Fic: Brothers (Dick)
Batfic: Brothers (Dick)
Characters/Pairings: Dick, Tim, Alfred
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Length: 4657 words
Disclaimers: Don’t own, not making any money.
Summery: Dick+coffee=confession time
Acknowledgements: Thank you
dragonbat2006 for beta reading!
Author’s Notes: Here is the next instalment of the Forced Series. The next part is off to be Betaed and hopefully I’ll have that up this weekend. We’ll see. If you haven’t done so already, you should read part 1 and 2 of Opportunity, part 1 and 2 of Regrouping and part 1 of Brothers. To be continued in Alfred’s Interlude.
At the first beep I’m up, the covers sloughing off me. I’m reaching for the phone before I even identify what the hell woke me up in the first place. Some things are just that ingrained. Even as I’m saying, “Yeah?” I’m thinking about what kind of emergency could have someone calling me that 8:30am. Everyone who knows me, knows damn well that I’m sleeping until ten. Nor is anyone going to tempt my wrath after that incident with Roy, fuzzy cuffs and a peacock feather.
“Master Dick, I do apologize for waking you, but I fear there is potentially something of a family emergency.”
Alfred? This guy practically raised me. I know his stoic ways, so of course if he’s saying there’s a possible problem, there is a definitely a problem and it likely means one or more of the family is in a world of trouble. Just that fast my mind kicks into gear. “What happened?” I ask as I get up and pad over to closet.
“I’m not entirely sure. I believe it involved a fight between Master Bruce and Master Timothy.” The words are wholly cordial and proper, but that’s to be expected. It’s the undercurrent of strain that has my attention. Of course, Bruce and Tim have had fights before, not to the degree that Bruce and I have but there’s a first time for everything, I guess. “I fear that something irreparable may have transpired. Nor am I able to coax Tim to speak of it, however.”
Well, that doesn’t really surprise me, the kid is only slightly better at communicating his feelings then our adoptive father, which really isn’t saying much.
“I see.” No, actually I don’t but I have every intention of changing that. “Any chance I can talk to him?” Talking is good and I’m one of the few people that can cajole our little bird into being honest. At least that’s the theory. Exactly how honest he is with me is questionable; the kid is a damn good liar.
“Yes of course, just a moment please.” The words are as ever perfectly proper, but there is a note of utter relief that sends a nasty chill down my spine. Just how bad was this mystery event?
There is a clicking sound and then I hear Timmy’s voice. “Morn--”
“What the hell is going on? Alfred is beside himself!” Okay, so that came out a lot more panicked then I intended. I’ll just blame it on sleep deprivation if anyone asks.
“--ing Dick.” There is a pause as he seems to digest things. Or perhaps he’s just trying to organize his thoughts. “Uh. I’m still trying to figure that out, actually. Bruce had a bad night, I think, and he’s failing to deal.”
Uh-huh. Why do I get the feeling that is the under statement of the decade? This time I take myself in hand and keep my voice something approaching calm. I hope. “How bad?” My eyes narrow as I try to process both what is and isn’t being said. Sometimes, subtext is much more important then what is actually mentioned.
“He locked himself down below, then took off before I got in.” Come on kiddo, it’s a clean line. Give me something to work with here. “Look, I don’t think--”
We shouldn’t be doing this over the phone. I know; I even agree, but damn it! Fine, face to face is better anyhow. Maybe I can tickle him into submission. “Yeah, I know. I’ll be down in about forty minutes. You can tell me all about it then.”
I hang up before he can say anything else. Huh. I’m getting as bad as Bruce. No, I’m not quite scowling about that. I recognize the path of my thoughts, it’s a defence mechanism. I’ve been down this road way too many times; some of the hurts have scabbed over, while others are still very raw. I don’t want to do it again, but I also can’t just give up on my family. Hell, if it is was just Bruce, that would be enough to get me down there. This time however, it involves Tim and that is just not right. The kid is best of us at handling Bruce and his blasted issues. So exactly how bad are things, I wonder yet again.
Looking at my closet I toss the cordless receiver carelessly back towards the rumpled blankets. Best to get the suit back on since I fully intend to take out my glider and make all speed to Gotham. Moving to the bathroom, I splash some water on my face and pretend I’m wake. No, I’m definitely awake, I can feel the adrenalin surging through me.
Getting ready doesn’t take long, nor does the trip down. It does, however, last more then long enough for me to start fretting. Not that such stupidity does any good, but... well... What can I say? It’s my nature. It’s also Bruce and Timmy. I care for them both so damn much, it’s painful. If this is over something stupid, I swear to God that I’m going to kill one or both of them.
Oh hell! Did Bruce fire the kid? If that’s the case, then he’s really going to be hearing from me.
By the time I bring the sleek craft in for a landing through one of the cliff entrances, I’ve managed to almost work myself to the point of frothing at the mouth. Removing myself from the modified hang glider, I walk into the main area, my eyes looking for anything out of place. Everything is as it should be. Would it make more sense if the place had been trashed? There’s certainly a precedent for such an occurrence when it comes to my fights with Bruce.
Nor is there any sign of the man himself. That really doesn’t surprise me. It also doesn’t comfort me any.
Alfred is puttering around, cleaning... and using that quiet dignity of his to disguise the fact that he’s hovering like a mother hen. It takes me a moment to spot the Cave’s other occupant slumped over the console of the main computer, fast asleep. Huh. Well it is that time of day when all good little bats get some shut eye.
