Chapter Text
It all started with an accident. While no one was grievously injured, there still was damage done.
It didn‘t help that Tim was the one suffering from the blow, with Damian having been the one to deal it. The fact that he knew it had been completely avoidable but that Damian simply hadn‘t taken as much care as he should have, because unlike Tim, he wouldn‘t be the one suffering from the consequences, only made it worse! Tim therefore hadn’t really been surprised at the wave of bitter anger that rose to the back of his throat like acid, making him want to spit it out like poison, with Damian as his target.
„Did you seriously scratch up my bike?!“ Tim‘s voice rose up sharply in the cold air of the alleyway littered with the unconscious bodies of Black Masks henchmen. Red Robin and Robin had taken care of the goons while Batman went after Black Mask himself. Bruce had run off probably ten minutes ago, leaving them to fend for themselves after making sure they had the fight handled.
Robin tensed slightly, but he tried to act nonchalant and even lifted his chin defiantly at the older vigilante. „There was a goon. I took care of it. Your bike was simply in the way.“
The relationship between Damian and Tim could be considered ‚rocky‘ on the best of days. The anger and resentment between them ran deeper then normal sibling rivalry or simple dislike, which was most likely due to the fact that several actual murder attempts had been made in the past, and while those tries to end Tims life had stopped, there never had been an actual explanation given - not even an attempt had been made at it, really - or gods forbid, even a slight show of regret!
To say that Tim felt quite bitter about the whole mess they called their relationship, was an understatement.
He had been an only child for most of his life and always felt the absence of siblings from his life like a hole in the walls of his home. The constant absence of his parents that sometimes seemed to stretch for weeks didn’t really help. It got a bit better when he started boarding school, but even then he had times where he felt completely alone and wished for someone to understand.
Then he became Robin and was given a glimpse of what it felt like to have siblings.
Dick was quite a good older brother, making sure he spent time with Tim, whenever he was around, but he had lots of work to do, so those times hadn‘t really been as frequent as either of them would have liked. Dick’s love language seemed to consist of quality time and physical touch and Tim soaked up all of it like a sponge whenever he got the chance.
Jason had been a surprisingly positive influence on Tims life, ever since he had found even ground with Bruce and the rest of the bats. He still kept control of crime alley and several less than morally grey businesses, but he also wasn’t actively murdering people anymore.
Tim had been extremely careful around him at first, never relaxing fully and making sure he had an escape plan ready, just in case Jason had had a bad day or the Lazarus pit decided to wrestle the controls from the other man again.
Jason, it turned out, was the kind of older brother which mercilessly teased the younger ones, but he did it all with a underlying understanding of their limits, only pushing as far as he was certain they could take. He could also be counted on to be the most adept at reading a emotional situation and Tim had found himself on a rooftop in some part of Gotham or the kitchen at Wayne manor or their apartments in deep conversation with Jason more than once, always feeling an truly surprising amount of trust in the man that had returned from the dead and tried to murder him once upon a time.
Why exactly two out of his three brothers had tried to murder him before was kind of a sore point for Tim, seeing as he hadn’t even really done anything to make himself the target either time he found himself at the end of a weapon in the hands of his siblings. He really didn’t like thinking about it and tried not to.
At least the female half of the family hadn’t attempted murder on him yet. (Tim would not consider his face‘s date with a brick that Steph had caused in the early days of their vigilante days as attempted murder, no, that had simply been a knee-jerk reaction to feeling trapped. Shut up.)
So he‘d had two older brothers at the time of Damian’s arrival, one was more absent then present at the house and the other had still been thinking about causing his very painful demise more than once a week.
Tim had been very excited at the prospect of having a younger sibling, not only because of the clean slate between them, but because they would inevitably be spending more time together, living in the same house.
He‘d been trying to keep himself from dreaming, but the thought of shared afternoons in the garden or one of the sitting rooms, playing games or simply talking had been very exciting. Hell, even doing homework together sounded like fun!
