Chapter Text
Years ago, when Tim first arrived in Wayne Manor, he managed to sneak out of his guest room without Bruce waking up. It wasn’t all that likely to begin with, considering the fact that Tim ambushed Bruce into making Tim Robin after the man had done a sixteen-hour day and night shift as Batman. The older hero was also asleep in an entirely different hall, the family wing. Tim was, of course, in the guest wing.
Tim explored.
He made sure not to leave any trace of his findings. The multiple secret guns he found that had to be from Alfred. The few hidden exits he managed to sneak open. The dozens of portraits on the walls.
Tim’s final stop of the night had been on the emptiest side of the manor. It clearly hadn’t been used in years, despite Alfred’s best efforts to keep it tidy. The hallway at least, since all of the rooms looked completely abandoned inside.
Tim creaked the door open, noticing the faint traces of colorful paint on the frame and doorknob as the door was gently pushed in.
Paintings. Dozens and dozens of paintings greeted Tim as he entered the massive room. There was one huge window across the furthest wall, covered by thick curtains that just barely failed to block the moonlight of the night sky.
Tim wandered through the rows of finished and in progress paintings. Many of them were of Thomas and Bruce Wayne. Some of them were of Alfred. A few had Martha Wayne. Most of them had all of them. A couple were of skylines and picture-perfect city sights.
Tim had gaped at the sight of the largest painting, it taking up the entirety of the leftmost wall. It was a huge depiction of Gotham. A view from the very top of Wayne Enterprise.
The detail was immaculate, and Tim had felt truly disappointed when he realized some pieces of the work weren’t done. It wasn’t easy to notice, and it had to be his photographer mind talking, but Tim knew that had the artist been given more time this work could have been even more museum worthy than it already was.
After a few days of avoiding the room, getting used to being Robin in his former idol’s place, Tim had entered it again only after triple checking Bruce and Alfred were asleep.
It was Martha Wayne’s art room, Tim realized, after flipping a few of her smallest pieces around to see her signature on the back.
He felt guilty after that realization, not wanting to return to a place Bruce likely wanted to keep paused in time.
But, as the months dragged on, Tim found himself seeking solitude in the room of paintings.
The sights and even smells of the paint had soon become a comfort for him after particularly difficult nights.
He never dared change Martha’s work, but after a mission went wrong and Tim had to comfort a dying child, he found himself in the room again with his camera in hand.
He didn’t want to change her precious art. So, he didn’t. He added to it in his own way.
Across the huge Gotham depiction, nearly a thirty-by-thirty foot area, Tim noted the places where the paint hadn’t settled enough or needed to be blended better.
Rather than even attempt at picking up some brushes, Tim went out on his own to climb Wayne Enterprise and capture the city on his own.
Slowly, over the next few months, Tim snapped away parts of the city like puzzle pieces. He would return to the art room only during times he knew no one would be able to follow him and carefully set his photographs against the wall.
Over the following years, Tim eventually filled the entire city with a mix of Martha’s paints and his own photos.
At one point, Tim slipped an old picture of Bruce against the painting, Batman crouching on a gargoyle in the distance. The angle wasn’t quite right, so Tim eventually snuck out to recapture the photo with Wayne Enterprise as his location point.
It fit perfectly.
So perfectly that Tim eventually captured a shot of Dick, as Nightwing, flipping over the top of a hotdog stand with a goofy expression visible even from so far away.
Tim placed that one on the wall too.
He also placed a prized possession of his up. It was his favorite photograph of Jason, a simple snapshot of a time when the second Robin was lounging against the edge of a rooftop with a soft grin on his face.
The angle wasn’t perfect for that one either, but Tim couldn’t bring himself to care when he realized just how amazing Martha must have been for her art to have inspired Tim so much. Hell, without her, Tim was certain he would have given up on photography a long time ago with how busy he was nowadays.
When Joker Junior happened, Tim avoided the art room for weeks.
He felt dirty, tainted, and unworthy of relishing in the love and care Martha showed from each and every stroke she’d placed on those canvases so long ago.
After a truly horrible nightmare followed by a laughing fit that nearly caused Tim to pass out, he finally sprinted to his sanctuary and just… He breathed.
It took a long time to heal, even with Bruce, Dick, Babs, and Alfred there to help him, but Tim’s main source of motivation to keep moving was Martha’s art. The woman who showed him just how beautiful the world was even when he felt like nothing could ever be remotely alright again.
At some point, Tim had started to print off other photographs he was particularly proud of and began hanging them around the room. Really around, since he hung them from the ceiling with long pieces of string.
Most of the walls and walking space of the painting room had been filled by Martha herself. The only free space Tim really had to work with was the ceiling.
