A/N: As this story has multiple parts, I've added a note before Chapter 1 that indicates we are currently in Part 1: Blood.
Chapter 6: To Be a Father
No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.
—C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed (excerpt)
DETECTIVE COMICS
The Mark of Zorro. The smiles on his parents' faces. A walk through an alleyway. A gun and a man with hollow, frightened eyes and a voice like glass being crushed…
It's a dream, Bruce told himself, but his blood still rushed in his ears and he forgot how to breathe. A few words, his mother's frightened exclamation, the bang-bang of two bullets—
It happened. It's over.
The scattering pearls clinked on the rough cobblestones. Bruce fell to his knees.
You can't change the past.
His hands scrabbled at his father's chest. The sky turned black above them. Soon, he was caught up in a swirl of people and voices and firm hands that tried to tug him away, and then Dr Leslie Thompkins knelt down and blocked his gaze.
"They're gone, Bruce. Come with me…"
"No!" he screamed, and he yanked himself out of her grip and reached for his mother's bloody wrist, feeling for a pulse the way his father had taught him, and breathing raggedly when he realised that he felt movement under his fingertips.
"You lied!" he shrieked, lunging at Leslie, who stood immobile as he pounded his fists against her. "You faked their deaths!"
Leslie gripped his shoulders and shook them.
"I had to, Bruce. You poison everything you touch…"
Bruce grasped her hands and threw them off. "Get away from me!"
"Bruce!"
He opened his eyes.
He was in his bed at Wayne Manor. Alfred stood beside the bed, surreptitiously massaging his wrists.
"Are you all right, sir?"
Bruce became aware of the drying tear tracks on his own cheeks.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Sorry, I didn't mean…" He gestured vaguely at Alfred's wrists.
"My fault," said Alfred. "I came to wake you, and to advise you to speak with Master Tim. He has been in a strange mood since he came back last night."
You poison everything you touch.
Bruce felt momentarily lightheaded from his lack of sleep. "Strange how?"
"That is a question better directed at Master Tim. However," and Alfred passed Bruce a copy of the Gotham Gazette, "this might shed some light."
REMEMBERING THE FALLEN
Gang war death toll released below
Bruce did not need to read every line. He remembered carrying a dying teenage girl out of the Louis E. Grieve Memorial High School in broad daylight. There she was, just a few names in.
Darla Aquista (16)
Hurriedly, Bruce dressed and went to the kitchen. Tim was there, holding a half-empty bowl of cereal. As Bruce watched, Tim scraped the soggy remains into the trash and shuffled towards the door.
"Where are you going?" Bruce asked, touching the boy's arm as he passed.
Tim raised tired eyes up at Bruce. "Who says I'm going anywhere?"
Bruce quirked an eyebrow.
Tim's mouth was a thin line as he paused to think. "Darla's funeral is at ten."
"I'll go with you."
"I have a licence."
"I know you do."
"You don't have to come with me."
"Do you want to go by yourself?" I won't stop you, but… you shouldn't be alone.
Tim shrugged.
"Get yourself cleaned up and meet me in the garage in fifteen minutes."
Tim went.
Fifteen minutes later, Tim appeared, wearing a black suit that had undoubtedly been lent to him by Alfred; Bruce thought that it had once been Dick's. His thick dark hair was combed flat, and one hand was absentmindedly picking at a loose thread in the other sleeve.
"Stop that," said Bruce, frowning.
Tim's arms dropped to his sides. "Can I drive?" he asked.
Bruce blinked. "Why?"
"I miss the Redbird."
"And I've seen how recklessly you drove that car."
"I learnt from the best."
"Hmm." Bruce fingered the key in his pocket thoughtfully. "If it gets scratched, you're explaining it to Alfred." He tossed the key over and crossed to the passenger side.
Tim caught the key in one hand. "It won't."
The subsequent drive was conducted in silence.
I have been to too many funerals, Bruce thought, not for the first time, as they stepped out of the car and approached a small grey church. The service itself was short and sparsely attended; Bruce noted that Darla's own father—the Mafia boss Henry Aquista—was not present.
Afterwards, they watched her casket being lowered into the ground, and then the mourners took turns throwing flowers and dirt into the grave, and then it was all over. Darla's mother was sobbing somewhere nearby; Bruce hung back a little and waited for Tim, who stood alone and motionless. It was only when Tim scrubbed a sleeve across his face that Bruce realised the boy was crying.
Leave him be, one part of Bruce whispered. He needs to mourn alone.
He's not you, the other part of him argued. And he's not Dick. He won't ask for comfort.
