Chapter Text
Tim stared at the bruises blooming across his ribs in the mirror of his school bathroom—jagged purple marks from last night’s patrol. They were smeared like paint over the pale canvas of his skin. He mapped them with deft fingers, testing each point of tenderness, confirming the lack of fractures. The pain registered, cataloged and filed away.
Three days without proper sleep made his reflection ripple and bend. The sharpness that defined him seemed harsher in the fluorescent lights. He let his shirt drop back down, examining the image before him. There was no color here. Not in the pristine white bathroom, or the greyscale Gotham Prep uniform, and least of all in Tim himself. Even his eyes seemed dull and grey. Distant.
It suited him.
Tim had always existed best in absence–unremarkable, unmemorable. A shape that passed through the city without effect. It made Robin’s bright colors feel almost absurd by comparison. All those deliberate, vibrant colors forced onto something built for the background. Like dressing a statue for spectacle.
Jason had been born for those colors. They had belonged to him—bright and reckless, alive in a way that demanded attention. Back then, flying between rooftops and beating up bad guys, Jason had been nothing short of magic.
Tim had never felt more alive than wearing Jason’s colors.
He tugged his blazer back on carefully, wincing when the movement seemed to grind together his precariously positioned ribs.
His phone buzzed.
Missed check-in. Status?
He typed: At school. Fine.
Deleted it.
Rewrote: In biology. All good.
More specific. More convincing.
If Bruce thought he was in class, he wouldn’t expect further communication.
Not that Bruce monitored him closely. There were larger concerns than a single missed check-in. Tim understood that. Relied on it.
No need to mention Tim was actually skipping biology. Again. Third time this week. Grades were salvageable through late-night cramming and extra credit, but attendance was becoming… problematic.
The bell rang.
Tim packed his things with mechanical precision: textbooks, notebooks, the case files disguised as study notes. Risky, but no one paid enough attention to him to notice. It was one of the benefits to living in greyscale—he tended to blend into the background.
Except, perhaps, to Jenna. His lab partner.
She watched him when he slipped into chemistry ten minutes late, her expression tightening.
“You look like crap,” she whispered.
“Thanks,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes.
“Seriously, Tim. Are you sick or something?”
He managed a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Stayed up too late. Video games.”
Tim liked to do this thing when he was making excuses. He pretended there was this whole other version of himself: Normal Tim.
Normal Tim stayed up way too late on PlayStation, but was smart enough to ace tests anyway. He was also a klutz, and maybe kind of sickly. Too much pizza, not enough sleep. Normal Tim was boring. Harmless.
Tim shrugged like Normal Tim might have, hoping Jenna would buy it.
Ms. Hargrove called the class to order.
Tim’s hands trembled as he measured reagents, the fine precision he relied on degraded to something approximate. He adjusted, compensated—but not quickly enough. A slight miscalculation, a tilt too far.
Acid slipped over his fingers.
The burn bloomed, sharp and immediate, red rising beneath the surface of his skin. Tim didn’t react. He watched it instead. The irritation spread, sensation lagging behind observation. Pain reduced itself to data. Location. Intensity. Duration. A small notification blinking in his periphery.
The urge to laugh hit him suddenly. Inappropriate. He suppressed it. Another six hours, perhaps, before sleep deprivation pushed him from mania to hallucination.
“Tim!” Ms. Hargrove appeared at his side. “You need to wash that immediately.”
He blinked, forcing the delay to read as surprise instead of indifference.
Normal Tim would have cared.
“It’s nothing.”
“That’s a chemical burn. Go wash your hands. Now.”
He moved to the sink. Water rushed over his hands, cooling the sting, but the sensation remained distant. Pain had become background noise, white static on an already overloaded frequency.
His phone buzzed again.
Penguin moving shipment tonight. Prep files.
Tim did the math automatically. If he skipped lunch and study hall, he could compile everything Bruce needed and still make his history test. Then he’d be at the Cave by seven. He’d have to push his English presentation. Maybe he’d say he had the stomach bug. If he looked as bad as Jenna said, no one would question it.
When he returned to his seat, Ms. Hargrove was watching him with that look—teachers seeing patterns they didn’t like. Tim knew it well. ‘No, ma’am, my nanny takes great care of me.’ ‘Yes, sir, my parents are at the store—you can leave the package on the porch.’
“Tim, could you stay after class?”
His stomach dropped. He nodded, already stringing excuses together.
When the class emptied, Ms. Hargrove didn’t waste time. “This is the third injury you’ve had in two weeks. You’re distracted. Your participation is down. And frankly, you look exhausted.”
Tim straightened, slipping on Normal Tim like a mask. Slightly sheepish, slightly arrogant. A kid trying to bluff his way out of trouble.
“I’ve been busy. Extracurriculars.” He tried to recall which ones he still technically belonged to.
“Which ones?” Her tone was precise. “You quit debate. You dropped photography. Coach Wilson says you haven’t shown up for track in weeks.”
Tim winced. He hadn’t realized they were comparing notes. He’d gotten sloppy. God, he needed a nap.
“Is everything okay at home?”
The question landed with more weight than it warranted.
Home.
Wayne Manor was… not that. More like a headquarters. Drake Manor hadn’t been either—just a hollow mausoleum to the dead things his parents had loved and the living one they hadn't.
The closest thing might’ve been Titans Tower. The stray imagining of Kori and Dick as mom and dad, Kon as his idiot brother, Gar as the family dog made his mouth twitch before he smothered the laugh.
“Everything’s fine,” he said automatically. “Bruce is just busy. I’ve been helping with some Wayne Enterprises stuff. And—” he added, grasping for some final convincing detail, “—the new Grateful Dead just came out.”
