Chapter Text
requiem
noun
re·qui·em ˈre-kwē-əm
1 : a mass for the dead
2 : a solemn chant (such as a dirge) for the repose of the dead
—
Timothy Jackson Drake's first glimpse of death was when he was just a toddler, barely reaching his father's knees. His eyes followed the descent of two world renowned acrobats, down, down, down.
His mother wasn’t quick enough to cover his eyes.
The sound of their bodies breaking and shattering on their landing was muffled by the ringing in his ears. He’s not quite sure if he’s still breathing, if he’s shaking or just numb all over. The screams of the people around him were muted, and he sat frozen in his seat until his father picked him up to quickly evacuate the area.
He glimpsed Dick Grayson’s collapsed form, held in the arms of Bruce Wayne.
He read the news that Dick became the ward of Wayne a few months later. A few years after that, Batman and Robin hit the streets.
He got intrigued. When his parents finally gifted him his trusty camera, he learned to utilize the shadows to his advantage at the age of 8, managing to follow the Dynamic Duo, improving his stealth and agility bit by painful bit.
He witnessed Gotham's rotted roots through the lens of his camera, the festering corruption buried deep into its foundations to the point that he felt slimy with just a few hours of wandering around, unprotected in the putrid environment, in this thick smog. With the duo’s interventions, things weren't getting any worse, but they weren't getting any better either.
It was… stagnant, as if the very air they breathe is holding their breath, waiting for something dormant to awaken.
To be honest, Tim felt as if Lady Gotham was clutching the demented villains close, letting them wreck havoc with nary the consequence. Perhaps She knows that even the Joker is not the worst thing that could happen to Her city, that there's something coming, something… more.
It made him glad that he already witnessed what death was like when he was a wee toddler. That was one of the things he could be ready for.
Then, he discovered Batman and Robin's identities. Well, superheroes always needed technologically-savvy guys in the background.
Also, he’s so stupid!
—
Tim opens his eyes to someone shaking him. He slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes as he takes stock of where he was. There’s a painful crick on his neck and he was shivering from laying down on the cold floors for so long, but that was irrelevant when he was confronted by the fact that it was Bruce Wayne shaking him awake, in an empty ballroom, after the gala.
He’s mortified, and frankly terrified as he sat up and his wide eyes searched for the disapproving stare of his parents. He didn’t mean to fall asleep behind the table! He was just hoping that he could hide there after one too many old ladies pinching his cheeks.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Mr. Wayne soothed, “Do you know where your mom and dad are?”
“Um,” Tim stutters, “They’re not here?”
Mr. Wayne frowns, “Every other guest had already left.”
Tim sighs, hunching over himself. He really should be used to this, but at the same time, he just feels defeated. “It’s okay then, Mr. Wayne. I just live next door anyway, I can just walk there.”
“Oh, you’re Janet’s son?” He sounds surprised and Tim curls farther into himself, feeling like the collar of his button up slowly choking him. “Regardless, let me or Dick walk you to your house. It’s getting late, and it’s dangerous for kids to walk alone in the dark.”
Tim quickly shakes his head, “Oh, no, it’s okay Mr. Wayne. I don’t want to be a bother. And your son is a kid too, anyway.” He slaps his hands on his mouth, horrified. Sometimes, his mouth works faster than his brain but that was really rude, and he half expected his mother to magically appear and slap the back of his head. So he’s relieved when Mr. Wayne just chuckles.
He really didn’t seem like the idiot that his mother always says, not like his father anyway.
“You can call me Bruce, chum. None of that Mr. Wayne stuff,” Tim nods shyly.
“I’m Tim,” he whispers. The corner of Bruce’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, giving him a more warm-hearted look.
“Nice to meet you then, Tim. Now, why don’t we go to the kitchen and have Alfred make us his famous hot chocolate. That should warm us up, hm?”
When Tim nods again, Bruce holds out his hand for him to take. When he did, Bruce stood up from his kneeling position and started walking to the kitchen.
Once Alfred (“Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.” “Call me Alfred, Master Timothy.” “Then call me Tim!”) gave him the best cup of hot chocolate he ever had in his life, this is the first time he ever had hot chocolate Bruce stepped out to make some calls when suddenly, someone barreled into the kitchen.
“I heard we have an adorable guest and some hot chocolate!” Dick Grayson, in all his pink hello kitty pajamas glory, exclaims.
