Bruce Wayne is seething, is hot, is cold, is breaking, is broken, is raking his metaphorical fingers down the shards of himself the way he wishes he could do in real.

His boy is dead.

His boy is dead and he knew it. He'd heard it before.

But he wasn't ready to hear it again.

Wasn't ready to hear it this morning. Wasn't ready to hear it at all..

He wishes he'd never had to. He wishes he'd died with him. He wishes he'd died instead of him. He doesn't want to be alive, not without his boy.

A soft whine, drags himself back to the present, where he's leaning over the sink, knuckles white where he's gripping the porcelain. Another gentle whine comes and then something is nudging his leg, bare under the dressing robe. Something soft and warm and furry.

Right. Right. The dog.

He gets another nudge and he manages to twist his head, feeling like he's fighting his own neck, to look down at the lab. The lab gives him a doggy smile as if proud of him for doing that much and nudges Bruce again, insistent.

Bruce manages to peel one hand off the sink, reach down, touch that warm head.

He gets a soft sound of approval, and then a couple of licks on his hand, rough warm tongue flicking out. And suddenly Bruce is crumpling, sitting on the floor of his bathroom, arms around the dog, crying and crying because his son is gone. And he'll never get him back and he has to live with that.

But he can't leave because Alfred doesn't deserve that grief. And Dick doesn't deserve that grief either. And because he still has his boy. His first boy. And he's a man but Bruce still wants to see him grow. Still wants to see him get married or have children or simply build the best life he can for himself. And to be there for him, the safety net he clearly isn't but wants to be, needs to try.

He hates himself because he can't let himself die. But he doesn't want to live. How can he want to live when he will never see Jason's bright smile again or a little lump, fast asleep on the couch, pages creasing his face, or his wild laughter when he manages to best Bruce in something. Or the way he still shoveled food in his mouth like it'll disappear the moment he took his eyes off it. Or the way he made Bruce laugh. Or the way he looked at him like he hung the whole world.

Bruce doesn't know how to live with his boy and he hates that some part of him thinks that he has to.

Charlie, that's his name, shifts and licks at the tears on his face and it makes Bruce cry more. He doesn't want this dog. He doesn't want there to be a child downstairs who knows his name and is determined not to let him die. He doesn't want to get better. He only wants to crawl into the earth and hold Jason's corpse and see him in the afterlife.

But the dog keeps licking his face in an earnest, steady rhythm and his hands are smoothing over the dog's ears without thought.

Bruce wants to die and he doesn't want this dog but he's not cruel. Animals (and kids) like affection. And Charlie is only doing his job. He's not going to withhold pets, especially since Charlie is trying so hard. He's a good dog. Bruce should give him to someone who can be fixed. But in the meantime, in the meantime, he has a tiny neighbor sitting at his table waiting for him to come down.

Bruce doesn't want any of this but he's still alive so he must go on until he's not. And the child's parents are not home. Bruce may want to die but he'll never leave a child to suffer if he can help it. If he ever reaches that point he might as well put the batarang to his throat himself.

Tim has been sitting at the table politely waiting for Bruce Wayne to return downstairs for lunch for over fifteen minutes now.

Mr Pennyworth had urged him to begin eating stating that Master Bruce would not want him to wait on him, but Tim has already been so shockingly impolite to the Wayne household, that he can't bear to be even more so. He's also pretty sure that if he does forget his manners one more time today, his mother will mysteriously appear from wherever she is in the world and drag him out by his ear while apologizing smoothly and profusely to Mr. Wayne and possibly getting a new business deal out of it.

Tim does not want to call his mother to him by the power of his misdeeds, nor does he want to be dragged out by his ear. The last time his dad did that, his ear had stayed red for a full two days, uncomfortably hot, and he hasn't been able to sleep on that side.

At precisely seventeen minutes, Bruce Wayne comes back down the stairs, sweeping into the dining room, Charlie trotting obediently at his heels, like he knows that Mr. Wayne was the one truly meant for him.

He is such a good dog, Tim can't help but think again.