Even at the ripe old age of seventeen, Tim hasn’t grown all that much and it’s still easy to miss him, especially with the bulk of the oversize chair between us. For a moment, I remember other times when I found his younger self in a similar position. I’m temped to pick him up, as I used to back in the day, and carry him up to his bed. Or perhaps not. He’d probably be more annoyed by the gesture then anything else, and we do have something of a serious nature to discuss.
Right. I’ll just put it off a moment longer.
I move over to where Alfred is organizing the already tidy costume locker. “Morning, Alfred.” I offer him a tentative wave and smile. His return nod is noticeably clipped. “Any new developments?”
“I fear not, young sir,” he informs me gravely. There is no hint of his usual dry wit, which is possibly even more worrying then if he were actively having hysterics. “He,” the man nods toward the computer, “fell asleep shortly after your conversation and I haven’t had the heart to wake him.”
Of course you didn’t, Alfred. Getting us to actually sleep is one of your main goals in life. That and the fact the kid sleeps like an exhausted, dark haired angel… Yeah, I don’t blame you at all.
I reach out a hand and give the old man’s shoulder a friendly, and hopefully, reassuring squeeze. “If you’ll get us some breakfast, I’ll wake him up, find out what’s going on, and then make sure he gets some real sleep.”
There is something in Alfred’s eye that I don’t quite understand or trust. It’s not that the Wayne family retainer isn’t trustworthy. He is, absolutely and without reservation. It’s just that he has no problem going to extremes when it comes to making sure his charges actually see to their own needs. Anyone want to take bets on his drugging the kid’s food or something? Well, if he doesn’t, I may very well do so myself. Depending on what Tim has to tell me about what happened, of course.
The fact that Alfred might even be considering what is, in fact, an extreme action sends a chill of worry down my spine. Again.
“A splendid plan, sir,” the man agrees before he heads up the stairs.
I wish I had as much confidence in that so-called plan as my old friend. For a moment more I stand there, gazing at my sleeping brother... friend… lover. Tim is so many things to me, part of my life on so many levels. It’s probably a dangerous thing, really, having that depth of attachment to another. I still wouldn’t trade it for the world. A little smile tugs at my lips as I watch him sleep in that unlikely position.
He really hates it when I watch him like this. Probably because I can never stop myself from teasing him about how adorable he looks. When Tim is asleep, when his conscious mind finally relaxes, his entire countenance becomes one of innocence. It’s at times like these that you can see how truly young he is. All the training, all the dangers and, of course, that wonderful mind of his conspire to make him far more adult then most men twice his years. This is part of the reason I play rooftop tag with him, or drag him into a tickle war. It’s just not right that someone that young should be so serious all the time.
Unfortunately, I can’t dally and let him sleep, at least not until I understand the situation. With palpable regret, I move beside the chair and cup his right shoulder, applying just a little pressure. You never shake one of us awake unless there is real trouble… and unless you don’t mind possibly getting decked for your efforts. A lot of our habits are rather anti-social, but they keep us alive, so no one complains too loudly.
I watch him snap into wakefulness and take stock of his surroundings before he so much as twitches a muscle. I’m smiling again. The kid is something special, to be sure. He’d have to be in order to be part of this life, but it’s more then that. It’s how you can see that freaky, wonderful mind of his working, cataloguing, organizing, responding.
Whatever his mind came up with, it seems to have concluded that he’s safe. He sits up and I get my first full-on look at him. The smile slips and I fight the urge to cup his face while demanding to know what the bastard had done to him. It’s not just the haggard expression or the bags under his eyes, it’s not even the awkward discomfort he tries to hide as he moves. It’s something in those midnight-blue orbs... some knowledge that is oppressively weighing on him.
Then it’s gone, carefully covered up by the game face he puts on as easily as breathing. “Hey,” he offers tiredly.
“Hey yourself.” I can feel myself frowning and no amount of effort is changing that. Yes, I’m an over-protective big brother. That isn’t changing either.
“Uh… sorry. I…”
He’s terribly cute when he’s incoherent with fatigue. I reach out to ruffle his hair, which has an obvious lack of product in it, leaving it soft and silky. Damn, I wish I could talk him into forgoing the obnoxious goop, though I admit that he’s scaled the amount back as he gets older. Great, I’m wool gathering. Mind on your job, Grayson. “Let’s go upstairs and get some coffee. Then I want you to start from the beginning.”
That’s right, keep your tone level, be supportive but take change. The kid does a fantastic job on his own, but he responds very well to someone else taking over, as long as they are reasonable about it. Unreasonable orders are balked at.
Another look crosses his face before he manages to hide it. Guilt? Timmy, what on earth do you have to feel guilty about? I’m betting whatever it is has nothing to do with falling asleep in the cave.
When he finally manages to stand, there is no disguising that twinge of his. Now, in our lives, we take a lot of hits that result in more then our fair share of injuries. However this, combined with the guilt, is making for a truly frustrating puzzle.
Reflexively, I reach out to steady him, only to have my hands swatted aside. The frown is back and I don’t try to fight it. “I’m fine,” he tells me, obviously irritated. My frown deepens. The kiddo is as bad as Bruce when it comes to hiding how serious the damage is. In the past, he’s said he was fine after things that would have sent grown men to the hospital. I’m so not buying that one.
Then... “Sorry,” he offers, actually looking something like contrite as he glances over his shoulder at me, all the while continuing toward the stairs. “I’m just… It’s complicated and stupid and I have a feeling that I really screwed things up.”
