Bruce dropped into the Batmobile, satisfied with a night of work well done. He had just taken care of the bank robber Tim had been so concerned about, and he was looking forward to telling him about it. It was pretty funny. He knew Tim was grounded, but maybe tomorrow he could pretend to be golfing in the backyard or something and hit a bad slice and just happen to go over and talk to him... He wanted to see the kid's face when he heard the story. He could just imagine Tim's look of mingled incredulity and amusement.

"Master Bruce?" came Alfred's voice, crackling through the cab. He sounded uncharacteristically worried for such a relatively calm night.

"I'm here, Alfred. Something to report?"

"You need to go see Master Tim. He said it's not urgent, but I'm not sure I trust that."

Bruce frowned and took off down the street, heading home. "He called you again? I know he was worried about that hostage situation, but I took care of it. No one was hurt."

"It's not that. He said he needed to talk to you. Well, he texted me. That, after calling earlier. It just seems...odd."

"Yes, it does." Bruce squinted out the windshield. "What were his words exactly?"

"Just that he wanted to talk to you, and he would appreciate seeing you tonight. He insisted that he was fine when I asked, but his tone was uncharacteristically formal. I fear something may have happened between when he called and when he texted, but I don't know what it was."

"All right. I'm on my way home. Twenty minutes out."

"I believe you should dress down for the occasion, sir. Don't go through the underground passage. Master Tim said you should use the tree outside his window, so he must want to keep this meeting from his father."

Forty minutes later, Bruce stood at the base of the tree outside Tim's room, dressed in comfortable workout clothes. He swung himself up into the branches with easy grace and shimmied to the window. It was unlocked. The lights were on in Tim's room, and Bruce could see him sleeping face down in his bed, covered with a sheet.

He slipped inside and knelt next to Tim's bed to put a hand on his shoulder. Tim's cheeks were flushed and streaked with dried tear tracks, and his forehead was wrinkled even in sleep. Bruce frowned, not liking that at all.

He gave his shoulder a gentle shake. "Tim, buddy. Wake up. I'm here."

Tim stirred, his body shifting under the sheet, then woke with a gasp. His eyes flew wide open, like he'd been electrified. Bruce pressed his shoulder a little harder, and Tim looked up at him, then relaxed back down on the bed. He seemed relieved to see him. Almost too relieved. Bruce could feel his shoulder trembling. "Oh. You're here."

Bruce tried a reassuring smile, but dread was building in his chest. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. "Yeah, kiddo. I'm here. What's going on?"

Tim bit his lip. Now that Bruce was here, it seemed he wasn't sure how to say what he'd wanted to tell him. It was also strange that he wasn't sitting up to face him. He seemed rooted to the bed.

The dread in Bruce's chest pinched more sharply. He cupped his hand around Tim's cheek and rubbed at the tear tracks with his thumb. "What happened, partner?" he asked, his voice as soft as he could make it. It was hard to hold so still, speak so softly, when he wanted to run, wanted to leap. Wanted to find whatever had made his kid cry and punch it until it stopped moving.

It was the gentleness that broke Tim, as it always was. He closed his eyes briefly, letting out a breath, then looked at Bruce. It all came out in a rush, one word after another in rapid succession, broken and staccato.

"My dad beat me. With a belt. And I don't know what to do. I should call the police. I know that. But I don't know how that would turn out. It was just the one time. He'll win any court case. He'll get me back. And then he might send me away, and I don't want to go away. I don't want to lose Robin. I don't want to stop being your partner. But I don't know how to make it stop. I thought maybe I could talk to him and ask him not to him me so hard. Maybe threaten him with the police. But I don't know if that would work. I didn't want to tell Dick or Alfred or Kon or Steph or anything, because I knew they would just tell me to go to the police anyway. But I figured you might have another idea. You're smart and you're good at figuring things out. So I just wanted to get your advice and your opinion, I guess. I just... What should I do, Bruce? I don't want this to happen again. But I don't want to lose Robin. I love being Robin so much. And I know you like me being Robin, too. So I hoped that you would help me figure out how to keep being Robin. But also make this stop. Because he's not gonna stop and I know it can get worse. And even this first time hurt so bad. It hurt so bad, Bruce."