Mr. Wayne pauses for a moment upon seeing him, almost as if he'd forgotten that he'd asked him to stay for lunch and Tim is on the verge of hopping to his feet with a hasty goodbye when Mr Wayne continues into the dining room as if nothing is amiss and Tim is too awkward to move.

It is only when Mr. Wayne sits across from him does Tim's mind catch up to what he's wearing. He'd expected Mr Wayne to be dressed, well, like his parents, when they were home, with soft slacks and casual shirt, easy to snap into formal air at a moments notice if required and Tim is currently dressed much the same way, following their lead.

He doesn't have much of a choice when they're there. His mother abhors any clothing that are of poor taste and make.

"We are people of quality Timothy," he can hear her say in his mind, "our clothing should reflect that."

And so even if he much prefers soft t-shirts and jeans or sweat pants, he dresses to his mother's instructions while they're there or if he is to be seen in public as Timothy Drake.

But Bruce Wayne is sitting opposite him in sweatpants and a worn-looking hoodie. It has the faded silhouette of a cat on it and Tim wonders if Dick Grayson gave it to him or if Catwoman did.

He'd seen them start to flirt once on a rooftop and had Run Away. Seeing Robin hastily heading off in another direction had made him feel a little better. If even Jason couldn't handle seeing his dad flirt then Tim was under no obligation to stick it out through seeing his hero say bad pickup lines. Or maybe they were good. Who knows? Adults were weird.

Either way the cat hoodie is really cute. He'd never thought Batman would ever be wearing something that Tim can class as cute but here they are.

Tim belatedly realizes that he's been staring at Mr. Wayne for like a full minute now. He flushed and ducks his head squeaking out a "Sorry!"

Mr. Wayne frowns lightly but picks up one of the bowls that Alfred had covered over as they waited.

"Potato salad?" He asked Tim.

Tim blinked. "Um…oh…yes please."

Mr. Wayne serves Tim the potato salad while Tim freaks out because Mr. Pennyworth is right there! If it had been his parents they would have never even touched the bowl! But Mr. Wayne serves Tim and then himself, looking like this isn't an odd thing to do and then picks up the rice bowl.

"Fried rice?" He asked.

"Sure," Tim said. "I mean, um, yes please."

Mr. Wayne serves him, making sure Tim has the exact amount he wants. And continues to do the same for the peas, the chicken and the salad, until they are both served. Mr. Pennyworth pours their drinks, orange juice for both of them and a small bowl of water for Charlie.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, simply enjoying the food. Mr. Pennyworth is a fantastic cook and Tim has to fight to keep some kind of decorum and not inhale the food like a living vacuum cleaner.

He is still always aware of the quick, sharp glances Mr. Wayne shoots him on occasion. Probably because he's shooting him, his own, slightly confused looks in between.

The sound of the utensils clicking pleasingly against the ceramic is finally interrupted when Bruce Wayne gently clears his throat.

"I would like to ask you a few questions Timothy, if you don't mind," He said. The words are gently spoken but his eyes are sharp, narrow with focus. It makes Tim quiver a little if he's honest. He's never had Batman's razor focus aimed at him before and he's finding that he doesn't quite care for the experience.

"I, sure," he answers. "If I can."

"Good," Mr. Wayne nodded. "Can you tell me how you found out?"

"About Batman?" Tim clarified.

"Yes," Wayne says. "Did anyone tell you?"

"Oh no," Tim said shaking his head. "I figured it out myself."

That got him an arched eyebrow. "You figured it out yourself?"

For some reason, the unstated disbelief pissed Tim off. He stomped down the feeling and nodded.

"I was going to tell you actually," he said. "I came to speak to you but Mr. Pennyworth said you weren't receiving visitors."

"I wasn't," Wayne said a little wryly and Tim ducks his head in a flash of shame. He isn't allowed to sink into the floor though because Wayne continues on with the conversation. He is eating carefully and methodically through it, so Tim takes his cues from him and does the same.

"So tell me how you figured out something no one else ever has," Bruce Wayne says. "I confess to being terribly curious."

Tim suddenly has a sudden insight on how much of Bruce Wayne's mannerisms that Mr. Pennyworth had had an effect on and quickly tucked the information at the back of his mind to study later.

