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Published:
2025-10-11
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2025-11-02
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6/?
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Adventures with Tim and Bruce

Summary:

All Bruce had to do was watch one small, de-aged Tim for one day.
How hard could it be?
Answer: very. Especially when the Sock Goblin strikes, nap time becomes a diplomatic crisis, and Bruce discovers that five-year-old Tim is somehow more exhausting than adult Tim.

Notes:

This started as a one-shot about a Grilled Cheese I posted a while ago and then deleted. It will be featured in a chapter though! I just love a chaotic gremlin kid Tim Drake.

Chapter 1: Morning Strategies

Chapter Text

 

The Wayne family sat around the kitchen table like a war council. The subject: who was going to watch a recently de-aged five-year-old Tim for the day.

Alfred was the first to speak. “I’ll be making a supply run, Master Bruce. We’re out of tea, and I fear facing a household without it far exceeds my tolerance for chaos.” He gave the table a dignified nod and departed before anyone could respond.

Damian cleared his throat next. “Jon requested my assistance at the Kent farm.”

Bruce looked up from his coffee. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Training,” Damian said simply.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Training for what?”

Damian was already standing. “Whatever requires improvement.”

He left before Bruce could respond.

Dick winced apologetically. “Blüdhaven. Paperwork. You know how it is.” He gave Bruce a two-finger salute and vanished before anyone could challenge him.

That left Jason, Duke, and Stephanie, who traded guilty looks.

“We, uh…” Jason started.

“Have things,” Duke offered.

“Very important things,” Stephanie added quickly.

“What kind of things?” Bruce asked flatly.

“The kind we’re not telling you about,” Jason said, and before Bruce could pin them with The Look, the three of them scrambled out of the kitchen.

Bruce stared at the empty doorway. He didn’t even bother checking for Cass—she’d left for Hong Kong days ago.

And just like that, the kitchen was empty, save for Gotham’s greatest detective.

Bruce sighed. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

 

 

Bruce walked up the stairs, he wasn’t dreading the task ahead—just preparing himself for the whirlwind of energy, questions, and schemes that came with waking a five-year-old Tim Drake. He stepped inside to find Tim cocooned under blankets, only the top of a Batman hoodie poking out.

“Tim,” Bruce said, voice low but firm. “Time to get up.”

A muffled groan came from the covers. Then silence.

Bruce stepped closer. “I know you’re awake.”

The lump under the blankets stilled. Very convincing. Except for the little snicker that escaped a second later.

“Tim.”

Slowly, a mop of sleep-tousled hair emerged, followed by two squinty eyes. Tim blinked up at him, hoodie collar bunched around his face. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled. “I was dreaming of saving Gotham.”

Bruce huffed a laugh. “You can save it after breakfast.”

“Nooo,” Tim whined, burrowing deeper into the blankets. “Gotham doesn’t need breakfast.”

Bruce tugged the covers back. Tim let out a pitiful squeak, clutching the edge like he was being dragged into exile.

Then, without warning, he flopped limply onto his side, eyes squeezed shut, tongue sticking out. “Oh no,” he said flatly. “I’ve fallen back asleep. Guess you’ll have to carry me.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not asleep.”

“Am too,” Tim whispered, still floppy. “Zzz.”

For one long moment, Bruce debated standing his ground. Then he sighed, bent down, and scooped the boy up.

Tim’s little arms wrapped around his neck immediately, smug grin hidden against Bruce’s shoulder. “Victory,” he murmured.

Bruce shook his head, but his grip tightened just slightly as he carried the boy downstairs.



Chapter 2: The Great Gotham Game

Notes:

Productivity is an illusion in the Wayne Manor.

Chapter Text

 

Breakfast had been eaten. Plates were rinsed, juice glasses drained, and now came the question Bruce always dreaded more than rogues’ plots.

“What do we do now?” Tim had asked it with wide, expectant eyes, swinging his legs from his chair.

Bruce had tried for something reasonable. Something manageable. Something that might let him catch up on the mountain of WE paperwork waiting in his study.

Which was how he ended up at his desk, surrounded by files and reports, while Tim sat cross-legged on the rug with a stack of paper, crayons, and one picture book.

