Archive of Our Own

After the flood, after all the chaos and panic dies down as the people of Gotham rebuild, there are galas.

Charity galas, mostly, to raise money for new causes borne out of destruction. A few have specific reasons, but Bruce hardly pays attention. He finds that it all blurs together as he goes to and from an event every day and night, barely managing to escape the curious eyes of the masses to complete his nightly duty.

The city needs Batman more than ever, and Bruce isn’t going to deny her call.

But now, he’s starting to see that it might need Bruce Wayne as well.

★★

Bruce fiddles with (Alfred’s) his cufflinks, nodding every so often as the man next to him blathers on about his summer home. He keeps trying to compare the disrepair of it to the current state of Gotham, and Bruce doesn’t have the energy to correct him.

He doesn’t have much energy at all, really. His body is sore from nights in Gotham’s streets, and the scab on his shoulder itches. Unfortunately, missing this gala would bring more scrutiny onto him, especially now that he’s doing more public appearances, so Bruce couldn’t skip it to rest (or comb through more of last night’s footage).

Another person joins the conversation, but Bruce doesn’t bother looking at their face. Instead, he’s staring at the hand on his arm, at the casual way they’re touching him, and a strange feeling bubbles within. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and opens his mouth, but what spills out is something unexpected, and in hindsight, he realizes he should have said it sooner:

“I need fresh air.”

He ignores the perplexed looks on their faces and moves past them, walking toward the balcony doors. Bruce politely nods to people who point at him or try to get his attention, and he doesn’t let anyone stop him from his goal.

Finally, Bruce steps through those doors and into the semi-fresh night air. He can practically taste the smog in the back of his throat with every breath, but Bruce doesn’t care. 

Anywhere is better than being surrounded by socialites trying to climb a ladder.

He spies a stone bench off to the side and quickly walks over, slowly sitting down. His side twinges with the movement, but Bruce pays it no mind. Bruce shuts his eyes and breathes deeply, hoping to soothe his nerves. He’s not cut out for all this, but it’s not like he can stop (without upsetting Alfred, of course, and Bruce plans on appeasing him for as long as he can after nearly losing the man).

Bruce lifts his head when he feels someone sit beside him. He stares out into the darkness beyond the neatly trimmed hedges, waiting for his unwanted companion to say something. Unfortunately, his expectations aren’t met, so Bruce sighs and looks over, only to blink in surprise.

There is a child.

A toddler, judging by size, with black hair and bright blue eyes, staring directly at him from behind the green sippy cup in his hands. The child briefly tips his head back, and Bruce can hear the sound of him swallowing before he removes the cup and smacks his lips together, sighing in what sounds like satisfaction.

Bruce glances around, hoping a parent or caretaker might be nearby. Unfortunately, he’s alone with this child, so Bruce sighs and scoots over to create some space between them, hoping it’s enough.

Something bumps his thigh only seconds later.

The child is no longer looking at him. Instead, he’s swinging his legs from where they dangle off the bench, tapping his nails against the cup. Bruce keeps his eyes on the kid as he slowly creates another few centimeters of space, and he’s surprised when the toddler immediately closes the gap, not even caring that he’s pressed against Bruce’s side.

“Are you…” Bruce starts, glancing around again. Like before, there’s no one around. “Are you lost?” he asks, looking at him.

The boy shakes his head.

“Are your parents here?”

A nod, followed by a tiny finger pointing at the glass doors leading back into the gala.

Bruce considers helping the child off the bench and leading him inside to search for his parents, but he envisions the whole crowd staring at him as he enters, scrutinizing them. Rumors of fatherhood might follow, or the kind he’s only seen in police reports—the ones that make him hit a little harder when he comes across those types of people in the streets.

“What’s your name?” Bruce asks next. Maybe he knows his family. That’ll make things easier because at least he can wait until the parents pass by and wave them down to take their child.

“Tim.”

“Oh.” No last name. Great. “Okay.”

“Otay,” Tim says, bobbing his head. He turns toward Bruce and points a finger at him. If he were taller, it might be directly in his face. Instead, it barely reaches his person. “You name?”

It’s refreshing to encounter someone who doesn’t recognize him right off the bat, but equally humiliating because the someone in question is a toddler. 

“Bruce,” he answers.

“Boose,” Tim whispers, and holds up his sippy cup. “Juice?”

“No, thank you,” Bruce says politely, not even bothering to correct him. At least it’s better than the drunk woman who pawed at him while calling him ‘Bryce.’ “I already had my juice today. You can drink it.”

Tim grins, revealing a small gap between his two front teeth, and tips his head back when he drinks his juice again. Some of it spills out the corner of his mouth and down his chin, droplets falling onto his little suit.

“S’yummy,” Tim tells him when he lowers his cup again. “Apple.”

“Apple juice is good,” Bruce agrees.

Suddenly, Tim thrusts his sippy cup in Bruce’s direction. “Hold!” he demands, and Bruce blinks before grabbing it, watching as Tim digs through his pockets.

The boy pulls out several rocks, which tumble to the ground when he tips his hand sideways, a couple of wrapped strawberry hard candies, and a piece of lint, until finally, Tim holds something up with a triumphant sound, and when Bruce peers closer, he sees…

“Dina-sow!” Tim exclaims, showing off a small spinosaurus figure. “You wike?”

“It’s very cool,” Bruce tells him as he stares at the dinosaur in question. “And yes, I like it.”

A fact about Bruce, only known to one other person (Alfred, of course), is that he loves dinosaurs. 

He enjoys watching documentaries about them in his downtime, and he follows several paleontologists on his secret social media accounts to watch their videos on dinosaur facts and excavations. The Archeopteryx happens to be one of his favorites, and he wishes he could see the London Specimen up close.

But the spinosaurus isn’t so bad, either.

“Me too,” Tim says, kicking his feet. “They swim.”

“That’s right,” Bruce replies, nodding. “And they ate fish.”

Tim’s eyes widen. “Fish?” he parrots, bringing the figure close to his face. “How?”

“They had straight teeth,” Bruce explains, pointing at the dinosaur’s face. “And a strong jaw. People think they would shake their food to tear off pieces. It also ate other smaller dinosaurs, and scientists know this because bones of other dinosaurs were found in its teeth.”

“Wow,” Tim whispers, sounding awed.