"It was Robin," Tim said and watches as Bruce Wayne tenses, color draining away to something grey and dismal. He kicks himself internally as he adds quickly. "The first Robin. Dick Grayson."

He watched as Bruce Wayne visibly drags himself back from whatever emotional edge Tim's stupid mentioning of Robin had tossed him to and nods at Tim.

"How?"

"The quadruple somersault," Tim said. "There are only three people in the world who can do it. And only one of those in Gotham. And that one happened to be the same approximate height and age of Robin." Tim shrugged. "There was really only one person who it could be."

"I see," Wayne said. He thoughtfully chewed a slice of tomato. "And how did you know about the quadruple somersault Timothy? It was a fairly new act in Haleys. Not many people truly saw it and not many remember it."

Tim gives a grim smile. "Um. I…Well…I was there? At Haleys? The night when um…when the Graysons…" He trailed off, shook his head, and then continued. "I met Dick that night, before the show. I was a little afraid and he hugged me and told me he'd do the quadruple somersault for me. So…you know…I remembered about it."

Wayne is staring at him, something like consternation creasing his brow. "You were there that night? But….you must have been very small."

"I was," Tim said sheepishly. "But…um…" he shuts his mouth. No need to bring up more trauma in this house.

"Right, of course," Wayne says and he sounds oddly sheepish too. "So you knew about the somersault and you saw Robin do it."

Tim nodded. "It was on the news. Footage of some fight. I counted the flips and, well, it sort of all fell together then for me."

"That was a good deduction," Wayne told him, almost reluctantly.

"I never told anyone," Tim said hurriedly. "I would never tell anyone Mr. Wayne. I know how important it is to keep it a secret."

"I appreciate that Tim," Mr. Wayne said, but he is frowning. "But it is easy to let things slip even when we don't mean them to."

"I'm not stupid," Tim said, frowning back at him. "The only hard copies of my evidence are the ones I printed out and brought here and I wiped the documents from the computer already." He's actually lying. His original newspaper clippings and original theory papers are all in a trapped lockbox under his bed. If anyone else tries to open it the box will fill with permanent ink. The picture negatives are in a separate box hidden in the floor of his closet and those are also in a trapped box that will burn the negatives if the wrong person tries to open it. Tim may be stupid in some ways, but not in this.

"There are ways to retrieve deleted documents," Wayne says frowning harder. Tim struggles not to roll his eyes.

"I deleted them from the recycle folder and from the hard drive buffer," he said. "No one can restore those even with software."

Wayne blinks at him. "I see," he says. He eats a spoonful of potato salad thoughtfully and then says, "If you don't mind however Timothy, I would like to double-check."

Tim sighs and concedes to this losing battle. "Sure," he said.

Wayne nods and they continue with their meal in silence for a few minutes. Tim is glad for the respite. The food is really good and truly is best enjoyed when not under interrogation.

At last Wayne takes a deep breath and says, "Timothy…"

Tim looks up from his rice and tilts his head when Wayne says nothing more.

"About…uh…Charlie…"

"Yes?" Tim says, forming lightly.

"It was very…thoughtful and sweet of you to bring him for me, but I am afraid that's not…well to be perfectly honest Tim, I don't need him."

Tim promptly forgets about being polite. If his mother appears to drag him away, so be it. He will be shouting his piece even as he does so.

"Well that's bullshit," he said.

"Master Timothy!" Mr. Pennyworth says from somewhere off to the side.

"I'm sorry Mr.Pennyworth but it is," Tim says staring at Bruce Wayne. "It's bullshit."

"Tim, I don't need him. And if you cannot keep him, it is best he be donated to someone who will truly get all the help they require from him."

"He has been donated to someone who truly needs him," Tim says with absolute venom.

"Timothy!"

"You're a mess," Tim continues talking over Wayne. "You're trying to die and trying to break every good thing you have left and I won't watch it happen!"

A loud noise clap through the air startling Tim, and making him jump. He half looked over his shoulder, expecting to see his dad, belt snapping in the air. His father rarely ever used it on Tim, but he liked to snap it through the air, liked to use it to break things around Tim, to let him to it could be him, it should be him if his dad wasn't being so generous.

