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It's a beautiful night in Bludhaven. The late summer has mellowed the weather out into a low boil, a simmer almost, and it makes the nights much more bearable than they've been for the past two months since summer started. The occasional wind ruffles hair and open curtains alike almost playfully and Tim breathes in the scent of salt coming from the ocean nearby as he walks.
It's a beautiful night, but it won't stay that way much longer.
After weeks of extreme temperatures caused by a heatwave that lasted so long that Tim was just about ready to investigate on suspicion of possible Rogue influence, the weather has finally taken pity on them and the cracked, dry earth. Tonight, a storm is brewing. He can already feel it in the air, that smell that heralds rain, the pressure on his skin just slightly off, and he can see the clouds gathering in the sky even if they're mostly hidden by the dark drape of the night.
It's not late, not for a vigilante. Last he checked, the clock had just struck midnight – prime patrolling time, usually. But Tim is benched – Joker is out and Batman doesn't want Robin tempting fate, as if Tim hasn't been doing this for more than a year already and hasn't proven that he is capable and isn't bound to repeat his predecessor's mistakes – and he's been keeping careful track of weather reports in every city Nightwing frequents for the past six months or so, always making sure he knows when rain or storms are about to hit a place Dick is staying in.
Is it weird? Maybe. Does it involve stalking his sort-of brother at least enough to know where he is at any given time? Definitely. Tim isn't bothered by this. He's long accepted his control-freak tendencies, his need to know and keep track of the things – and people – he cares about. Dick is the one insisting all the time that they're brothers – and really, Tim wouldn't want him to stop because that warm feeling that blooms in his chest every time he does, every time Dick ruffles his hair or kisses his forehead or tackles him to the ground and bends his arm backwards until he yells uncle means more to Tim than he could ever express – and Tim shows his love by lightly stalking his people. It's not like Dick didn't know what he was getting into; Tim literally stalked him across city borders the first time they met, for God's sake.
So yeah, Tim has been keeping track of incoming rain and he knows a pretty big storm is about to hit Bludhaven in the next hour or so. He's benched, and annoyed about it, but also slightly grateful because that makes his mission so much easier when he doesn't have to ditch B without explanation to hop on over to Blud out of the blue.
The wind picks up as he nears the unfortunate apartment building Dick resides in. It's an ugly thing, with mold crawling up the sides of the exterior walls in a mockery of creeping ivy, and Tim is pretty sure at least one of Dick's neighbours is a serial killer. He can't prove it, but he just knows. Those bad smells and weird noises can't all be moldy dampness and creaky pipes.
Nobody jumps him to steal his organs as he enters the building, thankfully, but Tim still hurries up the stairs until he comes to a stop on the fourth floor in front of a familiar door. He debates knocking, weighs the decision for a minute, then shrugs and pulls out his spare key. Dick should be glad Tim isn't breaking in through the window like he usually does when he comes in as Robin; he shouldn't have given him a key to his place if he didn't expect Tim to use it.
The apartment is dark and silent when Tim steps inside. The door groans like a grandma with arthritis upon both opening and closing – Alfred is somewhere in the Manor dealing with a sudden eye twitch he can't explain, probably – and it takes away the weak, sickly yellow hallway light that had been illuminating the entrance when it closes with a click.
“Ah, fuck,” Tim yelps when he jams his elbow into solid wood. He always forgets about the goddamn umbrella stand. Why does Dick even have one?! He always loses his umbrellas! They never last long enough to actually be put in the damn stand. Unbelievable.
Tim pulls his phone out of his pocket, grumbling under his breath all the while, and turns on his flashlight so he can actually see what he's doing. He doesn't even try turning on the lights, knowing Dick still hasn't replaced the broken light bulb at the door, because he's an ADHD disaster and Tim, frankly, thinks that it's a damn miracle the man reached adulthood as relatively unscathed as he has.
(He is, of course, joking. He knows how much Dick struggled in his teens. Knows how hard it is to live life the way he does and how frustrating something as small as constantly getting sidetracked and being unable to change a light bulb can be. Which is why he's got a brand new one in his backpack.)
((It's only because he's tired of fumbling around in the dark every time he visits. That's all there is to it. Obviously.))
Once Tim has taken his shoes off, left his hoodie dangling from a hook, and shrugged his backpack off and to the floor, he finally makes his way further into the apartment. The living room is empty and surprisingly neat – or, as neat as any room occupied by Dick Grayson can be. He must have cleaned up recently. Tim has an inkling he knows what spurred that on.