It feels like my eyebrows want to make a home in my hairline. “You? How?” Tim is the most conscientious and detail-oriented person I know. We all screw up at some point or other, but this just isn’t making any sense. Wait, no, stay on target here. I need to get a feel for the big picture first, and then we’ll work on the details. “You said that Bruce had a bad night,” I prompt him helpfully.
“He did. It involved me.”
Would it be bad if I throttled him? Just a little? I could revive him afterwards. I have to make my hands stop clenching and flexing as we continued to walk, exiting through the clock and into the study. Squelching the urge to scream my frustration to all and sundry, I reach out, grabbing his arm to hold him there, and ask, “involved, how?”
I almost forget the question altogether as I blink and discover that Tim is out of my grasp and halfway across the room. What the hell?! Oh, right. Smooth, Dick, really smooth. Tim has his rules about touching and I just transgressed. Well, too damn bad. “Jesus, Tim. Talk to me.” The words are somewhere between a plea and an order.
I watch his face and I can see something there. There's a moment when I think he’s going to tell me, but it’s quickly gone. “Coffee,” he says and pivots on his heel to head for the kitchen.
Oh, Tim. Well, fine. Coffee isn’t far away. I can smell it long before we get to the doorway. Normally I’d be salivating at this point, but not this time. All my attention is on Tim and on what he’s not telling me. I barely even notice where Alfred is as we enter. My little brother settles at the table, so I go to the counter and… oh. There’s a steaming mug ready. I grab that and carefully put it into Tim’s hands. "Right, you’ve got your coffee, now let’s hear it." I pull a wooden chair close to the boy’s own and lean my elbows on the table, so very obviously waiting.
He takes a sip and it’s nearly obscene how much comfort he derives from the scalding liquid. I reach out with one hand and start working the tension out of the nearest shoulder.
“Okay, talk.” I’m trying really hard not to growl at him. Honest.
Tim sits up and looks first to me, and then to Alfred, who is working on the silverware. The gaze is heavy and full of meaning. Meaning which I’m not paying much attention to at the moment. Come on, kiddo, just tell me!
“Last night, Bruce successfully took down Ivy. I’m not sure how or why, but he ended up dosed with those spores of hers, and our standard anti-toxin didn’t even make much of a dent.” Finally! Except that he’s leaving something out. The way he falls quiet and looks at the top of the table indicates he thinks he’s said enough. Not bloody likely.
A dark, drawled word hangs in the air. “And?” Oh, that’s me. I’m starting to sound testy. Best try to reign that in.
“And,” that small pink tongue flicks out as he licks his lips. I don’t think he’s stalling this time--he's trying to figure out how best to say whatever is running through that oh-so-precise mind of his. “When he came back to the cave he...” There’s an abortive move toward the coffee mug before him, as if he’s restraining himself from taking a sip. “He assaulted me.”
The words hang heavily between us and it takes a moment for them to parse; even then, I can’t really grasp it. Or maybe my mind is just refusing to be cooperative. Thankfully, Alfred is more with it then I am.
“Are you injured, Master Timothy?”
I don’t see the little jump, but I feel it through his shoulder. He’d forgotten that the Englishman was still there with us. I’m frowning… again. That has to be my quota for the month.
“Nothing some sleep won’t cure, Alfred.” I know that smile. It’s the one he uses when he’s trying to convince other people that he’s just a happy, well-adjusted kid. This, of course, means that the reality is anything but.
I’m still trying to get this all to make sense in my head. “Assaulted how?”
“How do you think, Dick?” I can barely hear the words, but his resentment at my continuing to ask about it is unmistakable.
Then it clicks. Oh. Oh! My eyes widen and I know I’m sputtering. “He..! He..!” Oh dear God, no.
Whatever he’s seeing in my face makes him pale visibly as he informs me, “I chose to stay.” Say what?
You could have heard a pin drop after that statement. For his part, Tim looks like he wants to sink through the floor. I hear the shuffle of shoes on the floor behind us. Alfred. Right. “Alfred, can you give us a minute?”
“Of course, Master Dick,” the man says, nothing in his voice hinting at what he’d just heard. We might as well have been talking about the weather. However, when his eyes find mine, I know that he expects me to be filling him in later. I nod and wait for him to leave before turning my attention back to Tim.
I’m giving his shoulder rhythmic little squeezes, trying to offer support. “Tim…” Aw hell. I pull him into a proper hug, folding him in close so that I can run one hand up and down his back in large, broad strokes. It’s not enough, the tension just seems to ratchet higher. “Tim…” My other hand goes into the boy’s hair. His scalp is sensitive and I know just where to caress so that he goes almost boneless in my arms. It’s going to be okay. Somehow, we’ll make it okay, I silently promise him.
“The anti-toxin didn’t work,” the boy repeated. “He came in and… he gave me opportunities to get away the best he could. I should have taken them. I should have grabbed the tranks or some more anti-toxin or something! But I stayed put, I let him because… because…”
My stomach is clenching painfully with the realization of what has happened here, in the place that should be safe as no other can be. “He raped you.” There, it’s said. A part of me had thought that the speaking of it would help somehow, but instead the dark reality of it descends like a shroud.
“No!” He moves so fast that he pulls out of my hold and sits upright on his chair. He’s looking at me, horror on his face. I can’t tell if it is because I dared to say such a thing, or because of what it suggests about Bruce. Certainly not for himself, at least not as a victim. I’m about to ask the obvious when he continues softly, “You can’t rape the willing.” He takes a shuddering breath. “That’s the problem, I let it happen.” He stresses the words to emphasize his culpability. “You know what he’s like.” The words race on at an almost frantic pace even as tears begins streaming down the pale cheeks. “You know what he’s like,” the boy pleads with me, “you know how he’ll react.”