“Yes,” Bruce says. “Wow.” He pauses, glancing at the bright light streaming from the ballroom to the outdoors. “Do you know any dinosaur facts, Tim?”

“Aar-kee-opt-er-icks,” Tim says slowly, and Bruce is impressed he managed to get the word out. “They fwy… or gwide!”

“That’s right.”

“And gots f-feathers.”

“Oh, do they?”

“Yeah!” Tim waves his little figure around. “An’ tail! An’ teef! Um, one feathy was bwack. And cwaws!” He extends his free hand, curling his fingers inward. “Wike that!”

“Very good,” Bruce praises and Tim smiles widely at him, which causes Bruce to instinctively smile back. “Did you know there are thirteen Archaeopteryx fossils in existence? There may be more out there, but we only have those right now.”

“Fo-tin,” Tim replies, and it takes Bruce a moment to realize he means fourteen.

He frowns. “I don’t think that’s true,” Bruce says gently.

“Uh-huh! Mama and Daddy give to me.”

Bruce stops, staring at this strange little child. “Are you telling me that your parents somehow managed to find an Archaeopteryx fossil and brought it home for you?” he asks incredulously. “Without telling anyone?”

Somehow, this makes Tim laugh. “Yeah,” he says, swinging his feet again. “Mama says it was ack-see-dent, so they give it to me!” He nods. “I have it.”

“Oh.” Bruce doesn’t know what to say to that, and he’s trying very hard not to ask Tim if he can go over and see it. That’d be too weird. “Cool.”

Suddenly, the door to the balcony opens, and a flood of sound fills the quiet space. Bruce winces, nails digging into his palms, but he does sit up straighter when a harried-looking woman stands in the doorway. She glances around frantically before tugging on a few strands of hair.

“Timothy?” she says, sounding close to tears. “Are you out here? Please be out here! I don’t want to get in trouble with your parents!”

“Oops,” Tim says and hops off the bench. “Hi, Miss Sawa! I’m here!”

“Timothy!” Sara, apparently, says, looking relieved. She rushes over to grab Tim by the shoulders, seemingly checking him over. “You can’t keep running off like that! What if something happened to you? What if you had fallen off the balcony? Your mother would have my head, little sir!”

Bruce clears his throat.

The woman turns toward him. She’s about two decades older than him, based on the gray in her hair and the lines on her face. Bruce can tell, based on one look alone, that she’s kind, and since Tim’s leaning toward her, gripping the end of her long skirt with one hand, he believes the child thinks the same.

“I’m sorry, Miss Sara,” Bruce says, adopting Tim’s name for her. It seems like the correct choice since she smiles briefly before narrowing her dark eyes to scrutinize him. “I don’t know how it happened, but your Timothy here came outside and decided to keep me company while I was getting some fresh air.”

“Ah.” Sara relaxes, and she actually smiles at him. “Well, thank you for inadvertently keeping an eye on him, Mr. Wayne.”

He nearly starts at the use of his name, still unused to people actually perceiving him. “Of course,” Bruce says, glancing at Tim. The boy grins at him, and Bruce’s lips twitch in response. “He was very nice.”

“I’m glad,” Sara says. “As he usually bites strangers.” She sounds fond as she says it, and there’s no mistaking the warmth on her as she gazes down at Tim. “Say goodbye to Mr. Wayne, Tim,” she says as she leads him away. “We have to go home now.”

“Bye, Boose!” Tim says, waving frantically in his direction. “Bye-bye!”

Bruce hesitates for a moment before lifting his hand to return the gesture. Tim beams widely at him and starts bouncing in place, tugging on his nanny’s hand. He watches them disappear into the gala and sighs, his anxiety from earlier coming back and coiling tightly in his belly, making him slightly nauseous.

He tucks his hands into his pockets, frowning when his fingers hit something hard. Bruce pulls out the object, and there, in his palm, sits the spinosaurus figure.

★★

A majority of the next few galas are still for charity, which Bruce gladly donates to (and the rest of the socialites follow—sheep, the lot of them), and there are even a few auctions here and there. No object ever catches Bruce’s eye, but he does bid on a particularly rare piece of amber and ends up winning.

“Ah, yes, just what you need,” Alfred comments dryly when Bruce tries to find the perfect place for it. “More clutter.”

Bruce frowns. “It’s not clutter,” he complains, holding out his prize. “It’s fossilized tree resin.”

“Of course. My mistake.”

He ends up placing it on a bookshelf where his parents' prized books are lined up in alphabetical order, right beside the spinosaurus figure.

★★

Bruce meets Tim for the second time at a GCPD gala.

He only goes to support Gordon, who receives plenty of praise and applause during the few speeches some people dare to give during dinner. Bruce even manages to have a quiet conversation with the man, praising him for his work and passing on his good wishes to the man’s wife and daughter.

Then, he feels something tug his pants.

Bruce glances down, surprised when he sees a familiar chubby face. Even with the boy’s hair slicked back, Bruce recognizes the bright blue eyes, as well as the toothy grin that appears when their gazes meet.

“Hi, Boose,” Tim says and holds up his arms.

Bruce stares at him, confused.

“Up,” Tim says, frowning at him. “Hafta cawwy me.”

“Oh. Right.” 

Bruce leans down, hesitates, and places his hands beneath Tim’s armpits, slowly standing with him. He holds the boy out in front of him, watching as he kicks out his feet, and remembers how women typically held their children. Bruce hastily pulls him close, and Tim giggles.

“Boose siwwy,” Tim says and wraps a hand around his tie. It’s definitely going to get wrinkled, but Bruce doesn’t care, not when his body is starting to loosen up a little. “Snack?”

“I don’t have any snacks,” Bruce says apologetically.

“Not you.” Tim points to the mostly untouched dessert table off to the side. “Snack!”

“Did you have dinner already?” Alfred never let him have dessert before dinner, at least.

“Uh-huh,” Tim says, bobbing his head. “Mac’n’cheese!”

“Mac and cheese,” Bruce repeats, thoughtful. Alfred didn’t let him have any as a child, even when the man got desperate enough to let Bruce have breakfast for dinner when he was still caught up in his grief. “I suppose we can have a few snacks while we’re here.”

