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If Tim thought about it for too long, he could recognize that he may be… a little screwed up in the head. He would argue it was no fault of his own, but that felt too much like shifting the blame, and he wasn't exactly sure who would take it if not him. His parents? Hardly fair. Batman? Outside the realm of possibility.
When Tim was nine, his going out into the streets of Gotham to take photographs of vigilantes was probably the least stupid thing he did.
Tim was… screwed up. In more ways than one. The innate need to feel needed, the ugly thing inside him that wedged himself into the Waynes' lives without their consent, the horrible thing that speaks in the back of his mind begging him to-
Well.
It's bad of him, he thinks, to try and push Bruce into the shape of a stand-in father for one he never truly felt connected to. It's much worse, he thinks, to at the same time imagine him as another faceless set of hands that sear their touch into his skin until he was crying.
Since he was a kid, Tim had been touched by strangers in every crevice of his body.
A long time ago, Drake Industries hadn't been doing well; it was nearly bankrupt in fact, and his parents had been spending more time in the office than at home. There'd been a month where he hadn't seen hide nor hair of his parents at all. It was worse than when they went on trips because at least then he knew they were coming back . They were unhappy about not going on their trips either- forced to focus on the company instead of their passion in archeology, they were irritable and hardly spoke to him. If they did, it was usually a scolding.
He doesn't really remember how long the financial strain lasted, but he did remember it lasted so long that his parents had thought about selling the manor, their pride and joy.
And then- well, and then there came a proposition. A saving grace that was twisted and corrupt.
Tim would like to think neither of his parents would've said yes in any other position. If they hadn't been struggling for so long, if they weren't so close to bankruptcy, if they weren't about to be out of house and home, and most damning of all, if Tim hadn't bullied his way into coming with them to work one day to beg to help them. He'd been so lonely, he hadn't even thought of the consequences. But a business partner caught sight of him, hiding behind his mother’s legs, and suddenly Tim was like a rabbit caught in a bear’s trap.
At first, the rules were no touching. An investment, a large sum, and Tim would go with the investor to a room and dress himself down, then leave. At first, his mom was strict about the rules- if anyone so much as brushed him with their fingers, they were thrown out of the building in a snap.
But then, the money started rolling in. Tim was a cute kid, and the world of businessmen was full of creeps who were too scared to go looking for a kid of their own, much more interested in paying off access to a coworker’s kid who was willing to show off to them. Tim was always willing, always ready to help his parents.
When Tim became a bargaining chip, everything stabilized. There were no longer talks about selling the manor to keep the company’s doors open. But, as his father explained, they weren't stable enough for his parents to go on their expositions, their passion, their love, the only thing they felt truly happy about.
(He pointed out how they should be happy to be with each other as a family and his father almost slapped him, only stopped by his mother huffing and puffing about ‘leaving a mark’.)
His mom and Dad argued, he thinks. His mom didn't want to, at least at first, and his dad wasn't happy about it either. But they kept reasoning themselves down, kept talking and talking until-
When Tim was nine years old, a man older than his father fucked him over a meeting desk.
Technically, Tim couldn't remember that night. But he'd written it down, and so every so often, he'd look back at that being the start of the fall. He'd been so distraught that night that he'd watched every video of Robin he could get his hands on, until that damning quadruple flip. Even his parents buying him ice cream to reward him for being ‘such a good boy’ wasn’t enough to stop the tears from slipping down his cheeks.
Technically, DI’s financial troubles only lasted two years. In those two years, Tim became irreparably damaged.
After DI was no longer near bankruptcy, Tim only spread his legs or lips when it was really important to his parents. Some part of him dreaded those few nights a year, some part of him craved it. He felt disgusting, wishing for his parents to be in financial ruin so that he could just get his hands on someone else. He felt like a pervert.
By the time he'd started as Robin, those outings were rare. The desire for them dwindled, but so did the disgust. It felt… numbing, almost.
He could just focus on being something for Batman to use, on being Robin for the sake of a grieving man. Robin was good. Robin was pure. Robin saw a man forcing himself into a woman in an alley and didn't understand what was happening. Robin left the door of his shower unlocked after every patrol, waiting. Always waiting.
It's not as if he wanted Bruce to sleep with him. Not really. The idea scared him, a little. Bruce was large, Bruce was strong, and he could perfectly imagine how much it would hurt. But- but Bruce also delicately bandaged his wounds, so he always thought that it wouldn't really be so bad.
