Archive of Our Own

Tim’s life ends with eight simple words: “We’re going to have to call Mr. Wayne.”

Through the windows of the principal’s office, midday sunlight shines and washes the other occupants of the room—the principal, Mrs. Weaver, her secretary, Miss Anderson, and the nurse, Nurse Reynolds—aglow. They stand shoulder to shoulder, a united front across from him.

Tim should be here receiving an award for his outstanding smarts. They should be chastising him for missing so many days and having so many tardies. He shouldn’t have come into school today at all.

None of those are the case today.

He’s sitting up straight in the stiff chair and he’s never felt more like he’s about to be executed than in this moment. His fists are clenched in his lap. He’s had so many targets on his head that it’s not even funny, but this is easily the worst one.

“A-are you sure?” He stammers, before immediately reeling himself in. 

He can’t be emotional right now—that’ll only make things so much worse. Clenching his fists harder, he purposefully makes himself sit back in the chair. A familiar mask of calm disinterest settles on his face, and he turns to the secretary, who he knows from experience will be the easiest to crack. 

“Miss Anderson, please, I really don’t think that’s necessary.” He makes himself sound contrite, like he’s just some stupid rich kid who thought he could flout the rules. “I understand I shouldn’t have been skateboarding in the halls and I promise not to do it again. If you’d like, you can even keep my board in here—I’ll come to retrieve it at the end of the day.”

She exhales softly, and glances to Mrs. Weaver. “Tim…,” she says, her voice achingly gentle. There’s concern in her eyes and he hates it, he hates it, but he doesn’t let his expression doesn’t change. A crack in his mask is the difference between life or death; his ability to hold onto a certain kind of smile, whatever befits the situation, has gotten him farther than this with hardened criminals. 

And even if he doesn’t consider those situations—since they happen to Robin (or Red Robin, now), not Tim—he doesn’t have to look any further than all of the annoying galas and parties he’s had to attend in his life. His parents made it clear when he was very young that his best weapons are his reputation and his behavior, and they’ve been proven right again and again. Having good manners has gotten him out of tons of binds, shifting suspicion off of him, veiling his true feelings easily. 

Now if only it can work this time, too.

“Mr. Drake,” Mrs. Weaver interrupts. The set of her mouth is very serious, her laugh lines completely smoothed out. Tim’s heart is pounding in his chest like he’s being chased by Harley’s rabid dogs. “If this was only because you were skateboarding in the hall, then…” she inhales, a bracing-oneself kind of breath if he’s ever seen one. “Then, we would consider that course of action. But you are well aware it’s no longer just about that.”

“Isn’t it?” He asks, going full on Brucie with his faint, undeniably vacant tone.

Nurse Reynolds shakes his head, giving a pointed look at Tim. He doesn’t have to say anything to get his point across, they all know why they’re there, but Tim is unwilling to let go of his mask for anything.

“I only tripped,” Tim says with a shrug. “I’m fine.”

“You hit another student,” Nurse Reynolds reminds him.

“Dante’s fine, too. He didn’t even need any band-aids, you said so yourself, Nurse.” At that, he stands, as smoothly as he can manage. If he just keeps his back straight and his face neutral, they’ll be persuaded, he tells himself. The air is thick with unspoken tension and it’s suffocating him. “Can I go back to class now?” 

“No, Mr. Drake, you may not,” Mrs. Weaver chastises, standing herself. “Sit down. Miss Anderson, will you please call Mr. Wayne? Ask him to come by but don’t give any sensitive information over the phone. We’ll need to discuss this with him in person.”

Please don’t, Tim thinks desperately. But he doesn’t say it. “I’m eighteen,” he tries instead. “Surely I’m old enough that we don’t need to get him involved.”

The principal shakes her head just once, though her ‘this matter is put to rest’ face is so much less intimidating than Alfred’s. “Now, please, Natalie.”

He doesn’t even get the chance to warn her to let Bruce know he’s not, like, imminently dying before Miss Anderson nods and escapes the room. He stares at the shut door for a beat too long, wishing he could follow her out. And then run away from Gotham for good measure. He’ll have to go somewhere not even the Supers can reach him—Talia would probably take him in, if he plays his cards right. Maybe she won’t even tell Bruce.

“Mr. Drake, you understand that this is policy,” Mrs. Weaver says, interrupting his spiraling escape plans. Her voice wavers impossibly between firm and uncertain. It must be scary having to inform Bruce Wayne, a main benefactor of the school, that his son is—well. What they’re accusing him of. “We must tell the parent or guardian when we have this kind of concern for a student.”

