Chapter Text
While Tim doesn’t hate magic users, he sure hates chasing them.
He and Nightwing had been working a stake out when Oracle called in a civilian attack by what witnesses said was a metahuman.
Not a metahuman. A sorceress, as she referred to herself, who is currently hurling purple beams at them in an effort to get away.
“Red! Behind you!” Nightwing yells, but it’s too late. The beam connects with Tim’s shoulder, pushing him down on the rooftop concrete.
Tim tries to pull himself back up, but he’s slammed with a horrible ache in his head. It’s like a rubber band is squeezing all around, with the worst of it right under his eyes.
Even though he was hit on the back of his shoulder, pain explodes through his chest. His arms shake even though he’s barely pushing against the concrete.
“Hey there, Red,” Nightwing says, kneeling next to him, gently resting his hands on his shoulders as if to keep him on his back. Tim goes to shove him away, but he hears a faint whisper, cutting him off.
Worthless.
Tim tries to see where the whisper came from, but more fills his ears.
Pathetic. No one needs you.
“Red, you okay?” Nightwing says, lightly shaking his shoulders.
They’re better off without you.
“I don’t-” Tim tries to respond, but he can’t hear anything above the whispers.
Useless. Stupid. Temporary.
Another burst of pain blooms in his forehead and chest. Tim tries to respond again as he curls into himself, but all that comes out is a sob.
You should kill yourself.
More air escapes his lips, and he can’t stop it. Tears form under his domino mask, stinging his eyes. How could he have let her hit him so easily?
Kill yourself. Just do it.
Tim tries to see what’s happening around him, but he can’t focus.
Take the knife out of your boot. Grab it and carve your heart out.
Tim keens and scratches at his mask, trying to peel it off. “Please, stop!”
Shove your bo staff right through your eye.
“Hang on, Red,” Nightwing said, pulling Tim’s hands away from his eyes.
Tim feels liquid being sprinkled on his eyebrows and cheeks. He winches as Nightwing slowly peels off the domino mask. The tears that were stuck under his eyes trickle down his face.
Pathetic. Weak. Crybaby.
“Please make it stop!” Tim cries out, covering his eyes with his hands. The urge to grab his bo staff tingles up his arms.
Kill yourself. They’re better off without you.
Would they? Tim let the sorceress hit him, and now the others were more focused on him than catching her.
Another shadow looms over him. “Red Robin, report.”
Tim gasps as another shock of pain shoots into his ribs. He tries to answer, but he can’t cut through his own sobs. Batman would have to clean up his mess, and he doesn’t think he can handle the disappointment in Batman’s voice.
“I summoned the batmobile. It’s below us.”
Tim gasps as two arms reach under his armpits. He feels himself being lifted and turned inward. The movement amplifies the pain in his head and his chest. He presses his forehead into the cool armor and whimpers.
The existential dread slowly fades away, but Tim feels in his gut that the relief is only temporary.
“B,” Tim rasps out, “take away my weapons.”
“Robin?”
“Please. It’s not safe.”
Wind rushes through Tim’s hair, and his stomach suddenly lurches from the drop off the roof.
Batman pauses once they land, tightening his grip around Tim. “What’s not safe?”
“Me!” Tim sobs out. “Give me a sedative, now.”
Batman rushes them to the batmobile, Nightwing waiting with the back door open. Together they lay Tim down on the seat, with Batman following in behind him.
“It’s already set to autopilot. I’ll grab Robin and meet you back at the cave.”
Batman slams the door and the Batmobile lurches forward.
Bruce shuffles Tim around, letting him curl into his chest again. “Tim? Do you still want the sedative?”
Tim nods and closes his eyes. “Please, B. Whatever this is, it’s bad.”
Tim hears Bruce open a compartment in the belt, a click, and then feels a prick at his neck.
“It’s gonna be okay, Tim. We’ll figure this out.”
—
The voices come back even before he’s fully awake.
Useless. Can’t do anything right.
In the haze of the sedative slowly waning, Tim tries to catalogue all of the symptoms he’s experiencing.
The tears must’ve clued others in that he was awake.
“Tim?” A voice asks to his left. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?”