But Tim had been right to try and keep himself from dreaming. He had realised that all too soon and the hurt he had felt had been more situated in his heart then in the body parts damaged from the attempt on his life. His hurt soon turned to bitter anger, trying to hide the cutting disappointment at yet another possible deep connection being denied to him.
But it wasn‘t only Damian he was angry with about that situation, because while the younger boy had been the one to actually make the attempts, the other members of the Wayne Family had really taken the cake by not trying harder to make sure Damian stopped after the first try!
A part of Tim he had hoped would grow quiet forever after the first few attempts - an unfulfilled hope, really, he knew exactly why it was a lost hope from the get go - because while it certainly had grown a bit quieter, it never went away completely, kept on reminding him: „Damian was - and still is! - the child in this situation, who was trying to act the way it was expected of him and didn‘t really understand why what he was doing was wrong. It was the way he had been taught up until then. It’s not his fault that the adults in his life failed him so miserably.“
Tim could sympathise with that, really. His parents also hadn’t been the shiny ideal of successful parenthood. But that didn‘t make either the anger or the hurt go away.
Their relationship also hadn‘t been improved by the fact that both young men were extremely strong willed and competitive. Letting the other ‚win‘, whether it was an actual challenge or a emotional situation, was simply not an option.
So no apologies were ever made, the hurt kept on festering and the resentment only grew.
It was growing even now, as Tim knew quite well to not expect an apology about the damage done to his bike, so he tried to calm himself down with cold logic and simply stalked past the only other person left standing in the alleyway and lifted the bike from where it had been toppled over, before crouching down in front of it to assess the damage.
Maybe a paintjob would be enough to undo the damage-
Ah, well. No such luck. Of course not. Tim let out a bitter laugh.
„Great job Gremlin, I‘ll have to fix this part up completely. I‘ll be lucky to get home on this and not have to do further fixing if the ride back to the cave damages some of the affected parts.“
It would have been fine. The night could have ended there, without any further grief. They could have gone and had a cool, professional end of patrol, they were already on their loop back anyways. But Damian simply had to open his mouth and let out a nasty comment that made Tim‘s composure crack.
„I don‘t understand why you would be upset about a simple scratch on that stupid thing. It‘s trash anyway and you should be glad I gave you a reason to finally get rid of it.“
Tim went impossible still. He felt the rage he had already willed down once tonight well up again and bubble up his throat. Absently he noticed that the hand he had on the bike was shaking slightly and he felt hot all over, but his voice sounded cool and collected, if a bit icy, when he asked softly: „Trash? My bike?“
Damian either didn‘t get that Tims mood was dangerously close to shifting into even darker territory than before or simply felt he couldn‘t back down from that challenge, but the boy actually said: „Of course. It‘s an absolute disgrace in comparison to the other vehicles we have. The colour is all gaudy and-“
Damian’s voice cut of abruptly, when Tim whirled around so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash and stalked over to where the young boy was standing. Somewhere in his subconsciousness an alarm was blaring loudly and signalling him to stop, before he did something he‘d regret, but he simply didn‘t hear it over the rushing in his ears.
He also ignored the small part of himself that always made excuses for Damian, the one that was currently screaming at him to stop, stop before he hurt Damian and didn‘t he see the fear in the younger boys eyes, oh god, didn‘t Tim SEE that Damian had taken a step back before stopping and raising his head defiantly even though his hands where trembling at his sides, stop, stop, STO-
„The only thing to be called a disgrace here is you. You‘re the only one who is always out to destroy all the good things we manage to collect in this absolute shit pile of a city. Not even Jason tries so hard to make everyone miserable and he would at least have a reason for it! YOU HAVE EVERYTHING! Da-Bruce and Alfred let you do what you want, you‘re clearly Dick‘s favourite and Jason actually considers you his brother! WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT?! Isn’t that enough for you? Why do you always have to try to mess up the things I get to have?“
Tim‘s scream echoed slightly in the night air. Everything else was silent.
Damian was looking up at him with big eyes, trembling slightly but keeping up the brave facade. A small tingle of regret crawled through Tim, stopping him from shouting more, not quelling the anger he was feeling but turning into sharp edged bitterness.
