Chapter Text
Tim doesn’t remember day one.
The memories are swallowed; like a babe swaddled to suffocation or a too-small child in a collapsed pillow fort. Subsumed beneath the fog of static and white noise. The unforgiving KSH KSH KSH, the unrelenting current spasming through brain and limb and muscle and synapse. A livewire of madness, conducting through his body and skittering through his mind.
Tim doesn’t remember day one. Not past the pain and the Pit.
But he remembers his dreams.
A dream – with a mother whose face has been clouded over by the blur brush of time. No photographs to consult in sleep; only a remembered memory. A copy of a copy. But the cluck of her tongue is familiar. The contradicting softness of her touch and sharpness of her words. He leans into both, clings. "I'm sorry you've been hurt," she says, in a voice that's even less well-remembered than her face is.
There are videos and recordings of Janet Drake, terrifying and triumphant businesswoman. But there are no videos of Janet Drake, mother. There is no record of what that Janet sounded like, in the moments she held her son. Photographs, sometimes. Circus colours and bright smiles. But his mother's voice exists only as a remembered memory. An echo of an echo. Fading more each year.
"I'm sorry you've been hurt," says all that he can remember of his mother. And she lets him rest his head on her shoulder and brushes a thumb along the wetness edging his eyelids, kisses his hair. Then sets him down and leaves.
There is home in this dream. Home that is complicated and messy and his. But it is a dream. Pieces of memory mirrored, but not a memory in itself. This is not real. It is a dream, a wish, a hope. It is not real.
But there is something real within the dream.
A presence at the edge of his awareness. Warm and watching. Waiting and wanting. An ember burning, a beckoning hearth. A promise.
I’m still here, the presence doesn’t have to say. Tim already knows.
***
There’s a knock, and it startles him.
Tim looks up from his laptop. Stiffens. Doesn’t snarl, with effort. Returns his gaze to his laptop, to his spreadsheets of budgets and investments and funding sources that could be re-allocated to infrastructure projects. Lets the numbers swim in front of his eyes, until the static fades to something manageable.
Damian, against all odds and pre-established patterns of behaviour, waits.
The door is open, because it is late morning on day four and Tim’s been deemed sane enough to relocate to the manor room that used to be his, but not stable enough to have a closed door. Even with Cass in here with him. On the bed at his side, head on his shoulder. Relaxed and unconcerned, even though Damian is still standing in the doorway, fist lowering from where he'd knocked on the frame. There's no way she didn't hear Damian approaching.
Ksh ksh
Tim didn't hear the pitter patter of death-waiting-in-robin-wings coming down the hall because it's hard to multitask, to maintain situational awareness while fighting off– while trying to keep his head clear. He’d assumed Cass would pick up the observational slack. Trusted her to be the early warning that the wide open door denies him.
Ksh KSH
But she didn't warn him. But she must have heard. So she must have chosen to let Damian reach the open, unguarded door while Tim was distracted and busy. And she knows he doesn’t want to talk to anyone and everyone right now and knows he’s annoyed by the open door and being in the manor and everyone’s general existence and being watched and she must have heard always-a-threatDamian getting closerclosercloser and she really should have said something–
KSH KSH
Cass looks up at Tim, hair brushing over his collarbones. Puts a palm flat against his chest. Breathes in, slow and deliberate. And again.
“No danger,” she murmurs. “No fight. Just talking. He has things to say.”
And then her face shifts to something apologetic, hand moving to his arm. The Morse code tapped is quick. H-E-W-A-S-L-O-U-D
KSH ksh
The static settles, in the way that a cat settles in front of mouse hole. Primed to pounce, but still for the moment. Tim breathes a long, heavy exhale. Angrier now at himself than Cass. He was loud. Damian hadn’t been hiding his steps– he’d been loud enough that Cass thought Tim had heard. Getting caught off guard is Tim’s own fault. His control faltering to anger, however silently, however briefly, is also Tim’s own fault. And now he’s demonstrated to Damian of all people that Bruce was right to mandate that stupid fucking open door.
“What do you want, Damian?” Tim snaps.
Damian’s expression shows none of the glee he’s certainly feeling at Tim’s contemptible, compromised state. His face is stiff, vying for blankness but betrayed by his twisted mouth and knitted brow. Their eyes meet briefly until Damian, in another out-of-character action, drops his gaze.
“I wanted to…” His little throat bobs. The stiff expression cracks further. Damian’s eyes flit upwards, to Cass. “May I…may I speak with Timothy alone?”
Who the fuck is 'Timothy'? Tim’s own eyes narrow.
It's curiousity more than anything that leads Tim to say, "Fine." To let his shoulders relax so Cass knows he means it. She leaves with soundless steps and a dagger-sharp warning look towards Damian. Tim hears the opening of a door – her bedroom across the hall – but doesn’t hear it shut. A deliberate noise and a deliberate silence, to let them both know she’s not far.
Alone, Damian returns his eyes to Tim. And it really looks like it's taking a considerable amount of willpower for him to meet Tim’s gaze. Like he’s staring down a loaded gun, fighting the instincts screaming at him to duck and roll away.
And really, who can blame Damian for the trepidation? A Gotham Robin has many natural predators, and one of them is a predecessor freshly dipped in the green tea bath from hell.
Still, Damian squares his shoulders. Swallows again and lifts his chin a little higher, pulling on a cloak of bravado about him.
“The actions you took during the Wings of Change mission were unacceptable,” Damian says stiffly. “And you must never repeat them.”
Ksh KSH
Tim stares, as still as an irradiated pond. Unsurprising, really. Damian's probably been gleefully going over the list of everything Tim did wrong in the last mission. Hell, Batman probably provided him with the list. After all, he'd given Tim a list like that about Jason.
It had practically been Tim’s manual as Robin– but in reverse. Like a photograph taken in negative, the product only valuable and useable in its inverse. Here is everything Jason did wrong as Robin. Here is everything you must not do. That long, long list, constantly read to Tim like a riot act. Here’s how Jason caused his own death. Now, Tim definitely has his own list. And that must make Damian's fucking day. Getting to hear Tim’s failures on repeat like scripture. Here’s the parade of errors that led Tim to cause his own death. Don’t be like him. Don’t ever be like him.
At least Jason never wasted a valuable, irreplaceable resource through his death and revival. Pits are multi-use for healing, single-use for resurrection. And they used the Batcave Pit on Tim. Here lies Timothy Drake-Wayne, who surpassed his predecessor in both success and failure.
“You must never do that again. Never," Damian insists. "Do you understand?”
Tim tilts his head. While he understands Damian looking down at him for his mistakes, this confrontation is a bit much. Annoying. Irritating. Still, the defensiveness that would have surged to the surface a week ago makes no appearance. There is no flash of volcanic or glacial rage. Just a clinical, detached current of electricity running through Tim’s mind as he weighs the many ways in which he could ruin Damian’s life.
“I shouldn’t have to tell you this.” Damian's voice would be venomous if it weren’t so desperate. “You should know better."
Planting drugs to get his favourite art teacher fired, sabotaging the files of his ongoing cases, spearheading a campaign to get Gotham Zoo investigated for negligence–
“Killing someone is always the easy way out. Even if the person is– is– You behaved poorly. Robins are about– about finding the path of light through the darkness. Of– of creating options where there are none. Of not killing anyone. The actions you took were a disgrace to our shared name, and you must never, ever, do anything like this again. Do you understand?”
Tim blinks twice. Honestly? No. Getting myself killed should be the one thing I did right in Damian’s eyes.
Perplexity pushes the volume slider on the static downwards. Tim can't parse what's more shocking; Damian actually being upset that Tim got himself killed, or Damian associating himself with Tim by using the phrase ‘our shared name’. Even with the backwards argument that Tim violated the Bats don’t kill doctrine, it’s downright baffling how upset the kid seems. Like, did Damian get dipped in the pit? Did he get splashed when they dunked Tim and is now rocking a mild case of complete mental instability? What the fuck?
“Do you understand?” Damian demands again.
“No, I don’t!” Tim snaps. “And neither do you, clearly. Death is always on the table for us. We have a mission. And every night, we know that mission might cost us our lives. This isn’t different than catching a bullet somewhere vital–,”
“That’s not acceptable either! Dodge! Or move your organs out of the way!”
