Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Tim Drake turned ten years old, his parents celebrated more than they usually did. This was very noticeable to the young boy, since his birthday festivities were usually pretty lackluster. He was told that turning double digits was important. It meant that he was a man now, and that if his father died, he would have to be the man of the house. Thinking back, Tim realized that was a rather morbid thing to tell a child.

On this tenth birthday, Tim was gifted a lighter and a pocket knife, two things his parents decided would symbolize his manhood. Tim didn’t exactly understand their thinking, but he gratefully accepted the gifts he was given. He felt thankful that his parents finally took a moment to pay attention to him, even though he found it rather odd.

Sometimes he used his knife to cut out newspaper articles of interest to him, usually those that were about Batman and Robin. Since finding out the truth about Bruce Wayne and Richard Grayson, Tim had been even more interested in the dynamic duo. Especially Robin. Then came his lighter, which wasn’t as exciting. It was used to light candles when the electricity bill payments were forgotten about.

Since this point in his life, Tim went through a lot of changes. Changes that are too important to be talked about so rushed and briefly, so for now, won’t be talked about at all. We’ll skip to the present.

Ever since being taken under the wing of Bruce Wayne, Tim utilized the presents they gave him at just ten years old more than he ever had. His pocket knife opened packages and helped make kindling. His lighter singed ropes to stop them from fraying, and lit torches, or lit stacks of wood to start a campfire.

Sometimes he would pull out his pocket knife if someone in Gotham tried to jump him in his civilian clothes. It was usually enough to get them to stay away, but even when it wasn’t, he simply ran. Scared Civilian Tim Drake wasn’t supposed to fight back, not really. The knife blade never touched the skin of another person. He made sure of it. It touched no one’s skin but his own.

Really, Tim didn’t even know why he did this or why this even started. He had his suspicions, but most times, he felt himself black out, then come to with cuts on his arms and the pocket knife in his hand. Then his knees would get all shaky, and he would begrudgingly clean and disinfect his wounds and bandage himself up. It was a routine procedure, one he could tell no one about.

The pocket knife’s blade was a little over three inches tall, and the handle was made of a beautiful and darkly varnished wood grain. Its blade was characterized as a drop point blade, but he kept it sharp. It was additionally all very easy to open and close since it used a frame lock. On the handle, there was a little carving with his initials, which were written by Tim’s father. Looking at it for a while made him think of him, and then eventually his mother. He didn’t like thinking of them.

Soon, Tim stopped cutting his arms, but that was only because he moved to his thighs. He figured he would draw less attention that way, knowing that it was easier to hide cuts on his legs as opposed to cuts on his arm. Tim was very smart, but never in a way that benefited him.

Tim stood, locked up in the bathroom, the bottoms of his cargo shorts soaked from washing the blood off of his thighs. His thoughts were finally still, to the point where he could barely feel a thing. For now, at least. He stared at himself, blank faced in the mirror, trying to find the same boy he would see when he was ten. It was hard.

Wet cargo shorts were pretty hellish things. In Tim’s opinion, at least. The smartest thing he could think to do at the moment was plug in a hairdryer and dry himself down. Hot air against fresh cuts stung, but Tim would rather feel that sting than be a little uncomfortable.

Hot, hot… The air on his skin felt hot. If Tim had even a smidgen of self-preservation left, he would have noticed this and turned the hairdryer down to a lower setting. But he didn’t. That would be too easy, wouldn’t it? His cargo shorts were drying off, and that was all that mattered. He really couldn’t handle the feeling of wet fabric on his skin.

The cargo shorts didn’t dry all the way, but they dried enough. The hair dryer was set on the floor, right next to where Tim sat. He was already taking a suspiciously long time in the bathroom, but he really needed to stay cooped up longer. He needed to regulate himself after everything that he did.

A favorite grounding technique of his was the 5-4-3-2-1 method.

5 things he could see: The sink. The drawer knobs. Some soap. A toothbrush. His knife.

4 things he could feel: The bath mat under his legs. His still slightly damp cargo shorts. Heat. The hair on the back of his neck.

3 things he could hear: The low humming of the lights. The whirring of the hairdryer. His own breathing.

2 things he could smell: Orange scented air freshener. And… smoke?

Shit. He was smarter than this. He was so much smarter than this. At least he was supposed to be smarter than this. A detective, he was supposed to be a detective. Tim sprung to his feet and turned around to assess the situation. The hairdryer was partially melted, and the shower curtain was on fire. He was going to be in so much trouble. Shit.

Tim’s brain was running a million miles per minute with things he should do. All he wanted to do was get out, get out of the bathroom as fast as he could, and never turn back.

There was 1 thing he could taste: Fear.

Not for his safety, he knew he’d manage to get out of this situation unharmed from outside sources. What scared him the most were the questions he’d be asked, the most nagging one being, “How did this happen?” Which seemed easy to answer, but wasn’t.

The answer was, “I left the hairdryer on too long.”

Which would lead to the question of, “Why did you leave the hairdryer on too long?”

And then, “I was drying off my cargo shorts.”

Which still leaves the question of, “Why were your cargo shorts wet?”

And that was because, “I was washing my thighs.”

That all finally makes its way to, “Why were you washing your thighs?”

He didn’t want to have to get that far into questioning. He had to cover this all up somehow. He’d run out of the bathroom, get the fire extinguisher, extinguish the fire, then find a way to replace the hairdryer and shower curtain so he would leave no evidence behind. It would be like his own perfect crime.

Somehow, in his panic, the boy genius Tim Drake forgot about the existence of smoke detectors. He only remembered that smoke detectors existed when they started blaring, and he heard a pounding on the bathroom door. And at this point, he would rather die in the fire he created than face the wrath of whoever was on the other side of the door. It was Bruce. It was always Bruce, it just had to be Bruce. Or maybe Damian. He was always good at showing up at the worst possible times. Though it could always be Duke, or even Cass. Duke or Cass wouldn’t be so bad, but they would definitely question Tim.

Tim pressed his back against the wall farthest from the door, gripping at it as if it was his lifeline. He wasn’t thinking straight; he was never thinking straight anymore. The fire wasn’t even that big, there was no shot it would kill him and rid him of this situation. But in his head, it was bigger. In his head, the entire bathroom was filled with smoke and the floor was engulfed with flames. In his head, the room was a lot smaller. And in his head, he was a small, scared little boy, who was just ten years old again and needed to die.

One could only imagine his surprise when the fire that was not as big as he once thought was blown out in one shot of the fire extinguisher. He felt confused, he thought the door had been locked. But then he remembered locks had keys, and the people living in Wayne Manor were perfectly capable of using keys.

“What in the—“ a familiar voice would say. Tim’s body was frozen, but his mind was calming down. “Master Timothy, what in the world happened?”

Against his better judgement, Tim hugged the man who put out the fire, and tight, too. “I made a mistake. I’m sorry.” His eyes were closed, his heartbeat was slow. He took a soft breath out when he heard a gentle clunk of metal on the ground and felt two loving arms around him. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Tim didn’t exactly remember what happened afterwards, he just remembered his destination, since it was where he was currently. Somehow, Tim had made it to an armchair in one of the drawing rooms, a blanket placed over his lap and some coffee in his hands. He took a sip. Scratch that, it wasn’t coffee. It was tea. He didn’t know why he thought it was coffee. He wasn’t even exactly sure where he got it from. Probably Alfred. Definitely Alfred. Oh, how he loved Alfred.

Speak of the devil, Alfred entered the drawing room and sat on a different armchair from Tim, quiet.

“You, uh… think the money for a replacement hairdryer for the melted one will be coming out of my allowance?” Tim asked, just to speak. It was mostly a joke. He wanted to make the tone more lighthearted, because he wasn’t ready for a heavy conversation just yet.

“Oh, yes,” Alfred says, without hesitation. “That hairdryer was expensive. And don’t even get me started on the shower curtain you burned, oh!” His hand was clutching his heart. “An antique, that was.”

Tim’s eyes widened. He had been joking before, but now he was worried. “What? Really?”

“No,” Alfred admitted, a little sheepishly. But not too sheepishly. The butler didn’t seem to feel much regret for what he had joked about. “Both items are both rather average and inexpensive, I’m afraid. You seemed glum, so I was just having a bit of fun with you. Your allowance money is safe, I assure you.”

Tim allowed himself to laugh, albeit a forced laugh. He did find it funny, even if it caused him to panic slightly for a second. He took a sip of his not coffee, but tea, and looked down to his thighs. The blanket covered them, thankfully, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Alfred had seen them before the blanket was placed on his lap. He wanted to ask, but on the off chance Alfred hadn’t seen a thing, Tim didn’t want to blow his cover. So he kept his lips zipped.

“How’s your tea, Timothy?”

“It’s great. Thanks again, Alfred.”

“Good, good…” The butler folded his hands together over his lap. “Now, there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Fuck. Shit. He knew it. The blanket, the tea… it was all a trap. A rather cozy trap, but a trap nonetheless. What did he want to talk about? Did he know about the cutting? Tim should’ve known he wouldn’t be able to hide anything in a house full of detectives and people who were detective adjacent. That was learned first when Dick realized Tim was queer before Tim had the chance to say a word about it. Apparently, he had seen his search history when Tim had first moved into the manor. It was something something “boys kissing.”

Tim took a sip of his tea, mentally preparing himself for the conversation ahead. It tasted citrusy. He assumed it must be lemon balm. Which made sense in other ways too, since lemon balm tea was known to help improve mood and quiet anxiety. Alfred must have wanted Tim to be in a good headspace for the heavy conversation ahead. That… comforted Tim. Just a little. His shoulders drooped, a centimeter or two at most.

Alfred cleared his throat. “Our talk has to do with you getting your driver’s license recently. By the way, congratulations on that.”

Driver’s license? Tim looked down at the hot, yellow liquid he held in his hands. He had to think on this for a moment. “Is this…” He looks up. “Are you going to ask me to start running errands…? I can do that, I guess.” Tim finished off his tea, setting it down on a side table.

“Sort of. Well… I was hoping you could start driving Damian home from school since his school day ends an hour after yours does. I’ve been busy lately, so it would help me greatly if you did this for me.”

“Damian and I alone in a car together? No. No.” Tim almost laughs at the idea, but doesn’t. He respected Alfred far too much to do that. “Can’t Bruce do it? His literal father? He’s free, right?”

“Bruce is usually busy with his duties with Wayne Enterprises at that time of day.”

“Alfred, please don’t make me drive around that little monster.”

“Don’t think of it as driving ‘that little monster’ around. Think of it as doing a favor for your poor, old butler.” Alfred sighed.

Tim was, in a word, pissed. He didn’t want that boy and his sticky fingers in his car. There was no way, and he knew that feeling was mutual. Damian was not going to be happy when he saw Tim’s car pull up at his school.

But what was there to do?

When Tim went to bed, he changed out of his cargo shorts and into his soft, plaid pajama pants. They were much more forgiving on his cuts than his cargo shorts had been. They also covered his cuts and bandaged spots completely, so he wouldn’t have to look at them anymore, so nobody would be able to look at them anymore.

The boy sighed. He’d have to get sneakier.

Chapter Text

As people, we tend to look back on our childhood fondly, sometimes even if it was traumatic or trying. This is called Rosy Retrospection, which is a term similar to the phrase ‘rose-colored glasses.’ Rosy Retrospection usually occurs when people subconsciously forget the more negative or neutral parts of their memories and tweak them in such a way to make things look better, or even make themselves look better.

With Rosy Retrospection usually came Declinism. When viewing past events through extreme rose-colored glasses, present and future events seem bleak and on a decline. When everything in your past was so good in your eyes, it’s hard to appreciate everything that came next. Declinism would only get worse as you age, making your past seem brighter and brighter, but your future duller and duller. Declinism is the belief of the decline of a certain entity.

There was a fine line between Rosy Retrospection and Dissociation. A very fine line.

Tim Drake was taking an unnecessarily long time in the bathroom once again. He was just staring at himself, confused and anxious. His knuckles were white as he gripped the countertop.

“Tim, hon, are you okay in there?”

“I’m coming out in a second, mother!”

The young boy sighed, giving himself one more glance in the mirror. It wasn’t his best work, but it would have to do. He ran out of the bathroom and into the main room of his house.

On a first impression, Jack and Janet Drake made a very handsome couple. For a very brief moment in time, they were even one of Gotham’s IT Couples. Well, according to a puff piece from the Gotham Gazette, at least. At this point in their relationship, Janet had her doubts, but was still holding on to the Gazette’s declaration by her fingernails. The couple stood in their house’s main room, all decked out in their gala wear. Tim observed by the finality of their outfits and the way they stood that he made them wait.

“I’m all ready,” said Tim.

Jack scoffed as his son came into his field of view. Tim cowered, wondering what it was he had done wrong this time. “That isn’t how you tie a tie. What kind of knot even is that?”

“I… don’t know. I just tied some kind of knot. I thought it looked okay.”

“It doesn’t. It’s wrong.”

And that was the end of the conversation. Tim was used to ending conversations in an unsatisfying way. That was just how a conversation with Jack Drake had to go. He wasn’t sure exactly where he went he wrong, but he knew he did. Maybe that would be enough this time, knowing he was wrong.

Today was a special day for two reasons. Firstly, it was the day of a big benefit gala. He wasn’t exactly sure what for. He didn’t even know if his parents knew what for.

At the event, his mother was holding him in front of her by the shoulders, close. This was her subtle way of making sure he stood up straight, and it worked as it should. Tim really wanted to look good for his mom.

The second reason for this day being so special was Tim’s birthday. He was turning double digits, which he felt was a milestone. He got a present, and he got to go to his first fancy gala dinner with his parents. It was all so exciting.

When he entered the venue for the first time, he vowed he would never be going back to one of these again. There was so many people and so much noise. There was also a distinct lack of children, especially children his age. It wasn’t very exciting anymore; it was unsettling.

“Tim…” Janet started, smoothing her son’s collar with gentle, but tense, hands. “Your father was right. Your tie is all wrong.” Tim nodded. He knew better than to talk back to his mother in public, despite really wanting to apologize.

The gala was a bust for Tim Drake. All he did was follow around his parents like a lost puppy as they spoke to the other wealthy and influential attendees about life and business. Mostly business, which made this all a snooze fest. The people watching scene was okay, though. Drunk rich people could be funny.

When the staff started putting out the dessert table, the young boy practically begged his parents to let him wander off for a while to have some sweets. They seemed to agree with a dismissive wave of their hand as they kept speaking to their acquaintances. Tim wasn’t exactly sure if he had their permission or not, but he took what he could get. He would be fine with a talking to if he was wrong.

The first thing Tim took in were the smells. Everything at the dessert table smelt so good. The table was covered in small desserts that could all be eaten without utensils. There were cookies, small brownies, chocolate-covered fruit, and little cakes. Tim identified these little cakes as petit fours. One of his nannies taught him that ‘petit four’ was a French term meaning ‘little oven.’ That fact always got Tim to giggle when he was younger, but it earned a soft and reminiscent smile now.

He decided these petit fours would act as his birthday cake this year, packing five of them onto one of the little dessert plates with hungry eyes. He wasn’t sure if this was proper gala etiquette, but he didn’t care. He wanted cake, and no one would really notice…

“Hey, leave some for the rest of us!”

Tim recognized that voice immediately, whirling around to face its owner. It was Robin. Well, not at the moment. At the moment, Robin was dressed as Jason Todd, the adoptive son of playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne. Tim tried not to look too excited, his voice smooth and even, almost void of any expression.

“It’s my birthday. I deserve it,” Tim explains, adding two more petit fours to his plate for extra emphasis. This made Jason laugh.

“Your birthday?”

“My birthday.”

“How old did ya turn?”

“Ten.”

Jason looked impressed, in the way you would look impressed at an unflattering picture of you drawn by a toddler. “Damn, double digits. What a milestone. Y’know what that means?”

“Um…” Tim thought for a moment, before inevitably shaking his head. “No.”

