Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tim doesn't like galas, not really.

There are moments he finds enjoyable, but he never enjoys the gala itself.

Tim had been strictly coached for galas as a kid; even before attending them, his parents made sure he learned how to behave, which utensils to use, what to say, what not to say, what to do, what not to do.

The etiquette classes were boring, but they were etched into his very bones.

The first time his parents took him to a gala, he was so little that he was still holding his mother's hand. The excitement of attending one of the big events that adults—his parents—went to kept him awake the night before.

That excitement wore off after the first two hours.

It was just... too much.

The older women pinched his cheeks until they turned red, and some grabbed his shoulders so hard that their nails dug thru his clothes. There were hands everywhere; on his face, his back, his waist. Everyone wanted to see Jack and Janet's little boy.

Everyone wanted to see a Drake.

But no one wanted to see Tim. Not even his own parents, who brushed him off when he told them he felt uncomfortable after one of the guests ran a hand over his belly.

The following galas were the same, and little by little, seeing how he was increasingly ignored, Tim stopped complaining.

That was until, at one of the galas, they served shrimp appetizers. Tim had no idea he was allergic to shrimp, and when his throat began to close up after taking a few bites, he broke his silent vow never to complain out loud to his parents again.

Obviously, they ignored him; too busy talking to a couple who, from what his frightened brain had managed to pick up, were planning to make a generous donation.

The donation went to shit after Tim throw up on his mother's dress ("an extremely expensive dress," she had told him once they were alone).

They scolded him from the moment they left the gala until they got home. Tim barely heard half of what they were saying, too busy trying to breathe.

The pinch on his ear is what he remembers most about that night. That, and how his parents only took him to the hospital after the rash had spread beyond his back, up his neck, and onto his face.

"We can't allow people to see you like this, Timothy," his mother had said.

You'd think that after seeing your son almost die from anaphylaxis, you'd pay more attention to what he eats.

But no.

His parents, once again, exceeded expectations and for his next birthday took him to a seafood restaurant.

Tim ordered the kids' menu, not wanting to take any risks, and what he heard after the waiter left was a sigh of disappointment from his mother and his father's annoyed grumbling, something about him being a picky eater, wasting money on food that wasn't appropriate for his age. As if they didn't have the money to buy the damn restaurant and recoup it in less than a day.

So no, Tim doesn't like galas, and even after being adopted by Bruce Wayne, he barely finds them tolerable.

He feels sick every time he walks into a huge, elegant ballroom; filled with people wearing plastic smiles, trying to fill their pockets and boost their status as high-society members by donating money to charities they know absolutely nothing about. But that's fine, because in the end, their names will make headlines and the world will know how generous they are.

Tim is disgusted by the double-entendre comments. How they somehow manage to spew bullshit while sipping champagne and eating gourmet food without their breath reeking of lies.

He hates it.

But now he's stuck. He's talking to a middle-aged woman who has been slowly sliding her hand down his back, too close to the edge of his suit, and who speaks condescendingly about the children on the streets and the horrors they have to endure to survive (thank God Jason isn't around to hear her), all while at a charity gala raising donations for exactly that: children on the streets.

This woman's stupidity is unbelievable.

Tim knows—he knows he can easily come up with an excuse and use it to escape; he's never hesitated to do so before. He knows it, and he doesn't do it because he can still hear his mother whispering in his ear, telling him to stay still when one of the guests puts an arm around his waist; he can hear his father telling him he's being absurd and that he should know how to accept a friendly touch without making such a fuss; that he shouldn't interrupt adults when they're talking, even if what they're saying is rude and offensive.

Tim has learned to swallow his words since he was a child.

It's not something he can break overnight, no matter how much time he's spent with Bruce and his brothers.

Years of silence can't be magically fixed by anything but time.

And Tim needs more time.

So he keeps smiling and continues listening to the woman with her soft voice and words subtly drenched in poison.

His parents would be proud.

Tim wants to cry.

Or maybe he'll just grab a shrimp from the main table and trigger an anaphylactic shock in himself (Dr. Quinzel would have something to say about that, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her).

He's willing to do it.

"—and don't get me started on the addicts in the streets..."

He's going to do it.

Loss of consciousness due to lack of oxygen or an ambulance, whichever comes first, it doesn't matter. Tim wants to get out of here by any means necessary, an if it has to be via anaphylaxis, then so be it.

If only he could grab a damn shrimp—

"Tim! Man, I've been looking for you." 

In one swift motion, Tim is yanked from the curious hands and finds himself a good half-meter away from the woman whose name he's already forgotten.

The hands on his shoulders are firm, warm in a familiar way he can feel even through all the layers of clothing, hands that ground him and pull him back to reality.

Kon.

"I'm really sorry, but I'm going to borrow him for a moment," Tim hears Kon say, with a polite smile that vanishes as soon as he turns away.

He lets himself be dragged until they're on the other side of the room, next to one of the tables laden with over a hundred canapés and the tears, sweat, and blood of the poor cooks.

There's an enormous, ridiculous chocolate fountain in the center, where he saw Dick half an hour ago dipping half the hors d'oeuvres.

Tim is surprised he doesn't have any cavities, given how much candy he usually eats.

Kon's hands leave his shoulders, and Tim silently mourns the loss of his touch, but he is content with having him close. He did choose him as his companion, after all. A small indulgence Bruce agreed to as long as Tim attended the gala.

He doesn't know how Bruce convinced Jason to attend, but he suspects it has something to do with a bike at the end of the week.

"...Tim?"

Oh, yeah, Kon's talking to him.

"Sorry, I just—I got a little distracted." More like dissociated. "What were you saying?"

"I asked you if you were okay, but you've already told me enough," Kon says, crossing his arms, and Tim can barely drag his gaze away from his biceps, from the way the suit fabric strains lovingly over every line of muscle.

Tim wants to bite him, but that's something he can do later, when no one else is around and there's no clothing in the way.

Small luxuries of having Kon as a boyfriend.

"I'm fine," he lies, tugging at his shirt collar with one finger, hoping it will help him breathe better.

It doesn't, but at least he manages to loosen the damn tie a little.

"Tim, you're pale," Kon points out, and Tim knows it, okay? He can feel the cold sweat on the back of his neck and the annoying tingling running down his spine. "Have you eaten anything?" he asks, concern in his voice.

No, not really. He's picked at a few appetizers here and there, but nothing substantial enough to fill his stomach. His mouth goes sour every time he attends a gala. Almost everything tastes mushy to him, like modeling clay soaked in water (don't ask how he knows that, he just does).

But Kon doesn't need to know that his only real meal was lunch.

However, judging by the look he's giving Tim, it's clear Kon already knows just how empty his stomach is. Has Cass been teaching Kon how to read him? Aside from her, Tim is really—and worryingly—good at lying to people.

"Come with me," Kon says, and Tim sees his fingers twitch as he reaches for his hand, remembering at the last second that they're in a public place, packed with reporters circling like sharks, hungry for a new scandal. 

Kon ends up grabbing him by the edge of his sleeve and pulling him to the other side of the table.

Tim understands why they can't hold hands in public, why they can't dance a midnight waltz, and why they can't kiss under the warm lights.

He knows it.

And yet, Tim wishes they could do it.

Keeping their relationship a secret was a mutual agreement. They've spent too much time dancing around each other, and the idea of keeping this—what they are—just for themselves feels right.

Also, Tim needs time to figure out how he's going to tell his family. Whether he's going to gather everyone in the main room and show them a twenty-plus-page PowerPoint presentation, or buy a cake that says: 'I'm bisexual,' like some fucking gender-reveal cake but with different colors.

Tim knows that, logically, his sibling and Bruce would be supportive. He's never heard them say anything homophobic, and he knows that WE has made several donations to the LGBT community over the last few years. Clark and Lois are good people too, and well... ever since they caught them kissing on the couch their relationship isn't much of a secret anymore. The only difference is that now Kon's bedroom door has to be open whenever Tim comes to visit.

So really, Tim shouldn't have anything to worry about.

It's logic for God's sake.

But a small, annoying part of his brain can't help but think about the rejection, about all the possible worst-case scenarios.

Overthinking is a bitch.

Even if nothing bad happens, Tim isn’t ready to come out yet. He wants to take it at his own pace.

"You know, it's the first time I've ever seen one of these," Kon says, pointing at the chocolate fountain and pulling him out of his spiral, again. "I can't believe I've been missing out on this. You should ask Bruce to put one in the manor. It'd be pretty cool."

Alfred wouldn't agree.

"Oh, no. Even if one of us were to magically convince him, Alfred would veto it immediately."

The man is steadfast; he wouldn't budge no matter how many puppy-eyes they tried on him.

Kon sighs, resigned to the request they both knew was impossible from the start. Tim huffs at his dramatics and, as consolation, hands him two skewers with pastel–colored little pastries he doesn't even know the name of, but they're definitely something ridiculously elegant and impossible to pronounce.

"It's a shame," Kon says, mouth half full of food and chocolate smudged at the corner of his lips that Tim wants to wipe away with his thumb. "I should take it home. You think they'd notice?"

The worst part isn't that the question is stupid. The worst part is that Tim can see Kon actually trying. And Tim plays along because, what's life if you can't be a little silly with your boyfriend? 

"Kon, it's huge. It's the biggest thing after the chandeliers." He subtly gestures upwards. "It would take at least three people to carry this thing, so unless you have super strength, I don't think you can even lift it."

"Well, ouch," Kon murmurs, chewing on another chocolate-covered bite while dunking the other skewer in the fountain. "And here I was thinking you'd help me plan a heist."

Tim huffs, rolling his eyes.

"You're ridiculous. Beside, if I were going to steal something, it wouldn't be something so obvious."

Kon smiles, and God help him. Those damn piercings are going to be the death of him.

"Oh, really? So what would you steal?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Tim can be a little shit when he wants to.