It took weeks of carefully sneaking his supplies and such in and out of the room without any of the other occupants of the manor noticing, but Tim finally managed to hang five aerial silks from the ceiling. Each corner and the center of the room had a scarf hanging down, perfect for Tim to climb or hang from while he clicked his photos across the many thin strings also hanging across and down from the ceiling.
Once, when Tim really stepped back to take it all in, the room reminded him of a museum. Martha’s art was the personal side of Batman, while Tim’s was his darker and more professional side. One new and the other old.
It was perfect.
Then Jason came back.
Not only that, but he broke Tim so thoroughly the young teen had nearly lost his voice permanently from the damage to his throat.
Tim didn’t dare touch the photos he’d already placed in the room, but he did refrain from hanging any more of his former hero when possible.
Weeks passed, and Tim slowly recovered while deciding to start adding little messages to all of his photos. Most of the notes he left were short descriptions of the photos, when they took place, how the shots were taken, or why Tim was proud of that particular photo enough to hang it in Martha’s room.
The messages helped ground him when the demon brat appeared. The not-so-subtle death threats and actual murder attempts were sometimes too much, and Tim was so thankful Damian had never, and would never, find Martha’s room.
Then Bruce died.
No, not died. Was lost in time.
Tim knew it wasn’t healthy, but he knew the moment he’d run off after losing Robin that he would do anything and everything to get Bruce back. To return him to Martha’s home, where he belonged.
A year went by, and Tim’s heart ached for the comfort of Martha’s art each and every time he had a single moment to think about anything other than survival or saving Batman.
But he did it.
Even after losing Robin.
Even after losing everyone that he thought he could count on.
Even after losing two of his closest allies.
Even after losing his spleen.
Even after nearly losing his life.
He got Bruce back.
He hoped Grandma would be proud.
Tim pulled away from the Wayne family after Bruce returned. The older man noticed it, obviously, and repeatedly attempted to figure out why Tim was so insistent on being away from them aside from his new duties as Red Robin.
Tim never said anything.
It wouldn’t matter, not when he would still occasionally spend the night at the manor if only to sit in his grandmother’s art room to look at her works of art under the soft glow of the fairy lights he’d installed.
Tim knew he should have been sadder about his parents dying. He really did. But it was hard to feel much of anything when he felt closer to a woman that he’d never even met than he did his own flesh and blood. The people who were supposed to love and cherish him. Like how Martha cherished Bruce in each and every painting she made.
There were a few of the paintings still unfinished. Most of them were portraits that Tim had always been too worried about ruining to touch.
But… after another week of fighting with seemingly everyone, Tim just gave in.
He slipped into the room as silently as he could, as if afraid of disturbing the dead now of all times.
Tim’s fingers traced across the edges of the photos he was cutting, uncaring of the damage since all of them were duplicates or too blurry to be useful to him.
By the time Tim was finished filling the bottom corner of Martha Wayne’s family portrait with his own decoupage of cut photographs, he felt a weight lift off of his shoulders.
It took about a month, but Tim managed to complete another four of Martha’s projects before he was called out on an emergency mission.
No one else was available, they were having a family night at some restaurant, so Tim sighed away his annoyance and left his sanctuary to suit up.
Hours later, chained and bloody against a metal chair, Tim really wished he hadn’t left his art.
“So, here’s how this is going to go. We were hoping for the big bat, or maybe another bird, but you’ll do just nicely.” The pasty villain sneered into Tim’s face. Tim just huffed out a sigh, not wanting to show how worried he was especially with the other men in the warehouse setting up a camera to face him while the pasty man carefully clutched some type of syringe in his hand.
“It’s time.” One of the men, the shortest one, finally called out.
Tim flinched back when the syringe was jammed into his neck, but he couldn’t do much else than grunt.
The pasty guy started to laugh. “This serum is a special blend! It’s a truth serum that’ll force you to speak your mind any time a question is asked!” He announced, and Tim felt his face go pale even with his adrenaline spiking at the foreign substance in his blood.
“What’s your favorite color?” The camera guy called out, the flashing light of his camera making it clear he was either recording or already live.
“Red!” Tim automatically replied. His mind came to a screeching halt. Oh, fuck. He was so fucked.
“What’s something you’ve never told anyone before?” Shorty asked next.
“I’m bisexual!” Tim replied loudly before snapping his mouth shut with a grimace. He didn’t particularly mind people knowing that, in and out of costume, but fuck if that wasn’t the way he wanted to come out.
“Uh…” Obviously taken aback, the villains paused.
Tim eyed the camera more closely while he waited, praying for Oracle, or anyone, to contact his com to let him know they didn’t hear anything and that they were close.
The exact opposite happened instead.
Tim whined mutely when Babs’ voice rang in his ear, letting him know that he’s being shown live all across the country and that this was likely connected with Penguin or Two Face since she’s having trouble shutting down the lines televising him.