“You deserve ten whole little cake things! C’mon, how many do you have now?”

“They’re not called ‘little cake things.’ They’re petit fours. Which means ‘little ovens’ in French.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “They don’t look like ovens to me. Just answer the question.”

Tim sighed, but gave in. “I have seven.”

“Okay, so… seven, eight, nine… you need three more to make ten.”

“Wow, you can do simple math.”

“Shut up.” Jason instructed the younger boy to hold his plate out so he could add more ‘little cake things’ onto it. “Another chocolate, a vanilla, and… a lemon. There. Ten cakes for ten years. Happy birthday.”

“I don’t think I like lemon cake.” Tim offered a polite smile.

“Have you ever tried it?” Tim shook his head again. Before he could give a verbal answer, the lemon petit four was being shoved into his mouth. He didn’t resist. He chewed and chewed until it became mush, then swallowed it all down with a smile.

“I guess I don’t like lemon cake. I love it.” Tim giggled, looking down at his plate, and then back up to his new friend. At least, he hoped Jason would be his new friend. “But I can’t eat all this cake alone. You wanna share?”

“Hell yes!”

The two boys found an empty table and started inhaling the cakes like it was their last meal. Crumbs lined their lips, but chipmunk-like smiles donned their faces. It was worth it. Tim wiped his face with a napkin. Jason used his sleeve, then tried to ask a question with his mouth full. Tim couldn’t understand a word of what he said and voiced that too.

Jason swallowed. “I said, you know your tie is tied wrong, right?”

Tim looked down at his collar, his face flushing in embarrassment. “Oh, well… yeah. My parents told me.”

“And didn’t fix it for you?” Tim shook his head. “That is weird as hell. C’mere.”

“Huh?”

“C’mere,” Jason repeated. “My butler taught me how to tie ties. I’ll teach you.”

Tim agreed, his smile reappearing. He held onto the sides of his chair and scooted it over slightly so he was facing Jason. His eyes were glued on the older boy, expectant, until he finally got to work.

“Holy shit, what kind of knot is this?” Tim shrugs. “No, like seriously. I can’t undo this.”

“Try harder.”

“I don’t see you trying.”

Tim groaned, gently pushing Jason off of him so he could think. He scanned the area in search of something that or someone who could be helpful. There were his parents, but he knew they were a no go. He had barely gotten their attention enough to let him wander off to the dessert table. There was also Bruce, but he felt going up to him would be awkward, and he wasn’t about to ask Jason to do that either. The venue was crowded with adults that seemed much more put together and apt to understand how to untie this knot than he or Jason were, but knowing rich people, that was likely to be completely untrue. Most people here were a no go.

Each table was decorated with white tablecloths and blue floral centerpieces. They also had some utensils and fancy napkins. Tim grabbed a fork in his fist and pushed a spoke of it into the heart of the knot on his tie, wiggling it around a bit. The knot became looser and looser until Tim could pull it apart with ease.

Jason looked impressed with Tim once again, but this time, it was more legitimate. Again, his hands made their way to Tim’s shirt collar to teach him how to tie his tie.

It was a beautiful thing, really. Boyhood is what Tim classified it as. Boyhood. Tim hadn’t felt what boyhood felt like before now, and if he had, it absolutely wasn’t to this caliber. He knew what manhood was. Manhood was blades and fire. Manhood was having a wife and being in charge of your household. Manhood was when his father would make decisions for his mother. But boyhood… Boyhood was shoving your face with petit fours. Boyhood was tying ties for each other. Boyhood was gentle shoving and teasing, followed by belly laughter that makes ribs sore.

Jason had tied, untied, and retied Tim’s tie multiple times at this point, deciding to stop when he felt Tim understood how to do it on his own now. He grinned at his work, knowing his butler would be very proud. He might just have to tell him all about it when he got home.

“So, kid,” Jason says, straightening Tim’s tie to perfection. “I never got your name.”

“It’s Tim. Well, Timothy Jackson Drake. But Tim is fine.” He wasn’t exactly sure why he just gave out his full legal name.

“You’re the Drake kid? That’s cool! I think my guardian knows your parents. Jack and Janet, right?” Tim gives an awkward thumbs up. “Nice. Nice, well. My name is—“

“Jason.” Why did he say that? God, was he weird.

“What…?” The older boy leaned back in his chair a little, holding onto the edge of the part he sat on.

“It was a… it was a guess. I heard who I’m guessing is your guardian call you Jason, so…” Tim forced a smile. “Is it uh… Jason Wayne?” He played dumb, hoping that would save his ass right now. Jason Wayne was not the older boy’s name and he knew it.

“No, it’s Jason Todd.” Tim took that ‘new’ information quietly, not wanting to say anything that would make him seem more suspicious to the adoptive son of The World’s Greatest Detective. Said son started sitting in his chair normally again. “You’re very… observant.”

“Thanks.”

Like all things do eventually, the gala came to an end. Tim had been a little disappointed. He had just made friends with a Robin, and now he had to leave him. At no point in their conversation did Tim try to get Jason to hang out with him at a later date, which he regretted very much. Though Jason did say he went to these gala events a lot. Tim would have to start begging his parents to bring him to more of them in hopes his new friend was in attendance as well.

Sat upon a barstool at his kitchen’s island was none other than Tim Drake. He stabbed a candle through the petit four he had put directly on the island’s countertop. All he had to do now was figure out how to use his new lighter. After a few tries, Tim got it to work, jumping at the sight of fire so close to his thumb. The smooth device was held tight in his grubby hands, his fingers warming up as seconds passed.

Tim looked down at his chest. He was still wearing his gala wear, minus the tie, which was sitting on the barstool chair next to him. On his drive home, he had realized he hadn’t actually remembered how to tie his tie like Jason taught him to, so when he got home, he took it off of himself in such a way that it didn’t lose its knot. This way, it didn’t have to be retied when Tim was to wear it next, but simply slipped back on his neck like a necklace, and tightened.

During the car ride, his father noticed his newly correctly tied tie. That earned Tim a small, yet approving, nod.

Fire illuminated the young boy’s face, it being the only source of light coming from this dark kitchen at night. The boy hummed himself a familiar tune, then blew out his singular candle in one breath. The candle he found in a junk drawer somewhere. He looked up, his expression bare, at empty chairs and an empty island. Silently, he took the candle out of the petit four and licked off any of the cake that stuck behind on it before eating the small cake itself. Then he licked his fingers.

“Happy birthday to me.”

Chapter Text

Declinism. It was what happened when you looked back on your memories just a little too fondly. Sometimes it was perfectly healthy and accurate. Sometimes it wasn’t. When it drained the pleasure away from anything and everything you wanted to do, it wasn’t healthy. At that point, it was more of a depression, and there was no point disguising it with flowery words.

School was something Tim felt couldn’t change, no matter a person’s past or state of mine. School was school was school, and that’s how it was always going to be. Except middle school. Middle school would have always sucked especially. He was so thankful he was a high schooler now. Which was an extra reason Tim hated that he was driving to a middle school right now.

He scoped the area, making his way over to the pickup line. He was the first one there, but he wouldn’t mind waiting, for today he brought a passenger to keep himself occupied.

Soon enough, Tim spied a disgruntled looking black-haired boy, two hands on the straps of his backpacks. He honked his horn, impatient. That earned him a dirty look from one of the teachers, but Tim couldn’t care less if he tried. The passenger door opened, and the disgruntled boy’s eyebrows knit together in an irritated confusion.

“Who is this blond boy in my seat?”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Damian, that isn’t your seat. This is my car. I choose who sits where. Get in the back.”

Damian scoffed, in a way that screamed, ‘who do you think I am, some peasant?’ Again, Tim didn’t care. He was just grateful the middle schooler got into the back seat with no further protesting.

“I will ask again. Who is sitting in my seat?” Damian persisted, buckling himself in.

Before Tim could give another dismissive reply, the blond boy spoke up himself. “I’m your brother’s friend. He’s driving me home from school.”

“Drake is not my brother.”

“Oh.”

The blond boy didn’t live very far from the school. In fact, it probably would have been easier for him to walk. Damian found that odd. Who would accept a ride that wouldn’t benefit them?

Another thing that confused Damian was when Tim insisted on walking his passenger up to his front stoop. Of course he understood the dangers of walking alone in Gotham, but come on. It was about six feet away and in broad daylight, the blond definitely didn’t need the assistance.

When Tim made it back to his car, a groan escaped his lips. “Way to embarrass me in front of Bernard, jackass.”

“His name is Bernard?” Damian, who had climbed over the center console and into the passenger seat while Tim was away, asked. Tim didn’t answer. He was far too annoyed for that. All he did was put the car in gear and start driving. “Will he be driving with us regularly?”

“Yeah.”

“Unfortunate.”

“I don’t care.” And Tim drove. He drove, and he drove, trying to ignore his pouty little brother in the passenger seat of his car. It was all so unfair. If it wasn’t for that little brat called Damian, Tim would probably still be with Bernard. Maybe they’d catch a movie, or go to the park… What they did didn’t matter. All that mattered to Tim was that Bernard should be with him right now and Damian shouldn’t.

Tim slowed the car down, entering a circle. Another car coming from the circle sped in front of him, horn honking. Tim just scoffed and rolled his eyes. It seemed like nobody who exited or entered this circle knew how to drive. Damian commented on his brother’s “bad driving,” but Tim brushed it off. Who was a middle schooler to ridicule his driving? And besides, that circle was always pretty dangerous. He thought he handled that situation well.

The roads in Gotham were getting worse in general, Tim thought. There were potholes everywhere and way too much roadkill nowadays, and city officials just didn’t seem to care. Why was the world such an awful place all of a sudden? It never used to be like this.

“Mr. Freeze broke out of Arkham.”

And there was that, too. The crime in Gotham. There was no way it was always this bad.

“I know,” Tim replied to his brother. He was all too aware.

“He has been targeting apartment buildings in the area. And some office buildings.”

“I know that too.”

“I take it you’ve been to the scenes of the crimes, then?”

Tim paused. “No.”

Damian grinned, leaning back in the passenger seat and crossing his arms. “Well, father has taken me out to investigate. He obviously doesn’t trust you as much as he trusts me.”

The car sped through a red light as Tim gripped the wheel tightly. “That isn’t true.”

“Admit it. You’ve overstayed your welcome as Robin.”

Tim sighs and regulates his driving speed. “Next week’s midterm week for me, so I’m benched, okay? Bruce wants me to focus on my studies for the time being. I’ll be back on the field soon enough.”

“Will you, though?”

“Shut up before I pull over and make you walk back home.”

“I’d prefer it.”

The rest of the car ride was silent, aside from Damian’s quiet jabs at his brother’s driving abilities. Tim ignored him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reaction or a response. When the car rolled into the garage of Wayne Manor, Damian barely waited for the car to stop moving before he jumped out and made a beeline inside.

This was expected. Tim would probably do the same if the roles were reversed. Alas, they weren’t, so Tim got out of his car at his own leisure and locked it up, ready to veg out after his long day studying for his midterms at school.

Tim really was pissed he got benched. He was ninety percent sure that Dick wasn’t benched when he had midterm week, so he labeled this as unfair. What did Bruce know about either of them, anyways? If he were to bench him for good, he swore to God…

His laptop was open on his lap as he sat on the couch, but he wasn’t doing much. The screen was prompting him to log in, but Tim was scrolling through social media on his phone. The laptop was just an accessory, keeping his legs warm and helping him pretend to be productive.

Oh, his thighs were so warm. So hot. It almost made him itchy, but he speculated that wasn’t entirely the heat’s doing. Tim let the bad feeling on his upper legs linger for a moment before taking the computer off of him and onto the coffee table. The discomfort was comforting, in a way. But it wasn’t something he could handle for too long.

After a little bit of staring, Tim logged on into his school account on his laptop and opened his page to his history notes. Blah blah blah America, blah blah blah war… His eyes glazed over the page, overwhelmed and disinterested. Suddenly he was tired, too. He wondered how he had any energy driving home from school. Maybe it was the excitement of driving with Bernard. Or the terror of driving with Damian. Perhaps a little of both?

Wherever his slight burst of energy that carried him home came from, it was gone now.

There was a soft shuffling and a soft voice to match. “Timothy?”

“I’m working, Alf, I promise,” Tim mumbled. He wasn’t, but he quite liked not getting lectured about the importance of studying and school. One side of the butler’s lips curled up slightly. He knew better than to believe such a blatant lie, yet he ignored it.

“Good. You drove home safely, I presume?”

“Damian didn’t try to kill me, so there’s that.”

Nor did Tim try to kill Damian, but he wasn’t very keen on talking about that.

“That’s something.”

Tim grunted in the affirmative. Alfred smoothed out his gloves.

“Midterms are starting up soon,” the butler restarted his conversation. “On Monday, yes? What exams will you have on Monday?”

“Just American History.” The teen closed his laptop. “Something about World War II.”

“Oh!” Alfred smiled. “I know a lot on that topic. Perhaps not the American perspective you need, but I can help you study if you wish, or try to answer any questions you may have to the best of my ability.”

“I’m good,” Tim decided quickly. Involving someone else in this struggle would probably stress him further.

If you didn’t know Alfred, you would have been under the impression that he took that news easily. Tim knew better. He could tell Alfred was disappointed. Or not disappointed, more worried than disappointed. He wore the face he would make when Bruce would let one of his child soldiers out on the field before they were ready. The face he made when he put out the fire in the bathroom the other day. Which was confusing to Tim since all he had done in this instance was decline study help.

He then remembered Alfred could be rather dramatic, so he had let himself get confused for nothing.

“If you need my help, I’ll give it,” Alfred said. “That’s with anything, not just your midterms. I know it’s hard for you to speak to Master Bruce, but I hope I make it feel you may speak to me. I worry about you.”

“Worry?” Tim unconsciously pulled at the bottoms of his shorts. “Why would you, uh… worry?”

“No reason in particular. I worry about all of you. It’s my job.” Alfred’s brows furrowed in an almost knowing way. “Why, is there something specific I should be worrying about?”

Tim lets go of his shorts and opens up his laptop once again. “No. No, there isn’t. I’m doing well. Better.”

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

The computer glowed on Tim’s face as he turned it on and logged into it again. He heaved it onto his lap again, it being much more pleasant to the touch now that it was giving a little time to cool off.

Clicking off of his history notes, Tim pulled up his math workbook. Plugging numbers into equations would be brain-numbing enough to be tolerable. Or more than tolerable. He actually quite liked math, it was just the concept of being forced to do it that irked him. To reiterate, he wasn’t a school kind of guy. But really, who was?

After he finished his practice problems, he made sure to skim through the provided answer sheet to make sure he was on the right track, which he knew he was. For the most part. On one question he got a two when he should have gotten a negative two. He hadn’t a clue what he did to get that incorrect answer, even after redoing the problem over and over again.

He kicks his ankle, his shoed toe hitting against his exposed skin. A shiver went up his spine, it hurt a lot more than it usually would. Nothing he couldn’t take, but it wasn’t pleasant. He figured he had gotten blisters from his new interest in hi-top sneakers.

Tim absentmindedly kicked his blistered spot as he struggled with finding negative two. So much so that by the time he fixed his mistake, he didn’t feel any sense of accomplishment, but a smidgen of relief.

He closed his laptop and looked around. Alfred must have left a while ago. Maybe he really did believe Tim when he said he was getting better.

Maybe tomorrow would actually get better. Tim knew thinking that would only give him false hope. At most he could realistically hope that things wouldn’t take a turn for the worst. But that was doubtful too.

Nothing was wrong. He knew it in his heart. He was just whining about stuff normal teenagers do with ease. He could beat the snot out of high ranked supervillains, but he couldn’t study for his damn history exam.

It would all be easier if he just didn’t exist.

Chapter Text

Day after day Tim would drive his little brother Damian home from school, and day after day the first part of the car ride would be the same.

