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Batman is yelling at him.
Tim knows he should be listening. He should be responding. He should at least be nodding to show that he understands and that he’s sorry and that he’ll do better next time.
It’s just that when Batman yells, he sounds so much like Tim’s dad.
“I trusted you, Robin,” Batman is saying, loudly. “I told you to stay on the roof and observe from above, and what did you do instead?”
“I —“ Tim’s throat is so dry, the word comes out like sandpaper. He has to swallow. “I went into the building.”
“You went into the building,” Batman repeats. It’s almost a snarl. “You went into the building and you engaged two of Bane’s men in combat and what happened?”
“I required backup to escape,” Tim says. He presses both of his hands onto his thighs in an effort to stop their trembling. “I required your assistance.”
“Assistance which I was almost unable to give,” Batman agrees. He’s still yelling. “Assistance which, if I had been any slower, would have been too late. That is inexcusable, Robin.”
Tim slants his gaze to the left. The Batmobile drives itself — literally — but Batman’s hands are gripping the steering wheel so hard, Tim can almost hear the gauntlets creaking. Batman’s jaw beneath the cowl is clenched. Tim refocuses on the front windshield, hoping Batman didn’t notice him staring.
Tim’s dad hates it when Tim stares at him during a lecture.
Of course, Tim’s dad also hates it when Tim avoids eye contact during a lecture. It’s a tricky balance, demonstrating attention without expressing defiance. Tim never, ever gets it right.
“What on earth possessed you to leave that roof?” Batman asks. Loudly. Tim wishes, childishly, that Batman would stop yelling, but he knows that he doesn’t get to decide how Batman talks to him.
“I saw two additional groups of Bane’s accomplices going in through the back door,” Tim says, swallowing again. “I attempted to inform you, but I didn’t know if you’d heard me —“
“Because I was actively fighting twelve men,” Batman snaps, interrupting. Tim snaps his mouth shut, feeling stupid. He knows — he knows — that Batman doesn’t want to hear excuses. “I didn’t respond to you because I was actively fighting twelve men. Did my lack of response nullify my previous order to stay on the roof?”
“No, sir,” Tim says quietly.
“No!” Batman slams his hands against the steering wheel. Tim barely controls a flinch. “My lack of response did not nullify my previous order to stay on the roof, as outlined in section fourteen point twenty-eight of Contingency Plan Sigma Nine —“
Tim doesn’t tune Batman out — he learned that lesson ages ago — but Tim feels himself start to pull away. Just a little, just at the edges. Just enough that Batman’s voice doesn’t seem quite so loud, and Tim’s body doesn’t feel quite so confining, and Tim’s breaths aren’t in danger of stuttering quite so much. He’s a bit out of practice with the whole pulling-away thing. Not that he can do it on command or anything, but it just feels a little unfamiliar because Tim’s dad has been out of the country for such a long time, Tim hasn’t needed to use it as much recently. He recognizes it, though, and he’s relieved by it, even though it kind of proves Batman’s points for him. Tim’s a bad listener. Tim’s a bad Robin. Tim’s a bad son.
Tim’s been a bad son for as long as he can remember.
By the time they pull into the Cave, Tim is fully floating. That’s nice, he thinks to himself as the Batmobile pulls to a stop. That might make it easier.
Batman is still yelling, but Tim doesn’t feel so bad about turning away and climbing out of the Batmobile now. He knows how this next part goes.
Tim unclips the Batbelt from around his hips. He’s careful with the little pouches and vials that are attached to the belt, snapping or sliding them off and placing them gently on the Cave floor out of the way so they’ll be safe. The last thing he needs is for Batman to see him being careless with his tools.
Batman is still yelling as he comes around the Batmobile. “—still doesn’t excuse your blatant disregard for —“
He stops, mid-sentence. Mid-stride.
Tim holds the belt up a little higher. He’s ready. He’s willing. He messed up, he made a mistake, he compromised Batman, and he needs to be taught a lesson. Tim is no stranger to this kind of learning. His dad is a good teacher and Tim knows the drill.
First, his dad takes the belt. Then his dad tells Tim to take off his shirt, if it’s a nice shirt. Then his dad positions Tim where he wants him: against a wall, or leaning over a table, or just kneeling on the ground. Tim wonders — in the floating, distant way his thoughts move when he’s far away like this — where his dad is going to put him in the Cave. There aren’t really any walls nearby like there are in Drake Manor. Maybe the desk where the Batcomputer is — but no, that’s so close to expensive equipment. On his knees, probably. Tim hates being on his knees, but Tim doesn’t get a say.
His dad is taking a really long time. Maybe he doesn’t think Tim is willing enough. Tim steps forward, belt still held out in front of him. He hopes that will be enough. He doesn’t think he can say anything right now, doesn’t think he can ask for it this time, just wants his dad to get it over with, just wants his dad —
“Tim?”
Someone is saying his name. Tim should really respond — no one likes being ignored — but he’s afraid that if he opens his mouth he’s going to start screaming and then his dad will be really mad —
“Tim. It’s ok. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The someone who is talking doesn’t actually sound like Tim’s dad at all. That’s weird, Tim thinks. He raises his head slowly, just a little bit.
Bruce is standing in front of him. Not his dad. Bruce.
Right, Tim thinks. Of course. He’d messed up on patrol. It’s not his dad who is going to teach him this lesson, it’s Bruce. Tim feels a spark of fear — he doesn’t know what Bruce wants from him to make this lesson happen, he’s not trying to be difficult but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do — but it’s distant. Muffled. Tim steps forward again, belt still held out.
Bruce takes the belt.
Then he drops the belt onto the ground.
Tim is so surprised that he just looks at it for a long moment. He hasn’t even taken off his shirt yet.
He looks back up at Bruce.
Bruce takes a step forward and pulls Tim into his arms.
“I’m so sorry, Tim,” Bruce is saying. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He’s murmuring it into Tim’s hair, cupping the back of Tim’s head with one hand and rubbing the other hand up and down Tim’s back. “I’m not going to hurt you. I was so angry because you scared me, I thought I was going to lose you, but I’m not going to hurt you. I’m so sorry I scared you.”
“You didn’t scare me,” Tim says, still floating. “I made a mistake and I have to learn. You can do it, Bruce. It’s ok. My dad showed me everything.”
Bruce goes still and Tim stiffens in his arms.
Then Bruce is hugging him even more tightly.
“We’re going to talk more about that,” he says. “Tim. That is not okay.”
“I know,” Tim says. His voice is muffled in Bruce’s shoulder, but he knows Bruce can hear him. “I’m difficult. It’s not okay that I need to be taught so many lessons.”
“No,” Bruce chokes out. “That isn’t at all what I meant.” He doesn’t say what he does mean though. He just hugs Tim more tightly and Tim —
Reeling in this strange gentleness —
Lets him.