“Unfortunately, Ra’s skipped that particular lesson with me, so organ dodging remains something literally only you and Bruce can do. Go ahead and add that to my long list of failures and shortcomings; what’s one more bulletpoint, right?”
“I don’t–,”
“There was no fucking way out, Damian!” Tim says, snappy again. “Sometimes, the trap is too tricky. Sometimes the four walls are sealed too tight for a little bird to escape. And sometimes, all you can do as Robin is minimize casualties, not prevent them. You know that. Sometimes, someone has to die for the mission, for Gotham, for everyone else.”
And if it hadn’t been me, it would have been your beloved Richard. A secret of the eighteen-and-older club, shared early with Tim by Steph on day two. The age protocol. Oldest goes first. Dick would have been the choice.
The absolute stupidest fucking thing Tim has ever heard.
Dick is the only one who can fill in as Batman. Dick is the only person Damian listens to consistently. Dick is the only person who’d been Jason’s sibling before he’d come back as Red Hood, who holds the memory of that Jaybird alive. Dick is a founder of the Titans. Dick is Superman’s favourite. Dick is irreplaceable for a thousand different reasons, and chief among them is that losing him would shatter Bruce in ways that Tim isn’t strong enough to even think about.
Age. Stupidest fucking thing. Dick killing himself would have been straight up irresponsible. The superhero world would have been rocked. The family would have never recovered. Tim can’t believe Dick was even an option. Age. What a stupid fucking criteria. Even if Tim had known about the protocol ahead of time, he never would have let that happen.
He didn't tell Steph that though. Or Cass. Would never say something that would hurt them. Loving him hurt them enough.
Damian, however.
“There are no-win scenarios, even for Robins,” Tim says softly, nearly sub-vocal. There are still two open doors and he doesn't want Cass to hear. “And when that happens, emotion has no place, only logic. And logic dictates that if someone has to die, it should be the one who’s already been replaced, right?”
Damian flinches so badly he stumbles back a step. “Stop talking like that.”
“Talking like what?”
“Stop talking like– like– Is Todd redundant? Is Cain, now that Fat– now that Brown is Batgirl? Would you dare say such a thing to Cain– Cassandra?”
“No, because Cass’s fighting ability and interrogation prowess are unparalleled. She’s still needed as Black Bat.” Tim’s irritation is returning, growing. This should be obvious. “And Jason has carved an entirely different niche for himself as Red Hood. There's no one else in Gotham doing the work he does. Red Robin is–,”
KSH KSH KSH
He cuts himself off. Eyes flicking between the door and Damian. He can't let Cass hear. He can't.
“Why are you even here? Why are we even talking about this?” Tim demands in a hiss. “I know where I stand with you, Robin. I know how you think of me. You told me the day you became Robin. The day you first wore that suit Alfred sewed you, that name Dick gave you. Remember what you said?”
KSH KSH KSH KSH
“Unneeded and unnecessary,” Tim whispers, green gnawing the edges of his vision.
“You are not!”
The last of the boy wonder's bravado falls away. Face crumpling into misery, eyes dropping to his feet.
"You are not unneeded or unnecessary," Damian continues, in a voice that is quiet but jagged. “You are not.”
“You tried to kill me,” Tim says, in a voice so mild that it paradoxically loops back around to acerbic. “Multiple times.”
“I was wrong.”
“Before you discovered watercolour, your preferred artistic medium was my blood.”
Damian flinches again. “I was wrong.”
KSH KSH KSH KSH
The static is loud, loud, loud. Spitting pop-rocks of anger, taking up all the space in Tim's head. He flexes his fingers against his legs, knuckles cracking. Resisting the urge to dig nails deep into flesh.
“I was wrong,” Damian repeats. And the urge wins, Tim digging nails into the meat of his thigh, barely blunted by the fabric of his sweatpants. “I was wrong, Timothy. None of us are allowed to die. It simply is not permitted. That’s why it always gets fixed. Why Todd came back, and Father, and you. But it might– it might stop working, one day. So you can’t– you can't let this happen again. Don’t ever let this happen again.”
Childish. A sudden, startling revelation. Damian is being childish. He is being petulant, and obstinate, and speaking from a place of illogical desperation. The haughty rage that usually resides in the boy’s eyes has been washed over with something that looks suspiciously like terror.
Tim has no idea what to fucking do with this. With a Damian that's a child. With a Damian that's afraid. Tim’s angry, but there’s a pit in his stomach; a black one not a green one. And he just– he wants this done. This conversation needs to be over and Damian needs to be gone.
“Sure. Fine. Got it,” Tim says flatly. “As you command, little prince. We done here?”
Damian flinches for a third time. “I…no. No we are not. You…you owe me an apology.”
KSH KSH
“Do I?” Tim asks softly. Smooth as acid.
“Yes,” Damian replies, without hesitation. “As I owe you one. I will apologize for my attempts to kill you, if you apologize for using my dagger to– to– to– for using my dagger in that room. You reported that it was because it was 'in reach', but– but– but I still demand an apology immediately. And I will apologize in turn. A trade."
Tim stares.
Bargains, trades and threats–
His body lurches forward with a snarl. A barely aborted motion towards violence, held in place at the last moment by his hands fisted in the bedspread.
He knows where he stands with Damian, with Robin. Has always known it, had the knowledge baked into him with broken bones and blood. This pretense, this farce where the kid pretends to have regret, pretends to have changed, calls him Timothy and not Drake, this is fucking– it’s just–
KSSSSSSSSHHHH
Damian is bracing himself, arms up defensively. But he hasn't moved. Tim strains against his self-imposed anchor, against his own willpower, against the need to copy yet another thing from Jason. Maintains his hold on his bed, until he collapses backwards with a rough laugh. Flops onto his back on the bed, one arm flung over his eyes. Belly exposed to the enemy. Showing off how little he cares about Damian, about what Damian could do to him, about what has been done to him.
“I’m not apologizing for anything I did in that room,” he says, and ignores the fact that his voice is shaking. “I did what needed to be done. And I don’t need an apology from you either. You were just doing what you thought needed to be done.”
A long silence.
And then, a hitched breath from the doorway.
“I…I will apologize anyways.”
Damian’s voice is not quiet. It is small. “I am sorry for trying to kill you, Timothy. And…and I am sorry for taking so long to understand that you’re irreplaceable.”
Air whistles through Tim's teeth, struggling to enter lungs suddenly constricted, tight. But he manages to scoff, leaves the arm across his eyes. Doesn't move until he hears Damian leave. Doesn't move even after Damian's left. Apologies still sizzling against his skin like errant embers from a fire.
Sometimes the static is anger. And sometimes the static is the fabric of the world going wubhwubhwubh like a laminated piece of paper. The wobble of a desert mirage. A distorted reality that no longer feels comprehensible. Bargains, trades, and threats.
He's been told what they did. Damian and Jason and Dick. What they tried to do. What they tried to give up for him. But Tim can't– can't think about it. He can't think about it because it doesn't make sense.
Tim scratches absentmindedly at his throat with his other hand, nails digging into the place where there should be a scar, where nothing but smooth skin remains. Pressing deeper and deeper, until a hand catches his wrist. Pulls it away from his throat, then laces fingers with his own.
Tim shudders, but doesn't look. Not even when Cass gently pulls his head onto her lap. Carding through his hair with one hand, keeping hold of his twitching, scar-seeking fingers with the other. Tim doesn't look. Can't look. Cass's face will be a mirror. Whatever she sees in his body reflected in the pain in her expression. And Tim doesn’t want to see that. Doesn’t need a tableau of how badly he’s broken. Of how badly his brokenness is hurting her.
“I love you,” she whispers.
Another shudder. He can’t look at her, but he believes her. Cass makes sense. Cass has always made sense. Because she and Tim are the same in many, many ways. And he won't tell anyone about what the Dragon offered him, not even her. But he thinks about sharing that phrase with her. That damning assessment. A love of loves that wound.
“I love you,” he fights to whisper back, hoarse. Repeats it like a hymnal refrain. “I love you.”
***
Tim remembers day two.
He remembers waking up to Cass's hand in his hair, to the sound of Steph's breathing. He remembers that he was awake in multiple ways, lucid and reasonable and mostly himself. Staticy like an old television, twitching with bursts of anger, but mostly himself. Still confined to the medical wing of the cave, but with a rotating cast of visitors. Alfred and Barbara and Dick. Damian's tousled head poking through the privacy curtain two or five times, but never stepping inside. Jason never appearing at all. Bruce appearing only to maintain a solid 6 feet of distance from the cot at all times.
