It is Tim's room - not just the one he picked at random, because that's not how it works, not when the Manor feels like home and this one room feels like the centre of that. There's no other room he could have stayed in without feeling off. But given Bruce's reaction to him and Dick, even though Tim is still here, he hasn't made himself any clothes to go in the drawers, or any personal items at all. Not yet
( ... )
The opportunity to observe the young man unawares isn't an experience he wastes. There's something familiar about the way Tim holds himself and the way he's drifting; it's an art Bruce knows intimately, one that isn't picked up and learned on a whim - and what's more, the corners of it, the little hidden shadows, echo in that mirror he still half-wishes he could draw away from. By the time Tim has come back down to earth, Bruce has stepped inside the room and let the door fall quietly shut behind him
( ... )
Perfectly-aged vigilantes who let themselves relax enough to be meditating without a shirt to cover the scars they'd rather no-one saw definitely do not like being sneaked up on, and Tim makes a note to never do that again. Not in this place that isn't quite home, but feels enough like it to pick away at his guard like that.
He stands, just a touch frozen and waiting to see which direction Bruce is going to take this invasion of his space - as borrowed as it is - as the tension builds; and then it eases, with as simple a motion as sipping his tea. He picks up on the distaste for the epithet of Mr. Wayne, which honestly, he was expecting.
"Oh?" He tilts his head just a little, then moves to put his shirt back on as he speaks, picking it up off the bed. "I take it you weren't physically sick, then."
... That may not have been the most gracious acceptance possible.
His eyes cast over the road map of Tim's abuse and he wonders if he'll be sick again, but that isn't productive, and what's more, his system isn't nearly as fragile today as it had been. Radiation sickness and acute anxiety will do that, and he's overcome one and a half of those obstacles by now.
Bruce gives him a shallow, apologetic half-smile. No, he'd really thrown up. He presses against the ceramic in his hands with one thumb, because while he is very good at being very still, he feels anxious and restless being in this room. He holds it like someone who's forgotten how to work with cups that have handles; someone who's spent most of his mileage in rural far-away lands and hasn't quite acclimated back to the real world just yet. Little details, tells, that give away just how young he is in the grand scheme of things, or maybe just how much this situation throws him. His calm front is deceptive, but only so far
( ... )
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He stands, just a touch frozen and waiting to see which direction Bruce is going to take this invasion of his space - as borrowed as it is - as the tension builds; and then it eases, with as simple a motion as sipping his tea. He picks up on the distaste for the epithet of Mr. Wayne, which honestly, he was expecting.
"Oh?" He tilts his head just a little, then moves to put his shirt back on as he speaks, picking it up off the bed. "I take it you weren't physically sick, then."
... That may not have been the most gracious acceptance possible.
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Bruce gives him a shallow, apologetic half-smile. No, he'd really thrown up. He presses against the ceramic in his hands with one thumb, because while he is very good at being very still, he feels anxious and restless being in this room. He holds it like someone who's forgotten how to work with cups that have handles; someone who's spent most of his mileage in rural far-away lands and hasn't quite acclimated back to the real world just yet. Little details, tells, that give away just how young he is in the grand scheme of things, or maybe just how much this situation throws him. His calm front is deceptive, but only so far ( ... )
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