He’s right. I do. That it was with his partner will be one hang up. That his partner is underage will be another. That it happened without apparent consent, his own or Tim’s, will be a third. It’s going to be a mess alright, but we’ll worry about that latter. Right now, I have my arms full again as I hug Tim close.
“Shhhh...” I soothe as I try to work out how to deal with an upset Robin. Of course: focus on what’s working him into knots. “We’ll talk to him.” Oh yes, we will, whether Bruce likes it or not.
I let the boy up a little so that I can see his face and I have to smile as something occurs to me. “Even if we have chase him down and hog-tie him.” There, now my little brother is smiling too, though he still looks uncertain. Releasing him from the hug, I take his smaller hands in my larger ones and give them a squeeze.
We aren’t done yet. There’s still a question that needs an answer. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” I coax carefully.
He shakes his head. “Only in the best way possible,” come the soft words. There is the smallest of smiles on his lips, but far more telling is the way those dark blue eyes dance. Something uncomfortably tight inside me begins to relax. I feel my own smile broadening to answer Tim’s.
Okay, we’re over that hurdle, but it’s still going to be ugly to deal with so the best play is to fall back on the patented Dick Grayson maneuver. I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively and mock leer. “So, how was it?” The smile only widens as Tim rolls his own in response, playing along with the joke. Then he smacks my shoulder and I’m laughing as I mock defend myself. It’s a good sound.
I also just have to pull him in for another hug, one that requires he be on my lap, carefully helping him to arrange himself so I can cuddle the youth close. Timmy sighs and leans into it; no matter what else is going on, all is right with the world for the moment. Then the moment passes as the boy starts to frown and tense up once more.
“Stop that,” I order in my best mother hen voice even as I nip the ridge of his ear. Tim sits up a little and turns a questioning look my way. I have to smile. “You’re very obvious when you’re kicking yourself, little brother.” I reach up one hand and gently touch his lips, stroking them as I think it all through once more. “There’s no point in your fretting over what happened. You can’t change the past, and we won’t find him until nightfall at least.”
Of course he protests with a futile little, “But...” So obviously, I just have to press those fingers a little harder to his lips. He obediently falls silent and I savour that minor victory.
“We aren’t going to search until nightfall,” I repeat, holding his eyes with mine to make sure he hears me. Oh he does, and he’s really not happy about it. Time to drive the point home. “HE needs some space and YOU need some sleep.” That's really an understatement in both cases. The most cursory of looks shows that the kiddo is literally running on fumes at this point. Yet he still looks like he’s ready to laugh about something. Yup, he’s beyond tired.
In any case, this is Tim, the one who prizes logic. I can work with that.
“You know he’s not going to forgo patrol,” I state as reasonably as possible and am relieved to see it registering in those far-too-old, deep blue eyes. “It’ll be our best chance to catch him.” Tim gives the smallest of nods as his lips purse in that not-quite-frown of his that means he’s thinking something through, possibly to an unpleasant conclusion. I don’t have to wait long before he tells me.
“I just...” The expression turns into a true frown now and I have to resist the urge to stroke away the little crease on his brow. “He’ll convince himself of all sorts of things in the meantime,” the small, heavy words come.
I can feel my smile waver, then fade. Tim’s right, of course, it’s just a given since that’s what Bruce does. That he’ll be wrong in this instance is neither here nor there. Without thinking about it, I continue to stroke Tim's jaw, soothing him in the way I know best.
Right, back to logic. “He’s had more then enough time to do that already.” I give him a stern, appraising look. He may not have broken bones or dislocated joints but it doesn’t matter. “And there’s no way you're in any shape to chase him through sewers or other such, even if he lets us figure out which cave or safe house he’s at.”
Oh he really doesn’t like being reminded of that fact. Am I bad person because I find that tired, scowling pout of his far too cute? I just have to smile and hug him, which puts me in the perfect position to scoop him up. Or so the theory goes, but it’s like trying to hold a squirming cat, one made out of tooth paste. With a foot between us, he’s glaring at me again. Randomly, I wonder what he’d look like with cat ears and a tail. Okay, really need to stop that, especially since I’m fairly sure the grin I‘m wearing is downright idiotic.
Closing the distance between us, I settle for putting an arm about his shoulders and gently but firmly turning him towards the door of the kitchen and the stairs beyond. I can feel the tension running through him, like he’s ready to spring away from me at any moment. I shift ever so slightly, to make that as difficult as possible. Eventually, he mutely signals his resignation to the situation, but the tension remains.
Getting him up the stairs and onto his bed isn’t difficult, which is one really big clue that something just… yeah. The slowed reactions as he tries to undo his hiking boots, the fact that he lets me lay him down on the bed and deal with the laces myself in the next only further reinforce the point. Thank you, Alfred. Tim will want to have words with you later, but for now, thanks.
“Just close your eyes,” I say softly as I get the boots off, and begin working on Tim’s feet through the socks. It’s another thing that he really can’t resist, and combined with whatever was in the ‘coffee,’ it puts the boy out like a light.
Carefully moving him, I get us both under the comforter and curl up with my little brother. Silently, I promise him that it’s going to work out. Somehow, someway, no matter what it takes. It has to. And if I have to give Bruce a concussion in the process, well I can live with that.