Tim remembers day two. Remembers all the visits, all the boredom, all the fighting with his own mind. Up until he fell asleep, with Cass crammed onto the cot next to him.
And he remembers his dreams.
A dream – with a father’s baritone heard. A hearty laugh sanded down to the smooth tones of the upper class. A booming laugh rough-hewn and raucous, reserved for the walls of the family home. The two familiar laughs overlapping like tiles in a mosaic. Pieces of a paternal puzzle.
A hand that's heavy and warm, a well-done son pat on his shoulder. An expressive hand gesturing to a spread of papers, demonstrating how to be victorious in business. A hand smashing his television to pieces. A hand pulling a razor down a stubbly face, sharing the secrets of a smooth shave. A hand scattering his gear across his ransacked bedroom. A hand holding him close, comforting in a threadbare apartment. A hand levelling a gun–
A hand levelled by a gun–
A father well-remembered, but who blurs in memory all the same. Voices and hands overlapping in contradiction. A theatre mask of fury and joy. Frustration and pride. Absence and attentiveness. Noticing nothing and then, one day, finally seeing everything. And refusing to look away.
He had two fathers before Bruce ever adopted him. Jack Drake and Jack Drake.
But perhaps he's being a hypocrite.
There is home in this dream. Complicated and messy and his. And it is a memory of what was real, what once was, what was never resolved but cut short by murder. But it is still a dream. It isn't real.
Not like the eyes on him, watching. The real warmth and real heaviness behind the gaze. A promise hanging in the air like the sword of Damocles.
I am still a choice you can make, the presence doesn’t have to say. Tim hasn't forgotten.
***
There’s a knock, and it startles him.
Tim clutches tighter to his iPad, eyes remaining fixed on the charity ball proposal he’s drafting on the screen. He doesn’t need to look behind him to know who just knocked on the glass.
He has been paying close attention to his open door since Damian this morning, especially as Tim’s now alone. But this newest knock sounded against his window. The news of Tim’s demise and return hasn’t been shared outside of Gotham and Superboy wasn’t on-planet to hear it, so there’s no reason for any Titans to have flown by for a visit. There’s only one person who would avoid the front door of the Manor like this.
Ksh Ksh
“I should leave you there,” Tim whispers. But he sets down the tablet.
The luxury of being petty, of being unreasonable, has always been denied to him. He is older than Damian so has to bear his taunts and threats. He is more stable than Jason so needs to weather his temper.
Could I get away with it now? Maybe, but Tim’s trying to convince Bruce that he’s stable enough to leave the Manor, return to his Nest. Trying to prove that he’s handling the Pit better than his predecessor. Because he is. He is.
KSH KSH
The static is very present and very loud but ignorable as Tim opens the window. As Jason enters the bedroom with his usual visually paradoxical quietness. The grace and silence to his movements that catches people off-guard if they don’t know where he was trained. The Red Hood is a battering ram of brute force and theatrics, but Jason Todd was trained by a rotating cast of shadows and only employed explosions and decapitations after he’d been silently operating for months. His bulk is a red herring– if he’s not trying to be flashy, Jason moves like a wraith.
And what a sight that wraith is now. Shoulders in a slight hunch, folding down rather than pushing forth his chest in the hyper masculine gorilla displays he’s so fond of. He’s wearing what Steph dubs his ‘library’ outfit. But Tim knows that’s not accurate. A public library is the one place Jason can shuffle into with whatever blood stains he couldn’t bother to hide, smelling of cigarette smoke and bad decisions. And he might not be welcomed but he won’t be turned away. No. What he's wearing now is another form of armour. A baggy but intact hoodie and name-brand sweatpants. A false shroud of harmlessness. A defence against those who look at him and expect only violence.
It’s surprising that he’s trying to use it on Tim though. Insulting almost. But why should Tim be surprised that Jason’s trying to to insult him? That he thinks so little of Tim that he thinks dressing like an awkward undergrad will make whatever he’s here for easier?
Ksh Ksh
As if his presence alone isn’t filling Tim’s bedroom with the smell of blood. Histories of violence filling up the space like the smell of cigarette smoke that even now clings to him.
KSH KSH
As if just the sight of Jason doesn’t invoke memories of bruises and breaks and blood and batarangs to the sternum and a knife pressed higher up than Damian’s dagger dug–
“I should have figured,” Jason says, in a soft voice that’s genuinely uncharacteristic. “You and Damian– you’re not like me and Dick. The two of you both got trained by assassins too young. Beats the tendency to be flashy right out of you.”
“What?” It comes out hoarse. The static is– loud. And it’s making Tim’s thoughts more muddled and unmoored than is strictly safe in the presence of the Red Hood. “What?”
“The Pit’s flaring inside you right now, isn’t it? The anger. The hate,” Jason continues, matter-of-fact. “But you’re not yelling or attacking me. Just staring, expression set to neutral. God, that’s fucking terrifying. No one would know you’re still dealing with the Pit until they woke up one morning to find out you’ve eviscerated everyone who’s ever crossed you.”
A humourless laugh. “Guessing I’m high up on that list?”
The electricity flares, filling Tim’s mouth with the taste of batteries and bad pennies. He says nothing.
“I’m sure you’ve got several plans,” Jason says, casual as can be. “Enough that you can afford to spill one of them. So humour me: what are you planning to do to me right now? How do you plan to make me pay?”
“You’ve got your criminal empire on lock, but you like to play pretend sometimes. Guess that’s what happened when you never get a chance to grow up, huh?” Tim spits out, words released like rabid dogs. “I know that you still like libraries; what a cute character quirk to balance out all the decapitation. But you don’t try very hard to change your appearance when you lurk in public spaces, considering you’re a wanted criminal whose face is on record. It would be easy to link your crimes to your civilian aliases. Have officers at all your favourite libraries. Manufacture notices and alerts to get your face plastered on the walls. Make your precious safe space unsafe, the way you–,”
The way you made Titans Tower unsafe. The way you make every room I'm in with you unsafe. The way you’ve made this moment unsafe.
But Tim doesn't say that.
"I." The fizz and pop of anger falters under the sudden churning in his stomach. Fury smacked aside by shame. "I. No. I wouldn't. I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't."
It's Jason's turn to have an 'expression set to neutral'. Hiding the anger and hate. "You'd be justified. Unlike all the things I did to you. No one can blame you for wanting to hurt me."
"I don't!" Tim snaps.
And it's not a lie and it's not the truth either. It's– he wants to hurt Jason the way he wanted balloons full of investment shares to fall out of the sky when Drake Industries collapsed. He doesn't want to hurt Jason the way you want to go to a movie or ask someone out or get something to eat. He wants to hurt Jason as a wish, not an action. There's a difference.
Because Jason is a shithead who's taken his daddy issues out on Tim three separate times. But fucking hell, who hasn't hurt Tim? Damian tried to kill him, so did Steph technically, so did Cass kind of, and it’s– Tim's been over this for months. It’s whatever. He's over it. People like to hurt him, water is wet. Tim is way past the point of throwing it back in Jason’s face, of wanting to hurt him back. He doesn’t want to hurt Jason back. Doesn’t want to undermine the parts of an actual decent human being that Jason is slowly trying to build back up. Doesn't hate or seek to harm the Jason he patrols with, does missions with, trusts to have his back strictly in combat scenarios.
The Jason that is currently standing in Tim's former-but-current bedroom with an infuriatingly non-judgmental face. Unflappable as Tim unravels in front of him.
"Shut up. Shut up." Frantic, snarled words, hands hovering beside his head. But Tim doesn't bother pressing his palms to his ears– it won't stop the static. "I don't want to talk about this. I don't want you trying to– to– fuck whoever put you and Damian up to this! I don't– I don't need this. I don't need you to pretend that you don't hate me."
Jason exhales. Low. Slow. Like the goddamn zen master he's pretending to be. "Tim. I never actually– okay, that's not true. I definitely hated you when you hit me with a crowbar. But I didn't hate you in Titans Tower, and I didn't hate you in the graveyard, and I haven't hated you since that stupid Cowl fight."
A scoff would be appropriate. Or a roll of eyes. Unfortunately, the idea that Jason hadn't hated him during Titans Tower is a novel one. It freezes Tim in place. Shows on his face.