For twenty glorious minutes, it worked. Bruce reviewed case notes, signed three authorization forms, even managed to draft an email. In the background, the soft scratch of crayons filled the room.

Then: silence.

Bruce’s detective instincts kicked in immediately. Silence was never good.

He looked up to find Tim staring at him with laser intensity, clutching a crayon in one hand and a half-colored Batsignal in the other.

“B,” Tim said gravely. “I need your help.”

“With what?”

Tim scrambled to his feet, dragging papers across the floor. “We’re playing Gotham.”

Bruce blinked. “We’re… what?”

“You be the bad guy,” Tim explained, spreading his drawings across the rug. “I made the city. Look, this is Crime Alley. And this is the police station. And this”—he shoved a scribbled blue box toward Bruce—“is your secret evil lair.”

“I don’t have an evil lair,” Bruce said mildly.

“You do now. Sit.”

Bruce glanced at the stack of paperwork on his desk. Then at Tim, who was already lining up action figures. He sighed, set down his pen, and lowered himself onto the rug.

“Fine.”

 

 

It started simple—Tim swooping his toy Robin across the paper streets, Bruce growling in his best gravelly villain voice.

But soon Tim was breathlessly narrating the “battle for Gotham.” Paper airplanes became Batwings. Crayon sketches turned into maps. The police station was under siege; the Batsignal was torn in half.

“Fear me, tiny hero!” Bruce intoned, swooping an action figure dramatically over the crayon city.

Tim shrieked with laughter, hurling a paper plane directly at Bruce’s chest. “Never! Gotham belongs to justice!”

Bruce caught the plane, exaggerated a stumble, and toppled his villain figure onto its side. The grin tugging at his mouth was impossible to fight.

And just like that, twenty minutes turned into an hour.

Eventually, Tim collapsed in a heap on the rug, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. “We won,” he declared proudly, voice triumphant.

“We?” Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You were on my side the whole time,” Tim said with a conspiratorial nod. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

Bruce’s throat tightened unexpectedly. He reached out, ruffled Tim’s messy hair. “Guess you’re right.”

The paperwork could wait. Gotham was safe—for now.

Chapter 3: The Case of the Missing Sock

Notes:

Of course there's going to be detective work.

Chapter Text

 

After the game of Gotham drew to a triumphant close, Bruce managed about forty more minutes of paperwork while Tim sat cross-legged on the rug, quietly coloring pictures for the family.

Then a sudden shriek shattered the calm.

Bruce looked up, pen hovering over a file. Tim was clutching his foot, eyes wide and teary.

“B! Someone has stolen my sock!” he declared, voice trembling with the seriousness of a city under siege.

Bruce set down his paperwork, giving Tim his full attention. “Stolen? What do you mean?”

Tim held up a single bat-printed sock, dangling it like Exhibit A in a courtroom drama. “Socks! One! That means someone is taking them!”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Socks get lost all the time, Tim.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Lost? Lost? You expect me to believe socks just… wander off on their own? Into what, a secret dimension?”

Bruce sighed, crouching down beside him. “It could be in your room or it could be in the laundry room in the missing sock pile.”

Tim gasped, eyes wide with excitement and horror. “Or… the Sock Goblin took it!”

Bruce blinked. “The Sock Goblin?”

“Yes!” Tim exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “He’s a new Gotham rogue. Sneaky. Mysterious. Builds an army of socks to—well, I don’t know yet, but it’s evil, I promise!”

Bruce’s expression softened, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And you’ve already started investigating him, I take it?”

“Of course!” Tim said, puffing out his chest. “Every Gotham rogue deserves a proper investigation. And I’m the best detective for the job.”

Bruce sighed, though there was more warmth than weariness in it. “…Right.”

And so began the investigation. They looked under the bed, behind the dresser, and dug through the laundry basket, with Tim scribbling notes in his notebook while Bruce scanned the floor.

Finally, Bruce reached the pile of blankets on Tim’s bed. There, half-buried and slightly crumpled, was the missing sock.

“Found it,” Bruce said.