(End)
This Way To Alfred's Interlude
Characters/Pairings: Dick, Tim, Alfred
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Length: 4657 words
Disclaimers: Don’t own, not making any money.
Summery: Dick+coffee=confession time
Acknowledgements: Thank you
dragonbat2006 for beta reading!
Author’s Notes: Here is the next instalment of the Forced Series. The next part is off to be Betaed and hopefully I’ll have that up this weekend. We’ll see. If you haven’t done so already, you should read part 1 and 2 of Opportunity, part 1 and 2 of Regrouping and part 1 of Brothers. To be continued in Alfred’s Interlude.
At the first beep I’m up, the covers sloughing off me. I’m reaching for the phone before I even identify what the hell woke me up in the first place. Some things are just that ingrained. Even as I’m saying, “Yeah?” I’m thinking about what kind of emergency could have someone calling me that 8:30am. Everyone who knows me, knows damn well that I’m sleeping until ten. Nor is anyone going to tempt my wrath after that incident with Roy, fuzzy cuffs and a peacock feather.
“Master Dick, I do apologize for waking you, but I fear there is potentially something of a family emergency.”
Alfred? This guy practically raised me. I know his stoic ways, so of course if he’s saying there’s a possible problem, there is a definitely a problem and it likely means one or more of the family is in a world of trouble. Just that fast my mind kicks into gear. “What happened?” I ask as I get up and pad over to closet.
“I’m not entirely sure. I believe it involved a fight between Master Bruce and Master Timothy.” The words are wholly cordial and proper, but that’s to be expected. It’s the undercurrent of strain that has my attention. Of course, Bruce and Tim have had fights before, not to the degree that Bruce and I have but there’s a first time for everything, I guess. “I fear that something irreparable may have transpired. Nor am I able to coax Tim to speak of it, however.”
Well, that doesn’t really surprise me, the kid is only slightly better at communicating his feelings then our adoptive father, which really isn’t saying much.
“I see.” No, actually I don’t but I have every intention of changing that. “Any chance I can talk to him?” Talking is good and I’m one of the few people that can cajole our little bird into being honest. At least that’s the theory. Exactly how honest he is with me is questionable; the kid is a damn good liar.
“Yes of course, just a moment please.” The words are as ever perfectly proper, but there is a note of utter relief that sends a nasty chill down my spine. Just how bad was this mystery event?
There is a clicking sound and then I hear Timmy’s voice. “Morn--”
“What the hell is going on? Alfred is beside himself!” Okay, so that came out a lot more panicked then I intended. I’ll just blame it on sleep deprivation if anyone asks.
“--ing Dick.” There is a pause as he seems to digest things. Or perhaps he’s just trying to organize his thoughts. “Uh. I’m still trying to figure that out, actually. Bruce had a bad night, I think, and he’s failing to deal.”
Uh-huh. Why do I get the feeling that is the under statement of the decade? This time I take myself in hand and keep my voice something approaching calm. I hope. “How bad?” My eyes narrow as I try to process both what is and isn’t being said. Sometimes, subtext is much more important then what is actually mentioned.
“He locked himself down below, then took off before I got in.” Come on kiddo, it’s a clean line. Give me something to work with here. “Look, I don’t think--”
We shouldn’t be doing this over the phone. I know; I even agree, but damn it! Fine, face to face is better anyhow. Maybe I can tickle him into submission. “Yeah, I know. I’ll be down in about forty minutes. You can tell me all about it then.”
I hang up before he can say anything else. Huh. I’m getting as bad as Bruce. No, I’m not quite scowling about that. I recognize the path of my thoughts, it’s a defence mechanism. I’ve been down this road way too many times; some of the hurts have scabbed over, while others are still very raw. I don’t want to do it again, but I also can’t just give up on my family. Hell, if it is was just Bruce, that would be enough to get me down there. This time however, it involves Tim and that is just not right. The kid is best of us at handling Bruce and his blasted issues. So exactly how bad are things, I wonder yet again.
Looking at my closet I toss the cordless receiver carelessly back towards the rumpled blankets. Best to get the suit back on since I fully intend to take out my glider and make all speed to Gotham. Moving to the bathroom, I splash some water on my face and pretend I’m wake. No, I’m definitely awake, I can feel the adrenalin surging through me.
Getting ready doesn’t take long, nor does the trip down. It does, however, last more then long enough for me to start fretting. Not that such stupidity does any good, but... well... What can I say? It’s my nature. It’s also Bruce and Timmy. I care for them both so damn much, it’s painful. If this is over something stupid, I swear to God that I’m going to kill one or both of them.
Oh hell! Did Bruce fire the kid? If that’s the case, then he’s really going to be hearing from me.
By the time I bring the sleek craft in for a landing through one of the cliff entrances, I’ve managed to almost work myself to the point of frothing at the mouth. Removing myself from the modified hang glider, I walk into the main area, my eyes looking for anything out of place. Everything is as it should be. Would it make more sense if the place had been trashed? There’s certainly a precedent for such an occurrence when it comes to my fights with Bruce.
Nor is there any sign of the man himself. That really doesn’t surprise me. It also doesn’t comfort me any.
Alfred is puttering around, cleaning... and using that quiet dignity of his to disguise the fact that he’s hovering like a mother hen. It takes me a moment to spot the Cave’s other occupant slumped over the console of the main computer, fast asleep. Huh. Well it is that time of day when all good little bats get some shut eye.