"It was about Bruce," Jason offers, wry and grim. "Daddy issues, remember?"
"I know that," Tim growls, finding his tongue again. "But I also replaced–,"
"And you did a good job of it. You impressed me, at the Tower. The beatdown was for Bruce, and maybe to scare you off, but you kept getting back up until you physically couldn't. I didn't beat you up because I hated you, and I didn't hate you when you refused to backdown."
His eyes skirt to the side. "It was just that stupid cowl fight– I'm not an idiot, I know I was the one mostly in the wrong, but–,"
"But I hit you with a crowbar," Tim finishes. "And you hated me then. And then you stabbed me with a batarang to the chest. And that was the last time we saw each other until after Bruce was back, and you started to work with the Bats."
Jason gives a one-shoulder shrug. Deceptively casual.
"I was wearing a fuckass mouthgrill. I am not under any illusions that I was any way in the right during that whole cowl fight," Jason says blandly. "I'm not trying to– to blame you or anything. Or even to explain. I'm just– I'm just trying to tell you. That is literally the only time I've hated you. And that is the only time that I hurt you because of you, and not because of Bruce. And that means the hate's never been justified, not once. So all I can do is apologize, and...and try and...not be that person anymore. I'm sorry for all that shit, Tim. And I'm not saying that for forgiveness or anything, I'm saying it so that you know it. I'm sorry, I don't hate you, and I don't want to hurt you."
Pretty words from a dead bird.
Tim's lips curl of their own accord. Static singing a song of contempt and poison. "Really? Not even now? Not even after Bruce brought me back? Not even knowing that he did for me what he never did for you?"
Somehow, Jason doesn't even flinch.
"If Bruce hadn't had a way to bring you back," Jason says levelly. "I would have found one."
Bargains, trades, and threats–
Tim chokes on his next word. Chokes on his next thought. Chokes on the static and the memories and all the colours of a world that has flat out stopped making sense. Jason tries to say something else, so Tim throws a shoe at him. And then another shoe. And then a third. Until he finally leaves.
Probably, Jason didn't actually get to say whatever he came here intending to say. Whatever long speech or heart-to-heart on Pit Rage he was hoping to have. But Tim doesn't give a fuck about Jason's feelings. About what Jason wants. He sinks down into his desk chair with his arms folded over the top of his head. Shaking. For some reason, shaking.
He doesn't move when there's another knock on the window. Or when it slides open. Or when someone else's arm wraps around his shoulders.
"Jay said you were not in a position to receive information that could emotionally hurt you," Steph says, quietly. And Tim chokes again. Puts his face in his hands and hates, hates, that he almost laughs.
***
He remembers day three less well than he remembers day two.
Because Bruce gave him a test.
Made Cass and Steph leave. All day. So that Tim could prove he was capable of remaining calm and stable and sane without them. Cass had been furious. Steph had been uncomfortable. But they both followed Batman's orders, left. They always did.
Tim didn't maul anyone. And he was able to hold stilted but calm conversations. And he clenched and unclenched his fingers against the cot's sheets and found fixed points on ceilings and walls to stare at and napped as often as he could to make the time pass faster. He spent most of day three asleep. In little fits and bursts. Not quite enough to really have a proper REM dream.
But he remembers that he dreamt of Dana.
A dream – with a stepmom who never tried to step into his mom’s spot. Distance as a gift given to a son who didn't want another mother, and who certainly didn't want another adult watching him. Dana, a woman who could read bodies and reticent men nearly as well as Cass. Who knew and understood what he didn't want: her. Catered to his wishes by remaining a paper-thin, peripheral presence in his life. The only adult who listened to and respected what he wanted. An unobtrusive dad's-wife that never tried to fill the yawning chasm of his mother's absence.
His memories are snapshots of a woman who stayed at the edges of his vision. A gentle but firm hand on his father's arm. A voice that rarely rose in anger. Sympathetic sighs, apologetic winces. The signs of care she left behind. A father healthier in body and steadier of mind with so many edges sanded down. The household's jagged-corners of grief and loss rounded down. Metaphorical windows opened to let symbolic light in. Kind eyes and warm smile. Kindness and warmth.
The paradox is like the weight of the ocean, pressing him down and down and down. That the kindest, warmest adult in his life, the one who listened, was the one he kept away from. And the irony. The irony. It's like the roaring wind and sinking stomach of an endless freefall. That he relegated her to the edges of his life, made her apologize for taking up space in his world, asked her to tiptoe and ask permission and tread lightly if she wanted to interact with him. Placed her on the other side of a door, and dissuaded her from knocking.
She stayed distant. And still, he remembers her kindness, her warmth. And her face. Her face is clear in memory, in mind. He spent so long putting up her missing posters.
There is home in this dream. A home that could have been more, if he’d let it. A home that could have been different, if he hadn’t become the one turning his face away, closing a door. This fragmented memory made of could-have-beens. Recollection and regret.
The dream is a dream. Dreams aren’t real.
And so, whatever is real must not be a dream.
I still see you, the presence doesn’t have to say. I still want you.
Tim can feel it.
***
There’s a knock, and it startles him.
He only flinches a little. Not enough for Tam to hear over the phone. She continues haranguing him for springing this new project on her after being radio silent for almost four days. He lets her rant, turns and pokes his head out of the closet. Finds his newest visitor outside the bedroom door. The knock, however, had been against the closet wall. Which means he stepped inside to get Tim's attention, then beat a hasty to retreat to try and pull together an illusion of not invading Tim's space without permission.
The static–
The static is there. But it's not. It's not as loud. Day four is nearly over.
"Tam? I'll call you back," Tim says. "And I promise I'll have a proposal finished for you by tomorrow morning. So please set up that Zoom meeting with finance for the afternoon, okay?"
"You're insane," Tam declares. "And Gotham is lucky to have you."
The call ends. Tim removes his earbuds. Steps fully back into the room. Crosses the floor, sits on his desk chair. Only pauses a moment to take a breath, before spinning to face the door.
"You can come in," he says. And out of the goodness of his heart, and genuine tiredness, doesn't point out that Dick already did that to knock.
Still, there is something careful and visibly apologetic in Dick's body as he steps into Tim's room. It is jarring, actually. The sheer lack of confidence in his movement, in the hang of his head and slump of his shoulders. Bags under his eyes, a strain that makes him look older. Like two decades of vigilantism have hit him all at once.
This can't be because of me. Because Tim has been alive and well for four days now. But he's had two terrible conversations today already and knows this will be the third. And knows he's going to hear things he doesn't want to listen to. And knows there's a reason his heart is already hurting before Dick has even spoken.
Dick looks at the open closet. Looks at the floor. Looks at Tim.
And Tim can't. He can't stand that. Can't stand that look.
"I'm alive," Tim says harshly. "I'm alive, so don't– don't–,"
"But you weren't." Dick's voice is a whisper. His eyes shut for a moment. The pained creases on his face deepen. "You were dead. I held you and you were dead. I held you as you got cold. I felt you grow cold. You died, Tim. You were dead."
Better me than all of us. Better me than you. But Tim knows better than to even attempt to raise that argument with Dick.
"I know," is what he says. "But I'm not anymore. So let's just...let's just move past it."
Dick does not say anything. Not for a long while. A molasses kind of silence. Which has Tim swallowing again and again. Chest getting tighter with each passing second.
"I think this family has a habit of moving past things," Dick finally says. "Forward motion. Momentum. Never slowing down long enough to let things catch you or bog you down. It's almost like– it's almost like how Post Traumatic Stress works. It's post. The symptoms hit when the trauma is over. When you're in it you're in survival mode, no time to let the damage take hold. And it's like...it's like that's how we deal with everything. Just keep moving. Just jump from fight to fight and battle to battle. Because if we stop for even a second, if we don't just move past it and keep going, it'll hit us. It'll hurt us. It'll compromise us."
ksh kSH
"Stop it," Tim says flat, tight. "Mental health had nothing to do with the decision I made."
Dick's breath hitches. Followed by a sharp inhale and shaky exhale. "I'm saying that. There's things we should have talked about that we never did. Things we just moved past. And then you were–,"
Another shaky breath. "Tim, we need to talk about Robin."
Tim's vision fills with green.
