Tim doesn't say anything when Bruce comes to sit beside him on the rooftop. He doesn't feel bad per se about pushing Damian off of that gargoyle, he'd had it coming, but he didn't like the directionless anger that had actually prompted the action. The pit of rage and fear and what-if's and when's that lives inside of him ever since Kon and then Bruce had died. Which is stupid, both of them were back.
An ungauntleted hand settles on the back of his neck, fingers digging into the muscles there.
"You're tense," Bruce states the obvious, because he's as bad at starting conversations as Tim is.
"I shouldn't be." It was fine. Everything was fine now. Bruce sighs but has the grace not to reprimand him. Tim can feel a capital T talk coming, which is, honestly, worse.
"Did you know that it takes energy to release a tense muscle."
As far as a Talk goes that's a pretty middling opener. Tim probably isn't going to be yelled at during this one but Bruce is conveniently forgetting that Tim dropped out of high school and the metabolic processes of the body unrelated to fear gas has yet to peak his interest so Tim didn't know that and is now annoyed that he didn't. Not that he's about to admit it.
"If this is your way of getting around to saying I shouldn't push Damian off of buildings when he's being annoying I'm going to stop us here and argue that maybe Damian should have seen it coming if he's such a special ninja warrior."
Ok, maybe he will be yelled at. Except Bruce doesn't. Instead he pulls gently at the nape of Tim's neck until Tim is forced to look up and meet the lenses of the cowl. 'Eyes on me,' that looks says, 'this is important.' He straightens up entirely on reflex, all other thoughts falling away under the weight of that attention, that expectation. It's almost like being Robin again, even though that's lost to him now.
Bruce reaches for Tim's bloodless, clenched fist, holding it between two of his own.
"It takes energy to clench your fist, but it also takes energy to release it." He tugs on Tim's pinky until it straightens.
"Healing is a little bit like that. You ball in tight, when your in pain, when you're being hurt. But then it passes and you think alright, I can relax now." He digs his finger into the meat of Tim's palm and something about the ache is almost sweet.
"Except you don't. It seems stupid. But it takes energy to release the tension, so, sometimes, it feels easier to hold it until you're shaking, until everything is falling apart, then it is to let go."
Bruce presses until the rest of Tim's fingers have straightened and then just holds them there between his own. It's unbearably warm. Or maybe that's just the heat crawling up his throat, or the burning in his eyes by the tears trapped behind his domino.
He is not, cannot, be Robin anymore. He cannot go back to the world where Bruce and Kon haven't died, where Dick was not forced to leave him behind for the mantle of their father and a boy Tim cannot bring himself to care for. But he can breathe for a few hours, pretend for a few hours, here in Bruce's hands.