Tim’s face lit up. He snatched the sock and held it to his chest like a trophy. “You saved him! Rescued from the Goblin’s lair!” He pulled it on immediately, triumphant. “Case closed. Gotham’s feet are safe.”

Bruce shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “You lost it in your cocoon of blankets.”

“No,” Tim said solemnly. “It was taken. But justice prevailed.”

Then, as if on cue, Tim hopped to his feet. “Now… lunch time!”

Bruce laughed softly and followed, already expecting the next whirlwind of mischief.



Chapter 4: The Grilled Cheese Crisis

Notes:

This chapter was originally posted as a one-shot. I wanted to expand it but didn't want to make it into a series, so I deleted it and created chapters around it. Enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Wayne Manor was unusually quiet today. Alfred was out. Damian was spending time with Jon. Dick was in Blüdhaven. Cass was in Hong Kong. And Jason, Duke, and Steph were… somewhere. Probably not causing crimes. Probably.

That left Bruce alone in the manor with a recently de-aged Tim Drake, who had all the strategic brilliance of a mini-Napoleon and absolutely no chill.

“I want grilled cheese,” Tim declared, standing on a chair at the kitchen island, wearing a Batman hoodie that went down to his knees. His tiny socks had little bats on them. His expression said kingdoms will fall if cheese is not grilled.

Bruce, already halfway through a third cup of coffee, nodded solemnly. “Coming right up.”

He buttered bread, layered in the cheese, pan-grilled it to golden perfection—chef’s kiss. He even cut the crusts off. He was proud of this sandwich. This was a sandwich made with love and fatherly effort.

He plated it. He cut it diagonally.

A Grave Mistake.

Tim stared at the plate. “No.”

Bruce blinked. “What?”

Tim folded his arms. “You cut it wrong.”

“It’s diagonally—”

“It’s supposed to be squares.” His eyes narrowed. “Cheese squares.”

Bruce sighed. “It tastes the same.”

Tim gasped. “You don’t know anything!”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, the beginnings of a headache creeping in "My IQ begs to differ."

“Then use it,” Tim snapped, eyes wide with betrayal. “You should know how I like my grilled cheese!”

Without another word, Tim spun on his heel, leapt dramatically off the stool, and flung himself onto the kitchen floor. He sprawled out across the cold tile like a fallen soldier in a war no one understood.

Bruce just stared at the tiny drama puddle on the floor. “I can make another one.”

“No,” Tim moaned, rolling onto his back. “The moment’s ruined.”

There was a long silence. Somewhere in the distance, the grandfather clock ticked.

Then, “Do we have dinosaur nuggets?”

Bruce nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Tim sat up like nothing had happened. “Okay. But cut them into stars.”

Bruce went to preheat the oven, muttering under his breath.

Gotham’s greatest detective could handle rogues, Joker toxins, and alien invasions.

But apparently not grilled cheese geometry.

 

Notes:

The only reason I think Bruce could actually cook/grill a grilled cheese without burning it is because he had laser focus on making Tim happy.

Chapter 5: Nap Time Negotiations

Chapter Text

 

Nap time, Bruce discovered, was far more dangerous than patrol.

“Nap,” he said simply.

Tim froze halfway up the couch, clutching a blanket like a shield. “Define nap.”

Bruce crossed his arms. “You close your eyes. You rest. Preferably horizontal.”

Tim frowned. “For how long?”

“An hour.”

“That’s too long,” Tim said immediately. “Criminals don’t nap for an hour.”

“Some of them should,” Bruce muttered.

Tim didn’t hear him—he was already doing mental math. “What about thirty minutes? No—twenty-five. That’s fair.”

Bruce crouched to meet his gaze. “You slept four hours last night.”

“Exactly! That’s plenty!” Tim gestured wildly, blanket flapping. “Do you think Batman takes naps?”

“Sometimes,” Bruce lied.

Tim’s jaw dropped. “Blasphemy!”

“Tim.”

“If I sleep, Gotham’s doomed.”

“Gotham will survive an hour without you.”

“You don’t know that,” Tim said seriously, eyes wide. “Gotham’s sneaky.”