He looks around, making sure no one's watching, and corners Kon against the table, barely a centimeter apart, chest to chest. Tim lowers his gaze to Kon's lips, shimmering with a thin almost translucent layer of chocolate, and licks his own; exhaling softly so that the only thing brushing Kon's lips is the warmth of his breath, teasing him with a kiss, but nothing more.

Tim steps back with a victorious smile, delighted by the soft blush on Kon's cheeks, ignoring the heat rising up the back of his neck.

"This," he says, showing Kon the wallet between his fingers.

"What—?" Kon pats his pockets and realizes the weight of his wallet is gone. "How—no, who taught you that?" he asks, pointing accusingly, eyes narrowed.

Tim hands him back his wallet and shrugs, as if it's no big deal.

"Jason. He even taught me how to pick locks with a paperclip."

Jason taught them all, actually. They used to practice on the pantry door where Alfred keeps the coffee under lock and key—though, he only does that after Bruce spends more than three sleepless nights in a row working.

If Bruce doesn't sleep tonight, Alfred will put the coffee under lock again. He uses it as leverage.

And the funny part? It works.

"Did he also tell you that you should flirt with your victim to steal their wallet?" he asks, clearly amused by Tim's little stunt a moment ago, his wide grin giving him away.

Tim smiles innocently, staring at the chandelier on the ceiling like it suddenly became the most fascinating object in the universe.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, so now you have dementia. Great," Kon feigns offense and turns away. "I guess it's just me and my chocolate skewers against the world—wait."

Kon is looking at both of his hands, but he can't find either of the skewers he was holding five minutes ago. With a quick glance at the floor, Tim spots one of them at his feet.

So where the hell is the—?

"Uh-oh."

Tim looks up and finds Kon staring intently at the chocolate fountain.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Kon's other skewer is at the bottom.

"Well, shit."

"Uh, should I take it out?" Kon asks, but Tim knows they can't just stick their hands in and Kon is already extending his fingers toward the—

"No," he hisses, yanking Kon by the wrist and pulling him away from the fountain before he does anything that would put them both in tomorrow's headlines. "Just—leave it."

"Are you sure? Maybe I should—"

"Kon. No," he warns. Kon glances at the fountain, fingers still hovering over the chocolate, but he doesn't try to stick his hand again.

Tim thinks about how he could remove the skewer without getting chocolate on himself, and when a light bulb finally goes off in his head, he scans the table and grabs another skewer from the silver tray beside him, removing the food and leaving only the stick.

"Think that'll work?" Kon asks, and Tim doesn't blame him, the odds of finding a skewer at the bottom of a huge chocolate fountain are slim.

Tim shrugs. "Only one way to know."

He tries to stir the chocolate at the bottom of the fountain, hoping to find the skewer that sank God knows how long ago.

Tim holds the stick with his fingertips, with the precision of a surgeon, or someone about to defuse a bomb, and spends a good minute stirring the chocolate. They're about to give up, but to their surprise, Tim actually manages to snag a piece of the lost skewer.  

He maneuvers the stick carefully, the same way one would with the tweezers during that nerve-wracking board game Operation (the same game that Tim is absolutely terrible at for some reason).

Then, in the blink of an eye, Tim loses his grip on the stick and it sinks down along with Kon's skewer.

Tim clasps his hands together and brings them to his mouth.

"You know what? There's enough food to feed half the city, you can have another one. Besides, it's just a small skewer. What's the worst that could happen?"

Tim should know better than to challenge the universe.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, a muffled noise is heard, similar to the sound a broken-down car makes before starting. Both immediately turn toward the source.

Tim stays very, very still.

Kon has also stiffened beside him, staring at the chocolate fountain as if it were about to explode at any moment.

A small bubble forms at the base and instantly pops, but the fountain doesn't make any other strange noises.

One, two, three seconds pass, and nothing happens.

They both sigh and—

Everything goes to shit.

The fountain explodes.

Well, not exactly. Saying it exploded would be an exaggeration, but this isn't far from being just as bad.

It's like when you cover half of a water pipe with your thumb and the water sprays everywhere; now replace the water with chocolate, and that's what you get.

Chocolate everywhere.

Tim doesn't even have time to move, and neither does Kon, making them the first victims of the chocolate rain. Tim feels the creamy texture on his face, on his nose, his forehead—God, it probably even got in his hair.

Kon doesn't look very different from him.

The white tablecloth is stained dark brown, the rest of the food is also covered in chocolate.

Everyone around screams in shock.

Tim thinks it's more about the chocolate on their designer clothes than the mess itself.

"Fuck, fuck, Tim, let's get out of here before we get chocolate in our eyes."

Kon grabs him by the hand and they run, away from the chocolate and the people screaming as if it were raining sulfuric acid.

There are people heading for the exit as well (Tim catches, mid-run the woman he’d been talking to earlier slipping and face-planting on the floor), but everyone’s too worried about themselves to notice them sneaking out of the ballroom, toward the back door that opens onto a lovely conservatory with enough plant life to absorb Gotham’s pollution, that is, if the pollution doesn't kill it first.

Tim wonders if any of his siblings got caught in the chocolate rain.

Cass was at the other end of the table. Tim hopes her dress hasn't been ruined. Bruce could easily get her another one in the snap of a finger, but he knows that Cass likes the dress most of all because Steph helped her pick it out. She promised to join them the next gala.

Tim honestly doesn't think he'll ever go to one again for the rest of his life.

When Kon lets go of his hand, Tim feels his own sticky. No surprise, considering he'd tried, and failed miserably, to cover his face back there.

His heart is pounding like crazy in his chest, and Tim thinks he might need a nebulizer because what the hell just happened? Anyone who saw him would think he'd been dodging bullets, not streams of chocolate.

Kon, beside him, leaning against the wall, is also gasping for air.

They're still barely catching their breath, but as soon as their eyes meet, they burst out laughing.

"I can't believe we broke the chocolate fountain," Tim says between gasps.

"Oh God, I'm going to be in debt for life." Kon is clutching his stomach, almost doubled over. "Clark might yell at me, but Lois is going to murder me."

"Bruce is going to un-adopt me." Tim wheezes, on the verge of collapsing to the floor.

They laugh until it turns into quiet giggles. Tim feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes; Jesus, his abdominal muscles are burning.

"Stop laughing or you're gonna make me pee my pants."

Kon howls with laughter, and Tim does everything he can to hold back his bladder.

It's almost five minutes later, after laughter and abdominal pain, that they finally come down from their cloud of euphoria.

Tim has to take a few deep breaths before trying to speak again.

"This is definitely going to be on the news." It's a fact—not even that amount of chocolate covered all the cameras. "Jason must be happy to be able to leave early."

Him and Damian, actually. The last time Tim saw him, the little demon was about to bite the poor old lady that kept pinching his cheeks.

Bruce had him by the scruff.

He probably did it in the hope of preventing Damian from running away and stealing some sharp, pointy object from the kitchen.

Tim knows he's capable of doing it.

It wouldn't be the first time he's tried.

"I hope we don't end up on the front page tomorrow, that's all I ask," Kon says, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Tim.

"C'mon, we can't be that unlucky."

Kon chuckles and gives him a little hip bump.

"We're taking this to the grave."

Tim agrees. Damian would certainly never let him get over it; hell, no one in his family or their friend circle would.

Steph would remind him month-no, weekly.

Yeah, no, Tim isn't telling anyone a damn thing.

They stay in a comfortable silence for a while, with nothing but the wind and the rustle of the leaves on the swan-shaped bushes as it blows.

Tim feels a tingling in his knuckles, and the sensation spreads down his fingers, right where Kon is sliding his hand against his, just barely brushing with his fingertips.

First comes the pinky, then the ring, the middle finger, which is all they need to interlock their hands.

It feels a little weird. 

Their hands are sticky and they're sweating like they've just run a marathon.

Tim feels his skin tightening from the dried chocolate.

Kon probably has the same problem, since he has chocolate crusted on his nose, his chin, and—well—pretty much everywhere.

Tim briefly wonders if he could lick it all off, every bit of chocolate on Kon's body, from head to toe.

"You're looking."

Tim hums and meets blue eyes that mirror his own.

"I like looking at you," he admits, slowly closing the distance.

Kon smiles and sticks out his tongue, tracing the outline of his piercings, teasing Tim the same way he did earlier.

"Just looking...?" Kon whispers, so fucking close that they're breathing the same air.

Tim wants to kiss him.

Tim has been dying to kiss him ever since he saw him in that tight suit.

And thank God they're alone now.

Their mouths meet halfway in a hungry, desperate kiss, teeth colliding from the force with which Tim tugs at Kon's collar. He licks his lower lip in apology, tangling their tongues the moment Kon parts his lips.

Kon tastes like chocolate.

Tim melts under the palm that cradles his cheek, stifling a gasp as he feels the warmth of Kon's thigh between his legs and a gentle squeeze at his waist. Tim lets it happen, ignoring the sticky mess and the ruined clothes.

He couldn't care less.

The suits are beyond saving anyway, and Tim knows Bruce would rather buy new ones than take them to the laundry.

The ringing sound in his pocket makes him reluctantly pull away.

"Aw, c'mon!" Kon lets him go with a sad whimper.

Tim snorts. "Don't be a baby, baby."

Kon pouts, and then, just because he can, squeezes Tim's cheeks, turns his face to the side, and almost immediately Tim feels something wet, warm—

"Did you just lick me?"

Kon smiles wryly. "You had some chocolate," he says, shrugging. "I was just helping, baby."

Tim rolls his eyes, affectionately, and wipes his cheek with his sleeve.

His phone buzzes again.

"That must be Bruce," he says, confirming it when he pulls out his phone, Bruce's name showing on the screen. He already has a couple of missed calls from Dick, too. "Let's go before someone comes looking for us."

"I'd be surprised if there are still people inside," Kon replies.

Tim sighs and grabs Kon by the wrist, guiding him back inside toward the main exit.

He wonders what tomorrow's headline will say.