With a mirthless laugh he turned away from Damian, this whole mess of a situation, really, and got onto his bike.
„Gods, I can‘t believe I ever thought we could be brothers.“ he muttered bitterly before pulling on his helmet that had been stashed next to a trash bin, before starting the bike.
Carefully he manoeuvred the bike out of the alley before shooting of into the streets of Gotham. If he had turned around or looked into his rearview mirror, he would have seen the way a small figure wrapped into a colourful costume stumbled after him for a few steps before stopping and raising a hand towards their face.
But he didn’t look. He left, old anger still spanning its wings above him and guiding his movements as he flew of into the night.
„Oracle. Please tell Batman to collect Robin from the alleyway. I‘m heading back to the cave.“ His voice was professional but clipped.
No matter how much Tim hated Damian right now, he wouldn’t leave him without backup. He knew Gotham to well to believe that nothing would happen and even if Damian was not his favourite person on the team right now - well, let‘s be honest, when had that ever been the case - he didn’t want the young man to get hurt. It never ended well whenever a Robin was left on their own.
After confirmation from Oracle that Batman was already on his way back to the alley after successfully having tied up Black Mask only minutes before, Tim turned of his comm unit and simply focused on the task of driving, instead of the mess inside him.
He kept an ear out for any weird or unusual sounds that could indicate more internal damage to the bike than he had been able to spot from the outside assessment, always being mindful of the harm he could do not only to his bike by straining some of the already affected parts, but also knowing what horrible injuries could be inflicted on a squishy human who crashed a bike.
The third Robin hated driving without a helmet, even if he had to do it more often than not, because of a fight damaging gear or there being no time to grab it, and while yes, Dick, the wind in his hair felt amazingly freeing, he had also seen enough people crash during the crazy chases that took place in Gotham way too often, to know that he liked his brain where it belonged and not smeared across the pavement.
Jason got that, he even now wore the helmet that had come with the Red Hood persona and had told them more than once that it was mostly because he liked the extra protection. Tim - who had been concussed more often in his life than was healthy - knew exactly what Jay meant.
When Tim heard nothing out of the ordinary, except a metallic clatter from the part where some of the fairing had been dented and hung on only by inches, moving and banging against the parts underneath as the wind from the drive moved them, he relaxed slightly.
It seemed the damage to the bike might not have been as bad as it had looked at first glance. A flicker of guilt shot through Tim, but the dark angry part which currently was in control of his moral compass mercilessly shot the rising emotion down with the reminder of all the other times no one had told Damian off for.
Focusing on the road ahead of him, Tim tried to forget about the mess of feelings concerning the youngest of his so called brothers, the anger, the guilt, the hurt from constantly being rejected- everything else that wasn‘t the rumbling of the bike upon which his body rested and the dark sea of asphalt beneath it.
Whenever he was on his bike, Tim reached a level of inner peace which he usually only found during deep meditation. More than once he had gone for a night ride when he found himself unable to sleep because his overactive brain wouldn’t shut off and plagued him either with regrets or endless calculations.
During the time in which his father Jack had been in the hospital and in a coma, Tim had spent a lot of his time working on his bike and driving around day and night, whenever he had the chance.
More than once he had felt like everything was crashing down on him and the only escape had been the road ahead and the bike beneath him. And it had helped him deal with all the shit happening in his life.
The bike had also been one of his first real connections with Dick, as they had bonded over nightly drives home after patrol, doing tricks just for fun and thinking up ways to leave the other in the dust.
After a careful truce and a long awaited reconciliation, Jason joined from time to time when he patrolled with them or was in the vicinity.
They raced each other and tried to cut the others off at intersections, trusting in each others capabilities to evade harm.
It was dangerous and probably more than a little stupidly reckless, but it also was endlessly fun.
When Jason rejoined the family, Tim found a unexpected joy in having someone else around who obsessed over their bike as much as he himself did. While Dick took good care of his bike and loved driving it, he didn’t necessarily believe in changing it up too much, as it ‚did what it should and that‘s all that mattered‘. Tim and Jason disagreed vehemently.
