Mother and Father are back in Gotham.

At any other time in his life, that knowledge would fill Tim with a mix of hope and despair. Now, it just fills him with despair.

They aren't back to visit the area. They aren't back to go to galas and mingle with friends. They aren't even back to punish Tim. They're back to be on trial for all the times they've punished Tim before.

Tim closes his eyes, replacing the shadowed view of his new bedroom's ceiling with a view of pure darkness. He closes his eyes tighter, then tighter still, trying to force back his emotions. Lights burst across his blocked vision, then they disappear, leaving him in pure darkness again. He squeezes his eyes as tightly closed as he can, but it doesn't make the feelings go away.

He's… It's all… He feels… It just…

Everything seems so wrong.

They were doing the right thing, as far as they knew. Mother and Father were trying to do what was right. That's what they always told him. They were trying to make him be good. That's the right thing to do. That has to be the right thing to do, and it has to be that Mother and Father were only trying to do what was right and wanting to make him be good. Because, because if that wasn't true…

Opening his eyes, Tim sits up in bed. He shakes his head hard, trying to push away the thoughts, but the thoughts push back even harder. Tim's breath catches in his throat.

"Why?" He whispers to the darkened room. There's no response from the shadows, but Tim continues. "Why would they do all of that? Why wasn't it the only thing they could've done? Why didn't they find a different way? …Why do the Waynes love me, but my parents don't?"

There's no answer from the darkness of the room.

There's no answer from his own mind either.

The case files are frequently a mess. The Batcomputer's drives tend to fall into serious disorganization, and the paper folders and notes scattered around the Cave are even worse, so Tim makes himself useful whenever possible and tidies up.

He usually starts with the Batcomputer, sorting and reorganizing the files there. Then he moves on to the paper files. It's almost soothing, seeing everything get back into order. Tim has spent so long making sure everything at his old house was neat and tidy and as close to perfect as possible that tasks like this are familiar and easy. Plus, the stakes of keeping things right for the Wayne family are so much lower than the stakes of keeping things right for Mother and Father, so-

Tim stops that thought in its tracks. He doesn't want to think about that right now. He throws himself into organizing with a greater fervor, but it doesn't really help. Mother and Father are on his mind now, and they seem to be insistent in staying on his mind.

A little frustrated and a lot nervous now, Tim stacks a pile of papers with a bit more energy than necessary.

The pile of papers promptly goes flying in every direction.

Tim's shoulders hunch up, and he flinches back expectantly, waiting for the crushing blow of a deserved hit from whoever saw his mess.

But with Jason way over by the training mats and the rest of the family up in the Manor, Tim's the only one in this part of the Cave right now.

And that's almost beside the point, really. Because even if someone was around, he wouldn't be hit. The Waynes all promised he didn't need to be hit to be good. They even said he didn't deserve it.

Tim sighs and relaxes his shoulders, starting to stack up the pile of papers again. Then he pauses with a frown.

He doesn't recognize this paper. It's not in any of the standard file forms, instead just a torn, somewhat-crumpled sheet of paper with a list noted down on it, and the scribbled words seem to be in some kind of code.

Maybe it's a threat from a villain that hasn't been decoded yet. If that's the case, maybe Tim can solve it. Tim perks up and settles down with the note.

After some time, the amount of which he's not exactly sure of, but Tim's pretty sure he cracked the code. If he's right, it's partly a coding method that the League of Assassins sometimes toys with and partly a cipher that Bruce used a couple of years back. That's concerning, because why would the League of Assassins have access to Batman's tools of communication for-

Oh.

Tim finishes decoding the note.

Oh, it's not written by the League of Assassins.

It's written by Jason.

Tim stares at his decoded copy. His stomach lurches, and his chest squeezes. In front of him is a list labeled "Retribution against the Drakes." The methods in the list are… Torturous. That's the best word Tim can come up with.

He doesn't know how long it took him to decode the note. That means he doesn't know how long he's been staring at his decoded copy before a voice startles him out of his thoughts.

"Looking a little off, there," Jason observes, the sound of his footsteps coming up beside Tim. "Did you-"

Jason's voice dies off.

Tim doesn't dare look up. He doesn't even know if he can look up. He just keeps staring at the decoded note.

After a long moment, Jason sighs. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"Sorry," Tim says automatically, flinching back.