Tim wakes up to the ringtone he’s set for Steph—the song "Daddy Issues" by The Neighbourhood, to be more specific (it’s funny and fair, considering the ringtone Steph has for him is "Dollhouse").

He doesn’t know why she's calling him so early, but whatever it is, it can wait until he’s fully awake.

The call goes to voicemail, and Tim sighs, settling onto his bed and melting into his pillow, ready to slip back into the world of dreams.

And his phone starts ringing again.

Tim groans, the sound muffled by his pillow, and pulls the blanket over his head until the ringing stops.

The call goes to voicemail, again.

Tim would be grateful for the silence if it weren’t for the fact that the only sound coming from his phone now is the constant and annoying ping of notifications.

For fuck's sake, he grumbles internally.

Who's sending him so many messages this early?

It’s the weekend, and Tim should be sleeping, but instead he’s listening to his phone buzzing nonstop on the nightstand.

Resigned, Tim leaves the comfort of his bed and stretches to grab the damn phone. It takes him a couple of tries, but he manages to reach it without falling out of bed. Woohoo.

The screen’s light makes him scrunch up his face; his eyes water, and he has to blink a few times to chase away the tears stinging at the corners of his eyes and clear his vision.

He intends to put his phone on silent and go back to sleep, but he gives the screen a quick glance and—

Wow. That’s a lot of messages.

He has missed calls from different numbers, most of them from Kon, and for some reason he also has missed calls from Jack and Janet, who have each called him more times in the last half hour than they ever did during all the years they lived under the same roof.

(Although saying they lived under the same roof is an understatement, Jack and Janet traveled—and still travel—so much that they were hardly ever home.)

The messages keep coming non-stop.

Tim barely manages to see Bart’s hundredth message in the group chat he shares with Cassie and Kon when Steph’s name pops up on the screen.

He answers this time.

"Steph," he begins, slurring his words slightly thru the haze of sleep. "Why are you—?"

"Tim! Oh God, you finally picked up," she cuts him off. "I'm so sorry. This is awful, and it sucks that it happened like this, but I want you to know that I’m with you a hundred percent and whatever you need—"

"Steph! Steph, wait! Slow down. I... What are you talking about?" Tim doesn’t understand a single thing; his brain is still trying to catch up.

"It's okay, Tim," she says, a little calmer. "You don't have to pretend with me. I know it's hard, but—"

"No, Steph, wait," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I… I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything you’re saying, seriously, I—I have no idea what’s going on."

There is silence on the other end of the line.

"Steph?" he asks, pulling the phone away from his ear to see if he’s accidentally hung up.

"Tim, it's all over the news," there's a pause, Tim waits. "You... you really don't know?"

"No?" he sighs. It’s way too early for this. "Steph, I just woke up. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Does this have anything to do with why I have a ton of messages? I haven’t checked any of them yet."

Another pause.

"Maybe you shouldn't see them."

"I'm opening the messages—"

"No!" Steph shouts immediately, so loudly that Tim has to pull his phone slightly away from his ear for the sake of his eardrums. "Don't open them, just—ignore them, for now."

"What? Steph—"

"You know what? You shouldn’t watch the news under any circumstances either." Well, now Tim is starting to worry. "The news is boring. No one wants to watch it anyway, so there’s no point in starting now, don’t you think?" she rants, the way she always does when she’s nervous. "And there’s always something new for people to talk about. This will blow over in a couple of days, and then everything will go back to normal…"

Tim lets Steph keep talking, and now that his worry has wiped away the last traces of sleep, his mind finally starts to clear.

Yesterday, what happened yesterday?

Tim is trying to recap.

The gala. Kon. The chocolate fountain. The—

Shit.

The chocolate fountain.

He was sure it would end up on the news, but Tim hadn’t expected it to turn into a full-blown scandal. Almost all the guests had ran out before the reporters even had a chance to ask any questions. Assuming the chocolate rain hadn’t driven them off too.

Are there pictures of him and Kon? Did anyone notice that they dropped the skewers into the fountain and broke it? Is that why his inbox is blowing up? Did someone text him how much he has to pay back? Did Kon get the same message? Is that why he’s been calling?

Bruce is going to be pissed, fuck, he probably already knows and is waiting for him to come downstairs so he can lecture him.

"...Tim, can you hear me? Tim, say something, damn it! Are you there?"

"Huh? Oh yeah, yeah, sorry," he's typing into the search bar as fast as he can. "Uh, I just remembered I have something to do. I’ll call you later, okay? Okay. Bye!

"Tim! If you hang up on me I swear to God—!"

He’s going to feel bad about hanging up on Steph (and ignoring her furious messages) later, but right now Tim needs to know what’s going on—and whether there’s even a one-percent chance he’s about to get in trouble for breaking a stupid chocolate fountain. Because if that’s the case, he has to warn Kon so he can brace for a lecture from both Clark and Bruce.

It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve gotten into trouble and made a mess, but it would be the first time it ends up in the news, and that’s a whole different level.

When Tim clicks on the first link he finds, he expects to see a picture of him and Kon playing mechanic with the skewers that fell into the fountain.

And yes, just as Tim suspected, there’s a photo—several, actually—of the two of them.

But it’s not a picture of them with the chocolate fountain. No.

It's a picture of them in the conservatory.

Kissing.

There's a photo of him and Kon kissing. 

"Oh no," he breathes. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no." The more he swipes the screen, the worse it get.

It’s the same with all the headlines:

"Who Is Tim Drake’s Partner?" 

"Is Tim Drake Gay? Controversial Photo Sparks Uproar on Social Media"

"Tim Drake-Wayne Spotted Kissing a Man at a Charity Gala Hosted by His Adoptive Father, Bruce Wayne"

"Jack and Janet Drake’s Son Seen Making Out With His Alleged Boyfriend at…"

Et cetera, et cetera.

God, there are at least three different angles of them kissing.

There’s also a photo of Kon licking his cheek.

"Fuck, shit, fucking—fuck!"

Tim has mixed feelings about the whole thing, and he honestly doesn’t know what’s worse: getting caught kissing Kon or that the media is still referring to him as a Drake.

He throws his phone onto the nightstand, misses, and it hits the floor. Great. Now the screen is probably cracked.

Tim stares at his phone on the floor, grabs his pillow, and screams into it.

He should’ve eaten a damn shrimp.

After taking out his frustration on his pillow and cursing the universe, Tim finally decides to get out of bed.

He starts pacing, giving himself a minute to calm down and keep himself from jumping out the window.

One minute turns into five, five into ten, ten into thirty, and before he knows it, an hour has already gone by.

It's time to go out and face his family.

Is he ready? Absolutely not.

Does he still feel like jumping out a window? Definitely.

Is he going to do it? No, because the fall would only leave him with broken legs and what Tim needs is to lose consciousness so he might hopefully get amnesia. But if that were the case and he succeeded, it would mean forgetting Kon, and Tim doesn't like that part, so he rules the idea out. 

He stands in front of his door, keeping a hand on the handle for a long time before opening it.

Walking down the hallway feels like walking to the slaughter.

Tim hears noise coming from the living room. Everyone is awake by now—he knows he's the last one to leave his room, and he's grateful no one came up to wake him. Maybe they wanted to let him get a good rest before kicking him out.

Shut up, shut up goddamnit.

Stupid brain.

He stumbles while going down the stairs. If it hadn't been for the grip he had on the handrail, Tim would be kissing the floor.

"One foot in front of the other," he reminds himself, and he reaches the last step without tripping again, thank God. He doesn't want to end up on the front page again for breaking his neck.

The noise gets louder the closer he gets.

Tim peeks his head in and sees Jason and Cass on the couch, with Damian squished in between them. Dick is standing in the middle of the room with the remote in his hand. Bruce is nowhere to be seen, but Tim hears someone talking in the kitchen, and that makes his heart beat a little slower, because he's still not ready to face Bruce; even though he's been psyching himself up in his room for an hour.

Tim should get an echocardiogram; his heartbeat has been erratic since he woke up. That can't be healthy.

The TV is on full volume. Tim sees a reporter interviewing an older man with a neatly trimmed mustache and hair darker than coal (he's definitely dyeing the gray out). He's not someone Tim recognizes, but what the man says freezes him in place.

"...It doesn't surprise me that his parents gave up custody. Now it makes sense, after seeing the kind of person he turned out to be," the man says calmly, adjusting his tie. "A completely disgrace." That makes Jason let out a curse that would send his entire allowance into the swear jar. "I feel really sorry for the Drakes, although now the boy is someone else's problem. Bruce Wayne is known for taking lost causes under his wing, but I imagine even he would be disappointed to have a homosexual living under his roof..."

Yeah, his anxiety is back, and so is the tachycardia.

That's great. That's fucking great.

Cass seems to be the first to sense his presence (or his panic). She turns around, and the moment her eyes meet his, she kicks Dick in the shin.

"Ow! Cass, what—?" when Dick turns to look at her, he sees Tim too. "Tim."

Jason turns around, curses when he spots him, and kicks Dick in the same leg Cass did.

"Shit—turn it off! Turn it off!" Jason hisses, but not quietly enough, because Tim can hear him anyway.

Dick almost drops the remote, and Tim watches him pressing the power button so many times he loses count.

The last thing Tim sees on the screen is the thumbnail of him and Kon kissing in the conservatory.

The silence only makes him more nervous. His palms go sweaty, and a shiver runs up his spine, making his skin crawl.

"So..." he starts, pressing his lips into a thin line, "...you saw it." It's not a question, it's a fact.

But no one says anything; they neither deny nor confirm it, and Tim bites the inside of his cheek so hard he could draw blood.

His mouth feels dry, there's a knot in his throat, and Tim feels like he's choking even though there's nothing actually stuck there besides anticipation—the fear of not knowing what's going to happen next.

The words spill out of him in a rush, tripping over each other, too fast for him to catch his breath.