“I have it on good authority.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

Tim squinted. “…You just don’t want me to win.”

Bruce raised a brow. “You’re stalling.”

Tim flopped dramatically onto the couch, pulling the blanket over his face. “Fine. But only because you’re old and need rest.”

“I’m not the one fighting nap time.”

A muffled voice came from under the blanket. “That’s because I’m a professional.”

Bruce sat down beside the couch. “Professionals take breaks.”

“Not this one,” Tim mumbled, but the words were already slurring around a yawn.

Bruce reached over, tugging the blanket into place as Tim’s breathing began to even out.

“Okay,” Tim murmured sleepily. “But if something explodes, wake me up.”

“Of course,” Bruce said softly. “You’ll be the first to know.”

Tim was asleep before he could argue.

Bruce stayed there for a moment, just listening to the quiet. Gotham could wait.

 

Chapter 6: Batcomputer Upgrade

Notes:

We're just gonna assume Tim kept some of knowledge of his older self that would allow him to rewrite code.

Chapter Text

 

Bruce should have known something was wrong the second he didn’t hear anything.

Silence in Wayne Manor was rarely a good sign—at least, not when a five-year-old Tim Drake was involved. He descended into the cave cautiously, coffee mug in hand, fully expecting disaster. He was not disappointed.

Tim sat in the Batcomputer’s chair, legs dangling far above the ground, surrounded by crayons, papers, and what looked suspiciously like Alfred’s stapler. 

“Tim,” Bruce said slowly. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing your workflow,” Tim replied without looking up, mashing at the keyboard with peanut-butter-smeared fingers. “Your system is inefficient. Sloppy. Gotham deserves better.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed. “Step away from the console.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a professional,” Tim said, spinning the chair dramatically and then swiveling back to the monitors like a seasoned hacker in a spy movie. His Batman hoodie was too big, sleeves dragging across the keys. “I’m installing upgrades.”

Bruce set his mug down on the console, firmly pried the stapler out of Tim’s hands, and asked the question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to: “What kind of upgrades?”

“Priority protocols,” Tim explained, furiously scribbling on a sticky note and slapping it to the screen. It read: Step 1 – Snacks. Step 2 – Justice. “You don’t have snack contingency plans. That’s amateur hour.”

Before Bruce could intervene, Tim smacked the Enter key with both palms. The Batcomputer beeped, whirred, and then announced in its calm, mechanical voice:

“Initiating protocol: Snacktime.”

Every monitor in the cave flickered red. Then, one by one, the screens filled with a rotating slideshow of clip art juice boxes and smiling cartoon crackers.

Tim swiveled in the chair and spread his tiny arms wide, beaming. “Behold. Efficiency.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, because that was apparently his default position these days. “You rewrote part of my operating system.”

“You’re welcome.” Tim kicked his legs, clearly pleased with himself. “Also, I added a failsafe. If you try to work for more than four hours without food, the system locks you out until you have a snack. It’s called responsible management.”

Bruce opened his mouth, closed it again, and exhaled through his nose. There were no words. None.

Tim hopped down from the chair, slapped a sticky note onto Bruce’s leg that said NEEDS IMPROVEMENT, and toddled off toward the kitchen, already muttering about juice box inventory.

Bruce stared after him, then back at the monitors, still cycling between cartoon crackers and warning sirens. For a long moment, he considered wiping the code immediately. Restoring the Batcomputer was second nature to him; he could have the system clean in an hour.

But his hand hovered over the keyboard, then dropped.

Because the truth was… Tim wasn’t wrong.

Older Tim—the one with dark circles under his eyes, who pushed himself until he collapsed—never remembered to eat, drink, or rest. And Bruce wasn’t much better. If a ridiculous lockout screen forcing snack breaks was what it took to slow them both down?

Maybe five-year-old Tim was protecting them in his own way.

Bruce sat back in the chair, sipping his coffee as a cartoon cracker gave him a thumbs-up. His lips tugged upward, almost a smile.

“Thank you, Tim,” he muttered softly to the empty cave. “For both of us.”

Then he stood, left the silly program running, and followed the sound of tiny sock-feet padding toward the kitchen.