Everything is KSHKSHKSHKSHKSHKSH loud and furious and miserable and hysterical. He wants to scream and he wants to laugh and he wants to cover his ears and rock back and forth until all the sounds stop and until Dick stops and until he leaves and everyone leaves and everyone follows the fucking script and leaves and stops trying to talk to him–
No. Nononono he doesn't want to scream and howl and crackle–cackle. He wants to explain to Dick, calmly. That there is nothing to talk about. Unneeded and unnecessary. Redundant and replaceable. That Dick has done a great job with Damian and a great job as Batman and Tim did a great job being the one no one had to worry about or get attached to. And they can go back to that, if everyone stops trying to– to–
There are no words, flitting at his face like flies hitting a windshield. No annoying words trying to burrow under his skin like poisonous, parasitic worms. There is just a low, soft murmur in the air. Dick is still here, his presence taking up all the space in the massive room. Replacing the air with tension and hurt. But he's not speaking. He's not trying to throw words at Tim until something sticks. He is just humming. Singing. Under his breath. Quiet. A soothing song. Not a lullaby, exactly. But one that is lullabye-like, with rhythmic counts of 1-2-3, 1-2-3, embedded - You and me and we, you and me and we, the chorus goes. Not a lullaby, but a song Dick used to sing when Tim was having trouble with meditation, in his early days of training. A song mostly in English, with little bits of Romani. A song that probably was a lullaby, once.
Dick is hum-singing. Tim can't control his breathing. It's shaky and uneven, a vehicle with misaligned suspension on a pothole-riddled road. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.
"Dick," he finally says. "You already told me why. And you already know how I felt. There's nothing more to talk about."
"Tim–,"
"Because you can't apologize. You can't. You were right about Damian needing it. It worked exactly the say you said it would. You can't apologize for taking Robin and giving it to Robin, because you don't regret it. Damian found his place here, like you wanted. And I–,"
Tim cannot make himself remove his hands from his eyes. Cannot slide himself out of the childish position of blocking out the world. So he doesn't. "And I don't. Want you to apologize. Damian needed Robin. You were right. There's nothing to talk about."
Tim can hear each rattle of Dick's breath. Each shift of clothing as shoulders shake and heave under the strain. It is like he is drowning. And Tim understands but doesn't know why. Or. Knows why but doesn't understand. Both. Neither.
"Can I." Dick stops. Swallows. Starts again. "You don't have to talk. But can I. Can I say what I wish I'd said months ago. Can I say everything I thought I'd have to say over your grave."
Tim flinches. The last line is a low blow. A guilt-twister. He slides his hands lower, so they cover his eyes and mouth. Lets lips twist into a snarl. "Fine."
Dick sucks in air. "Giving Damian Robin was never supposed to be at your expense. It was not supposed to be picking him over you. I thought you could pick a new identity, make something new, stand at my side as an equal. I never intended losing Robin to chase you away. I wanted you to stay. But I fucked it up. I know that. I should have made you a part of it. I should have told you before I ever brought it up to Damian. I should have talked it through with you, not blindsided you."
Told you, not asked you. Of course not. Robin wasn't Tim's to give or keep, after all. And he appreciates Dick's honesty. Rewards it by saying, "You know I didn't just leave because of Robin."
"I know." A new strand of regret and pain entering Dick's voice. "And Tim, I'm so sorry for not believing you about Bruce. I...I couldn't let myself. Because it would have been like...like an escape. An excuse to not fully accept that I was Batman now, Batman forever. I didn't want to be Batman, I didn't want to tie myself back to Gotham, to being the shadow. And if I believed you...it would be like wish fulfilment. Or a way out. An excuse to believe that being Batman was temporary. That I didn't have to commit myself to this being my life now. It wasn't you that I didn't trust, Tim. It was me. I didn't trust myself to be objective. I wanted Bruce to be alive so badly, it felt like you could put any piece of ‘proof’ in front of me and I’d want it to be true so badly I wouldn’t think it through. But I went too far in the other direction. I wasn't hearing what you were saying. What you were showing us. And I'm sorry for that, Tim."
"Okay," Tim says. Even though it's not.
The kshkshkshksh is a low persistent simmer. He should stay stony and silent, stay in the safety of quiet detachment. But Dick is the one who wants to talk. The one acting like words are magic erasers for the past. Or like this is a confessional booth that will absolve him of his sins. Words and words and words and the 1-2-3 of an orphan's lullaby still keeping time in the back of Tim's head.
Green gathers on the tips of his eyelashes and he slowly lowers his hands from his face.
"Do you remember," Tim says slowly. "That I told you. That my life was falling apart. Falling to pieces. Losing everything again. Do you remember that? I didn't know Bruce was alive yet, when you took Robin. So I really. I really had nothing. I'm not saying you shouldn't have given it to Damian; I already said you should have. I'm just. I don't know why we're talking about it. It's never going to. Not be what happened. You were justified but that doesn't. That doesn't change. It doesn't. That moment. It doesn't change that moment. When he was in the costume and I wasn't. That moment when I had nothing."
He sees what looks like Dick's patience fraying. Gratifying, even as the man tries to swallow it down. "That's what I'm trying to explain, Tim. I wasn't kicking you out. I wanted you to find a new costume, to grow into something new and amazing the way I found Nightwing. And to work with me in Gotham–,"
"You didn't need me. And if you don't need me then I–,"
Tim cuts himself off. Goes still and quiet.
He. He shouldn't talk about this. He shouldn't. Verbalizing the truth that has always been true, even when he tricked himself into thinking he was something else now. That he was more than a thing. The truth he has never said to anyone, other than the unspoken like-recognizes-like between him and Cass, the shared state of not-needed not-wanted between them. Other than the confessions pulled out of him by a dragon that promised to love him.
Don't drown in it, the Dragon had said in Tim's voice. Don't let the unsaid fill you until your embers are dead and smothered.
"Dick, I was here to be Robin," Tim blurts out, like a spurt of blood from a punctured throat. "You and Jason– Bruce wanted you because of you. He saw you, all your anger and hurt and needs, and wanted to help you. Wanted to take you in. Later, he wanted you as a partner. Later, he made you Robin. But Dick and Jason came first. Robin came after."
"Tim." Dick's eyes have widened. There's a horrified understanding growing. "Tim, you don't think–,"
"Bruce never wanted a me that wasn't Robin," Tim presses on. "He didn't even want me as Robin. He didn't pick me for either; to be his son or his partner. He didn't want me, he needed me. That was it. That was the end of the story. I was necessary. I had a place here when I was necessary."
"Tim, that's not true–,"
"And then you took Robin and stopped listening. You always listened to me, Dick. You always listened when I was upset, or hurt, or angry, or struggling. You always listened to me when I had an idea, or a hunch, or a theory. And then you took Robin and you stopped. The moment I wasn't Robin you stopped listening. You didn't listen when I said my world was ending. You didn't listen to me about Bruce being alive. I stopped being Bruce's Robin and I stopped being worth hearing. I stopped being worth anything. If I wasn't Bruce's Robin I was just– I wasn't needed. I wasn't here. I only had a place when I was needed and you didn't need me. No matter what you said, that's just the truth. Bruce needed me. You didn't."
"That isn't–," Dick stops himself. Makes himself stop. Visibly makes himself listen, too little too late. "That's how...that's how it felt to you. How it's felt these past months."
I don't agree with what you're saying but your emotions are valid, poor thing. Tim covers his face again, choking out a harsh, bitter laugh.
"But Tim, you're not the only one who was Batman's partner before being adopted. Cass also–,"
Dick stops again. This time, like a guillotine came down and decapitated his sentence. Tim peeks through his fingers. Sees stark, shocked, sickened realization stamped onto Dick's face.
"Cassandra became Batgirl first. Was adopted later," Dick whispers. "And...when Bruce died, she gave Batgirl to Stephanie and left Gotham. Didn't come back until Bruce was back."
"Ordered to," Tim whispers back. "If Bruce died or disappeared, Cass was to give Batgirl to Stephanie and pick up a mission thread Bruce was working on in Hong Kong."
"...and your instructions were to emancipate yourself and take over Wayne Enterprises. Fuck. Fuck!"
Dick squeezes his eyes shut. Presses fists to his temples. "You and Cass were Robin and Batgirl before you were adopted. You were both asked to give up those roles the second Bruce was gone. She was ordered to leave Gotham. You were ordered to legally leave the family. Tim, I didn't know. I didn't– I didn't–"
Tim looks away.