But those weren't thoughts he should have.
-+-
A year in as Robin, Tim was fourteen, and things were better. Bruce was calmer, everything was at rest, and Dick was even hanging around more. It felt like a gaping, infected wound had been burning at the Wayne household for so long that it they could hardly tell a difference as it healed until they were no longer wiping away fresh blood every few hours.
Tim, that particular day, was staying in the manor overnight. He tried not to, really he did, because whenever he did, he found himself sleeping in his bed with the door unlocked, naked, waiting, but so paralyzed with fear at the same time that he could only stare at the ceiling and get hardly a wink of sleep.
But that day, he’d allowed himself to be lured in. Alfred had invited him over for dinner, and he didn't have it in him to say no when the man asked if he’d like to stay the night. He'd come over earlier in the day, had tea, and then was sent up to the guest room he usually occupied to unpack his belongings.
Just as he was rifling through his mostly empty backpack to see if he remembered his toothbrush or not, he felt his phone ringing in his pocket. He distractedly pulled it out, half expecting it to be a scam call, but instead his mother's contact flashed across the screen.
Something fluttered in his chest. He couldn't tell if it was joy at hearing from his parents for the first time in over a month, or fear.
Always fear.
Tim clicked answer and brought the phone to his ear. Instantly, he could hear the sounds of waves splashing against a beach and the soft whistle of the wind. Where were his parents again? Was it Iceland?
“Timothy!” His mother chirped in greeting. Happier than he thought she’d be, and definitely a little bit tipsy. Was it a good dig?
“Hi, Mom,” he answered back dutifully, smiling into his phone. “Have you guys been having fun?”
“It's been amazing,” His mom sighed happily. “We've been working so hard these last few years on our digs and the company, we really needed this vacation.”
They were on a vacation? Not a work trip? That felt… fine. It was all fine. He could ignore the clawing feeling of something rising up his throat because it was completely fine that his parents left on a vacation without him after he’d been carrying the company on his back for the last couple of years.
“That's good,” he heard himself say.
“Mhm,” his Mom replied. “But before I get sidetracked, I called you for a reason, Timothy,” of course, they never just checked in on him , “We got word of a dig site being set up in Nepal, and it could be groundbreaking. Someone found evidence of highly sophisticated blacksmithing in an area they didn't think had ever housed a population. It's just fantastic, really, Timothy.”
But.
“But there's an issue with the land ownership. Apparently, Bruce Wayne bought up a good amount of the land around the base of the Himalayan mountains, right where we'd need to start digging.”
Well, that one Tim knew the origins of. It happened during Bruce's stay with the League of Assassins, another layer of protection to keep them from being caught, but also another layer to keep them from interfering with civilians. Bruce hadn't done much else with it because he simply hadn't had the need to.
“Ah, that's unfortunate. You're locked in a custody battle over the site?” Tim guessed. He’s sure Bruce wouldn’t exactly be ecstatic about handing over land that potentially holds artifacts belonging to the League of Assassins from generations passed.
“Yes,” his mom sighed. “And we're still on vacation, so we don't have the time to sort it out ourselves. But you're always at his house, right? You've done such a good job making connections.”
Tim preened despite himself.
“Could you work out a deal with him for us, Timothy? It would be a huge help.”
And then, like that, the image was shattered. Some part of him had been expecting it, dreading and hoping for it. His parents knew he spent time at Wayne Manor frequently, and Wayne Industries was always the company they couldn't pin down in a deal. It'd been only a matter of time before he was asked to help grease the wheels, so to speak.
“I don't…” he licked his lips, suddenly feeling parched. “I don't know if he'll like that. If he'll… except.” And he really didn't know. Bruce hated people who preyed on children more than anything, and he'd never so much as let his gaze linger on Tim. During those first few months, it honestly felt more like Bruce hated him.
(But there was still that lingering doubt, that voice inside Tim’s head that said everyone wants him in some way. On his knees, bent over, naked, half-dressed- the only adults who’d never wanted to touch were his parents.)
His mom let out a frustrated puff of air, and Tim flinched in the empty room. “Timothy, I know you're not dense. You're just his type.” His blood was running colder and colder in his veins. “You've seen his boys, that one who flaunts around the name ‘dick’ and the other that looks exactly like him. Businessmen like him don't just adopt kids for the sake of it, Timothy.”