Even at the ripe old age of seventeen, Tim hasn’t grown all that much and it’s still easy to miss him, especially with the bulk of the oversize chair between us. For a moment, I remember other times when I found his younger self in a similar position. I’m temped to pick him up, as I used to back in the day, and carry him up to his bed. Or perhaps not. He’d probably be more annoyed by the gesture then anything else, and we do have something of a serious nature to discuss.
Right. I’ll just put it off a moment longer.
I move over to where Alfred is organizing the already tidy costume locker. “Morning, Alfred.” I offer him a tentative wave and smile. His return nod is noticeably clipped. “Any new developments?”
“I fear not, young sir,” he informs me gravely. There is no hint of his usual dry wit, which is possibly even more worrying then if he were actively having hysterics. “He,” the man nods toward the computer, “fell asleep shortly after your conversation and I haven’t had the heart to wake him.”
Of course you didn’t, Alfred. Getting us to actually sleep is one of your main goals in life. That and the fact the kid sleeps like an exhausted, dark haired angel… Yeah, I don’t blame you at all.
I reach out a hand and give the old man’s shoulder a friendly, and hopefully, reassuring squeeze. “If you’ll get us some breakfast, I’ll wake him up, find out what’s going on, and then make sure he gets some real sleep.”
There is something in Alfred’s eye that I don’t quite understand or trust. It’s not that the Wayne family retainer isn’t trustworthy. He is, absolutely and without reservation. It’s just that he has no problem going to extremes when it comes to making sure his charges actually see to their own needs. Anyone want to take bets on his drugging the kid’s food or something? Well, if he doesn’t, I may very well do so myself. Depending on what Tim has to tell me about what happened, of course.
The fact that Alfred might even be considering what is, in fact, an extreme action sends a chill of worry down my spine. Again.
“A splendid plan, sir,” the man agrees before he heads up the stairs.
I wish I had as much confidence in that so-called plan as my old friend. For a moment more I stand there, gazing at my sleeping brother... friend… lover. Tim is so many things to me, part of my life on so many levels. It’s probably a dangerous thing, really, having that depth of attachment to another. I still wouldn’t trade it for the world. A little smile tugs at my lips as I watch him sleep in that unlikely position.
He really hates it when I watch him like this. Probably because I can never stop myself from teasing him about how adorable he looks. When Tim is asleep, when his conscious mind finally relaxes, his entire countenance becomes one of innocence. It’s at times like these that you can see how truly young he is. All the training, all the dangers and, of course, that wonderful mind of his conspire to make him far more adult then most men twice his years. This is part of the reason I play rooftop tag with him, or drag him into a tickle war. It’s just not right that someone that young should be so serious all the time.
Unfortunately, I can’t dally and let him sleep, at least not until I understand the situation. With palpable regret, I move beside the chair and cup his right shoulder, applying just a little pressure. You never shake one of us awake unless there is real trouble… and unless you don’t mind possibly getting decked for your efforts. A lot of our habits are rather anti-social, but they keep us alive, so no one complains too loudly.
I watch him snap into wakefulness and take stock of his surroundings before he so much as twitches a muscle. I’m smiling again. The kid is something special, to be sure. He’d have to be in order to be part of this life, but it’s more then that. It’s how you can see that freaky, wonderful mind of his working, cataloguing, organizing, responding.
Whatever his mind came up with, it seems to have concluded that he’s safe. He sits up and I get my first full-on look at him. The smile slips and I fight the urge to cup his face while demanding to know what the bastard had done to him. It’s not just the haggard expression or the bags under his eyes, it’s not even the awkward discomfort he tries to hide as he moves. It’s something in those midnight-blue orbs... some knowledge that is oppressively weighing on him.
Then it’s gone, carefully covered up by the game face he puts on as easily as breathing. “Hey,” he offers tiredly.
“Hey yourself.” I can feel myself frowning and no amount of effort is changing that. Yes, I’m an over-protective big brother. That isn’t changing either.
“Uh… sorry. I…”
He’s terribly cute when he’s incoherent with fatigue. I reach out to ruffle his hair, which has an obvious lack of product in it, leaving it soft and silky. Damn, I wish I could talk him into forgoing the obnoxious goop, though I admit that he’s scaled the amount back as he gets older. Great, I’m wool gathering. Mind on your job, Grayson. “Let’s go upstairs and get some coffee. Then I want you to start from the beginning.”
That’s right, keep your tone level, be supportive but take change. The kid does a fantastic job on his own, but he responds very well to someone else taking over, as long as they are reasonable about it. Unreasonable orders are balked at.
Another look crosses his face before he manages to hide it. Guilt? Timmy, what on earth do you have to feel guilty about? I’m betting whatever it is has nothing to do with falling asleep in the cave.
When he finally manages to stand, there is no disguising that twinge of his. Now, in our lives, we take a lot of hits that result in more then our fair share of injuries. However this, combined with the guilt, is making for a truly frustrating puzzle.
Reflexively, I reach out to steady him, only to have my hands swatted aside. The frown is back and I don’t try to fight it. “I’m fine,” he tells me, obviously irritated. My frown deepens. The kiddo is as bad as Bruce when it comes to hiding how serious the damage is. In the past, he’s said he was fine after things that would have sent grown men to the hospital. I’m so not buying that one.
Then... “Sorry,” he offers, actually looking something like contrite as he glances over his shoulder at me, all the while continuing toward the stairs. “I’m just… It’s complicated and stupid and I have a feeling that I really screwed things up.”