Damian would grumble about sitting in the back seat of the car instead of the front. The blond boy in the front, who he knew as Bernard now, would apologize and ask about his day. Damian would give some half assed answer until it was finally time for Bernard to get dropped off. Tim would always walk him to his front stoop and they would always take way too long. Sometimes Tim would kiss Bernard’s knuckles, sometimes his lips. Damian watched it all from the back of the car.

Today was Thursday, the fourth day Damian was succumbed to the torture of getting picked up from school by his least favorite brother. It was the same as usual to start out with. He grumbled in the back seat, Bernard tried to make him feel better, and Damian would mumble out something dismissive.

The only difference this time was the fact that Tim had to get gas before dropping off Bernard, leaving his two passengers alone together. Bernard tried to make small talk, which was his first mistake.

“You could do better,” Damian said, interrupting whatever mundane topic Bernard was babbling about.

Bernard’s small talk screeched to a halt. “Pardon? Better than what?”

“My brother.”

“On Monday you said he wasn’t your brother,” Bernard says, his voice hesitant.

Damian ignores the remark. “Drake does not have a good reputation when it comes to romantic relationships.”

“He’s been doing well with me.”

“He is still very close to one of his ex girlfriends.”

“Oh, Stephanie?” Bernard asks, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I know about her, little man. It’s all good. We’ve met, we’re good.”

Damian looked royally pissed off at the little pet name, but he didn’t mention it. “Fine. Then I suppose I should threaten your life if you hurt him?”

“Go ahead, bud.”

After rolling his eyes at the incessant nicknaming, Damian simply stated, “I could kill you if I wanted to.” With that ominous comment being left in the air, Tim got back in the car, groaning something about how gas prices were insane nowadays, despite having zero right to complain as someone who was both a Drake and a Wayne. Bernard pointed this out in some lighthearted way, and Damian could have sworn he saw traces of a smile on his big brother’s face when he did.

The remainder of the first half of the drive went as usual after the pit stop. Tim parked the car and walked Bernard to his front stoop so they could share a kiss. Damian hopped into the front seat before Tim could come back. And then they were off.

“Father let me do more field work,” said Damian.

“I don’t care,” replied Tim. Damian took that as an invitation to keep talking about the case, making Tim’s stomach knot up.

He zoned out to focus on his driving.

Driving through Gotham was always a nightmare, but Tim was used to it, it being the city he obtained his license in. The shitty roads and potholes were comfortable and familiar, to where he could basically turn his brain off completely as he drove. He would probably get overwhelmed by long and smooth country roads. He went around the circle quicker than usual, a mixture of familiarity and impatience taking over his body.

He wondered what it would be like if he could drive down these Gotham roads quicker, if the speed limit wasn’t always written as “slow as fuck.” Speed limits were merely a suggestion, Tim had always thought, but something about Gotham roads made him feel like the speed limit was keeping him alive. With the state of Gotham roadways, going too fast was usually a death sentence.

Or maybe just a breaking-every-bone-in-your-body sentence. He remembered watching really gruesome videos in his driver’s ed class of people getting seriously injured in motor related accidents. He still thought it was a little messed up to show a room full of mostly children gory videos, but that was just how Gotham rolled. Gothamites had usually seen worse, anyways. And at least they got their point across. Cars were death machines when used incorrectly.

It was so easy to end a life. If the car hadn’t stopped at the crosswalk it did, boom, two pedestrians, dead. If someone had run that red light, boom, more death. Tim took a moment to lament on all the possible atrocities that could be committed with a motor vehicle. It was sad, really. If he were to veer left a little too much, it would be all over for him.

It would be all over for him…

And Damian too. So he couldn’t. He couldn’t, right? That would be silly. And selfish. Letting himself perish and taking the innocent boy with him would be selfish. Although… Damian wasn’t actually innocent at all. So it wouldn’t be so bad to get rid of him. He had made some plans before while manic, so it wouldn’t even be too out of character for him to do. Would it?

No, no. As tempting as it was to ram his car into that lamp post, just for the thrill of it, he wouldn’t. That was stupid. Stupid.

“Drake!”

And still, the desire bubbles up inside in him, a familiar itch he was used to giving into, to scratching. It was the same feeling he felt when he was patrolling Gotham. What if he just jumped off the building? What if he let the villains have a few to many free hits and bled out on the pavement? Was if some of his bat-tech malfunctioned and backfired against him?

Damian was trying to get his attention and he knew it. He ignored him. It was probably some more hot air. Something about how he wasn’t worthy of the title of Robin. It was midterms week for god’s sake! Of course Bruce wasn’t letting him out on the field.

Though Tim distinctly remembered Jason fighting crime during his midterm week, and he suspected Dick had done the same all that time ago. He also thought about Duke, whom he was certain had midterms now, too. Was he also benched? Maybe Bruce just didn’t think he was capable of multitasking. Oh, he’d show him. Maybe he’d start helping with the Freeze case after all. He could study the case files along with his schoolwork, it would be perfect.

Before Tim could even understand why, he screamed. He thought it was kind of funny. Screams usually come last, not first. Damian screamed too, but not out of fear. Anger.

The brakes of the car were pushed to the floor, the engine groaning in discontent. Before Tim could catch his breath, smaller hands were reaching for him, hitting his shoulders, and not in a way that anyone would consider playful.

“Were you trying to kill us?!” Damian seethes. “We could have been dead! Out of all the ways we could die, this would have been the stupidest!”

Tim sighed and halfheartedly countered Damian’s less calculated than usual attacks as he assessed his situation. Immediately he realized he was on the wrong side of the road. Fuck, since when were the lines dividing the lanes double yellow? He could have sworn they were dotted white just a moment ago. There was also a stop sign directly in front of his hood. The sign was reassuring in a way, Bruce would have killed him if he crashed his car. Well, maybe not. More so if he killed himself and Damian with this accident. Tim imagined getting dipped in the Lazarus Pit just to be killed again.

Tim took a breath and listened. First he heard Damian’s bitching, a sound that he was always incapable of tuning out. He was still on the “this proves your irresponsible and explains why father doesn’t bring you out on patrol anymore” train of thought, which Tim knew deep down wasn’t true, but would be lying if he said he didn’t frequently entertain it as a possibility.

He also heard cars beeping at him, so he quickly moved his car to the correct side of the road, continuing his trek back home. Damian stopped hitting him as the car moved again, thankfully.

As he drove, he realized he also heard piano, which made him groan and turn off the radio. Damian immediately turned it back on.

“You know I hate driving to the classical station, Damian.”

“Oh well,” Damian said, guarding the car’s volume button to keep his music on. “I want to keep listening to Bach’s fourth Prussian Sonata.”

“J.S. Bach can kiss my ass.” Tim didn’t necessarily have anything against Bach, but he had everything against Damian.

“C.P.E. Bach, Drake. There’s a difference.”

“He can kiss my ass too.”

Damian moves his hand away from the volume button and slumps back in his seat with his phone. Tim allowed the music to be played, just this one time.

“I hope that Pennyworth takes your license away after he hears about this,” Damian mumbles. Tim went wide-eyed.

“He will not be hearing about this,” Tim threatened.

“Trust me. He will.” Damian had on a slight grin as he continued to do whatever he was doing on his phone.

At this point, Tim didn’t want to fight it any further. He was already failing at everything else, why not this, too?

He was so dead, and not in the way that he felt would be comforting.

“Or maybe I should tell your boyfriend,” Damian tested.

Tim swallowed. “My what?”

The manor wasn’t very far away by now, Tim just had to push a little farther, and then he was free to sit on his bed and stare at the wall, while feeling bad about not studying, but not doing anything about it. That was how it usually went.

He pulled into the driveway, reaching up to his rearview mirror to push the button that opened the garage. Upon seeing a motorcycle parked in his spot, he grumbled something about being annoyed and closed the garage door again. He’d have to deal with his car being left out to the elements. Damian voiced something about Tim deserving it.

The motorcycle was annoying, but it most likely meant that Dick was in town. Tim liked when Dick was in town. Dick was a good buffer from it all. A good brother.

But it wasn’t Dick, was it? Tim wouldn’t be able to get what he wanted that easily, it never just worked like that. No, Tim had to have the absolute pleasure of walking into the kitchen and seeing Jason fucking Todd eating an apple by the countertops. He always ate the core, who the hell eats the core of an apple? Damian had gone somewhere, Tim couldn’t find it in him to care. He crosses his arms and something implores him to speak.

“Last time you were here you said you were never coming back,” Tim said, his voice smooth and even, trying to feign a cool demeanor.

Jason throws his apple core in the trash, thank god. “I also died once. And here I am. Not dead.”

“Does Bruce know you’re here?”

“He invited me.”

That sent Tim’s mind into a spiral, but really the only question he could think of was “why?” He knew they were on better terms now, but the word ‘better’ was not synonymous with the word ‘good.’ Maybe he skipped a few chapters in the Jason Todd and Bruce Wayne narrative, but he didn’t expect to see Jason in the manor. Red Hood in the Batcave was never too surprising, but Jason in the manor was something else. It was like Clue, especially with the whole murder thing Jason had going on.

“You must be really out of the loop with the Mr. Freeze case,” Tim heard a voice say, making him flinch. The voice was Damian, the sneaky bastard. And that was his explanation? The Mr. Freeze case was not an explanation. Tim really needed to get his hands on those files, it was torturous at this point not to.

Tim just stood there, things were moving too quickly. A few minutes ago he almost killed himself and Damian in a car crash, and now boom, no warning, Jason Todd in the manor’s kitchen. Of course there would be more warning if he was working on the case like he felt he should be doing, but of course he had midterms. That was right. He had to study.

“Ooo,” Jason taunted. “Is the replacement about to become the replaced?”

Damian. Tim knew very well he was destined to be completely replaced by Damian at some point.

Tim rubbed his eyes and started walking off without a word. If he was giving no warnings and late explanations, so would they. Though the real reason was his fatigue and need to be in his bed.

Damian called out to him. “Father isn’t even letting you look through the files?” he asked. It sounded both mocking and genuine. If it were anyone else, Tim would almost be confused. Since it was Damian, it was safe to assume that he was being mocked.

He swung open the door of his room, ready to zombify himself for an hour or two before he stressed out about not having studied for hours. But then there was Alfred, standing over his bed and fixing its sheets. Tim felt nothing but thankful for the man making his bed, but god, interacting with another person right now would be the death of him. Which was stupid, he knew he was overreacting. It was just Alfred. It had just been Jason. And it had just been Damian. And his goddamn boyfriend. He’s dealt with all of them before, but now it made him feel nauseous.

“Thanks,” Tim croaked out, motioning to his bed.

Alfred completely ignored the gratitude. “Damian messaged me about what happened in the car.”

And Tim could feel the tears coming. He just wanted his bed, that was all be wanted. No Bernard, no Alfred, no Damian, and especially no Jason. He still barely comprehended why Jason was here. Today felt hazy. Why was Jason here? Mr. Freeze? What?

“You’re not in trouble.” Tim let out a breath of air he was holding tight in his chest as Alfred told him that. “I believe Damian is blowing this out of proportion. But be extra careful next time.”

“Alf, I just—“

“I’m going, I’m going,” Alfred interrupted. “I know how you like your space.”

Sat on his bed, Tim thought through the afternoon, trying to process the thoughts he had neglected to process before. Maybe that was why everything felt rushed and overwhelming, more so than usual. He absentmindedly scratched at his wrists. The scars were on his thighs as always, but phantom ones tended to sting on his wrist.

When Tim looked up, Alfred was gone again. At least someone understood he liked to be alone.

Chapter Text

Tim Drake has always been a boy who, for the most part, knew how to get what he wanted. Today was no different.

He stood by the chocolate fountain (he had planned for a dessert table to stand by, but there was none), fiddling with his tie that hadn’t been untied in ages, waiting for his victim. Victim was a strong word, but it felt cooler and more serious. Dare he say Robin-like.

This was the second gala Tim had tried executing this plan at, his third gala overall. It was his admittedly sad way of trying to lure his gala friend over. Could he call Jason his gala friend? He hoped so.

The first time he tried this tactic was a bust, mostly because none of the Wayne family attended the gala. After watching the news Tim learned about a large bank robbery that had been stopped in Gotham that evening. He reasoned Batman and Robin were on the case, explaining away the absence of Bruce and Jason. At least he wasn’t being avoided by the boy he’s only formally seen once. Tim’s seen Jason as Robin more than that, even had a few pictures as evidence, but that was irrelevant.

He hadn’t seen any signs of Bruce at the gala yet, but that didn’t have to mean anything definite this early. Perhaps he would be fashionably late like all playboy billionaires should be. It matched his character.

Tim skewered a piece of apple and waterboarded it in chocolate for way too long to suck on. It was soothing, and damn did it taste good.

When he went to actually eat the apple, it was gone. He looked up and saw a smug-faced Jason Todd with chipmunk cheeks, which grossed him out more than it excited him to see his friend.

“That was in my mouth!”

Jason only blinked. “What?”

“It was in my mouth!”

“Gross, man!”

“You ate it, you’re the gross one!”

Grossed out and accusatory stares devolved into laughter as the two boys started to absolutely fuck up the chocolate fountain together. Tim continued his routine of sucking the chocolates off of the fruit he skewered, which Jason commented was absolutely disgusting. Tim just stuck his tongue out at him.

“Who’s this boy, Jay?”

If Tim didn’t know any better, he would have thought that voice belonged to Bruce Wayne. But Tim absolutely knew better, his eyes beaming when he heard the familiar voice of Dick Grayson. A former Flying Grayson. The Eldest son of Bruce Wayne. The first Robin. Nightwing. The Boy Freaking Wonder. At a gala. With him. Which was absolutely crazy. And exciting. Even more exciting than meeting Jason was, no offense to him, of course. Jason was absolutely a cool and effective Robin, but nowhere near as cool as the original was, at least in Tim’s heavily researched opinion.

“The Drake kid,” Jason says in between bites of chocolate covered melon. “We’re-“

“Friends,” Tim interrupts. “I’m Timothy Jackson Drake. But uh. You can… call me Tim.” There he was again, giving vigilantes his full legal name. He was being so stupid.

“Well hey, Tim!” Dick put a hand on what seemed to be his younger brother’s shoulder. “Jay, you should invite him over some time, hm?”

“How about this weekend?”

Before Tim could answer, before he could even start fantasizing about how amazing a day in Wayne Manor would be, Dick was shaking his head. “Not this weekend, remember? Bruce needs the manor for… his meeting.”

Meeting? With who? Maybe the Justice League, Tim thought. Why else would the entire billion dollar manor be off limits for something as simple as a meeting?

“We can do my place?” Tim offered, unthinkingly. When Jason seemed to like the idea, and Dick seemed to approve, Tim smiled.

“You think you can bring over some batteries?”

What an embarrassing request. Though to Tim’s surprise, Jason delivered, dropping a fistful of double A’s on the Drake household’s dining room table. Tim had been sitting at said table, looking at a collection of photos with a lighter. The only light in the house besides from the lighter was natural light, which was not much at this time of day.

Tim acted immediately, setting down his lighter and snatching up the batteries to put in a flashlight. He made conversation as he did.

“Did Grayson drive you here?”

Jason shook his head, eyes locked on the flashlight Tim was powering. “My butler did. Why? What’s so cool about Grayson?”

Tim shrugs, trying to not look too disappointed as he turned the flashlight on. It shone in Jason’s eyes for a moment before it was jerked away, Tim giving an apologetic look.

“I was a big fan of the Flying Grayson’s,” Tim answered finally. “And the circus in general.”

It was the partial truth. He really was a big fan of Dick in his Flying Grayson days. He even got a picture with him.

He redirected the light of the flashlight to the pictures he was looking at before.

“So uh…” Jason sat down near the younger boy. “What’re you doing?”

“Looking at photos I took from the bank heist yesterday.”

Jason shifted a bit, having more questions than he had before. Deciding to put those questions on hold for the time being, he decided to ask his original one. “Why’re you using a flashlight?” Perhaps it was some sort of photography thing.