Not for the first time, Bruce wondered about the relationship between Tim and his father. To his knowledge, Tim had not seen his family since the night the gang war ended. And now, Tim was attending a friend's funeral without even the support of his only living family.
Bruce stepped forward, trying in vain to think of something to say. He put a hand on Tim's shoulder.
Tim burst into silent, shuddering tears. He didn't say a word, but he leaned into Bruce in a way that made Bruce think it was an unconscious movement. Tiny dark spots spattered the sleeve of the borrowed jacket. With his other hand, Bruce found his handkerchief and offered it to Tim.
Tim let out a sound which could have been either a laugh or a choke, but took the handkerchief. The two stood together for a long moment, while Tim's shoulders shook as he fought to control himself.
It's fine, Bruce wanted to say. You don't have to keep quiet or rush.
When the tears finally tapered, Tim looked ruefully at the tear-stained sleeve and handkerchief.
"Let's go," he mumbled, and they began walking to the car. "Sorry, I just…"
"Don't worry about it, son."
Tim froze with one hand on the car door handle, his face going white while Bruce mentally cursed. Why did I say that? He's Robin, he's Tim… but he's not—it's pointless and invasive to even think that…
"Damn it!" Tim whispered.
"What is it?"
"My dad's going to kill me. I forgot to call."
Bruce kept his own voice controlled as he asked, "Do you want me to drop you home?"
Tim looked down at the crumpled, borrowed suit he wore and winced. "No, I… I'll call him later. Or…" He put his hand to his pocket, realised it was empty and bit his lip. "Can I borrow your cell phone?"
Bruce fished in his pocket for his personal phone and passed it to Tim. "Go for it."
They got in the car. Tim dialled, then gazed out the car window as he waited.
"Hi, Dad."
As Bruce started the car, he could still hear the tinny shouting on the other end of the line.
"I'm fine. No injuries. Yeah, I know. I'm sorry."
Unable to avoid listening to Tim's side of the conversation, Bruce gritted his teeth, drove and tried not to guess what Jack Drake was saying.
"Wayne Manor. I'm not going to talk about that over the phone. Yeah, I just needed some time to—okay. Okay. I'm sorry." A long pause. "Yeah. No, you can't, because I'm literally not at h— at the Manor. Come round in about an hour. I'll be there, I promise, I—Dad?"
Tim stared at the phone in his hand, mouth slightly open. Bruce resisted the urge to ask for details, but Tim answered anyway.
"I… I don't think he heard me. He's coming over. We have to go straight back to the Manor, now. Please."
The car wove swiftly through the Gotham traffic, but even so, Bruce and Tim had barely greeted Alfred in the kitchen when the doorbell rang.
Tim jumped, as if the sound had been a gunshot. Alfred slipped out of the room, while the doorbell rang again, more insistently.
The door hinges were silent, but a minute later, Bruce and Tim heard the indistinct words of Alfred's level tone forcefully interrupted by a familiar voice that carried through the walls and made Tim turn pale.
"No need, Alfred. Just tell me: where is my son?" The voice grew louder, matching the heavy footfalls that echoed closer and closer to the kitchen door, until the door itself was thrown open and Jack Drake stood upon the threshold. He met Tim's eyes briefly, displaying no recognition, but when he saw Bruce standing almost between himself and Tim, he snarled, "Bruce Wayne. The goddamn Batman. A deranged psycho."
Behind him, Alfred appeared, looking cross. "Mr Drake, please calm yourself—"
"Dad, you know he's not—"
"What brings you here, Jack?" Bruce asked blandly, though he bristled at the way Jack ignored both Tim and Alfred.
"Don't pull that bullshit with me," Jack hissed. "I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Do you know, I could have gone to the papers days ago? God, I was so tempted."
"Dad…"
"Don't interrupt!" Jack snapped, not sparing a glance towards Tim, but continuing to advance on Bruce. "You've really gone off the deep end now, haven't you? A girl from Tim's school was murdered. What will it take for you to wake up?"
"Dad!"
Jack whirled on Tim. "And you. Don't you Dad me. Your stepmother and I waited for you to come back. You stayed only long enough to say hello and nap, then it was out the door on the whims of the Batman again. Do you know how upset Dana was when we realised you were gone? Do you know how much self-control it took not to rush over with my pistol and force you to return? I told myself I'd given you my blessing, that night on the rooftop. I told myself to trust you. And now you've gone and squandered that trust by moving in with Bruce motherfucking Wayne!"
Tim was shrinking in on himself, tight-lipped and red-faced with shock and shame. Bruce felt his heart ache with something like pity, even as he longed to punch Jack Drake for causing Tim to react in such a way.