Tim walks on silent, socked feet towards the couch, noting the discarded Nightwing suit left draped over the back of it and the domino mask resting on the middle cushion. On the coffee table are scattered knick-knacks, a bowl of soggy cereal, half-eaten with the spoon still in, and a case file left open right next to it, its inner pages and evidence – photographs – being haphazardly spread around it.
Tim takes the bowl, wrinkling his nose a bit, and pads over to the kitchen. He turns the range hood lights on above the stove instead of the big overhead light then dumps the leftover cereal in the sink and turns the garbage disposal on to make sure it doesn't clog the sink – see, Alfred? He can learn. Washing the bowl and spoon takes little time and then Tim is drying his hands while looking out the window just in time to catch the way the sky lights up like a nuke just went off. The world is completely still for a long moment that seems to stretch on for eternity and then– BOOM! Thunder claps.
Tim grabs some snacks – Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Sour Patch Kids, Skittles, M&Ms, Doritos, Cheetos, Pringles, everything he's seen Dick inhale every time they've hung out here or at the Manor – then turns the lights off and makes his silent way back into the living room. The only other room in the apartment is Dick's bedroom – Tim is very familiar with it because he refuses to sleep on Dick's lumpy couch with mysterious stains which the older man got for three dollars and a chewed piece of gum from a guy off Craigslist when he moved in, so Dick, as the magnanimous older brother that he is, lets Tim share his bed when Tim sleeps over and doesn't hog the blankets at all, of course not – and to reach it, you have to cross the living room and open the door.
Said door is cracked open, letting a sliver of light spill onto the floor of the living room, the likely source being the street lamp right outside Dick's bedroom window. Tim pushes it further open and walks in.
The lump in the bed is expected. This is not the first night, the first time , that Tim has found Dick in a similar position – a depressed blob curled up in bed, hugging a pillow to his chest and gritting his teeth against what is obvious are tears that demand to be allowed to fall. Every time it rains, this happens. Doesn't matter where he is, who he's with, what is happening around him. At the first sound of rain hitting a window, the first change in smell or atmosphere that heralds the arrival of rain, Dick's entire demeanor changes, a haunted look settles over his eyes like a film, and he becomes almost catatonic until a few hours after the rain has passed.
Tim doesn't know why. It's frustrating. He hates not knowing. But he won't push. Dick will tell him when and if he's ready – and if he never is, well. Tim doesn't need to know why his brother is upset in order to be there for him and comfort him.
The snacks make a ruckus as Tim walks towards the bed. He dumps everything on the nightstand on Tim's side of the bed, which is the one closest to the door – Tim would have thought that Dick would prefer to be as far away from the window as possible, maybe even facing away from it, when it rains, but the opposite is true. As much as he hates the sound of rain (and the feel of it on his skin seems akin to being doused in acid the few times Tim has witnessed the older man being caught in it), Dick seems to have this compulsive need to keep an eye on it, as if to reassure himself of something.
“Timmy? Whatcha doing here?” Dick asks in a creaky voice, not unlike the hinges of his front door, as he finally stirs from his depressed lump. He sounds slightly out of it, which is worrying, because this time, it was Tim letting himself in and walking around like he owns the place, but what if someone with less kind intentions breaks in the next time Dick is like this? What then? He didn't even put the suit away or the mask, for fuck's sake.
“Eating you out of house and home, clearly,” Tim drawls instead of expressing any of his worries and chucks a random snack at Dick just to be annoying. “Here, eat. And scoot over, your fat ass is taking up too much space.”
A huff drifts out from the lump’s direction which is then followed, thankfully, by Dick shuffling around until he's fully lying on his side of the bed, on his back, slightly propped up by the pillows so he can eat his snack without choking.
Tim smiles, glad the expression is hidden in the dark bedroom – the light from the outside doesn't reach Tim's corner – and flops into bed with a sigh too big for his body. He sniffs the pillow and wrinkles his nose.
“You need to change your bedding. You drooled in your sleep again and this shit stinks. Absolutely rancid, my guy.”
The hand slapping at his face is halfhearted at best and more annoying than anything. Tim slaps it away in retaliation and, just to be extra, follows its retreat to jab a finger into Dick's side. The other man yelps and twists away from Tim.
“Why are you such a little shit?” Dick grumbles and eyes Tim warily for a long second before ripping the packaging open and shoving his hand inside the bag of his snack which, after some squinting, Tim identifies as the Sour Patch Kids. “Did you just come here to bully me? You change the sheets if they bother you so much, my royal highness. I’ve been busy.”
