AN: We're starting to wrap up here, folks! Three more chapters left, including this one, and then this main fic will be done. I'll have spin-offs after, because of course, but this main fic is almost over. Let me know what you think of it!

This is his.

Tim just can't get over it.

This is all his.

Looking around, a warmth pulses in his chest, shyly at first, but gradually growing. The room is his. The bed is his. The dressers are his. The lounge chair is his. The desk and its chair are his. The rugs and the bookshelves and the nightstand and even the attached bathroom are all his. Bruce had said so, clearly and firmly. Bruce had even said that once Tim was ready, they would go buy things to make the room fully look like it's Tim's, all kinds of decorations and things like that.

Tim struggles to believe it, and the warmth in his chest falters and fades. This is all too good. This is all his. This is all too good. He doesn't deserve any of this. He's a metahuman, and that means he's bad, and then-

…But. But if that's true, then Tim doesn't get to be loved. And all of the Waynes said they loved him. They insisted on it, really. They said they loved him, loved him for real, loved him as a part of their own family.

It's hard to wrap his mind around, the idea that he can be loved.

But he'd rather try to wrap his mind around that than the other ideas that have been brought up to him, ideas about Mother and Father being wrong to the point that they should be immediately arrested.

Tim shudders at the thought. Maybe Mother and Father were wrong about him being so bad, but they couldn't have known that, right? Mother and Father were doing the best they could, and even thought it meant Tim got hurt so much, they shouldn't have to be punished for a misunderstanding like that.

Granted, Mother and Father had punished Tim himself for much less, but still.

Shaking his head, Tim flops back on the bed, his bed. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to think. He doesn't know what to feel. He's so confused and concerned, and he doesn't like it. At least with Mother and Father, he kind of knew what was expected of him. Now, he doesn't know what's expected.

Rationally, he might be able to figure it out. The Waynes have all spent the whole day impressing on him that he's the same as any of them, that he won't get any punishments, that he will be treated with respect and reason and real love. It makes some sense logically once Tim understands that no one here really hates metahumans or hates Tim himself. Logically, it does make some sense.

Emotionally, though, it makes no sense at all.

It goes against everything he's ever learned or seen or heard. It twists his mind that he's supposed to be some kind of equal here. It even hurts a little, trying to understand that he's somehow been given the love he's always wanted to have, hurting deep within his being.

But Tim is used to being hurt. And maybe this hurt is worth it.

When Tim comes down to the kitchen the very first morning after finding out that he's really loved, Alfred has plates of breakfast all set up and is starting to put the plates on a cart.

"I can help, if you want," Tim offers, reaching out to grab a plate.

Raising his eyebrows, Alfred immediately grabs the plate Tim's reaching for, swooping it away from Tim's hand. "And if I do not want?"

Tim flinches back. "Sorry. I don't, I didn't mean to-"

Alfred's face softens. "Ah. I did not intend it as a reprimand, Master Tim. I want to do this for each of you. I delight in it, really."

"Oh," Tim says quietly. He follows to the dining room and sits awkwardly, watching Alfred place the plates around the table. One of the plates has much more food on it than any of the others, and Tim figures that one is going to go to Bruce's usual spot.

Instead, Alfred places it right in front of Tim himself.

Tim looks up at Alfred in confusion, debating whether to say anything. As it turns out, Tim doesn't have to say anything.

"As I mentioned previously, I have multiple concerns about your mother and father's so-called parenting. One of those concerns regards their lack of encouragement of your nutrition," Alfred says, wiping his hands off rather aggressively on his apron. "I am not any form of expert on metahuman abilities, but I do have significant knowledge of general human nutritional needs, and those include increased requirements for healing processes."

Tim thinks for a few seconds. "So because I heal more, you think I should eat more?"

"I think that you should have, at the very least, the normal amount of food required for a growing boy, if not more so, to make up for any kind of past reduced portions," Alfred says, a steely tone in his voice.

Shoulders hunching up, Tim shrinks down in his seat.

Alfred sighs, but he doesn't sound annoyed. He sounds almost apologetic. "I am not frustrated with you. It is in no way your fault that your parents were… Inadequate, at best. It is not your fault, but it is now something you must deal with and overcome. I plan to help you in any way possible, and that includes making certain that you are well-fed. Tell me, are you familiar with essential nutrition concepts?"

Tim blinks at him.

"I will take that as a no," Alfred says, sounding slightly amused. "Allow me to rephrase. Have you heard of calories?"

Quickly, Tim nods, grateful to be able to do so. "Yeah, I know those."