"I'm sorry," he says, taking a deep breath before continuing. "I was going to tell you, I swear. It's not that I don't trust you, I do, it's just that I wasn't... I wasn't ready yet. I needed more time to think about what I was gonna say and how I was gonna do it, but I fucked up and now it's on national TV, I think—God, I never wanted this to happen, I swear, I swear on my camera, and you know how much I love that camera, I just—"

"Tim! Tim, it's okay." Dick is in front of him in an instant, his hands gently gripping Tim's shoulders.

Tim opens his mouth to reply, but all that comes out is a shaky breath, and that's it, because he can't find the words, he can't speak, there isn't enough air filling his lungs. Tim feels his chest burning, and he can't—he can't breathe.

He's hyperventilating.

Fuck.

He's having a panic attack.

Double fuck.

Dick seems to be reaching the same conclusion.

"Breathe, baby bird, breathe." Dick brings a hand to his own chest and exaggerates his breathing, guiding Tim through the exercises they've all learned in therapy (yes, they're all screwed up). "In and out, yes, just like that. You're doing great Tim, just one more time."

Dick says one more, but they both know it's going to take more than that for Tim to breathe normally again.

Tim had almost forgotten how awful panic attacks were. He hasn't had one in a long time, but well, it was time to reset the clock.

Rating? Minus ten out of ten. Let's not repeat this experience anytime soon, thank you very much.

Dick guides him over the couch, and Tim lets himself drop down next to Cass. She pulls him into a hug, and Tim leans on her shoulder, letting his sister pat his back.

Sometimes words are hard for Cass, but her actions always speak for her.

"You okay, Timbo?" Jason asks, with half a sandwich in his hand and crumbs on his lap.

Alfred would have something to say about that.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine." He receives an incredulous look from Jason and a raised eyebrow from Damian. "Well, partially, as good as I can be with... this whole situation."

Tim runs a hand over his face, stressed.

It's too early to have a migraine, but it's also too early for a panic attack, and he already had one, so he might as well have a migraine too.

"Yeah, it's pretty bad, dude."

"Jason!" Dick scolds him.

"What? It's true!" says Jason. A tomato goes flying when he waves the hand holding his sandwich. "Some shitty reporter took a photo of Tim and his boyfriend, and now there are assholes talking shit about them," he says, taking another bite of his sandwich. "That's fucked up."

Dick, who had been covering Damian's ears since Jason started talking, glares at him.

"Jay, watch your language! There's a child present."

Damian scoffs, arms crossed and his brow so furrowed that Tim thinks he might end up with permanent wrinkles before he turns twenty.

"Please, Richard, don't be absurd. We all know I'm the one among us who swears the least. I would never demean myself with such language." Damian yanks Dick's hands off his ears. "And I am not a child," he growls.

Jason snorts and rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, right. You're... what? Three apples tall?" he clicks his tongue. "That's kid-sized to me."

If looks could kill, Jason would be six feet under. Damian is practically throwing daggers at him with his eyes.

Tim exhales, trying not to laugh at their bickering. It's the lightest he's felt since waking up

Dick, on the other hand, is trying to prevent an homicide.

"Better?" Cass asks, drawing his attention with a squeeze on his forearm.

Tim gives her a small smile.

"Better," he says.

She looks pleased with his answer and returns his smile.

And that could be the end of their conversation, but Tim has been racking his brain trying to figure out what to say to Cass and the rest of her family, especially to Cass (and Bruce), since, well, Kon is her ex-boyfriend, and Tim is now dating him.

It feels like he's violating some kind of siblings code.

Even though Cass hasn't given any sign that she's upset, Tim feels the need to ask.

"Aren't you mad?" he asks, almost in a whisper. Cass looks at him expectantly and waits for him to continue. "It's just that, well... Kon was your boyfriend."

Cass shakes her head.

Tim can hear Dick and Jason arguing in the background, something about Jason and his outstanding debt to the swear jar.

"It was a long time ago," she says, with a soft smile. "We tried, and then realized it was better to stay friends," she explains, gently nudging Tim with hes elbow. "So no hard feelings. I'm happy for you, little brother."

Tim exhales the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and puts an arm around Cass's shoulders in a quiet show of gratitude.

Cass leans against him, and Tim presses his forehead to hers.

He hears Dick sigh when he finally gets Jason and Damian to stop arguing, now turning his attention back to Tim.

It feels a bit strange to be the center of attention. Tim isn't used to being a priority, to having someone care about him.

He doesn't know how to act when he's being noticed.

But he's getting better, here, with his new family, a real family.

"Tim." Dick goes over and sits on the armrest beside him. His dimples barely showing with the small smile he gives him. Tim can feel another emotional talk coming. "You know we would have supported you, right?"

"I know." And Tim does, okay? He's right most of the time, and it's technically an anomaly when he's wrong. Tim knows, logically, that his siblings would have supported him from the start, but the fear that this might be one of the rare occasions when he's wrong was stronger. "I knew you would, but part of me—the stupid part—was still afraid you wouldn't. I was afraid you'd look at me differently, like... like..."

Like my parents.

As if he were a failure.

How his father—Jack—looked at him when he said he liked photography, how his mother looked at him when he mixed up the cutlery at mealtime, how they looked at him when he didn't get an A+ on his exams.

How they looked at him when they found him holding Bernard's hand at a gala so many years ago, a boy he barely knew and never saw again.

"Tim, there's nothing you could do that would make us see you any differently," Dick reassures him.

"Except maybe murdering someone," Jason adds kindly. "Though I personally wouldn't care."

"Jay, you're not helping."

"I'm not trying to," Jason says, taking the last bite of his sandwich. "You've already made it pretty clear we all care about Timbo, Dickface. What else is there to say? We love him, we support him, and fuck anyone who doesn't," he shrugs.

Tim leans back in the chair, more relaxed but still not entirely at ease.

Damian hasn't said anything about the matter. The uncertainty is eating him alive, and Tim finds himself asking before he can overthink it.

"And you, Damian? You've been quiet."

Damian and he didn't exactly get off on the right foot.

Tim remembers how much they used to fight when Damian first arrived, and sometimes that animosity is still there. They have their spats, but Tim wants to believe they've been doing better, and he really hopes this won't be a setback for their relationship as brothers.

Damian looks at him, expression flat and unreadable, just like the one Bruce usually wears (it's in moments like these that Damian brings out the similarities he shares as Bruce's only biological son).

"Tt. My only concern here, Timothy, is how questionable your taste in men appears to be," he says critically. "Yours and that Kent boy. He could've done so much better," he sneers.

Tim is amazed by Damian's ability to compliment and denigrate someone at the same time.

It wasn't what he expected, but he'll take it.

"Thanks?" Tim replies, not really sure what else to say.

"Yeah, your boyfriend could've done better, but apparently he wanted to keep it in the family," Jason says, snorting. "Though, I gotta ask, did you really let him lick your face? Because that was way grosser than the kiss itself."

Dick doesn't even bother to scold him anymore.

Tim throws him a cushion, ignoring how hot his face is getting. Jason, like the bastard with good reflexes he is, catches it before it can hit him.

Jason gives him a shit-eating grin and throws the same cushion back at him; only this time it hits Tim in the face, leaving a dull ache in his nose, because apparently Jason is one of those kids who triple in size and strength during adolescence (Christ, Jason is built like a freaking tank, and on top of that, he's now taller than Dick—hell, he might even end up taller than Bruce at this rate).

Lucky bastard.

"Asshole," Tim grunts, his face now probably the same color as Bart's hair.

"Dick," Jason shoots back, still grinning.

"Hey!" Dick protests.

Tim is about flip Jason off when a loud noise comes from the kitchen.

Bruce.

No wonder Tim felt like someone was missing.

"How long has Bruce been in the kitchen?" Tim whispers, even though he knows perfectly well Bruce can't possibly hear him from there.

"About two hours or so," Cass says, looking toward the kitchen door. "Alfred is with him."

"He's probably trying to keep Bruce from popping a vein."

"Please, Todd," Damian huffs. "Father maintains a far healthier lifestyle than you do." Jason stuffs himself with burgers every chance he gets, which is more often than Alfred would approve, so technically, Damian isn't lying. "The chances of him having a stroke are nonexistent."

Jason hums.

"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you," he says, idly fiddling with the remote in his hand. "He's been yelling on the phone since before you even got up."

"I wouldn't want to be one of their lawyers right now," Dick mutters.

"Do you think he's going to sue?" Cass asks.

"Oh I know he is, and it's definitely going to be more than one," Jason snorts, amused. "Hell, he's probably going to sue every news outlet. He's got the money for it."

Yes, he does, but Tim doesn't think it's okay to let Bruce spend that much money because over his screw-up.

"Maybe we shouldn't let Bruce spend—"

"Nuh-uh. None of that," Jason cuts him off. "Let the old man fight for your honor, Timtam. Besides, spending all that money is pocket change to him."

"Well, yes, but—"

This time it's Dick who interrupts him.

"No buts. Jay's right, Timmy," Dick says, resting his chin on top of his head. "You've still got a couple of months before you turn eighteen, maybe thats something Bruce can work with, you know, laws and stuff. B knows what he's doing. And you..." Dick pinches his side, making him squeal, "...are not a waste of money, and I can assure you Bruce thinks the exact same thing."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, the kitchen door slams open.

Tim instinctively turns toward the noise, and when he sees Bruce, he tightens the cushion in his arms.

Bruce looks stressed.

He doesn't move from the doorway. His hair is a mess, like he's been running his fingers through it over and over, and it seems he hasn't had time to change because he's still wearing his pajamas. He's rubbing at his temple, and Tim notices how tightly Bruce is gripping his phone in his other hand, fingers pressed so hard they've gone white.

Tim feels guilty. He was careless, and now Bruce has to deal with the fallout of his mess.

Bruce's phone rings again, but before he can answer, Alfred plucks it out of his hands and turns it off.

Bruce doesn't even try to take it back, clearly relieved not to have to lock himself away in the kitchen again.

Or to keep yelling.

Alfred is the first to notice him, and Tim goes very, very still, as if that will magically make him invisible.