After the first sentence, Bruce sat back on his heels, his hands limp at his sides. His mind felt curiously blank, his vision narrowed and black at the edges. He heard everything Tim was saying with a corner of his mind, cataloging it away, all of those anxieties and misconceptions and hurts to be dealt with later. But right now only one thing mattered, and that was the first thing Tim had said.

Tim finally ran out of words and just stared at him with wide, fearful eyes, his lip caught between his teeth again, arms wrapped around his pillow. "Your father beat you," Bruce said, inwardly astonished at how calm his voice was. "With a belt."

Tim nodded hesitantly.

"May I see?"

Tim nodded again, then buried his face in the pillow and wrapped his arms around his head, trying to hide. He was shaking like a kitten. Bruce stood up, hating the way he loomed over the boy. He carefully lifted the sheet and folded it back. Tim was wearing a black t-shirt and nothing else. From his waist almost to his knees, he was covered with blotchy purple-red bruises and the harsh, raised ridges of welts. His skin was practically raw. It must be so, so painful. It was going to be painful for days, maybe weeks.

He lifted the sheet back over Tim's body, covering him up, then went back to kneel back by his head. He rested his hand on Tim's upper back and rubbed in slow circles, listening to his rough, panicked breathing. It didn't sound like he was crying. He'd cried himself out. But he could still sob dryly. It was one of the worst things Bruce had ever heard.

"I don't know what do," Tim whimpered. "Please don't call the police. I don't want to go to a foster home. I don't want to lose Robin. But I don't want this to happen anymore, either. It hurts so much."

"I know," Bruce said grimly. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it. I'll take care of everything."

Those awful, dry sobs tapered off, and Tim peeked at him between his arms. He still looked fearful, but relieved, too. "What... What are you gonna do?"

Bruce shook his head. "I'm going to take care of it. This will never happen again, Tim. I guarantee it. And you won't lose Robin. Never. I'll never let you go."

He kept rubbing his back until Tim relaxed and let his arms fall down beside his pillow again. Bruce buried his fingers in Tim's dark locks, scrubbing his fingernails over his scalp, then leaned over and kissed his head as he rose to feet. "You relax. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Tim rolled his head over to look at him as he moved toward the door. His shoulders were tense with fear again. "Where are you going?"

Bruce gave him his best attempt at a reassuring smile. "I'm just going to talk to your father."

Tim's breath hitched. "Don't...don't..." He couldn't seem to get the words out.

Bruce shook his head. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt him." As much as he wanted to. God, Bruce wanted to punch Jack Drake in the face with everything he had in him. "I know that wouldn't do any good. I'm being literal when I say I'm going to talk to him, all right?"

Tim stared at him as if gauging his truthfulness, then nodded hesitantly.

Bruce looked around and saw Tim's desk. He fetched a notebook and a pen and brought them over to the bed to rest near Tim's hand. "Here, make a list of everything you'll need to stay at the manor for a few days. I'll pack them for you when I get back from talking to your father. We'll have to come back for everything else later."

Tim stared up at him, utterly flummoxed. "Everything else?"

Bruce nodded firmly. "You're not going to a foster home, Tim. You're coming home with me. And you're staying. Got it?"

Still, Tim hesitated. "Are...are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Tim didn't look quite reassured. They were going to have to talk about this again later. Bruce gave him another nod, then headed out the door.

As he descended the stairs, he let the rage finally fill him. He'd held it back in Tim's room, unwilling to scare him. Tim had needed comfort, not anger. Jack, though...

By the time his feet hit the ground floor, he was practically vibrating with fury. Bruce stalked to the living room and found Jack sitting in a recliner, reading a book. His own book, as a matter of fact. Of all the narcissistic, egotistical...