She didn’t buy it. He saw it in the crease between her brows.
“You know there are resources here. People you can talk to.”
“I appreciate that,” Tim replied, retreating into politeness. “But really, I’m fine. Just need to manage my time better.”
He left before she could continue.
The noise of the hall was muffled by the sound of his own heartbeat. They were watching. Noticing. The lines between his two lives were bleeding together. He’d gotten lazy here, assuming teachers wouldn’t care enough to push.
A dangerous mistake.
Normal Tim was a mirage made of easy smiles and flimsy excuses. It only took one curious adult for that image to fracture.
If they called Bruce, he’d be benched.
He needed to be flawless. Untouchable.
If Normal Tim shattered, so did Robin. And that was unthinkable.
As he headed to his next class he caught a glimpse of Ms. Hargrove through the window of the door.
She was writing. Deliberate. Intentional. Features stuck in their pitying expression.
Tim’s jaw tightened.
Careless.
The rest of the day had passed in a blur. He’d ended up skipping lunch, study hall, and his history exam—and he was still behind on the fear toxin analysis. He’d spent the time waiting on the lab results, hurriedly reading, and rereading, his textbook in the hopes he’d be somewhat prepared for a make-up test.
A make-up test he was about to grovel for. He hoped Mr. Alvarez was feeling gracious.
Tim pushed open the door to the classroom, letting fluorescent hallway light spill across the linoleum. He stepped inside, gripping his backpack in one hand. Alvarez was waiting for him.
"Tim.” Alvarez said, lips pressed in a thin, displeased line. “You missed the test."
"I know. I'm sorry. I was wondering if—"
"If you could make it up?" Mr. Alvarez leaned back in his chair, studying him with sharp, owlish eyes. Tim had to fight the urge to shift his weight nervously under the attention. "This is the third assessment you've missed this month."
Tim nodded, gaze lowered just enough to suggest contrition.
"I've been sick."
“That so.” Alvarez’s eyes flicked to the ugly bruise creeping up Tim’s collar. “Must’ve hit you pretty hard.”
Tim adjusted his shirt, smoothing the fabric. Carefully suppressing the flare of instinctive panic. “I fell.”
The lie was pitiful, but Tim didn’t care. He didn’t need Alvarez to believe him, he just needed him to reach the obvious conclusion. Tim didn’t mind sitting through another anti-bullying speech, as long as Alvarez let him go.
“And your hand?”
The burn was a vibrant red, an obvious wound. At least Tim could tell the truth here.
“Chemistry lab.”
Alvarez stood, movements slow and measured–non-threatening by design. Tim recognized the intent and suppressed the wave of irritation it provoked.
Tim wasn’t a victim.
He didn’t have time for trusted adults and their misguided civic duties. Bruce was expecting the files, and Tim had no less than three hours of work to complete before patrol. He hoped whatever Alvarez had to say, he’d say it quickly.
“You’re one of the most capable students I’ve taught,” Alvarez said quietly. “But you’re absent. Even when you’re here.”
Tim shifted uncomfortably. This conversation was going somewhere dangerous.
"I've got a lot going on."
"I'm sure you do." Mr. Alvarez moved closer, dropping his voice. "Look, I'm not going to dance around this. Someone's hurting you, or you're hurting yourself. Either way, I have to act."
Tim’s expression flattened. His training—ingrained far before he’d ever met Bruce Wayne—kicked in.
“No one is hurting me.”
"Then explain the bruises, the burns, the constant exhaustion."
Tim had explained the burns, if Mr Alvarez had just listened to him. Normal Tim was capable of looking just as out of sorts as Tim apparently did, if only people weren’t so determined to see abuse behind every perfectly ordinary teenager.
"I don't—" Tim started, then stopped as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He drew it out. Glanced at it.
Bruce.
Something about Crane's new toxin. A mission. Urgent. Important.
"Mr. Alvarez,” Tim said evenly. “I appreciate your concern. But I'm fine."
Tim carefully constructed his smile, the one he'd perfected for galas and press conferences. The one that said everything was under control. Not Normal Tim—Normal Tim wasn’t cutting it anymore. This was Polished Tim, the Wayne Ward.
Untouchable.
"I've already spoken with Ms. Hargrove and Coach Wilson,” Alvarez said. “We've filed a report with Child Protective Services."
The world narrowed. Tim went cold.
“You can’t.”
"I’m required to."
"You don’t understand.” The words were sharper than Tim intended. “You’re not listening to me. Bruce isn’t—" He caught himself, biting down on the slip. "Wayne Manor is perfectly safe." He could feel the walls closing in.
Couldn’t he have one life no one tried to dismantle?
Mr. Alvarez nodded slowly.
"Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?"
Tim’s phone buzzed again. Bruce was getting impatient. His hand twitched toward it, but he kept his eyes on Mr. Alvarez.
"When?" he asked.
Alvarez gave Tim a pitying look.
"The paperwork was filed yesterday. They'll conduct a home visit soon."
Tim's mind raced through contingencies, scenarios, plans and backups to plans. The spare suit in his closet. The case files in his desk drawer. The bruises that couldn't be explained by martial arts classes—he hoped they didn’t make him strip for this. That would be humiliating.
He turned and left the classroom, movements mechanical and precise.
In the hallway, he checked his phone.
Need you at the cave ASAP. Crane has new toxin.
Tim's fingers hovered over the screen.
He should tell Bruce about CPS. About the home visit. About how everything was about to unravel.
Instead, he typed: On my way.
The investigation could wait.
Gotham couldn't.