Tim pouts. “I'm not adorable,” he mumbles into his cup.
The older boy smiles, thanking Alfred when the butler handed him his cup, “You’re plenty adorable.”
Bruce enters the kitchen once again with a deep frown before clearing his face with a neutral expression when he glances at Tim. He looks to be thinking to himself for a moment, before sighing and taking the chair beside Tim.
“I can’t seem to get a hold of your parents’ phone, sweetheart. They must be asleep already.” Tim deflates and looks down at his half empty cup, but honestly he isn’t that surprised anymore. He missed the worried glances that the other three shared. “Tell you what, why don’t you stay the night and we can drop you off at your house tomorrow morning when they’re awake. I’ll just leave your parents a voicemail.”
Tim’s head snapped up in a panic, his parents’ voices swirling through his head.
“Honestly, you can’t do one thing right!”
“Timmy, if you don’t have anything useful to say then just stay in your room and out of our way, ‘kay?”
“I don’t want to intrude and then bother you tomorrow! You must be busy!”
“It's no trouble,” Bruce placates, “Dick and I aren't busy tomorrow. We can spare a few minutes walking you next door.”
Tim looks down and fidgets with his hands, “If you're sure.”
“Of course we’re sure.”
“With that said, let me take my leave to prepare a room for Master Tim,” Alfred says.
“Thank you, Alfred, Bruce,” Tim flushes, embarrassed at the trouble he was causing all because he fell asleep during the gala.
“It is of no consequence.”
Alfred leaves the room with a meaningful glance at Bruce. The man nods and looks at Dick to see his son looking at him, before he cocked his head towards Tim. The teen gives him a discreet thumbs up before he takes his leave to leave a voicemail.
“Why don’t we go to the living room and watch a movie while Alfred prepares a room for you?”
Tim looks unsure, but at least the flush of his face somewhat calmed down, “Okay.”
—
Bruce leans against the guest bedroom’s doorway watching his father figure lay some of Dick’s old clothes on the bed.
“You know, I find it interesting that we weren’t aware that the Drakes had a son before this gala, their manor had always seemed empty during their trips and so far, I have heard no mention of a child coming along on their excavations,” Bruce starts, “And the boy seems panicked in certain parts of our conversation. It’s concerning.”
Alfred hums, looking as calm and collected as always but the look in his eyes gives him away, “The Drake parents haven’t called back asking for the whereabouts of their son, yes?”
Bruce shakes his head, “No,” he says, “No panicked calls from our next door neighbor.”
“Hm.” Alfred turns away and did some finishing touches to the room. “Regardless, we can fetch Master Tim now so he could settle in and sleep. The late hour would do no good to growing boys.”
That was a ‘let’s talk later’ if he ever heard of one. Alfred leaves for the Batcave while Bruce looks for the kids.
Bruce finds the boys in the living room watching Lilo & Stitch. Tim looks to be enraptured by the movie—which, considering the main essence of the animated film, makes sense.
He clears his throat, “Sorry to ruin your fun, boys, but it’s bedtime for children under 10.” Tim pouts but doesn't protest. Another unusual behavior for a child his age. He had half expected some complaints given how attentive he was watching the film, but it looks like his perception of Janet sours a bit more.
“Don't worry, Tim! We can continue the movie the next time you're over,” Dick smiles at Tim, where the boy hesitantly returns. Dick turns the television off before he jumps up from his seat on the sofa and offers his hand. Tim takes it, and the teen takes it upon himself to lead Tim through the manor.
Bruce watches, bemused. He follows the kids through the corridors. It seems that Dick had already guessed that the bedroom that Alfred had prepared would be the one beside his, as he’s already going straight to the East Wing. Dick rambles through different topics on their short journey when it seems like Tim once again closes into himself. The boy either hums, nods, or just stares straight into the distance.
“And here’s your room!” Dick finishes with a flourish.
Tim looks around the room with wide eyes before spotting the folded clothes on the bed. He realizes part of the reason that he's restless and unsettled is because he's still in the itchy suit that his mother had forced him to wear. He steps inside the room before noticing that Bruce and Dick didn't leave and is still watching him.
He blushes, “You guys can leave now. I can go to sleep after I change.”
“You sure?” Bruce looks at him, something undecipherable in his gaze.
