be saved, but Tim couldn’t let Bruce save him.
Tim was Robin. He was stronger than this. Tim was supposed to save Bruce, not the other way around.
When Tim finally collected himself, he unlocked his phone one more time—it had timed out and locked itself again—and he quickly pressed call.
Tim set the phone to speaker and set it to the side. The ringback tone echoed off the walls in the small room, once, twice, and then Bruce picked up.
“Tim,” Bruce greeted. “Is something wrong?”
Tim curled his finger as he drew it over the grout, letting the rough surface tear at his fingernail. “I’m sick.”
Bruce paused. “Do you need to go to the hospital? I can be there in ten minutes.”
Tim did. He didn’t. He couldn’t either way.
Tim shook his head even though Bruce couldn’t see. “It’s just a stomach bug. I’ll be fine in—” Tim stood on his knees to glance over the counter into the mirror, evaluating his bruises. This wouldn’t be better by tomorrow. “—probably a few days.”
“Alright. Keep us updated,” Bruce said easily. “And Tim?”
Tim’s breath stuttered as he irrationally thought Bruce knows. He wanted Bruce to know, he didn’t want Bruce to ever find out, he didn’t know what he wanted.
“Yeah?” Tim whispered.
He could hear a soft smile in Bruce’s voice even through the phone speaker. “I don’t mean radio silence till you’re better. If you need anything: a ride to the doctor, medicine, chicken soup. Anything you need, let us know. Okay?”
Tim sniffled and scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. “Y—yeah. Thanks, B.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, Tim? I’m at work, but Alfred can be there in fifteen minutes,” Bruce assured him, and Tim had to fight hard not to burst into tears again.
Bruce had this thing, sometimes, where he sounded like he was Tim’s dad. Not talking like Jack, but like Bruce thought of Tim as his kid and wanted to treat him like he was Bruce’s kid even though Tim was such a nuisance so much of the time.
Yesterday, Tim would’ve melted inside at the thought of Bruce and Alfred taking care of him while he was sick for no other reason than to help him feel better.
Today, just the thought of a man touching him made him want to throw up again.
“Thanks, but uh, Mrs. Mac is here,” Tim explained.
“And your uncle?” Bruce asked, a slight bit of suspicion in his tone.
Shit, my fake uncle. Tim had done his level best to keep the broader public, the legal system, and most importantly Bruce under the impression that Tim was currently living under the care of his mysterious, camera shy, socially anxious uncle.
“He’s at work,” Tim lied lamely. “He’ll be back later. Um, I have to go now.”
Bruce’s sigh crackled over the line. Tim knew Bruce didn’t believe him, but Bruce couldn’t prove anything yet, and he apparently wasn’t going to push while Tim was sick.
“I’ll see you soon, Tim. Rest up, feel better.”
Tim didn’t think he would ever feel better again. Better wasn’t a category that existed anymore.
“Thanks, Bruce.” And he hung up.
Tim spent the next two days at home, sitting in silence. Sometimes, he tried to turn something on, but he mostly just sat in his bed and stared at the wall. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but the bruising had barely faded, and Tim still felt like some key component of himself was rotting slowly from the inside.
His silent stupor was broken by the ringing of a doorbell—twice in a row, then silence.
Tim inhaled deeply, and it was almost like he breathed his soul back into his body. It was Bruce! It had to be! He would see what Marchand had done to him, and it wouldn’t be Tim’s fault that Bruce had found out because Bruce had come here on his own, so whatever happened next would be in Bruce’s hands!
Relief thick in his chest and burning in his eyes, Tim sprinted down the hall and flew down the stairs, not even checking who was at the door before unlocking it and throwing it open.
His excitement turned to horror that melted into resignation as Marchand’s grin widened.
“Hello, Timmy.” Marchand reached out and pinched Tim’s cheek, then leaned down and captured Tim’s bruised mouth in a kiss. “So happy to see me, aren’t you? Can I come in?”
Marchand emphasized the double entendre with a taunting bounce to his eyebrows as he leaned in to deepen the kiss.
Of course, it wasn’t over. After all, why would it be? Marchand knew he could do whatever he wanted to Tim, and Tim wouldn’t fight him or report him to anyone.
Tim clenched his eyes to keep from crying and turned his face to break the kiss. “No—no more bruises.”
Marchand only laughed and pushed Tim into the house.
“Tim?”
Bruce’s hand on his shoulder made Tim want to scream and cry and tear his skin off. He wanted to bite Bruce till he never touched him again, and he wanted to throw himself into Bruce’s arms and cry his eyes out.
More than anything, he hated Marchand. The man had finally left him alone to go back to whatever it was he did for work, and the bruises were finally healed enough for Tim to crawl back to Bruce.
Everything should be okay again, but it wasn’t. It was like he’d though that first day after: nothing would ever be okay again. The touch he used to crave just made the rotten feeling in him worse.
Tim did nothing to move Bruce’s hand from his shoulder the same way he’d done nothing to stop Marchand from doing anything he wanted with Tim’s body. It didn’t matter what Tim wanted.
“Tim, are you okay?” Bruce knelt beside Tim as Tim tried very hard to focus on the case file on the computer screen.
It was hard to pay attention when his whole world was falling apart around him, but Tim wasn’t Robin for nothing. He could handle this. Marchand was the worst, but he was gone, so Tim needed to calm down.