“‘Cause last time I used my lighter as a light source, I singed my father’s favorite copy of Antigone. Don’t want a repeat of that.”

Jason winced. “My dad would kill me.”

“My dad almost did.”

A simple phrase, but said by the young Drake boy it was haunting. Jason cleared his throat. “But… that wasn’t what I meant. I just was wonderin’ why you aren’t using the ceiling lights? Is it a weird photography thing? A sensory thing?”

The boys eyebrows scrunched together, genuinely not understanding the older boy’s point. “Huh? No. My parents are out for the weekend and forgot to pay the electricity bill,” Tim says simply, in a way that showed he’s been through this before.

“Oh.” Jason’s brows furrowed too. He knew the Drake family had more than enough many to pay the electricity bills of multiple households, so why they didn’t now was confusing. How could they forget something so easy to remember? Even Bruce remembered to pay all of his bills on time, and he had to juggle being the CEO of Wayne Enterprises and The Batman. If someone as stretched thin and all over the place as Bruce could do it, Jason reasoned anyone could.

“So… bank heist photos?” Tim nodded, spreading them out so his older friend could see them more clearly. He saw pictures of the robbers, pictures of some police officers… then he saw pictures of himself and Bruce, donning their Batman and Robin attire. They were so closeup, so detailed… how had they not spotted the Drake kid?

Jason tried his hardest to keep a straight face.

“I take a lot of the dynamic duo,” Tim explained. “I did more so with the original. Batman is on his second Robin now, I figured out. The first Robin’s Nightwing now. Isn’t that neat? Not everyone knows that, apparently.” The boy had this crazed look in his eyes Jason just couldn’t understand. His gaze was sharp, purposeful. As if he knew more than he was saying…

“But yeah!” Tim’s eyes softened, almost teasing Jason, making his double guess what he saw just moments ago. “These are just the recent ones. I take pictures of other things too! Like landscapes and stuff. You wanna see?”

Jason just nodded.

- - -

Tim couldn’t sleep. There were needles under his skin and termites in his brain. He had laid in his bed for about an hour, but was forcibly ripped up from his scratchy sheets by the nagging feeling of needing to vomit his guts out. He ran to the bathroom, only getting out a few dry heaves.

This was basically his morning routine. And it was technically morning, 4:00AM. At this point, it would be a miracle if he got to sleep again before 9:00AM.

He didn’t even try.

There Tim sat, pathetically on the bathroom floor. He didn’t even try to ground himself, the memories of his last bathroom grounding session not sitting well in his swirling stomach.

A cold, citrus-scented breath was sucked into his lungs as his arm reached up towards the countertop. His legs were heavy and his arms were slowly catching up.

Down fell a small wired box full of nail clippers and other related items. Tim fished out the one that was his and got to work on his fingernails. If he was going to be stuck on the bathroom floor, he may as well make use of that time with the personal hygiene he was neglecting. Self care?

He got bored of the clipper about halfway through and ripped the rest of with his teeth, biting a little at his cuticles.

It was 5:00AM when he crawled up to sit on the closed toilet seat like some kind of animal, and it was 6:00AM when he willed himself to stand up. Moving was hard. Existing was hard. But if he was going to exist, he’d at the very least try to do something helpful.

He walked through the hallways of the manor he got to knew well, head turning at everything that caught his eye. A painting, a dog toy, a snag in the rug, a window… His eyes lingered on the window, taking in the foggy white exterior of the manor. It was snowing like crazy. If he got lucky, his midterm exams would be postponed, though that was doubtful.

The Mr. Freeze case files Tim was temporarily banned from studying must have grown legs and walked from the Batcave up to the drawing room and into Tim’s lap, because Tim would never disobey a direct order from Bruce Wayne. Oh well. Now that he had them, he might as well study them. It wasn’t his fault.

Tim reached over to flick on a small lamp. Nothing. Huh. The bulb must’ve been blown out. He tried another one. Again, nothing. Well that was coincidental. He tried the big light too, and there was still nothing.

He looked out at the snowstorm that raged outside. This wasn’t a coincidence, it was a blackout. So inconvenient.

Tim sat in an arm chair, the Mr. Freeze file falling back on his lap. He squinted, trying to think of a different source of light…

An hour went by, 7:30AM. He had read the files cover to cover twice, but hadn’t retained a thing. It was frustrating. He couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t work. What could he do?

Tim almost dropped all of the papers to the floor when he heard footsteps, but he composed himself enough to only drop a few.

“Tim?”

“Mm?” Tim greeted the voice, rubbing his eyes. A flashlight was gleamed in his eyes. He groaned in protest.

“Damn. Alfred told me you’re usually the last to wake up.” Once the flashlight was pointed away from his retinas, Tim saw Jason Todd standing before him. “I think you’re the first today.”

Tim shook his head. “I haven’t gone to sleep yet.”

“Yeesh,” Jason cringed. “Is that why you look so shitty all the time?”

“Good morning to you too, jackass.”

“The fuck are you burning?”

“What?”

“Burning. You were holding a lighter to some papers.”

Tim looked at his lap, then back up to Jason. “The lighter’s my light source. There’s a blackout.”

“I know that. That’s why I got myself a flashlight.” After another beam of light quickly flashed by Tim’s eyes, Jason slumped down on the couch, holding his flashlight up to a book. Tim sighed and went back to reading the files, lighter illuminating the text.

“If you start a house fire, Alfred’ll kill you.”

Tim rolled his eyes knowing very well he was still alive after the last house fire he caused. “Shut up and let me read the Mr. Freeze case.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, lowering his book. “The Mr. Freeze case? Damn. You’ll get quadruple killed.”

“Quadruple?” Tim sounded unimpressed.

“Quadruple. Once by Alfred for starting a house fire, once by Bruce for burning his case files, a second time by Alfred for bringing Bat work in the manor, and lastly a second time by Bruce for doing Bat work at all while you’re benched.”

“Jason, relax. I’ve been reading with lighters since I was like. Ten,” Tim explained. “I’m not gonna burn the house down.”

“You’re still benched.”

“You’re still ugly.”

“Ouch.”

Jason got his book out and positioned his flashlight just so. Antigone was the book name, Tim would realize. A good choice.

Tim had been reading the same paragraph over and over, forgetting to retain any of it each and every time. He was about ready to purposely set the case files on fire so he would stop struggling. With an overdramatic huff, he snuffed out his lighter and dropped the carefully paperclipped back on his lap. Jason observed his little fit from over the top of his book.

“I’m tired,” Tim announced.

“Go the fuck to sleep.”

“I’m too tired to go to sleep.”

“That makes zero sense.”

The boy with dark circles around his eyes ignored Jason’s retorts. “I’ve been reading that thing for like an hour.”

“Oh boohoo. You want a cookie?”

“No. Not finished. I’ve been at the case for an hour and I still have no clue why any of it pertains to you being here.”

Jason groans, but bites. His flashlight gets flicked off and his book gets set down. “Freeze got to my apartment complex. Alf offered me a room. Boom, here I am. Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one or some shit?”

“Midterm brain.”

“Ah,” Jason said. “Drop out.”

“I wish it was that easy.”

Tim leans back in the chair he was in, allowing himself the luxury of closing his eyes.

“It’ll probably take a while to defrost with all these cold weather warnings,” Tim speculated. “Freeze must have been really calculated when he chose the timeline for his attacks. And well. Even when the temperature lowers and the ice melts, it’ll cause some crazy water damage.” He arches his back slightly to stretch, letting out a yawn. “I wonder what his motive is.”

“Does the motive really matter? We just need to send this idiot back to Arkham.”

“I suppose.”

With a flick of the wrist, Tim’s lighter was back on and he was reading the case files again. Jason ended up looming over his shoulder, reading from it too. Tim put down his lighter, because the papers were now being illuminated by Jason’s flashlight.

“If you fall asleep before putting the files away…”

“Bruce’ll whoop my ass,” Tim interrupted. “I know. I’ll live.“

“Just warnin’ ya.”

Tim nodded groggily. He didn’t need a warning, and he especially didn’t need a warning from Jason Todd. He was smart. He knew the exact consequences his actions would have. It was just that he never usually cared about having to endure consequence.

His posture was worsening, and the heavy feeling he felt in his limbs a few hours ago made its debut on his eyelids. He needed to stay awake. He needed to keep working.

“I remember… Wayne Manor,” Tim said, half conscious of the fact he was even speaking. That didn’t go unnoticed to Jason.

“You high? Don’t you fucking live here? Timothy Jackson Wayne?” His full legal name. Almost.

“Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne,” Tim corrected. “Also. Not what I meant.” The papers were moved to the side table and the flashlight went out. It was pitch aside from the faint yellowy sunlight mostly muffled by the raging white blizzard outside.

“What did you mean?”

“Wayne Manor when I was like… before I was thirteen. When it was something unreal. Something I could hold, but something that always seemed to slip through my fingers.” Tim reached his hand out slightly. “Wayne Manor when it was magical and unattainable to me.”

There was a soft clunk. Jason must have put down his flashlight. “Do not get all poetic and dramatic on me. It’s weird.”

“Sorry,” Tim squeaked halfheartedly, his eyes half open. “I just… I dunno.” He yawned. “It was better when I didn’t live here. When I didn’t know I was romanticizing it. When you just… invited me over for playdates and I got to see this place and its people all rosy and idealized. We had sleepovers on the floor, right in this room…” Tim sounded wistful, as if he wasn’t all mentally there, part of his mind already pulling him into dream land.

Jason raised an eyebrow, though that couldn’t be seen well in the darkened room. “It was… better when Bruce had you have sleepovers with me?”

Tim hummed an agreement, eyes closing.

“So like. When your parents were away for the weekend and Bruce was terrified of leaving you alone like your parents repeatedly did? Those sleepovers?”

“That’s not… how I remember it… My parents didn’t…”

Jason heard Tim’s breathing slow. He must have been half asleep for most of the conversation, drifting softly into a full sleep now. The man who was awake grumbled in annoyance as he looked at the pathetic boy who was fast asleep on the arm chair in front of him. 8:30AM, a win in Tim’s book.

Tim woke up well into the afternoon. The case files he had with him when he fell a sleep were oddly not present. Someone must have put them away for him.

Chapter Text

Tim loved Jason. He felt some sort of brotherhood with him that he’s never felt with any of his other friends. Jason looked out for Tim. Jason always laughed at Tim’s jokes. Jason never judged too hard. Jason knew that everybody had to work with what they were handed, and sometimes, what they were handed wasn’t pretty, even if it looked perfectly normal outwardly.

Jason was a constant. He was almost a guarantee at any gala, especially a Wayne endorsed one. Jason always invited Tim over to his house. They seldom hung out at Tim’s place after that first time. Jason said Bruce felt that Wayne Manor was better suited for their playdates and sleepovers. Tim didn’t understand, but was happy to get out of the house.

“Bruce is so unfair!” Jason would complain, his face contorting in a familiar way as he turned in his sleeping bag and crossed his arms.

“So’s Jack!” Tim would have on a shit eating grin while Jason would soften, feeling all proud of himself for being the one to get his younger friend to refer to his parents by their first names. Question authority and all that.

Robin wasn’t as much of a constant as Jason was.

Tim loved Robin, though he could never get as close. Ever since he had shared his pictures with Jason, he had less success tailing Robin and Batman. That was understandable. It just solidified his “Jason Todd is the second Robin” theory even more.

(Though he knew it was more than just a theory already. It was a fact.)

He couldn’t quite say he didn’t enjoy getting caught. Part of him liked the attention from his idols, even if it cut his time tailing them and getting new pictures short.

Batman would groan when he spotted the eager Drake, pinching the bridge of his nose with his index finger and his thumb.

“Kid, we’ve talked about this,” he would say.

Tim would just smile and let himself be escorted off of whatever rooftop he had scurried up and brought back home. He never learned.

On Fridays, Tim would never go out vigilante hunting. On Fridays, he would sit by his open window, gazing out at the dark, polluted, Gotham sky. He gripped his camera expectantly, waiting for the star of his Friday evening to make his appearance.

If Tim stayed up late enough on Fridays, he’d always see a flash of red, green, and yellow. Sometimes he would snap a picture, but they all came out blurry.

He was so thankful for living by Wayne Manor. If Jason would always grapple in its general direction late on Friday nights, assumedly coming back from patrol, he figured Batman must have a secret hideout right below it.

It gave him hope, seeing his hero get home safe and sound at the end of every week.

It was midnight. Robin always came home before midnight, but there was no sign of him anywhere. Maybe he was still out fighting?

2:00AM. Tim was still awake, clutching his camera until his knuckles turned white and his fingers were dusted with red. No red. No green. No yellow. Batman would never let his son out this late.

That’s when it hit him. Robin must not have been out at all. Perhaps he was at home with a nasty cold. He thought back to the last gala he saw Jason at, remembering a sneezing boy with a reddened nose.

Tim calmed himself down enough to go to bed. He would live without his weekly Robin picture just this once.

Jason wasn’t at the next gala. Good, Tim thought. The poor boy needed some rest if he wanted to recover.

Another Friday went by. No Robin. Tim told himself Robin still must have been sick. Maybe it was the flu.

Then there was another Robin-less Friday. It was getting so much harder for Tim to lie to himself. He took pictures of the empty sky, hoping Robin would magically appear in them once the film developed.

On a Saturday, Tim came down from his room for breakfast, head full of Robin and Jason. His mother was brewing coffee while his father sat at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper.

Tim’s heart caught in his throat as his eyes betrayed his brain by reading the headline on instinct.

“Bruce Wayne’s Young Ward: Officially Dead.”

He didn’t touch his camera for a while.

Chapter Text

Day after day Tim would drive his little brother Damian home from school, and day after day the first part of the car ride would be the same.

Damian hopped in the back seat. Bernard had a one-sided conversation with him. Bernard leaves. Damian hopped in the front seat. After the gas station incident, this peace was restored. Somewhat.

Damian felt a lot less tense around Bernard. But Bernard started feeling a lot more tense around Damian. Good, the young Wayne would think. That’s exactly how he liked it. His brother’s boyfriend shouldn’t get too comfortable.

None of this went unnoticed to Tim, but he didn’t think anything of it. He felt a little tense around the demon brat too.

Actually, he wasn’t sure he could even say that anymore. These rides home were starting to get tolerable, maybe even pleasant. Though that wasn’t something he would admit to Damian or Alfred.

Before driving away from Bernard’s house, he realized some pretty prominent sneaker prints on his backseat area, center console, and passenger seat. God forbid Damian move from his seat in the back to the passenger seat by exiting and reentering like a normal person. Of course he had to climb over everything with his muddy shoes.

“Use the door next time,” Tim said, starting the car.

Damian shook his head. “If you have a problem with it, I’ll start taking the bus home.”

“No shot.”

Despite what he said, Tim had a revelation. Damian could just use the bus. Why wasn’t he? He knew it wasn’t because Bruce or Alfred had issues with the bus system. Before Tim got his car, he would always take the bus on days Bruce and Alfred were too busy to pick him up personally.

Maybe Damian just hated the bus? That was also unlikely to effect anything. Tim hated the bus too, it was too overstimulating, but still he was forced to use it if worst came to worst. If he wasn’t coddled, why would Damian be coddled?

Tim grimaced at the thought of Damian being treated better than he had been. He wanted to matter that much. Why didn’t he matter that much?

He remembered that Duke took the bus to school, but for some reason he preferred it, so that didn’t mean anything.

Damian was leaning back in his seat, working on a sketch in his sketchbook. “I still do not understand why you are the one picking me up from school every day,” he said, sketching away.

Tim shrugged. He wasn’t exactly sure either. “I told you. Alfred’s been busy lately.”

“I know… but I could have been taking the bus. I mean, I am grateful not to, but it was still a viable option. Father also could have been the one to pick me up.”

Tim shook his head. “Nope. Bruce is busy with the company this time of day.”