His eyes are burning, suddenly. The expression on Dick's face tearing at a heart already full of holes. The static is quiet though. There's something different roaring in his ears. But it's not loud enough. Doesn't drown out Dick's attempts to apologize for something that can't ever be undone.
“Tim, I– I didn't know Bruce asked Cass to do that," Dick says, voice rough as weatherworn concrete. "But I'm so fucking sorry for repeating his mistakes. God, I thought– I thought by making it clear that I wanted you as my partner still, that I still wanted you at my side, I wasn't doing to you what Bruce did to me when he made Jason Robin. I thought I wasn't repeating his failures. But I hurt you just as badly. I'm sorry Tim. I'm sorry for what Bruce and I did to you and Cass. You're both family. You have a place with us, with me, regardless of whether you're Robin or Batgirl. And I thought you knew that, and I didn't understand– No, I didn't listen when you told me that Robin was all you had. You're right. I didn't listen to you. I wasn't hearing you. And I'm so fucking sorry for that, Tim.”
"Don't apologize." Tim keeps his blurry eyes directed at the ceiling, "Like you said. You did say that you wanted me to stay. That you wanted to keep working with me."
Dick's breath hitches again. "I– fuck. Tim, I said that because I was trying to acknowledge you as an equal and a peer. Not because our relationship was only based on being capes together! I'm sorry for how I said it. I'm sorry for not making it clear that you're my brother, and that's all you need to be. That's enough. That's more than enough. I'm sorry for not telling you that you're my brother and I love you."
The tears start to trickle. Tim clenches his hands into fists. Doesn't look down. "You. You."
"I'm sorry that I kept doing shit that made you doubt that. I'm sorry for not believing you about Bruce. I'm sorry for letting you leave Gotham alone. I'm sorry for not talking to you about this in the months since Bruce has been back. I'm sorry for not checking in with you after the emancipation, taking it for granted that you knew it didn't mean anything. That nothing could make you not family."
Tim shuts his eyes. Crying. Just. Crying. "I. It's."
"I'm sorry I was so focused on making sure Damian knew he had a place here that I didn't notice I'd made you feel like you didn't. I didn't hear you, and I didn't listen, and I didn't see and that is 100% my fault, Tim. Because it's not just you I failed. It's Cass. You're both family, mask or no mask. I'm sorry that I didn't make that clear. I'm sorry I didn't see that you both needed me to make it clear. And I...I...I'm glad that you've had each other. You and Cass. And Steph. I'm glad that you've all held onto each other."
Tim knows another puzzle piece just fell into place in Dick's mind. A conclusion he's reached on why Tim only trusted Cass and Steph when the Pit had him in a chokehold. "We. That's."
Tim doesn't open his eyes. Doesn't move, even as he feels a warm presence at his side. Arms bracketing his. Slowly leaning in, slowly pulling him close. Giving every opportunity for Tim to move away.
Don't fall. Don't fall into Dick's arms. Don't fall for this. Stay stiff and unyielding. Refuse to open your eyes. Refuse to look. Don't fall for all these words. All these apologies. Stinging worse than anything Damian and Jason could say or do to him. Tim would be a fool to let what Dick's saying find purchase in his heart. He'd be a fool to let Dick back in. To believe him.
Maybe this is how Dick felt about Bruce being alive.
Tim makes a small sound. Almost a whimper. Doesn't open his eyes. Maybe Dick felt like he'd be a fool to believe it. Like he wanted it too badly and it was making him stupid. Like if he believed the words and they were wrong, he'd be left worse off than before.
"You're my little brother, Timmy," Dick whispers. Close enough to radiate warmth but leaving Tim his distance. "Until the sun falls into the sea. You'll be my family for as long as I'm living, and after too. I love you for you, not the costume you wear, not the orders you follow, not the role you fill on the roofs. I love you for all of your snark and your cleverness and all the times you broke into my apartment and ate all my food and the time you tried to teach me to skateboard and were unreasonably mad when I was so good at it and every smile you gave me from behind a camera lens."
Don't fall. Hitches and hiccuping. Tears rolling down his cheeks. Static and shocks are not what's shaking Tim's body now. Don't fall.
This might be how Dick felt about Bruce being alive. Maybe. But Dick had believed Tim eventually. When all the evidence made the truth undeniable.
Bargains, trades and threats.
"I love you, Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne," says his brother, "and Robin has nothing to do with it."
It's not falling. It's forward motion. Not moving past, but into. Tim slams against Dick's chest, letting the man's shoulder swallow his sobs. Clings as Dick's arms hold him close, hold him tight, hold him like they'll never let him go again.
"I can– I can handle anyone else, everyone else, whatever they think of me–," Tim chokes out, fingers clutching as his brother's jacket. "But not you. I always thought that you– I always thought from the beginning you never saw me as just Robin. I thought you always saw me as a brother. And then you– and when you stopped– I just– I can't– I can't–,"
"You're my brother. You're my brother, Timmy. Always and forever." Dick is crying too. Clinging to Tim in turn. Holding and being held. "You went cold in my arms, Tim. You would have died thinking that I didn't– that you weren't– Tim, I love you. And I will work endlessly to make sure you never doubt it again. I promise you. I swear it."
It's not falling, somehow. Something equally as frightening, but without the brutal and bloody end of bone-meets-ground. Instead there is just Dick, and arms that refuse to let go. A truth that became a lie that could be an evidence-supported truth again. And static that is still present, but very, very quiet.
***
On the night of day seven, Tim stands in a mausoleum of memory.
It is the last night he has to stay in the Manor before being cleared to return to the Nest. A week of observation almost complete. In the morning, he will go home. His home. The home he made as an emancipated seventeen-year-old.
But it is not morning yet.
The space is not actually a mausoleum, technically. It houses dead things, not dead people. The detritus of civilizations long gone. The memories of people preserved only in pottery fragments. An open concept series of connected rooms without doors. The only door is at the top of the stairs that lead down into the space. A miniature museum in the basement of Drake Manor. All the objects that couldn't be sold off or donated for tax receipts after Drake Industries went under. Because there was no longer any money to create false records and false providence for items that never should have left their home country. Placed in the hands of the Drakes by unscrupulous colleagues or by enterprising locals who cared more about feeding their families then safeguarding what their government deemed irreplaceable cultural heritage. Definitively off the books, they'd remained boxed away in a storage unit for the entire year the Drakes lived a lower-middle class life.
Probably, Tim should have returned them.
Probably, he should have found a way to confirm which countries they'd been taken from and returned them. Probably, that was the right thing to do.
But.
The rest of his parents' collections are long, long gone. Sold or donated. These invisible artefacts, these unseen traces, are all that remains. The last vestiges of the Drake Manor that once was. The last pieces of his old home. Trace remnants of lineage long forgotten. Treasures of lost dynasties. The last fingerprints of extinct bloodlines. His parents aren't interred here but their legacy is. Sordid, but solid. Morally corrupt, but a receptacle of memory.
This illicit museum is not technically a mausoleum. But it houses the dead, all the same. The last stronghold of the Drake bloodline.
And standing in the atrium connecting all the corridors, the drake that deals only in blood.
"Hello, Timothy Drake-Wayne," says the Dragon, smiling as always. "It is good to see you re-gifted with life. With a heart that beats and lungs that breathe."
It is in Tim's form again. Horns and scales and too many teeth, tail long enough to disappear down one of the crypt corridors. Tim didn't know it would be here, but he's not surprised either. Had felt something thrum in his chest when he was walking towards the Manor. When he'd unlocked the front door. When he'd breathed in the musty air and smelt smoke and copper.
"Hello, Dragon," Tim replies evenly. "You're a long way from 'your' territory."
Its smile broadens, glitters even in the low lighting of a basement-turned-exhibit. "And you are very committed to being useful, when you have not yet chosen me, and when I assured you I did not need you to be a useful thing."
Tim fiddles with his sleeve. Avoids its gaze. "It's not about you."
"Oh? You have spent, it would seem, nearly every waking moment since returning from death working to help my territory."
Crunching numbers to find money and resources that could be diverted into infrastructure projects for the earthquake-devastated areas of the city. Planning a full-on charity campaign to begin fundraising additional financial support. Drafting a proposal and hosting multiple Zoom meetings from an office in the Manor to get board support. Announcing Wayne Enterprises' Gotham Whole initiative this morning. A concentrated effort to rebuild the parts of the city that had been abandoned.