Tim rolls his eyes even as he's biting back a grin. God, bickering with Dick is so fun. Having a sibling in general is just such a blast. He grew up alone – in more ways than one – and he's always known, on a certain detached level, that he's been missing out on something unnamable by being an only child, he just never knew exactly what . Now… now he knows. And boy, does he love it. He wouldn't trade this for the world.
“It is my sworn and sacred duty as your younger brother to make your life difficult,” Tim replies, affecting an important voice. “It's right there in the sibling contract.”
“I don't remember that being anywhere in there. I would've thought twice before signing it if I'd known,” Dick shoots back, grumpy voice muffled through his mouthful of candy.
“Not my fault you don't read the fine print,” Tim says and shrugs. As if to prove his point, he then snatches the bag from Dick's unsuspecting hands, snickering at the resounding indignant squawk, and tips it into his mouth, upside down, to get the last few pieces left.
“I'm returning you to the garbage bin B found you in.”
Tim sticks his tongue out – grossly showing off his chewed up stolen loot – and says, “Too late, no take backsies. And if anything, in your analogy, I found him in a garbage bin. So really, you couldn't return me anyway.”
Dick heaves a sigh so world-weary, you'd think he was dealing with Harley, Poison Ivy, and the Riddler all at the same time, not his favourite little brother. Rude.
“Gimme some more snacks before I kick you out, gremlin.”
“You only keep me around for free child labour, I swear. Don't think I haven't caught on,” Tim snips but obliges easily, grabbing another random bag and chucking it in Dick's direction.
“What did you think being Robin was?” Dick shoots back and Tim can just hear the sarcastic eyebrow being raised at him right now.
Lightning turns night into day for a second and the resulting thunderclap makes Dick jolt in surprise. Well, not surprise , not really. Tim wouldn't call it that. More like… alarm. Anxiety? Anticipation.
And it seems like the feeling doesn't go unrewarded, not when the sky breaks open not even a minute later and it starts raining so hard Tim fears the flimsy windows of Dick's shitty apartment won't possibly hold up against the assault. He's already mentally cataloguing where Dick's spare towels are and where to strategically place them to catch the most water when the windows inevitably lose the fight against the rain.
All thoughts of aquatic combat fleet Tim's mind, however, when Dick lets out a whimper, strangled too late to go unheard, and his older brother abandons his newest snack packet in favour of curling up facing the window. Something angry and bitter twists inside Tim at the sight. He hates, hates whoever has reduced his brother to this whimpering mess at the first sign of rain. Because he knows it's a who, not a what. Only another human being can be despicable enough to inflict such torment on someone else as to leave lingering mementos on their psyche that tear at their being with every reminder.
Tim doesn't know what to do. He came here with the intention of distracting Dick. Maybe a snack and some gossip, hell, perhaps even a movie if he could coax Dick out of bed and into the living room, could have been enough to take his mind off of the rain hammering at the windows just for a little while. But he hasn't even had time to really get into the first phase of his plan before the rain hit and now Tim is left floundering.
Should he leave? Avert his eyes from Dick's vulnerability like Alfred and Bruce always do and let the older man win or lose against his demons on his own? Should he stay, just a silent companion, a sentinel waiting at his side, watchful and supportive but detached in order to preserve Dick's dignity and independence?
Or should he reach out? Touch? Offer Dick the same kind of comfort his older brother always heaps on Tim at the slightest sign of distress and hope that it's enough?
Tim really doesn't know.
Well, when in doubt…
“Dick? What do you want me to do? What do you need?” Tim asks. His voice is soft, tentative and young in a way that Tim usually hates and always avoids sounding, but in this half-lit bedroom full of grief and unknown shadows, with his brother and best friend at his side, Tim thinks he can allow himself the vulnerability, just this once, if only because it's only fair. Dick shouldn't be the only one cracked open and laid bare for the other to see.
For a long moment, there is silence. The light outside flickers, leaving the bedroom in total darkness for long seconds intermittently, before it settles once more, marching on even under the onslaught of rain battering the cracked bulb. Next to Tim, Dick exhales shakily and visibly tries to untense.
“Can you…” he trails off but Tim is patient and remains waiting, heart in his throat. “Can you hold me, baby bird?”
Tim swallows and almost chokes on his spit but he nods, though he knows Dick can't see him, and scoots closer to the broad back that looks so fragile in the orange light. “Yeah, yes. I can do that.”
Slowly, as if he's disarming a bomb and is afraid of touching the wrong wire and blowing everything and himself up, Tim slides an arm around Dick, snaking it towards the other man's torso, and wiggles closer until he's fully settled, cuddling his brother close. He remains tense for long moments, unsure and unused to this position, this scenario, any of it, but when Dick clutches Tim's arm and cradles his slender fingers like they're an anchor that's keeping him from drifting away into the aether, Tim breathes out and relaxes into the bed. He lets his head fall forward and rests his forehead in between Dick's shoulder blades.
