Author's Note:

So if you follow me on tumblr, you'll know that I've been working on and off on this since before Christmas. This is the beginning of that post-Batman 71 fic! I'm expecting it to be about 3 chapters at the moment but it's not actually finished yet so it may be more. I wasn't actually expecting it to be more than a one-shot in the first place (oops).
This also fills the first square on my Batman bingo card (child abuse) so that's cool.
Content warning for child abuse (if you've read the comics you'll know why)

Chapter 1: Sticks and stones may break my bones

Tim's jaw hurt. He didn't want to admit it, didn't want his mind to work through the pain enough to realise what it meant, but there was a dull, throbbing ache that wouldn't go away all the same. He poked at it experimentally and it pulsed slightly, emanating from the epicentre all the way down his neck and most of the way up his face. It would bruise, he was sure, and questions would be asked if people (namely reporters) saw him in such a state as Timothy Drake-Wayne. Swinging across the gap between two buildings and rolling to a halt a few blocks from his robin's nest, he allowed himself a moment to think. Bruce had punched him. He couldn't explain that away. Bruce, Batman, had punched him right in the face and it hurt. Tiredness crashed over him and he sagged, rocking back on his heels as he sighed. Stopping had been a mistake. He swung across the street, and the next, hopped down a level, slipped in through the open window. Home sweet home.

Looking in the mirror the next morning was unwise. Without Alfred's expert first-aid and a cold pack to rest on his face, his jaw was an ugly mottled purple. It was clearly fist shaped. He couldn't go out like this; people would pry and ask questions and make terrible accusations. Perhaps some makeup would cover it but Tim wasn't fantastic at it despite years of practice and the stakes were too high to risk it. He couldn't think for definite what about the stakes was so much higher than normal but… well, he didn't want to read too much into that. Going to meetings like this was out of the question; he'd have to call Lucius. He could do some case work maybe but without the Bat-computer to correlate data it would be more difficult and he didn't want to go back to the cave yet, didn't want to face Bruce yet. He glanced at the mirror again. Maybe a cold pack would be a good first step.

He went out in costume that night and avoided everyone. It was only his short patrol, nothing too taxing, but it left him with plenty of time to think. He'd seen Damian from a distance, alone as usual. He rarely saw the brat in Gotham any more: normally he was off with his Titans friends or with Jon Kent in Metropolis doing whatever it was prepubescent boys did on weekends nowadays. Tim tried not to be relieved that Bruce had been nowhere near him. He considered asking if he was ok, but stopped himself. Him and Damian didn't get on at the best of times and with things how they were he couldn't be sure he wasn't tempting fate by lingering too close. He moved on. It didn't even cross his mind that his and Damian's patrols rarely met.

Tim woke at ten to someone banging on the door. This was unusual for two reasons: one, no one knew where he lived, and two, no one would want to visit him, anyway. Well, Connor would, probably Bart and Cassie, too, if they were still around. But they were all scattered to the winds, the team broken up and their headquarters empty. Which left him with the question of who the hell was banging on the door so early. Grumbling to himself, he padded to the door, trying to trick himself into looking even vaguely awake, and opened it to a grinning Jason Todd. His grin faded when he saw Tim.

"Wow, B really did a number on you, didn't he?" He waved a brown paper bag in Tim's face. "Let me in already; I brought breakfast."

'Breakfast' was a loaf of bread that Jason tore into chunks and smothered with jam and butter using a plastic spoon. Tim had offered him a knife, but he'd refused. Why he had a plastic spoon to hand was anyone's guess. He offered a chunk to Tim and he nibbled at it self-consciously. Jason had been… unavailable… for a while and even before then, they had never been exactly close. Now he had come knocking with food and sprawled across his sofa without a care. Eventually the food was gone and Jason sat up, leaning closer eagerly.

"So, what did you do to get on the big bad Bat's bad side?" Tim wanted to believe he was imagining the curiosity gleaming in his eyes, wanted to believe his older brother had simply decided to bring him breakfast and hang out, but it was not to be. He sighed.

"Nothing," he said, sitting back with forced casualness. "I told him we cared. That's it. I told him we cared and we understood."

There was sadness in Jason's expression, his mouth a grim line, and he looked older than Tim had seen him in a long time.