It was the only thing that Tim explained to his family. Not...not the offer he'd been given. Not the bond in place. But that he'd spoken with the Dragon while dead, and learned that it would leave of its own accord once its 'territory' no longer needed it.
So he's not doing it for the Dragon. He's not trying to be useful.
But. Tim can't say that it's just because the sooner the territory is fixed, the sooner the Dragon will leave. Because that hurts to think about. Makes something pang inside him. Loss. And he doesn't want to have to acknowledge that. Bindings and blood. The thing he definitively hasn't told his family about.
"It's for Gotham." Tim glances back at the Dragon. "That's what I decided I belong to. The city. The people. And your murderous dumbass followers were right. That part of the city has been abandoned by those who were supposed to protect it. So I'm just...unabandoning it. Because I belong to Gotham. I owe it my fealty and my protection and it's always going to be my home. Everything in it, the good and the bad. So I'm not doing any of this to...to be useful to you."
But it doesn't feel bad, exactly, to be helping it.
Tim's alive, and in this mausoleum he can feel his heartbeat, and an echo. Something else in the room beating in perfect time. They are still bound, and he can still feel it, but it doesn't control him. His will is his own. And he knows what he wants.
The Dragon's eyes are piercing, but not judgmental. "This is your answer then. Your final choice."
"Yes."
"Why?"
The same tone of voice, the same polite but pointed tone as when it had first asked why Tim had picked himself to die.
"Because I want to believe my family loves me," Tim says quietly. "But I'm not quite there yet."
Dick– Tim believes it, until doubt seizes him and he doesn't. Alfred, Barbara, Bruce– he just. He doesn't know. He doesn't know anymore. It hurts to think about Kon and Cassie and Bart and Ives but Tim wants to reach out anyways. And with the static less loud, Tim can recognize the olive branches offered by Damian, by Jason, that he rejected. Not a promise of love, but of...something. A willingness to try. And maybe even this much reticence is unwarranted. After all, Damian and Jason had both been willing to give up everything for him. And Tim had named them both in his list. It might be a case of I cant stand you, but I lo–. A case of I don't like you, but I lo–. Maybe. He wants to give it a shot. Wants to give it a chance. Wants to try and be in a room with both of them and not put his back to a wall.
The Dragon tilts its head. Curious, considering. Takes some time to ponder. Then nods slowly in understanding.
"A scabbed wound is one balanced between hurt and healing. It can reopen and bleed anew, or it can finally seal and scar, never to bleed again. You do not know which way these loves of yours will go, and only time will reveal the answer."
Its immortal gaze seems to soften. "And so, you will wait. You will give them the chance to heal those wounds, rather than leaving them and joining me. It is a disappointment, but not a surprise. When we first spoke, you made it clear that love is what defines you, your choices, your role. And that you do not balk when love slips blades between your ribs. Love made you pick yourself over your brothers. Love made your brothers offer themselves for you. Love made you trust your soul with them, however uncertain you were about the names on your tongue. And now, the hope of love anchors you here. To Gotham. To your family."
The Dragon sighs. All affection and wistfulness. An expression so utterly full of fondness and longing that it leaves Tim blinking back tears. "Ah, little drake. Your heart is one that they would write songs about, in my once and future home."
And Tim has to shut his eyes at that. Has to shut them against the desire to step in closer. The memory of the warmth of scales and a gentle clawed hand running through his hair and of being wanted and cherished and loved.
And as if it notices, as if it feels that, the Dragon's form ripples. Extends. Projection stretching out into its full, final form. Reduced in scale to fit into the atrium, the crossroads between the intersecting hallways of the faux-mausoleum. But still looming over Tim. And Tim loses the battle against stepping closer. Hears and feels the heartbeat that matches his and steps in. Lets it touch its nose to his forehead. Closes his eyes beneath the warmth.
"Blood means so many things," the Dragon rumbles, low and soothing. "It means warriors and war. It means family and home. It means anger and love. Birth and death, battle and hearth. And yet, when people pray to gods of blood, they so often care about only one aspect. One side. But you know it all. Love drives you to war, love leads you home. Love puts a dagger in your hand, love forgives those whose actions have littered your soul with wounds. You would have made a spectacular champion, Timothy Drake-Wayne, or a cherished companion. I still believe that we were fated to meet. But I accept that it doesn't mean we we were fated to be at each other's side."
Tim exhales. Touches a hand to the scaled head touching his. "The binding. I gifted you my lifeblood, but now I'm alive. What does that mean for me?"
"The binding remains, as you can feel. The names you gave still have my protection. I will enact no harm on your city or those you hold dear. You may call on me for aid and I will answer. And so it will remain as long as I am here."
Its draconic maw curls up into a knowing smile. "Though I suspect I will not be here for long. You work very fast, little drake."
There is nothing accusatory in its words, somehow. And Tim refuses to feel guilty for trying to remove a dragon from Gotham as fast as possible. But that pang of loss hits again. Makes him shudder. Makes him swallow hard.
"I...I owe you a lot," he whispers. "What...what you did that wasn't part of any deal. Of any ritual. Thank you for...for talking to me. For making me put words to everything I'd never said. Thank you for listening. Thank you for hearing."
"It is what you are owed by anyone who claims to love you," the Dragon says. Gentle, but firm. "Remember that, as you watch to see if your wounds widen or heal.
And then it is him-shaped again. Spectral still-warm hands cupping his face. Lips pressing to his forehead.
"Also remember," it murmurs, "that belonging must always go both ways. Do not settle for anything less."
Wetness gathers, trickles from the corners of Tim's eyes. He leans into the Red Dragon's touch. Leans into its warmth. Leans into its softly bladed love.
"Never forget that you shared your heart with a dragon, and a dragon's heart is always brave. Face what you fear, young drake. And do not waver."
There's a knock at the door.
It startles him. Badly. Tim jumps. Spins around. Stairs up the stairs that lead up from the basement. The closed door at the top of them.
He looks back over his shoulder and the Dragon is gone. He is alone in the mausoleum again. With nothing but memories and emptiness and absence.
The knock repeats. Startles him again.
"Tim." A familiar voice, muffled by the thick wood but audible. "May I come in?"
Tim says nothing for a long, long stretch of seconds.
He ascends the stairs like he's moving through water. Slowly. A little off-balance. Made unsteady by the warmth fading from his forehead. By the loss panging in his chest. But he fixes his face into something unsuspicious. Reaches the top of the stairs and opens the door.
Bruce is on the other side.
They face each other on either side of the doorway. Closer than they've been since before...since before. Bruce has kept a careful six feet of distance from Tim at all times. Every time he visited him in the cave's medical wing. The few times he stopped by the bedroom. Whenever they passed each other in the halls or common areas. Always a grave's-depth away. A reinforced distance. A reminder that the foundation of their relationship was Tim being held at arm's length.
But.
Bargains, trades, and threats.
Evidence, to a truth he desperately wants to believe but is afraid to. The cave's Lazarus Pit, like 99.9% of the world's Lazarus Pits, can only revive the dead once. And no one knew about it except for Alfred. Bruce could have kept its existence secret, never revealed the option. But he chose to use the Pit on Tim. That one-use resurrection, on Tim.
And that. Might mean something.
Maybe.
"Tim," Bruce says again. Then stops. Says nothing else. Just stares at him.
Tim is pretty good at reading Bruce, usually. Sometimes. But he's– frazzled, right now. Tired. Overwhelmed. Can barely untangle his own emotions. Can't guess what Bruce is thinking, or what he's trying to communicate with microexpressions.
"I told Alfred where I was going," Tim finally says. "And that I'd be back by 10pm."
"Yes. I know. I–," An uncharacteristic swallow. "You're. Returning to the Nest tomorrow. And I've been. Avoiding you."
It is absolutely shocking that Bruce just came out and acknowledged that. Tim's mouth actually drops open for half a second. Before he scrapes his professionalism back together. "It's...it's okay. I understand."
And then all of a sudden Bruce's eyes are laser-focused. A piercing gaze that reminds Tim of the Dragon. "Why? What reason do you think is acceptable for me to have avoided you all week?"