Jason sighs again and sits next to Tim. "No, I'm sorry. I thought I got rid of all of those. You don't need to… I didn't want you to have to deal with me thinking about this stuff."

Tim does look up at that, confused. "What?"

"It's probably not, like, the healthiest coping method or whatever. Plus, I shouldn't even need a coping method. I'm not the one who-" Jason cuts himself off. He's silent for a few moments, then he says, "Listen. You're dealing with a lotta stuff right now. I don't want to add anything. At first, I was thinking that taking some of what your parents did to you and dishing it back out to them would be helpful for you."

Looking back down at the papers, Tim recognizes some of the "torturous" methods now as old punishments. Huh.

"Then I thought it might make things worse, 'cause you're having a hard enough time with them being on trial. But I kept thinking about this stuff," Jason says.

"Why?" Tim asks.

"Because I hate your parents," Jason says frankly.

Tim doesn't know what to say to that.

Jason sighs and adds, "And because going out and taking some gory revenge would be easier. Simple stuff, ya know?"

Tim doesn't really know. He just nods his head.

Jason shakes his head in response. "Sorry. I'm just… We're all processing all of this still. Obviously you're doing it the most, though, so I wanna be supportive and not… Whatever this list was."

"Oh," Tim says quietly.

"I do still want to murder your parents," Jason says. "But I won't. 'Cause Bruce would throw a fit, and more because I don't think you want me to. So. Yeah."

"Thank you?" Tim says hesitantly.

Jason laughs roughly. "You're welcome. And again. Sorry. For all of it."

Bruce is hurt.

It's all Tim can think of. He's frozen in place where he stands, watching.

Batman and Nightwing just came back from a rough patrol, Bruce leaning heavily on his left side and dragging his right leg along while he wraps his arms around his torso, Dick mostly supporting him and partially pulling away damaged bits of the Batman uniform. Alfred is bustling around the medical area as Jason berates Bruce for getting injured with a shrillness to his voice that betrays how concerned he is. Cass hovers beside Damian, who looks a bit gray as he watches Bruce barely make his way to a medical cot.

And Tim… Tim is frozen.

No, wait.

Tim is moving.

He makes his way forward to the medical area, skirting around one of the Batman gauntlets that Dick has pulled off of Bruce in preparation for medical treatment. He slips by Alfred and settles next to the medical cot that Bruce is heading for.

Caught up in the flayed skin and lumbering steps, Bruce doesn't immediately see Tim.

Dick, apparently, does see Tim, because he stutters a step, almost dropping Bruce before heaving him awkwardly forward onto the cot.

Bruce bounces a little with a wheezing groan.

Dick says something, but Tim isn't paying attention to him. Really, Tim is only paying attention to Bruce.

Tim edges closer to the medical cot, mind not fully thinking, eyes scanning over Bruce, one hand reaching out…

His fingers settle on Bruce's exposed wrist.

His eyes flutter closed.

His mind stops.

For a moment, everything is silent. Then Bruce heaves in a huge, startled breath, and everything starts up again, voices messily overlapping.

Tim opens his eyes.

Bruce levers himself upright on the cot, looking down at his leg with some strange mix of awe and alarm. He's breathing rapidly, some kind of panic there, as he reaches out toward Tim.

"It's okay," Tim says, quick and loud, trying to reassure Bruce. His voice cuts through the room filled with overlapping sounds, all of which quiet down to murmurs. "You're okay now."

"Tim," Bruce says over the sudden whispers. "You're… Are you okay?"

Tim blinks. "I think so, yes?"

That's when the voices explode with noise again. Tim stumbles back, not sure what he did wrong, not sure how he can make up for it, not sure, not sure-

Now Tim's the one breathing rapidly with panic, and it takes him a few moments, or a few minutes, he doesn't know, before he realizes the voices have all gone silent, all but one.

Someone is crooning softly. "Good. You're good. Breathe. Breathe. Good."

Something soft but heavy settles around his shoulders. Tim burrows into it and disappears. When he emerges, maybe a few seconds later or maybe a few hours, all is calm. Bruce and Alfred are talking quietly on the other side of the medical cot that Bruce is now standing over instead of reclined on. Jason, Damian, and Dick are huddled over a tablet, shooting glances toward Bruce every now and then. And Cass-

Cass is sitting on the floor next to Tim.

When did Tim sit down? He doesn't know. But Cass is sitting with him.