It takes him a few moments longer than he should have to realize that Wayne had slammed his hand down on the table.

"Shut up!" Wayne snarls. "This topic is no longer under discussion. The outcome has been decided."

Tim slams his own hands on the table, standing, sending his own chair screeching back. He is leaning over the table, meeting Wayne's snarl with one of his own.

"Yes," he says, words hissing like scythes out of his mouth. "It is. Because you can't even admit to yourself how bad it is. So you'll keep him until you can look in the mirror and tell yourself you need help."

Wayne blinks then his face contorts into the kind of anger that has Tim bracing for a hit but not backing down. He'll never back down, not for this, never for this. He owes it to Gotham. He owes it to the next person that Batman will save. He owes it to Jason, who surely would not like to see his father like this. He owes it to Robin, to be even a sliver of the light he was. If only to save one person. Tim's no hero but he can save one person. He will.

"Master Bruce!" Mr. Pennyworth's voice comes scything through the air full of warning and censure.

Mr. Wayne tenses and then closes his eyes, shoulders deflating. He rubs a hand at his forehead.

Tim still standing feels, oddly lightheaded, stomach swooping in odd ways.

"I do believe it is quite rude to return a gift to the giver," Mr. Pennyworth continues. "Especially one given in good faith."

Charlie takes this moment to lick Wayne's hand and the man pets the dog absently and then opens his eyes and sighs.

"I…I'm sorry Timothy," he says.

Tim is stunned. It must show on his face because Wayne's tired one softens. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I let my temper get the better of me. I shouldn't have slammed the table. I," he stopped swallowed hard, eyes closing briefly. "How about we compromise?"

"Compromise?" Tim asked, almost timidly.

"I keep Charlie for three months and if I find that he doesn't help me, we find a new home for him?"

Tim contemplated this and then nodded. "That's…that's acceptable," he says. Then because he should, he adds awkwardly, "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have slammed your table. Or yelled."

Wayne stares at him and then to Tim's surprise gives the tiniest huff of laughter.

"We are a pair aren't we Tim?" he sighs. "How about we finish lunch and take dessert in the parlor and talk then? I'm afraid we're hardy doing Alfred's cooking any justice."

Tim blinks and then offers a tentative smile of his own. "Sounds good to me sir."

"Oh please call me Bruce," Wayne says. "You'll make me feel like I'm at the office if you call me sir."

Tim blinks again and says, "Oh I couldn't possibly Mr. Wayne."

To his surprise, Wayne gives that low barely there huff of laughter again. He doesn't explain though, simply says, "Oh I insist Tim. Please."

Time feels like if he protests again it would be rude so he says reluctantly, "Okay…Bruce."

That gets him a little half smile and then Wayne is applying himself to his food and Tim does the same.

They retreat to the parlor afterward, where Mr. Pennyworth serves them tea with scones, tarts, and some chocolate chip cookies. He winks at Tim when he puts those down and Tim can't help but grin delightedly back at him.

He doesn't usually drink tea but he likes the way Mr. Pennyworth makes it. He sips it slowly savoring the taste.

Mr. Wayne…Bruce, Tim corrects himself, also seems to be savoring the soft fragrant tea.

Tim nibbles delicately at a cookie, trying not to let any crumbs fall. That would be devastating.

Charlie is next to Wayne lying across his feet. It looks warm and comfortable. Tim would like a dog to lie across his feet. Even a cat. A cat would be nice, to lay across his shoulders or drape over his head and give cute little purrs.

Maybe one day if he's older and responsible enough he could get a little cat. Or maybe a little dog. A tiny toy poodle, something that won't take up much space and won't need a lot of cleaning up after so his mom wouldn't have much to object to. Perhaps a mini bunny? He saw those on a video once. They were really cute. They had these little button noses that twitched adorably.

Tim is so lost in his fantasies of cute little animals that he almost doesn't hear Wayne start to speak.

"Tim," Wayne says, "Can I ask why you're not with your parents?"

