Work Text:
It had been a very exhausting 40-or-so hours since Bruce had last slept and so he could be excused for pausing on his doorway and taking a few seconds to process the sight of his third child sitting cross legged on his bed with a laptop, wearing what appeared to be one of his plain black shirts that he used to lounge around the house or sleeping in. Especially when said child had not been in the manor, not even for a quick visit, for weeks now.
Tim looked up from his work the moment Bruce opened the door, eyes widening by a fraction as he was caught, before he got his expression under careful control.
"Hi, B."
"Tim," Bruce acknowledged the greeting, giving himself a precious extra second to decide if he would or would not confront Tim over what he was doing in his room.
It's not that he ever prohibited any of his children from entering said room. Dick used to do it when he was young and their relationship was not so damn complicated, as did Jason before- Before . But Tim never had.
It was obvious he hadn't meant to get caught. Bruce usually didn't come into his room at 2am during patrol night, staying out until it was very close to sunrise and in the cave for hours after, writing his report and reviewing every record from that patrol, even if nothing eventful happened. But he had been trying, lately, to do better, to trust the others to take over patrol so he could rest. Although he hated to think about it, would never admit it out loud, he was not getting any younger, and staying awake for two days straight took much more of a toll than it used to. His ability to concentrate and his response time were affected and he couldn't be out on patrol like this, it could get someone killed. So he'd reluctantly agreed when Nightwing asked to finish patrol with Robin, making it sound like Bruce was doing him a favor. It was a slow night, anyway, no sign that things could take a turn for the worse. But in Gotham, one never knows.
"Early night?" Tim asks, breaking the short-lived silence.
Bruce hums in affirmation, and decides that he can enter his own room without spooking his little invader.
Tim watches him as he takes slow steps closer to the bed and sits on the edge of it, just an arm's distance away. He doesn't know why Tim's being so cautious, what he thinks Bruce will do. It awakens an old ache in his chest, familiar but painful nonetheless. From his first day as Robin, Tim had seen him at his worst, at his most violent and unreliable. He'd never quite lost that look in his eyes when they're in the same room, expecting the anger will be turned on him if he's not careful.
"Work?" He gestures to the laptop, screen shining too bright in the dark room. He doesn't know how it doesn't give Tim headaches. Perhaps it does and he ignores it.
"Yeah." He says, and doesn't clarify what kind.
"Why here?"
Tim's expression shows a bit of embarrassment for just a fraction of a second before it's gone.
"I'm taking advantage of the Manor's lightspeed wifi, of course."
"And it couldn't be done in any of the Manor's common areas? Or your room?"
Tim lets out a quiet but deep sigh, like Bruce is being tiresome and unreasonable with his questioning. "Didn't want your hellspawn to know I'm here. Or Dick. And your bed is the comfiest, so."
It's a logical enough answer. Everywhere in the manor except the currently occupied rooms have cameras on them that show on the monitor of the bat cave, which means the moment any of them stepped into the cave they'd see Tim is home. Tim and Damian don't see eye to eye, and Tim doesn't enjoy confrontation so it makes sense for him to avoid it when possible. And Dick, while he means well, can be... Suffocating in his worry.
But he knows Tim. There has to be more than that.
"Have you been in my room while I'm not here before?"
This time Tim can't keep the embarrassment from his face. He swallows and turns to look at the screen instead of him.
"Not since you came back."
There it is.
Maybe this shouldn't surprise him. Lately it seems that everything comes back to his supposed death, even though it's been close to a year since he was rescued from being pulled across time like a doll tied to a running horse. But to him, the year he was presumed dead was mere weeks, although nightmarish weeks, and he was often caught by surprise by how much his disappearance affected others. Alfred sometimes stared at him like he was more a ghost than a man. Dick had taken on the role of raising his son and now Bruce felt like an interloper whenever they were all three in the same room. And Tim...
A lot had happened to Tim while he was gone. Bruce had tried to put some of it together but it was nearly impossible. Tim left no trail to be followed. All he knew was that Nightwing, after many attempts to reach out to Tim, had let him go on a crusade to find Bruce alone and emotionally compromised. Dick had done the best he could while crushed under the responsibilities that were thrust on him, left to take care of Gotham and a child in dire need of a loving parental figure. He'd thought that Tim would run into dead end after dead end and eventually would run out of steam and go back home. Bruce had been dead, his body buried, no chance of it being a mistake. And Tim had shown before that he had self-destroying ways of dealing with grief and no one could stop him until he ran out of steam. Dick also had no way of knowing that the League of Assassins would get involved.
But Tim had felt betrayed, had been without backup when he ran into the League of Assassins, and was still refusing to tell them exactly what happened that year except for the fact that he no longer had a spleen. And even that he'd uploaded to his medical file and Bruce received the notification that he edited it and read it on the impersonal screen of the Batcomputer.
"I see."
"I'll go." Tim says as he closes the laptop and avoids looking him in the eye. "If you came home early to rest, you must really need it."
"You can stay, if you want." Bruce says.
Tim smiles, weak and bitter, a mockery of the hopeful light that would take over his face at the simplest gestures of affection a few years ago. "I think I'm a little too old to sleep in dad's bed. But thanks, Bruce."
That's not what he was suggesting. He wasn't even sure what he was suggesting, maybe helping him with whatever it was he was doing, whether it was a case or Wayne Enterprises business. But now that he'd brought up the possibility, he didn't find the idea displeasing. Dick, in the very early days, used to sleep in his bed whenever he had nightmares about his parents, or falling. Jason had been a street kid before he was Bruce's kid, so he was a little too aware of the inappropriateness of sharing a bed with an adult to ever do that, even after Bruce gained his trust, but sometimes they'd watch movies together after patrol and Jason would fall asleep on his shoulder. Tim had fallen asleep on his shoulder once or twice as well.
He was also painfully aware that this was the first time since he came back that Tim referred to him as dad, even if indirectly.
"You should stay for breakfast." Bruce allows hope to color his tone as he says it, knowing Tim has a hard time letting people down, that he will most likely stay if he thinks it's for his benefit. "Alfred would be glad to see you. Ace, as well. I'll make sure Damien behaves. You're on your own with Dick, however. He's been complaining to me that you never pick up your phone these days."
Tim winces. "I've just been busy, is all."
"Fifteen missed calls according to him."
"I sent him a message saying I was fine."
"I don't think that reassured him."
Tim groans and holds his laptop to his chest.
"Okay. I'll stay for breakfast." He says.
Bruce doesn't sigh in relief but it's a conscious effort.
"Good. That's... Good."
It’s a beginning, at least.