"He's not good at feelings is he? He's never been great at it but even I've noticed he's been bad lately."

It was true but why did he need to say it so bluntly? Bruce could be a good dad sometimes, could give comfort and help with stuff and be all the dadly things and, sure, maybe he couldn't deal with emotions very well but everyone has their faults and besides, "it's communication," Tim responded, quickly, "he taught us all to communicate through sparring; in case someone was watching. That's all it is."

"So what did it mean?" Jason replied and there was a hardness in his gaze that hadn't been there before.

"I don't know."

Tim was thinking. Thinking was a dangerous pastime and there was always the possibility that it would cause an endless downward spiral so Tim didn't tend to think too deeply about himself unless it was necessary. Now it was. Jason had given him a lot to consider and Tim wasn't sure he meant to but that was the consequence of asking your brother why your dad had punched him. He'd left a phone number on the table because Jason was dramatic like that but Tim hadn't called. He'd logged the number, saved it to his computers and his phone and his comms under a super secret file no one, not even Batgirl, could access without his permission. Definitely not Bruce. He'd spent hours trying to decode whatever that punch might have meant, consulted the Robin manual, his own notes, anything to figure it out, and find some kind of meaning. He'd come up empty. He'd wracked his brains trying to remember any other time he'd used it that wasn't theoretical and found nothing. If it hadn't been communication, if it hadn't been their little secret language of blows, then what was it? Had Bruce just gotten angry and swung at him? Was it something Tim did? It must have been. Bruce wouldn't just punch him for no reason. He'd made him angry, and Tim was very annoying, he knew, and he'd punched him to get him to stop. It was simple. He was safe so long as he did nothing stupid.

Jason came by again, this time with lunch. This time the conversation was lighter. They talked about some novel Tim had seen the movie of one time and Jason had read. Then they laughed over some stupid story about one of Jason's old exploits as Robin in the scaly pants, the costume being the main joke. Bruce was mentioned but not discussed, not regarding anything recent or serious, anyway. Then Jason lifted his hand. Tim knew, realistically, that it was a pat on the shoulder, a simple affectionate move, but something in his mind saw the hand coming and screamed danger. Tim flinched. Jason immediately put his hand down and Tim apologised, but the damage was done. There was a barrier between them now and he didn't know how to breach it.

"Tim -" Jason started.

"I'm sorry." Everything was awkward. Why did Tim make it awkward? Should he apologise again? He should. He opened his mouth.

"I swear, if the next word to escape your mouth is 'sorry' I'll put a bullet in your knee." He closed his mouth again. "Thank you. You don't need to apologise, honest. I should apologise to you." Tim squinted in confusion. "I should have known not to touch you, not after everything." If this kept up, he'd get stuck permanently staring with abject confusion. Jason looked annoyed. "Parents shouldn't hit their kids, Timbo, you should know that, what with our night job. And I know you said it was 'communication'," Jason's air-quotes were more than audible, the sarcasm was biting. "But even if it was, and I don't think it was, that's a pretty messed up method of 'communicating' with your kid." Tim bit his lip and looked at the floor. His mind was whirling again and it had only been days since the last time he'd had a deep thought about this yet here he was again.

"Would you let someone treat their kids that way when you're out in your costume?" Tim didn't know the answer to that either.

Gotham was collapsing, as always, and Tim tried to help but there was only so much he could do when Bruce wouldn't let anyone in. He left the city, headed back to San Francisco, to Young Justice, and stayed there. His bruises were gone, but they knew something had happened. No one mentioned it; Tim was relieved.

When everything had died down, he snuck back into Gotham. He went on patrol like everything was still normal and he wasn't avoiding Bruce. He tried to pretend he wasn't watching Damian when he had time. It was something he'd realised when he was with his team: Damian still lived with Bruce and if Bruce was going mad, Damian would be right in the line of fire. So he watched from a distance, used his skills from before he was Robin when he snuck around after dark to follow his idols, and kept an eye out for anything unusual. Everything seemed ok and Tim wondered whether it really had just been him, just a one off. He'd exaggerated the problem. It was just one punch.

There was another crisis to avert, and Tim came because he was the good Robin who came when Batman called him. In the aftermath, they sat on the rooftop, watching the city. It was nice.

"You've been avoiding me." That was Bruce: always straight to the point.