They don't speak. Tim doesn't know what to say – for all his dedication tracking the weather for Dick and his determination to be here for the man, Tim isn't good at comforting people, hasn't had the practice, and so is left floundering for words that wouldn't just sound empty and rote – and he suspects that Dick couldn't speak right now even if he wanted to.
The rain is unrelenting, with lightning and thunder sprinkled in, and the two of them lie side by side, holding and being held, feeling as if they're in the eye of the storm itself. Dick is shaking, Tim can feel it, and he's whimpering, murmuring words too low for him to hear even as close as they are, though Tim thinks he can hear the word ‘no’ thrown in quite frequently. Still, Tim doesn't pull away, doesn't offer verbal comfort, and eventually even pushes his legs towards Dick's until they're glued together, moulded after the shape of his bent knees. Dick holds his arm tightly to his chest and when the rain becomes particularly vicious for a few heartbeats he even brings up Tim's hand to his mouth and holds the warm fingers to his trembling lips.
Time loses meaning after that. Tim thinks he might even drift into sleep at some point, the kind where you're not really awake but you're not fully sleeping either, but they don't move an inch from their position and Tim doesn't try to push Dick for more. When the rain finally stops, it's still dark outside, though, so it couldn't have been that long, overall.
Tim stirs back to awareness and stifles a groan at the stiff muscles in his arm and legs.
Dick shifts, the first movement he's made since he lifted Tim's hand to his mouth, and turns around until he's facing Tim fully for the first time in hours. Tim can't see his face but he bets the other man's eyes are rimmed red.
“I'm sorry. I freaked out again,” he speaks in a voice so wrecked, so defeated, it's like someone died again. Tim wonders, horrified, if that someone is Dick, and if his older brother is killing himself over and over again every time the rain catches up to him.
Tim shakes his head vehemently. “It's okay. Don't apologise.”
Dick scoffs. “A little rain shouldn't incapacitate me this much. I'm supposed to be better than this. Bruce taught me better.”
Now it's Tim's turn to scoff. “Now that's bullshit and you know it. Don't be stupid. As if B has any room to talk.”
“Yeah, I guess you're right,” Dick sighs heavily, relenting all too easily.
A beat of silence passes during which Tim can hear water drip-drip-dripping down the window outside.
“Do you… want to talk about it? Whatever it is that's been upsetting you?”
Dick shrugs, the outside light silhouetting him well enough to let Tim see the movement in the dark.
“I don't… I don't want- I don't know- it's not a story for young ears, Timmy,” Dick stumbles through his words before finally settling on that.
“That's stupid. Whatever it is, I'm sure I've heard worse. Shit, no, that sounded bad! I mean- I'm sure I can handle it. Not that your story is not bad enough or that I'm invalidating-”
Dick interrupts Tim's panicked rambling with a snort that devolves into full laughter pretty quickly. Tim snaps his mouth shut, ears burning with embarrassment, and lets his brother laugh it up, even if it's at his expense, because it's nice to hear him laugh after being so silent and still for so long, and he's a nice little brother like that.
“Christ, Tim. You're really bad at this, huh?” But he sounds fond more than anything so that means Tim must be doing at least a little okay at this whole being supportive thing.
“Hey, I could just leave, you asshole. Be grateful,” he grumbles, knowing he wouldn't leave now if hellhounds were at his heels, but knowing that he has to keep pretenses a little. Can't have Dick grow complacent and think that Tim cares about him or something equally ridiculous like that.
“Nah, you won't,” Dick calls his bluff, chuckling, before he draws Tim into his arms by the waist and tucks his head under Dick's chin. Tim won't admit it on pain of death but he adores this cuddling position the most. He's never felt safer and more loved than when he's entirely engulfed in Dick's arms, tucked in and away from the world, totally shielded and held and kept . “I won't go into details but… do you remember Catalina?”
Tim frowns, thinking.
“Vaguely. You weren't training me yet back then, I don't think. So we…”
“Hadn't become close because I was being an asshole and keeping to myself, yeah, I know.”
“You know I don't blame you, right? You came around eventually,” Tim feels the need to point out.
“I did. But I shouldn't have made the same mistake twice and… anyway, that's something to angst over another time. Point is… I was with Catalina for a time but I wasn't- I didn't- it wasn't exactly consensual. I wasn't in my right mind and she… took advantage of that.”