“No he isn’t.” If Tim wasn’t being a good driver and keeping his eyes on the road, he would have seen his little brother’s eyes roll.

“Yes he is. Alfred said so.”

“I wouldn’t trust Pennyworth that much.”

“He wouldn’t lie to me.”

“He did.”

The car rolled into the driveway (not the garage, Jason’s stupid bike was still in his spot and it was pissing him off), coming to a soft stop. Tim sighed, turning his car off.

“Explain.”

“I have Father’s schedule. Now is his free time. He specifically made it free so he could pick me up from school if necessary,” Damian stated in true Robin fashion, as if he was reporting back to Batman after a long mission.

“Prove it.”

“You’re being childish.”

“I don’t care if I’m being childish. Prove it.”

Damian groaned in annoyance, but then paused, putting down his pencil and closing his sketchbook. He had on a small smirk, the smirk he wore when he was trying to pull one over on you. He folded his hands in front of him like a good Wayne should.

“Take me out of school an hour early tomorrow so we can spy on our father and—“

“Done.”

The smirky grin on Damian’s face fell, a slightly ajar mouth and widened eyes taking its place. He was practically glowing. Well, as much as Damian Wayne could glow.

“You mean I get to miss math class?”

Getting Damian out of school was easy. All he had to do was think of some half-assed excuse as to why his little brother needed to be home immediately. What was the nice office lady going to do, question a Wayne? Tim was sure Damian’s teacher would be happy to be rid of him.

Maybe that was a little harsh.

Damian started complaining as soon as his butt hit the back seat of Tim’s car. He said he hated his math teacher. His math teacher was nowhere near qualified enough to teach the subject. His math teacher was obviously out to get him. Tim and Bernard— whom Tim gave a similar excuse as he gave the office lady— nodded along to the boy’s turmoil as they remembered the struggles of middle school.

When Bernard was gone, it was game time. After buying some stake-out food at Batburger, Tim pulled into the fast food chain’s parking lot to get to work.

The night prior, Damian had snuck a bug in their father’s office, just a small camera in a discreet place. Tim ran the feed through his school laptop, placing it on the dash. The two boys leaned in, watching the screens intently as they chomped down on their burgers— one veggie, one not— and slurped down their lemonades. Nothing. Bruce wasn’t on the screen at all. Damian sighed, pushing back in his seat.

“I told you he isn’t doing work.”

“Give it a minute.” Tim sucked on his drink, biting at the straw a bit.

The two stared longer at the Bruce-less room. Alfred assured Tim that Bruce was working at this time of day. There was no chance he was working in a different room, Bruce needed his routines to be exact and the same every day or else he freaked out. Tim could relate to that.

“There he is! Damian, look. I told you.”

What do you know, Bruce made his appearance in his office, wheeling his chair close to his desk.

“He’s on his cellphone,” Damian said, balling up his wrappers. Bruce was indeed, sitting at his desk, tapping away at his cell phone.

“So?” Tim asks, zooming in on the video recording of their father, examining it. “We can’t see the screen. He might be doing work on it.”

“On his phone?”

Tim shrugs. “I’ve written a ten page essay on my phone through speech-to-text. I wouldn’t rule it out.”

“You have issues.”

“Oh, he’s turning. Damian, look, he’s turning.”

Damian squinted at the screen, trying to catch a glimpse of his father’s phone. “Candy Crush,” he concluded. “Father’s playing Candy Crush. Pennyworth lied to you, case closed.”

“Why would…” Tim squinted too. Candy Crush. Candy Crush was not a valid reason not to pick up your youngest child from school. Did Alfred know about this? Tim scoffed, collecting his and his little brother’s trash into one bag to throw out when they got home. Of course Alfred knew. Alfred knew everything that went on inside the manor. At least that’s what it seemed like.

Tim was about to close up his laptop, but his hand stopped before he could even touch it. He was staring at the screen, sure, but he didn’t expect the screen to stare right back at him. Fucking Bruce was staring right back at him. ”A camera?” was mumbled. Shit. Shit. Bruce gets closer, does something unseen by the view of Damian and Tim, and the screen goes completely dark. Tim closed his laptop quick and shoved it in his book-bag.

“Oops.”

“Oops?” Tim took a breath to keep his composure. “Seriously?”

Then Damian’s phone rang. Bruce.

Desperate eyes were shot in Tim’s direction. Which was odd, Damian was never one to beg or plead. He always faced his consequences head on. But this time… Tim recalled Damian getting in trouble a few more times than usual this month. Spying on his father like this may be the last straw. Ah, fuck it.

Tim snatched up Damian’s phone and answered the call from their father. Apparently Bruce has noticed the camera Damian had used to spy on Bruce had his initials on it. Great.

When the call was over, Tim tossed Damian his phone back and started to drive.

“Bruce was asking if you were skipping school, all pissed. I told him you had a tummy ache. So act like it when we get home or else we’re both screwed.”

Damian nodded. He quite liked not being screwed. “And what about the camera?”

“I think I convinced him you left it there by mistake.”

Damian nodded, staring out the window. Eventually, he spoke again. “I’m sorry.”

Tim’s brain short-circuited. What? Never in the history of ever had he expected his little brother to apologize to him. He had called him awful names, tried to kill him, beat him up good, but nothing came of it afterwards. Ever. What was different this time? A blaring difference was that there was nothing to be sorry for. If anything, Tim could think of a million things he did wrong.

Damian continued his apology beyond his vague “I’m sorry,” as if he had been reading Tim’s thoughts. “I’m sorry that…” Damian seemed to be thinking. “I’m sorry that Pennyworth has been lying to you.”

There was no way that was what Damian was originally going to apologize for, but Tim let it slide, just this once.

“Why do you think he could be doing this?” Damian continued, head now turned to look at his big brother more directly.

“Maybe he’s making me drive you home from school ‘cuz he… wants us to bond.”

The car got quiet. There was a tension lingering in the air, but it wasn’t obvious where it came from. Damian continued on Tim’s initial thought.

“It’s working.”

That’s what Tim proposed, but it wasn’t really what Tim believed. His brain was a whirlwind of thoughts telling him Alfred must have wanted him out of the house for as long as possible so he didn’t have to deal with Tim’s pathetic and annoying self. Of course Alfred wanted the fire hazard out of the house. It lined up well and it was logical, despite it not lining up well and being illogical. Tim wasn’t logical when he got to thinking like this.

Damian’s acting skills were subpar at best when trying to convince Bruce his stomach hurt, especially when he denied the Tums Bruce suggested much too quickly. Even still, Bruce seemed to believe the lie. Damian was an odd child, it wasn’t too far left field of him to act all awkward and suspicious about something completely normal.

Damian had requested help on his homework. His English class was having him write some sort of essay that involved his childhood, and he needed to come up with a realistic lie. It was odd. He only ever asked for homework help from Dick. It felt really good, Tim being needed by his little brother.

But still…

He ended up in the bathroom later that night, eyes bloodshot and wrists bloodstained. He didn’t even know how it happened. One minute there was a pencil in his hand, marking up his little brother’s work, then next there was a knife. The little wooden knife with his initials carved into it.

He looked at his arms, his wrists, his hands, suspended over the bathroom sink and tensed. He remembered how he was supposed to only do his thighs, how thigh cuts were easier to hide than arm ones. He was damn lucky it was on the cold end of fall, otherwise he wasn’t sure how he would rationalize wearing long sleeves to his over-curious family.

Maybe he was broken. People cut themselves for reasons, he just… did it to do it. Who the hell did that? He had a goodish “family,” a nice boyfriend, some cool friends, and an internship at Wayne fucking Enterprises. He was set. And still he felt sad. And still he felt hurt. And wounded. And broken.

A drop of blood fell to the bathmat. God, that would be a pain to scrub out. Tim sighed and washed his arms off. He scoured the bathroom closet for bandages and disinfectant, just wanting to get this all over with.

Bang, bang. Someone was at the door, sounding rather impatient.

“Open up!” said the voice of the boy who finished his English essay not too long ago. “You’re taking a million years, Drake!”

“There’s also a million bathrooms in the manor, pick a different one,” Tim sputters out as he kneels on the floor, desperately scrubbing at the bath mat.

“Only this one has my toothbrush! I need to brush my teeth!”

“Bruce has extras,” Tim said as he turned on the sink. The damn bloodstain…

“But I like the one in there,” Damian almost whined. “I don’t want to get used to another one before I have to.”

Tim understood that notion, he really did. He loved the familiarity of his toothbrush, hated when he needed to get a new one because his old one was too gross… but there was far too much blood and too many bandage wrappers, all too much evidence of what he had done, and Damian did good with evidence. Damian would know and Damian would squeal and Tim would be the laughing stock of the family. The attention seeking idiot who cuts for God knows why and hates his overly privileged life. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

His fingers wrapped around his shaving razor this time instead of his knife, and the bath mat fell back onto the floor out of his arms. One more time, and he could argue away the reason for the blood, the reason for the bandages. He lifted the blade up and felt himself gag. The thought of cutting himself again made him want to hurl, to the point where he had no clue how he was doing it so easily and eagerly mere minutes ago. He couldn’t do it anymore tonight, not purposely. Fuck.

Tim took out his shaving cream and lathered up his face carelessly, in all the ways Bruce had once urged him not to when he had taught him how to properly shave his face. The razor grazed his skin with reckless abandon, almost as if he was asking to get nicked— which he was. It wasn’t a surprise when it happened.

Onto the counter the razor went, and onto his face another bandage was applied, though only after he washed off all of the blood and remaining bits of shaving cream.

The banging on the door didn’t stop. His little brother was persistent, if anything.

Tim opened up the door.

“Finally,” Damian huffed. His arms were crossed as he stepped over the threshold, eying his favorite toothbrush. Though his eyes caught on something else afterwards.

“What’s with your face?” Damian asked.

“Shaving mistake,” Tim answered all too quickly.

“A rather unfortunate one,” Damian says as he motions to the bath mat. Tim winces.

“You’ll understand when you start having to shave.”

With a hum of acknowledgement, Damian walked to the sink. Tim stood still on the checkered floor as he watched his little brother brush his teeth. He saw the boy look in the mirror, squint at himself with that toothbrush he liked so much in his mouth. He was so cautious and precise with this easy and mundane task, it was almost cute. Damian spit in the sink and put away his toothbrush, turning on his heels to stare up at his big brother. No words were shared for a moment, it was as if they were both trying to read each other’s minds.

“I love you, Damian,” Tim spoke without thinking.

Damian’s nose scrunched up. Shit. “What?”

“I just… y’know. Wanted to say it before…” Tim paused and gulped back some saliva. “Before I can’t anymore,” is what he wanted to say, but he didn’t. Instead he said nothing.

“Before Pennyworth forces us to say it to each other?”

Tim exhaled deeply. “Yeah… that.”

Chapter Text

It had been a while since Jason passed on, long enough for everything regarding him to feel like one bad memory. Jason wasn’t a person anymore, he was a concept. A warning. A cautionary tale. He was a projection of Tim’s fate if he made a wrong move. Tim saw Jason every time he looked in the mirror.

He straightened out his cape and put on his mask, his reflection doing the same. After giving himself a nod, he was off.

“B, I’m ready, let’s go!”

Tim ran across the cave, letting his cape fly high and his worries go away. Bruce gave him a look that told him to slow down his running, but he didn’t. He was too antsy to be out and about, running rampant throughout Gotham City.

“Easy, easy…” Bruce said softly, pulling his cowl over his head. “Before we go, you think you can grab me three Advil? On top of my desk. Then we can go on patrol.”

Tim was running again before Bruce could even finish his sentence. He rammed into Bruce’s cave desk with an audible ‘oof,’ knocking over the bottle of Advil in the process. It rolled and rolled until it fell right into the slightly ajar desk drawer. That was peculiar. Bruce had that drawer locked up at all times…

Grabbing the pill bottle, Tim wasn’t too surprised when he saw the drawer’s contents for the first time. Boring paperwork on printer paper, manila envelopes stamped with the word “CLASSIFIED” in big red letters, and… notebook paper scraps?

Against his better judgment, Tim retrieved the ripped up pieces of notebook paper and started assembling them on the desk like a puzzle. It was ripped up bad, but not exactly torn to shreds. Light work for Tim.

Tim immediately registered the pen marks on the paper as Bruce’s handwriting. After getting all of the corner pieces situated, it would not have taken a rocket scientist to figure out that this was a letter. The top left corner said “To whom it may concern,” while the bottom left one was signed “Bruce Wayne.”

If it was all torn up and locked away in Bruce’s personal desk, it must have been something very private, something Tim absolutely shouldn’t read.

Morals like that haven’t stopped him before. He read it.

To whom it may concern,

If you are reading this now, I have died by my own hand. I know this sounds out of character for me, but it is completely true. This is not a ploy to fake my death. I promise you that I am utterly and completely dead.

Now that that is over with, I will get into the why. Why did I do this? There’s a lot of reasons, really. Mostly, I feel that I’ve already done all I can for Gotham. I’ve peaked, and it is only downhill from here, that is clear to me and has been for a while. This is the final thing I’ll do for my city.

Tim swallowed two Advil tablets himself. His head was starting to hurt.

The rest of the note was sectioned off, each part calling out different people.

Alfred, you were the best butler a man could ask for, and a damn good mentor. You’ve been there for me when I was at my happiest, and then helped me through my darkest moments, and I thank you for that. I know you will think this is your fault. It isn’t, please don’t feel guilty. It was all me.

Dick, I don’t even know where to start. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not being the person you needed. I’m sorry we fought so much. I’m so proud of everything you’ve accomplished without me, don’t ever think otherwise.

Tim, I haven’t known you for long, but I really wish you didn’t have to be Robin. You don’t deserve any of this.

And finally, Jason. I can’t wait to see you again, buddy. I should’ve been there for you more. I should’ve told you that I loved you. I hope I’ll be able to do that now.

Tim’s hands were shaking.

In any sort of event of my death, Alfred knows what to do, so make sure he is able to read this if he is not the one reading this already.

I’m sorry everyone. This is nobody’s fault but mine. Goodbye.

Bruce Wayne

Tim sat with that all for a moment. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to be Robin. And wait, what was Bruce planning? Well, he must not be planning it anymore, the paper was all torn and crumpled. This wasn’t a suitable note to give out to anybody.

He tried his best to breathe. It was okay, Bruce wasn’t going to die. Tim just needed to try harder, be a better Robin. Bruce would be okay if Tim just stopped being such a disappointment all the damn time.

He messed up the papers again and threw them back in Bruce’s desk, trying to make them look the same as they did before. He needed to make everything the same as it was before.

Three Advils were rushed over to Bruce as quickly as possible. Now Tim just wanted to get this patrol over with.

- - -

Tim was jealous. Tim pretended not to be jealous, but it was obvious to anyone with half a brain that he was. Watching his “family” bustle around the manor because they found a major lead on the Mr. Freeze case was exciting, until he was politely reminded by a certain butler that he was benched and could not suit up and do some field work for the first time in almost a month.

He was advised to study up for his last few exams. God, study was all he did nowadays, when he did anything at all. He coasted by most of his exams already, not doing as good as he should have. Tim was absolutely smart enough to ace most of those tests, but he sucked at test taking. Tell him to create and solve equations to create the perfect aerodynamic batarangs? Child’s play. Tell him to solve a word problem? Torture.

At least Alfred was there. He sat with him for a while in the drawing room, explained the word problems in a way Tim would understand. He got him hot cocoa and told him how good he was doing. It was as if Alfred was doing everything in his power not to allow Tim to be alone.

Alfred promised that it was going to all be over soon. Tim agreed.

Though at the end of the day, Alfred was only human, no matter how much it seemed as if he was more. Soon he had to go to the bathroom, and Tim was finally alone.

He rummaged through his school bag until he pulled out his communicator that he had smuggled from the Batcave last night and stuck it in his ear. Tim wouldn’t be able to be with everyone tonight, but at least he could live vicariously through their comm conversations.