It feels like my eyebrows want to make a home in my hairline. “You? How?” Tim is the most conscientious and detail-oriented person I know. We all screw up at some point or other, but this just isn’t making any sense. Wait, no, stay on target here. I need to get a feel for the big picture first, and then we’ll work on the details. “You said that Bruce had a bad night,” I prompt him helpfully.
“He did. It involved me.”
Would it be bad if I throttled him? Just a little? I could revive him afterwards. I have to make my hands stop clenching and flexing as we continued to walk, exiting through the clock and into the study. Squelching the urge to scream my frustration to all and sundry, I reach out, grabbing his arm to hold him there, and ask, “involved, how?”
I almost forget the question altogether as I blink and discover that Tim is out of my grasp and halfway across the room. What the hell?! Oh, right. Smooth, Dick, really smooth. Tim has his rules about touching and I just transgressed. Well, too damn bad. “Jesus, Tim. Talk to me.” The words are somewhere between a plea and an order.
I watch his face and I can see something there. There's a moment when I think he’s going to tell me, but it’s quickly gone. “Coffee,” he says and pivots on his heel to head for the kitchen.
Oh, Tim. Well, fine. Coffee isn’t far away. I can smell it long before we get to the doorway. Normally I’d be salivating at this point, but not this time. All my attention is on Tim and on what he’s not telling me. I barely even notice where Alfred is as we enter. My little brother settles at the table, so I go to the counter and… oh. There’s a steaming mug ready. I grab that and carefully put it into Tim’s hands. "Right, you’ve got your coffee, now let’s hear it." I pull a wooden chair close to the boy’s own and lean my elbows on the table, so very obviously waiting.
He takes a sip and it’s nearly obscene how much comfort he derives from the scalding liquid. I reach out with one hand and start working the tension out of the nearest shoulder.
“Okay, talk.” I’m trying really hard not to growl at him. Honest.
Tim sits up and looks first to me, and then to Alfred, who is working on the silverware. The gaze is heavy and full of meaning. Meaning which I’m not paying much attention to at the moment. Come on, kiddo, just tell me!
“Last night, Bruce successfully took down Ivy. I’m not sure how or why, but he ended up dosed with those spores of hers, and our standard anti-toxin didn’t even make much of a dent.” Finally! Except that he’s leaving something out. The way he falls quiet and looks at the top of the table indicates he thinks he’s said enough. Not bloody likely.
A dark, drawled word hangs in the air. “And?” Oh, that’s me. I’m starting to sound testy. Best try to reign that in.
“And,” that small pink tongue flicks out as he licks his lips. I don’t think he’s stalling this time--he's trying to figure out how best to say whatever is running through that oh-so-precise mind of his. “When he came back to the cave he...” There’s an abortive move toward the coffee mug before him, as if he’s restraining himself from taking a sip. “He assaulted me.”
The words hang heavily between us and it takes a moment for them to parse; even then, I can’t really grasp it. Or maybe my mind is just refusing to be cooperative. Thankfully, Alfred is more with it then I am.
“Are you injured, Master Timothy?”
I don’t see the little jump, but I feel it through his shoulder. He’d forgotten that the Englishman was still there with us. I’m frowning… again. That has to be my quota for the month.
“Nothing some sleep won’t cure, Alfred.” I know that smile. It’s the one he uses when he’s trying to convince other people that he’s just a happy, well-adjusted kid. This, of course, means that the reality is anything but.
I’m still trying to get this all to make sense in my head. “Assaulted how?”
“How do you think, Dick?” I can barely hear the words, but his resentment at my continuing to ask about it is unmistakable.
Then it clicks. Oh. Oh! My eyes widen and I know I’m sputtering. “He..! He..!” Oh dear God, no.
Whatever he’s seeing in my face makes him pale visibly as he informs me, “I chose to stay.” Say what?
You could have heard a pin drop after that statement. For his part, Tim looks like he wants to sink through the floor. I hear the shuffle of shoes on the floor behind us. Alfred. Right. “Alfred, can you give us a minute?”
“Of course, Master Dick,” the man says, nothing in his voice hinting at what he’d just heard. We might as well have been talking about the weather. However, when his eyes find mine, I know that he expects me to be filling him in later. I nod and wait for him to leave before turning my attention back to Tim.
I’m giving his shoulder rhythmic little squeezes, trying to offer support. “Tim…” Aw hell. I pull him into a proper hug, folding him in close so that I can run one hand up and down his back in large, broad strokes. It’s not enough, the tension just seems to ratchet higher. “Tim…” My other hand goes into the boy’s hair. His scalp is sensitive and I know just where to caress so that he goes almost boneless in my arms. It’s going to be okay. Somehow, we’ll make it okay, I silently promise him.
“The anti-toxin didn’t work,” the boy repeated. “He came in and… he gave me opportunities to get away the best he could. I should have taken them. I should have grabbed the tranks or some more anti-toxin or something! But I stayed put, I let him because… because…”
My stomach is clenching painfully with the realization of what has happened here, in the place that should be safe as no other can be. “He raped you.” There, it’s said. A part of me had thought that the speaking of it would help somehow, but instead the dark reality of it descends like a shroud.
“No!” He moves so fast that he pulls out of my hold and sits upright on his chair. He’s looking at me, horror on his face. I can’t tell if it is because I dared to say such a thing, or because of what it suggests about Bruce. Certainly not for himself, at least not as a victim. I’m about to ask the obvious when he continues softly, “You can’t rape the willing.” He takes a shuddering breath. “That’s the problem, I let it happen.” He stresses the words to emphasize his culpability. “You know what he’s like.” The words race on at an almost frantic pace even as tears begins streaming down the pale cheeks. “You know what he’s like,” the boy pleads with me, “you know how he’ll react.”