Tim’s heart swells with the term of endearment, but that in turn brings back the ache in his chest.
Tim takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.
He’s in the med bay. Alfred stands to his right, taking his temperature. The room door is closed, and the windows have their tint feature on.
He turns his head to his left and sees Bruce sitting in a chair pushed up to the bed.
He doesn’t really love you.
Tim whines and rubs his eyes with his hands.
He’s faking it. You’re just his dirty, little secret.
Bruce’s eyebrows are furled, eyes tracing Tim’s face in what looks like an attempt to look for clues.
Dread pools into his stomach. He can’t stand the feeling of Bruce looking at him like that. How could Bruce love such a worthless thing like him.
“B,” Tim cries out, “the voices are back.”
Temporary. Slut. All you’re good for.
“What voices, sweetheart?” Bruce replies, leaning forward.
Kill yourself before he breaks up with-
Bruce grabs onto Tim’s hand to pull it away from his face. “Darling, please.”
Tim gasps as he realizes Bruce’s touch cut the voices off. He intertwines their fingers and grips on for dear life. “Don’t let go.”
“I won’t,” Bruce says, raising his other hand to wipe the tears off Tim’s cheek.
Tim’s chest heaves as he feels the dread recede again.
Alfred lightly coughs. “Master Timothy, are you up for trying some water?”
Tim nods, trying to get the tears to stop. They don’t.
Bruce brings a water bottle with a straw up to Tim’s lips and lets him take a few sips. Once he sets it down, he brushes the sweaty strands of hair out of Tim’s face.
The other hand never loosens its grip.
“Did you catch up to the rogue?” Tim asks wetly.
Bruce shakes his head. “She opened a portal and disappeared as soon as you hit the ground. Barbara is checking street cams, but she could be anywhere.”
“Besides an uptick in the heart rate, all vital signs are normal,” Alfred says to the room. “Do you want me to run another blood test?”
“Not right now,” Bruce says. “But have Dick get Zatanna on standby.”
“Very well, sir. Master Timothy,” Alfred pats Tim on the shoulder for a moment then exits out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Bruce lets his free hand rest on Tim’s thigh. “Besides the voices, what other symptoms are you experiencing?”
Tim thinks for a moment. “Existential dread. Migraine. Chest pains. And,” Tim laughs weakly, “I can’t stop crying.”
Bruce brings their hands closer to his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss on Tim’s fingers. “And the voices? What are they saying? You seemed pretty sure that you were gonna hurt someone.”
“Yeah,” Tim replies. “Me.”
Bruce doesn’t say anything, just waits for Tim to continue. He’s embarrassed to tell Bruce, but he knows he needs to.
“They, um… basically tell me to kill myself. Repeatedly.”
Bruce rubs small circles on Tim’s thigh with his thumb. “Oh, sweetheart. I’ll tell Dick to call Zatanna.”
Tim tightens his fingers around Bruce. “Wait! Please don’t leave. I think the voices stop when you… touch me.”
Tim can feel the blush on his cheeks and cool tears in his eyelashes. He really does feel pathetic.
Bruce leans over and lightly kisses Tim on the forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He grabs a tablet off the bedside table and starts typing with one hand. The lights in the room dim to almost complete darkness, just emanating a soft, golden glow. “There. That should help with the migraine.”
The tablet dings, and Bruce says, “Zatanna’s on her way. About 20 minutes out.”
“Okay,” Tim whispers back.
“Why don’t you try resting for a bit while we wait?”
Tim nods and closes his eyes, the migraine pulsing behind them.
He focuses on the thumb still touching his thigh. It’s comforting, but Tim can’t stop his thoughts from turning negative, but this time not fully from the spell.
Why was Bruce still in here? Surely he still had the report to write. And how had he explained to the others what happened, or why he was alone in here with Tim?
Simmering panic sets into his chest. The windows were tinted and the door was closed, but anyone could walk in. Did Bruce’s touch look platonic enough?
He and Bruce had been dating secretly for the last ten months, and no one else besides Alfred knew that their relationship had taken a romantic turn. They had both agreed it was too risky in the beginning—the optics alone would be a PR nightmare. And besides, why ruffle feathers if it didn’t work out?