"Master Bruce." Alfred clears his throat. "I believe someone is waiting for you."

Bruce lifts his head, and the moment his eyes land on Tim, the tension in his shoulders drains completely, and his frown softens, as if it had never been there.

"Tim," he calls, and Tim swallows hard.

"Bruce," he answers tightly, heart racing, nerves prickling under his skin.

From the corner of his eye, Tim sees Cass stand up. She grabs Jason and Dick by the hoods of their hoodies, ignoring the strangled sound Dick makes when he tries to wriggle free; she pulls harder. Damian, follows her without needing to be dragged.

They disappear around the corner, out of sight, but Tim knows them. He knows they’re going to eavesdrop. They’ve done it before—he’s done it before.

Bruce approaches him as soon as the room empties, his steps slow and steady. Not stomping, Bruce never stomps. His footsteps are never loud, never angry.

They never sound like Jack's.

Still, Bruce’s presence feels imposing, even though he isn’t actively trying to be intimidating.

Alfred gives him a small smile over Bruce’s shoulder before slipping around the same corner as the others, probably to make sure they aren’t eavesdropping.

"Tim."

He goes rigid in his seat when Bruce sits down beside him (trying not to think about the twinges running up his spine from the painful tension in his back muscles), just as he used to whenever Jack berated him. Because Tim had learned that cowering only made the yelling worse.

Tim finds it hard to look Bruce in the eye. He’s afraid that if he does, he’ll see his mother’s cold gaze or Jack’s look of disappointment. He’s afraid of messing up, that maybe this is where Bruce draws the line with him, afraid that this will be the last straw.

But Bruce doesn’t push him. He doesn’t demand that Tim look at him, and he doesn’t tell him he’s being immature or childish. He doesn’t make him feel small.

Bruce isn’t Jack, Tim reminds himself once again, letting his posture loosen just a little. Still, he keeps his eyes fixed on the floor, specifically on the slice of tomato that fell out of Jason’s sandwich, as if it somehow holds the solutions to all his problems.

In the end it’s Bruce’s words that finally makes Tim look up.

"I'm sorry, Tim." he says, and Tim turns to look at him so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.

What?

"Why are you apologizing?" Tim asks, genuinely confused, because he doesn’t understand—he doesn’t understand why Bruce is the one apologizing. "I'm the one who fucked up, I—I was careless and got you into trouble, I know I did, and now you have to deal with my mess," his voice cracks. "So why are you the one apologizing? This is my fault."

Bruce shakes his head and takes Tim’s hands—still clenched into tight fists on his knees—into his own

"I'm sorry because, what happened to you? It’s not fair. None of this is. You should have been able to come to us on your own terms, but the media pressure took that choice away from you. And for that I’m sorry,” Bruce explains, giving his hands a gentle squeeze. "And I need you to know, to understand, that none of this was your fault. You did nothing wrong, Tim."

"So you're not... you're not disappointed?" he asks, not because he doesn't know—Bruce has already made it pretty clear.

Tim asks because he needs Bruce to say it, he needs to hear it out loud, or the annoying voice in his head (which sounds like a mix of Jack's and Janet's) won’t stop. The same voice that’s been whispering all his fears to him for as long as he can remember.

So yeah, Tim needs verbal confirmation.

And Bruce, who always can read between the lines, gives it to him.

"No, sweetheart. You're my son, and nothing, absolutely nothing, could ever make me love you less," Bruce finishes softly, with such tenderness that all Tim wants to do is curl into his chest and cry.

Bruce pulls him into a hug, and Tim melts into it. He lets Bruce's palms cradle his face, he lets his dad hold him.

He can’t stop the small smile that tugs at his lips when Bruce presses a kiss to his forehead.

Somehow, Tim realizes, Bruce’s hands feel softer and warmer than his mother’s ever did.

"But seriously, did Conner really lick you, or is that photo edited?"

Tim cheeks burn, and he lets out a wet laugh.

"He did," he admits.

Bruce wrinkles his nose.

"I'm going to have to talk to Conner about his... peculiar ways of showing affection in public," he says with a grimace.

Tim shakes his head, a little amused at the idea of Bruce trying to intimidate Kon.

"You're not giving my boyfriend the shovel talk, Bruce."

"I did it when he was dating Cass, I’ll do it again now that he’s dating you," Bruce says firmly. "Besides, it's my duty as a father to counsel my children's partners."

"Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days? ‘Counsel’?" Tim asks, making air quotes. "What, now you're gonna tell me you gave Steph the shovel talk too?" he jokes.

Bruce goes suspiciously quiet. He doesn’t even look at him.

"Bruce."

"It's late, we should go get breakfast." He pats Tim’s shoulder and stands, heading toward the dining room, leaving Tim speechless.

"Bruce!"

There is no way Bruce gave her the shovel talk and he never heard about it.

Tim is definitely asking Steph about this later. 

When he works up the nerve to turn his phone back on.

Of course, the matter doesn't end there.

Breakfast goes by without any real trouble. A stray paper-napkin ball flying here and there and a full-on battle over Alfred's cookies, but nothing out of the ordinary—at least not for them.

Cass, as always, ends up with most of the cookies.

They end up in the living room again. No one suggests turning on the TV, and Tim appreciates it. He's not in the mood to see or hear whatever the media has to say.

He's had enough technology for one day.

The others seem to think the same and join him in his misery, with no phones in sight.

Jason suggests playing a board game to kill time, because trying to agree on a movie would start another war, and Tim’s scalp is still sore from when Damian yanked his hair in his eagerness to get more cookies.

Fortunately, they manage to reach a mutual agreement—except for Dick—on what to play ensuring there will be no kicking or biting involved.

Card games are always calm and harmless, or at least as harmless as Cards Against Humanity can be. That's the whole reason Dick was the only one who voted against it, claiming the game was far too vulgar for Damian's "pure, innocent eyes and ears," according to Dick. But it was that or play Monopoly, and the last time they played Monopoly the pieces ended up flying, Jason broke the table, Damian lost a baby tooth, and Dick seems to be forgetting he got kicked in the nose so hard it broke.

Cass came out of it the best; somehow she managed to slip out of the chaos without stepping on any of the pieces scattered on the floor. Unfortunately, Jason and Dick weren't so lucky.

Tim may or may not have ended up with a piece lodged in his neck (why the hell were they so pointy?) or chewed on a card or two, but no one bothered to count the pieces afterward, so Tim didn't say anything.

Anyway, the game is just another thing that's kept under lock and key besides Bruce's coffee. It's as dangerous as Alfred's shotgun, and no, Tim is not exaggerating.

Damian pouts—something he vehemently refuses to acknowledge—when Dick won't let him join the game, and then storms off to his room after yelling at Dick about how he can shove the cards somewhere the sun doesn't shine, followed by a string of insults in Arabic.

Tim is thinking about which of his cards would be best response to: "What has been making life difficult in the nudist community?" when Damian reappears and shoves his phone so close to Tim's face that his eyes can barely focus on the screen.

"For you," he says, shaking the phone in annoyance.

Tim sets his cards down, but not before tossing one into the center of the table that reads: "A snapping turtle biting the tip of your cock." And he leans back a little to get a clearer view of the screen.

There, on Damian's phone, Jon's name shows up on the caller ID.

"Why is Jon calling me?"

Damian sighs and shoves the phone into his chest.

"Just take up the damn phone, Timothy," Damian growls.

Tim still doesn't get it, but he takes the phone before Damian can throw it at his head and lifts it to his ear, without the slightest idea why Jon would prefer to talk to him instead of Damian.

They get along, of course. Tim's spent time with Jon whenever he visits Kon, so it's not like he's a stranger—but it's weird that Jon would ask for him out of everyone..

Tim whatches Damian take his seat, and Dick tries to snatch the cards out of his hands before he can read them, but fails. Cass and Jason laugh at the disgusted noise Damian makes, which is totally justified because none of Tim's cards had anything appropriate to say.

"Hello? Jon?"

"Tim! Finally! I've been trying to call you all morning," yells someone who definetely does not sound like Jon.

"Kon? What—?" He gives a quick look around, meeting the curious eyes of his siblings. "You've been calling me?" he repeats.

"Yes! It kept going straight to voicemail. I was about to go to Gotham myself, but then I remembered Jon exists..." Tim hears an indignant Jon shouting in the background, something about Kon being rude and ungrateful, "...so I figured I'd call you from his phone."

Huh, that possibility didn't even cross Tim's mind. He just left his phone on the floor after throwing it and didn't plan to pick it up until later.

How did he forget about the nearly fifty missed calls from Kon? Damn, his brain isn't working today.

And people call him smart.

In his defense, any coherent thought went flying right out the window after Steph's call. Yesterday his brain had been working perfectly fine.

As fine as it can be after thinking it was a good idea to play fisherman in a chocolate fountain.

That damn chocolate fountain.

"Fuck, Kon. I'm so sorry," he apologizes, pushing aside the frustration he has with himself. "I was so stuck in my own head after seeing the news that I completely forgot to call you back." He's pacing again—when did he even get to his feet? He has no idea; his body does it on instinct when he's stressed. That, and tugging at his hair, like he's doing right now.

"No, no, it's okay, Tim. I understand, I just..." Kon sighs. "I wanted to apologize," he says, and Tim is so confused he can't think on anything to say. "I knew you hadn't told your family about us yet and then I went and broke that damn chocolate fountain, and I dragged you outside without even checking if anyone else was around. I'm so sorry, fuck, I really screwed up, I know I did, please forgive me—"

"What? No, wait! Kon, why are you—? You don't have to apologize." This is getting out of control. "I'm not mad at you. It wasn't your fault."

"Tim, you don't have to lie. It's okay if you're mad—"

"No! Kon, listen to me." Kon obeys, and Tim hates the idea that Kon only stays quiet because he thinks Tim is mad at him. So he starts there. "I'm not angry, and no—don't interrupt me, I know you were about to." He hears a groan on the other end of the line. "I mean it. I'm not angry. I never was. I was scared, of what people—what my family would think of me." Tim glances at his siblings; they're all smiling at him. Even Damian has the slightest curve to his lips. "And now I feel stupid for feeling that way, because you were right. Everything turned out fine. My family supports me and that's all that matters."