"Sorry," Tim whispers, looking down at the blanket he's wrapped in. "I don't know-"

His voice trails off. He breathes for a few moments. He tries again.

"What happened?" He asked, looking up.

Cass smiles gently at him. "You healed Bruce."

"I remember that part," Tim admits. "But then?"

"We were worried," Cass says. "Last time, after you healed Damian… It wasn't good. We didn't know if it would happen again."

Tim thinks about that for a minute. "Oh."

"Now, we think we know more," Cass says. "Last time, it was the words. You thought we would… Punish you. You thought you were bad. Then we said that was wrong."

Tim nods slowly. "And then all my old injuries started coming."

"Yes," Cass says. "We were not sure if that was from the healing, or… From the healing. From the healing Damian or from the healing your heart tried to do when we said you were loved. Now that you healed Bruce, and it did not happen more, we think it was from the heart."

Tim nods even more slowly. "But you thought it might happen again when I healed Bruce."

Cass shrugs. "Maybe. We didn't know."

"I guess I didn't know either," Tim says. "I just thought… If any of you get hurt, and I can heal you, I should heal you."

"No shoulds," Cass says. "You could, but not should. You're hurt too."

Tim looks down at himself reflexively, trying to find the injury.

"No, you're hurt," Cass says gently. "Your heart is hurt. You think you need to be useful. You don't need to prove you are good. We know you are good."

Tim hides his face in the blanket again. His throat throbs, and his chin quivers, and his eyes burn, but he says with his voice trembling, "Okay. But I still want to help with healing."

"Okay," Cass says. "But we still want you to heal too."

"You have not told me this," Damian is saying hotly when Tim walks up to the room.

Hesitating in the doorway, Tim considers turning and walking past the office, or possibly turning all the way and going right back where he came from. Damian sounds angry, more than his usual slightly-agitated tone.

"It's not something I figured you'd want to know, but if it's important to you, maybe you could talk to him about it," Dick says thoughtfully.

"I will," Damian says, and that's when he catches sight of Tim in the doorway. "Timothy!"

Tim wishes he had turned around. "Yeah?"

"Grayson says that you have done a significant amount of photography," Damian says with a fierceness that doesn't really match his words.

"Yeah?" Tim says again.

"So you are artistic," Damian says intensely.

"I guess?" Tim says.

Damian nods. "Excellent. I will begin with you."

Tim looks at Dick in alarm.

Dick snickers, then he calms down when Tim just keeps looking at him. "Don't worry. It's nothing bad, promise."

Damian shoots Dick an upset look. "As if my work would be anywhere near 'bad!'"

"You did want advice on it," Dick says.

Damian huffs. "For a certain degree of honing its excellence, not as a blanket statement for a need to improve!"

Tim is starting to put the pieces of the picture together. "You've made some artwork, Damian?"

"Yes," Damian says. "I have received training in the art of drawing. While in the League of Assassins, this was intended as a skill for better visualization of targets and plans. However, as I reform, I find myself still interested in the drawing practice, and I seek… Guidance, from a fellow appreciator of the arts."

Now Tim gets why Dick's snickering. This is really something. Tim stifles a laugh, because he doesn't think Damian would appreciate it, and he says, "Well, I don't know if I would consider myself an 'appreciator of the arts' exactly, but I do know some stuff about light and form and composition, things like that."

Damian nods and smiles. "That will more than suffice. What main photography equipment have you been using?"

Tim hesitates.

Damian's smile falls. "Is your equipment kept primarily at your former household?"

Shrugging, Tim says, "It's not a big deal."

Damian is quiet for a moment.

Dick's the one who breaks the silence. "Is there anything here we can use?"

Tim blinks at him for a moment.

With renewed excitement, Damian picks up the topic. "Yes! Would any of Father's stake-out equipment be suitable?

Slowly, Tim nods. "Actually, yeah. Some of that stuff would work well. Most of it's more high-end than what I use on my own, but I have used it on cases before. Maybe I could use a little bit of it?"

"Excellent," Damian declares. "We shall commandeer as much of it as needed. Let us begin."

"Seeing and understanding how food is prepared can be an important component of eating properly," Alfred says as he moves around the kitchen to gather ingredients.

Tim nods, fumbling with the strings of the apron Alfred gave him. It couldn't be that hard to tie a knot behind his back, right? At least, it shouldn't be.

Alfred pauses beside him. "Would you like some assistance?"