He’s going to come back.
Tim drew in a shaky breath. That was probably true, but Marchand wasn’t there right then. It was just him and Bruce.
Alone.
In the Batcave.
No one was there to stop Bruce from doing whatever he wanted with Tim and his body.
But no, that was the proof that Bruce was good. Bruce had had Tim at his mercy, even though Tim hadn’t realized he’d been in any danger, for over a year. If Bruce wanted what Marchand thought Bruce was already taking, he would have made his move by now.
Bruce had taught him that when he first started detective work. If you don’t know what someone wants, look at what they got.
Marchand had gotten free access to a teenage victim. Tim wasn’t so stupid as to not realize he was a victim. He could list all the felony charges Marchand should be charged with for what he was doing to Tim. Marchand’s results showed that what he wanted was to sexually exploit a teenager.
Bruce had taken care of Tim, never hurt him, and taught Tim how to defend himself. Even though Tim wasn’t defending himself when he totally could, Bruce was clearly trying to keep Tim safe and help him become more capable. At worst, Bruce was molding Tim to be a good employee.
At best, Bruce actually cared about Tim.
Tim’s eyes stung with tears, but he didn’t let them fall. Bruce had asked him a question, but he couldn’t just tell Bruce he’d spent the last several days in a haze of sexual abuse and dissociation. Bruce would try to save Tim, and if Bruce saved Tim, Marchand would release the pictures he had.
Best case scenario, Bruce was publicly accused of statutory rape, but this time with evidence. Tim had been so stupid, letting himself get seen, and now it was Bruce’s problem. With the evidence Marchand had, Bruce could even actually be charged or even convicted.
But when people saw that Tim Drake was coming and going from Wayne Manor at all hours of the night, sometimes injured…Tim would be the third black-haired, blue-eyed boy associated with Bruce. That was one of the reasons Tim had chosen not to live with Bruce: if people realized Batman had a third Robin and Bruce Wayne got a third kid at the same time, someone was going to figure it out. Everyone knew Batman had a rich sponsor, and Bruce was a billionaire built like an ox. Tim had figured it all out when he was nine with way less information. The Rogues? The mobs? They were evil, but they weren’t stupid.
Bruce was good, but Tim couldn’t let Bruce try to save him because saving Tim would doom Bruce.
He’d been quiet too long, he was going to need an excuse now for why he was an emotional wreck, or Bruce was going to push, and Tim would break.
Talking attempt #1 failed—Tim choked up and couldn’t force a word out because if he did, he was going to tell Bruce what happened. Tim sniffed and dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve, shrugging one shoulder and tried talking attempt #2.
“I just miss my—” Talking attempt #2 faltered halfway through, but the effect got through.
Bruce made a sympathetic sound and rubbed his hand up and down Tim’s back in a comforting gesture Tim loved because it was almost like a dad thing to do, but now all he could think of every time Bruce’s hand was moving down was he’s going to move his hand all the way down and feel me up or take my pants, and when Bruce moved his hand up, Tim’s mind was shrieking he’s going to slip his hand in my shirt or take my shirt off or grab my hair and make me kiss him, or—
Tim couldn’t fight it anymore—he burst into tears. How could Marchand do this? How had he somehow ruined everything for Tim? Now even things he liked were awful because—because—
Bruce pulled Tim off the chair and into a hug, and Tim went limp in his arms, his chest heaving with sobs. He wanted this to feel safe like it always had before, but his skin crawled at Bruce’s touch even though he knew Bruce was good and he knew he could trust Bruce.
“Shh, Tim,” Bruce assured him. “I’m so sorry for everything you’ve been through. You’re such a brave kid.”
Tim cried harder. Bruce didn’t even know what he was saying, but he was wrong. Tim wasn’t brave, and he wasn’t good like Bruce, not anymore.
Tim was a coward. A ruined, filthy coward, and Bruce didn’t even know.
Bruce could never know.
Tim was fishing for his keys after a long night Robining a few days later when he realized the door was ajar. He knew what was waiting for him inside, but he didn’t have a choice.
Tim pushed the door open and locked it behind him, sealing himself in a cage with a monster.
Tim’s eyes opened before he was really awake—or maybe he’d never fallen asleep, just become aware that he was awake as the sun filtered in through the sheer curtains and cast soft light on the ceiling above the bed.
Tim rolled to his left so he wouldn’t have to see the man to his right. Tears slid down his temple and the bridge of his nose, quickly dampening his mom’s pillow.
Marchand had been eager a few weeks ago when Tim had asked to have—to go to his parents’ room instead. For Marchand, it was probably some sick glee about fucking Tim in the bed he may have been conceived in, but Tim just—
Tim didn’t associate anything with this room. Not safety, not happiness, not even really his parents. He associated them with the smell of coffee in the kitchen and their offices, but Tim had rarely actually seen them in this room.
Tim just didn’t want Marchand in his room again.
He fought a bitter sob at that. His room? He didn’t want Marchand in his house again, he didn’t want Marchand in his life again, he didn’t want Marchand in him again.
It didn’t matter what Tim wanted, though. It never had. Keeping his bedroom from any further desecration was the best Tim was going to get.
When Tim cried, he cried silently so he wouldn’t wake Marchand. Marchand liked it when Tim cried.