“—clear. You can walk through, but be careful.”

“Thanks, Nightwing.”

Tim groaned. Dick got to go, even if it was kind of out of his way to, and Tim didn’t. He was this close to dropping out of high school. This close.

“FUCK-“

There was a crash.

“Fucking ice. I hate fucking ice!”

Tim laughed, imagining Jason slipping on some ice and falling on his ass in full Red Hood attire.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch, listening to the vigilantes fight and struggle. It was soothing, somehow. His version of white noise. Though he wished he could be with them, kicking frozen butt.

“Master Timothy?”

Tim shot back up. Thank God he was growing out his hair, it covered the communicator in his ears perfectly.

“Yeah, Alfred?” He said to the butler who was peeking his head in through the doorway.

“I’m starting up dinner, are you alright to be alone?”

“‘Course I am, don’t worry about me.”

Tim lets out a sigh of relief and sinks back into the couch as Alfred leaves for the kitchen. That was close, but he tunes back in anyways.

“—are you, Robin?”

Hearing Bruce say that title, Tim almost spoke up. Damian’s sharp voice snapped him back into reality.

“I am sending you my coordinates now.”

He really was being replaced. That’s what it felt like, anyways. Nothing would be the same after this break, it never was. Any time he took a break, the aftermath was never pleasant. It always left him feeling less worthy than he already was. He was the weakest of the Robin’s after all. That was made abundantly clear time and time again.

“Hey everybody,” the loud voice of Oracle sent Tim out of his trance. “Just an FYI, I get a little notification every time one of you tunes into your communicator.”

Tim felt his face heat up. How could he forget that? He turns on his audio input just to relay a quick “I hate you.” Oracle laughed.

“Love you too, Drake. Study.”

The line went static.

Tim ripped the communicator out of his ear and threw it to the ground. So much for that plan.

He hated being in the dark. He wished Barbara just let him tune in instead of outing him to the whole crew. He just wanted to be involved. He hated being excluded.

As much as he craved alone time, Tim hated being alone. He didn’t trust himself when he was alone. He had impulses, awful terrible impulses, that were easy to slip into when nobody was around, or when he didn’t have a comm conversation to listen in on.

He stood even though his legs felt like lead, walking to the kitchen with heavy steps.

Alfred looked at him immediately. He gulped.

“What… you.. what…”

“What am I making?” Alfred offered, thoughtful. His voice was sweet, like honey. Tim nodded.

“Nothing crazy,” the butler answered. “I’m not sure if anyone else will be home at a decent hour tonight, so I’m just making some spaghetti. Would you like to help?”

Tim stood there dumbfounded. Alfred never let anyone but Jason anywhere near his kitchen, for good reasons. The casualties that would come of the batfamily having free reign over the kitchen would be insurmountable.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I should… studying…”

“You need a brain break. Come on, now. I’ll teach you my recipe.”

The kitchen smelled sharply of tomatoes and olive oil. Tim assumed he would be assigned to do something simple, like cutting vegetables, but Alfred didn’t let him anywhere near the knife. Instead, Tim was given a wooden spoon and asked to stir the sauce as Alfred seasoned it. He even let his lick the spoon when it was no longer needed.

With Alfred guiding his hands, Tim lifted the sauce pan, slowly pouring the homemade marinara into the pot of soft spaghetti. A little spilled out the sides and onto the stove top, but it was okay. Alfred said it was okay. Tim repeated that it was okay. It was okay. Really.

Until some of the sauce dripped onto Tim’s fingers, making him physically recoil. The texture was all wrong. The sauce pan slammed to the floor with a loud clank, spotting the floor with red as if this was a crime scene. Tim flinched, eyes forced open and aware, oh so aware.

“Oh dear…” Alfred said. “I’ll clean this up. Don’t worry.”

Tim nodded and bolted to the kitchen sink, turning both temperature knobs all the way up to clean off his hands. Marinara was one of the worst things he could get on his hands, the smell always lingered for too long. He used an absurd amount of soap as he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. He pulled his sleeves up to his elbows to really get in there, get rid of any sort of trace of the sauce.

Alfred had the mess on the floor cleaned up in no time, much faster than Tim took to clean the small mess on his fingers.

There was a moment where the two men just looked at each other. Tim looked at Alfred’s soft crystal eyes. Alfred looked at Tim’s exposed arms. There were so many words just at the tip of his tongue, but none would come out. He couldn’t say anything, no matter how hard he tried.

After a moment of realization, Tim pulled his long sleeves back over the length of his arms, shaking his head at the butler, as if saying, “don’t even go there.” Alfred sighed.

“Alfred did it,” Tim decided on. “Not… not you Alfred. The cat Alfred.”

“I… see…” Alfred said softly, not buying a single word of what Tim was selling him. “Why do you think he did that?”

“Huh…?”

“Why do you think Alfred the cat did what he did?”

“Um… ugh… he was overwhelmed? Maybe?”

“Why do you think that?”

Tim knew exactly what Alfred the human was doing, yet he continued answering his questions. “He probably just… wanted attention.”

“Do you truly believe that? Because I don’t.”

Tim was silent. Alfred sighed. Again.

“Maybe he’s hungry. Can you feed him, Timothy? I’ll finish the spaghetti.” Alfred smiled. “Thank you so much for helping me with it.”

Though he wasn’t any help, not really. He just lengthened the process, dropping the important ingredients on the ground and making a big mess. Then he overreacted about said mess. And now Alfred was hugging him. Fuck, he worried his butler who was already overworked as it is.

Despite this, Alfred the cat was well-fed, and soon after, so was Tim. And just as a cat would, Tim was out like a light after getting some warm spaghetti in his stomach. The butler would smile softly as he put the leftovers in little Tupperwares for the rest of the mouths he had to feed when they got home.

Soon enough, seven hungry bats came trickling up to the manor from the Batcave. Two more than Alfred had expected, thank God he made extras. It was like some sort of family reunion, so many people ready to beat Mr. Freeze’s ass.

“Doesn’t Victor Fries have his PhD?” Stephanie asked, spaghetti in her mouth. “Shouldn’t we be calling him Dr. Freeze?”

“We are not going over this again.”

Stephanie rolled her eyes at Bruce and continued to eat her meal like everybody else. For a room full of bats, it was unusually quiet, but that was only because their mouths were full.

“Good food, Alf!”

“Thank you, Dick.”

The mission was a success, and Mr. (Dr.?) Freeze was back in Arkham. It was all too easy, much easier than anyone expected.

Damian clinked his fork to his glass as if he was making a toast at a wedding. It was way too extra, but it got the job done. All eyes were on him.

“Drake is acting weird,” the boy stated flatly.

And suddenly, the room wasn’t so quiet. Everybody was talking over each other, with the exception of Bruce and Alfred who were giving each other a look. Damian clinked his glass again, louder, this time as if he was a judge using his gavel and asking for order in the court. Everybody shut up.

“He told me he loved me yesterday. Neither of us have ever said that to each other. Has he said it to any of you recently?”

“No. Thank fucking God.”

“Shut up Jason.” Stephanie throws a balled up napkin at his head. “Yeah, Dames, he’s said it to me recently, but he like. Always says that to me.”

Dick nods in agreement. “Me too. He said it like a few weeks ago, but that isn’t super abnormal.”

“He said it to me a few days ago,” Duke offers. “I thought it was weird, but I didn’t want to bring it up. Thought we were having a moment or something.”

Cassandra nods. “I went through similar as Duke did.”

Damian nodded back, taking in this information carefully. Then he stared at Bruce. “Father?”

“What?”

“Has Tim made his affections to you clear recently?”

“I can’t say he has, no.” Bruce stood up to put his dirty dishes in the sink. He makes a little head motion at Alfred, who follows him into the kitchen without question. Damian narrowed his eyes, but decided to leave his sudden departure be. For now.

Damian shifts his attention back to the table, now only full of his brothers-ish and sisters-ish.

“We have to investigate this.”

Chapter Text

“Drake. Dowd. You will not believe what happened this morning.”

Damian hopped in the back middle seat of Tim’s car, leaning up against the center console ever so slightly to be seen. Dowd, or Bernard, looked to him, while Tim understandably kept his eyes on the road.

“Go on,” Tim said.

“My science teacher subtracted five whole points on my test just because I doodled a little bit on the paper. Is that not ludicrous? Five whole points for a sketch of an eye!”

“Crazy.”

“Thank you, Drake. And that isn’t even the worst of it. He told me—“ Damian paused, squinting over the dashboard and out the front window. “Drake, you’re going the wrong way. You should have made a left to drop off Dowd, not a right.”

“Nope,” Tim said, popping his ‘p.’ “He’s hanging with me today. We’re studying for our last midterm."

“Studying,” Damian repeats, his voice incredulous as he leans back in his middle seat. “Sure.”

“Our chem midterm is literally tomorrow, shut up.”

Bernard nods.

The drive home was much quicker this afternoon, since there was no pitstop to drop off Bernard. Damian was satisfied with that, getting a few more precious minutes more to do whatever a Damian does. And Tim appreciated the extra few hours he’d be able to get with his boyfriend, even if they were just studying.

The two set up camp on the floor of Tim’s bedroom, door opened just a crack to appease Bruce. Whatever.

Bernard spread his notebooks and pencils and colored pens and markers on the floor. He took handwritten notes for whatever reason. Tim absolutely could never, plugging in his laptop and placing it on the floor by his boyfriend’s set up. Though he found all the color-coded paper notes endearing in a way.

“Do you have the unit four notes? I didn’t get many of those.”

Bernard snorted. “That’s cuz you were snoring at your desk for most of unit four, Sleeping Beauty.”

Tim snickered a bit too, remembering the random rush of late night missions he had been sent on during the time of unit four that Bernard knew nothing about. It was absolute hell and deprived him of way too much sleep, but it was kind of funny, looking back.

Bernard slid over his pretty ass notes, and Tim started copying them furiously into his computer.

Again, Bernard laughed. “You really gonna try to learn an entire unit the day before the final exam?”

“Yup. And you’re helping me.”

“Woe is me.”

“Mhm. You is woe.”

With an overenthusiastic slam, Tim’s computer was closed.

“Come on. Hit me with a question.”

“Hmm…” Bernard crossed his legs. “How do you calculate molar volume?”

Tim fucked around with chemicals all the time for his night job. This was a piece of cake.

“Mass density divided by molar mass. Boom.”

“Close. You flip-flopped it.”

Tim groans and lays on his back on the floor dramatically. Bernard smiles and closes up his notebook before he joins him in lying down. He turned to his side and poked Tim’s arm playfully. Tim didn’t look amused. Bernard sighed and shifted to lay on his back again.

In this moment, Bernard stayed quiet. Tim was like a cat. If you wanted him to tell you something, you had to wait for him to come to you, or else he wouldn’t say boo.

“I think I’m gonna drop out,” Tim blurted. There it was.

“You can’t drop out. Who’ll be my lab partner?” he teased.

“Bern, stop it. I’m serious. I just…” Tim groans and covers his face with his palms.

“Sorry.” Bernard turned on his side once again, facing his boyfriend. “You just what? Talk to me.”

“I’m so fucking burnt-out, Bernard,” Tim finally admits aloud, his hands now finding their way into his hair. “I bullshitted my way through my last few midterms, and I’m about to bullshit my way through my last one too. I’m done. It’s over. I’ve flunked out.”

“You haven’t flunked. There’s still time! A whole second semester I can help you through.” Bernard gave a hesitant smile. “You’re so smart, Tim. A bad test taker, I know, you’ve told me, but you can get through this. You’ll graduate.”

“I don’t think I’m going to even make it to graduation.”

“Sure you will.” Bernard’s smile became brighter as he pulled his boyfriend’s hands off of his face to hold in his own. “You’re cheating on this test, okay? I’ll make you a note flashcard to hide under your test paper.” He sat up, getting to work on Tim’s flashcard. Tim sat up with him, another groan leaving his mouth.

Tim worked on actually studying while Bernard cheated for him. He knew all this stuff, the technical names just screwed him up. After a while he sighed and closed his laptop again.

“Done. I’m getting an 80.”

“Which is a good grade…?”

“Nah.”

“You’re weird.”

Tim crosses his legs too and turns to Bernard, hands in his lap.

“You know how I’m on Demon-duty?”

Bernard rolled his eyes. “By Demon you mean your little brother?”

“Yeah. Well apparently Bruce is completely free to pick him up after school. Seems suspicious, huh?”

“Ooo… maybe he’s secretly a werewolf or something that only turns into his wolf form at that specific time of day.”

Tim blinked. “Not how werewolves work. They have something to do with the full moon.”

“Eh. Maybe not. You worry too much. Just… hm…”

Before Tim could make some kind of witty remark, he was being kissed by Bernard. Which definitely wasn’t the worst case scenario. He let himself sink into it, hands on his shoulders. He felt himself being pushed lightly against the side of his bed as they both still sat on his floor.

The kiss ended in fits of laughter as it usually did, mostly from Bernard’s side. Neither of them could take this kind of stuff seriously, but that’s what they loved about it.

“Y’know…” Bernard snickers. “The only chemistry I see around here is coming from Uranium and Iodine.”

“Uranium Iodide? In my room? More likely than you’d think.”

Bernard pushes off of Tim with a little shove. “I knew you’d say that, you jerk.”

“I knew what you meant.” Tim sits up straighter and steals one last peck from Bernard’s lips. “Mm, new chapstick flavor?”

“Lemon-lime.”

- - -

Like most nights as of late, Tim found himself in the bathroom. He was either opening up old cuts or making new ones. He grazed his knife across the oh so important veins in his wrist, fantasizing about having them spill open. But he never broke skin, oh no. He couldn’t do that. He wasn’t ready, not yet.

And part of him felt guilty. He was just now getting close and comfy with his boyfriend, he would probably be devastated. Maybe in a different universe Tim was able to live, Bernard by his side. The sensible part of him knew this was just a fling. Nothing ever came of high school sweethearts, did they?

Besides, he deserved to be selfish for once in his life.

Tim sighed, putting away his knife and turning on the sink. He hadn’t done any damage with the knife this time, only reopening old cuts with his jagged bit off nails he never got to filing.

He hated this bathroom. He hated this house. He hated this life. He curled in on himself, leaning on the floor.

5 things he could see: Darkness… darkness… His eyes were squeezed shut.

4 things he could feel: Numb.

3 things he could… buzzing… buzzing…

2 things…

1…

Tim let out an involuntary gasp, fingernails digging into his skull as he grabbed fistfuls of hair.

He just had such a good day with Bernard. Why now? Why now?

No matter how tight he closed his eyes, he could see the knife. He could see his mom. His dad. Even Dana sometimes, though rarely. He tried not to loop her into this.

He thought back to his first date with Bernard. It barely felt like a first date. Their initial friendship had already made them close, they already knew so much about each other and the lives they have lived.

“Why do you always keep that knife on you?” Bernard asked.

“It reminds me of my parents. A little keepsake, you know?”

“Oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just… I couldn’t imagine you actually wanting to remember.”

Remembering was painful. Remembering was hard. But remembering made him feel something. Remembering was the only thing that kept him sane. Or maybe it was what was driving him insane. There was such a blurred line between the two, and Tim loved to tango on it as if his life depended on it.

He remembered when he was fourteen. Or was it fifteen? He remembered his mom dying. He remembered his dad falling into that coma. He decided that he was dead that day too, despite it all ending up being much more complicated than that.

The first week was torture. Wayne Manor was sucked dry of any color and rose colored film it had ever had. Everything for Tim had felt much too real in that moment, and all at once.

He had just finished his Robin training. Though he also hadn’t. It had been about a year. Maybe less. Maybe more. He didn’t know for sure anymore. It hurt too much to think about.

Either way, his Robin training was over and his life should be taking off to start anew. But he was stopped before he could even leave the station. Why could he never leave the station?

His life ended just at 14 (or again, maybe 15), and he didn’t see it picking up again any time soon. Years have passed and he was still in this rut. Years of zero progress. Years of being a disappointment, and years of feeling like shit.