Tim truly did not think that Bruce would ever acknowledge the sparks that were growing between them.
After Bruce returned from the time stream and took back CEO of Wayne Enterprises, Tim demoted himself to Senior Vice President of the Gotham Outreach Program. With both of them working at the office, they commuted together and usually ate lunch in Bruce’s office. It was the first time that he and Bruce spent hours together focused on something other than vigilantism.
The number one rule in corporate America is don’t fall for your coworkers or your boss—and Tim failed that miserably. And honestly, the shift in their dynamic, the sexual tension that grew with every takeout meal or whiteboard brainstorm session, scared him.
He and Bruce were finally in a place of healthy communication and respect, in both the day job and the night job—and what, he was going to ruin all that because he realized he wanted to climb Bruce like a tree? Absolutely not.
Tim knew that their immediate circle and all of Gotham saw Bruce as Tim’s father figure. While that had been legally true for about a year, Tim had never actually felt that way. Jack Drake, as complicated of a man as he was, was Tim’s father.
And let’s not even start on the age difference, with two whole decades between them.
Their first kiss had been a complete accident on Tim’s part. They were the only two left in the cave after patrol, as was usual. Bruce had asked Tim to look at something on the monitor. Tim came up behind Bruce, his head resting on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce turned his head to look at him, they made eye contact, and suddenly they were making out.
And now here they were, ten months later, still completely a secret.
Tim must have drifted off because the next thing he hears is, “Tim? Zatanna’s here.”
He opens his eyes to see Bruce still to his left, one hand still holding his, and Zatanna standing in the doorway. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, with her hair tied in a messy bun.
Tim realizes he has no idea what time it is.
“A little birdy told me another birdy got hit with a spell,” Zatanna says, shutting the door and walking towards the end of the bed.
“Hey Zee,” Tim says wetly.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice, Zatanna,” Bruce says, but he doesn’t get up or take his hand away.
“It’s no problem,” she says, waving him off. “Okay, Tim, you ready? Take a deep breath and close your eyes.”
Tim does what he’s told. He hears Zatanna say something in Latin, and his skin heats up. A flash of images take over his mind—
Tim and Bruce’s first kiss, in the batcave with no one else around.
Tim and Bruce quickly separating from each other in Bruce’s office when someone opens the door.
Tim turning off an alarm at the break of dawn, slinking away back to his own bedroom before anyone else wakes up.
Tim glaring at his cell phone, paparazzi photos of Bruce and a random model splashed across social media.
Tim and Bruce tangled in the sheets together in the master bedroom, Tim gasping Bruce’s name as the man thrusts into him—
Tim gasps, pressure exploding in his head and chest flaring. He doubles over in pain, hand slipping out of Bruce’s hold.
Whore. He could never actually love you.
Tim cries out, throwing out his arms to try to connect with Bruce. He sighs in relief when Bruce wraps his arm around his shoulders.
“Bruce, you fucking idiot.”
Bruce stiffens in his hold, but doesn’t let go. “Can you elaborate?”
“Also, Tim,” Zatanna continues, “I’m sorry I saw that without your consent. But now I know exactly what spell was used.”
“Can you break it?”
“Unfortunately, no. Only you and Tim can.”
“Me and Tim?”
Tim rubs his cheek into Bruce’s chest. He’s catching on, too, but he can’t bring himself to participate in the conversation.
“Tim, can I tell him?” Zatanna asks softly.
Tim nods weakly.
“The spell itself is quite ancient, designed to make the recipient face their greatest insecurity. It basically exaggerates what the recipient is feeling into physical symptoms. His greatest insecurity is literally killing him. If the spell isn’t broken, he will either die from cardiac arrest or, um, suicide.”
“So how do we break it?” Bruce asks.
“He needs to believe that he is completely safe and secure, and that the insecurity is no longer there.”
“Okay,” Bruce says, looking down at Tim. “So what’s the insecurity, sweetheart?”
“Tim?” Zatanna prods.
Tim nods again. He’s never felt so embarrassed in his life.