Tim blinks at him, not entirely expecting this line of questioning.

"What do you mean sir?" At Wayne's slight frown he quickly tacks on, "Bruce."

The frown doesn't go away but the man's expression does lighten for a brief moment.

"I mean, why did your parents not take you with them on their trips?"

Tim blinks at him again and then says with an air of the obvious, "I…have school?"

Wayne stares at him. "But surely…there are other options? Tutors? Online schools that let you study and keep within a curriculum, do online tests and such?"

Tim tilts his head at that. "That sounds kind of miserable," he says. "I don't see why? I have friends here at school. And interacting with kids my age is supposed to be good for my development and with networking for later in life."

"You're not wrong," Wayne hums, even as the crease in his forehead deepens. "But even so, you should have a dedicated adult at home with you."

"I do," Tim says frowning. "I have Mr's Mac."

"But she isn't live-in, is she?" Wayne says.

Tim blinks and then says scornfully, "I don't need a nanny!"

"I hardly think you do. But a dedicated adult doesn't have to be a nanny."

"I'm thirteen," Tim says, still offended. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And I can always email my parents if I need something extra, or ask Mrs. Mac."

"Thirteen is, perhaps old enough to reasonably leave a child home for a weekend," Wayne says and Tim can tell he's humoring him, "But not for weeks alone. Not without someone else being there, especially for nights. That kind of thing can be dangerous Tim."

Tim scowls and crosses his arms. "Maybe for other kids but I'm fine. I'm pretty mature for my age and I don't need an adult nightlight wandering around the house at night. Besides we have a top-of-the-line security system that is constantly being upgraded as the market progresses. I am perfectly safe. Hell, I'm definitely safer than most of the kids in Gotham. Even you should see that."

Tim knows that Batman is probably a little more paranoid than most after all the bad things he's probably (definitely) seen out on the streets of Gotham. But Tim knows he's safe. His parents would never allow their home to be unguarded, not with all the priceless artifacts they have from their digs stored there.

Wayne hums again, and Charlie licks at his hand. He pets the dog's head and says, "I am glad that you're safe at home Tim." It sounds less like a concession and more like a deflection but Tim will take it.

"Still," Wayne continues, "I am uneasy about it nonetheless. Do you have a driver to take you to school? You are the heir to a large company. With my boys, Alfred carried them to school or we had a hired chauffeur for the times he could not, to ensure their safety. At least until Dick got his own vehicle and insisted on driving himself that is."

"I have a driver," Tim assures him, feeling a little more relieved knowing that Mr. Wayne's concern came from the very ordinary concern attached to heirs of larger fortunes and nothing truly concerning his parent's lifestyle. They were busy people and they had made great strides in the field of archaeology and business. If Tim had had to arrange his own driver, well, that was a simple enough task.

"Well that is a relief at least, " Wayne says. He pauses and then asks, "Do you have your phone?"

Tim blinks and then nods, not sure that he knew where this was going. Wayne holds out his hand and Tim, deducing that he wanted Tim's phone handed it over. Did Wayne want to make sure he had nothing incriminating on his phone, or that he'd been recording or something? Make's sense. That was the kind of thing Batman would do.

However, Wayne didn't scroll through his phone. He merely tapped at it a bit and then handed it back to Tim. Tim took it back, tilting his head at Wayne in clear question.

"I've added one of my personal lines," Wayne explained. "And Alfred's phone number as well. Please don't hesitate to call us if something comes up. Anything. Even if it's something as simple as Mrs. Mac not being able to come for a day. Alfred," Wayne's face spasms and he cuts off for a brief moment before continuing. "Alfred isn't used to cooking for only me anymore. He'd be delighted to fill in."

All of Tim's growing elation about having the freaking Batman's phone number drops at that. Even if he'd never actually planned on using it, unless, of course, some crazy killer did manage to break in, he definitely wasn't going to use it now. He wasn't ever going to come in and eat the food Pennyworth had made for Jason. He wasn't going to sit at the Waynes' table like a reminder of a dead child, even if he was definitely nothing like Jason.