He’s right. I do. That it was with his partner will be one hang up. That his partner is underage will be another. That it happened without apparent consent, his own or Tim’s, will be a third. It’s going to be a mess alright, but we’ll worry about that latter. Right now, I have my arms full again as I hug Tim close.
“Shhhh...” I soothe as I try to work out how to deal with an upset Robin. Of course: focus on what’s working him into knots. “We’ll talk to him.” Oh yes, we will, whether Bruce likes it or not.
I let the boy up a little so that I can see his face and I have to smile as something occurs to me. “Even if we have chase him down and hog-tie him.” There, now my little brother is smiling too, though he still looks uncertain. Releasing him from the hug, I take his smaller hands in my larger ones and give them a squeeze.
We aren’t done yet. There’s still a question that needs an answer. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” I coax carefully.
He shakes his head. “Only in the best way possible,” come the soft words. There is the smallest of smiles on his lips, but far more telling is the way those dark blue eyes dance. Something uncomfortably tight inside me begins to relax. I feel my own smile broadening to answer Tim’s.
Okay, we’re over that hurdle, but it’s still going to be ugly to deal with so the best play is to fall back on the patented Dick Grayson maneuver. I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively and mock leer. “So, how was it?” The smile only widens as Tim rolls his own in response, playing along with the joke. Then he smacks my shoulder and I’m laughing as I mock defend myself. It’s a good sound.
I also just have to pull him in for another hug, one that requires he be on my lap, carefully helping him to arrange himself so I can cuddle the youth close. Timmy sighs and leans into it; no matter what else is going on, all is right with the world for the moment. Then the moment passes as the boy starts to frown and tense up once more.
“Stop that,” I order in my best mother hen voice even as I nip the ridge of his ear. Tim sits up a little and turns a questioning look my way. I have to smile. “You’re very obvious when you’re kicking yourself, little brother.” I reach up one hand and gently touch his lips, stroking them as I think it all through once more. “There’s no point in your fretting over what happened. You can’t change the past, and we won’t find him until nightfall at least.”
Of course he protests with a futile little, “But...” So obviously, I just have to press those fingers a little harder to his lips. He obediently falls silent and I savour that minor victory.
“We aren’t going to search until nightfall,” I repeat, holding his eyes with mine to make sure he hears me. Oh he does, and he’s really not happy about it. Time to drive the point home. “HE needs some space and YOU need some sleep.” That's really an understatement in both cases. The most cursory of looks shows that the kiddo is literally running on fumes at this point. Yet he still looks like he’s ready to laugh about something. Yup, he’s beyond tired.
In any case, this is Tim, the one who prizes logic. I can work with that.
“You know he’s not going to forgo patrol,” I state as reasonably as possible and am relieved to see it registering in those far-too-old, deep blue eyes. “It’ll be our best chance to catch him.” Tim gives the smallest of nods as his lips purse in that not-quite-frown of his that means he’s thinking something through, possibly to an unpleasant conclusion. I don’t have to wait long before he tells me.
“I just...” The expression turns into a true frown now and I have to resist the urge to stroke away the little crease on his brow. “He’ll convince himself of all sorts of things in the meantime,” the small, heavy words come.
I can feel my smile waver, then fade. Tim’s right, of course, it’s just a given since that’s what Bruce does. That he’ll be wrong in this instance is neither here nor there. Without thinking about it, I continue to stroke Tim's jaw, soothing him in the way I know best.
Right, back to logic. “He’s had more then enough time to do that already.” I give him a stern, appraising look. He may not have broken bones or dislocated joints but it doesn’t matter. “And there’s no way you're in any shape to chase him through sewers or other such, even if he lets us figure out which cave or safe house he’s at.”
Oh he really doesn’t like being reminded of that fact. Am I bad person because I find that tired, scowling pout of his far too cute? I just have to smile and hug him, which puts me in the perfect position to scoop him up. Or so the theory goes, but it’s like trying to hold a squirming cat, one made out of tooth paste. With a foot between us, he’s glaring at me again. Randomly, I wonder what he’d look like with cat ears and a tail. Okay, really need to stop that, especially since I’m fairly sure the grin I‘m wearing is downright idiotic.
Closing the distance between us, I settle for putting an arm about his shoulders and gently but firmly turning him towards the door of the kitchen and the stairs beyond. I can feel the tension running through him, like he’s ready to spring away from me at any moment. I shift ever so slightly, to make that as difficult as possible. Eventually, he mutely signals his resignation to the situation, but the tension remains.
Getting him up the stairs and onto his bed isn’t difficult, which is one really big clue that something just… yeah. The slowed reactions as he tries to undo his hiking boots, the fact that he lets me lay him down on the bed and deal with the laces myself in the next only further reinforce the point. Thank you, Alfred. Tim will want to have words with you later, but for now, thanks.
“Just close your eyes,” I say softly as I get the boots off, and begin working on Tim’s feet through the socks. It’s another thing that he really can’t resist, and combined with whatever was in the ‘coffee,’ it puts the boy out like a light.
Carefully moving him, I get us both under the comforter and curl up with my little brother. Silently, I promise him that it’s going to work out. Somehow, someway, no matter what it takes. It has to. And if I have to give Bruce a concussion in the process, well I can live with that.
(End)
This Way To Alfred's Interlude