They often worked together to figure out new ways of increasing the engine power of their motorcycles, trying to make the fairing more streamlined or the design look cooler or whatever else they could think of.
Their bikes were state of the art.
But Tim‘s motorcycle still was on another level. It ran smoother and faster than Jasons, gliding through the streets like it was hovering above the asphalt and not in direct concrete with it.
Jason always joked about besting Tim one day in context of their bikes, but it was just a friendly competition. It was nice, unblemished common ground between them. They had way to little of that outside of this topic.
For a few delightful minutes, Tim was able to simply keep his focus on driving through the night, swerving around cars and leaning all of his body into the twists and turns that got him through Gothams streets.
Backlights and street signs blurred past him, turning into smears of light as Tim leaned ever closer to his bike and practically glued himself to his bike, trying to offer less and less resistance against the air whipping past him. He kept on driving faster, always a little faster, his body on autopilot as he moved his body with his bike, reacting in fractions of seconds it seemed.
Sometimes he wasn‘t even sure wether or not he would manage to evade an obstacle in his path until the last second, his instincts and muscle memory taking over his rational mind and saving him from a painful crash. He probably should be driving more carefully. In his emotional upset state, he was prone to taking more risks and making mistakes, he knew that, but he couldn’t help it.
The fight with Damian had resulted in his shoulders feeling the weight resting upon them once more. He feared that if he stopped, his knees would buckle and he‘d be crushed beneath all of it.
Tim was unnaturally good at going through his day without thinking too much about all the dark corners trapped inside his mind. He simply had to get used to danger constantly lurking, not only from the outside world, but also from deep within himself. It was always dangerous to think too deeply and stumble upon the things hiding inside those corners.
There were the insecurities, calling him an Imposter, that he really was not loved by anyone in this world with its billions of inhabitants. He shut that one down mercilessly whenever he caught it, thinking about his friends, Dick’s smiles whenever he caught sight of him, Jasons hand ruffling his hair, teasing but ultimately so careful to never hurt Tim again. (The insecurities pushed back with Damians face full of hate and disgust, with Bruce‘s angry voice, slurred by alcohol. The emptiness of Drake Manor.)
The fears liked to bite his ankles, he kicked them down with extreme prejudice, thinking about everything he had already overcome. (The face of a hero he idolised tearing him apart, several familiar frames in the background simply watching on. Hot desert sand underneath him, the bodies of his friends scattered around him. A voice filled with poisonous glee, a whispered: “Detective”. The feeling of his body not responding, of drowning, of bones breaking, … He sometimes was unsure what he had really experienced and what was simply a bad dream, twisted up by his sick brain.)
The bad memories loved to wait till he was vulnerable. More than once they‘d attacked him on the verge of sleep and made him resent his bed to the point where he kept working through the night, trying to drown them out with keeping his mind busy and away from everything that had happened, of what had been done to him. (Angry voices telling him all of his failures, his shortcomings. The voice of a boy he had loved, whispering, playing like a parody of the voice of the man who could have been his older brother: ‚Replacement, Replacement’. The flashes of an attack, his body broken, but no real rebuttal following, making sure he understood his value in the family. Dick’s voice when it told him that he simply couldn‘t believe Tim’s theory, that Tim was simply grieving Bruce in an completely unhealthy way. Damian’s smile, as he stood there in the suit that had been Tim’s last anchor to the life he’d had before and which became inevitably lost with all of his hopes of being alright.)
The pain of constant abandonment sawed at his bones, whenever he least expected it. No matter how careful he was to avoid the corner in which he expected it to hide, it always surprised him, appearing when he least expected it and it took him way too long to fight it back to be fully free of damage. (His Father and Mothers leaving again and again, seeming to take all the air with them, his throat hurting from all the cries he never let out. Having to return to an empty house too big for a single little boy, because the man he was trying to save couldn‘t stand the sight of him for longer then a few hours. His friends, dying, leaving him the last one standing.)