“All you bats are siblings and shit, right?” Shorty finally demanded. Tim wanted nothing more than to bite his tongue or respond with a few choice words, but he had no way of stopping the stream coming out of his mouth. “I’m not related to any of the other bats and I’m nothing more than a coworker to them.”
Babs was quiet now, and Tim almost thought he heard her gasp.
“So… the rest of them are all related?” “No.” Tim huffed out. Because they weren’t. Not everyone was related biologically. That technicality was saving him here. It was also pretty nice to have that out there, making it even harder for anyone to piece together their identities now.
“Uh… Well… What’s your name?”
Tim managed to use what little self-control he had to respond in a very, very alien language that he’d once discussed with Martian Manhunter about. Something having to do with the most outlandish language the Martian had ever had to decipher and Tim wanting to know a little about it.
The noise that escaped Tim’s throat made all of the men take a step back from him, but Tim only thanked the stars that his previous preparation had worked for this exact situation.
“What the fuck was that?!” Pasty yelled. “An alien language.” Tim responded coolly. It didn’t matter if the idiots knew it was an alien language, it didn’t make it any easier for them to decipher.
“Oh, fuck off, is there any other way to say your name?!” “Yes. Red Hood has a habit of calling me Replacement. It’s a cruel nickname that has been the catalyst for a lot of my mental breakdowns over the years.”
Tim swore, ducking his head down as he realized that this serum was slowly becoming more and more effective. It was making him say more than was asked. That was dangerous. Even more so as he realized his thoughts were slowing down. Getting simpler.
“Huh? Why?” Camera Man asked. “Because Red Hood used to be my hero. He saved my life once, but I know he hates me and would prefer if I just curled up and died already.” Tim answered swiftly.
Babs was chattering now, careful not to ask any questions even as she tried her best to fill Tim’s ears and distract him from the men streaming his live and unfiltered answers to half the damn country.
“Why would he-” “Is Batman really a vampire?!” Shorty finally asked, which was clearly something he’d been dying to know for a while.
“No. He’s something much worse than that.” Tim replied. Because yeah, an overly paranoid and deadly trained man was a lot scarier than a vampire.
“Um…” Shorty paused, worried now. “Well, fuck. What do we ask now? We already know he’s not answering his biggest secret.” “You haven’t asked my biggest secret.” Tim replied in a rush. He then bit his tongue hard enough to bleed.
“Well, what’s your biggest secret?” Shorty demanded.
Tim knew what he was about to say before the guy even finished asking the question.
He could hear the other bats on the line now, all of them panicking and shouting about secret identities and other topics related to their work.
“I feel closer to my dead grandmother, who I’ve never even met, more than anyone else in the world including my parents! I love looking at her art and I add to it because if I don’t I know I would have given up and ended it a long time ago!” Tim yelled, letting out a choked gasp at the reveal even as tears sprang to his eyes.
The com line was silent.
No typing from Babs' keyboard.
No grunts from Bruce.
No jabs from Damian.
No jokes from Dick.
No huffs from Jason.
No taps from Cass.
No laughter from Steph.
No humming from Duke.
Pure, utter silence.
“What?” Camera Man looked startled, losing some of his grip on the camera as he stared at Tim.
“I feel closer to my-” Tim’s repetition of the phrase was cut off by Red Hood and Batman bursting into the warehouse from the ceiling window and both of them taking down the men. Black Bat was there too, pressing her hand against Tim’s mouth to stop him from talking.
Robin and Nightwing arrived moments later, the pair of them both destroying the camera and stomping on it for good measure.
Spoiler and Signal were there too, posed on the rooftop and looking down at the group.
Tim relaxed, letting his body go slack as Bruce worked on releasing the tight chains from his body.
Tim hadn’t noticed that his right hand was numb, but his fingertips were turning off-color by the time Bruce managed to free his wrists and pull Tim’s gloves off to check.
“Are you alright?” Dick asked. “No.” Tim snapped automatically. Dick obviously realized his mistake and apologized for asking a question, but the damage had already been done. Tim slumped again, letting out a short and defeated sigh as Black Bat finally freed his legs from the uncomfortable chair.
At some point, the others managed to pull Tim up and into the back of the Batmobile. Tim was too busy struggling with his raging thoughts to really care.
Alfred greeted them in the cave, where Dick was carrying Tim inside via piggyback ride.
Tim’s eyes glazed over, a feeling he was used to but never before around other people. It was usually in Grandma’s art room. Where it’s safe. Where he’s safe.
Time blurs for a long time after Tim was forced onto the medical cot.
Alfred was gentle as he worked his hands into Tim’s wrists, carefully massaging until the blood flowed properly again.