"Yeah," Tim admits, turning his back to Alfred.

A moment and a few quick tugs at the apron's strings later, Alfred says, "There. You are ready."

"What are we making first?" Tim asks tentatively. "Something really good for us, I bet."

"It depends on your definition of 'good for us,'" Alfred says with a small smile, and he taps the open page of the recipe book on the counter.

Tim peers down at the page, then he looks up at Alfred with wide eyes. "Cookies?"

"Breakfast cookies, to be precise," Alfred agrees.

"I thought cookies and treats and stuff were bad for you," Tim says. "Unhealthy."

"Some may say so, and depending on the type of treat and the amount eaten, that may sometimes be true. However, in this case, these cookies have very good ingredients, such as oats and peanut butter, and I chose them for a specific amount and purpose," Alfred says, stepping closer to the counter full of ingredients.

"What amount and purpose?" Tim asks.

"Making enough that you feel free to eat to your heart's content," Alfred says, looking back at Tim.

Tim blinks. "Oh."

"Yes," Alfred says. "Now, we start by preheating the oven…"

Making food is actually kind of fun, Tim realizes. Alfred shows him how to do something, like preheat the oven or measure the oats, then Alfred lets him do it himself. Mashing the bananas is especially fun. So it's going really well.

But then, of course, Tim has to ruin it.

"Then we add a dash of salt," Alfred says, setting a dish of salt in front of Tim.

Tim nods, pulls the top off of the dish, and contemplates for a second. Dashes are fast, right? That would make sense. So Tim picks up the dish and gives it a quick lopsided shake over the bowl holding the other ingredients. About a quarter of a cup of salt falls into the bowl. Tim considers the bowl for a moment, decides that seems like about enough salt, and looks back up at Alfred.

Alfred is frozen, staring at the bowl.

"Alfred?" Tim asks, his heart suddenly going about three times as fast as before.

"That," Alfred says slowly. "That is not exactly a dash."

Oops. Well, Tim can correct his mistake before Alfred gets even more mad. Hurriedly, Tim shakes the salt dish over the bowl again.

Alfred makes a quiet, strangled sound before saying slowly, "A dash is about an eighth of a teaspoon."

The words ring in Tim's ears. He looks at the bowl with about half a cup of salt covering the other ingredients. He looks at the dish of salt in his trembling hands. He looks at the teaspoon on the counter.

He looks at Alfred's face, which is twisted in a strange way.

Slowly, Alfred reaches toward the bowl and toward Tim.

Tim can't breathe. He can't move. He can't-

He can't be punished for this.

He doesn't want to be hurt.

Tim drops the salt dish. It falls to the counter, or maybe right to the floor. Tim doesn't know, because Tim is out of there.

He runs out of the kitchen, through the halls, down this corridor and that corridor, sprinting to get away. His heartbeat is hammering in his ears. His breaths come in and out raspily. He has to-

Tim skids to a stop in a part of Wayne Manor that he's not sure he's ever been in before.

What is he doing?

No, what is wrong with him?

He can't run from a punishment. That only makes it worse. That only makes it take longer and hurt even more.

But he just did. He ran.

Alfred was being so nice and so patient and so accepting.

And Tim ran away from him. He can't believe it.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, frozen, unable to process.

All he knows is that he's still standing there when a voice reaches his ears.

"Master Tim, it's all right," the voice says gently. "It's perfectly fine. You're good."

"I'm sorry," Tim manages to wheeze out. "I'm sorry! I messed up, I was bad, I didn't-"

"You didn't do anything wrong," the voice, Alfred, says firmly.

Tim turns to face him. "But I ruined the cookies!"

"They are just cookies," Alfred says.

"I made you angry," Tim says miserably. He knows it was his fault. He knows what making someone angry means. He knows what he deserves now.

And yet there is an unbelievably kind look on Alfred's face. "You did not. I was a bit startled, yes, but not at all angry. To be honest, I was mostly amused. I didn't explain what a 'dash' meant, and, having dealt in cups of measurements so far in the recipe, you made a reasonable assumption as to the general meaning. You did nothing wrong."

Tim's breathing starts to even out.

As if that wasn't enough, Alfred continues. "Furthermore, even if you had done something wrong, or even if I had been angry with you, do you know what that would've meant?"

Tim nods.

"You would not have been punished," Alfred says.

Tim shakes his head. What?