Zatanna moves forward slightly and rests her hands on the bed rail.
“To quote the spell’s exact words, Tim feels like your ‘dirty little secret’. The spell is amplifying his insecurity of your relationship being a secret.”
“Tim?” Bruce looks down and cups one of Tim’s cheeks in his hands.
Tim can’t say anything. He feels like a petulant teenager, not like an adult of legal drinking age. His chest throbs.
“What can I do to help?” Bruce asks, eyes flicking between Tim and Zatanna.
“Based on what I saw, I recommend trying public displays of affection, telling loved ones, and just overall loving him more openly. I’ll be back in a few days to check on you, okay?”
Zatanna steps out of the room, closing the door behind her. Her words hang in the air, neither of them speaking for a moment.
But Tim knows their fling had to be too good to last. Maybe he needs to be the bigger person for once.
“I’m sorry,” Tim whispers. “I know this is inconvenient-”
“Tim, it’s okay.”
“-but you should let me go.”
“Tim.”
“Please. I’m not… worth all this effort. I’m sorry that I got too attached.”
“Tim, that’s just the spell talking.”
And deep down, Tim knows that. But the overwhelming urge to just stop fighting encompasses his entire body. “Just let me go!”
“Alfred!” Bruce yells.
“Please!”
“Tim, I’m so sorry, I have to let go for a second, okay? We need to get your heart rate down.”
“No! Please just let me die!” Why doesn’t Bruce see how worthless he was? Maybe if he gets off the bed, he could reach the supply closet with the surgery equipment.
“I’ll be right back.” Bruce kisses Tim on the forehead then pulls back.
He’s just using you. See how quickly he abandoned you?
Alfred bursts into the room. “Master Bruce? Master Timothy?”
Dirty little secret. Kill yourself.
“He’s panicking,” Bruce explains. “I don’t want to, but we need to sedate him.”
“I’ll prepare it, Master Bruce. Go back to him.”
He doesn’t love you. He never-
Bruce’s arms wrap around him, pressing Tim’s back against his chest.
Tim blinks his eyes open, letting out a sob of relief. His body sags into the embrace.
Bruce presses his lips into Tim’s hair. “Tim, you need to breathe. It’s gonna be okay.”
“I’m sorry, B.”
“Shhh, it’s okay. We’ll figure this out. Just breathe.”
Tim grips onto Bruce’s arms, digging his nails into the skin. He watches Alfred turn around and approach the bed, then feels the familiar prick.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
—
Tim wakes to gentle hands running through his greasy hair. He leans into the touch, sighing lightly.
“Good morning,” a low rumble echoes around him. He blinks his eyes open and sees pale-blue sheets. He’s in Bruce’s bedroom, not his own.
Oh shit. How did he not wake up to his alarm? Tim flinches up, but an arm holds him down.
“Tim, sweetheart, it’s okay.”
Tim looks over and sees Bruce laying on his side facing Tim, one arm slung across his waist.
The events of last night hit Tim like a head-on collision. The spell, the insecurity—the voices. Thankfully, those haven’t returned yet. Had Bruce been touching him all night? Something sickly sweet blooms in his chest, a mix of adoration and shame.
Tim turns to fully face Bruce, and grabs Bruce’s free hand with one of his own. “What did you tell the others?”
“I told Dick and Damian that you had been hit with a spell of insecurity, and that you and I were working on it, but no specifics.”
Tim takes in Bruce’s face, tracing the features with his eyes. He can’t recall the last time he’s seen Bruce this expressive—this vulnerable.
“I’m sorry that you believed that you couldn’t tell me how you really felt.”
“B,” Tim starts, but he doesn’t know how to explain that while the spell was amplifying his feelings, he does truly feel like the best option is to break up.
“You’re not playing the martyr this time, not if I can prevent your death,” Bruce says firmly, pressing a kiss into Tim’s forehead. “Zatanna messaged me earlier, offering some more suggestions. If you’re amenable to the idea, I want to release a press statement tomorrow.”
Tim pulls his head back slightly. “B, we can’t.”
“Tim, listen to me. We should have done this a long time ago. I knew pretty early on that this wasn’t just a fling. I… I want to come out publicly with our relationship.”
