Chapter Text
If Tim asked his past self, one year ago, if he thought he would ever have anything close to this, then he would have said no.
Dick Grayson, his hero, Nightwing , had filed for permanent guardianship of Tim, and was granted said guardianship, a few months ago.
Tim has never felt safer. It’s a weird feeling to have.
He sleeps through the night, obeying his bedtime and waking up without stress in the morning, ready for school with a smile. If he cannot, if a bad dream steals a few hours of peace from him, then he knows that he can leave his bedroom and seek comfort. Dick has never turned him away, always leaving his own bedroom door unlocked, and he simply silently shared the blankets with him, never letting Tim want for warmth even when he rejected a hug. Those nights, Tim often woke up snuggled under Dick’s arm with his nose pressed to his chest. He never felt trapped, knowing that the slightest wriggle from him would have Dick immediately releasing him. He never felt scared of leaving his bedroom door open at night. He knew it wasn’t an invitation for bad things to happen.
He doesn’t hide at school. He goes to every class and participates, smiling as he puts his hand up to answer a question, and not shying away the few times he ends up wrong. There’s no arguing when his grades aren’t perfect, and he doesn’t have to take every extra-curricular and club that his school offers. He doesn’t want to take them either. He doesn’t want to delay for as long as possible before he goes home, dragging his feet until he falls asleep exhausted after being on campus for nearly eleven hours straight. His laughter is not muffled, nor his words censored, when he talks to his friends. He knows that school doesn’t have to be anything other than school, not anymore.
He only has Gymnastics after school. He doesn’t have to learn a million different skills, he only needs to learn what he needs to protect himself, and what makes him happy. Tim drops piano, ballet, karate, violin, and chess. He learns flips, and acrobatics, and trapeze. Dick has promised to make him a real Flying Grayson, and has even gone as far as to say that the next time Haly’s Circus comes around, Tim can swing from the same ropes that Dick and his own parents once swung from. Tim flipped up and down the mats with the other boys in his class, but he always stayed with Dick and joined the girls when they did their lessons, always more fond of their beam over the boy’s pommel horses. It was common to see Dick being shadowed in even his more advanced tricks by Tim, the inheritance of a single quadruple somersault slowly but gradually being passed from father to son.
No, Tim has never felt safer. He has never felt more loved either.
There are recipes, stories, culture, and a language shared. New lessons to be learned every day.
Dick is patient with him, even when Tim knows he is getting frustrated. His voice is always gentle, fond, loving, and proud.
So proud. Tim adores the pride he can put in his voice.
He never thought he’d hear someone brag about him, but that’s exactly what Dick does. Tim’s grades and awards and achievements and even the little things he says and does are being held up as some sort of sign of perfection without perfection. It’s just something Tim did, and so it is worthy of praise. The way that Tim rushes to show Dick anything and everything just to hear that praise leave his mouth…
Tim flourishes under the care of Dick.
He feels like he is finally healing. That rubbed and scratched and scrubbed raw feeling on his skin and mind is gone, leaving behind scars that will fade and new, stronger, skin.
Skin that could weather anything that came for him.
For him, and his family.
There was a weird long gap between the first time he had met Bruce Wayne and the next time that he had met him, with Dick hovering over his shoulder and watching every little thing that Bruce did, ready to step in like he didn’t fully trust the man to be alone with Tim.
Tim felt like that was a bit ridiculous, as that was The Batman that Dick was squinting at, but considering that Dick tended to do that with most people that stepped anywhere near Tim, he decided to tentatively brush it under the rug.
On the other hand, Dick was always happy to pass him over to Alfred Pennyworth, who delighted in the presence of a child. Alfred didn’t make overly emotive faces like most people did, something Tim is pretty sure Bruce inherited from him, which was always nice because that meant Tim didn’t have to overly emote his face either to share his thoughts and feelings.
Tim liked the old steady hands that guided him around the old manor, relaxing instead of tightening whenever Tim ran on the Persian rug or came back inside from the garden covered in dirt because he fell into a flower bush. He always asked him “Are you having fun, Master Tim?” and then reminded him at what hour dinner was.
