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Today is a bad day.
That’s all there is to it.
Today is a day where everything is sluggish, but it whirls around Tim. Because it isn’t the word that’s slow, it’s Tim.
Today Tim gets out of bed, makes it to and through school. Sits at lunch even, but doesn’t move to eat. Once his body is stopped in motion, it’s hard to get it going again. Knowing this, even though he feels detached, Tim forces his body up and to move rather than to spend the whole lunch in a numb sort of haze. Instead he meanders the halls.
He’s done this enough times he can do it on auto-pilot and still manage to avoid the teachers. Knows what rooms he can duck in, can tune in just enough to listen for the condemning sound of footsteps.
The day whizzes by him, full of energy and like one of those timelapse videos, and Tim’s at the center. Trudging through the day like he is trapped in a vat of molasses, a swamp with mud that sucks his feet ankle deep each step. But he makes it through, even manages some notes. On days like these Tim just records the lectures, listens to them on the way home, again through what should be dinner.
The final bell rings, an annoying shrill that disrupts his mind sludge enough to be truly annoying, and head irritating. By the time it shuts off, Tim’s already pushed through the throng of students to be on of the first five out of the door. Tim may be numb, might not be able to feel anything, but the world waits for no one, least of all a child.
And that’s exactly what Tim is, thirteen years old, still in school. Getting decent grades. (“This isn’t good enough Tim, why didn’t you practice if you knew you didn’t understand it.” I thought I understand it. Jack sighs in disappointment, shoulders sagging with the weight of Tim’s failures. “I thought you were finally getting to the point we could start having actual conversations, Tim.” Because Tim was finally in some topics his dad found interesting. Jack had minored in math, absolutely loved it. Tim brought home a high C, on the last test. Just the tiniest bit beneath the average on the test, but Jack didn’t care about that.) And now, Tim needs to go home.
He is old enough he doesn’t have to ride the bus part way, he has found it faster to bike it than to stop at every stop along the way. The bus doesn’t even go all the way down his driveway, would drop him off at the gate a half mile from the house. So what’s a few more miles. And hopefully this way, he has time to prepare for whatever comes this evening.
Tim makes it home with no problem. His head is a little clearer, but sounds are amplified, he can even hear his breathing, feel his heart vaguely, and an iron weight attached to his heart dragging beneath his feet.
The front door opens easily, no resistance. The house is silent. It’s forbidding and still. The tension bleeding through the walls. Tim doesn’t sneak, Tim quietly heads up the stairs to his room, making sure his shoes are properly placed in the shoe bin by the door. He even cleaned them off biskly, even knowing that the small act would make no difference to his parents, home on a rare occasion. And that was the whole problem wasn’t it.
Tim didn’t want to admit it, still won’t. His parents aren’t abusive. They don’t hit him, they don’t hurt him. But he knows there is something unhealthy about their relationship. They’ve been home for three weeks now. They need to leave, they will be happier. Away from Tim, away from Gotham and all that is dreary and boring.
It’s a cycle. Tim knows this, knows it’s not so much the grade as that his parents aren’t happy. He doesn’t know even if being on the trip makes them happy, or if the phone calls just sound happy away from Gotham, from Tim. They’ve been home too long. Janet even used to tell Tim, they had the travel bug, the only way to stop the itching from the bug was to leave, to stay stationary too long would allow it to catch up to them. When Tim was little, he used to imagine catching the notorious Travel Bug and slaying it, releasing his parents from it’s horrid itching. Only, research showed it didn’t exist. It was something intricately in them, in the way they are hard-wired.
The itch is back. The first ten days to two weeks are always the best of his life, as he grows each trip home is better, until the bug strikes. Then nothing Tim does is good enough, the fights start. Not just between Tim and his parents, but also between Jack and Janet. Until Tim wakes one morning to a rushed goodbye, or a post-it note on the fridge.
Tim tries to soothe himself on the trek to his room, almost there now. Bad grades happen, nobody did better than a mid-B on that test, and Tim already made a schedule with a tutor for the last two months of the spring semester. By the time they come home next, his grades will be back to acceptable.
Jack will come home and talk to him again, say how Tim is growing and he can’t wait until Tim makes it into class X, Y, or Z, so they can have real conversations. Tim opens his bedroom door and closes it softly with a snick behind him. Sets his backpack on the desk.
The digital clock blares angry, red numbers at him. It’s almost time for dinner. Tim doesn’t have a lot of time, a flutter of feeling wells in his chest, and he recognizes it sadly as the first since the revealing of his grade last night before dinner. It’s panic. But muted through the layers. Tim needs to be presentable. Can’t fall any further.