He takes a step toward the table and stops, turning toward Gordon. Embarrassingly enough, his face grows warm at his look of amusement, but when he opens his mouth to apologize, the older man waves him away.

“I get it,” Gordon says. “Really, I do. Go and entertain your new best friend. I should probably make my rounds and talk to other people, anyway.”

“Right,” Bruce says, dipping his head. “Thank you for the conversation.”

He walks over to the dessert table, ignoring the looks tossed his way when he weaves past a small cluster of people. Bruce peers down at the offerings, noting the bright, colorful pastries, all labeled, as well as the fudge fountain with bowls of marshmallows around it.

“Which one should we try first?” he asks, peering at Tim.

“Um.” Tim frowns. “Boose pick.”

Bruce stares at all his options, wanting to make the correct decision. There are a few pieces of dessert he tried in the past, but he wants to branch out of his usual pickings, and that’s why he chooses a plate with a slice of flan. He also grabs a fork and uses it to cut off a corner before slipping it into his mouth.

He immediately recoils when he feels the mushy, thick texture. It also tastes… curdled, which nearly makes his gag reflex act up. Bruce immediately calls upon all of his training to keep his face carefully blank as he picks up a napkin, brings it to his mouth, and spits the flan into it.

“Yucky?” Tim asks curiously.

“Yucky,” Bruce confirms solemnly. “Sadly, it wasn’t made correctly.”

Tim wrinkles his nose. “No t’anks,” he says and points at the macarons off to the side. “Those? We twy ‘em?”

“We can try those,” Bruce says, moving closer to the plate. He peers at the colorful desserts and asks, “Which one should I get?”

“Pink!” Tim exclaims. “Do pink, Boose! I wike pink!”

Bruce picks up one of the pink macarons, a small portion of the shell cracking despite the light hold. He takes a bite, humming over the light sweetness that coats his tongue.

“It’s good,” he says, blinking in surprise when Tim leans forward to bite off a piece, his teeth getting a little too close to his fingers. “Careful.”

Tim hums as he eats the macaron, tilting his head from side to side. After a while, he nods rapidly before grabbing Bruce’s tie to wipe his mouth. Bruce mentally despairs over the lecture Alfred will surely give him. “Boose wight! S’good!”

Bruce is about to respond when he catches a flash of red in the corner of his eye. He turns when he sees someone approaching, keeping Tim on the side closest to the table, and sees a blonde woman dressed in a long black gown. She’s eyeing him with a familiar gleam of intrigue—the kind he sees whenever the paparazzi recognize him.

Luckily, he recognizes her, too.

“Good evening, Mr. Wayne,” Vicki Vale, an up-and-coming writer for the Gotham Globe, says. Her hand twitches like she wants to extend it, but clearly, she refrains since Bruce’s hands are busy holding Tim. “It’s so nice to finally catch you at one of these events. I have a few questions for you.”

Seeing no way out, Bruce refrains from sighing. “Ask away,” he says.

She leans closer, smiling in a way that might be alluring if Bruce wasn’t already caught up in another (maybe he should check on Selina soon). “Is the source of your reclusiveness this child? Are you introducing another Wayne to Gotham?”

“Tim isn’t mine,” Bruce says quickly. “He’s—”

“No!” Tim exclaims, garnering a few turned heads. Bruce can feel their stares burning into his back, but it’s hard to hunch his shoulders when he’s holding Tim. “Boose is my bestest fwiend.”

Bruce mentally despairs over Tim’s rude display. He takes a moment to count his breaths before turning toward Vicki Vale, opening his mouth to apologize. Bruce stops when he sees how… charmed she looks as she gazes at Tim, red lips pulled into a smile.

“Oh, is he?” she says, sounding amused.

Tim shoves a finger into his mouth. “Yeth,” he says, and Bruce hears someone coo nearby.

Vale looks like she’s seconds away from doing the same thing. “That’s sweet,” she comments. “And what were you two doing over here, hm? Sneaking treats while no one’s looking?”

“He taste ‘em,” Tim says, pointing to the dessert table. “An’ them I eat ‘em!”

“Oh, is that right? Is he making sure it’s not poisoned?”

“Uh-huh!”

“Wow. That’s very smart, Timothy.”

“I know,” Tim says, kicking one foot. He pulls his finger out of his mouth and twists that hand into Bruce’s tie, getting it dirty. “I’m smart!”

“Mhm.” And suddenly, Vale’s looking straight at him, all signs of amusement wiped clean off her face. “Care to add any comments, Mr. Wayne?” she asks, arching a brow.

And all Bruce can do is offer a genuine smile, which causes a faint blush to appear across her face. “No, thank you,” he says politely, switching Tim to his other hip. “Nothing he said was wrong.”

“And what do you think the Drakes would say about you hanging around their only son?”

“I think it’s fantastic!”

Jack Drake suddenly worms his way between Bruce and Vale, a good-natured smile on his face. “Hello, there!” he says cheerfully, extending a hand. “I’m Tim’s father. You’re Velma, right? The newbie on the Globe?”

“It’s Vicki,” Vale says, her smile becoming strained as she shakes the offered hand. “You don’t have anything else to say about the friendship between Bruce Wayne and your son?”

“Just that I’m glad it happened!” Drake says jovially. “My Timmy is pretty shy, you see, and he doesn’t get along with any of the other kids. So when he came home from the last gala, chattering about a new friend, I was overjoyed! Imagine my surprise when I learned this new friend was actually Mr. Wayne! Ha!” He suddenly ruffles Tim’s hair, and Tim squawks but doesn’t move away. “As long as he’s happy, I’m happy!”

“But don’t you find it strange?” Vale asks, cocking her head to the side and widening her eyes in a show of concern. Bruce knows it’s an act. “Considering their difference in age, I mean…”

Bruce twitches. He barely stops himself from frowning.

“Not at all!” Drake says and turns to Tim. “What about you, sport? Got something to say?”

“Um.” Tim taps a finger against his chin, looking thoughtful. Someone does coo this time. “Yeah. I think Boose is wike a dina-sow.”

“Oh?” Vale arches a brow, but Bruce can see she’s fighting a smile. “What does that mean?”

“Old,” Tim says plainly, causing more than a few from the crowd to laugh. “Wike you an’ my daddy!”

“Timothy,” Drake chides. “You’re not supposed to call others old. Remember what your mother said?”