The others were… Tim wasn’t really sure. He knew a few people were yelling, but for the life of him he couldn’t tell who it was or why.
“Come, my dear boy. Let’s get you to the family meeting.” Alfred said, pulling Tim up and guiding him to the upstairs living area where everyone else was gathered.
Tim blinked, dazed.
“Hi?” He greeted, a little dumbly. The drugs were finally starting to wear off, according to Alfred, but Tim was still feeling the effects rather strongly.
“Why the fuck did you say that?” Jason demanded, earning a slap from Steph. “Because I’m supposed to greet people?” Tim answered. “No, you dumbass! What the fuck was up with your answers about the family shit?!” Jason yelled.
Tim wasn’t sure why Jason was so upset. He knew he should know, but he didn’t.
“Because none of you really love me. I love Grandma Martha like family. Like I do all of you, but at least she’s not here to try to kill me or break my trust over and over again until all I’m left with is some thin semblance of normalcy in a house I know doesn’t want me in it.” Tim’s response was cold but decisive.
“You actually think we don’t care about you?” Duke asked, saddened.
“I know you all care, but I know you don’t love me. I’m not an actual member of the family. I’m just a placeholder. The guy you guys go to when you need something fixed and move on like I was never there.”
Silence followed that response. Cass signed something about Tim’s well-being and his emotions, but he couldn’t really follow it since Tim was more busy thinking about how he wished he could get a photo of this scene to show Grandma. The whole family was there.
“What’s this about my mother?” Bruce asked, his voice low and gravely to hide his real emotions that Tim couldn’t be bothered to think about.
“I started viewing Martha Wayne as my grandmother not long after I first began filling in the spaces of her old and unfinished paintings with photographs of mine.”
“What paintings?” Damian demanded next.
“The ones… in…” Tim’s eyes rolled back and he nearly crashed face first into the ground. Alfred was there though, easily supporting the man up as he came to moments later.
“Art. Room.” Tim muttered before flying to his feet and swiftly walking out.
The entire group followed after Tim, none of them quite sure what to do until Tim yanked open his sanctuary door and strolled in like he’d done it millions of times before.
The various bats had no idea what they were looking at until Tim hoisted himself up onto the centermost scarf and climbed it until he was securely hanging in the very middle of the room.
Tim clapped twice, signalling the fairy lights to flick on.
The sight of the long-forgotten room brought tears to Bruce’s eyes. Alfred let his own tears fall, overwhelmed at the sight of the room looking so full of life.
Tim hummed, pleased as he relished in the feeling of his safety. His space. His real home away from his life.
“You… you did this?” Dick asked, brushing his hand along one of the oldest paintings hanging by the door.
“Not the paintings, that was Grandma. I finished a few of her works with my own decoupage or just photos of everyone.” Tim replied, a small smile on his face as he rolled himself around to grab a nearby string full of photos.
Bruce approached the largest piece, the depiction of Gotham on the left wall.
“My mother…?” “Grandma wasn’t done with it.” Tim sighed, tilting back to look at the wall as well. “I finished it for her. I even got to add some of my favorite photos to it. Well, I had to recreate the ones I took when I was nine, but that’s fine.” Tim giggled, letting himself fall freely before catching himself last second on the scarf. Dick was there to catch him, but Tim brushed him off.
“You seriously did this?” Jason asked, pointing at a family portrait that Tim had only finished adding to a few days ago.
It had Martha, Thomas, Bruce, and Alfred in front of the campfire in the living area originally. Instead of just that, Tim had added Dick hanging from the rooftop and just his top half in frame, Cass peeking out from behind Thomas, Jason lounging on the campfire behind Alfred, Damian standing proudly in front of Martha, and Duke sitting in front of Alfred’s feet.
There were photographs scattered in front of the painting as well. Shots of Steph that Tim was planning on adding alongside a bunch of photos he had of Titus and Alfred the cat.
“Yes.” Tim hummed, settling down and curling up in the furthest corner of the room. It was his nap spot, a place he already had a few blankets and pillows for when he occasionally slept in the room.
“How did you find this place?” Duke asked, looking every which way. “I explored my first night here.” Tim answered with a yawn. “B didn’ want me around, so no tour. I jus’ went ‘round. Found a buncha Alfred’s guns.” Tim snickered, pressing his face into a pillow to smother himself. He was starting to gain his continuous mind back, and he knew he’d hate himself later for spilling everything like he is.
“Stop askin’ me shit.” Tim demanded weakly, his shoulders relaxing as he fell into a fetal position in his little corner.
“Yeah… Of course, Timmy.” Dick replied, sounding dazed still.
Tim didn’t reply after that, letting himself drift into a peaceful sleep while the smell of paint and wood filled his nose.