And of course, the loneliness he never seemed to be able to shake, always lurking in corners he could spot out of the corners of his eyes, reaching out hands for his throat. He didn’t manage to avoid getting to close well enough more often than not and the feeling of hands choking him, taking away all his breath and leaving him shaking had become all too familiar, whenever it grew too quiet around him. (All alone in a mansion meant for a family. Years of watching the dark figure of Gothams protector that usually caused fear caring for the younger, bright spark besides them that made people feel joy, with a care that was denied to him and which he yearned for so badly it ached. The photos which were his try to partake in the love and affection so carefully bestowed and happily received, but which ultimately only showed him what he couldn‘t have. The cuts left by the shattered hope of finally finding family like that, but earning nothing but resentment, distance and even bodily harm.)
Tim kept these feelings very carefully hidden, not only because the logical part of him was aware that a lot of it was wrong, twisted up by his own insecurities, but also because he felt deeply uncomfortable letting his inner thoughts show when he was in the presence of others. His mother had told him from a very young age that showing too many of his true emotions around people would only result in others using his feelings and insecurities as a means to manipulate and hurt him. With every year that followed, his understanding of what she had meant only increased.
His father had been amongst those that taught him the importance of not letting others know where his soft spots lay. Jack had more than once punished him for some smaller or bigger misstep with taking away items or privileges that were important to Tim, not because he was essentially a bad parent, but because his emotions were not something he controlled very well. Tim was trying to be better than that.
The teenage boys in the schools he was sent to didn‘t really understand the difference between teasing and bullying someone yet or they simply didn‘t care how deep their words cut. Showing a reaction to the poison they spit only got them to hassle him further, to see how he would react and how far they could push him. Tim refused to be their experiment and only showed them a mask of indifference, even when he felt like screaming.
When he started out as Robin, Bruce had tried to get rid of him several times, not always sober, but with alcohol poisoning his mind and giving his words a sharper cut, as he told Tim how he would never compare to his sons, that he should just leave, Bruce didn‘t want him here anyways!
Tim honestly didn‘t know if Bruce remembered these nights or the things he said, but he very much remembered how he felt in the moments when his brave facade crumbled after having left the cave, the shaking that had come over him (the tears he had spilt).
But then again, even if his mentor would try to talk about these things with him now, Tim wasn‘t sure he would be able to do anything but act as though the wounds cut by those words weren’t there, just as he had back then.
As bad as that particular recollection of memories sounded, not every moment had been bad. Tim had quite a few fond memories of his first year as Robin as well. The first time he had been told ‚Good job’ by Bruce. The way his stomach had clenched, first with fear and then with exhilaration, the first time he swung off a roof. Ice cream with Dick, who wanted to get to know this new child that had taken up his mantle, even if he didn’t want to visit the manor. Alfred‘s quiet, steady presence, taking care of his scrapes and bruises first and offering him a warm meal later on.
His love of tinkering with his bike had started back then as well.
At first it had been a necessary task, but he soon found that he quite enjoyed the deep focus that fell over him, combined with the smell of mechanical oil and grease that seemed to cling to his hands, even several hours later, no matter how much he washed them.
Dick took notice of Tim’s newfound hobby and offered to teach him some of what he knew and soon Tim found himself actually having a valid reason to reach out to Dick and connecting more with the older man through the repairs.
When Dick had taken him driving the first time to clear his head after a fight with Bruce, Tim had found himself wishing the night would never end. The feeling of gliding through the night together, weaving around one another with teasing and lighthearted movements was one of the most soothing things Tim had ever experienced and he longed for more.
But Dick was busy more often than not, so Tim took to driving through the night on his own whenever he‘d had a bad day or simply struggled dealing with all of his emotions. He spent a lot of nights out on the streets like that, as Bruce seemed to grow less hateful towards him, but still didn‘t treat him with anything other than cutting professionalism.
Tim wasn‘t even necessarily angry about Bruce having treated him like that. He’d known from the beginning that he would be putting himself into an awful position and that Bruce was still grieving his son. Grief always made people lash out. And if Tim looked at the situation objectively, the verbal abuse had actually had its merit, as it helped toughen him up for the absolute agony to come, as bad as that sounded.