Jack raised his head at the sound of his footsteps. "So you're done pouting, son?" His eyes widened when he saw who it was, and his lip curled. "What are you doing here?"

Bruce stood in the doorway, his hands clenching and unclenching as he breathed. "I've come to inform you that I'm resuming my guardianship of Tim. And this time I'll be making it permanent."

Jack snarled and jumped to his feet, letting the book fall to the chair. "What the hell are you talking about?" He power-walked to Bruce, head down and teeth clenched, fists swinging at his sides. "You can't just come in here and tell me that you're taking my son away from me! You have no right!"

"No, you have no right!" Bruce straightened to his full height and glared down at Jack as he stood before him, seething like a tea kettle. He pointed up the stairs, his finger shaking. "You just beat your boy black and blue, and now you have the gall to tell me that I have no right to take him from you?"

"It was discipline!" Jack bellowed. "He was being disrespectful!"

"It was abuse!" Bruce roared back. "And I won't stand for it!"

So much for talking. In Bruce's defense, it was Jack who started yelling first. Bruce was just responding proportionally. He held all the cards here, Jack just didn't know it.

The thought made him grin, sudden and triumphant. "You have no idea, do you?"

Jack paused suddenly and took a step back. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I've been waiting for you to screw up, Jack. I never liked letting Tim come back to live with you. You were always a piss-poor excuse for a father. I have files, records. All the times you and Janet ignored him and neglected him before your tragic accident, every time you've done the same yourself since you started recovering from your coma. I was willing to give you a second chance because Tim deserved to have a good relationship with his biological father. But you blew it."

As he spoke, he stepped toward Jack, and Jack took a step back. This happened again and again until Jack was backed up against the coffee table in the middle of the room, unable to go further. Bruce grinned, looming over him.

"You blew it, Jack. Every chance you had. Tim is a treasure and a delight, and you never deserved him. You've never done right by him. And now you've lost him. I'll be taking him home now, and I will love him and cherish him the way you never could. You can't do a damn thing to stop me."

Jack sputtered. "You can't... You can't..."

"I can and I will. You want to try to stop me? Please. Throw a punch. It will give me the excuse I've been longing for to beat you to a pulp."

Jack stood still, shaking. His face was red with fury, his lips drawn back from his teeth. But he didn't do it. He didn't throw a punch.

Bruce was a little disappointed. He truly did want to beat Jack like the piece of garbage he was. But Tim was more important.

He took a step back, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Jack did nothing. Bruce turned on his heel and went back up the stairs.

Tim was standing in the middle of the floor, the sheet wrapped around him. He was shaking, his eyes wide. He must have heard them shouting and climbed out of bed instinctively. It must have hurt so much.

Bruce gave him a firm nod as he came back in the room. "Everything's fine. You made your list?"

Tim pointed to the bed, where the notebook was still setting. Bruce took it and glanced over the list, then set the notebook on the desk. "I'll be right back."

He went to the bathroom across the hall and got a couple of painkillers and a glass of water, then brought them back. "Take these."

Tim took the pills and stuck them in his mouth, then took the glass of water, still holding up the sheet with his other hand. He was swaying slightly on his feet, but seemed steady enough for the moment.

"Drink the whole thing," Bruce told him, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Tim nodded and began to drink.

Bruce found a duffle bag in the closet and started filling it up with the items on Tim's list, moving swiftly and efficiently around the room. When he was done, Tim had finished the water, and Bruce took the empty glass and set it aside. He had the baggiest pair of boxers he could find in his hand. "Here, let's get these on you."

Tim let the sheet drop, and Bruce knelt down to hold the boxers open for him. "Here, lift your right foot." Tim rested his hand on his shoulder for balance. "Now the other one. That's it, good job."

Tim still hissed a bit when Bruce slid the boxers into place, though he was doing his best to hold the fabric away from his bruised and abraded skin. Every little noise of pain made Bruce clench his teeth and wish even harder that Jack had tried to throw that punch. He wanted to put that man back in the hospital for what he'd done to his kid.

