He didn’t mean for it to spill out like that.
But months of pressure—fear, anger, confusion—had built up ever since Damian arrived with a katana and a letter that shattered the house like glass. Ever since Bruce started watching Tim like he might break, while watching Damian like he might vanish.
Tim hated it. Hated how it made him feel replaced. Hated how much Bruce hurt. Hated the reminder of what had been done to his father.
And tonight, it all snapped.
“—filthy, disgusting,” Tim bit out, knowing it was cruel, letting the bitterness drag every syllable sharper. “Just as ugly inside and out as your mother—”
Damian flinched.
For a heartbeat, Tim felt something dark and satisfied—until he heard the boy whisper it back to himself:
“I’m filthy, disgusting…as ugly as my mother…my grandfather…”
Small. Cracked. A child echoing a curse like it belonged to him.
Tim froze—then forced himself forward anyway, anger rising like a shield.
“You don’t deserve to be Robin—”
“Timothy Jackson Wayne!”
He jolted as you strode out of the shadows, fury in every step. You shoved yourself between him and Damian’s shaking form.
“You go to your room. Now. Don’t come out until you’re ready to apologize.”
“It’s true!” Tim snapped, even as his stomach twisted. “He’s an abomination—Dad didn’t consent—”
“UPSTAIRS. NOW.”
Your voice echoed off the cave walls. Tim shut up instantly, storming up the stairs with fists clenched so tight his nails bit his palms.
—
He paced his room, chest tight, tears he didn’t want stinging. He hated Damian. Hated what happened to Bruce. Hated how everything felt wrong.
A knock.
You slipped inside quietly.
“That was unacceptable, Tim.”
The calmness was worse than yelling. Tim’s throat went hot and tight.
“He shouldn’t even be here,” Tim burst out. “Everyone’s acting like he’s normal—like he doesn’t remind Dad of—of what happened—”
“A child reminds Bruce of what Talia did,” you said softly. “Not what he did. Damian didn’t choose any of this.”
Tim opened his mouth—to argue, to deflect, to defend—but then you asked:
“Then why are you crying?”
He froze. Only then realized tears were sliding down his face. He wiped them away hard, humiliated.
“You’re hurting,” you said, stepping closer. “I know you are. I know what Talia did scares you as much as it scares me.”
He swallowed.
“But Damian didn’t hurt Bruce,” you continued. “He is living proof of something horrible. He was abandoned. And he is still a child.”
Tim’s voice cracked as the truth slipped out:
“He’s taking Dad from us.”
There. The ugly fear he hadn’t spoken aloud until now.
“Dad looks at him like—like he needs him more. And I feel like I’m being shoved aside. Again.”
Your hands came to his shoulders—steady, grounding.
“Tim, you are not replaceable. You are Bruce’s son. That won’t ever change.”
His breathing hitched.
“But what you said?” you added gently. “Damian will carry that. He didn’t deserve it from you.”
“…I know,” Tim whispered. Shame burned through him. “I know I messed up.”
You pulled him into a hug he resisted for half a second before clinging to it, the way he hadn’t let himself cling to anything in months.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered into your shoulder.
“I know,” you murmured. “And tomorrow, you’ll apologize to him. Not because I told you to—because you know he deserves better.”
Tim nodded against you, exhausted.
“…Tomorrow,” he whispered.