It'd been all over the papers for months after each adoption. Speculation about why exactly Bruce brought his kids into his home, and just what he was doing to them. During the media circus with Jason, Tim had started to squeeze his eyes shut during ‘business meetings’ and imagined it was Batman taking his body, not a nameless faceless stranger. It felt disgusting, now that he worked with the man so closely.
“I… okay, mom,” he finally said.
Tim thinks she kept talking. About their vacation so far, about the upcoming trip, about being home for Christmas for the first time since DI started having financial struggles. He could only parse out specific words, and by the time she hung up, his hand was so numb the phone slipped right out of his fingers and onto the floor.
Bruce… wasn't like that. Dick- Dick would've told him, right? Dick warned him about all sorts of things- emotional constipation, avoidant behaviour, the passionate arguments, and even the gruelling training. But he'd never warned Tim about this . And Bruce hadn't tried, no matter how many times Tim left himself vulnerable.
He was… scared? Aroused? Excited? Horrified?
He couldn't put his finger on it.
It was just… just another investor. Just another faceless set of hands. Just another million slot issue that would be sorted out soon, and then he'd go back to normal. If things could even go back to normal, after Bruce got a taste.
Tim threw up in the offshoot bathroom on his way down for dinner.
-+-
During dinner, Tim was caught between two sides of his brain screeching at him. He couldn't dare to make eye contact with Bruce out of fear that he'd see just how disgusting- or how desirable he was, but he couldn't stop staring at just about everything else. Would Bruce hurt him? Or be painstakingly gentle, just like he was with everything else? Would he talk or be silent?
Would he find Tim desirable to leave it as a one-night kind of thing?
By the time he was pushing himself from the table, Tim had eaten less than half his food, and Alfred had already expressed worry over a stomach bug. Bruce pushed himself from the table like Tim and reached out, almost as if ready to say something. But then Tim flinched away from the hand, too perfectly imagining it reaching under his shirt, and Bruce drew back into himself and left the room in the direction of his office.
Tim stood in the dining room, frozen, staring at the space Bruce had occupied only a few moments prior.
He'd never negotiated on behalf of his parents. It was always them who set everything up, who told him a name, who told him to just show up and follow directions. It had always been… passive. Thrust into the active role, he didn't know what to do with himself. He wiped his hands on his pants, sweating, still unsure.
The first step… the first step was to go to the office. Robotically, his feet moved one after the other in the right direction, unseeing eyes locked on the floor. Tim arrived in front of the dark wood of Bruce’s office, not feeling any surer about what he was supposed to do. The next step- he had to knock. His hand was shaking. Tim knocked, and then dropped his hand back to his side, suddenly unable to muster the ability to hold it in place.
There was a shuffling inside for a brief moment before Bruce called out, “Come in!”
Tim swallowed. What did he do from here? Right, open the door. The door swinging open on its hinges felt as if it took too long and not nearly long enough. All too soon, the plush carpet in Bruce’s office came into view, and Tim swung his gaze up to the desk on the far corner of the room. An image flashed behind his eyes of himself being bent over a desk just like that before his gaze continued its trail to meet eyes with Bruce. For the first time that night, he could look at Bruce- and suddenly he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
Bruce’s brows were drawn together. It was the same look of concern he'd give Dick whenever he was injured or sick or any other number of ailments. It felt out of place, directed at Tim, but then again, he'd blubbered at dinner and spent the last ten minutes awkwardly hovering around the halls praying for a meteor to strike him down. Maybe the look of concern was concern about Tim getting one too many concussions and losing any semblance of intelligence he boasted of.
“I-” he stopped. Swallowed again. “Um. Are you… busy?” Tim cringed, suddenly feeling horribly self-conscious. Of course Bruce was busy; his desk was covered in papers. Before Bruce could open his mouth and respond ‘obviously’, Tim plowed on ahead. “I mean- of course you are. Stupid question.” He stepped into the office space and shut the door behind him, legs moving without his permission to park him in front of Bruce's desk.
Bruce studied him for a moment. Tim looked away, finally, feeling oddly like Bruce was stripping him down with his eyes for someone who’d spent much of his childhood undressing himself for strangers. “Are you okay, Tim?” Bruce asked carefully, calculatedly.
“Yes,” he said quickly, too quickly. Tim was fine, of course he was fine. The urge to burst into tears and jump off of Gotham Harbor was pretty typical these days. “I just- um. Have you heard of the issues with my parents trying to set up a dig site on some of your land?” Stellar opener, really, he should probably shove his foot in his mouth as a prize.`
“Yeah,” Bruce nodded slowly. “The site they want to set up was an offshoot League of Assassins base a couple of hundred years ago, so I was blocking their attempts to set it up. It's not a good idea for them to dig up that kind of history.”