Tim’s eye twitches. He politely tells her, “It’s a baseless concern.”

Mrs. Weaver’s frown deepens. “Mr. Drake.”

“What? It is!” As soon as he says it, he regrets it—he isn’t supposed to show when things upset him. He’s been better about following that rule lately. No one has noticed anything wrong, exactly as Tim wants it. He’s fine. He tucks his hands into his pockets, knuckles creaking from how tightly he’s holding his fists.

Nurse Reynolds opens his mouth, probably about to refute that or say something awful like ‘Tim, we’re worried about you’, but Tim absolutely cannot handle hearing it right now. Though it’s rude, he interrupts, “If it’s all the same to you both, I’d like to wait until Bruce is here to discuss further.”

They share a hesitant look. Tim swears if they make him talk, he will abuse the Wayne name to get himself the hell out of here, Bruce or no Bruce. He’s good at wiggling his way out of things with pretty, petty words.

“…Alright,” Mrs. Weaver gives in. “We can’t let you return to class until this is resolved. Would you rather stay here or out there with Miss Anderson?”

He’s perfectly polite, waiting until she’s done speaking before he answers, though he knew his answer as soon as she began to ask. “I’ll sit in the main office.” 

She doesn’t smile. He doesn’t care, can’t care right now, and says a perfunctory goodbye. He leaves before either adult can say anything else. 

He nods to Miss Anderson and the other secretaries before finding a seat, safely distanced from the door but still close enough he’ll be able to make a run for it if needed.

“Your… ah, Mr. Wayne is on his way,” Miss Anderson says from her desk.

Fuck. He keeps his genial smile on, pretending that his gut isn’t churning in fear. He can’t think of a worse place or time to throw up but if he acknowledges his anxiety, he knows it will happen. “Thank you.”

What follows is forty minutes of miserable waiting. The WE building is halfway across the city, not to mention the traffic. Tim hopes Bruce isn’t worrying himself but more than that, he hopes Bruce won’t… won’t… he doesn’t even know what. He can think of dozens of ways Bruce could react to this, and none of them are good. His clenched fists are the only physical expression of his anxiety that he allows himself.

Everyone in the office, even just people passing through, give him looks—not the normal, ‘ oh shit it’s Tim Drake-Wayne ’ stares, but ‘ obviously something is going on and I’m going to spread rumors about it ’ curious ones. Still, even with how uncomfortable they make him, he doesn’t regret sitting out here. At least no one is trying to talk to him.

He doesn’t scroll through his phone, unable to stomach whatever memes his friends and siblings have likely sent him by now. 

Looking out of the window, he wishes he’d ignored Alfred knocking on his door this morning. At his age, with the kinds of responsibilities he has, the fact that he attends school at all is more of a favor to Alfred than it is anything else. It’s certainly not because he wants to be here.

But when Alfred told him he needed to finish the year, and Bruce concurred, and Duke was all happy about having an inside connection to the seniors, Tim hadn’t said no. His plans to get a GED on the side of having an actual job were put down for good, and he resigned himself to one more year. He could do it for them—he will do it for them. Even if the events of today are enough to make him regret that choice, he will.

If Bruce will even let him, after this meeting.

Tim can’t decide which response he’s hoping for. 

Some small, silly part of himself is desperate for Bruce to—to believe him, to take his side. To tell the principal and the nurse they’re both looking too much into things. Tim is fine. Tim is so fine, he can go back to class and finish up the day and then finish up the year and never have to worry about this ever again.

An even bigger part—one that remembers his childhood and his parents griping to each other about how positively uncouth Dick Grayson and Jason Todd were, running around charity events laughing at their own jokes and rolling their eyes at Bruce—is terrified that Bruce won’t understand. He’ll agree with Mrs. Weaver and Nurse Reynolds. He’ll tell Alfred and Dick out of concern, and then everyone will know, even Damian, and they’ll—they’ll—

 He lets out an inaudible sigh, cutting off his own thought process, desperate for all of this to be over already.

The door to the office suddenly swings open, perfect timing. Bruce steps in, dressed in one of his nice work suits, his eyes immediately scanning the room for Tim. As soon as they land on him, he settles a bit, obviously relieved to see he’s not grievously injured. Or injured at all, really. He only tripped. 