It might have been cool to know the Batman more, Tim readily admits, but if Mrs. Mac does take a day off every now and then like she is wont to, he is going to do the same thing he's done every time and stuff himself full of pizza with the strangest topping combinations he can make.

Still, Tim is polite, even if all his manners seem to be up and disappearing on him today. So he says, "Thank you, Mr. Wayne…er…Bruce. I will."

Wayne nods. And Tim, despite the tastiness of the tea and cookies, senses that it is time for him to leave now. They've spoken about everything they might speak of and Tim is only intruding even more now.

So he sets his half-nibbled cookie down, and his half-drunk tea carefully on the coaster, while looking at them longingly, and stands.

"Thank you for your hospitality and patience, Mr. Wayne," he says formally, "Please let Mr. Pennyworth know that lunch was delicious. I'll see you in three months to discuss Charlie?"

Mr. Wayne blinks and sits up from the couch. He opens his mouth to say something but then closes it and nods.

"Thank you for your consideration," Wayne says. "Let me walk you out." He pauses and frowns. "Did you walk here?"

"Um, no," Tim shakes his head. "I called a taxi."

"Then Alfred will drive you back." He raises a hand to stall Tim's protest and says, "For my peace of mind if you will Mr. Drake."

Well, Tim can't exactly say no to that, even if he cringes inside about taking up more of Mr. Pennyworth's time. So he nods and follows Wayne and Charlie to the kitchen where Mr. Pennyworth is solving a crossword puzzle with his own cup of tea. Tim feels even more awful when he sees the butler's peaceful little scene and instantly opens his mouth to protest that he can walk home when Wayne gently chucks under his open jaw.

Tim shuts his mouth and scowls up at Wayne. He would swear Wayne laughs at him even if his expression doesn't change.

Tim turns from Wayne to find Pennyworth looking at both of them with an air of humor.

"And how may I be of service Master Bruce?" he asks, though he smiles at Tim as he speaks.

"If you could drop Tim home please Alfred," Wayne says.

"Oh?" Mr. Pennyworth says. "Leaving already?"

Tim nods. "But I can wait for a taxi," he blurts.

"Nonsense," says Mr. Pennyworth. "It would be my very delight to ensure you are home safe. I daresay I need to leave the house for more than groceries anyway."

"If you're sure," Tim says.

"Quite," Pennyworth says folding up his newspaper and standing.

Tim nods and then drops down on one knee to say goodbye to Charlie. He pets his soft, soft head and ruffles his perfect ears, and then gives in and throws his arms around the dog's neck. Charlie gives him a few rough licks and Tim treasures every one. He feels strangely teary-eyed even if he's only met Charlie today.

"You be a good boy for Mr. Wayne okay?" Tim tells him, fingers buried in warm, soft fur. Charlie gives him an affirmative little bark and Tim kisses the top of his head and blinks his eyes a few times and then gets up and looks at Mr. Pennyworth who is waiting patiently for him to finish.

He gives him a warm smile and then gestures for him to follow him.

Tim does, giving an awkward little wave to Mr. Wayne as he leaves the kitchen.

The drive back to his house is pleasant. Mr. Pennyworth puts on a classical music station and hums to the pieces under his breath. Tim likes classical music, so they both listen to the piano and the violins, and various other instruments in harmonious silence until they are at Tim's gate. He fumbles for the gate remote and presses it, so the gate can swing open. Mr. Peneyworth drives up to his doorstep and Tim gets out.

"Thank you so much for the ride, Mr. Pennyworth," he says. "And for lunch and for tea."

"It was my pleasure my boy," Mr. Pennyworth replies, the perfect example of his profession, "And if I may Master Tim, thank you for Charlie. I do believe he will assist even more than Mr. Wayne believes."

"I hope so," Tim says honestly. Because he does. "No one should go through that alone."

"No," Mr. Pennyworth says and he sounds both approving and sad, "No one should. Good day, Master Tim. I do believe we will meet again."

"Good day Mr. Pennyworth, " Tim says. "Thanks again."

The butler waves and Tim waves back before the little car is heading back down the drive. Tim waits until it exits to signal the gates to close again and then heads up inside.