Disclaimers: Not even close to mine.

Spoilers: Fairly large ones for Gotham Adventures
# 19.

Summary: Tim is putting things in order.

Ratings Note: PG-13.

Author's Note: Check the spoilers. This isn't just
toon-fic, it's tie-in-comics-for-the-toons!fic. It's
not my *fault*, man.

Acknowledgments: To LC and Livia for audiencing
and encouragement.

*

The thing is, he *is* tired.

Tim hasn't just been saying it all night to try to
get some time alone. He doesn't always have to
stay home on school nights, anymore. Not if he
doesn't want to, and certainly not if the others
think they could use him out there.

Out there.

He's out more than he's in, these days, and it
*is*... tiring.

And frankly, *he* isn't sure what it was that
marked the shift between Robin's-in-training and
Robin's-ready-for-this, but then again...

Then again, he also kind of *is*. Because he
could always *hear* Bruce's voice in his head,
and what he would have to say about whatever
choices Tim made on the street, but now he can
feel it.

Now the voice *itself* is kind of late, sometimes,
because by the time he's heard it, he's already
doing whatever it is Bruce would want him to do.
Whether it's more, less, or just *different* than
what *he* would do.

And it gets a little...

He's warm all the time, in a way that has nothing
to do with good clothes and a house run by
*Alfred*. Because he's wrapped up tight in
something so much bigger than he is, bigger
than he'll *ever* be. And that's never going to
stop being so wonderful he doesn't even have
words for it, but there's a *price*.

Batman is bigger than Bruce Wayne, because
there are eight million people out there who
owe their lives to him, who *need* him, and
the rest of them, too. Need them to be Batman,
and Batgirl, and Nightwing, and Robin.

And so there isn't really *room* for anything
else. Or....

It's not that. Or, it's not that in a *bad* way.
It's just something to think about, is all.

Tim leans back against the headboard, and
stares out at the grounds. He isn't sure when
*that* happened, either -- when he got used
to the fact that he lives in a place with
*grounds*, when it wasn't all that long ago
(was it?) when he used to dream about
having... just a yard.

Maybe a tree, maybe a swing-set.

There's an orchard about a mile southwest --
still on the grounds -- far enough away to
thrive despite all the salt in the air.

He's yet to see a gym in this city with more
equipment than the Cave.

He wouldn't leave this place for... he just wouldn't.
There isn't anything out there worth more than
this, anything *better* than this.

And he thinks that might be the problem, if there
even is one. Because the others think... He isn't
sure, not really.

He watches Bruce's shadow fall across the
doorway, and waits, and tries to put his thoughts
in order. For himself as much as Bruce. Because
he's never going to stop laughing about the
images he'd been given tonight, and *given* is
the right word. These were gifts from his
friends, his *family*.

Babs with that huge, freaking *scythe* and
Dick running around all night in a *lion* suit
just because they were worried about him, and
wanted him to... what?

Not be... upset?

He's not an expert on this stuff -- he belongs
here as much as any of them, or maybe more,
because it's not like he has anything like
experience with normal families. But he does
know that they're even more *abnormal*
than... well, than he was when it was just him
and his Dad, and whichever 'uncle' was
letting him bunk at his place *this* time,
because his Dad was doing another stretch.

It's just that he's pretty sure one of them could
have maybe tried something *else* before
whipping out the fake costumes and faker
voices.

Something.

And Bruce doesn't shift, or clear his throat, or
anything like that. He's just suddenly even
more *there* than he was a second ago.
Because he's Batman, and he can do that stuff.
Tim grins to himself.

"I'm going to sleep soon, I promise."

"Mm."

And this time he *does* shift, and when Tim looks
over, Bruce is leaning against the doorframe,
arms crossed over his chest and eyes lasered in
on him. Just like he's wearing the suit, instead of
just a robe.

Because Bruce can do that, *too*. Everything
about his posture and the look on his face
screams *talk*, even though he doesn't look
upset or anything like that. It's like...

"You know, you're the only person I've ever met
who makes a suggestion feel like an order."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "And what do my
orders feel like?"

Tim grins a little wider. "There's this movie --
kind of obscure. You might not have seen it.
Anyway, there's this scene with this guy Moses
and a couple of stone tablets..."

"The book was better," Bruce says, and he's
using that you're-spending-too-much-time-
with-Dick voice. The one that always makes
*Dick* walk around like he's won another victory
against the universe for a few hours.