Tim stands as Bruce sweeps over to him, one hand coming up to land on Tim’s shoulder. He tilts his head back, giving him a quick once-over. When he doesn’t see anything wrong, he asks, “She said you had an accident?”

“I’m fine, really,” Tim says. He stamps down viciously on the war going on in his head—however Bruce reacts, he’ll just have to deal with it. No use worrying himself sick in the meantime. 

Easier said than done.

Bruce narrows his eyes the slightest bit, disbelieving, but he doesn’t question Tim out loud. “She also said I’d need to have a talk with the principal.”

Tim swallows and nods. He can’t get any words out.

Not letting go of Tim’s shoulder, he guides them over to Miss Anderson’s desk. She’s familiar with them from previous visits, and let’s them know they can go right on in. Her eyes have that—that pity back. Tim turns his head to look away from her, a falsely natural move that still manages to catch Bruce’s attention. Damn it.

“Mr. Wayne,” Mrs. Weaver greets, the weight on her words only further tipping Bruce off. “Thank you for coming in. Please, both of you can have a seat here in front of my desk.” 

They sit in separate chairs, but Bruce rests his hand on the back of Tim’s chair, not quite touching him. Even just his arm feels protective, just as much as when he’s got on his suit and lets Tim hide under his cape. Bruce asks, “Can you tell me what’s going on? Miss Anderson didn’t exactly give any details.”

She nods, crossing around to sit behind her desk. “First, let me introduce you—Mr. Wayne, this is our school’s main nurse, Nurse Reynolds. Nurse, this is Bruce Wayne.”

They share brief pleasantries that Tim can hardly pay any attention to. The panic from earlier comes back with a vengeance as he realizes she’s really going to do it, she’s really going to tell Bruce. He squeezes his hands in his lap, hoping he appears like he’s listening even a little bit. 

“Tim said he had an accident,” Bruce offers, clearly ready to get to the point of this visit.

“Yes, he did. Mr. Drake was riding his skateboard in the halls this morning and bumped into another student, causing them both to fall to the ground. Neither seemed seriously injured, but Nurse Reynolds checked them over just to make sure.” She glances beside her. “When he was checking over Tim, he noticed some concerning marks on his palms, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce frowns. He’s probably thinking that this isn’t the usual ‘where on earth are your children getting all these bruises from, Mr. Wayne?’ situation where they have to excuse crime fighting injuries. Sitting up straighter, he asks, “…What kind of concerning marks do you mean?”

Tim closes his eyes. His fists are clenched so tightly his palms are stinging. This is really happening. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“He has open wounds from his fingernails piercing the skin. Scars, as well.” Then, like Tim isn’t even in the room, Nurse Reynolds says straightforwardly, “Tim refused to explain where they came from or how long it has been going on. To be frank, Mr. Wayne, we believe they may be a sign of self-harm.”

They make him go sit back in the main office while Mrs. Weaver and Nurse Reynolds tell Bruce just how serious this is. He knows they’ll be giving him recommendations on what to do based on experiences with previous students, knows they’ll tell Bruce not to pretend it isn’t happening since it so clearly is. He can practically hear Mrs. Weaver impart that this is something that cannot be swept under the rug or ignored.

Tim bites the inside of his cheek, caught between shame and offense. This is ridiculous. He’s not self-harming—he thinks he would know if he was cutting himself or acting more reckless than usual in the field. 

He’s not depressed, either. None of his friends have died or been seriously injured in a long time. Things at home are fine. School is annoying but he deals with it on the days he bothers to go. No rogues have caused particularly awful damage recently. 

There’s nothing going on in his life to be upset about, and even if there was, he’s not self-harming. He’s fine. He is .

But if Bruce doesn’t think so… it can go so many ways. Maybe he’ll ground Tim for a time, and let him back once Tim’s palms have healed. Maybe he’ll make Tim see Leslie, or worse, a therapist. Or maybe it’ll be worse—maybe he’ll force Tim to stop fighting crime entirely; it wouldn’t be the first time he tried that with one of his Robins. 

No matter what he does, though, Tim is sure he’ll tell Alfred. And if Bruce believes Tim is hurting himself, Alfred will too.

One of the very last things he wants is to put any more of a burden on his pseudo-grandfather, but that’s exactly what this will be: a burden. Another thing to worry about. Even if—when—Tim moves away, it’ll be in the back of his mind. 

Tim’s cheek stings between his teeth, the slight taste of rust seeping into his mouth, but he doesn’t let go. 

He’s going to have to stop clenching his fists. That much is obvious. The very thought is enough to send anxiety zipping through him. 