"We will start there," Alfred decides, pulling a few papers from a pocket on his apron. "Then we will move into food groups, balancing dietary needs, and the like. It may take time and effort, but we must be sure that you are correctly nourished and fully able to understand why that is important."

"You don't have to take time like that for me. You don't have to do it," Tim says quietly.

Alfred pauses. He smooths out the papers on the table for a long moment before speaking again. "We may disagree on whether I 'have to do it,' but you should know this: I want to do it."

Bruce is being weird. It's kind of scary to Tim, and it would be extremely scary, except for the type of weirdness that Bruce is being.

Every time Bruce walks into the same room Tim is in and every time Tim walks into the same room Bruce is in, Bruce sends a kind smile deliberately and directly Tim's way. The first few times it happened, Tim looked around for who Bruce was smiling at, but even though usually someone else was nearby, when Tim moved to let Bruce see whoever Tim was sure Bruce was actually smiling at, the smile followed Tim. Bruce has smiled in Tim's general direction before, but Tim's always been sure that Bruce was smiling at someone else. Now, he's pretty sure it's at Tim himself.

So Bruce is smiling at Tim. A lot. More than a lot. Basically all the time. Which is nice, but a little weird, but mostly nice.

But Bruce is also talking to Tim. A lot. Which isn't so weird. They work together as vigilantes, after all. Well, not right now, because Tim is benched from the streets until they can be a little more sure of how his metahuman abilities function.

"So I don't accidentally injure someone more than I'm supposed to," Tim had said tentatively when the topic came up.

"So you don't accidentally get old injuries coming up again," Bruce had said firmly back, and that had been that on the topic of Tim going out as Robin for a while.

But Tim has been Robin for quite some time, and so he's been working with Bruce for quite some time, and so he's talked to Bruce and been talked to by Bruce plenty.

Not like this, though. Definitely not like this before.

It seems like in every conversation Bruce and Tim have, and even in many different moments when they're not in conversation with each other, Bruce finds some way to slip in some strange sentence, or even a couple of strange sentences, really strange sentences. They're not bad sentences. They're not mean. They're not insults or demands or complaints. They're not bad at all.

They're just strange.

For example, when Bruce sits next to Tim at a meal, Bruce will say, "Tim, you are a joy to have around."

Or, when Bruce is arranging Tim's training schedule as they work out together in the Batcave, Bruce will say, "I'm so glad you're in my life."

Or, when Bruce comes to see if Tim is up in the morning, Bruce will say, "Tim, I hope you know how much you mean to me."

Or, and perhaps the strangest of all, when Bruce walks by Tim's bedroom in the evening, Bruce will stop. Bruce will knock, and wait to be told he can enter, and then enter. Bruce will give Tim another one of those kind smiles, and Bruce will tell Tim any news about what the next day holds, and Bruce will say, "You are a good person."

It's all so strange. Bruce even looks kind of uncomfortable with most of the strange sentences, but he still keeps saying them. Tim just doesn't know what Bruce is getting out of it.

Tim knows vaguely that Cass likes to dance. He didn't know before now, though, that she likes to watch dancing. Peeking around the wall's corner, he sees the TV on and Cass seated on the couch. She looks transfixed on the screen, which shows a group of ballerinas in the middle of a routine.

Biting his lip, Tim weighs his options. He had been planning on sitting in this living room and working his courage up to watch something on the TV himself. It's hard to do that when there are people around. His instincts say that doing something for relaxation or for fun when someone else is present will only lead to consequences for not applying himself properly.

But his instincts are learned from his parents. And his parents aren't here. They aren't anywhere near here, and if the Waynes are to be believed, they won't be anywhere near Tim ever again. Tim still doesn't know how he feels about that, beyond feeling conflicted, but that's not the point right now, and-

"Tim."

Tim takes a startled step back despite the quiet calmness of the voice in the silence.

The TV's dance program is paused. Cass isn't even looking at the TV anymore. She's looking at him.

"Tim," Cass says again, just as quiet and calm as before. Then she purposefully pats the couch cushion next to the one she's seated on.

Tim gulps. She's… She's inviting him to join her. At least, that's what he thinks she's doing. It's probably so she can catch him in the middle of some punishable offense, and so she can give him consequences for being a bad kid, and so she-

"Tim," Cass repeats, breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts. "Come?"

It's not a command. It's a question.

It's not his parents. It's Cass.

Tentatively, Tim sidles into the room.

Cass nods encouragingly.

Tim walks right up to the couch, then he hesitates. Is it okay for him to sit next to her like that? But what if he gets too close? What if he takes up too much room? What if he doesn't do it right, and she gets mad?