Some part of Tim had been hoping, smally, that he could just ask and Bruce would do it without incentive. Foolish, now that it's been squashed.
“Right.” Tim laughed nervously and fiddled with his sleeves. He'd put on the baggiest sweater and sweatpants he owned, but hadn't worn a shirt or underwear underneath. It felt like an appropriate dichotomy for his feelings at the moment. “They, uh, asked me to negotiate with you,” he finally rasped.
Bruce slid the lid of his laptop shut. When it clicked, Tim couldn't help but flinch. “Are you asking me to allow them to set up the dig? Tim, do you understand the problem with that?” Far too kind, for something as ugly and desirable as him.
Tim took in a deep and steadying breath, feeling as the oxygen filtered through his body and brought back feeling into numbing fingertips. It was now or never, and Tim had always done what he was told.
The room felt unbearably silent as Tim wound around the desk. Bruce followed him with his eyes, turning in his chair to meet Tim. Leaned forward and legs closed, which meant a blow job probably wouldn't cut it. Tim suddenly felt foolish for wearing a hoodie instead of something a bit more revealing. He might've been able to keep his shirt that way.
Between one hair's breadth and the next, Tim slipped off his sweatshirt and threw it aside, exposing his chest to the cool night air. His skin was clear, only broken up by the odd bruise from patrol and none of the hickeys he'd grown accustomed to. It'd been too long since his parents last needed help.
He couldn't stand to look at Bruce's face while they did this, so he didn't. Tim kept his gaze on the desk, where he could see Bruce's fists tighten on the chair out of the corner of his eye.
Everything felt like static as he pushed forward on his heels, bringing up his leg and his arms to slide smoothly into Bruce's lap. His lips were parted, his eyes slipped shut, and he let himself lean forward, ready to meet the man's touch-
A shout, and Tim ended up on his ass on the floor. He hadn't even managed to make contact with Bruce.
Bruce was standing up now, chair overturned in his rush to get up, face pale, and a strange look in his eyes. He towered over Tim like this, and the fear about just how much damage Bruce could do returned. Tim bit back a wince of fear and tried to keep his face sultry, but it was difficult with his rising anxiety.
“What the hell are you doing, Tim?” Bruce demanded. He looked- scared? Concerned? What sort of expression was that?
“I know it would be difficult,” Tim started, trying to look up at Bruce through his eyelashes in a way that had driven a construction investor crazy. “So I thought I'd… give you an incentive. Is something wrong?”
Was something wrong with Tim? Had he suddenly grown ugly between his last time and this one? Was Bruce playing some sort of long game where it'd end with Tim wishing he'd run away from home that first day he'd taken off his pants for that stranger he could no longer remember?
“Jesus, Tim.” Bruce rubbed his hands over his eyes, taking several steps back from Tim's prone form. Before he could ask what was wrong again, he was struck mute by Bruce tossing his hoodie back at him, over his chest. “Please- please put that back on.”
Numbly, Tim listened and slid his sweatshirt back over his trembling torso, covering every inch of skin he could. He didn't understand what he did wrong; if only that he was right and Bruce didn't want this from him. He should've fought harder with his Mom- now Bruce would be able to tell just how disgusting he really was.
When he was covered again, Bruce finally looked back at him, expression pained. “Tim-” he started, then stopped, taking a breath. “Why did you do that? What possessed you to make me think I'd want that?”
Because the only adults that had never truly wanted him like that were his parents, and he's half-sure that they'd want him like that too if they weren't so bull-headed about their interests and had a complete lack of sexual interest. After all, he’d yet to meet an adult, a proper adult (because Dick and Babs didn’t count), that didn’t at least want a peek under his shirt.
But that wasn’t a proper answer for Bruce, and so Tim wasn’t quite sure what to say. He knew that if Bruce found out what he did, then all those poor people Tim seduced would end up in prison, and Tim would be buried in the deepest level of Arkham for wanting it in the first place. His stomach churned, and he suddenly regretted eating anything at all during dinner.
“I… don't know.” He sagged, curling in on himself and wringing his hands together. “You- you don't want to have sex with me?” Tim asked. It felt wrong, so some part of him wanted confirmation, even if Bruce's face said enough on its own. The way the man couldn’t seem to bear to get any closer to him spoke volumes of just how uncomfortable this situation was making him.