“Uh huh,” Tim nods quickly. No need to trouble them further! “Thank you for letting me stay the night.” he bows before straightening. Never let it be said that Janet Drake didn't teach Tim manners.
“You're welcome. But as we've said, it's really no problem,” Bruce says, smiling, “But if you’re sure, we’ll bid you a good night, then.”
“I’m sure!” Tim raises his hand and waves, “And uh, goodnight?” he says awkwardly.
Dick chuckles, turning to leave and go into his room, “Night, Timmy! Sleep well! Oh, and don't be shy to knock on my door if you need anything.”
“Okay.” Dick waves at him before closing his own door. Ha, yeah, he's not going to bother the older boy more than he already did. Bruce leaves with a nod and Tim closes the door once he sees Bruce round the corner.
Tim takes a deep breath and lets his curious eyes roam over the room he was given. The walls were painted a deep navy blue, with the deep color accentuated with the low lights that were provided by the two lamps on each side of the bed and the sconces plastered throughout the wall of the room. The bed was queen-sized and covered with white sheets, with enough pillows that Tim could probably build a pillow fort around him. There’s a bedside table on the left side of the bed, and when he opens one of the two doors on the right side of the room he discovers it was a walk-in closet with a full body mirror at the back.
Before going to the other door—which he assumes is the bathroom, he fetches the pile of clothes from the bed. It’s a simple set of clothes–some underwear, a white shirt, black sweatpants, and a pair of socks.
Once he did his business in the bathroom, brushed his teeth with the provided toothbrush, and cleaned himself up a little, he changed into the clothes given to him. He had to wear the underwear he was previously wearing as the other one was too big. On the other hand, the shirt’s hem reached his thighs and he had to roll the sweatpants three times with the waistband tied tight around his waist. He didn’t bother wearing the socks as he feels like it will only slide off his feet, anyway.
He lays down on the, frankly, too soft bed after arranging the pillows around him akin to a nest. His body sinks into the mattress, and when sleep claims him just a moment later with the humming of the A/C in the background, his final thought was ‘Maybe this is what it feels to be home.’
—
The next day, Dick wakes up bright and early despite getting back late last night. He has always been a morning person given how he was raised in the circus, but even he likes to sleep in a little after a late night. But they do have a special little guest today, and based on the sounds coming from the other room, their little guest is most certainly awake so he did some stretches before leaving his room.
He knocks on the door, smiling when a ‘come in!’ reaches his ears. He opens the door and bites back a coo when he sees Tim standing there in his old clothes and making the bed. Tim’s a lot smaller than him at 7—only standing just below his waist from his own height of 5’3”, so he’s practically swimming in the clothes and combined with the atrocious bed hair, Tim looks adorable.
“Morning, baby bird,” he says, then immediately after he winces. The nickname just slipped out, but aside from the furrowed eyebrows of the kid, Tim didn’t comment so he inwardly sighs in relief.
“Good morning, Dick!” Tim gives him a big smile, and this time Dick didn’t bother to hide his coo because that was a gummy smile and has a missing central incisor that made Tim look very very adorable.
“Dick?” Tim gives him such a confused puppy look that he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Can I hug you?” he asks quickly but seriously.
“What?”
“Can I hug you?” he asks more slowly, reigning in his excitement. No need to spook the kid this early in the morning.
Tim looks at him weirdly, before slowly nodding, “Okay?”
Well, no need to hold himself back now that he has permission. With a squeal, he rushes to pick Tim up in a hug. The kid flinches and doesn’t seem to know where to put his arms, ultimately deciding to let it hang limply as Dick quite literally spins him around.
“So cute!”
“I’m not cute!” Tim pouts, which, in Dick’s very humble opinion, invalidates his protest because it was very cute.
He puts Tim down and grins evilly when an idea sprung up inside his head. He moves slowly, deliberately projecting his movements to give Tim an out if he wanted to. But the kid just stares at him warily, before his eyes widens as if realizing what he’s going to do and he rapidly takes some steps back. But it’s too late for poor Timmy.
He lunges. With a shriek, Tim runs away from him with a high-pitched laugh. Unfortunately, the baby bird is no match for Robin. He tickles Tim’s sides once he catches him, and Tim’s giggles were so loud that he reckons it’s echoing throughout the manor. He feels a grin grow on his face. Lately, the mood in the manor has been dark and gloomy—he and Bruce’s fights about his independence are getting more frequent and at times, violent, with Alfred more commonly than not acting as a mediator. So really, hearing a child’s happy laugh echo throughout the walls instead of angry shouting is a very welcome change.