Finally, Bruce was standing in front of Tim, holding his shoulders in his hands. Tim's eyes were closed, his breath coming in slow puffs as he let the pain settle. "It's okay, Tim. Everything's going to be okay."

Tim nodded slowly, his breath evening out. He swayed forward until his head came to rest in the middle of Bruce's chest. He was still shaking, but not as hard as before.

Bruce wrapped his arms around him and held on tight, ducking his head down to rest his nose on Tim's head. "It's okay, kiddo," he murmured. "I've got you. I've got you."

"I messed up," Tim whispered. "I'm a bad son."

Bruce shook his head and held him tighter. He rubbed his hand up and down Tim's back. "No, Timmy. You have a bad father. That's not the same thing at all."

"It was my fault. I ruined everything."

Bruce huffed. "You ruined nothing. You're wonderful. Jack Drake is an idiot who never appreciated you the way he should have. It's his loss, not yours."

"Then why do I feel like I'm losing?"

Bruce heart ached, and he sighed into Tim's hair. This was one of most horrible things about child abuse, really. When it was a kid who was mistreated, victimized by the people who should have treasured them, the kid was the one who lost their stability, their home, their family, usually most of their possessions, sometimes even their friends. And the adults who had perpetrated the crime continued their lives, losing nothing but the child they didn't appreciate anyway. It was horrifically unfair, but there was no way to remedy it.

"I'm sorry, Tim," he said. "I'm so sorry this happened to you. But things are going to get better, all right? You've got me. Me, and Alfred, and Dick, and all your friends. You're not losing any of us. I'm going to take care of you, and I'll never let you go."

Tim nodded against his chest. Bruce held on to him for a while longer, until Tim's shaking ebbed away and he seemed more steady. Then he carefully pulled back and held his shoulders again. "You ready to get out of here?"

Tim nodded. His eyes were dry, but that might have been because he was still a bit dehydrated. Bruce let go of him long enough to sling the duffle over his back, then put a hand on his shoulder and bent down. "Here, put your arm around my neck."

Tim did so, and Bruce picked up with one arm around his shoulders and the other around his knees. Tim's breath hitched when the movement jarred his wounds, then settled against Bruce's chest with a weary sigh. He put his other arm around Bruce's neck as well and turned his face to hide against his shoulder.

Bruce carried him out into the hall and down the stairs. Despite everything, excitement lit in his chest. He was taking Tim home, and he was keeping him this time. He kind of felt like fireworks should be going off.

Jack Drake stood at the front door, blocking their way. Bruce pulled up short, frowning at him as he shifted Tim's weight in his arms to hold him steady. Jack's expression was fierce, though his eyes were wide with fear. He knew what he was risking by getting in Bruce's way like this.

"You're not taking my son," he snarled.

Bruce stood up straighter, the muscles in his arms bunching. "Tim is not your son," he snarled back.

Jack blinked, taken aback. "The hell..."

Bruce shook his head, a frisson of fury shivering down his back. Tim whimpered and tightened his arms around his neck, which was the only thing stopping Bruce from kicking Jack in the chest. "You and Janet donated genetic material to this boy, but you were never his parents. You ignored him and disregarded him and abandoned him from day one. You have nothing to do with who he is now. His kindness, his courage, his cleverness and talent... Those are all his, and his alone. You contributed nothing but base materials. He raised himself. He made himself. And then he came to me. He chose me, and I chose him, and you have no say in any of that."

Jack stood there, breathing heavily. "You don't... You don't know anything! You can't..."

Bruce pressed his lips together to keep from spitting in his face. "Open the door, Jack," he said firmly. "Just open the door and let us go. Tim has asked me, practically begged me, not to call the police on you. I was willing to do this quietly, just have you sign custody over and let me take care of him since you are so eminently incapable. But if you fight me, if you cause one more second of discomfort or fear to this child, I will call the police. I will drag you through the mud. I will take you to court. And I will win."

Jack opened the door and let them go. Bruce and Tim went home.

There weren't any fireworks, but there should have been.