"I thought you needed time to get your head on straight." It was true, to an extent. He'd thought maybe Bruce needed time. Mainly it was for Tim, though, time for him to process everything, to think about the hows and whys of everything that had happened. Bruce grunted which wasn't a disagreement exactly but Tim didn't want to push his luck so he stayed silent. He saw Bruce's eyes flicker to his jaw and back to the street. The silence became heavy with things unsaid.

"You should have told me when you left. I was concerned." There was no emotion in his words but Tim knew them to be true, the way he knew everything Bruce said to be true.

"I assumed you didn't want to see me. You punched me in the face." He chuckled darkly but Bruce didn't join him. He let it die and looked away.

"I always want to know what you're up to, Tim." He still hadn't addressed the elephant in the room. Tim doubted he ever would. That was ok. Bruce cared, he wasn't angry with Tim. That was all that mattered.

He went back to the cave to log some data. It was fine, nice even; Alfred gave him some cookies and seemed glad someone appreciated them. Damian ignored him, which was normal. Bruce ignored him too, which was less normal but still fine. He left again. As he walked back to his bike, Bruce caught his arm. "You're not staying?" It seemed an innocent question, but it put Tim on edge for reasons he couldn't explain. He shook his head. "It's getting late. Your room is just how you left it." It wasn't quite an olive branch, but it was the closest Bruce came to an apology, a 'you're still welcome' broadcast in that very Bruce-like way. Tim smiled, but it felt fake and unsure, like he shouldn't be glad Bruce still cared about him.

"I know," he said, "I have some stuff to clear up that can't wait, though. See you around?" Bruce gave him a very level stare and grunted. Tim supposed that was the best he could hope for.

There was a kid in the building across from Tim who was crying. She was younger than Damian and she'd been crying off and on for hours. Tim hadn't seen anyone enter or leave the room which meant she was alone. A child left alone in Gotham at night was never a good sign: Tim would know. This wasn't even the bad part of Gotham, or at least not Crime Alley where no one was safe ever, and he wouldn't have stopped if it weren't for the case he'd been working that had led him to the upper east side in pursuit of a gunrunner. Said gunrunner hadn't left the building he'd holed up in and probably wouldn't but Tim wanted to be sure. Hence, the stake-out. And the kid was still crying. He glanced across and saw her, curled up beneath the covers, through the crack in her curtains. It had been hours. No one had been to check on her. No one had comforted her. He bit his lip. This was a terrible idea; he should be watching in case his lead left the building; he shouldn't get distracted. But the kid was alone and Tim had always had a soft spot for lonely kids. He swung across and perched on the window ledge. "Psst," he hissed, tapping on the glass. "Hey, kid, what's wrong?" The girl lifted her head but, far from looking excited at the appearance of one of Gotham's famed vigilantes, horror crossed her face. She stopped crying, but it was a small accomplishment. Tim grinned, hoping it would set her at ease. "Is everything ok? I heard you crying." She nodded her head frantically but Tim could see her trembling slightly. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. Are your parents home?" She nodded again and moved closer to the window.

"My dad's watching TV, but he'll be coming soon." Her voice was barely more than a whisper and Tim struggled to hear it.

"That's good. Kids shouldn't be left alone, you know." The girl scrunched up her face in distaste.

"I can look after myself, honest. It's better when he's not here." Tim was suspicious now. Things were slotting into place. A kid, crying, her dad ignoring her, a preference for being alone over parental contact. It reminded Tim of another boy, a lifetime ago, alone in a house, resolutely believing that was ok.

"I know you can. But that doesn't mean you should. Your dad should care about you and make sure you're ok. Does he do that?" There was silence. The kid stared at the floor consideringly and Tim felt something in the pit of his stomach that might have been sympathy. A voice from behind the door had Tim ducking down to the ledge below and the kid scampering back to bed.

"Katie, are you talking to someone?" Footsteps echoed, and he heard the kid, Katie, whimper. "What have I told you about leaving your window open, brat." There was a murmur in response before a shadow loomed in the window, pulling it closed. "Get back in bed before I make you," the man growled as he raised his hand threateningly. Tim had had enough. Waiting for the man to leave, he pulled up all the info he could find. Bert Summers, 43 years old, no previous criminal convictions, wife died three years previously from unexplained medical issues. Katie Summers, aged 8, attended school several blocks away. She was good at art and never got in trouble. It had been a few minutes, so he popped back up to check on her.