Ever since he was a child, it’s been one of few, if not the only, ways he could express his feelings. Great shows of emotion, especially in public, are uncouth. They’re embarrassing. They make one seem sloppy and uneducated. Tim was raised by two people who’d grown up in the circles of Gotham’s elite, who’d known how to show their emotions—whether they were real or not—politely, appropriately. Quietly . 

Working with Batman is much the same. If Rogues know they’ve struck a nerve, they’ll pounce. If mobsters know their shot landed, they’ll run around bragging about knocking down a Bat. Civilians shouldn’t be able to capture anything from them at all. Anonymity is paramount and if someone notices Red Robin and Tim Drake have the same cocky smile, then it could all be over.

In his experience, no one looks at the hands unless weapons are involved. They watch the face, the eyes, the jaw. They notice shoulders stiffening, foot stance widening. The only time they care about if someone’s hands are curled into fists is if said fist is flying towards them.

It was safe. It was his constant outlet. When something upset him or things felt out of control, he could ball up his fists. The sting of it helps him focus, keeps him in the moment. 

But now the principal and the nurse have ruined that for him, and Bruce is going to do something about this, he won’t just let it go.

It’s a miserable fifteen minute wait. Miss Anderson keeps shooting him worried looks but he ignores her and everyone else that comes in or out of the office. When Bruce comes out, he stands.

“Can I go back to class?” Anything to put off the inevitable.

Bruce is frowning one of his dad frowns, the ones he turns on them when they’re injured on shift. They make Jason and Damian (and Tim, sometimes) uncomfortable and shy. Dick, Cass, and Duke perk up when he turns it on them, lighthouses for Bruce’s paternal woes. 

“You have the rest of the week off,” he says. “I thought it would be best.”

Tim can’t think of anything to say to that. He doesn’t bother.

Things have already gone to hell, so he doesn’t say goodbye to Miss Anderson on his way out of the building. Bruce follows behind him, probably trying not to crowd him but failing miserably. He doesn’t say anything in the parking lot, not even when Tim wordlessly rushes to get in. Everything feels unsteady and he needs the solitude and closed in space of whatever fancy car Bruce’s driving today. 

Bruce enters sedately, tossing a packet of papers carefully into the back seat. He grabs his seatbelt and waits to click it until Tim’s clicked his first.

They still don’t speak, not until Bruce has pulled out of the lot and they’re three blocks away from the school. “Tim,” he says heavily.

“I’m not,” he bursts out. They aren’t home or in the Cave, they’re practically still in public, but he can’t keep it in anymore. That desperate voice in the back of his mind is pleading for Bruce to understand. “They’re wrong. I’m not—it’s not—”

“Take a breath,” Bruce interrupts, firm. “Exhale slowly.”

Tim tries. His eyes are burning. Shame sits hot and heavy in his chest. What the hell is he doing, crying? He’s been through worse things. There’s nothing to cry about.

Bruce has to guide him through several deep breaths before any kind of conversation can happen. And when it finally does, it’s not at all what he’s expecting.

“Do you want ice cream?”

“What?” Tim chokes out.

“I think we should get some ice cream. Come on, I know a place.” He turns them down a street that will take them back towards the nice shopping center, not looking over at Tim. Giving him a moment of privacy and a distraction before they’ll have to have a serious talk.

Tim pouts, knowing exactly what he’s doing. But damn if it doesn’t work. Indignantly, Tim says, “I know all the same places as you.”

Bruce doesn’t reply except to pull into Tim’s favorite ice cream shop. They go through the drive-thru, and Bruce orders for them both, getting Tim a mint chocolate chip milkshake without having to ask. He replies good naturedly to the employees, slipping on his Brucie persona like nothing is wrong. Thankfully, they don’t linger there long.

With no cupholders around (stupid fancy cars), Tim has to hold both of their milkshakes as Bruce drives them… wherever it is he’s taking them. Tim doesn’t ask, just stares out the window and lets the cold condensation relieve the pain in his palms.

The drive is longer than Tim expects, quiet except for low level music playing from the stereo. Every once in a while, Bruce hums to himself, though Tim isn’t sure if he’s thinking or if it’s in reaction to the other cars on the road. Some of his anxiety eases with the calm atmosphere, though most of it can’t be soothed. He can’t decide if this ride and the ice cream and the not-yelling is meant to be a last hurrah before things are irreparably changed or not.