So he showers, climbs into a newer set of clothes, very becoming on him. Ones he got just last month in anticipation of them coming home. Before he heads down, Tim splashes some cold water on his face, dragging his water-chilled hands across his face, trying to surface from where he’s buried. His body ran auto-pilot well today, but Tim needs to be awake enough to steer the helm for dinner. Afterwards, hopefully he can escape to work on some homework. If he’s unlucky, Dad will insist on helping him, which will only end in a bout worse than last night.
He will wake up to the pain and humiliation. To embarrassment, the emotions will linger for days, weeks mayhaps, won’t fade until his grades go back up. So Tim does his best to wake up now, practices a friendly smile in the mirror, and creeps downstairs to the kitchen.
There’s no one there. Not even the cook. It’s not until Tim has sat patiently for ten minutes after the set dinner-time and checked the fancy dining hall that he realizes that he might be alone. The numbness creeps back in. Tim checks the tables, both in the small and large dining halls, and in the small one, just for them, just for family, he finds the note.
It’s Janet’s crisp, but elegant handwriting, a fancy dinner for just mom and dad, time together outside of work. They’ll be home late, so don’t wait up.
There’s no other instruction. Tim feels relief. It curls through his abdomen and into his chest, rapidly morphing into a sudden need. Tim knows the only way to fix it, but first he needs to eat, or at least be convincing enough to pull it off. So he detours back to the kitchen, note in hand. Snags a can of soup and some crackers, but stops before opening them. The clothes are new, there’s no way he can risk staining them, so he rushes upstairs, in the most rushed manner he can afford at this point, to change. He changes into pajamas. His most comfortable, long-sleeve, long-pants, red plaid pajamas. These are for bad days. These are for comfort.
Clothes are armor, they are protection. The things you have are important, the things you keep closer vital to your health. Tim would never dare admit that he had comfort items, but that’s exactly what they are.
Tim also grabs his backpack and charger, grabs his ratted-up denim jacket. The one his parents would keel over if they saw, but the one specially for rough nights. Nights out skateboarding, out tailing Batman and Robin, out with a camera for company. It’s worn in and torn in places, but the most comfortable thing Tim owns. It’s his armor against nights like tonight. But Gotham is too warm, and school too uppity to accept Tim wearing it, so he couldn’t take it earlier. It hides deliberately in his closet, the furthest recesses, only to be pulled out in times of need like this.
After changing and gathering his few things, Tim heads down to the kitchen again. He slides the jacket on, even though he knows he will start sweating before he finishes eating. The soup microwaves easily, Tim is careful not to make a mess, even wiping down the counters he didn’t use to make sure of it. Once he has forced the soup down, helped along with a small glass of milk, Tim heads out.
His parents won’t be back for awhile, and Tim knows exactly what he needs to get through the night. After locking the door behind him, Tim heads to the gardens, from there he haphazardly gets over the fence, climbing the tree a little to get the boost he needs to drop down to the other side. He lands awkwardly, as he always does. His ankle twists a little and screams at the landing. Tim tests it, and adds a mental note to make sure to not limp tomorrow if it still bothers him.
He continues on his path steadily. Tim knows he’s set off alarms, there’s no way he hasn’t. In another ten minutes he will be at the Wayne Manor, and will be able to crawl in through the window. Jason’s room is three floors up, but between a nearby tree, the balconies, and decorative vinage, it’s not hard to make it up.
The shades are drawn, but even with them Tim can tell the lights are off, either Jason is asleep, or he is out as Robin. Tripping the alarms as he does means even if he is out, if it’s not a particularly busy night, Robin will be back in the next few minutes to let him in. Tim knocks, as is custom. It’s the little tap-tappity-tap-tap rhythm that everyone has heard at some point, the last two knocks that come to the rhythm are withheld, and Tim waits patiently, resting his cheek and temple against the window.
Tim sees the sashes sway open, and the window vibrate and shudder as the locks are withdrawn. Tim pulls away to let Jason open the window, and Tim staggers through, pushing his backpack into Jason’s waiting arms first. Jason accepts it easily, but only keeps it with one hand to put aside. Always keeping a hand out to keep Tim from failing, and the notion is enough to almost draw tears to Tim’s eyes. If he could cry at this point, it would have been the thing that pushed him over the brink.
Instead, Jason’s hands reappear, one steadying his shoulder and the other pulling him in by his other arm. Gentle and guiding. Just what he needs.
As soon as his feet hit the floor, Tim can’t help but shutdown more, can fill his breathing start hitching and shuddering that would usually indicate tears, but Tim has none to shed. There’s no reason for them.
Tim’s parent don’t hurt him, they keep him fed and clothed, get him to school, all his needs are met, and yet… he ends up here.