Never had words hurt as much as the day Jason had told him exactly how much he had failed, how pathetic Tim, the sad excuse of his replacement, acted, how disgusting it was that Tim had needed attention that badly, that he had taken the place of a boy whose body hadn‘t even begun to rot in its grave.
Tim had taken the verbal and physical torture and he had survived. He had tucked all of his hurt around his bleeding heart and made the shards of himself into an even better mask to face the world with, like splinters of stone building a mosaic.
He‘d foolishly thought, that after all of this, surely there would be nothing that could ever surprise him again and which spread such agony through him like that.
It had been absolute torture to wait for his injuries to heal up well enough that he wouldn’t make them worse by climbing onto his motorcycle. The first time he took the bike out after his injury had been deemed safe, he had been so desperate to simply get away from anything, that he had gone faster than ever before.
There had been some close calls, Drivers angrily honking at him, the wheels beneath him skidding on the harsh, unforgiving asphalt, his knees nearly brushing the street more than once, sharp turns nearly making him lose his balance, but Tim’s whole world had narrowed down on the simple feeling of driving so fast it felt like he flew.
His continued speed quickly took him out of Gotham and he had zoomed down long silent streets through the country side, single houses dotting the landscape, the streets growing more silent by the minute.
He nearly hadn’t remembered to turn around that night. The only thing that had ripped him out of his hyperfocus was the sharp realisation that his bike was nearly out of fuel. Running on fumes, he had managed to find a forlorn gas station.
The solitary attendant had looked up sharply at the sound of the bell above the door, clearly not really expecting someone at this hour. Tim had gotten himself a bottle of some unnamed soft drink from the coolers and blindly grabbed one of the three offered cereal bars, without really caring what he ate, as long as he’d be able to stuff the hole that had unexpectedly opened up in his stomach, as soon as he’d seen food. Desperate to return to his bike and start the journey home (because he really had no fucking clue where he was right then) he‘d made his way to the cash register at a brisk pace, but made a effort to slow down when he realised the situation.
Standing behind the counter was a women in her forties, her toned arms full of tattoos and her eyes filled with ice and wariness, obviously not too happy with his face hidden behind his gear and his swift approach.
Only when Tim had taken off the helmet, glad to take in some fresh night air and ruffle through his sweat soaked hair, had her frame shown a tiny release of the guardedness that probably came from more than one unpleasant experience working the night shift in a gas station near one of the most crime riddled cities in the country.
She had studied him for a few moments, considering his obvious young features while he crammed around his pockets for his wallet and finally asked him: „Bit late for a night-ride, isn‘t it, kid?“
Tim had inwardly cursed himself for being nice enough to risk taking of his helmet and letting her see his teenager face, but ultimately decided that acting like a irresponsible teen was probably the best course of action to make her forget him.
Hunching his shoulder and giving a listless shrug, he‘d mumbled: „Kind of forgot the time ma‘am. I really didn‘t realise it was that late already.“
She had stared for a moment longer, than she‘d simply hummed and scanned the drink and granola bar he had put down on the counter. „Usually when people like you come in this late, having ‚forgotten the time‘, they are running from something.“
She had given him a calculating look before asking sternly: „Are you running from something too, kid? Or someone?“
Tim had simply blinked at her in astonishment for a second, before putting his mask back on and giving her a sheepish and slightly guilty smile. „Have you ever been told you that you‘re really good at reading people, ma‘am?“
Her lips had quirked slightly at that and she‘d pushed his snack back over the counter in his direction. „More often than I care to remember.“
Then she‘d grown serious once more and had told him: „If you need help kid, I know some folks you could talk to. There are a lot of people out there that know what dark thoughts can do to you. Or if you need an out from a bad situation…“
Her voice had trailed off when Tim had started rapidly shaking his head.