They cross the bridge all without speaking, and end up parking in one of the lesser used parks in Bristol. It used to be a lovers' lane, but nowadays it’s far more useful as a stargazing spot. Bruce shifts into park and holds out his hand for his shake, boring strawberry.

He needs to get ahead of this. Inhaling, he starts, “Bruce—” 

But Bruce shakes his head. “Let’s eat first. Then we can talk.”

“But….” He sighs. “Fine.”

Too anxious to enjoy his ice cream, he mostly spoons at it, letting it get soupy and only taking a few bites. He has to stave off the urge to grab the papers from behind them.

Bruce notices. Of course he does. He finishes his shake and throws the trash in the little bag Alfred insists on every car having before finally, finally turning to face Tim. “I’ve made you wait long enough.”

Tim doesn’t reply. He doesn’t think an agreement is the best way to begin this conversation.

Hesitantly, Bruce asks, “Can I see your hands, Tim?”

“I’m not s-self-harming,” Tim immediately says, trying not to immaturely snatch his hands in close like Bruce might force him to show them.

“I didn’t say you were, bud.” Bruce raises an eyebrow. “I just want to see how bad these cuts are.”

He bites down on the retort that flies to his tongue. He’s sure that back talking will only make this go worse. Reluctantly, he holds his hands out, palms up. Each one has a line of four open, crescent shaped wounds. They aren’t very deep, already healing over, but they still don’t make a pretty picture.

“Were they treated?” Bruce asks neutrally.

“The nurse gave me antiseptic.”

Bruce hums. Gently, he takes Tim’s hands in his own, but not to get a closer look like Tim expected. Instead, he softly curls Tim’s fingers forward until he’s making fists, his nails hovering right over the lines.

“Tim, kiddo,” Bruce sighs, not letting go of his hands. 

Tim’s heart thumps in his throat painfully. He’s about to say it. He’s about to tell him that he can’t patrol if he’s hurting himself. He’s going to take it all away. He’s— 

“Can you explain to me why, why you do this?”

“It’s not because I—I want to hurt myself, I promise, B, I’m not—”

Bruce interrupts, “Slow down. Don’t tell me what it’s not, tell me what it is. Why do you cut your hands like this?”

Swallowing, he tries to find a way to explain. “My p-parents taught me to have a ‘politely interested’ expression,” Tim fumbles. “I wasn’t supposed to emote or I’d em-embarrass them.”

He can see the contempt in Bruce’s eyes, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything about Tim’s parents. He’s learned over the years that they did him wrong in a lot of ways, but he still loves and misses them. And this was one of those things they’d taught him that he’s always seen as an exception, a good nugget of advice in a sea of abandonment. Up until this afternoon, that is. 

“They never got mad at me if I clenched my fists. They didn’t notice. Eventually, I learned instead of throwing tantrums I could just… accept it. Them leaving again. Being shuttled off to another finishing school. Whatever it was. Even if it made me mad.”

“And this was how you coped?”

Tim nods miserably. That word, coped, suddenly makes everything worse; heat flares in his face as his eyes well up. He squeezes them shut but a few traitorous tears leak out, leaving hot trails down his cheeks. “Nothing I did could change it, and they’d just get m-mad at me if I ever talked back. This is—was—something I can control.” He sniffles, “B, I—I learned a long time ago that I can’t be emotional. I have to be perfect. And I-I can be but only if I can—”

He tries to demonstrate, tries to show Bruce how he digs his fingernails in deliberately. The sting is distracting, familiar, but it only lasts a second before Bruce is forcing him to stop. He pulls his fingers straight, careful not to hurt him.

“You can’t keep doing this, Tim.” Bruce’s gaze is intense, his hands warm against Tim’s clammy skin. “I know this is going to sound rich coming from me, but… I think it’s time you let it out.”

Tim gapes at him. Tears begin streaming down his face in earnest, silent but more than he’s allowed himself in a long time. “What?”

“Let yourself cry, chum. It—it helps.”

Tim shakes his head. Teardrops slide off his jaw onto his expensive school pants. “I don’t want to. I can’t. I’m fine. I’m fine .”

“You’re not,” Bruce says gently. He tugs Tim closer, wrapping his arms loosely around his back. “Come on, let it out. I’m here. You don’t have to be perfect. It’s okay.”

Tim resists, but he’s helpless, caught in his dad’s arms. With a strangled gasp, he dives forward to hide his face in Bruce’s chest. The dam inside him has been threatening overflow for years—but finally, finally, he lets it out.