Cass pats the couch cushion again, more insistently this time. She doesn't look mad. She looks content, peaceful, and inviting.

Taking a deep breath, Tim perches on the edge of the couch cushion.

Cass smiles. She picks up a remote from beside her and leans backward into the couch.

Watching her from the corner of his eyes, Tim starts to edge slowly away to give her more space.

Humming a little, Cass shakes her head. "You're good."

The words send a delighted little thrill down Tim's spine. He stops moving.

"You're good," Cass says again, and she nestles into the couch fully. "Comfy?"

Again, it's a question.

Tim nods.

"Liar," Cass says, but she says it fondly. "What do you need?"

Tim shrugs uncomfortably.

Cass seems to think for a moment, eyes trailing over Tim's body. Her gaze pauses on the gap between the couch's back and Tim's tense shoulders. "Leaning can be more comfy."

Tim leans back carefully into the couch. After a moment, he's leaning less carefully. It is a really comfortable couch. He slumps into it.

Cass smiles, nods, and presses a button on the remote.

The music and movements from the screen start up again, and Tim relaxes.

"I need to offer an apology," Damian announces.

Tim looks up from his case files. Just because he can't go out on the streets doesn't mean he can't help out in some way, after all. "What?"

"When I initially arrived here, I was misguided," Damian says, then he adds stiffly, "I was fully wrong, even."

Tim stares at him, not entirely sure where this is going.

"While I understood and envied your place in this team, I did not consider you a part of this family. I was incorrect. You are both a valued member of the vigilante team surrounding Batman and a vital member of the Wayne family," Damian says.

"Oh," Tim says. He doesn't know what else to say.

"I must ask your forgiveness for that," Damian says. He hesitates for a painful-looking moment, clearly chewing on saying something else.

"Well, you've got my forgiveness for it," Tim says, not wanting that strain to remain on Damian's face.

But Damian still looks pained. "I also would like to ask your forgiveness for another relevant matter."

"Okay," Tim says slowly. "I'm sure I forgive you, and-"

"I did not intend to be a constant reminder of your wretched excuses for parents while you spent time here prior to our discovery of your abilities," Damian says all in a rush. "I did not know then what I do now, in more ways than one, and so I ask your forgiveness for referring to you by their name."

Tim frowns. "What?"

"You may or may not have noticed I have refrained from doing so since discovering your situation with them," Damian says. "However, that does unfortunately leave me without a way to refer to you. I have experimented outside of your presence with alternatives, gathering input from our family, but I would like to have your feedback before finalizing my choice as a substitute for your former surname."

"You've stopped calling me 'Drake,'" Tim says, finally figuring it out.

Damian nods firmly.

Tim processes that for a moment, a mix of surprise and realization and a little discomfort at the idea of being separated from that name, even just by what Damian says. "What do you want feedback for?"

"I would like to refer to you by your full first name," Damian says, looking hesitant and almost scared. "However, knowing the formality of many upper-class families, I was uncertain if that may be something that would be an association with Jack and Janet Drake to a greater degree as something with which they would've referred to you. I did come up with further alternatives, and I am open to negotiations based on-"

"Mother and Father rarely referred to me at all," Tim says, cutting Damian off without really thinking about it beyond wanting Damian to stop looking that little bit scared. "I don't have a strong association with them and my full first name."

Damian nods, and he even grins. "In that case, do you find it acceptable?"

"It's acceptable, Damian," Tim says, smiling a little back.

Damian grins wider. "Then it is acceptable to me as well, Timothy."

"I want to hug you right now," Dick says frankly, leaning against Tim's room's doorway.

Tim frowns deeper. "Okay. Go ahead, if you want to."

"But do you want me to?" Dick asks.

Tim shrugs and gets up from his desk chair to come closer to Dick. "I don't think that really matters?"

Now Dick's the one who's frowning.

Something churns in Tim's stomach. Is he missing something here? "I mean, if you want a hug, you can have a hug."

"But if you don't want a hug, you don't have to have a hug," Dick counters. Then he sighs. "Sorry. I'm probably going about this all wrong. Do you enjoy hugs?"

"Yeah, I think so," Tim says slowly, thinking about the niceness and steadiness and warmth that hugs often give. "They're still kind of weird to me. I'm just not used to them yet."

"But are they weird in a bad way?" Dick asks.

"No," Tim says slowly.

Dick pauses for a moment. "Okay. Let me ask this way. If you could choose how I would show you that I loved you, what way would you pick?"

Tim shrugs again, his stomach squeezing a little. "I don't know."

