She was sinking fast I threw a rope
Now I have suits and she has hope
It seemed an elegant solution
One day this must end it isn't real,
Still, I'll enjoy a hearty meal
Before tomorrow's execution.
I don't believe that this is ever how Tim felt about Bruce, but I could see him, as he is now, looking back at his life and thinking that he once thought of things that way.
The other song, which serves as the title of the fic, is Pity the Child from the wonderful concept album Chess by Tim Rice and AB (half of the members of ABBA). Incidentally, I strongly dislike the stage musical made out of that album. But since that's not the subject of this post, I will refrain from mentioning those feelings any more. But the phrase over the cut here was what I wanted to convey with this fic. I wanted to show Tim coming to terms with what he had been doing to himself through Bruce and moving on.
That didn't work out. It didn't work because I'm not a cynic, and this is the important part because Tim isn't a cynic. Everything he's doing right now, he's doing out of faith. He confronts the cynicism that says he can't be doing good for good's sake, that says a hero has to be something pathological, and he takes it seriously but rejects it. He has read Watchmen, and he thinks it has many good things to say but refuses to see it as the whole picture. So here you go, the fic in which Tim Wayne, since that's what he wants to be called these days and I wouldn't dare refuse the request of so noble a man, resists the change I try to force on him.
Title: Pity the Child Fandom: DC Characters/Pairings: Tim Wayne Rating: PG-13 for language and unpleasantness
******
Tim frowned and hit the thug in his face. It wasn't very hard, but with his gauntlets it was still enough to fracture his cheekbone. Still frowning, he turned his head to look behind himself and grunted. He had already knocked out or chased off everyone else. It wasn't a common skill to be able to swear without using words or speech, but Tim prided himself on being able to do all kinds of things most people couldn't. It was obvious from just his bloodied face that this oaf didn't know anything. He released his grip on the man's collar and called the D partement de Police, his expression of absolute disgust almost visible through his mask.
His French wasn't great, not as smooth and flowing as Bruce's had been was and it took him far longer than it should have to explain his location. The paranoid part of him warned in Bruce's voice that the caporal understood him perfectly well and was stalling while he dispatched his men to pick up a suspicious vigilante. He couldn't silence that voice, but he could ignore it. Bruce's advice had done a great job getting him right where he was. He gestured for his own benefit to emphasize these thoughts in a way that he couldn't have learned from anyone but Bruce.
Back in the hotel room he was staying in under Damian's name he had enough of his own money, of course, but it was all Bruce's anyway, and Tim was nothing if not Bruce's son he considered extending his mask downward to cover his entire face. His frowns didn't inspire pity the way Bart's had, or fear, like Bruce's. They just made him look sad. The optimal solution to the problem, he reminded himself, was to stop frowning so damn much. He looked into the mirror and rejected that possibility.
He got out his sewing machine and spare costume fabric Bruce had always emphasized the importance of being able to rebuild the wall around your identity and got to work. It was weird, he decided, making this kind of mask. When you covered your eyes, you knew what you were guarding against: acid, shards of glass, and the possibility that someone would recognize you. This was different. Tim was supposed to have control over his mouth. He could tell from the shape that he wouldn't be able to talk properly. That was just as well his talking had hurt enough people already. Maybe if he wanted to conceal his identity, the best thing he could do was keep his mouth from flapping. It certainly hadn't done Steph or his dad any good to know the Boy Wonder's true name. Put it in that light and maybe this lower mask wasn't the greatest plan. If a criminal gave him too much trouble, all he'd have to do would be to get close to his ear and whisper "My name is Tim Wayne." The poor heavy would be dead within the week.
Still, not talking was probably best. Talking had been Robin's job and had served the same purpose as the bright red and green, but he wasn't Robin anymore and he'd given up the green for black even before then. Maybe that should have been a clue. It had been fun being Robin, but it was never going to last. He had never intended to be Batman except, of course for the time when exactly that was in his future and there was always a time limit on how long he could be Robin. It seemed fairly certain that the Boy Wonder wasn't supposed to have the kind of five o'clock shadow he'd been getting for the last few years. He'd just always assumed that he would wear out before Bruce.
Looking back from here, that assumption seemed ridiculous. Bruce had been weakened when Tim had found him. It had been obvious then that these were his declining years, that he needed a support because he would lose himself without one. The Batman had been nearly dead more than once before, and no matter what Bane had done to him he'd called it breaking that was nothing compared to what he'd been after Jason had died. Tim had known from the beginning that Batman needed a Robin, before he'd known that Bruce needed him and that he needed Bruce, that no matter what Robin needed.
What Robin needed right now, Tim thought, was a quick trip over Dick's knee. He enjoyed the thought of Damian crying after a strong spanking for a few minutes before he stopped himself with the thought of how fucked up that enjoyment was. It probably made sense in some Freudian way: he could hear Bart telling him in a fake Viennese accent that he really just wanted a strong father figure in his life. He almost told the Bart in his imagination to shut up before he realized that that was what a crazy person would do, and that imaginary Bart was probably right. He needed Bruce.
He needed Bruce, but Bruce didn't need him. Not anymore. Not now that he was... missing, not dead, no matter what everyone said. Possibly not even earlier. When had Batman stopped needing his Robin? When he became reconciled with Dick? No, before then. When Tim had joined the Titans? There was no answer. Batman and Robin came in two parts: "Batman" and "and Robin". The "and", Tim realized, had always fallen squarely on his side. He needed Bruce, and he was smart enough to figure it out and trick Bruce into thinking he needed him. To trick himself into thinking Bruce needed him, into thinking Batman needed a Robin. But that's all it had ever been, a trick. They'd both bought into it, but it still wasn't true. Batman without Robin was unstable, but Robin without Batman was meaningless.
He stitched the curve of his chin into the mask and pulled it over his face, pulling the upper edge to right below his nose where it would sit when he attached it to the hood. It didn't hurt in this position, but as he'd suspected it gave him no opening to speak. He peeled it off his face and started pinning it to the rest of his costume. Bruce didn't need a Robin anymore. Dick probably didn't either, even if he had some sick sense of duty to Damian. Nobody needed a Robin, and Red Robin didn't need a mouth. So why couldn't he bring himself to make the stitch?
But he'd already answered that question. Bruce might not have needed him, now or ever, but he needed Bruce. He needed to be there for Bruce, for Batman. And even if he couldn't be Robin for him any longer, he could find him. And he needed his mouth for all the cutting remarks he was going to make when he found him. He needed his mouth to smile at Bruce, to let him know that even if the world didn't know it had been given Dick, it still wanted its old Batman back. He wanted his old Batman back. He tossed the mask in his travel bag, remembering to keep it visible enough that he'd never consider making one again. Tomorrow today, he reminded himself, looking at the hotel clock and the hint of sun outside the window was Prague. Maybe Bruce would be there, most likely he wouldn't. But he was out there somewhere. And all he needed, all Tim needed to give him, was a little help, a bright flash of color to tell him that no matter how dark he made himself there was still some light adhering to him. Tim, as dark as he was these days, could be that light. That was what Bruce let him do, and he wasn't going to waste an opportunity like that again.