"Enough," he ordered, speaking directly to Jack. "If you have something to say about me, make it a criticism of myself and not of Tim. He's done nothing wrong."
"Don't you tell me how to parent my own kid. He's done plenty wrong." Jack turned back to Tim, throwing his hands in the air. "How can you continue to run to him after seeing what he's capable of? This playing about has got to stop. The gang war is over. You're giving up that vigilante business, and you're coming home right now."
Bruce didn't let Tim answer. "Do you know where Tim and I were this morning, Jack?"
Jack blinked. "What does it matter?"
"Do you know, or not?"
"Well, no, but I—"
"We were attending a funeral," Bruce said evenly. "The funeral for the student who was killed at Tim's school. Darla Aquista."
Momentarily distracted, Jack gaped at his son. "Where did you get that suit?"
"Alfred made sure he was dressed appropriately," Bruce continued. "I went with him, but Tim is legally allowed to drive himself. Why?"
"I…"
"He received an early licence so that he could take care of you while you were paralysed. You know this. Tim has made countless sacrifices for you. You have a son who would do anything for you. And yet, you still waited for days without contacting him. You knew perfectly well where he was. You could have called. You could have done anything, but that would have required actually giving a damn about Tim."
"You can't talk to me this way! I'll tell the press everything and put a stop to this!"
"No, you won't." Tim's voice was quiet yet steely, and both men turned to look at him. "Dad, you said that you don't want Dana finding out. If she'd be upset to learn that I'm Robin, then how much worse would it be now that the GCPD are shooting vigilantes on sight? And I'm not going to stand by and let you blame Bruce for the choices I've made. They'll try me as an adult, Dad. I'll make sure of it."
"Tim, let me handle this," Bruce interjected, meeting Tim's eyes; a silent exchange passed between them.
He's my dad. I can manage him.
You shouldn't have to "manage" him. Let me—
"I've seen your idea of handling things," Jack cut off Bruce's meaningful gaze. "I could turn a blind eye before, but now—look, it was your fault that girl was killed!"
Bruce had no doubt that Jack meant the blame to rest solely with Batman, but he saw the subtle slump of Tim's shoulders and realised that the inflammatory words had struck another target.
"Stop this," he ordered. "I am not trying to steal your son away from you. Tim has been staying here because he asked to, and I have no intention of kicking him out unless he wants to leave. He is fully capable of making his own decisions." And I would be proud to call him my son.
"You asked to? Your own decisions, is that right?" Jack's voice was deadly calm as he addressed Tim at last. "Then you can explain to your stepmother why you won't be coming home."
"Dad, that's not what I meant! I just—"
"Call home when you can, son. Or not. It's your life. Clearly, I should have been stricter with you, then you wouldn't feel the need to disregard every single thing I say."
"Mr Drake!" Alfred's voice was pitched slightly higher with shock. Tim stood frozen, lips parted and eyes wide.
"You win, Bruce. Don't expect me to kiss your feet. Remind Tim to visit to collect his things, since I'm sure he won't listen to me. Don't worry, I know when I'm not wanted. I can see myself out." Jack turned and shoved past Alfred, stalked to the entrance hall and flung open the heavy door. A moment later, they all heard it slam shut and the sound of a car accelerating away.
Alfred looked at Bruce. Bruce pressed his lips together for a moment, then unpressed them and looked at Tim, who was as still as if he'd been cut out from a photograph.
"Tim, I…" I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drive a wedge between you and your father…
"Don't." Tim's face was white, his voice strangled. "Just… drop it. Please."
Bruce swallowed. God, he wanted to strangle Jack Drake with his bare hands—wanted to strangle anyone who had the ability to make Tim become an echo of himself.
"Fine," he heard himself saying. Tim took it as an excuse to exit the room, leaving behind only reverberations of the single word.
Fine. Fine. Fine.
"Well, that certainly could have gone better," said Alfred quietly. He remained as upright and unruffled as always, but Bruce spied a nerve twitching in the old man's jaw.
Bruce passed his hand across his face, working away the frown in his forehead. "You don't have to tell me, Alfred." I know I messed up. It'll be a wonder if Tim ever speaks to me after this. But then he remembered Jack Drake's parting words, and hot anger boiled in the pit of his stomach. Strange how situations like this always made him feel inadequate. It didn't take a mind-reader to see that Tim had been avoiding this confrontation.