Dick looks guilty for a moment. "I know we clearly didn't do a good job of making sure you knew we loved you before, so I want to be sure now how to show you that. Is hearing me say 'I love you' better for you than feeling me hug you, or having me buy you a gift, or something like that?"

"I don't know," Tim says, and his voice sounds almost like a complaint to himself. He winces. Dick is being so kind and considerate, wanting to make Tim feel loved, and here Tim is being pathetic and whiny about it. "I'm sorry. You can do anything you want, I'll be okay with anything. Sorry."

Dick is quiet for a long moment, and if Tim wasn't looking right at him, Tim might be tempted to say Dick had left. But Dick stays, and eventually, he says, "I don't want you to just be 'okay.' I want you to enjoy it. Would it be all right if we tried some things out? I just want you to be as happy and feel as loved as possible."

Tim nods immediately.

"You can say 'no,'" Dick says.

"I'm saying 'yes,' though," Tim says. "I… I want to feel loved. I just don't know how to do it, and… I think I'm just not used to that yet either."

"That makes a lot of sense," Dick says. "Can I try giving you a hug, then?"

Tim thinks about it. "Yeah. I think I'd like that."

Dick opens his arms, and Tim steps forward into them, and sure enough, it's steady and warm and nice.

Mother and Father are being tracked down. The police have been notified, a case has been filed, and now Mother and Father are being tracked down.

Tim spends a long time wandering the halls of Wayne Manor alone after he finds that out. He doesn't know if he wants to be with anyone right now. He kind of thinks he just wants to be back with Mother and Father. With them, he always was hurting, but he also was almost never confused. Here, he's almost never hurting, but he's also almost always confused. A part of him aches for everything to go back the way things were before with them. A different part of him cries out to see them again and ask for them to change for him since he learned being a metahuman isn't bad. A part of him wants them to hurt him just one more time so they can see him heal to begin to see him as an actually good person. A very different part of him, probably the smallest part, whispers that maybe this is for the best.

But it can't be. It can't be for the best! Mother and Father were only trying to help him be good! They didn't know he wasn't as bad as they thought!

Tim wanders and thinks, and he thinks and wanders, and he stumbles in and out of various empty rooms, until he starts to go into another empty room only to find it not so empty.

Jason is sprawled on a window seat on the other side of the not-so-empty room, staring out the large attached window. His shoulders are drawn tight, and his jawline is tensed, and his fingers are tapping a rapid pattern on one knee.

Leaning back, Tim steps away slowly and quietly, trying not to disturb or upset, because Jason seems disturbed and upset enough already.

Well. He tries to step away slowly and quietly.

He steps away right into the doorframe and bangs his head rather loudly.

Jason jerks upright, eyes flaring a little frantically green before they settle on Tim and soften. "Timosity! What are you-"

"Sorry," Tim says as a reflex.

"No sorries," Jason says, hurrying over to Tim. "Let me see your head."

"It's fine," Tim says, trying not to be a disturbance any more than he already clearly was. "Or, you know, it'll be fine soon."

Jason scowls at Tim only half-playfully. "Let me see it."

So Tim lets Jason carefully probe two fingers around the back of Tim's head.

"Doesn't look bad," Jason muses after a long few moments. "Does it hurt?"

"No," Tim says.

"Did it hurt at first?" Jason asks.

"No," Tim says, then, when Jason scowls again, Tim admits, "A little. But it doesn't now. All healed up, just like that. All good."

"All good," Jason repeats. "Right. And what are you doing here, anyway? This isn't exactly one of the usual rooms we hang out in."

Tim's shoulders hunch up despite his best efforts to keep them from doing so.

Jason sighs. "Listen. I bet you're not exactly happy about the whole police case thing."

Tim's shoulders rise up even further.

"Yeah, me neither," Jason says.

"What?" Tim says, confused and a little frightened. "But I thought you disagreed with my parents. I thought you didn't like how they dealt with me. I thought you wanted them to go to jail or something, and-"

"Or something," Jason says heavily, then he shakes his head. "Whatever. I do disagree with your so-called parents. I definitely disagree with their dealings with you, don't get me wrong. So you don't need to look so scared, okay? I'm on your side. Always will be."

Tim blinks at him, trying to figure out why that sounded off.

Jason slings an arm around Tim's shoulders and starts steering him back through the hallways. "Come on, let's go find some of the others. I bet they've got something fun we can do to get our minds off this."

Meekly, Tim lets Jason lead him back toward the more-used rooms of Wayne Manor, trying not to think too hard about what Jason had said before.

The important thing was the last thing, after all. Jason was on Tim's side.