Tim sighs—oddly, it sounds like the kind Alfred makes when Bruce returns from his nightly job with new injuries. “I know, daddy, I know,” he says. “I can’t say peoples are old unwess I do, um…” Here, he pauses, brows furrowed. “Way-dee-oh-car-been dating.”

This draws more than a few impressed looks from the socialites. Bruce can see the way Jack Drake puffs up with pride. “That’s right, son,” Drake says, ruffling Tim’s hair and making the boy giggle. It’s such a sweet sound, and Bruce feels lucky to hear it. “Good job!”

Suddenly, Tim yawns, and Drake brings his wrist up, whistling at whatever he sees on his watch. “It’s way past your bedtime, kiddo!” he says, leaning over to take Tim out of Bruce’s arms. Bruce mourns the loss immediately, but the pain is soothed by the way Tim waves at him, blinking sleepily in his direction. “Say your goodbyes, Timmy! Maybe you’ll see Mr. Wayne again soon!”

“Bye-bye, Boose,” Tim says, yawning again.

“Bye, Tim,” Bruce says quietly. “It was nice seeing you again.”

He watches as Jack Drake walks through the crowd, which parts for him with ease, everyone watching on with lingering smiles. Bruce takes this chance to step away from them to walk back to Gordon, hoping to draw the man into another conversation (and, quite possibly, use him as a buffer against others). 

While doing this, he notices Vicki Vale taking her leave, too, but doesn’t think about it further.

★★

“Alfred,” Bruce says the next morning at breakfast. “I think I have a best friend.”

“You don’t say,” Alfred says dryly, opening the newspaper.

There, on the front page, is a picture of Bruce and Tim by the dessert table. It’s a snapshot of the moment when Tim fed him the rest of his macaron because he didn’t like the flavor, and Bruce can see a hint of a smile on his face, matching Tim’s bright grin.

BRUCE WAYNE’S NEW BEST FRIEND! the title says. PARENT-APPROVED! MORE ON PAGE 4.

“I suppose I never specified what type of friend you needed to make when I prayed every night for this moment,” Alfred comments. “If a toddler can keep you in line, I approve as well.”

★★

After that gala, Tim starts showing up to more.

It’s usually Jack Drake who brings him along as his wife, Janet, seems busy with something or other. Everyone seems understanding whenever he mentions the reason for her absence, commenting on her work ethic, but Bruce never pays attention to the details, too busy with Tim.

Whenever they spot each other, Tim waves goodbye to his father before toddling over to Bruce. Sometimes, Tim will spot him first, and Bruce gets rescued from a conversation by a gentle tug on his pants, and he’ll pick up Tim without complaint.

These meetings do wonders for Bruce’s social anxiety, and he soon finds it easier to speak to others with Tim there because Tim can act how he wants and even demand more of Bruce’s attention without getting any scorn.

Most of the time, they sit outside on a balcony or in the corner of the room while Tim shows Bruce the trinkets he brought for the day. They typically range from colorful marbles to shiny rocks and even a couple of rare coins that likely came from his parents’ archaeological collection.

“Do your parents know you’re taking their things?” Bruce dares to ask when Tim drags him beneath a table to show off his newest prize—a wooden pull-along toy. The string looped through the hole is much newer, but the figure is ancient and chipped but clearly well-loved. “Or do these belong to you?”

“They mine,” Tim tells him, dragging the toy toward Bruce. “Mama gives ‘em to me.” He then cups the back and repeatedly bumps it against Bruce’s foot, saying, “Beep, beep! Beep, beep!” He then rolls it toward Bruce. “You twy!”

“Beep,” Bruce says as he carefully moves the toy around. “Beep.”

After many more galas with little to no kid-friendly snacks, Bruce now carries pouches of fruit snacks or lollipops in his pockets for Tim. Sometimes, Tim even shares with him.

It accidentally becomes part of his Batman ensemble because he instinctively packs them into one of his empty pouches. While it was a little embarrassing to try and pull out a tool only to have a handful of fruit snacks, it does work in his favor when he reunites a lost child with her mother as the candy calms her down enough to talk.

Time with Tim has given Bruce a better understanding of the children of Gotham. Sure, most treat him with open suspicion, while the others ignore him, but he has learned that talking to them as a person rather than a child usually allows them to open up.

The candy, food, and money he gives out also help.

He still prefers being Batman, but spending time with Tim at galas and listening to the boy babble on and on about new dinosaur facts or his latest toys makes him think that being Bruce Wayne isn’t so bad, either.

★★

Someone knocks on his door.

Bruce, who’s in the middle of a workout, frowns and drops to the floor from his pull-up bar before making his way through the suite to the entrance. Bruce first peers through the peephole, but it only confuses him further, so he opens the door to get a proper look at the person on the other side.

There stands a nicely dressed woman in a pale blue peacoat, her black hair pulled back into a tight bun and her feet tucked into a pair of black heels. The way she holds herself reminds Bruce of his mother, but where Martha Wayne carried softness, this woman has a cold edge, and when she pins Bruce with her stare, he’s surprised when he feels slightly intimidated.

“You’re… Bruce Wayne, correct?” she asks, looking him up and down with the slightest wrinkle of her nose.

Bruce, dressed in gray sweats and a black long-sleeve, nods. “Yes, that’s me,” he confirms, wishing he could look away from her piercing gaze. “May I help you?”

“You may,” she says with a nod. “My usual babysitter canceled—something about the flu—and I don’t have the time to find a replacement. I’m hoping you’re not too busy to watch my son.”

“Your son?” Bruce repeats, confused. He wants to ask why she chose him of all people but figures he’ll find out soon enough.

She takes a step to the side, revealing…

“Hi, Boose!” Tim says, waving frantically. He’s wearing a pair of maroon corduroy overalls over a plain cream t-shirt and shiny black loafers, and he has a stuffed green dinosaur under one arm. “Hi! This my mama!” Tim tugs on the woman’s dress. “Mama, it’s Boose!”

Surprisingly, this makes her face soften. “That’s right, ducky,” she says. “You’ll be a good boy, won’t you? And you won’t cause too much trouble for Mr. Wayne?”

“Uh-huh.” Tim bobs his head. “Yes, mama. I be good.”