Jack Drake was a weak-willed man, and like most of his kind, he felt the need to compensate by exerting control over those smaller and younger than himself. But it was Bruce who had taken in Tim three years ago; Bruce who had searched for Tim's parents in Haiti and rescued Jack Drake from kidnapping twice. It was Bruce who kept an eye out for Tim and had given him not just a name and a car and a motorbike and the means to reach his full potential, but a haven.
And then Jack had finally been forced to actually live with the teenage son he barely knew. Bruce had ground his teeth and watched as Jack forced Tim to move halfway across the country. To change schools. To give up Robin. And Tim, being Tim… might be reluctant, but he always deferred to his father. He afforded Jack the respect that Jack had never once afforded Tim in return.
Tim, for all his strengths, could still be naïve, but there were some aspects in which Bruce felt that he knew Tim better than Tim knew himself. However, despite Tim's perhaps misplaced filial piety, Bruce felt sure that Tim would not give up Robin. Not now.
I'll give him time to cool off, he thought. Then I'll check in with him.
Bruce spent the afternoon working out in the Batcave. Several times, he stopped and began to make his way up the stairs before he checked himself. "Just drop it," Tim had said.
But Bruce could not stop thinking about what had happened that morning, playing it over and over in his mind until he had memorised the stricken expression on Tim's face and the bitter anger in Jack's own. Finally, he swore in frustration and exited the cave.
I'm not looking for Tim, he told himself as he commenced a restless wander of the house. If I happen to find him, that's purely coincidental. And yet, he found himself pausing when he heard voices from inside Steph's room.
"… don't know where to go from here," Tim was saying, slightly muffled. "I guess the job's all I've got left."
"But Bruce is letting you stay, right?" Steph asked.
"Yeah. I guess. He said he has no intention of kicking me out, but maybe he doesn't know how to break it to me."
"Break what to you?"
"That he doesn't need Robin anymore."
"If he wanted you to know that, he would have told you. Take it from someone who's been there."
"… Sorry."
"Yeah, me too," Steph said, but Bruce could not make out her tone. "And don't be an idiot. Of course Batman needs you."
"He's got Batgirl. She's faster, cooler, better at fighting…"
"Sure. But she's not Robin."
"I guess."
"What happened with your dad—"
"I already said, I don't want to talk about it."
A short pause. Bruce could hear his own heartbeat in the silence.
"He might come around," said Steph. "And if he doesn't, then we can bond over having terrible dads."
Bruce thought he heard Tim laugh. "Yeah. Maybe. Thanks, Steph."
There was silence for a long moment. Bruce envied their frank discussion. For the first time, he realised how much Steph meant to Tim. It was the same reason he himself had gravitated to Selina last night. Somebody who was divorced from his other relationships, but understood the weight of wearing two identities.
"You know, before he told me," Steph was saying, "I thought Batman was Robin's dad."
"Yeah, you're not the first."
"Ha! Okay, my point is, anyone can see that he's not going to just throw you away."
"Oh yeah, so when you jumped at the chance to be Robin and he agreed, he was honestly doing it because he didn't want to throw me away?"
"Tim…"
"Sorry," said Tim again. "That was… that was uncalled for."
"Tim, look… I don't know why he made me Robin. I'm sorry I took your place so quickly. But I'm not sorry I did it. Not that it matters. I don't think he'll ever let me on the streets again after this."
"Like that ever stopped you before."
"Maybe it should have. Then I wouldn't have caused an entire gang war just because I wanted to get back in Batman's good books."
"Steph…"
Bruce could not stand the tension any longer. He knocked and entered. Tim and Steph sat beside each other on the bed, leaning against the headboard.
"Hi, Bruce," Tim said softly.
Bruce noted with relief that Tim did not look as if he had been crying. He wanted to say something reassuring—apologetic, perhaps, but what came out was, "Tim, I have a mission for you. If you're interested, meet me in the cave in ten minutes."
Sources:
Some details about Bruce's parents' deaths are from Batman: Year One.
Darla Aquista died in Batman #631, and according to Robin (1993) #132, Tim attended her funeral.
Bruce first thought, "I have been to too many funerals," in Batman: Hush.
Bruce has called Tim "son" multiple times before, of course (see Batman #457 for an example), but this time was more awkward than most.
Jack Drake learnt about Tim being Robin in Robin (1993) #124 (Robin: Unmasked!).
"That night on the rooftop" happened in Robin (1993) #130 (Batman: War Games).
Tim received his early driver's licence and his first car (the Redbird, from Bruce) in Detective Comics #668 (Batman: Knightquest).
Batman rescued Jack Drake for the first time in Batman: Rite of Passage, and for the second time in Batman: Knightquest.
Various other events referenced are from the long-running Robin (1993) comic.