“D-Dick!” Tim stutters through his laughs, “I give up! I give up!”
“What was that?” Dick crows, “I didn’t hear a please!”
“Dick!” Tim whines, “Please?”
“Hm,” Dick pretends to think about it, but Tim was looking at him with such earnest baby blues that he couldn’t possibly refuse. Really, who can say no to that? “Alright, alright, I’ll let up." he lifts his hands up and Tim dramatically collapses to the floor gasping for air.
“Ready for breakfast now?” Dick asks him cheekily.
Tim sits up, “I get breakfast?”
Dick’s angered expression was quickly masked by a strained smile, “Of course. It’s Alfie’s law: breakfast first before starting the day. Skipping the most important meal of the day is not allowed in this household, no siree.”
They go down to the main dining room where Bruce and him usually eat, Dick holding Tim’s hand on their way there. Tim clearly didn’t mind him holding his hand last night, so he’s going to milk that indifference for all he’s worth.
‘Or maybe,’ he thinks—seethes, ‘he’s touch starved.’
Back in the circus, he had been used to noise—the hustle and bustle of a busy and lively environment, the clamoring sounds of the animals and people coming and going to and from the tents and trailers. Then his parents died, and he moved into a silent, large space with only two people previously occupying it. Granted, he brought chaos to Alfred and Bruce’s lives—what with his stints with the numerous chandeliers in the manor, and the way he always tried to run away the first year he was living here—but he thinks he missed this. He missed taking care of someone where before he was the designated babysitter for all the younger kids, the big brother responsible for wrangling the rowdy brats so that their parents could do their work.
Looking at Tim now, the previously buried affection reserved for little tykes rears its mother henning head. So, first order of business: put some meat into that scrawny body.
“Alfie’s food is really the best, you’ll see, you’ll be craving for it in no time,” he tells Tim as they enter the dining room. Bruce is already there, seated at the head of the table and reading a newspaper, a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. Dick sits down at Bruce’s right before patting the seat beside him for Tim. Tim, on the other hand, looks unsure and shy but goes ahead and takes a seat anyway and he resists the urge to coo again. Tim’s so tiny his feet dangle quite high up from the floor!
The rustling of the newspaper being folded and put down catches both of their attention, Bruce looking at the both of them with a warm smile on his face, “Good morning boys.”
“Morning, B,” Dick greets.
“Good morning, Mr. Way—Bruce,” Tim corrects quickly, blushing.
“Slept well?” Bruce asks.
The kid nods, “Uh huh, the bed’s super soft.”
“I’m glad.”
Alfred enters the dining room balancing trays filled with food on his arms. Dick could see Tim look worryingly at the balancing act Alfred’s been doing. His lips quirk up, fondness rising in his chest, he remembers when he himself had been worried about the amount of plates and trays that the old butler had been ‘forced’ to balance on his arms.
“Do you need help, Alfred?” Tim asks, practically vibrating on his chair.
Alfred chuckles, somehow being able to steadily unload the trays on the table, “It’s fine, dear boy. I am so used to this I could do this with my eyes closed.”
“If you’re sure…” Tim settles down before his eyes widen when he registers the assortment of food that has been laid out. There were eggs and sandwiches of different kinds, pancakes, cut up fruits, waffles, and a platter full of crispy bacon. There’s also a pitcher of orange juice and a carton of milk on the side, presumably for Tim.
He can see Bruce hiding a smirk behind his mug that was aimed at Alfred and he inwardly laughs–he's also perfectly aware that the only reason that Alfred went all out for breakfast was because of their young guest. Normally, they were happy with only some sandwiches (or cereal, in Dick's case and much to Alfred's disapproval) and coffee. They wouldn’t mention it though, as they feel like it would only make Tim feel guilty.
“You get this much food for breakfast?” Tim asks in wonder.
“Yeah,” Dick replies, already stacking up his plate with pancakes and fruit, drizzling them with a generous serving of maple syrup. He glances at Tim to see the kid still frozen and staring at the food with wide eyes, “Don't be shy, Timmy. Get what you want, there's plenty of food here.”