"Hey, Katie," he whispered, "I have to go now, but I'll come back tomorrow. It's all going to be ok. I promise." He stuck a camera and audio bug under the window screen before he left.

He went back the next night and there was a bruise on Katie's cheek like a handprint. She refused to speak to him or move from her bed but she turned her head in his direction and he saw she'd been crying. He rang CPS and she ended up with a foster family about five blocks away. He checked. She seemed happier, but she still flinched away from raised voices and was too anxious to do as she was told. She would get better, Tim knew, but it would take time and for the time being he was happy to leave her be. He scheduled to check back in on her in a month, then got busy with other matters.

The Joker broke out of Arkham and went after Robin because he's an insane psychopath. Robin didn't help matters, going after him alone and getting kidnapped. Tim rescued him and it was Damian's greatest shame. Damian ignored that all of them had been kidnapped by the Joker at least once, or that if Tim hadn't rescued him he would have died, or that Tim had defied Bruce's express orders not to get involved. They went back to the cave and Tim tried to ignore Bruce shouting as he tapped away at a report. It didn't work. He sensed rather than felt Damian storm off to the showers and Bruce returned to his normal position of hovering behind him. There was anger emanating from him and Tim tensed. He wasn't afraid of Bruce, not really, just… aware of his temper. He'd known the consequences of his actions before he left and had done it anyway. Damian was safe. He didn't regret anything. Now he just had to make Bruce see it that way.

"I know, I went behind your back," he began, "but Damian is safe now and that's what matters, right? So why don't we just call it a night?" Bruce didn't make a sound and Tim was suddenly aware of what a colossal mistake he'd made.

"Damian might be safe but you still disobeyed my direct orders and there have to be consequences for that, you know that, Tim." He sounded angry. There was a coldness to his voice that Tim had learned to interpret over the years as a flimsy mask for his inner fury. Why Bruce was so angry he didn't know. There was no real reason to be and besides…

"Everything turned out alright in the end. No one died and Joker's back in Arkham where he belongs. Your plan to hold back would have gotten Robin killed and you know it." When had he stood up? He was facing Bruce and he'd been shouting and Bruce was as stoic and expressionless as a brick wall.

"Sit down, Tim." He gathered all his resolve. This was an issue he intended to push as far as he could, for Damian's sake.

"No, Bruce. I don't get it! Do you not trust me or something? My plan worked out fine and yeah it wasn't your plan but your's wouldn't have worked anyway and if I hadn't stepped in Damian would have died. Don't you get that? Your pride could have killed your son and I know that doesn't mean much to you anymore because we've all died at least once but-" He stopped. Raised a hand to his face. Sat down, hard.

Bruce was glaring at him and he'd never seen so much anger before. His hand was still raised and as Tim struggled back up to his feet, Bruce swung it back in preparation to take another swing. He backed away but Bruce followed.

"You have no idea what it's like, to lose someone, to lose a son!" Bruce's voice cracked and Tim knew he'd lost this battle. Bruce's facade of composure had broken and now he was dangerous. Tim had been stupid and he was paying for it.

"I know, Bruce. More than anyone else, I know," he cried, desperately, and it was true but Bruce wouldn't see it.

"You know nothing!"

Blackness.

Author's Note:

This fic is actually really close to my heart. It's part me being angry about current comics canon, part me pouring out my own personal issues onto paper which is actually quite therapeutic in a weird way. Recently, I spoke to a therapist for the first time and she outright told me that what I'd experienced for most of my life was abuse. It was something that I'd begun to suspect but hearing it from a trained professional and not youtube videos or tumblr was a bit of a wake up call. Realising that kind of thing about your parents is hard, like really really hard. So, if you identify with anything covered in this, please talk to someone! my inbox is always open on tumblr ( storm-leviosa-fanfics) or speak to a friend, a trusted relative, a teacher, a counsellor, literally anyone you trust.

That's enough of the serious stuff! If you liked this, please leave a review (I literally live off your positive comments but I'm happy to get some constructive criticism, if you have soem you want to share). I'm always willing to yell about stuff on tumblr as well so drop me a message there if you want. Thanks for reading!