Tim had even gotten as far as wheedling Bruce into teaching him a little bit of detective work, and Bruce agreed in return that he didn’t tell Dick he had accidentally seen the file with the pictures of the brutally murdered couple that Batman had forgotten open on the Batcomputer monitor when Tim had come downstairs. As Tim didn’t see what the big deal was, he happily agreed.
Tim had gotten everything he had asked from Alfred so far, except stories from when Alfred was younger. In fact, the only thing he had gotten was a simple ‘I was part of the Queen’s special forces back in the day’ with no elaboration. Instead, they drifted towards Alfred teaching Tim something new every time he had come over, with recipes for bread and the exact way to prune a rose bush being Tim’s favorite lessons.
Tim only had one last family member to meet.
Tim stood a step behind Dick, hands in his pockets as he looks at the grassy patch of ground in front of him.
Grandpa Bruce and Poppa Alfie hadn’t followed them here, not with the pained and stilted movements from Grandpa whenever he looked at this area’s general direction. Dick had been giving it his own wide berth, even as he criticized Bruce for not visiting.
Yet, all three of them had taken Tim with them in the car when Poppa had driven them here.
The eldest two waited in the car as the younger duo approached the singular plot of land that held so many memories and emotions.
HERE LIES JASON TODD
“Hey Little Wing,” Dick knelt down on the ground and lowered a yellow rose bouquet onto the dirt, uncaring for the mud squishing and covering the knees of his jeans. “It’s been a while.”
There’s a teenager, nearly sixteen with acne and the slightest wisp of hair on his face, sitting on the tombstone. His voice had deepened but never fully dropped, and, despite the care, teeth yellowed from malnutrition peaked out from behind smiling pink lips. Messy black curls that always refused to be tamed were tucked behind ears, pierced and decorated by simple gold studs. A matching gold cross on a golden chain, given as a thirteenth birthday present, hung around his neck and rested on his chest. Olive skin was tanned, the color not faded nor marked by anything. A simple, yet familiar and warm, red hoodie hid his hands.
Neither living Robin mentioned that they could see their fallen counterpart to the other.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” Jason lamented with a slight, sad, smile. “I think it was best for everyone that we all took a minute for ourselves, Dickiebird.”
Dick swallowed, fingers flexing from where they wrapped around Tim’s shoulders.
“I miss you.” He said simply, as if that could convey everything he wanted to say. “A lot has happened since the last time I visited. Guess what, Jay? You’re an uncle now.”
Jason looked at Tim, “Should I make a cloning joke or should I make one about this family’s inability to leave behind black-haired boys needing a father? I think both are appropriate in this case.”
“This is Tim,” Dick tried to hide the warble in his voice as Jason teased him. “We’re going to be starting the adoption process soon.”
Tim reached up to grab Dick’s hand, trying to warm their cold fingers together, steadying himself. “Hi, uncle Jay.”
“Hi, Tim,” Jason said, amused at his shyness.
Tim looked up in askance at Dick, who merely smiled and nodded encouragingly. Tim looked back at Jason.
“I, uh, I don’t really know what to say? A lot of ‘thank you’s, probably. You did a lot to help me get here, even if you never got to know that. Sorry, I shouldn’t–”
“It’s alright, Timbit,” Jason encouraged. “We’ve all put our foot in our mouth when talking to the dead. I’m listening, keep talking.”
“I wish you were here.” Tim blurted. “I wish I could’ve met you.”
“I do too,” Jason sighed. “I wish I made it.”
Dick blinked back tears, “Jason would love you, Tim.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Jason stared at them, the wall between him and them so thin yet so thick. “I love you. Both of you.”
They glanced at him, directly at him , but then turned their heads and started walking away.
Down the hill, weaving through headstones, they headed towards the black car waiting for them.
Grandpa and Poppa didn’t say a word as they sat in the backseat, Tim curling up close to Dick, seeking comfort.
“Abba?” Tim spoke.
“Yes, my little Robin?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Can we go home now?”
Dick brushed the hair out of his face, dropping a soft kiss on his crown. “Of course we can, buddy.”