"Oh thank God." Kon exhales. Tim can practically feel the relief through the line—he gets it; he was about to go gray from stress a few hours ago too. "I was worried. I'm so glad they took it well, babe" Tim huffs. Good thing he's not on speaker, his siblings do not need to hear Kon and his affectionate pet names, they'd bully him for life. "Still... part of me feels guilty about all this crap."

Tim understands the feeling. It took his siblings and Bruce drilling it into his head to chase the guilt away.

There's a small part of him that wonders what would've happened if they'd been more careful last night. Would they still be keeping their relationship a secret? Or would someone have snapped a picture of them on the street and they'd have ended up in the news anyway? He doesn't know, but Tim is making his peace with it.

"Yeah, I get it. But it wasn't your fault, Kon. It wasn't either of our faults," he reassures him. "I didn't think to check if anyone was outside or if someone was following us, either. We shouldn't even have to think about looking over our shoulders just because we want to hold hands. We... we weren't doing anything wrong."

It's sad to know that some people are going to think that way, but Tim can't do anything about it, and he has to learn to live with it.

Although the people he cares about have already made their point pretty clear (Dick said he was going to smother him with cuddles, and coming from him, it sounded more like a threat), and that's all he needs.

"Yeah, you're right," Kon hums. "But I'm not going to stop apologizing anytime soon. And with everything that happened with your parents—I know it's hard. I really feel like I should apologize for how they ended up getting involved."

"Bruce took it pretty well," Tim says, confused.

"I know he did. I meant your other parents, you know? The biological ones." There's a hint of bitterness in his tone—the same one his friends and family use when they remember what Tim's life was like back when he still lived with them. "It sucks that you have to see them, but you don't have to. If I were you, I'd leave them outside." 

"...What are you talking about?"

Tim is getting a strange feeling of déjà vu.

"Your ex-parents?"

"Kon, I haven't seen them in ages."

They rarely end up at the same gala anymore, since Tim doesn't attend them as often as he used to (was forced to) years ago, it's an unusual occurrence. When they do run into each other—which has happened so few times Tim could count them on one hand—they never say more than a polite greeting, and that's it, that's the whole interaction. They don't stay the whole night either; Tim knows they're only there for a couple of hours before leaving to prepare for yet another trip that will keep them out of the country for at least a third of the year.

It's always been like that.

Tim thought that the feeling of loneliness would disappear after leaving that house (there had never been warmth or affection there, not enough to call Drake Manor a home; he'd realized that from a very young age). Yet, for some reason, the coldness in his parents' eyes whenever they crossed paths at a social event—even after he started living with Bruce, surrounded by love and care—still made him feel like a little kid sometimes, small, insignificant, like an ornament that needs to be dusted off every now and then just to remain presentable in other people's eyes, and not a human being.

It's different now, though. Tim is doing better. He's found warmth and unconditional love since the day he stepped into the manor, and he feels more whole than ever.

"But they're at the gate," Kon says, with the same confidence as someone saying the sky is blue and the grass is green.

"In the—and how do you know that?"

"Tim." Tim already knows he's not going to like whatever Kon is about to say. "They're showing it live. Your parents' car is outside, and it's on TV right now. I couldn't make this shit up even if I wanted to."

Tim wishes he could stop finding out about important things through his phone.

Wait a second—

"What do you mean my parents are outside and they're broadcasting it live on TV?!" Tim yells, alarmed, looking at his siblings, who look just as alarmed as he is.

"Shit," Jason mutters. "Turn on the damn TV, Dick!"

"Wait, I can't find the remote—oh, here it is," says Dick, pressing the power button.

Since it's still on the same channel as before, the news is still playing.

And yes, to Tim's misfortune, they're broadcasting live from behind the manor's gate. There are more than a dozen reporters and—fuck, that car. He'd recognize it anywhere.

Tim wonders if he's descended from the people who whipped Jesus, or if all the bad luck he has is really karma from a past life.

Whatever it is, Tim is not amused.

"Shit!" Jason curses again, louder this time.

Dick must be really shocked, because he doesn't scold Jason for swearing in front of Damian.

"Go get Bruce," Cass tells him, and Dick bolts out of the room, while she and Damian head for the windows. The manor isn't exactly close to the gate, but it doesn't hurt to close the curtains, just in case.

Jason flips through the channels, and most of them are broadcasting from outside too.

"Fuck," Tim whispers.

"Someone must've leaked information from their schedule. Somehow the press found out they canceled their business trip, and they've all have been waiting outside like vultures for them to show up," Kon says. Tim almost forgot he was still on the phone with him thanks to his small, massive crisis.

Tim hopes that someone runs out of toilet paper when they go to the bathroom, and that when they go to sleep, both sides of their pillow are warm.

"I completely forgot about them," he admits. "I was so busy being worried that I forgot they even existed."

"You don't have to give them any explanations," Kon says. "You don't owe them any to begin with."

Kon's right, Tim doesn't owe them anything. They've never bothered to pay attention to him unless there was an audience—and even then, sometimes they still didn't.

Now they want to talk to him? Tim already knows that whatever they have to say won't be good. It never is, not when it's something that doesn't fit their standards.

"I know, but I don't want them to think I'm hiding from them," he explains. "I don't want to give them that power."

"That's okay, babe," Kon says, so softly it makes Tim want to pull him through the phone to kiss him. "Go show'em how far you've come without them."

"I will," he replies, feeling lighter. "I'll call you later."

"Okay. Love you."

Tim is smiling like an idiot.

"I love you too."

Kon makes an exaggerated kissing sound that makes Tim laugh. Kon's laughter on the other end of the line is the last thing Tim hears before hanging up.

When Tim ends the call, Bruce is already there, standing by one of the windows with the curtain pulled halfway shut, sneaking glances outside as if there were zombies at the gate instead of reporters, speaking quietly with Alfred.

Neither of them looks pleased.

Tim doesn't blame them—he's not a fan of the idea of his parents coming either. Tim knows that nothing good is going to come out of this, and no, he's not being pessimistic or jinxing his future; he just knows his parents better than they know him. That's a fact.

Not a good one, but at least it lets him know what to expect.

Dick is the first to approach. He places both hands on Tim's shoulders and gives them a gentle squeeze, his lips pressed into a tight line. Beside him, Bruce looks tense too, his usual stern mask ruined by the creases on his forehead that appear every time he glances out the window.

Tim has already decided what to do, and he makes it clear before any of them asks.

"I'm going to talk to them."

Bruce looks like he wants to say something, but Dick beats him to it.

"Are you sure?" he asks, and it's incredible how Dick seems more worried than Tim himself.

Dick always says it's his duty as the oldest to look after them. He often says it just to annoy them and to give himself an excuse to stick his nose into their business. It may sound like a joke, but Tim knows he means it. He knows Dick would drop whatever he's doing in a heartbeat if any one of them asked for help. He's done it before, and they all know he'd do it again.

"I'm sure."

"You don't have to do it if you don't want to," Bruce adds. "No one here is going to think less of you if that's the case."

Tim smiles, knowing he's being sincere. Bruce has proven that to him ever since he arrived at the manor—always saying things plainly, without sugarcoating, but never in a harsh way.

"I know," Tim says, with the same calm that comes right before a storm. "I just want to put an end to all of this. If I don't confront them now, they'll probably find another way to pressure me until I do."

Bruce nods, and Dick gives his shoulders another squeeze before letting go.

Alfred, who has been listening from the start, walks over to him with slow steps and a small smile that deepens the age lines on his face.

Tim has grown fond of the man, and over time, he's come to think of him more as a grandfather than a butler. His words carry just as much weight as anyone else's in this family—he is family.

"My dear boy. I'm sure I speak for everyone here when I say I'm proud of the person you've become," he says, one hand resting on Tim's shoulder. "And I know that, whether we had intervened or not, you would have ended up exactly as the wonderful young man you are now."

Tim holds back his tears through sheer willpower.

"Thank you, Alfie," he replies with a watery smile.

Alfred's smile somehow grows even softer.

Tim waits for Jack and Janet at the door, just like he used to when he was a child and still felt that spark of excitement at welcoming his parents home after a long trip—longing for their attention and affection, anything to take the chill out of his loneliness.

But Tim hasn't felt like that in years.

With the Waynes, it's different. Tim no longer has to bark like a desperate puppy just to get someone to bother looking at him. Back then, even if all he ever got were irritated glances and exasperated sighs, Tim welcomed them with open arms, because even if it wasn't what he wanted or needed, it was still better than being met with pure indifference.

Now, Tim has people who genuinely care about him, people who are worth feeling joy for, knowing they'll reciprocate in the same way.

The gate opens, and Tim watches his parents' car drive in, following the short path that leads to the front door of the manor. No reporter gets past the gate, and Tim doesn't know if it's out of respect or because they're scared of losing their jobs ending up neck-deep in debt for trespassing on the private property of none other than Bruce Wayne. The so-called "Prince of Gotham," as the city's residents have dubbed him.

He feels Cass's hand between his shoulder blades—not pushing, just a reminder of her presence.

Tim appreciates it, leaning slightly into the warm, steady palm on his back, on his sister.

He takes a deep breath when the car finally comes to a stop.

Jack and Janet get out as soon as the vehicle stops moving, their mother's heels clacking loudly against the steps as she climbs them with a sense of urgency he's rarely seen in her.

Both of them look like they just sucked on a lemon.

Tim had often been the reason behind that expression, and once it would've made him shrink into himself. But now? Tim doesn't feel bad at all, not about what he did, not about kissing Kon.

Because that's all it was. A kiss. And if they weren't a queer couple, nobody would have batted an eye; his so-called parents certainly wouldn't.

His mother is the first to speak.

"Timothy! What is the menaing of all this?"