Tim's guts twist in his stomach and his fingers find purchase in Dick's shirt, grasping it harshly and wishing he could… he could… what? What could Tim Drake, 14, do against Tarantula? He's Robin and well trained but… there is nothing he can do. No way to hurt her the way she's hurt his brother especially because… that's not really the point here, is it? Dick is the one who matters, the one who should be the focus, the one who's been hurt and is still, to this day, dealing with the aftermath of that hurt. Doing anything to her won't undo the damage she's done. Won't make Dick feel better or forget how she hurt him. If anything, it might even make it worse, stirring up things best left alone.
It hurts, to feel so much helplessness in the face of a loved one's suffering. Tim wonders if maybe he wasn't better off alone after all. After all, he never had to deal with this much heart ache in the past.
“I'm sorry, Dick,” he murmurs lamely, not knowing what to say.
“It's okay, Timmy,” Dick murmurs back as he cards a hand through Tim's hair. “Thank you for staying with me, though. It really helped.”
“Didn't do much,” Tim mumbles, still bitter over his uselessness.
“No, honey, you did more than you could know. Trust me.”
Tim hums in lieu of replying and lets himself be held and petted, recognising that the act is more of a self-soothing action on Dick's part than comfort for Tim. Even so, Tim feels comforted nonetheless, and it's easy to sink into the attention and careful ministrations, heart full with love for the disaster of a dork holding him close.
“If you ever go through something like that, please promise me you'll call me. Don't let yourself suffer alone like me. I love you and I never want you to know what it's like to be like this, but I'll die before I let you deal with it on your own, okay?”
Tim nods against Dick's chest, throat tight at the thought of having something like that happening to him, but dismissing it just as quickly because that will never be him. He's got B and Alfred and Dick watching over him, he's got his own over-preparedness for any situation he might find himself in, and, tentatively, he thinks he might even have his teammates in Young Justice looking out for him. Tim's not alone. He doesn't push people away stubbornly like Bruce. He thinks he'll be just fine. But still, he doesn't want to worry Dick needlessly, so…
“I will, I promise. You'll be the first person I tell.”
Dick's arms tighten around Tim and hold him close for several minutes before loosening again. A pair of warm lips press into his forehead and leave a lingering kiss there.
“Good,” Dick whispers, voice brittle.
“Love you too, by the way. Even if your pillowcases stink.”
Dick laughs and pushes Tim away, giving him a noogie before fully releasing him, and Tim yelps in outrage as he starts fighting back.
“Oh, it's on!”
The apartment devolves into loud cackles and outraged complaints, the sound of clothes rustling, pointy elbows hitting vulnerable flesh, and bodies tumbling to the floor in a heap covering up the rainwater sliding down the windows and the distant thunder coming from the direction of Gotham City. In Bludhaven, the night is peaceful, beautiful once more, and it remains that way until the first rays of sunshine filter through the wet and grimy windows of Dick's apartment.
Three years later, Dick wakes up in the middle of the night, tired after a patrol with Damian, tired of the cowl, tired of the weight on his shoulders and the storm in his chest as he feels pulled in every direction imaginable. His phone is ringing and Tim's contact picture lights up the screen for the first time in months. He scrambles for the phone and nearly drops it in his haste to answer.
“Timmy?” he answers, breathless, heart in his throat.
The sound of a sniffle reaches him from the other end of the line and something like a stone settles in Dick's gut.
“Years ago, you said to call you. Made me promise.”
Dick's heart shatters into a million pieces and he fears that he'll never be able to gather all of them up and glue them back together.
“Yeah, baby bird,” he says and he can't even hide how choked his voice is, how heartbroken he is, how angry. “I'm here. Lay it on me, honey. What do you need?”
Tim cries, a cut off wail that is heartbreaking in how young and despairing it is.
“Just… talk to me? I wanna hold you but…”
“Yeah, I'll talk to you. Tell me where you are and I'll be there as soon as I can,” Dick urges, jumping out of bed and hurrying down to the Cave before he's even finished speaking.
“Okay. Okay, Dick,” Tim says, voice small and defeated, and rattles off coordinates. Dick stays with him on the line the entire time, not shutting up once as he goes through the routine of putting on the Batsuit, leaving a note for Dami and Alfred, and boarding the Batplane. He keeps the connection going while he pilots and tells Tim about everything he's been doing since Tim left Gotham, all the progress he's made with Damian, and just how much he's missed his little brother. Tim doesn't say much, mostly just hums to show he's still there, but that's alright. Dick knows what this kind of silence means and he knows that Tim will talk when he's ready. Dick will be there to listen. Just like Tim was there for him. Always.