“Good,” she says gently, tucking a strand of hair behind Tim’s ear. The gesture is clearly familiar because Tim tilts his head into the touch, staring up at his mother with open affection and devotion—the kind that only comes from children. “On our next trip, when the airport opens back up, we’ll bring back a fossil.”

“Egg,” Tim says. “Dina-sow egg.”

The woman chuckles. “Of course, ducky,” she says fondly, and when she looks at Bruce again, there’s none of that warmth. Some of the iciness is gone, at least. “As I said before,” she continues. “My babysitter canceled. I understand this is short notice, but I’ve seen how you act with my son at galas, and I know you can take care of him. I hope that’s alright.”

“It’s fine,” Bruce says, surprised that he means it. “I’ll look after him, Mrs. Drake.”

“Janet, please,” she replies, holding out a hand. Bruce doesn’t hesitate, taking and shaking it. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne. Tim is very excited to spend the day with you.” She releases his hand and leans over to pick a bag off the floor, passing it to Bruce. “This contains two changes of clothes, some snacks, and several toys. He’s potty-trained and can’t eat food with nuts.”

“Allergy?” Bruce assumes.

“No,” Janet says, proving him wrong. “He doesn’t like them, but he’ll eat anything as long as it’s not too mushy or hard.”

“Right. Of course.” Bruce is the same way, and Alfred has already spent years catering to his particular preferences, so it won’t be a problem. “What about naps?”

“In the afternoon,” Janet answers. “Before lunch, please, or else he’ll have strange dreams.” She pauses, leaning down again to pick up a brown leather bag. “I’ve also been informed that you share an interest with my son, so I’m only allowing you to view this as an expression of gratitude from myself and Jack… and after my son begged to bring it.”

“Alright,” Bruce says as he accepts the bag. It’s heavier than the other one, and Bruce thinks it might be more toys. “What time should I expect your return?”

“Before ten tonight,” she says, nodding. “Tim should already be asleep by then, but I won’t get too upset if you find yourself tricked into allowing him to stay up. It happens far too often.” Again, Janet looks at Tim, smiling faintly. “I’ll see you in the evening, ducky. Remember what I said.”

“Otay,” Tim replies, toddling over to Bruce. He wobbles and leans against Bruce’s legs, using his free hand to wave at her. “Bye, Mama. I miss you.”

“And I’ll miss you, love,” Janet replies. She offers a brisk nod to Bruce before walking down the hall and disappearing around the corner.

Bruce blinks several times before guiding Tim into the suite and shutting the door behind them. He watches Tim wrap his other arm around his dinosaur plush, holding it close to his chest as he twists and turns, gazing at Bruce’s home with awe.

“Wow!” he exclaims. “You got wots of ‘tuff!”

“Most of it belongs to my parents,” Bruce explains. He moves to the table to place down Tim’s bags, stopping when Alfred enters the room. 

“And who is this?” Alfred asks after glancing between them, arching a perfect brow.

Bruce opens his mouth to answer, but Tim beats him to it.

“I’m Tim!” he says brightly. “Mama dwoppeded me off.”

“Not like that,” Bruce says when Alfred frowns. “I… This is the kid I was telling you about, remember? His mother needed someone to watch him and asked me for help.”

“And you agreed?” Alfred says, sounding surprised. But slowly, delight creeps into his eyes, especially after his gaze darts away from Bruce to linger on Tim. “How long will we be hosting Tim?”

“Just for the day,” Bruce tells him, holding up Tim’s bags. “Janet Drake dropped him off.”

“I see.” Alfred moves around the table and leans over the child, who stares up at Bruce’s friend with big eyes. “Would you like a snack, Tim? We can make something while Bruce unpacks your things.”

“I wike snacks,” Tim says and holds out his plush. “This is Bat-saur.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah! ‘Cause I wike Ba’man, too!”

Bruce pays no mind to the stare burning into the back of his head, busying himself with placing Tim’s bag on one of the chairs. He waits for the chattering of the child (while Alfred hums every few intervals) to fade as they move to the kitchen before setting the leather bag down on the table. Bruce unzips it, deducing that it’s likely more toys for Tim to play with during his stay.

Instead of puzzles, books, plushes, or something equally colorful, Bruce is greeted by the sight of the fourteenth Archaeopteryx fossil.

★★

When Alfred returns, Bruce is still standing there, staring at the fossil in shock.

“Are you alright?” Alfred asks, sounding concerned, and Bruce faces him fully, idly noting Tim standing beside him, chewing on what looks like a strawberry fruit bar.

“No,” Bruce says, voice pitched a bit higher. “I’m standing in front of an amazing piece of history, and I’m too afraid to touch it.”

Alfred walks over to stand at his side, and Bruce can see how he also stills. “Ah. I see.”

Something tugs on his pants, and Bruce looks down to see Tim holding up the hand curled around his fruit bar. He leans down to pick him up, wincing when Tim kicks a foot against his stomach.

“Tha’s my Aar-kee-opt-er-icks!” Tim says excitedly. “Mama wet me bwing it!”

“Why?” Bruce questions, gazing at the child in shock. “It should be kept somewhere safe.”

“I wanted Boose to see ‘cause Boose is my bestest fwiend,” Tim replies as he gnaws on his fruit bar. There’s already a couple of red stains on his shirt. “It cool. And wittle. I think it’s a baby.”

“I think so too,” Bruce says, dazed. He stares at the fossil for another moment before turning away, gazing critically at the few empty spots on his shelves and walls. Maybe he should invest in more fossils as decorations. “What should we do now?”

“Take over Got’am!” Tim exclaims.

“We can’t do that,” Bruce chides gently, but he strongly considers ways to make it possible when Tim pouts at him. “We’ll find something fun to do.”

★★

Alfred places two coloring books on the table.

Bruce looks up from the small puzzle he’s working on with Tim to blink at the man, but Alfred merely arches a brow, setting a box of crayons between the two books. “What’s this for?” Bruce asks, flipping through the Hello Kitty-themed one.

“Tim’s fine motor skills,” Alfred says. “And yours.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my fine motor skills,” Bruce says, frowning.

“Whatever you say, Bruce,” Alfred replies, dry as ever, and walks past them. “I’ll just pretend the shake in your hand isn’t from the sprain you acquired last week.”

Bruce sighs.