Though he wasn’t exactly sure his age, or even the days of the week, Tim remembered the events of that first, wretched, week as if someone carved it into his brain like a stone tablet.

Alfred smothered him. Bruce kept his distance. He wasn’t a big fan of either approach.

Alfred made him breakfast in bed on the days he didn’t want to get out of bed at all. Tim forced himself to eat it as to not be offensive to the butler. Alfred would constantly check up on him, make sure he was okay. Tim would force a smile and nod, he didn’t want to be a bother.

Bruce kept his distance. Though Bruce always kept his distance. Sometimes he’d talk about his own parents. Try to connect. It was an effort. Tim appreciated that he was making an effort at all.

On the fourth day, Tim found himself in the bathroom, washing his face for the first time since it all happened. Already was he starting to break out. He looked at himself and his blotchy skin in the mirror. He didn’t recognize who he saw.

His eyes fell on his pocket knife he had left on the bathroom counter, slightly damp from his careless face watching. He palmed the knife, tracing the carvings with his fingers. TD. It was so neat. His father must have worked hard to get it so neat.

His father.

Tim felt something in his throat twist. He wasn’t going to cry again. He couldn’t cry again. He swallowed, trying to control himself.

The knife opened up with a sleek ‘pop.’ Tim closed his eyes and clutched it tight, moving it closer… closer…

He pricked his pointer finger. Blood rushed, trickling down his finger and onto his palm. He watched the red liquid as it fell, shimmering in the unforgiving bathroom lighting. Tim was shaking, a sort of energy coursing through his veins that he had never felt before. A hunger. A need. It was a feeling that had only started presenting itself the first time he spilled blood to his own hand.

His life ended in that moment. He felt it. Somehow, that comforted him. Everything from that moment forward was leading up to Tim’s present. His first end leading up to his last end. Tim took the knife out of his pocket and held it in his hand.

Maybe he was ready.

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor has never been more alive, despite its occupants all being over tired.

Alfred was cleaning the dirty dishes made from breakfast.

Bruce was trying to help clean up said dishes, but Alfred was reluctant to allow him to.

Jason was loudly complaining about his still frozen apartment, not offering up any sort of help.

After Dick said his longer than necessary goodbyes, he was on his way back to Blüdhaven.

Duke was doing one last check of his backpack to make sure he had everything he needed before he hopped on the bus to his school midterms.

Stephanie was scavenging the cabinets for a post-breakfast snack as she debated whether or not she wanted to leave yet.

Cassandra was with Stephanie doing the same thing, though she was becoming pretty certain she was ready to leave with Steph.

Damian was standing by the door, tapping his foot and waiting for someone to remember they had to drive him to school.

And Tim was still in the bathroom.

Perhaps still wasn’t quite the right word for it, since hr had gone to sleep after his last bathroom escapade. He wanted to sleep on his decision to make sure he was making the right one. He was. His feelings of readiness carried over into the morning, which was something he fully expected.

He stayed in the bathroom through the way too early morning, knife opened at his side as he typed away in his notes app.

He felt he was ready, but knew he wasn’t really. Almost, but not quite. He had to leave behind something, even if it was quite cliché. He’s already been such a bother in his life, he wasn’t going to be a bigger one in his death. There were so many people he felt he should write to. Stephanie, Bernard, Alfred… maybe Bruce and Damian. And if he wrote something to Bruce and Damian, he’d have to write something for Dick too. And Duke. And Cass. Jason? Not Jason.

Tim sighed. If this was the last thing he was ever going to do, including Jason may not be so bad. Just a sentence or two.

Then Tim texted Bernard directly. He thought this was a good time to say his first and last “I love you.” Then he turned his phone off completely. He didn’t want a response. He didn’t need to know.

He was ready.

Again he blacked out. His hands moved quickly with the knife while his brain moved slow. He heard a banging on the door after a while, but he didn’t ever register what that could possibly mean.

He did register the door opening. He registered a body smaller than his grabbing at his arms, grabbing at his knife, his parent’s knife. That pissed him off, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.

“Stop…”

The person in the room with him didn’t stop. Tim’s eyelids fluttered. Ah. Damian didn’t stop.

“You’re supposed to be in school…” Tim said halfheartedly, an attempt to get rid of the unwanted person and allow himself to bleed out.

“You were supposed to drive me today.” Oh. Tim had forgotten. “And you’re supposed to be in school, too.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

Damian screamed and he pressed soft towels against Tim’s wrists, screamed more than Tim had ever heard Damian scream before.

Then he felt himself get picked up. Not by Damian, he watched Damian get further and further away as he was carried.

And he blacked out again. This time for real. No more thoughts, feelings… just darkness. Was this it? He hoped so.

Of course it wasn’t.

He woke up, aching, his eyes fixed to a familiar ceiling. Medbay. He groaned, trying to get his vision back.

He was alone, his throat hurt like hell, and most importantly, he wasn’t dead. Oh lord how he wished he was just dead.

The first thing he looked at was his arms. Stitched up. Great. He couldn’t even kill himself correctly. He’d have to research more next time. Get sneakier next time. Maybe he’d…

“Master Timothy?”

“Hey…”

Tim sat up. Alfred gently pushed him back down. Tim was already dreading what was coming next.

“I was just coming to check on you. How do the stitches feel?”

“Good. Thanks, Alfred.”

“Of course, I…” He was getting choked up. “I’m sorry. I should’ve done more.” No. No, no. Tim was ready to throw up. This was it. He was in for a week of people treating him like a baby and saying shit like ‘I should’ve done more,’ as if it had anything to do with them and not Tim’s stupid fucked up self. This was going to put him in more misery than he was already in.

But it was Alfred. Tim wasn’t about to be rude to Alfred. Even if he was a liar.

“Hm?”

“I was just saying…” Alfred sat by Tim, a wooden chair by his cot. It creaked on contact.

“I should have stepped in. I knew alerting you that I knew of this… issue of yours would have made it worse for you. I tried to help from afar.”

Hm. Tim would bite. “Like the helping me with my studying and stuff?”

“Yes, I suppose. I also tried to get you out of the house more. With Damian…”

Damian. Finally, it locked into place. That’s why he lied. Tim just tried not to cry. He nodded to show he was listening.

Alfred shook his head and stood up, sighing. “Nevermind that. I’m glad you’re alright. The others were wondering if you were alright with visitors?”

Tim nodded again.

“I shall let them know.” After a short bow of his head, Alfred was practically gone again.

This was going to suck. But…

“Wait, Alfred—“

Alfred turned. “Yes?”

“Thank you. Seriously.”

“Of course.” And Alfred smiled. And Alfred was gone.

The next visitors he had were Damian and Bruce, together. Tim inwardly groaned again. He could stomach each of them separately, but having to do so together was overwhelming.

“Damian. Go tell him what you told me.”

Tim sat up to face the younger boy, this time with nobody to push him back down. They looked at each other for a moment, silence as they stared each other down.

Damian left without saying a word.

Bruce sighed, sitting on the same creaky wooden chair Alfred had. “He was telling me earlier how scared he was, seeing you like that.”

Tim nodded. That’s all he could muster.

“Alfred’s been… telling me about how he thought you’d been cutting yourself? When did… when did that start?”

Tim shifted a little, picking at his stitches. Bruce’s gentle hand stopped him.

“After my mom died,” Tim admitted in a whisper. “But I started having the idea when…” He shut his eyes tight. Remember. Remember.

He opened his eyes. “Remember when I was starting out as Robin and I kept asking you about that locked drawer in your desk in the cave?”

It didn’t take long for Bruce’s eyes to flood with realization. “You got into it, didn’t you…?” Tim bit his lip. Bruce took his son’s hands. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I wasn’t going to leave you. I know you needed me. Hell, I probably needed you a lot more than I thought.”

“You never made me feel that way.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I want to do better—“

“Did you really mean what you wrote in your suicide note?” Tim interrupted.

“Which part…? I wrote that a long time ago, Tim.”

“The part where you said I didn’t deserve to be Robin. Or… something like that.” Tim looked at his sort of dad with glossy eyes, a look of innocence he really hasn’t had since the day he read that damn note.

Bruce’s voice wavered, squeezing his son’s hands. “You’ve carried that with you, huh?” Before Tim could answer, Bruce was speaking again. “I admit I wrote that. But I meant… in the sense that you didn’t deserve to have such an awful childhood. Such bad parents that lead you down the dangerous path of being Robin.”

“My parents weren’t…” Tim stopped himself, shaking it off. “So you…”

“I didn’t think you were a bad Robin. You were a good Robin. You still are, even if I think you could be so much more than that now.”

That was it, Tim couldn’t stop the floodgates from breaking open any longer. That’s all he ever wanted Bruce to say, really. He needed those words for so long, he needed to know he was good. And now he knew. It felt good and it hurt all at once.

Deep down he knew he was good. He made sure everyone knew he knew he was good. But sometimes everything hurt too much to feel good.

They hugged, and Tim lingered in the hug longer than he’d ever want to admit.

Jason visited next, soon after Bruce left.

“I brought cough drops. In case your throat hurts. Lemon cuz I know you like lemon shit.”

Tim’s hand reaches into the bag of cough drops Jason hands to him, because yeah, his throat was screaming at him right now.

“How would you know my throat hurt?”

Jason shrugs. “You were struggling a bit when I carried you over here. Sounded like you’d need them.”

“That was you?” Tim mumbled as he sucked on his cough drop. He looked at the bag. Mm, vitamin C.

“Yeah.” It was Jason’s turn to take a seat on that wooden chair. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I don’t really remember saying thank you, but yes, thank you.”

Jason nodded, then leaned back on the chair and turned on his phone. His phone. That reminded Tim, where did his phone go? And his knife. Where was everything?

Before Tim could ask this, Jason was clicking off his phone and talking again.

“You really scared the shit out of Damian.”

“Or so I’ve been told.”

“Me, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Almost reading his mind, Jason stands up and retrieves Tim’s phone from some unseen surface, tossing it to him.

“Contrary to popular belief,” Jason started, “I don’t want you dead.”

“That’s good. I guess.”

“Yup.”

“Where’s my knife?” Tim asks.

“I’ve been given strict instructions not to give it to you.”

“Oh.”

“Come on, don’t give me that face.”

Tim lays back down on his cot, taking stock of the stitches on his arm. He looked like a badly sewn up doll.

“Just toss it.”

“What?”

“Toss it,” Tim said, firmer.

“You sure you don’t want something to remember your parents by?”

Tim’s arms fell to his sides. “I don’t think they’re worth it.”

“Good. They were kind of shitty.”

“Were they?”

“Yeah.”

Tim heard a soft clunk and the crinkling of a trash bag. He was really able to toss it. Huh.

Not wanting to think on that too hard, Tim turned on his phone, which was a little harder than he expected since it had been completely turned off when he used it last. It started buzzing like crazy as soon it was turned on again, his phone being blown up by a million texts by the same person.

Bernard. Shit.

Tim’s fingers worked fast, typing that yes, he meant it when he said he loved him. Yes, there was something wrong, but he was safe now and he’d fill him in later. No, he wasn’t going to make it to school today and yes, he was missing his chemistry exam. Hopefully his teacher would let him reschedule. This was a valid excuse, right?

After he was done making sure his boyfriend was no longer freaking out over that ominous message he had sent at an ungodly hour, he went over to his notes app to delete his suicide note and any sort of remnants of its existence. Even rereading it himself sounded too cringey in the aftermath of his overall suicide failure, he could not let anyone else get their hands on it to read while he was actually alive.

He put his phone down beside him with a huff, at least a little satisfied now knowing that all of his digital affairs had been done with.

Jason sat down again on that same wooden chair. Tim sat up once more, trying to hold eye contact.

“So… Freeze case is closed?”

“Yeah.” Jason seemed to like this change of topic. Which was perfect, because so did Tim. “It was easy. Almost too easy.”

“Too easy?”

Jason hums noncommittally. Tim decides to let it slide for now.

“Ya know…” Jason leans forward, arms between his legs. “I’ve got some experience with dying. It isn’t exactly fun.”

“I know, Jason.”

Chapter Text

Tim was going crazy. Midterms were over and he was still benched, and if this was a hospital, he would describe what was occurring as suicide watch. He was never given a moment to himself, unless it was to change or go to the bathroom. When he did go to the bathroom, he noticed his shaving razors were gone. He just loved being babied. Treated like he was going to flip his lid and end his life if he wasn’t given any attention.

As soon as he had gotten out of the medbay, Tim was writing a desperate email to his chemistry teacher, basically saying “I tried to kill myself during exam time yesterday, can I please take the test at a later date?”

His teacher replied with a kindly worded, “No, a twenty four hour notice is needed to push back an exam date.”

What was Tim supposed to do? Send an email twenty four hours before the exam saying “I plan on attempting to kill myself tomorrow morning, if I end up failing my suicide attempt, would it be okay for me to take the exam at a later date?” Yeah, no. The whole point was not taking his final final exam.

Bernard and him were texting back and forth about how awful and disrespectful their chemistry professor was. Tim loved the shit talk, of course, but he felt a little numb to the concept of him being wronged. He did promise Bernard he wouldn’t be graduating, and he was pretty sure he just sealed his fate. Maybe that wasn’t so bad. He was a nepotism baby through and through, finishing high school wasn’t that important. Perhaps he’d at least get a GED.

He had told Bernard what happened. The suicide attempt, his recovery… Bernard called him immediately when Tim sent him a text about his attempt with the acronym “lol” stuck on the end, on the very urge of tears. Tim cried too, just a little. It was good.

Tim had also explained to Bernard how Bruce was making him take a few days off of school, which was honestly stupid. At this rate he should just drop out, the odds were against him. He was missing more instruction time and homework than he usually did, and he already usually missed too much.

But whatever. At least he was alive. Or something. That’s what he kept telling himself.

It was Tuesday, four days after the incident, and Tim decided to wake up at a semi-respectable time of day. He slugged his way to the kitchen for a can of his favorite energy drink. Normally Alfred would never stock the house with that “poison,” but after Tim’s attempt, it seemed to make a presence in the fridge. As much as Tim loathed being treated differently, he did love energy drinks.

Jason was in the kitchen already (why was he still here??), but Tim didn’t fret too much, wordlessly walking to the fridge and rummaging through it.

“What’s up, loser?”

Tim rolled his eyes and flipped Jason off. It was refreshing.

“Someone’s pissy.”

Tim emerged from the fridge, energy drink in hand. “How can I not be?”

“Says the guy being fussed over like he’s the king of Gotham.”

“Ha ha. Very funny, Jason. I’m totally in the mood for this right now,” Tim lifts the tab of his drink can and takes a sip, face blank and unchanging.

“Jesus,” Jason stepped backwards a little, out of instinct, “Chill out, I was just saying. Don’t expect me to treat you like some king just cuz you…” he let himself trail off, not daring to finish that sentence. It was better left unsaid.

Tim felt weak. Everyone was treating Tim like he was weak.

Bruce was doing more for Tim than he ever had before. Same with Alfred.

Duke kept asking if he was okay at the most inappropriate times.

Dick kept calling him and spam texting him like some kind of desperate ex.

Steph kept censoring herself around Tim, making their conversations completely different than they used to he. He understood toning it down on the “kill yourself” remarks they normally jokingly shared between each other, but she’d go as far as trying to shimmy her way out of saying harmless phrases like “that’s to die for,” or “she’s drop dead gorgeous.”

Cass kept giving him little crow-like gifts, and- Well. Honestly, that approach was sweet, he couldn’t complain too much about that. But everything else was demeaning.

On top of all of this, the being kept home from school, the babying, the censoring, Tim was still benched. It didn’t come as much of a surprise, but it still hurt. He was supposed to be back in work by Saturday. Now it was Tuesday and he had no clue when he would be back on the field, all because he tried to take his own life. As if he hasn’t been trying to do that for a while.