“B-”
“Let me rephrase. The spell amplifies your insecurity of feeling like we’re just… friends with benefits, instead of in a committed relationship, yes?”
Tim nods slowly.
“Then let me show everyone that we are. Trust and collaboration, remember? That’s what we agreed to when I came back?”
“I just…” Tim’s breath hitches. “Is all this effort worth it?”
Am I worth it?
“Of course, sweetheart.” Bruce cups Tim’s face with both hands, wiping his tears away with his thumbs.
“Remember all those times you took care of me? Let me take care of you now, darling.” He pulls Tim in for a hug, wrapping his arms around him.
Tim buries his face into Bruce’s chest, letting the terms of endearment wash over him. When they were alone, Bruce almost exclusively called him sweetheart or darling. He never let himself imagine a world where Bruce would use those in public, or around their family—would be this version of Bruce openly around them. Tim cherished these precious moments, where the man was truly himself. Not Batman, not Brucie, but truly just Bruce—the man he fell in love with.
Can he really have what he’s been wanting for so long?
“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks. “The symptoms?”
“The voices are still gone,” Tim says. “Chest still hurts, like I cracked a few ribs. Tired.”
“Zatanna said the spell takes a physical toll. Are you up for some tea and then taking a nap?”
Even though he had only been awake for a short while, fatigue pushed on his muscles and bones. “That sounds good. Are Dick and Damian still here?”
“Yes, they’re downstairs. They’re both really worried.”
“We could start with them?” Tim mumbles against Bruce’s chest.
“Only if you’re sure.”
Tim hesitates, pulling back to look at Bruce. “I’m sure.”
“Okay,” Bruce replies, pressing a chaste kiss into Tim’s lips. “I’ll let them know to head up.”
“Okay.”
“After your nap, do you want to test the distance? I’m not complaining, I’m just worried about your independence. And before you ask, no, I’m not going on patrol tonight. Dick will cover for me.”
Tim laughs lightly, that very question on the tip of his tongue.
“Where would you like me? On the bed like this? Sitting up by your feet?”
Tim thinks for a moment. “Actually, would you mind sitting in the chair? I think seeing us in your bed together might push one of them over the edge. Probably Damian.”
Bruce’s lips pull into a light smirk. “Whatever is most comfortable for you, Tim.”
Bruce takes Tim’s other hand, hopes over Tim’s chest, then dips off the edge of the bed. Not letting go of Tim’s hand, he sticks out one of his legs and maneuvers the arm chair closer to the side of the bed.
“Show off.”
The corners of Bruce’s mouth flick upward. “Here, let me help you sit up.”
Tim pushes his hands against the mattress and Bruce’s hand as he scoots himself up against the headboard, letting Bruce take most of his weight.
He lets out a huff. “I hate how weak I feel right now.”
“Hey,” Bruce replies as he sits down in the chair. “You’re not weak. You were cursed by a sorceress.”
Tim looks right into Bruce’s eyes as he says this. He says it with such conviction that it’s hard to argue.
Bruce types something on the tablet then sets it on the side table. “They’ll be up soon. Hand okay?”
“Huh?” Tim asks, then looks down at their clasped hands. “Oh. Yeah, It’s okay.”
Bruce runs his thumb across Tim’s fingers.
Knock knock.
The door slightly opens, Dick sticking his head through the crack. “Hey Tim! Is it okay if we come in?”
Tim nods in response, taking a deep breath. He knows Damian is going to be petulant about the news, but it’s Dick’s opinion that he’s really worried about.
Dick pushes the door open and dips inside, with Damian following close behind.
“Timothy. Father,” Damian says in greeting.
The two don't come any closer, looking between Tim in the bed and Bruce in the chair.
Tim can see Dick and Damian’s eyes scanning the room, trying to gather any information they can without talking—both sets of eyes spotting the hands clasped together.
He can already feel tears forming behind his eyes. He internally groans at himself—how are Dick and Damian supposed to take them seriously when he can’t even stop crying.
Damian makes the first move, and, honestly, Tim has never been so grateful for his bluntness.