Even worse, when Tim said ‘sex’, Bruce flinched back as if struck. The man took another step back, furthering the chasm slowly growing between them. “ No, ” He said, firm enough to make Tim's eyes water despite himself. “No. I would never want that from- from a child .”
Tim's breathing shuddered, and Bruce scrubbed a hand over his face. If he could pick himself off the floor, Tim might be able to stand up straight and face Bruce like his partner, but crumpled on the floor and stifling tears, all he felt like was a toy that had been discarded for the first time in his life. He was right about Bruce, after all, and the thought felt just as relieving as it was disjointed and wrong .
“Tim,” Bruce called, and Tim looked up from the floor with watery eyes. Bruce's face was grim and firm, and Tim could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. “Did your parents ask you to… to do this?”
Tim should say no, tried to in fact, but the accusation made him twitch, and he knew that was confirmation enough for the world's greatest detective. But with just that information, Bruce might not get the full picture, might only blame his parents when it was Tim himself who was fucked in the head, so he drew himself up and fixed his mistake.
(It felt wrong to place the blame solely on the shoulders of his parents for how Tim ended up this way.)
“Yes. But I wanted to.” He couldn’t meet Bruce's eyes anymore. “I've been wanting to. Because- because you'd be gentle with me, I'm sure.” Not like the man who visited when he was ten who'd hurt him so bad he couldn't walk for a week, not like the woman from when he was eleven who scratched up his back and chest with sharp red nails until they left thin, almost not-quite-there scars. Bruce would be gentle, Bruce would be kind, and Tim would probably enjoy it more than hate it. He was sure of it.
Bruce gagged.
It was… a weird sight. Bruce looked so distressed, so ill, that he looked half ready to puke. Tim awkwardly shoved the trash can forward, but Bruce didn't take it- instead, he gripped his desk with white knuckles and breathed deeply, through whatever caused him to look so sick.
“No. No, no, never,” Bruce hissed, voice thick and heavy with emotion. Tim took a nervous scoot back, suddenly afraid that Bruce was mad enough to hit him over it. “Tim, I would never touch you like that. Why-” He choked off and turned one of his hands to rub tiredly down his face. “...Your parents have done this before.”
Not a question, just a statement. Tim could practically see the gears turning in Bruce’s mind, a detective chugging away at the mystery of why Tim was the way he was.
“...Sort of.” Tim shuffled awkwardly on the floor. The wrong-footed feeling wasn’t leaving him. “I mean, I’m not… I’m not usually the one to negotiate. But I- I always go.”
Even when there wasn’t much of a way for his parents to track if he did or not until the deal inevitably fell through. Even when it meant he had to catch an hour-long bus ride to get to the right motel, when he had to go out of his way to buy what toy and outfits the stranger would want. Even when the simpler option was to just stay home, Tim was always the one who said yes without hesitation.
At some point, Tim had stopped hating those visits and started craving them. It was the longest someone would touch him at a time, and every so often, the other person would be so gentle with him he could cry. A woman, someone Tim had never been given a name of but rather a title to call her, always brushed his hair and gave him a bath after she was done with him, and he outright sought meetings with her.
Before Tim could stop it, the tears that had been threatening to spill over dripped down from his eyelashes and down his cheeks. “I always go. I’m… sorry. I told my- my mother you wouldn’t want that from me.” He should’ve tried harder, if only just to avoid the tenseness that was now permeating the room.
“Tim.” Tim looked up again and found pain laced across Bruce’s face. “Tim, honey- chum. Chum, that’s not okay.”
“What part?” Tim laughed hollowly. Was it the fact that he opened his legs at even just a text from his parents? Was it the fact that he- he tried to come on to Bruce? Was it the fact that Tim enjoyed it, even though by no means should he have? That Tim wasn’t a victim ?
“Everything.” Bruce sank down onto the ground, sitting criss-cross across from Tim, still more room than there should be between them. “Tim, your parents shouldn’t be asking this of you. Nobody should. It’s-” something unexplainably problematic but wholly necessary? “-Disgusting.” Tim almost laughed. Of course.
But Bruce saw something in his expression and quickly course-corrected. “Of them . Do you understand me, chum? It’s disgusting of them . Not you .”
