Disclaimer: I do not own Batman.

AN: Here's the thing, I've never written for this fandom before and to top it off, I only recently started getting into the comics. Most comics that I have to go off of is a sort of collection scattered between the 80's and 90's. I have done some research on characters, most specifically the Robins, though. I've also come across some parts of comics online and I've also read a lot of different fan fictions. I am no way defending the neglect by the Drakes, just trying to explore characters I've only recently discovered. Kind feedback would be appreciate and any tips for writing the characters would be great, as well as personal views on them. Please remember this is a first attempt. And on that same note, I apologize ahead of time for any OOC-ness.

Their eyes fly between Tim and the suitcases. Heads shoot back and forth and while he's standing on the bottom step, hand clasping the railing, feet planted firmly into the wood, head tilted to the side with those wide curious eyes, the suitcases sit right outside the open door, packed and ready for the next great adventure.

It's a tug-o-war. The next great adventure awaits. But he's their son. The next great archeology site. But he's their son. The next great find. Their son. The next great time-old mystery. Their son. Some small part of their mind tells them to stay. Order the help to take the suitcases back up. Order them to unpack the suitcases. Order them to close the door and put them away.

They tried it once. Tried staying still. Tried staying in. In the country. In the house. In with their son. To be that type of Rockwell thanksgiving dinners and Donna Reed white picket fence family. They tucked their son in. They sat him in their lap. They read him stories, carding their fingers through his hair. They smiled and they had to admit, it was great to see him smile like that. It was great to be there. To watch him. They love him, with all their heart.

But after a while, they started to feel antsy. Climbing the walls. Clawing the walls. Bored. The smiles waned, all three of them. They couldn't stand still. More business meetings, less family dinners. More elite parties, less family outings. And fighting. They felt cramped. Claustrophobic. It… wasn't enough. They loved their son. But their feet weren't meant for roots. Their arms were always wings and no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't be clipped.

They'd put down the books and spin the globe in their office and tell stories of their trips. "You've been everywhere!" Tim would exclaim. And they'd happily oblige his demand of more stories, more time-old mysteries, more adventures, truly indulging their own nostalgia and wandering-hearts.

Then it was just a little research. Little dreaming and brainstorming turning into plans. Just little thoughts to entertain themselves. Something small to feed that hunger. That dull ache that started to grow into starvation. And the arguing, the whisper-shouting matches at three a.m. and the passive-aggressiveness would melt away at the dining room table, surrounded by pamphlets and schedules and the latest digs. The latest treasures. All after Tim went to bed. That's when one of them would suggest hesitantly, "Maybe we should get away, again."

"Just for a little while." They always promised. Because China, Mexico, Egypt was calling. But their son. He was their son. And as they ran their fingers through his hair, brushing strands away from his face, planting kisses to his forehead as he slept, they thought of the smiles, and him sitting in their lap, and reading him books. "But not too long."

And Tim would wake up the next morning, hopping down the steps in one of Jack's old college T-shirts, the one sleeve slipping off his shoulder, wearing a toothy-grin that took up his whole face. That's when he spots the suitcases. That's when he freezes, feet planted firmly, head tilted, with wide curious eyes. "Where are we going?" He asks.

He swallows hard, heart hammering, trying to hide the shake of his hands. Maybe they're taking him somewhere special, like a vacation. Yeah, a vacation. A family vacation. He's going to stick with the vacation. Try to make himself excited instead of the anxious-fear that makes his stomach hurt. Try to convince himself the suitcases outside the door are a good thing. They've been so happy, he thinks. They're been so close. Closer than they've been in a while.

They exchange a look, eyes flying back and forth, hesitant, and Tim holds his breath because he can see them wavering. He can see the tug-o-war happening. And he thinks, if only he was bigger, if only he was stronger, if only he was better, then maybe he would win. Maybe he would be enough. "We're going away for a little while." Jack says like he's said it a thousand times. Like they've rehearsed in front of pamphlets and maps and all the other times they had found themselves standing by the staircase, suitcases in the open doorway.

"Not for too long." Janet adds quickly. Her painted lips turn upward into a reassuring smile. Who is she reassuring? Tim or herself? It's the same promise every time.

"Where's my suitcase?" He holds onto this hope. Me, too, he pleads silently with them. Take me, too. Take me with you.

Another look exchange. Another sharp inhale. Another three months they'll disappear. "You'll be staying here." They tell him and he tries to swallow back the disappointment, knuckles turning white as they clutch the railing harder, and his fingers dig into the wood. Tries to soothe the hurt burning the back of his throat and eyes. He gives a stiff nod of acceptance. He knows what value he holds against ancient civilizations and old Ming vases. He knows what he's worth to his parents in comparison.

They kiss his forehead, and as the door shuts behind them, he whispers to the lonely silence he became accustomed to over the years, "I'll miss you." He's not sure what hurts more. That once more they left, or that he was foolish enough to think they'd actually stay this time, for good.