“Timothy, why are you in Father’s bed?”
Bruce clears his throat. “Boys, you might wanna take a seat.”
Dick’s eyes go wide. “Tim, you’re gonna be okay, right? Zatanna said it was curable!”
“Dick,” Tim whispers, voice cracking at the end.
Bruce squeezes Tim’s hand in silent reassurance.
Dick and Damian quickly pull two arm chairs closer to the bed, forming a semicircle around Tim.
“Tim?” Bruce asks with a slight tilt of his head.
Tim knows what he’s asking, and he suddenly can’t find his voice.
“It’s okay,” Bruce says, bringing his left hand to cover their intertwined ones. He then turns his head back to the others.
“As I mentioned before, the spell causes Tim to be in a lot of physical pain. And Zatanna is right, it can be broken, so long as the insecurity no longer exists.”
“How can we help?” Dick asks.
Tim rubs his cheek on his shoulder, trying to wipe off any excess tears.
“By supporting Tim right now.” Bruce pauses for a moment, and then-
“Tim and I are dating. Have been, for a while now.”
“What?” Dick squeaks out, looking back and forth between them.
“Since when?” Damian asks.
“Just after the New Year.”
“It’s October.”
“Tim,” Dick says. “I know you’ve never seen him as your father, but Tim. The age gap alone-”
“We know,” Bruce cuts in, eyebrows knitting together. “We know the optics are bad. That's why we didn’t tell anyone at first.”
“Tim?” Dick asks, trying to make eye contact with him.
Tim takes a deep breath and looks back at Dick. “The tears are because of the spell. I’m actually really happy to finally tell you.”
And Tim can feel it, right in the middle of his chest. That gnawing shame that had settled in his rib cage recedes just a bit.
“We know this is going to take some time to get used to,” Bruce continues. “And you will probably have some questions.”
“Many questions,” says Dick.
Knock knock.
Alfred opens the ajar door and enters the room, holding a tea tray. “Master Timothy, your tea as requested.”
He walks in between the chairs and sets the tray on the end table.
“Alfred, did you know about this?” Dick asks, gesturing his chin towards the bed.
“Hmm?” Alfred hums as he walks back towards the door. “Oh, Master Timothy and Master Bruce’s relationship? Yes, Master Dick. I am the one that does the laundry, after all.”
Tim chokes on his tea.
Alfred looks back at Tim. “Do let me know when you work up an appetite. I was thinking of preparing some minestrone soup for dinner.”
With that, the butler walks out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Dick, jaw hanging open, turns back to Bruce and Tim. There’s a faint blush on both of their cheeks.
“I will not be referring to you as Step-Father, Timothy.”
“Damian,” Bruce says, “we’re not quite there yet.”
“But this is serious,” Dick counters.
“Yeah,” Tim replies. “The spell moved up our timeline on coming out, but I…”
Tim almost says that he loves Bruce, which he knows in his heart is true. But they haven’t exchanged the big L word yet, and now doesn’t feel like the best time.
“It was inevitable, I think,” Tim finishes.
“But that is why you’re telling us now?” Damian asks. “Because of the spell?”
“Yes,” Bruce answers. “If we don’t resolve the insecurity, the spell will eventually kill him.”
“Well, that’s not an option, Tim,” Dick says.
“That’s what I told him.”
“Hey,” Tim says. “I can’t help that my emotions are all over the place right now.”
“Is that also part of the spell?” Dick asks, pointing to their hands. “I don’t think I’ve seen you let go of him since you took him into the med bay.”
“Physical contact relieves the worst symptom,” Bruce replies. “We actually want to test it later, if you’ll join us.”
“Only you two would turn finding spell parameters into a science experiment.”
Tim laughs. There’s tears in his eyes, but his shoulders feel lighter than they have in a long time. He finishes his tea and hands the cup over to Bruce, who sets it on the tray.
“We can talk later,” Bruce says, “and we can answer all your questions then. But I’d like Tim to get another nap in before that.”
Tim wants to protest, but he can feel the sheer exhaustion of relief wash over him.
Instead, he lets his eyelids close, focusing on the warmth of Bruce’s hand in his, and the voices around him.