Despite being benched, Bruce was gracious enough to let Tim go through the post-mission reports so he wouldn’t go completely insane of guilt and FOMO.

Tim sat at the desk in his bedroom with a half drank energy drink, looking through everybody’s reports from Thursday night. Most of them said similar, that the job was a quick in-an-out mission and Victor Fries went into custody without much fight. His loss was willing, some wrote. Voluntary. Intentional.

Why would he give up so easily? And if it were intentional, what were his intentions? Nobody ever found out his intentions. Of course they assumed it had something to do with his wife as it usually did, but that was an assumption, and even if it did, what did it have to do with her?

He checked over everybody’s reports 10 times. 10 times! None of them gave him the slightest hint as to why Freeze was doing this. Did they even care? God, he knew one of them had to care about it, someone other than him. Bruce. Definitely Bruce. Or Dick. Maybe Tim was just so hyper fixated on this case that he didn’t notice a new and more important case surfacing. Maybe they were all so wanting to get this case over with because of something to do with Joker or Deathstroke or… something like that.

Tim chugged the rest of his energy drink and crushed the can, lobbing it somewhere in his depression-ish room that could thankfully never build into a full depression room because of Alfred’s help (and nagging).

He neatly put all of the reports into the folder he found them in, bringing them back down to the Batcave to be tucked away into one of Bruce’s many filing cabinets. He wasn’t sure what their use was when all of the records were also digital, but he knew Bruce was big on backups and contingency plans and whatnot.

The next thing Tim did was suit up. He didn’t care that he was benched, he needed to get to the bottom of this.

He was cautious not to take his motorcycle, wanting to leave the cave relatively the same as he found it so nobody would even notice he was gone. He would be quick, careful not to trip any alarms. He wasn’t even going to fight anybody. He just needed data.

He knew a lot of the crime scenes would be guarded by the GCPD, so he tried to avoid any of those scenes. He was trying to avoid Batman, not tip him off. The first crime scene was probably old news at this point? Tim just hoped it hadn’t melted over yet.

When Tim made it to the crime scene (some small apartment building), he was happily surprised with the lack of cops and surplus of ice. There was a lot of yellow caution tape, but Tim simply ducked under it. They were going to have to do a whole hell of a lot more to keep Robin out when he was really passionate about something.

Why hadn’t the ice melted over yet? Obviously it was winter, and winter was cold, but this ice was inside, and inside wasn’t as cold as outside. Tim supposed Gotham wasn’t exactly known for its good quality of life, so it wasn’t too far off to hypothesize that the heating in this building wasn’t enough to make a chip in the problem.

Tim imagined the GCPD coming in and trying to melt the place with hairdryers. That gave him a good chuckle.

He tapped a gloved hand on a stalagmite of ice that had merged with a stalactite. It was solid. He gave it a punch with his right fist and ow- that was a bad idea. He shook his hand, surveying the damage he did to the crude ice sculpture. It wasn’t much, just a few cracks here and there. Tim punched it again with that same fist, because maybe it just didn’t break because he was out of practice from all of his forced time off, but no, it still didn’t break with a second punch thrown in there. This stuff was tough. Double ow. He was praying he didn’t fracture his knuckles.

Tim switched strategies, opting to use his brains instead of his fists to observe the ice instead of using it as a punching bag.

The ice glistened in the cracks of light that came from the shattered windows of the apartment complex. It had an almost sparkly quality to it. And the smell… Tim really should have wafted instead of taking a sniff, because the odor made him feel a little faint. Gross.

He wedged his bo-staff into one of the cracks he made, hoping to break off just a little shard. Once he did, he carefully picked it up and tucked it away into a little vial he had brought with him. Lord how he hoped it would stay cold enough out for it to not freeze on his way back to the Batcave.

He made quick work to jump out of one of the shattered windows, but he was just body slammed back into the building by someone jumping into the window. How lucky.

Tim looked up at his attacker and groaned. “Hood, what the fuck?”

Red Hood got off of him, wiping himself up. Tim stood too, checking to make sure his vial was still in tact. He could finally breathe again when he saw that it was.

“You’re benched, Robin,” Jason said simply. “You shouldn’t be out.”

“Ugh, you sound like B.”

“Shut the fuck up. I do not sound like that old man.”

Tim sighs. “Sorry. Didn’t mean it.”

Jason grabbed Tim’s arm. “I’m taking you home. Next time you try to sneak out, don’t do it in the Bat-approved uniform. You know that shit has trackers in it.”

“Thanks for the tip, but,” Tim ripped himself out of Jason’s hold, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sure, Tim was planning on going home now before, but now that he was being told to, he felt the need to rebel.

“No,” Jason said sternly, grabbing Tim’s arm again, “You are. B sent me for you, you’re coming back home.”

Tim grit his teeth. “I’m not.”

“You are.” Just like that, Tim was being lugged over Jason’s shoulder like Santa’s sack of toys. He yells out, punching at Jason’s back. Tim was pretty sure he could get out of Jason’s hold, but he didn’t feel like getting beat up today, so he mostly played nice.

“If I put you down, do you promise to follow me home like a good little Robin?”

“Yes,” Tim lied.

“Cool. Still not putting you down, buy good to know.” Off Red Hood went back to the Batcave, an unruly Robin over his shoulder. He felt like he was Nightwing or something.

Tim internally pouted the whole ride home, arms crossed. This was humiliating.

Finally, Tim was given use of his feet again when they returned to the Batcave. Jason shed off his helmet, but Tim stayed suited up. It was the principle, even though his domino mask was starting to feel a little itchy.

“What were you doing over there anyways?” Jason finally asked. “The Freeze case is closed. You can, for lack of a better word… chill.”

“I wanted to check the chemical composition of the ice,” Tim admits, holding up his vile of ice that was thankfully still ice and not water or gas.

“Isn’t that just H2O?”

Tim shrugs, walking to one of the various pieces of lab equipment in the Batcave. “I have this gut feeling it isn’t. Maybe partially, but not completely.”

“What?”

“Like I said. Gut feeling.”

“You’re insane.”

“I know.” Tim carefully removed his ice sample from the vial with a pair of tweezers. “That’s probably why I’m so suicidal.”

Jason cringed. “Not funny.”

“Kind of funny.”

“Not funny.”

Tim didn’t respond, getting back to work. Jason stayed there, looming over his shoulder to snag a peak of what was going on. It was incredibly irritating.

“My parents really weren’t that bad,” Tim says, eyes still ahead of him and on the ice, not sparing a glance to his childhood friend. “You didn’t know them like I did.”

Jason didn’t respond. What was he supposed to say?

“Janet was fine. And after Jack came back from that coma, he was doing better, too. He just wanted to keep me safe. I loved my parents.”

Again, silence. Tim kept talking from the awkwardness of it all.

“And Dana was cool. You never knew her, though. So I’ll shut up about her.”

This caught Jason’s attention. “Dana?”

“Step-mom.”

“Got it.”

Tim put everything down and turned around to Jason, leaning back on the counter he was working at.

“I know you think I’m delusional and, and- looking back on my childhood with rose colored glasses… and maybe I am. A little bit. I’m self aware, okay? I try to be. Maybe I miss it. Maybe I just want to be a kid again, and I don’t want to continue living on in this stupid world where I can’t be. I’m scared of growing up, okay? And I would do anything, I mean anything not to.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry, Tim thought. Jason was the absolute worst person to cry in front of. He sniffed and wiped his eyes.

“Shit, dude.”

That was all Jason said. Tim was thankful for his emotional unavailability, because he wasn’t really better in that department.

Tim turned back around to his little science experiment after being way too emotionally vulnerable with the Red Hood.

Maybe that really was it. Maybe he missed, not exactly his own childhood, but the notion of having one at all. Which he did, there were a lot of memories he had that he would categorize as good, even though a lot of them would still fall under the category of not-so-good.

Why was he so afraid of growing up? Of flunking out of school? He knew he was smart, he knew he was capable, and he knew he was a good Robin. Everything was happening so smoothly and linearly, he knew he could pass school with flying colors if he wanted to.

But why wasn’t he?

He was growing up, but that wasn’t what he was afraid. Maybe, he thought, he was growing up in the wrong way. Growing up in a way that just repeated his old nasty habits of the past. Growing up in a way that wasn’t really growing up, but just growing older.

Maybe he wasn’t being babied. Maybe he was being loved. Maybe he was scared of being loved. It always put a sour taste in his mouth.

He was. He knew he was, but that was a completely different beast that he didn’t feel like tackling today.

There was one thing he could tackle now, though. He needed to stop running away from personal growth for the sake of preserving something that once was.

“Oh, fuck.”

“What?” Jason moved to Tim’s side, looking at the ice shard he was still prodding at. “What is it?”

“I need to tell Bruce.”

Tim ran. Not away this time, but forwards.

It turns out the Victor Fries case wasn’t a simple in-and-out as everyone had first suspected. It was more nuanced. That frozen freak was smarter than anyone could have predicted. It was poison. The ice was laced with poison, and when it finally melted in the warmer weather (or by way of cops with hairdryers), it would have gone airborne and killed. This, of course, would not do, so Batman called up the help of everyone he could neutralize the poison with a quick catalyst he had whipped up. This poison wasn’t much different than other poisons’ he had worked with before. He even let Tim help with the neutralization process.

Freeze’s intentions? Unclear to Tim. Bruce has speculated that the poison compound was a failed revival attempt of Fries’ late wife that he turned on Gotham in a rage.

The old Tim would never ask Bruce for help, even when he knew he needed it. Tim wanted to be less like the older version of himself, and more like the person he’s always wanted to be.

After the whole ordeal, Jason had asked, “How did you know that Freeze’s ice wasn’t made from pure H2O?”

Tim had shrugged and repeated what he had told him in the Batcave. “It was a gut feeling.”

Jason had laughed and pat Tim on the back, a show of affection Tim would have never anticipated.

“You’re not so bad, Timberly.”

Alfred commended Tim first, but then chided him for his recklessness and blatant disobedience of a direct order. He may have saved Gotham, but he was still benched. Yada yada yada. Tim understood. He was glad Alfred cared so much, he could see that now.

Bruce gave Tim a similar talking to as Alfred did, but this one occurred while Tim was writing out his mission report. He handed it over to him right after his talking to was over.

“‘Potentially fractured right knuckles’?” Bruce put down the paper and looked his son in the eyes. “What do you mean ‘potentially’? Did you not check?”

Tim made a face. “I forgot.”

“Tim.” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose for a few minutes in exasperation, then released it to look at his son again, holding his hand out. “Right hand. Here.”

With a groan, Tim complied.

After a few moments, Bruce released him. “Definitely fractured. I’ll fix it up.“ He gestured to the office chair by the Batcomputer. “Sit.”

Tim sat. Bruce got the necessary medical supplies and a stool, which he scooted near the Batcomputer to sit closer to Tim.

“This is why you were working leftie today. You don’t usually work leftie,” Bruce observes, wrapping up Tim’s fractured hand.

“Yeah. Didn’t want to strain my right one.”

“That was very smart of you.”

Tim didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure how to react to praise from Bruce.

“I’m proud of you. You’re still benched, but I’m proud of you.”

“What?!” Tim wasn’t surprised he was still benched, but he would rather react to that than Bruce’s admission of being proud of him. It was a good buffer for both of them.

“Benched,” Bruce reiterated, finishing off Tim’s makeshift cast with medical tape. “As I said before, you did well, but you still did well when you weren’t supposed to.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I didn’t claim it did.” Bruce stands up, giving Tim an awkward pat on the arm. He started returning all of the medical equipment to where it should be, along with the stool.

Tim looked at his hand. This stupid injury was probably going to get him benched for even longer than he was going to be originally. But maybe that wasn’t to slight him and was for his own good. Bruce cared

“You good, Tim?” Bruce asked.

Tim nodded. “Yeah. But… can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“What did you mean when you said I could be so much more than Robin?”

“Oh, well…” Bruce smiled his small Bruce smile. “Not much. I just thought you could be something more. Like Nightwing, or even Red Hood. I didn’t want to say it to your face yet, but I think you’re starting to outgrow the Robin mantle.”

There was a ball of fear tied up in Tim’s throat. He didn’t want to make assumptions, but… “You want it to be only Damian. Right?”

“No. No,” Bruce doubled back. “It would be nice to pass the mantle onto Damian in full, I won’t deny that that would be good for you. But…” He sighed. “Look. Tim, you taught me an important lesson when you were starting out as Robin. You taught me how to let go. I think it’d do you good to finally take your own advice.”

Tim completely froze. Take his own advice? His head was spinning. It felt like Robin was all he ever knew. Could it be that Robin was what was holding him down? It was just a name, just a costume, he couldn’t… it couldn’t…

Tim internally shut himself up. He knew Robin was so much more than a name and a costume.

As if Bruce sensed the tension, he spoke up again. “I’m not saying you have to step down right now, I’m just saying that—“

“I don’t think I want to be Robin anymore.”

That was the first step to his recovery.

Chapter Text

It was Thursday, and Tim was finally given the okay to go back to school. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still benched, oh no. He was completely free on Saturday, which wasn’t too bad. By now, he’d only have to wait two days.

Bernard had some sort of family obligations after school, so he couldn’t hitch a ride with Tim on the ride home. That was alright, they’d probably FaceTime later that night to get Tim caught up on the notes he missed during the past few days he was absent for. Bernard was still very determined to get Tim to graduate. Damian, however, was his family and still needed a ride home from school.

Tim was glad to be his chauffeur again. It was a part of his routine, and when it was disrupted, he wasn’t all too pleased. He may have his reservations about the brat, but he couldn’t say he hated his presence entirely.

The first thing Damian said when he hopped into the cars passenger seat was, “No Bernard?”

Tim nodded, quickly realizing that Bernard had become a part of both his and Damian’s daily routine. That was crazy to him. “Yeah. His parents picked him up early.”

“I see.”

Tim turned the key and switched the gear, starting to drive him and his little brother home.

They drove in silent for most of the ride as they usually did on days that Damian didn’t have an especially annoying day. The boy in the passenger seat sketched mindlessly, quiet as a mouse. If Tim took his eyes off the road to look at his sketchpad, he would have seen an unfinished sketch of Nightwing.

“Do you think you’d enjoy being the only Robin?” Tim asked, abruptly breaking the silence.

Damian’s sketchpad shut, alarm bells ringing in his mind. His face contorted into the most sincere concern he could muster as he looked at the driver. “I do not want to walk in on that again, Timothy.”

Just like that, Tim could feel his stomach starting to twist. He had forgotten about that, how the person who found him, wrists bloody and begging to be allowed to die, was none other than Damian. Tim was well aware Damian had seen worse injury wise, but he couldn’t imagine what something like this did to him. He could barely believe he did this to his little brother.

“He was telling me earlier how scared he was, seeing you like that.”

”You really scared the shit out of Damian.”

Damian didn’t admit it that day, and Tim knew he never would. That made it hurt all the more.

Deep breaths. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…

“That isn’t what I meant, Damian.”

Damian didn’t calm, but he bit. “What did you mean, then?”

Oh boy. Here he goes. “I was just thinking of stepping down. Forging my own path as my own person. Still a vigilante, still associated with all of you, but… yeah.”

“Oh.” Tim was certain Damian only gave a non-reaction like that one to avoid seeming too excited to be the only Robin. A courtesy. He opened up his sketchbook again, adding details to Nightwing’s face. After he’s satisfied, he asks, “Do you know what you will be called yet?”

“I’ve been toying with the idea of Drake.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Yeah, I thought so too…” Tim stopped at the traffic circle, waiting patiently for his turn to drive around it. “Maybe something like… Red Robin?”

“Better.”

Tim hummed, making his way through the circle and closer to Wayne Manor. He drove slow, mindful of the bumps and potholes.

“Does this mean you will be moving out?” Damian asks.

“Not until after I graduate high school.”

“Please drop out.”

Tim laughs.

“You wish.”

Damian turned on the classical music station. Tim didn’t try to turn it off.