Is this a trick question? A test? Tim fights the urge to hunch his shoulders defensively. "I...you disagree with the decision I made in the cult compound. And are understandably upset with all the mistakes and errors that led us to that situation in the first place. And that those errors and that decision led to the release of a powerful magic entity, and resulted in you using up a highly valuable resource."
Tim pauses. Considers. Then goes for it. This is Bruce, not Dick. And Bruce understands logic.
"But. I want to say that I don't...regret the decision, even understanding that it violates a pre-existing protocol. I think the age protocol is flawed, and that I was the best choice in that scenario, hands down. So while I will be thoroughly reflecting on the series of events that led us into that trap to avoid similar situations in the future, I don't regret the actions I took in that room."
Tim knows Bruce is angry before he's even finished speaking. That doesn't take a great amount of deduction to figure out. So much for understanding logic. But Tim feels pretty strongly about removing Dick from the top of the 'in emergency, kill first' list. Strong enough to weather any of Bruce's anger at insubordination.
He stares back, unflinching. "Dick is the worst choice for a thousand reasons. He's your main successor, a founder of the Titans, has a thousand and one superhero connections, and is Bludhaven's sole full-time vigilante despite all the time he spends in Gotham. Age only matters as a metric by which to exclude Damian, because he's so young. And to be blunt, there's no way you'd survive picking Jason. I was the right choice to make. I'm glad I took the action that I did."
Bruce doesn't say anything. Bruce just...breathes. In a controlled and measured way that means he's putting effort into it. But Tim doesn't balk. He's weathered Bruce's anger before.
Bruce's voice is completely flat when he finally speaks. "You don't regret the action you took in that room. And what action was that, Tim?"
Tim blinks. What? "I– what do you– fulfilling the demands of the cultists to prevent them from killing all four of us. That action."
"And what was the demand?"
"What? Bruce, you know–,"
"What action did you take, Tim?"
"I fulfilled their request! That's the action! Why are you–,"
"You can't say it."
The tone of Bruce's voice makes Tim's mouth click shut.
"You can't even say it."
This. This isn't. This isn't the conversation he thought they were having. Tim doesn't think he wants to have whatever conversation this is. "Bruce, let's not–,"
"You killed yourself, Tim," Bruce says, voice unflinching and unyielding. "You killed yourself."
And Tim abruptly can't look at Bruce anymore. Angles his face away, shoulders curled and defensive.
"Someone had to! And I just explained–"
"You think you're the most disposable member of the team."
Tim flinches. Fuck, he never wanted to have this conversation with Bruce. But it's Bruce's fucking fault. For asking stupid questions. And the static is gone now mostly, Tim's Pit rage lasted the standard handful of days not the bonkers long-ass shit that still affects Jason. But a steel wool brush is scratching at Tim's brain. Making him twitch. Making him blink sparks of emerald out of his vision. Making him say what he never, ever intended to.
"You lose the least if you lose me," Tim says, admits, reveals. "I know that. I've always known that. And I think that decision should never be in your hands, ever. You are committed to never, ever being the judge of who should live or die. And that includes choosing who dies in no-win scenarios. So I stand by my decision. I was the right choice. And I was right to make that choice."
He stands by it. He doesn't regret it.
But he still can't look at Bruce.
"Tim."
Especially not when Bruce sounds like that.
"You still can't make yourself say it. The action. The choice."
"You're being an ass," Tim hisses. Still not looking. "Who cares what words I use–,"
"You can't say it because you can't admit it. That you killed yourself. That you wanted to kill yourself."
Tim's eyes snap back to Bruce.
He.
No.
That's. No. That's not–
But Bruce is looking at him the way the Dragon had at the start.
Bruce is looking at Tim the way the Dragon looked at Tim when it held him and asked him why? When it said, Small wounds accumulate, kill in time. When it asked What bled you? When it claimed that just by Tim explaining all of the loves that wounded him, all of the names he loved and wasn't sure still loved him back, he'd answered the question of why he'd picked himself to die.
"No," Tim whispers. "No, you're wrong."
"Tim–,"
"Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I'm not suicidal! I'm not– I'm not– I don't want to die."
Tim wants to hide his face in his hands and hide in a hole and hide in the safety and warmth of the Dragon's chest. But he keeps his eyes on Bruce. Shakes, but keeps his eyes steady.
"Someone had to be killed in that room and I was the best choice logically," he argues. "And I made that decision logically. And I would never have done it in any other situation."
Then why can't you say it, says Bruce's piercing, pained gaze. Why can't you put words to what you did.
"I." Fuck. Fuck. Tim's eyes are burning. This is such bullshit. "I–."
"You are not disposable," Bruce says, and his voice is all gravel, like a worn headstone. "You are not the most logical choice. Your loss would destroy all of us. Dick would move heaven and earth to bring you back, and Cass and I would fight the gods themselves. It doesn't matter your role on the team. You are my son, Tim. There is no scale that can weigh your life against those of your siblings. Dick's connections don't matter. My past with Jason doesn't matter. It is a choice that cannot be made with logic, because logic is defied by impossible choices. If the choice must be made, age is the only metric that can be used without destroying me. If you."
It's Bruce's voice and words that stutter this time. An actual tremble running through him. "If you. If you had not returned. After you made that choice. Chose to die by some self-assessment of your worth. It would have. Destroyed me. All of us."
Tim says nothing.
Bruce also says nothing.
They stand there in the nothingness. And the static is quiet but there. But Tim isn't angry. Mostly Tim feels sick and hollow and cold. Mostly he feels heavy and tired too old and too young. Mostly he feels like he wants to sleep for a thousand years and start running and never stop. He wishes Bruce was looking at him like a malfunctioning tool and not a broken boy.
Eventually, Tim finds his voice again. "You've avoided me all week."
A pained expression. An apologetic, regretful grimace. No effort made to hide it. "I am your Father. And I am Batman. And I need to be strong."
Bruce closes his eyes. Takes a steadying breath. "I was not strong this week. I was barely holding it together. And I remembered. I remembered when you first came to us. I remembered how you worked so hard to hold me together. And I. I was afraid. I was afraid that you'd try again. It is what you do, Tim. Try and hold the pieces of me together. But you were the one in pieces. I had to be strong for you. I didn't want you to see me when I wasn't. So I only came by when I...could hold it together. And I. Couldn't very often. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Tim's breathing is heavy. Vision blurred. He feels dizzy, almost. His chest hurts. His eyes are leaking again. I wasn't supposed to break you. But that lasted Tim's first year as Robin, if that. Afterwards, it had really seemed like Bruce loved him like a son. Like Tim's loss would be a blow, rather than something shrugged off. That Tim was loved. A child and not a thing. Tim had believed it for years. He'd believed it until his life crumpled around him and he didn't know how to believe in people anymore, believe in love. Didn't know how to believe in anything but his own aloneness.
"I." Tim wobbles on his feet. Steadies himself against the wall. "I killed myself."
The words echo, yet sit heavy on his tongue. "I killed myself, Bruce."
"You did," Bruce says. Voice breaking. "And we. We will have to. I need you to see someone about that. To talk about it."
I already talked about it at length with a dragon. I already talked about love and belonging and usefulness and child-shaped things. "I don't. Want to do that."
"I know. You're...very much like me. But I will also be attending sessions. My own. And with you if you want."
That startles Tim right out of his partial stupor. "You're going to go to therapy?"
"You. Tim." He regrets looking at Bruce's face immediately. Is caught in the wake of the utter pain etched into it. "You were in a place where you thought you were disposable. And I didn't notice. I will do anything to make sure I never miss something like that again. That whatever I've done to make you think that doesn't repeat. I can't lose you, Tim. Especially not to your own hand."
They're just words. They're just things that could be lies and falsities and untruths. But Tim reels. Physically. Is caught by Bruce's hand on his arm. And then is caught in Bruce's arms, pulled into an embrace.
Tim says nothing. Trembles. Buries his face in his dad's chest like a child.
Belonging is a choice, said the Dragon. Choosing who to protect, choosing where to make a home. Not love, though. You cannot choose who loves you. You cannot even choose who you love.
But Tim can choose belief. Tim can choose to believe this. That the people who he loves are telling the truth when they say that they love him too.
It's funny. Bruce didn't even say it. An absence that should confirm everything Tim's feared and said.
But for some reason, even though he didn't say it with words, Tim's never been more certain that Bruce loves him.
I'm afraid to believe it, Tim thinks. But a dragon's heart is always brave.