Jason’s arms wrap around him gently, and Tim burrows his forehead into Jason’s chest hard enough he can feel it, no doubt he is hurting Jason, but instead of pulling away, Jason accepts him and his not-pain. Going from a gentle hug, to a firm affirmation, holding so firmly Tim might worry about bruises, if this wasn’t common enough for him to know it wouldn’t even leave a mark. In a way, Tim almost wishes it did, to know someone cared enough to be able to leave a physical mark that someone cares.
Nights like this, Tim is coaxed in between Jason’s covers, and sandwiched in between the wall and Jason. A glass of water, while Jason patiently removes his shoes, where he notices Tim’s wince at the tug of one boot. Jason’s warm, firm hands gently tilt Tim’s foot back and forth, before he leans over to his nightstand and grabs a chemical ice pack, one of those ones you shake or crack to make cold, and only last once. Tim is still floating while Jason works, he can feel him work though, can feel Jason bind the ice to his ankle, keeping a wrap or two between the ice pack and Tim’s bare skin. Whatever voodoo wrap Jason uses, it doesn’t feel like it will come off, it feels firm and sturdy.
Tim’s done with the glass of water Jason’s handed him by that time, and instead of addressing Tim and demanding to know what happened, like the first time, Jason just lets him be, guides him back into Jason’s bed.
Jason’s hands protect his head when Tim just sort of… falls backwards into the sheets and mussed bedding. Tim hit his head hard once on the headboard, hard enough he briefly saw stars, and Jason had momentarily freaked. Since then, Jason made sure to keep hands on Tim when his strings were cut to keep him from whacking anything again.
Once down and settled, Jason crawls in beside him and pulls the covers up, they’re weighted and heavy, absolutely amazing for keeping Tim’s soul where it should be. He rolls towards Tim, so they’re face-to-face, and lifts an arm in invitation. Tim dives forward, burrowing his face into Jason’s neck so hard it’s difficult to breathe, and wrapping an arm around Jason’s back to his shoulders and pulling himself closer. He rubs his face hard a couple times, both to feel something, to feel the tension and solidness that is Jason, and to be as close as possible to Jason’s aliveness. Another being alive and moving with Tim, bringing him close to steal some of Jason’s lifeforce to kindle his own back to life.
Once settled in, both boys clutching hard to one another, Tim sighs, and relaxes completely. He’s still floating, but more aching and sore in his chest than not anymore. Which is good, Tim knows, it means he’s closer to functioning normally again. But the transition isn’t smooth, and Tim knows it won’t clear fully tonight. By morning, maybe, and if it doesn’t Jason will make sure he makes it to school on time, makes sure to give Tim something to eat. Tim knows Jason will make sure he’s ok.
***
It’s been a long-term understanding between them. The other is always welcome on bad days. But it never ceases to amaze Jason when the rich, little boy sneaks in his room through the window.
Like recognizes like, a saying Jason never thought he would use to compare him and some rich kid, but here he is. Literally, Tim is knocking against his window. And wow, just by looking at him Jason can see it. His eyes appear both dead and blank, and desperately pained. He hates it.
They’d met once at some gala or some such rich-y rich thing, and Jason had immediately realized there was something to Tim that he recognized in the kids he saw back home. Jason looked for bruises then, and he looks for them now, even if Tim will insist that he isn’t hurt, something’s happened.
Jason can typically expect these occurrences by the comings and goings of Tim’s parents. Had sat down with Bruce and Alfred, Dick and Babs, and they’d all come to the same conclusion, there was nothing to be down unless actual physical abuse happened. Tim’s not just like this on his own, and Jason knows, because this happens to him too. A raised voice at the wrong time, or by the wrong person, someone who reminds him of Willis, or sometimes just a bad brain day.
On those days, Jason knows he can curl up next to Bruce, or Dickie if he’s home, if Tim’s parents aren’t home or especially if he’s had an argument with B, he’ll creep over there, the same way Tim did tonight, for the same comfort.
Bruce had tried to express concern over the two of them sharing a bed and effectively cuddling, but Dickie had piped in to his rescue, one of a few times, but steadily increasing as Jason grows up. That Bruce needed to pack in his toxic masculinity and trust in the fact that Jason wouldn’t take advantage of Tim and if Tim tried to, that Bruce needed to make sure Jason was comfortable enough with him to tell him. Because whether or not anyone wants to admit it, the physical comfort of another unjudging individual is what they needed when this happens. To be tucked close and cared for, they’ll always come back, they just need someone to guide them.
Tim’s been that person for him, and Jason will be that person for Tim for as long as he can. There’s no harm in comfort, especially when it’s so hard to come by, so Jason snuggles up to Tim, can feel him wiggle closer in return, light breathes puffing at his jugular, and a singular drop, a tear against his collarbone. There’s no need for words, just this comfort.