Tim is already flipping through his book. It’s themed after a bipedal blue dog. “Booey,” Tim says, pointing at the second smallest dog on a page before tapping on the one beside it. “Bingo.”

“Okay,” Bruce says, and Tim nods.

Alfred returns with two boxes of crayons, and Bruce sighs again, finally realizing there’s no way he can get out of this.

He opens his book to a random page, frowning when he sees some a bunny creature. Bruce turns toward Tim, taps on his shoulder, and holds the book toward the boy when he asks “Who’s this?”

“My Mewody,” Tim says. His whole fist is wrapped around a sky blue crayon, and so far, he’s coloring inside the lines. “She wikes cookies.”

“What color should I use?” Bruce asks curiously.

“Um… Pink!”

“Alright.” Bruce opens his crayon box and picks out a lighter shade that says Carnation Pink on the side. He glances at Tim, but the boy seems entirely focused on coloring his page, his tongue sticking out and everything, so Bruce decides to do the same.

(Alfred puts their colored pages on the fridge.)

★★

There are plenty of other stimulating activities in Tim’s backpack, which range from puzzles to workbooks geared toward children, and taking care of something called a Tamagotchi. Bruce lets Tim choose what he wants to do and follows his lead.

He ends up sitting on the floor with a smooth, green Brachiosaurus figure in his hand, holding it still while Tim sticks a plastic flower onto its head.

“Yous the mama dina-sow,” Tim tells him seriously, holding up a smaller version of the dinosaur. “And I’m the baby. An’ we gotta find gingko twees.”

Bruce blinks. “What are we playing?” he asks, holding the ‘mama’ dinosaur toward Tim. He wiggles the small one closer and even bumps the heads together.

“We pwaying pwetend!” Tim huffs. “You gotta use you ee-maj-en-ay-shun.”

“Oh, right.”

He doesn’t know if he’s ever done anything similar. There’s a vague memory of his mother sitting with him and making tiny ‘woof’ sounds with the ceramic dog figure he used as a display piece when he dared to play with some of his old Gray Ghost figures, but even then, all he did was recreate some of the scenes from the show.

“Will cycads suffice?” Bruce asks. He opens and shuts his mouth, unsure of what to say next, especially when Tim gazes at him expectantly, eyes wide and round. “They’re… yummy?”

Tim smiles widely. “Otay, mama!” he says happily and makes his dinosaur hop on the floor. “We eat that!”

They continue this little game of pretend until nap time.

★★

Later, much, much later after a nap, food, snacks, games, a movie about Legos, and one incident where Tim threw one of Bruce’s old phones into the toilet, it’s finally time for Tim to go to sleep.

Except Tim does not go down easy.

Despite his successful nap earlier, Tim jolts awake every time Bruce sets him down on the bed or couch, and he even cries a couple of times until Bruce soothes him by rubbing his back, which leads to him hiccuping into Bruce’s neck, smearing snot and tears across his skin.

“Where do you want to sleep?” Bruce asks, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. 

“I dunno,” Tim sobs. He tangles his fingers into Bruce’s shirt, looking miserable. “I dunno, I dunno, I dunno!”

“Do you want Alfred to help?” Bruce says next and tries to tip the boy in Alfred’s direction. Tim shakes his head and cries harder. Bruce shoots a panicked look at Alfred, who merely shakes his head, lips turned downward.

Unable to do anything else, Bruce decides to pace, lightly bouncing Tim in his arms as he walks around his suite. He thinks about searching for Janet Drake’s number to call her so he can figure out what to do, but he also doesn’t want to bother her, and some large part of him wants to prove he can do this because maybe Tim will become a recurring visitor.

At some point, amidst all his thoughts and careful planning, Bruce realizes that Tim stopped crying.

He looks down, surprised to see Tim’s closed eyes and slack mouth. Bruce can hear the boy snoring faintly, too, and he feels a twinge of guilt. Maybe he should have thought about offering himself as a place to sleep first.

At least he’s asleep now, Bruce thinks as he continues his loop around the room, shifting Tim so his face isn’t pressed against his neck. The boy shifts and mumbles something, too low for Bruce to hear, but he does not wake.

And so, Bruce walks around his home with Tim in his arms, letting the boy get his much-needed sleep with his head pillowed on Bruce’s shoulder.

★★

“No wanna go,” Tim whines, clinging to Bruce with surprising strength. “Mama! Wanna stay!”

Janet Drake, still as beautiful as earlier, places her hand on her hips, narrowing her eyes. “Timothy Jackson Drake,” she says and while her voice doesn’t sound angry, the firmness makes Bruce stand up straighter, and he feels slightly nervous. “You will release Mr. Wayne within five seconds and come home with me, or else I won’t let you stay over again.”

Tim immediately releases Bruce and reaches for Janet.

“Sowwy, Mama,” Tim says when she plucks him out of Bruce’s arms. He tucks his head beneath her chin and sighs happily. “I be good now.”

“Thank you, precious,” Janet says with a soft smile, and Tim practically glows beneath her affection.

It makes Bruce feel a pang of sadness, and maybe something a little too close to envy.

“Say goodbye to Mr. Wayne, ducky,” Janet says as she picks up the leather bag with the fourteenth Archaeopteryx fossil (which Bruce still isn’t over), the other already over her shoulder. “And tell him thank you.”

“Bye, Boose!” Tim says, waving a hand. Bruce waves back. “T’ank you for watchy me! See you!”

“See you,” Bruce echoes and watches them disappear down the hall.

★★

Tim becomes a frequent visitor.

It gets to the point where Bruce keeps a few changes of clothes on hand for the boy in case his impromptu babysitting session turns into a sleepover. When that happens, Bruce lets Tim have his bed while he sleeps on the floor, although he often wakes up with the boy starfished on top of him, a pillow covering Bruce’s face.

Janet drops him off most of the time, but on a rare occasion, Jack does the job, and Bruce offers the same polite invite he does to Janet. He takes him up on it half the time, like right now. Bruce spends a good few minutes talking to the man over a cup of tea while Tim nibbles on Drake’s share of biscuits, seated on his father’s lap.

They’re discussing some things with their respective companies. Drake offers advice on how to handle his board in the most professional asshole way while Bruce nods along, taking mental notes.