"No punishment," Alfred says simply. "There may have been some need for you to make up for a mistake, or some time for me to calm myself and talk you through what went wrong, but no punishment. There will never be a punishment here."

Oh. Right. They've all said that before, plenty of times.

"I'm sorry," Tim says again, but with relief this time. "I wasn't really thinking. I just… I don't… I'm sorry."

"There is no need to apologize," Alfred says. "Now, if you would like, we could head back to the kitchen? This could be an opportunity to learn how to amend recipes in case of any accidental mishaps."

Tim nods slowly. "Okay. Yeah. An opportunity to learn."

It's not like it's Dick's fault. Dick didn't know it would send Tim into a panic. Tim didn't even know it would send him into a panic. That's why he'd said it was okay to "test out random displays of physical affection" in general.

At first, it was fine. It was really good, even. Tim liked it when Dick ruffled his hair. Tim liked it when Dick patted him on the back. Tim liked when Dick asked him to lean against Dick's shoulder when sitting on the couch together to watch some TV.

What Tim didn't like, apparently, was being hugged from behind without knowing the hug was coming.

"I think it'd be one of the ones you'd really like," Tim says, wrapping up his explanation of a new video game he'd heard about.

Cass laughs. "One I'd really like to beat everyone at, you mean."

"Isn't that the main reason you actually like video games?" Tim says teasingly.

Cass gives an exaggerated nod.

Now it's Tim's turn to laugh, right up until Cass stops nodding and peers past Tim thoughtfully.

"What-" Tim starts to ask, turning a little.

That's when arms wrap tightly around him from behind.

Tim panics, flailing his own arms, gasping and crying out, struggling against the tight grasp that-

That isn't tightly grasping anymore. It isn't even grasping at all.

Still panicking, Tim whirls around, not expecting to see Dick standing there, eyes wide, lips parted, hands out in front of him in a clear pacifying stance. But that's exactly what he sees.

"You freaked him out," Cass says softly and not-quite-but-almost-accusingly.

"I can see that," Dick says lightly. "Hey, Timmy. I didn't mean to startle you."

Gulping in a deep breath, Tim squeaks out, "It's fine."

"Not fine," Cass says.

"Yeah, it's not. Sorry," Dick says. "I guess we can put that one in the 'don't do it' column for feeling loved, huh?"

"I guess," Tim says. "Sorry, I don't know why…"

"You don't have to be sorry, and you don't have to know why," Dick says easily. "If you don't like it, you don't like it. That's that."

Tim still doesn't know what Bruce is getting out of saying these strange sentences, all kinds of compliments and affirmations and things like that, and to Tim, of all people.

"I support you." "I value you." "I want to help you."

Each time they're said, the words make him feel conflicted, feeling warm and soft and light at the same time as he feels uncomfortable. He doesn't understand it at all.

Then Bruce starts turning those strange sentences toward other people too.

"Have a really good day," Bruce calls as he's heading out the door in the morning for a trip to Wayne Enterprises, and Alfred just stares after him.

"Good work," Bruce says when Cass and Jason finish the paperwork for a case earlier than expected, and Cass beams while Jason takes a confused step backward and promptly trips over a chair.

"I'm proud of you," Bruce states between bites at the dinner table, and Dick doesn't say anything for several minutes afterward even though he'd said he had more stories to tell.

"I can tell you're trying really hard, and I'm grateful for that," Bruce says when Damian complains about how frustrating it is to have to pretend to be a normal kid when in public, and Damian makes a thoughtful, happy noise.

"You're important," Bruce says to Tim as they look at Tim's genetic sequencing in an attempt to figure out how to better control his metahuman abilities.

So Tim asks, "Why?"

Bruce hesitates for a moment, but more of a somewhat uncomfortable hesitation than a really uncertain one. "Well, because you're you. You're a great detective, and a good fighter, and a skilled strategist, and you're kind and funny and creative… You're Tim. And you're important. And I love you."

"You love me like you love your family," Tim says, remembering.

"I love you and you are family," Bruce says firmly, and he gives Tim a big smile.

Tim doesn't know what to say, so he just gives a small but spreading smile back.

AN: I thought this chapter would be short and straightforward. It's the longest one yet. Oh well.

To find Alfred's recipe, search the web for "Oatmeal Chocolate-Chip Peanut-Butter Banana Breakfast Cookies." He doubled it, of course.

Just one more chapter to go!