Chapter Text
It’s a cold, Winter Sunday in Gotham, which means it’s mail day at Wayne Manor. The entire family (and Tim) is seated surrounding the main sitting room’s massive fireplace and waiting patiently for Alfred to pass out the assorted letters and packages that await them. Bruce leaves the second he’s given his mail, probably to go sit in his office and brood as he pretends to be busy, which Tim knows for a fact he isn’t because he does all the Wayne Enterprises work for him.
There’s a letter in the mail pile for Tim, Alfred hands it off with a raised eyebrow. The envelope is a dark crimson and is sealed with gold wax, it has no return address, no stamp, and nothing written on the outside. Someone had to physically go to their postbox to deliver it because it couldn’t have been mailed. Tim’s stomach churns unpleasantly and he pales as he realizes who it must be from, closing his eyes to try to will away unpleasant memories - Harley would say: “Not just memories, flashbacks from trauma , sweetie…” but she’s no longer a licensed psychiatrist, so what the fuck does she know, anyways? - of miserable nights spent with a man who still has the ability to make his skin crawl, despite being
(hopefully, please, he has to still be)
millions of miles away. Tim opens the letter anyways.
-
Dearest Detective,
I hope this letter finds you well - it must be unquestionably difficult to stay in good health without your spleen, wouldn’t you agree, Beloved?
I have to say, your little stunt with my bases was not appreciated, Timothy. It was bold, I must admit, but it would do you well to not get on my bad side; remember that. I thought our time together would have taught you some much needed respect, but it seems I was mistaken. Do you need a reminder, Detective? Because I would be more than happy to jog your memory.
Do NOT make a fool out of me, Timothy.
-
“Timmy? You okay?” Dick asks, shaking Tim out of stupor, a look of gentle concern on his face - which only serves to make him feel patronized. Tim hates nothing more than being treated as if he's fucking fragile - he's not.
Tim purposefully schools his facial expression into something as neutral as possible, closing himself off from his brother’s co-worker's overbearing worry as he re-reads the letter.
He didn’t sign it, he knows he doesn’t have to. There is only one person still alive that calls him by his full name and there’s also only one immortal motherfucker that calls Tim ‘Detective’ and ‘Beloved’ .
Fuck Ra’s al Ghuul, fuck him so fucking much.
Jesus Christ.
Fuck Ra’s al Ghuul and his ‘holier than thou’ attitude and fuck his ‘reminders’ and his godamn gloating and his massive fucking ego and his creepy fucking letters. Fuck it all to hell.
Tim abruptly stands up and tosses the letter and envelope in the fireplace, staring blankly as it burns into ashes and becomes one with the flames, ignoring Dick’s concern and Jason’s questions and Cass's hand on his shoulder and Steph’s curiosity, fully blocking out Damian’s scoff and rant about ‘dramatics’ .
Tim does remember his time with the bastard, despite how hard he has tried to wipe it from his mind and compartmentalize and erase that horrible fucking year from his memory - he remembers. He remembers Ra’s hands on him, he remembers their ‘deal’, he remembers the feeling of his breath on his neck, he remembers countless nights in the older man’s bed, he remembers the pain, and he remembers being seven-fucking-teen - he remembers all of it, every unbearable second.
He doesn’t need a fucking reminder.
He doesn’t think he will ever be able to forget.