“Um, right.” Tim visibly panics for a second before choosing to go for a ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of orange juice. Dick frowns, before deciding to not say anything just yet. Sure enough, Tim's first bite of the sandwich had the kid inhaling it in record time. He chuckles, Alfred’s magic cooking always had such simple food taste so amazing, so he wasn’t surprised when Tim went in for a second serving of sandwiches, this time getting some waffles, eggs, and bacon, too. And it had the added bonus of Tim getting more comfortable with them.
“This is so good, Alfred!” Tim gushes after he swallows down the food, “I’ve never eaten anything this yummy before!”
“You flatter me, Master Tim,” Alfred chuckles.
But then Tim frowns, looking between the food and Alfred. Dick stops chewing when he notices, and the pause in the clinking of Bruce’s utensils against the plate means he noticed as well.
“Why aren’t you eating with us, Alfred?” Tim asks. Dick hides a laugh by feeding himself a mouthful of pancake, and from the corner of his eye he could see Bruce grinning behind his hand. It’s a lost cause, the two of them had been trying to get Alfred to eat with them for years now—in Bruce’s case, decades. But alas, the only time Alfred agrees are during birthdays and Christmas. They’ll let Tim figure that out the hard way.
“Oh, don’t worry about me, Master Tim. I have already eaten this morning,” Alfred assures. Dick sits back, enjoying the show.
“But this is your delicious cooking, so you should eat with us!” Tim protests, a pout forming on his face.
“Really, it’s quite alright.”
Tim pouts further, looking downtrodden, “But I haven’t had anyone eat with me in a while…”
Alfred holds out for a while before letting out a breath, nodding in acquiescence, “Very well. Then I will dine with you for the time being.”
Tim cheers when Alfred sits down on Bruce’s left and begins helping himself with some sandwiches. Dick feels his jaw drop, and he shares a flabbergasted look with Bruce. He glances at Tim, who now bears a delighted glint in his eyes as he chats with Alfred.
‘Manipulative little shit,’ he realizes.
Oh yeah, Tim would fit in just fine in their family.
—
Tim is back to wearing his suit from the previous day. Having worn what he assumes are Dick’s old clothes, being back in this stuffy old suit made him claustrophobic. But alas, he, Dick, and Bruce were on their way back to his house and his mother will kill him if she sees that he’s not ‘being proper’.
He’s not gonna lie, he’s going to miss the homey ambiance that the Wayne Manor had to offer. It was old, yes, but that’s the beauty of it. The walls hold so much memory that Tim’s just itching to explore so that it can tell him the untold stories of its history. Drake Manor, in comparison, is fairly new—and the only stories that their house has is contained in the probably haunted and very likely illegal artifacts that his parents had stored in the house.
His musings are interrupted when Bruce pressed the button on the intercom on their front gates. The intercom crackled to life, his father’s distracted voice coming through, “Yes, who’s this?”
Bruce clears his throat, “Hi, this is Bruce Wayne. I’m here with your son, Timothy.”
“Brucie?” his dad sputters, “And Timmy? Why is he with you?” he sounds so perplexed that Tim had to wince, especially when he caught the look Dick and Bruce exchanged.
“You know what, nevermind. Come in, come in!” The gates open with a deafening creak. Dick reaches out for his hand and Tim lets him take it as they walk the long and winding driveway to the manor. To be honest, he likes the feeling of the teen’s hands against his—the callused surface of it is somewhat grounding for his frazzled mind that seems perpetually stuck in fight or flight. It quietens a part of him that he didn’t know was noisy in the first place.
“Timothy.” Did he say that a part of him had become quiet? Well, it was noisy again! Tim inwardly groans when his body automatically straightens like a well-trained dog. Janet Drake raised conditioned him so well that her voice feels like the crack of a whip.
“Good morning, mother,” Tim greets, trying to look confident but he can’t seem to meet her disapproving eyes. He didn’t even notice that they were already at the front door.
“Did you bother Mr. Wayne with a sleepover?” Her sharp voice made him shrink into himself. When he realizes that her gaze is locked into his and Dick’s intertwined hands, he snatches his back and slid both his hands into the pockets of slacks to conceal their shaking and decidedly avoids looking at Dick.
“Um-” he stutters, but Bruce steps in front of him. It’s probably not his intention, but he likes to think that the man did it to protect him from his mother’s wrath.