Bruce still wasn’t understanding . Tim floundered for the words to explain the complicated feelings that had been building in his gut ever since he was a little kid, but no matter how much he tried, he kept coming up short. “I…” Wanted it? Mostly, yeah. Craved it? More than anything. Was scared every single time the whole time? No (yes).
“I think there’s something wrong with me.”
It wasn’t what he meant to say. He should be weaving his words together properly, like his parents would want, explain to Bruce that this was all just a misunderstanding and that Tim was just a kid who had a crush or something. Tim should be doing anything other than admitting to the horrible things inside of his head.
“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Bruce’s voice was soft, far too soft.
“There is!” Tim half-shouted. He looked at Bruce, and he hated the too-soft and too-concerned look that reflected back at him. “I can’t- I can’t stop wanting it. I can’t stop thinking about it. I think about- about you being the one to touch me, all of the time, I keep asking for it! Bruce, I- I’m disgusting .”
“Tim, stop it!” Tim obediently clicked his mouth shut. It was only after he stopped talking that he realized how labored his breathing had gotten, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe at all. He gripped the front of his shirt and heaved. It felt almost like Fear Toxin with the way panic gripped at his chest, but so much worse because Tim was completely aware .
“Tim, calm down.” Bruce sat up on his heels and reached forward before hesitating at the halfway point. Tim would’ve loved to burst forward and squeeze Bruce until the man’s ribs creaked, but he also knew himself, and he knew that if he tried to hug Bruce right now, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from pulling on an act of soft seduction again.
“Breathe with me,” Bruce directed. He breathed in and out deeply, using his hands to motion with it. Tim’s breathing shuddered, but he managed to direct it still, following along with the rise and fall of Bruce’s hands.
Tim just barely managed to calm the stuttering in his chest to a smooth inhale and exhale. He felt wrecked, and Bruce hadn’t even touched him. He was just crying and working himself into a panic over- over telling someone for the first time in his life just how gross he really was. Tim curled in on himself and hugged his knees to his chest as shame flooded his body.
Bruce sighed and rocked back on his heels, sitting back down on the floor. “Tim, you’re not disgusting.” Tim choked on his tears. “Do you-” Bruce scrubbed a hand over his face and looked distinctly like he wanted to be anywhere but there in that moment. “Do you know what hypersexuality is?”
Sort of. It was the thing where people were so addicted to sex that they couldn’t even go to work. But that wasn’t related to him .
“It’s- sometimes when people experience sexual abuse-” Tim shot his head up and made a noise of protest, but Bruce held up his hand, asking to be allowed to finish his thought. Tim closed his mouth. “Sometimes, when people experience sexual abuse when they’re very young, they’ll end up being hypersexual instead of afraid of sex. Because of the chemicals and the hormones released during sex, it can make you crave it or think about it constantly, even when it’s inappropriate.”
That certainly sounded right, if not for the fact that Bruce started the explanation out with sexual abuse . Tim wasn’t abused; his parents never laid a finger on him, violent or sexual. The worst punishment he ever got was being sent to bed without dinner.
“...I don’t understand,” Tim finally voiced.
Bruce turned his palms up on his knees, a gentle invitation and sign of surrender all in one. Tim nervously reached forward with his hand and slid his palm against Bruce’s. He didn’t immediately feel the urge to yank it away, and neither did Bruce shove him away. But, he also didn’t feel any spark of arousal pooling in his gut like he’d half been expecting.
“Your body experienced something it shouldn’t have too early in life. So to cope, your brain told you that you liked it, that it was good .” Tim flinched, so Bruce responded by giving his hand a small squeeze. “But Tim, chum, nobody should’ve done that with you. No one .”
They sat in silence for a long moment. Tim wanted to leave this conversation the second it turned emotional, but he was trapped, pinned by the concerned gaze of his mentor. All he could do was try to process the words Bruce was telling him- try and fail .
“...I don’t think I always liked it,” Tim finally said. His voice was hardly above a whisper, but still Bruce nodded along. “The… the first time, I wrote in my journal. I hated it. I hated doing it, back then.”
Bruce dragged his finger across Tim’s knuckle and Tim shuddered at the comforting gesture. “That’s okay, Tim. You won’t have to do that ever again. I promise .”
Tim spent far too long sitting on the floor of Bruce’s office, crying and holding hands with Bruce. He ended up passing out, leaning against Bruce’s desk. He woke up hours later to sunlight peaking through the blinds on Bruce’s couch with a blanket thrown over him. None of his clothing was disturbed, and for once, he could identify that he was relieved.