Janet spits the words out with dramatic flair, and Tim dares to say she sounds almost hurt, as if he'd personally offended her (which, he supposes, he has in a way).

"It's good to see you too, Mom," he greets, with false cordiality.

Janet must notice, because her face scrunches up even more.

"We've been calling you all day!" she exclaims, in that same warning tone she used whenever Tim did something she didn't like. "And you didn't even bother to—"

Jack cuts her off mid-sentence by lifting a hand.

"Janet," he says, trying to sound calm, but Tim can see how tigh his jaw is, the vein pulsing in his neck, just about ready to burst along with his temper. "We should continue this inside. We don't want another... scandal."

Naturally—because that's all they care about; not tarnishing their image, the image they've crafted specifically for the public eye, the image of the perfect family.

Too bad Tim already ruined it.

"Do come in," Alfred says, stepping aside to allow them entry. He feigns cordiality far better than Tim.

When they encounter Bruce in the entryway, they walk right past him.

Once the doors close, Tim has to count to ten in his head to keep from cringing under Jack's furious stare. It's not that he isn't used to his yelling—he is—but that doesn't make it any more pleasant to hear.

"Timothy," Jack says, clearing his throat as he glances at the others gathered in the room, clearly uncomfortable with their presence. "I believe it would be best if we spoke in private."

Jason, behind Jack, starts to open his mouth, ready to protest.

"They're staying." Tim says, before Jason says the same thing in a much less pleasant tone—though mostly because he dislikes the idea of leaving Tim alone with them.

Janet sighs, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose, annoyed by his response.

"Seriously? How much longer do you plan on embarrassing us?"

"Leave it, Janet. He's always enjoyed being the center of attention," Jack scoffs, turning toward Tim. "Fine, have it your way. We don't have time to deal with your childish tantrums. If you want to involve these people in family matters, then so be it."

"Family matters?" Tim repeats, stunned by the sheer nerve—the audacity.

What right does Jack have to call any of this family business when the only thing connecting them is the blood they share? What makes them family beyond the biological tie?

Nothing. There's nothing else—and to Tim, it couldn't mean less.

"Do you have any idea what this does to our image?" Jack goes on, ignoring him. "People talk, Timothy. All our partners are aware of the little scene you pulled out there. Do you understand they're our company's main suppliers? The reason for our revenue? Not to mention we've been getting nonstop calls all morning! Do you have any idea how annoying that is?" Yes, Tim can imagine. "Nosy people keep pestering us and asking whether we know that mysterious boy you've been sleeping with."

"Sleeping—it was a kiss!" If there's one thing Tim is deeply grateful for, it's that Kon's identity hasn't leaked to the press. God only knows what Jack and Janet would do with that information. The last thing Tim wants is to put the Kents in their sights. "You make it sound like we were having sex in public!"

Both Jack and Janet frown in disgust.

"What you did is just as obscene," Jack snaps. "Kissing a boy." He practically spits the words, as if saying them burns his throat. "We didn't raise you like this, Timothy."

They didn't raise him at all.

Tim can't believe what he's hearing.

"You were barely even there!" he feels the need to fire back, to defend himself. "You left me alone in that house for months. You didn't even bother to pick up the phone when I called!

Jack tuts in annoyance.

"Don't be ungrateful. You had everything. A roof over your head, food, every comfort you could ask for. What more did you want?"

I wanted you, he wants to say, but he knows there's no point in saying it now.

Tim takes a shaky breath, pretending it doesn't hurt him that the man he once considered a father talks about him as if he'd only ever been an obligation—something he got stuck with, and not his son.

He hears one of his brothers curse, but it's spoken too quietly for him to tell who said it (probably Jason).

"Let's get to the point. Why are you really here?" he asks, because he wants this over with, and the sooner the better for everyone. "You didn't come all the way here just to express your displeasure, did you?"

Everything Jack and Janet do, they do for a reason. There's always something they want, and it's always for their own benefit.

Always.

"You're going to go out and deny those accusations," Jack says, arms crossed over his chest and his chin lifted in what seems like an attempt to assert authority. "We have someone who can prepare a statement for you to present to the press."

Tim doesn't even have to think about it before responding.

"Yeah, no. That's not happening."

"For the love of God, Timothy, could you stop being so difficult?" Janet looks seconds away from losing her composure. "We're not asking for much. This is the least you can do for us after the show you put on."

"You're asking me to deny my boyfriend to protect your reputation. I'm not doing that. I'm not letting you ruin this for me, for—for us."

"Oh come on, Timothy, stop being ridiculous." Jack has wrinkled his face more in the last few minutes than he ever did the entire time Tim lived with him. "Our partners have known you since you were a child. Don't you care about what they'll say?"

Tim is about to tell him that no, he doesn't give a flying fuck, but Jack keeps talking.

"The donations they make are tremendous! What are we supposed to do if they cut ties with our company? Have you even thought about that? About the damage you're causing us? All because you couldn't keep it in your pants."

At this point, Tim shouldn't be surprised by how selfish Jack is, but wow—he's really outdoing himself today.

"Do you even hear yourself?" Tim laughs, dry and humorless. "All the bullshit that comes out of your mouth—don't you ever get tired of talking crap?"

Janet gasps, horrified, clutching her pearls.

Someone whistles, another cheers, and there's a choked sound that Tim is pretty sure comes from Bruce.

Jack looks like he's been struck. Maybe because he never expected Tim to bite back, maybe because he thought Tim would tuck his tail between his legs like he used to and accept their demands without complaint.

Well, surprise. Tim is no longer that five-year-old boy who seeks to please his parents in exchange for their affection.

When he snaps out of it, Jack strides toward him and jabs a finger into his chest, hard. Tim tries not to flinch at the sharp pain in his sternum.

"Don't give me that attitude, young man." Jack face turns red, —embarrassment, anger, perhaps both. "You'll do as I say! You're giving that press conference today," he growls, each word punctuated with a jab of his finger into Tim's chest. "We're not asking."

Fine, if Jack wants an attitude, Tim's going to give him one.

"And why should I listen to you?" He grabs Jack's wrist in a firm grip while turning to look at Janet, her eyes wide open. "Why should I listen to any of you?" Tim jerks Jack's hand off his chest. "You left me alone for more than half my life. You left me to rot in that house, pretending I didn't exist. And now—now you're giving me orders as if you have any right to? Fuck you!" The look on Jack's face is priceless. "So why? Huh? Why should I listen to you? Why?!"

And Jack explodes.

"Because no son of mine is going to be a faggot!"

Tim can hear the footsteps behind him, growing closer, the background voices muffled by Jack's words.

No son of mine.

And oh, oh, Tim has been waiting for the moment to say this. He's held it in his chest for so long, it's been burning in his gut for years, and now he can finally let it out.

It rises like bile in his throat. Tim lets the poison settle on the tip of his tongue, coating every word before it leaves his mouth.

"Then I guess it's a good thing I'm not your son anymore."

Jack freezes. His face falls, and then, in the blink of an eye, it happens.

His parents were never abusive—not physically, at least. A few pinches on his thigh when he fidgeted in his chair, and tugs on his ears in the car when he did something in public they didn't like.

But nothing more than that. 

Maybe that's why he doesn't see it coming, maybe that's why he doesn't react until he feels the sting on his cheek and abruptly finds himself looking toward a window.

Because Jack just slapped him.

Tim turns around, one hand on his cheek, and to his surprise, Jack looks just as shocked as he does.

Suddenly, he's being pushed back, and all Tim sees now is his brother's back.

"You piece of shit!" Jason yells, his fists gripping the collar of Jack's shirt, forcing him back several steps.

"Jason!"

"Jay!"

Tim has no idea what to do. He wants to scream, wants to cry, laugh at how ridiculous all of this is—how they managed to end up in a fight in under ten minutes. Tim wants to go to where Jason is standing, where Dick and Bruce have followed him, trying to keep the situation from escalating; he wants to, but the hands cupping his face stop him before he can take the first step. They’re cold, soothing the faint sting on his cheek.

Cass looks at him with sad, worried eyes, and her expression quickly shifts to fury when she glances over her shoulder at Jack; it doesn't last long—when her gaze returns to him, it's as if the anger was never there.

Damian is nowhere in sight.

"You okay?" she asks, her voice soft and calm. A balm to the storm of emotions crashing over him.

"Yeah," he says, tasting the salt and iron in his mouth from his split lip. "Yeah, Cass, I'm fine," he tries to smile, though it probably looks more like a grimace, but it's the intention that counts, right?

It's Janet's shriek that reminds him there's still a fight just a few feet away.

"Jack!" she screams, her hands wrapped around his bicep, pulling—or at least trying to. "Let go of my husband!"

Jason, if possible, grips Jack's collar even tighter, his knuckles pale and tense shoulders.

"You've got to be kidding me," he growls, Bruce and Dick's hands kepping him from pushing Jack any further. "Your pathetic excuse for a husband just hit your son, and you're worried about him? Over this scumbag?" he shakes Jack. "What a mother you turned out to be."

Janet stiffens and looks away. She's no longer looking at Jason; instead, her gaze drops to the floor and she bites her lower lip. Tim watches her carefully, trying to read her expression, and with some surprise realizes that she's embarrassed. 

He never thought he'd see his mother embarrassed by anything other than wearing out-of-season clothes.

"Let go of me or—!"

"Or what?" Jason is so close to Jack he could headbutt him. He certainly looks like he wants to. "Are you going to hit me too? I'd love to see you try, you fucking dipshit," he dares.

"Jay, he's not worth it," Dick says, though he seems torn between stopping Jason or joining him. Bruce doesn't look any better—his frown deepens; he grabs Jason's forearm, firm and steady, and places his other hand on his shoulder, not pulling him away from Jack, just stopping him from shoving him again.

"Jaylad," Bruce's voice is gentle, completely at odds with his posture and the murderous look he's throwing Jack. (Damian looks exactly the same when he's angry. Genetics are crazy).