“It’s not a problem, Janet, we have plenty of space. And of course, anything to help our good neighbors when they have a missing kid.” Tim’s astonished look towards Bruce was thankfully covered by the man’s broad back. He himself would’ve believed the airy act that the Wayne patriarch was putting out if not for the short time that he spent in the comfort of their home.
“Are you implying something, Wayne?” He almost flinches at her hissed question, and did flinch when he felt Dick’s hand settle on his back. He just nods at the teen’s whispered apology, body staying tense as if ready to run at any sign of aggression.
“None at all,” He can practically hear Bruce’s smile, “Anyways, where’s Jack? He was the one who answered the intercom.”
“He’s busy, being actually hands on on our business.” the sound of his mother being progressively more upset and trying to attack Bruce verbally should have been his sign to step around his shield obstacle and enter the manor and thank and apologize to the Waynes for the trouble that he caused.
But his feet didn’t want to move an inch.
Bruce let out a full bellied laugh, bringing a hand up to his chest, “Ouch, right in the heart as always, Janet.”
“Yes, well, I am also busy, so thank you for looking after our son and I am sure you two have a full day ahead of yourselves doing nothing. You may go now,” and with that abrupt dismissal, his mother turns around and walks back into the manor. If her dress were any more flowy Tim could imagine it as Severus Snape’s billowy cape with how fast she exited their presence.
With the all-encompassing pressure that is his mother gone, Tim could finally feel his body be able to move. So he moves in front of Bruce with quick steps and bows almost 90 degrees.
“Thank you for having me for the night!” he exclaims, and then rambles, “I don’t know how to repay you, because you definitely didn’t have to do that, but you did and even fed me a yummy breakfast, so thank you for your kindness!”
Bruce chuckles, lifting his hand to gently ruffle his hair. Tim blushed once he straightens up, embarrassed but ‘this feels nice.’
“As I told you before, it’s really no problem. And I’m sure Alfred will say the same.”
“Yeah, it’s fun having you around, kid,” Dick chimes in, grinning, “I wouldn’t mind hanging out with you again.”
Tim’s blush deepens, before staring at Dick intensely for a few seconds that he could see the other frowning in concern. He was forgetting something, and that something was ringing in the background of his mind since the night before but now it was ringing full force, demanding to be noticed.
“Kid?”
Tim gasps. The picture!
“I have something to give you! Wait here!” With that, he rushes to his room, making sure that his footsteps remain light so that his running doesn’t catch his parents’ attention. He can’t believe he forgot to bring it yesterday!
—
Dick stares at the imaginary cloud of dust Tim left in his wake, “Huh, didn’t know that a kid that small could be so fast.”
Bruce snorts, “You’re fast, and you’re short,” he points out.
He glares at him, indignant, “Hey! I just haven’t hit my growth spurt yet.”
The sound of shoes running along carpeted floors bring their attention back to Tim. He was panting, looking like he just ran a marathon and he had also probably rushed to find what he had wanted to give Dick—which, the scion of the Drake family was holding a picture frame in his hands, and Dick had his curiosity piqued. What kind of picture would have the little genius be so eager to give him?
“I’ve wanted to give this ages ago, but my parents only recently let me attend galas, so I haven’t gotten the chance until now,” Tim explains once he got his breathing under control, suddenly looking shy and averting his gaze to the floor, “Uh, here you go.”
Dick takes the offered frame with a gentleness like he was holding a newborn baby. It was given to him upside down with the picture itself at the bottom and pointed at the floor, so he flips the wooden frame and freezes, feeling like his breath is punched out of him.
There was Dick and Tim. But there was also his mom and dad.
His mom and dad were standing behind the two boys, smiling broadly in their colorful leotards. They were in the big tent, and he could just see Zitka in the background. Dick and Tim were in the middle, with him hugging Tim against his chest and laughing. Tim, on the other hand, had the biggest smile that his eyes disappeared into little crescents. The kid looked to be 3 in this picture, and snippets of his repressed memory started returning to him bit by bit.
“I’ll do a quadruple somersault just for you, Timmy!”
“Wow, really!?” Tim practically had stars in his eyes, “You’re so cool, Dick!”But that day-
That day was also the day Zucco happened.
His heart aches. A 3 year old child had witnessed the gruesome scene of when his life changed forever, and probably remembered it considering what they suspected of Tim’s intellect.
What he didn’t know is that his prolonged silence is causing concern for Bruce, and crippling anxiety for Tim.