„No no, thank you for your help, but thats really not necessary, I simply lost track of time!“
She had studied him intensely for a moment longer before grabbing a small card from under the counter and putting it down next to his late night snack. „Fine. If you ever do get into a bad situation, whether because you can‘t get out of there physically or mentally… A simple call is enough.“
Tim had nodded seriously and thanked her softly before taking his leave. The card was still in his wallet. Whether he kept it, to remind himself to never let his mask slip again in front of a stranger like he’d done that night or to make him recall that he really wasn‘t completely alone - even though he more often then not felt so disconnected from everyone around him - he wasn’t sure. And whenever he felt his thought drifting into that direction he firmly pushed down on the urge to examine his reason for keeping the card. And simply told himself that he was fine.
Damians arrival had been unexpected but so welcome at the time. Tim had been practically giddy with excitement and couldn’t wait to meet him. He had tried to squash the part of himself that gave him hope of finally getting a sibling he could truly connect with - a younger sibling even! One that he might be able to help and teach like Dick had done for him, when he hadn‘t been busy with his job or literally saving the world. Tim had been elated at the thought of getting the chance to give his younger brother the attention and love that he deserved.
What he had got instead was a sword to his gut and eyes full of hatred.
Tim knew that his mask had cracked back then, when he had stared at Damian, unable to understand what was happening and why exactly everything always seemed to turn out so wrong, why two of three people he had wanted to consider his siblings had decided to hurt him for it.
There were no nighttime drives for a while again, not only because he had to heal up from an injury - again - but because he didn‘t want a repeat of the absolute loss of control over time and space that had accompanied the ride on his motorcycle after Jason‘s attack.
He‘d kept his rides controlled, limited himself to only driving during patrol or when either Dick or a newly returned Jason accompanied him.
It chaffed to limit himself like this, as if he had trimmed his wings and bound himself to earth, but he kept hold of his control tightly.
He simply couldn‘t be caught unaware with Damian trying to kill him, no matter how much he missed rushing through the night. The little assassin had already too many advantages, Tim’s loss of control over his mask only one of many.
He refused to add to this and instead buried himself in work and training, to sharpen his mind and harden his mask, for when the inevitable next attack came.
Everyday added more weight to his already shaking shoulders, struggling to hold his fear and anger and betrayal at bay, every time he was told that he should simply ignore the taunts and threats thrown his way.
But he stubbornly refused to crack and simply held on. Surely this would pass too.
Instead everything seemed to grow worse, when Bruce had been lost to the time stream. It was like a support beam Tim hadn‘t known he needed had been taken away. He had always prided himself on being self sufficient, not needing a helping hand to get him through life from a young age, but the loss of the man he had taken to see as his father had completely blindsided him with the realisation that he hadn’t even noticed how much he considered Bruce a constant in his life, a man who seemed almost unbeatable, even when his body and mind had been beaten and attacked more times than could be counted.
Bruce had always managed to claw his way back to the surface again, even if he sometimes needed a little help. To have him suddenly disappear… it made Tim‘s knees buckle underneath the onslaught of feelings pushing against him from within his mind.
But the final straw had been Dicks refusal to believe in him, when he had told the older man about his theory of Bruce being lost in the time stream.
The cool and detached clinical part of himself knew that Dick had been struggling himself, trying to keep everything together.
But after everything that had happened, not only Bruces disappearance and the deaths of his friends, Dick turning away from him in this crucial moment had felt like someone had taken a axe to his face, splitting him wide open.
The crack in his mask had splintered even further and started to flake off, but it steadfastly held in place, just like Tim kept on holding onto the last of his faith that everything would be alright.
Then he had visited the cave one night and found Damian standing there in the Robin costume. The mask had shattered into a thousand little pieces.
Tim actually didn’t remember how he got home that fateful day. He must have spent hours driving around on his bike, actually emptying the fuel tank at least once, since he later on found a receipt for gas in one of his pockets, but there simply was not a single scrap of memory helping him piece together the events of the last few hours since he had left the cave.
While spacing out on his bike hadn’t been anything new to Tim, the complete lack of recollection of where he had been had stunned him completely. He had drifted around his apartment in a daze for quite some time, before an alert on his laptop had wrenched him back to awareness. He had found a lead on Bruce.