He loves his family. And they... love him, too.
All of them. Tim takes a breath and says, as
casually as he can, "Alfred's really good at this
stuff, isn't he."

"He's good at a lot of things."

When he meets Bruce's eyes again, it's the
same thrill. Old and familiar, now, and still just
so *bright*. Light in his veins or something,
because Bruce... wants this from him. This
*more*. He always does. "Like acting," Tim
says, and watches all the light flare and burn in Bruce's
eyes.

"When did you know? I'm sure Alfred would appreciate
the critique."

Tim smiles at the floor between them. "He doesn't
get the chance to take the stage very often, I guess."

"No."

"I didn't know for sure until right now. When I
thought about it." Which is maybe exactly what he
wasn't *supposed* to do, and he stops smiling.

"Tim --"

"I'm okay, you know. I'm not going to go nuts or
anything."

"No one thought you were." And there's another
suggestion in the tone of Bruce's voice.

Tim just isn't sure, yet, how to answer it. He
swallows back a breath that would've come out
too much like a sigh and forces himself to
straighten up. To *look* up, and keep doing it.

He wonders if Bruce knows that, sometimes, his
eyes are harder to look at than the lenses of
the cowl.

Everything in the world is in Bruce's eyes, if you
know how to look. Tim isn't sure how he ever
*didn't*. "I think I'm figuring it out, Bruce."

Another eyebrow raise.

"Everything you guys already knew about this life.
What you all *wanted* me to know."

Bruce's expression shifts, sharpens. Like a knife
that's sharp enough to cut you to the bone before
you can even feel it. It's his way of being gentle.
"Perhaps not all of us."

Tim blinks, and frowns, and... thinks about it.
Because, considering everything, it *would* make
sense for Babs and Dick *not* to want him to
understand this stuff, and how awful it is, but... "I...
I don't think Robin is supposed to be the *mascot*."

Another flare in Bruce's eyes, all that pride and
happiness and Bruce could lead armies, if he
wanted to. "Neither do I," is what Bruce actually
says.

"Is... *is* that what they want from me? The
others?"

"You're thinking of the sort of mascots they have
at your school. Children in ridiculous costumes,
jumping around and drumming up... spirit."

Tim snorts. "Can you blame me?"

"Yes."

Bruce is also the only person he knows who can
make a single word feel like a punch. Because...
because why *shouldn't* he be the mascot?
What right did he have to want more from
people who'd already given him... Tim swallows
and bites his lip. "Oh."

And Bruce is fast and silent, he always is, and Tim
didn't know he was looking down at the floor
again until he isn't. Until Bruce has his hand on
Tim's jaw and his face is right *there*. Demanding
with a look. Tim catches his breath.

"What --"

"You've been with us for some time now, Tim."

He nods, and waits, and watches the thoughts
race across Bruce's eyes.

"We've all come to know you. To..." Bruce's hand
tightens on his jaw, a little. Less than the way the
corners of his mouth tighten. And... Tim gets it.
He thinks he does.

"You don't have to say it."

And just that fast, Bruce's expression becomes
wry. Approachable and *soft*. It's as terrifying
and wonderful (beautiful) as it always is.

"I mean... I. You just want me to be happy."

"Yes. And we want you to be yourself. And we
want to see that happen. See you *become*
whoever it is you need to be. Every day.

"Every night."

And... there's a lot unspoken there. What they
hope, and fear. What *Bruce* hopes, and
what he *wants*. And, maybe, what all of them
would do to make sure they *get* it. They want
Tim *here*, no matter what, and Tim laughs
around the pound of his heart.

"You make it sound like a threat, Bruce." Bruce's
smile is sort of lazily predatory, and for a
brief, ridiculous moment Tim pictures *him* in
Dick's 'Lion Man' suit.

Bruce strokes his cheek with his thumb before
letting go, and then stands up out of his crouch.
The robe falls into perfect lines again, and he
says, "Maybe it is. But you understand that now."

Tim nods, and Bruce smiles down at him.

He looks like he's about to ruffle Tim's hair, but
he doesn't.

He *does* pause in the doorway, turning just
enough that Tim can see all that *fire* in his left
eye.

"It isn't a game, Tim," he says, and Tim can hear
the rest of that sentence just as easily as he can
hear the soft nothing of Bruce's bare feet on the
carpeting in the hall. As he can hear the manor
ticking over into quiet, into *sleep* for another
dawn.

It *isn't* a game. It never was, and it never will
be.

But...

That doesn't mean it can't be *fun*.

end.