“I’m sorry! Is the picture too insensitive? Or is it because I’m in it and it’s your family picture?” Tim questions, eyes wide and frantic, “You don’t have to accept it if you don’t want to! In fact, we can forget this ever happened!” he laughs nervously.
Decision made, he kneels down to be at Tim’s eye level. He appreciates Bruce walking a few steps back and pretending to take a phone call to give them some semblance of privacy. Sometimes, Bruce’s tact can be intact.
Ha.
He rests his hand on Tim’s head, stopping the kid’s panicked ramblings. Tim stares at him with wide blue eyes as he considers what to say, gripping the frame tightly in his other hand to ensure he didn’t accidentally drop it.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I really, really love this gift, honest. I was just shocked, I didn’t expect the grief to hit me so suddenly,” he ultimately decides on telling the truth. The best thing for little geniuses is always the truth.
“Why? But it’s been so long now?” Tim didn’t seem to understand the gravity of his question and seems genuinely confused, as to how he could possibly still be affected when it’s been years since it happened now. Well, he isn’t offended, as in most cases kids generally didn’t understand death, loss, and grief well. But it might be a good idea to explain it to him now, since Tim’s a smart kid and he’s sure that he will understand the concept if it’s explained to him properly enough. Hell, it can probably help him, too, in talking about his feelings.
“Well, Timmy, imagine grief being contained in this tiny little box when the event that caused you grief just happened.” He starts to explain, removing his hand from Tim’s head and pointing at the other’s chest. “That little box is stored here, in your heart. And because that box is so tiny the grief is squished into all its sides, trying to get out. Are you with me so far?” Tim nods and he moves his finger to point at Tim’s forehead. He smiles when Tim’s eyes go cross eyed. “Sometimes, because the box can’t handle the pressure all at once every second of every day, grief leaks out and it can go to here. It can affect our thoughts and emotions.”
“That’s what happened to you?” Tim asks, enraptured at the way Dick was explaining.
“Uh huh,” Dick nodded, settling to sit on the porch instead, “Now, as you’ve said, it’s been years now. You may hear other people saying that it gets easier, but that’s not true.”
“Why?”
“Because that tiny box from before just gets bigger as time goes by. It doesn’t really push against the sides of the box constantly anymore, as the space around it gets bigger. But the grief is still there, it never really disappears, and sometimes the box gets a tiny little crack when something reminds someone of the event so a little bit leaks out.”
“And that’s what happened when you saw the picture?” Tim’s voice held a hint of shame.
“Yes, but that’s not a bad thing.” Dick pats Tim’s head once again.
“Why not? You said you felt grief, and isn’t grief a bad emotion? That’s why it’s in a box!” Tim protests.
“Timmy, TimTam, Timmers,” Dick singsongs, chuckling at Tim’s blush at the nicknames, “Stop that train of thought right there. Let me teach you something my mama always says.”
“Oh little Robin, it’s okay.” Mary Grayson soothes as 9-year-old Dick wails, holding the lion cub that passed away in the middle of the night. The cub was already touch and go the whole day, until its little body finally gave out in the darkness of the night. Dick was especially affected, as he religiously followed the instructions the caretakers and vet told him when they let him help to hopefully nurse the cub back to full health.
“But it hurts, mama! Why does it hurt so much? I don’t like it!” Dick sobs into her arms.
Mary runs her fingers through her son’s hair, humming, “Honey, one thing about grief is–grief is just love that has nowhere to go.”
—
“You’re good to him,” Bruce says later when they were walking back to their own manor after extracting a promise from Tim to come back to their home. The kid seemed enlightened by the impromptu philosophy lesson Dick gave him, looking very much to be deep in thought. Dick, on the other hand, hugs the frame to his body protectively. This will have a special place on his night stand, below his Flying Graysons poster.
“Yeah, because I want to be a good big brother to him,” Dick says matter-of-factly.
Bruce stops short, “What do you mean?”
Dick stops walking, looking back at him quizzically, “He’s going to be part of the family soon, right? I don’t like him staying with the Drakes any longer than necessary, dad.” If he deliberately called Bruce ‘dad’ to soften him up to accept the idea, no he didn’t.
“What? I’m not adopting him. Where did you get that idea?”
“Alfred agrees with me.” And with that, Dick starts walking away from his stunned father.
“Dick? What do you mean? Dick!”