Tim sees Jason loosen his grip, and the second he does, Jack takes the opportunity to break free and tries to shove him back the same way Jason had done to him before.

Emphasis on tries, because the only one who stumbles is Jack, and he has to lean on Janet to keep from falling.

Because, come on—it's Jason. Jason, all muscle, solid and immovable like a brick wall. You can tell just by looking at him. That Jack tried, and actually thought he could move him with that weak push is as stupid as saying the Earth is flat.

"Get your hands off me," Jack barks, fixing the crumpled collar of his shirt.

Tim thinks that's it, that Jack is going to turn around and leave with Janet without putting up another fight.

He should've known that wasn't going to happen.

Above all else, Jack is a proud man who refuses to accept defeat—and because he loves having the last word, he goes and digs his own grave by throwing out another biting remark.

"Filthy street whore."

Everyone goes still. Jason flinches, stunned, just like everyone else in the room.

The media had plenty to say about Jason.

A lot of people criticized Bruce when he adopted him. It wasn't exactly a secret that Jason came from the streets, that he'd grown up in Crime Alley—a place not known for being particularly safe. Gotham is a dangerous city on a good day, but Crime Alley stands above the rest. Poverty, muggings, constant shootings, drugs sold like candy on the sidewalk, sex workers on every corner.

Whatever you can name—the worst of the worst—you can probably find it in Crime Alley. And journalists, as ruthless as ever in their pursuit of an exclusive, made sure to exploit that knowledge.

And this? What Jack just said? It's just another example—one of countless things that have been thrown in Jason's face since his adoption: at galas, at charity events, during interviews. There's almost always a backhanded remark about Jason's time on the streets. Maybe it's morbid curiosity, maybe someone being rude just because they can, or the press trying to provoke him into losing his temper and doing something headline-worthy. Like that time he bit the foam cover off a microphone after some jerk asked him how he managed to convince Bruce to adopt him.

You can put two and two together and figure out the implication behind that question.

Cass radiates fury, her fists clenched at her sides. She looks determined to go over there and bite Jack's head off.

Tim follows her; they barely take two steps before they see Jack hit the floor.

And it's not Jason who knocks him down.

It's Dick.

Dick, who just punched Jack square in the nose and keeps hitting him while he's down—one hand gripping Jack's collar and the other, curled into a fist, slamming into his cheekbone.

"Holy shit," Jason gasps.

"Jack!" Janet stands frozen in the middle of the room, hands shaking, unsure of what to do.

"Dick!" Tim grabs his brother's arm to stop him from hitting Jack again, because—shit—if he keeps going, Jack's going to need a rhinoplasty, dentures, and Dick's going to end up with an assault charge.

Not that they couldn't pay a fine or settlement, because they could, but Tim would really like to avoid having Dick become the next family member to be on TV.

"Don't you dare say that to my brothers, you asshole!"

Cass yanks him back by the collar of his hoodie, just like she did earlier, and with Bruce's help they manage to pull him away before Jack, who had just recovered from being dazed and kneed Dick in the ribs a second ago, can land another hit.

Jack coughs, props himself up on his elbows, and wipes his nose, smearing blood across the sleeve of his white shirt. His nose is still bleeding, and that red mark on his cheekbone is definitely going to turn into an ugly bruise later.

Janet clings to him tightly, whispering something in his ear that Tim can't hear. He doesn't know if she's trying to keep him from getting up and continuing to fight or if she's trying to comfort him.

Either way, whatever she says is enough to keep Jack from launching himself at Dick like a rabid raccoon going after a piece of bread.

"Don't ever show your face around here again, or I swear to God you won't just walk away with a broken nose," Dick warns, and Tim gives his arm a squeeze in an attempt to calm him down.

Jack, despite his half-shut eye, still manages to harden his glare.

"Are you threatening me?" Jack asks, incredulous; probably more dizzy not because of the punch, but because Dick doesn't seem even remotely worried about the possible repercussions of messing with him, with a Drake.

The last name that usually gives Jack and Janet a status high enough that no one messes with them.

Or at least that's what they think.

"Did I stutter?" Dick fires back, completely unfazed by the look Jack is giving him.

"Dick," Bruce mutters.

"You brat!" Jack snarls. "I'm going to—!"

Before Jack can even think about taking a step, barking erupts.

Tim now knows where Damian went.

Titus and Ace come charging down the hallway, planting themselves in front of Jack and Janet, keeping a safe distance, but barking all the same. That seems to be message enough, because neither of them dares to move another inch. And, well, they're not exactly small dogs. They've knocked Tim over before just by trying to play, and while their bites are usually playful, they can still hurt sometimes. He really doesn't want to find out what they'd do if they lunged with an entirely different intention.

Damian moves to stand beside Dick, arms crossed, the hint of a smug smile on his face.

"Dami, this is overkill," Tim says, but he's also smiling, quite entertained by the way Janet has taken off one of her heels to use it as a weapon.

The dogs probably see it more as a toy, judging by the way they follow it with their eyes every time she waves it around.

"It appeared to be the most efficient way to make them leave," Damian says, shrugging.

Cass gives him two thumbs up.

Jack glances toward the door, edging back slowly with Janet. Tim is pretty sure he's seen a similar scene in Jurassic Park.

"I suppose your visit has come to an end, Miss Drake, Mister Drake," Alfred says, standing by the door with a raised eyebrow.

Jack opens his mouth as if to protest, but a bark cuts him off, and he simply nods, frustration written all over his face; not willing to test his luck this time. Janet sticks close to him, still clutching the red heel in her hand.

They don't turn their backs to the door until they're outside, and the last thing Tim sees is Janet stumbling over her long dress as she tries to slip her shoe back on.

There is a full minute of silence until they hear the car start up. Once the sound of the engine fades, Tim finally feels like he can breathe again.

"Well, that went great," Jason says sarcastically.

"Fuck," Dick turns and grabs both Tim and Jason's hands. "Are you okay? What he said was disgusting and totally out of line. You know that, right? Please tell me you know that. That fucking son of a bitch," he growls. "I should have shoved the remote up his—"

"Dickie, language. There's a kid present, remember?" Jason says, covering Damian's ears.

"Not you too, Todd," Damian groans, rolling his eyes.

Tim chuckles and lets Dick cup his face so he can examinate his cheek, his thumb brushing over the bruised skin. 

Dick turns into a total mother hen when someone gets injured.

"Dick, seriously, I'm fine. It barely hurts." He licks his split lip, wiping away the last traces of dried blood. "You're the one who should get that hand checked." Tim points to Dick's knuckles, the skin red and swollen.

"Ribs too," Cass adds. 

"My ribs are fine," he says, only for Jason to elbow him in the same spot where Jack had kneed him. "Ow!" Dick hisses, pressing his side. "What the hell, Jay?"

"Fine my ass." Dick glares at him. "Don't give me that look. I barely touched you." Jason points to Dick's injured side. "We're checking those ribs. I'm going to get an icepack for you and Timbo."

"I'm—"

"Shut up," Jason cuts him off, his voice carrying no real bitterness, only concern. "Just... let me help."

Dick sighs and lets him go, not without ruffling his hair first, a smile forming on his lips.

"Alright, thanks, Little Wing."

Jason exhales and returns the smile, letting his hair get messed up instead of slapping Dick's hand away, which is what he usually does when Dick gets clingy.

"That’s what I should be saying." And with that, he disappears toward the kitchen.

"Let me see that." Bruce is doing exactly what Dick did just a moment ago. Tim feels like the new cat everyone wants to pet. "Bruce, I'm fine," Tim insists. Bruce, of couse, ignores him and continues examining, wincing slightly at the sight of his split lip.

"We should put something on your lip." He glances at Dick, giving a quick look at his knuckles. "And on your hand, too."

Dick whines.

"I'm telling you, I'm fine. Why does nobody believe me?" he grumbles, puffing out his cheeks.

"I'll go get the firstaid kit," Alfred announces, not waiting for a reply before heading off.

"B, it doesn't hurt, really." Dick brusshes him off, opening and closing his hand to prove his point. "See?"

"He's lying," Cass whispers to Bruce.

Tim sighs and almost trips as the dogs crowd around his legs,wagging their tails and bumping into him.

Ace and Titus look at him with bright eyes, as if they wouldn't be able to tear off his arm even if they wanted to.

Tim pats their heads and decides he’s going to buy them new toys.

Jason comes back with two ice packs. As soon as he presses one against Dick's swollen knuckles, he hisses.

"Didn't you say it didn't hurt?" Jason teases, grinning.

"Shut up."

Tim laughs, then it's his turn to hiss when Alfred applies ointment to his split lip.

"Ha!" Dick mocks, pointing at him with a finger like the mature adult he supposedly is.

"Shut up," he mumbles, pressing the ice pack that Jason had tossed him against his cheek.

Damian, who had been furiously typing on his phone, leaves his spot on the floor where he had been curled up with Titus and Ace (and Alfred, the cat, who appeared from God knows where) and approaches Tim with his phone in hand, giving him an annoyed look.

"For you," he says, this time without shoving the phone in her face.

"Again?"

"Again."

Tim glances at the caller ID, and once more Jon’s name appears. He should grab his own phone—if it’s even still working, that is.

"Kon?"

"Why did your ex-father walk out with a bloody nose?" he asks, and Tim can practically hear his anxious pacing on the other end of the line.

Right, live stream.

Tim looks at Dick before answering.

"Dick kick his ass," he says, unable to keep the smile spreading across his face.

"What?! What the hell happened?!"

Tim laughs—a loud, joyful laugh.

He looks around and sinks into the couch, relaxed, calm. The presence of his family warming his chest. Cass pressed against his side, legs in his lap; Bruce tending to Dick’s knuckles and making him take off his hoodie to check his ribs; Jason poking Dick’s side again, making him yelp; Alfred scolding him; Damian at the foot of the couch, head resting on his knee.

Tim feels loved, wanted. Happy.

“Grab your popcorn, Conner.”