Their conversation stops when Tim loudly smacks his lips together. Bruce watches as Tim drops his soggy biscuit onto the small plate before flinging himself off Drake’s lap, and he leans over in time to catch him before he falls. Tim giggles, unaware of Bruce’s panicked, pounding heart, and wiggles around until Bruce sets him down on the floor. He pats Bruce’s arm and runs off to his bag of toys without saying a word.

Bruce keeps an eye on him for a bit, making sure he doesn’t accidentally injure himself as he pulls everything out. His attention is drawn back to the elder Drake when the man chuckles, and he cocks his head when he sees Drake gazing at him in amusement.

“You’re good with him,” Drake says. “Which is a complete surprise to me! I never thought you’d be a man who liked being around children! Or people.”

Bruce hums. He’s not that offended because he used to think the same.

“I want to thank you, Bruce,” Drake says, all traces of humor wiped away from his face. He’s staring into his porcelain cup with furrowed brows. “Timmy… He was never interested in socializing with other kids. Never interested in anything, really.” Drake leans back in his seat. “We tried everything, of course, but he stayed the same… until he met you.” His smile is small, but it looks more real than all the previous ones. “You helped bring him out of his shell, and now, my son is so talkative and happy. I’m just… grateful.”

“I am, too,” Bruce says quietly. “Tim has helped me as well. Some may think it a little strange, but everything seems easier with him in my life.”

“Good,” Drake says. “I’m glad.”

Tim suddenly appears at Bruce’s side and starts climbing onto his lap, one juice box in each hand. He struggles a little, so Bruce helps him the rest of the way, smiling when Tim holds up the berry-flavored one.

“For you,” Tim says sweetly.

Bruce chuckles, brushing some hair away from Tim’s face. “Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate it, Tim.”

He sets his tea aside to drink juice, feeling a little strange when he catches the openly fond look on Jack Drake’s face. It’s not surprising to see it directed at Tim, but Bruce does start a little when the expression lingers even after their eyes meet.

“Have you considered having your own?” Jack asks.

Any other person might laugh off the question or say something like ‘with the right person,’ as Bruce has heard time and time again from the bachelors of Gotham, but Bruce doesn’t think the answer fits.

Even with Selina in mind, Bruce knows it could never last, especially when Bruce is still so wrapped up in his city and all the corruption that comes with it.

Gotham needs him. It might never stop needing him.

Bringing a child into his world would be a death sentence.

He looks down at Tim, who tips his head back with a toothy grin, and feels his lips twitch. His breath hitches when Tim turns to nuzzle his chest, and when Bruce ruffles the boy’s hair, he’s filled with so much fondness that he feels as though he might burst.

“I don’t know,” he ends up answering. “Maybe someday.”

Jack chuckles. “Well,” he says, grinning. “I suppose you can be ‘Uncle Bruce’ until then.”

★★

Bruce accepts the drink passed off to him with a polite nod. Then, when he’s certain the other person isn’t looking, he dumps half of it into a nearby plant, sets the half-empty glass down on a random table, and walks away from the ballroom, resisting the urge to loosen his tie.

He’s starting to feel a little overwhelmed with all the attention he’s receiving. So many people want to talk to Bruce Wayne to either discuss business (which Bruce is only barely starting to pay attention to at Alfred’s insistence) or try to befriend him—and Bruce isn’t stupid. He knows the true meaning behind these attempts.

Sometimes, Bruce misses when it was accepted by everyone that he was a social recluse. If he misses one outing now, everyone talks about it and asks what happened.

And Bruce can’t exactly say he was out late because he was running across rooftops, nor can he say that he was out for the next nights afterward recovering from a dislocated shoulder.

So, he starts lying.

Bruce tells tales about traveling to places his parents previously visited to ‘reconnect’ with his roots. Everyone laps it up, of course, and while Bruce feels the lie sit on his tongue, acrid and bitter, he can’t deny that it’s working, and it’s keeping others off his back.

Alfred doesn’t approve. Bruce can see it in the lines of his face and the twist of his mouth. Then again, Alfred never approves of Bruce’s determination to be the thing that stalks the night and strikes fear into the criminals of Gotham, so Bruce tries not to feel too guilty whenever he catches Alfred looking his way.

(“I have to make the city better, Alfred,” Bruce says tiredly while wrapping the bandage around his arm. “As Bruce Wayne, and as Batman. I don’t care what people are saying about either side of me. I know I’m making a difference.”)

It helps to further separate his civilian persona from his vigilante one. Before, Bruce felt like he was always Batman and never Bruce Wayne—but after the flood, after spending more time amongst his peers, after seeing the filth of Gotham and saving those who needed him, after Tim, he finally realizes that while there should be a separation between the two, the lines will always blur together.

He walks down the halls toward one of the bathrooms to get away from everyone, and when he steps back out, he pauses, cocking his head to the side when he hears a strange, mechanical cry.

Bruce follows it deeper down the hallway until he comes across a small boy tucked away in a corner. The boy looks up, eyes wide, bright, and blue, and Bruce feels himself smile.

“Hello, Tim,” he says quietly.

Tim grins. “Hi, Boose!” he says happily.

Bruce sits beside his friend unprompted and sees he has a Nintendo Switch in hand. “What are you playing?” he asks, squinting when he sees a burst of electricity on the screen. “What just happened?”

“Pikachu,” Tim replies, holding up the device. “I use Thun-do-shock.” He speaks carefully, like he’s been practicing this word, in particular, for quite some time. “S’Pokemon, Boose.”

“Pokemon?” Bruce says, bemused. “What’s that? How do you play?”

And so, Bruce sits through a long, disjointed explanation about the world of Pokemon. Occasionally, Tim will pause and show him a specific creature on his screen, spouting off information about their typing and what they do. It doesn’t make sense to Bruce, but he still nods along, smiling at the boy’s enthusiasm.

“I name one Boose,” Tim says, sticking his tongue out as he navigates the menu to his Pokemon. There are six in his party, but Bruce knows there are more in the PC within the game, as Tim explained after he caught a random Pokemon called Oddish. “See? He wight here.”

Bruce peers at the screen. There’s a purple, winged creature on the screen with a rather large jaw and pointed horns. It’s called an Aerodactyl, but Bruce can see that Tim nicknamed it ‘Bruce.’ “Thank you, Tim,” he says. “I’m honored.”

“My daddy help name it,” Tim explains, exiting his party and returning to the game. “He says I gots to wearn to spell.”

“What have you learned so far?”

“My name,” Tim says, nodding. “T-I-M. Tim!”

“I see. Anything else?”

“J-A-C-K,” Tim says, going slow. He frowns, looking a little suspicious. “Daddy say that’s his name, but Daddy is Daddy, so I dunno.”

Bruce almost laughs, but he stops himself in time. He doesn’t think Tim would appreciate it. “What else?” he says, encouraging.

“B-A-T-M-A-N,” Tim says, refocusing on his screen. He unleashes another Thundershock attack, and the opponent’s Pokemon disappears. A new one replaces it, and it’s called Eevee. “Ba’man. Um, and tha’s all.”

“That’s a lot of words,” Bruce says, smiling. “Good job.”

“Mama say she gonna teach her name,” Tim says, frowning. “But Mama is Mama, so I dunno.” He suddenly perks up. “Oh, yeah! I gots somet’ing for you!” His Switch wobbles in his hand when he uses the other to search his pockets. 

Bruce temporarily takes it from him, noting Tim’s look of gratitude. He stares down at the screen, seeing that the battle ended, and now Tim’s character seems to be standing beside an open field with tall grass. A few Pokemon are roaming around, and Bruce navigates toward one with blue flames on its back, encountering something called a Ponyta.

“Found it!” Tim cries, holding up a lightly crushed yellow envelope. Bruce trades the Switch for the envelope, peering down at the stickers decorating the front. “Oh, a Po-knee-ta! I catch it! And then you name it!”

Bruce directs Tim to the correct letters after Tim catches the Pokemon, sounding out each one, until he sees the name MARTHA on screen. “That’s my Mama’s name,” he says, smiling when Tim saves it.

“That’s pwetty,” Tim says. He points to the envelope. “Open it!”

“Alright,” Bruce replies, amused. He carefully opens it and pulls out a card. There’s a dinosaur wearing a party hat on the cover, along with some balloons and confetti. When he opens it, a slip of paper falls out, and while Bruce does grab it, his eyes are drawn to the bold letters on one side of the card.

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO TIMOTHY DRAKE’S BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION!

“Oh,” Bruce says, surprised. He looks down at his friend, who stares at his screen as his character rides around on a large orange dog. “It’s almost your birthday?”

“Uh-huh,” Tim says absent-mindedly. “Juwy 19.”

“I’ll definitely be there, Tim,” Bruce promises, the affection in his chest overflowing when Tim lifts his head and beams widely at him. “And I’ll even bring you a present, too.”

“Can I have a puppy?” Tim asks, very seriously, and Bruce barely stops himself from snorting. He’s heard Janet and Jack talk about the countless times Tim has asked for a dog, and while Bruce could get it for him, he doesn’t think they’d appreciate it.

“Maybe,” he says, not wanting to disappoint him. “We’ll see.”

Bruce looks down at the other sheet of paper. He expects a list of things to buy for Tim, as some families are prone to make whenever they throw parties. Instead, there’s a ticket to the circus.

★★

Bruce knows when Tim sees him because the boy lights up, tugging on his father’s shirt and pointing in his direction.

Tim is dressed in a (rather cute) brown suit, although it looks much looser—likely made of cotton. A golden, star-shaped balloon is tied to one of his wrists, and he’s sporting a pair of light-up dinosaur shoes. He also has a yellow party hat on top of his head.

“BOOSE!” Tim shouts excitedly. “YOU HERE!”

“I am,” Bruce says, smiling when Tim smiles so widely it makes his eyes shut. “Happy Birthday, Tim.” He passes over a small, wrapped box. There’s a bigger present waiting for him at Bruce’s place, but for now, the Batman-themed chain (with a built-in tracker) should be enough. “Are you excited for today?”

“Yeah!” Tim exclaims. “We going to the circus! An’ I’m gonna see an elephant!”

“He’s very excited about the elephant,” Janet tells him, smiling. She leans over to kiss both of Bruce’s cheeks, as she’s prone to do now whenever they see each other. “Good morning, Bruce. I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Bruce says politely, noting the pink summer dress she’s wearing. “You look lovely.”

“As do you,” she says, dipping her head. “Are you averse to eating fried food? Jack wants to try something, but I don’t have the stomach for it, and I don’t want Tim to put any of that in his body.”

Bruce glances at the stall nearby and tries not to grimace. “I’m willing to try something,” he says.

“That’s better than nothing!” Jack says good-naturedly, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Despite Bruce’s aversion to touch from most people, he realizes he doesn’t mind this one. “I’m interested in deep-fried ice cream. How does that even work?”

After trying a few treats (Bruce is partial to the deep-fried Oreos, although he knows Alfred will never allow it at home), they move on to the games. Bruce and Jack win a few prizes for Tim, and they end up needing a bag to carry around all of Tim’s new plushes, which Bruce does unprompted.

Later in the night, there’s supposed to be a fantastic show (according to the workers) with the debut of a new act. Before, it used to only be the couple, but now, their child is old enough to fly with them, and Tim keeps bouncing around whenever he’s reminded of it.

“I saw ‘em!” Tim tells Bruce, swinging their hands as they walk together. Janet and Jack are ahead of them, Janet’s hand tucked into her husband’s arm. “We take pichures with ‘em! An’ Dickie say he gonna fwy for me! So, I gots to be good and see!”

Tim keeps going on and on about the people in the main act, and all Bruce can do is watch on fondly, carefully navigating them around groups of people and other obstacles.

He can’t imagine life without Tim, his best friend. The thought alone already makes everything seem lonelier, and Bruce doesn’t think he can go back to those bleak nights when the shadows consumed him, keeping him shielded from everything else in the world.

Their friendship has helped Bruce realize he’s been hiding this whole time.

Ever since losing his parents, Bruce has been a shell of his true self, too caught up in his grief. After spending so much time with Tim and letting the boy, essentially, boss him around and teach him how to do things without worry, Bruce thinks that sad child, buried way deep inside him, has finally started healing.

Suddenly, Tim looks at him, smiling brightly. “Boose?”

“Yes, Tim?”

“I’m happy yous my bestest fwiend.”

“Yeah?” Bruce smiles back. “I’m happy, too.”

They enter the tent together.