Chapter Text
Tim was tired.
He was just so, so tired, mentally and physically and emotionally and spiritually and in all the other ways, but it all just summed up to the fact that he was tired, and that was that.
Exhausted, fatigued, weary, drained, worn out, sapped, bleary; he could go on and on, and sleep didn't help at all, as it just reminded him of just how tired he always was, and he hated it, because it was useless for him.
The fact was, the sky was blue, the sun yellow, and Timothy Drake was tired.
Tired of what, you may ask?
The answer is everything.
Living was tiring, so was breathing, eating, moving, staying still, speaking, being silent, keeping his eyes closed, keeping them open, Tim was just so frankly tired, and was sick of being tired, tired every day and every night, in his dreams and as the clock slowly ticked forwards, always and forever more.
Tim just wanted it to all end.
It should end.
It deserved to.
And yet, it didn't.
Because the thing is, despite the overwhelming part of his brain that was screaming, pleading for death, he'd been good.
Good at hiding just how tired he was, how empty he felt inside, broken and hollowed out, putting on a mask when he was around others, heart practically dead and lifeless, helplessly resting against his ribcage.
Of course, he wasn't perfect, no matter how much he tried to be, and sometimes his real self would slip through the cracks, expanding inside him until it sometimes felt like he would burst, pressing against his skin.
When that would happen, Tim would just put on a smile, or fake a laugh, joking around like nothing was wrong at all, while he was dying inside and out.
But the second he was behind closed doors?
He'd collapse, mind and body screaming with what little strength they had left, begging for a way out, an escape from this living hell, for death.
That was when his fathers knife would come out from where it had been hiding, painting pretty lines across his arms and legs until the world spun around and around, mocking him as the tiredness would fade for a while before slamming back with the force of a thousand suns, leaving him breathless.
But he'd been good.
Tim had ignored the call to end it all, and kept on smiling, breathing, living day after day, night after night until days became months, then years then over a decade.
And for what?
If you were to ask him that, he wouldn't be able to tell you the exact reason.
Maybe it was for the family he was never part of, and would never be, for the chance that maybe one day he could be normal, awake and refreshed and not at all tired, when his smiles wouldn’t be fake and his laughs genuine, actual emotions bubbling in his chest as his eyes twinkled.
And oh, it truly was ironic, wasn’t it?
How the only way that Tim could feel alive and well and truly happy was when he was finally dead.
But it didn't matter anymore, and for all the times he'd pushed through, lived, it didn't actually matter in the end.
Because it had to end eventually.
That was a fact.
And what better time to end this lonely, tired life than now?
____________________________________
Tim watched as ruby red blood gushed out of the perfectly sliced slits carved into his wrists, sitting right on top of the vein, the liquid staining both his clothes and the bathtub underneath him.
It was a beautiful sight, one he'd dreamed about and longed for for so long, and it was most definitely worth the wait.
And his only regret was that he hadn't done this sooner.
For the first time in… well, a long time, the ever present tiredness that was constantly hanging over him like a shroud finally didn't feel so permanent, so heavy and weighing down his every move.
Everything was silent, and it was as if the very universe was holding its breath, so scared to even move in fear of ruining the perfect moment.
His eyes slowly slipped shut, a small but graceful smile adjourning his pale face, chest rising and falling less and less as he began to bleed out, alone, in this cold tub, warmly embracing the darkness creeping over him.
And then there was the sound of a knock.
The noise was sudden and sharp, so unlike the dull and peaceful atmosphere in the cold bathroom, and Tim's eyes shot wide open, panic flooding his veins.
Fuck, no one was supposed to be in the manor!
He held his breath, hoping- no, praying that whoever it was at his bedroom door would just leave, leaving him alone to die in peace.
But no.
“DRAKE!” Damain shouted, voice muffled through the wood, irritation clear in the way he was speaking, and for a second, it felt like Tim’s heart stopped. “What's taking you so long, you utter imbecile?”
Out of everyone who could be outside, it just had to be the demon brat, didn't it?
A sudden burst loneliness and rage bubbled up inisde him, strong and unbridled, and white hot tears of anger began to gather in his eyes.
There was no way he was going to have Damian stand outside his door and yell for him, not when everything was going perfectly.
“FUCK OFF!” Tim roared back with all his remaining strength, panting for breath as dark spots crowded his vision, the ceiling above him spinning dizzily.
For a couple of seconds; blissful silence, and he leaned his head against the cold marble of the tub, hoping that that had done the trick, and Damian was finally gone.
“Drake?” The younger teen called again, this time quiter and lacking the annoyance it had had previously, and Tim let out an breathless irritated sigh.
It was impossible to move in the state he was currently in, so the only way to get Damian to leave him alone was to tell him exactly that.
And besides, he could say whatever he wanted, after all, it's not like he'd be there to face the consequences.
A dying man has no need to tell lies, for if the truth escaped, why should he care?
Death was the only true escape.
Tim exhaled softly, struggling to take in air as less and less oxygen was traveling to his lungs. “Look, demon brat, I honestly don't give a shit what you want. I never have, and hopefully never will. I'm busy, so just leave me alone, won't you?”
The words came out slightly slurred, as his blood sluggishly escaped from his wrists, everything feeling woozy and strange.
Distantly, he heard Damain shout something, but he couldn't make out what exactly the brat was saying, as he relaxed, eyes dimly counting the ceiling tiles above him.
The was a loud thud, and the sound of footsteps hitting the ground, but to Tim, the noise was faint, like he was hearing it miles away.
He watched numbly as the door of his bathroom slammed open, eyelids half liddled as a figure stood in the doorway, blurry yet familiar.
Tim squinted, trying to make out the features, as within one blink and the next, the person appeared in front of him, muttering curses as their hands hovered over his wrists.
Black hair hung over their eyes, which seemed to be either blue or green, but he couldn't see clearly tell what color exactly, their jawline sharp and defined.
“Bruce?" He muttered, confused, as maybe-Bruce jolted, staring at him with a piercing gaze. "What are you doing here?”
His mind struggled to put two and two together, and Tim was finally able to understand what maybe-Bruce was yelling at him.
“-You idiot! What made you think you could just kill yourself, huh?! What would Richard think?” Maybe-Bruce screamed, and that was when he noticed that maybe-Bruce was pressing against his wrists with clenched hands.
Dully, Tim felt the pain, but he was to tired to care.
Who knew dying could be so exhausting?
Maybe-Bruce continued to shout, voice desperate, which baffled him.
“It's okay, don't worry," Tim said, struggling against the tight grip to pat maybe-Bruce on the cheek, but when that didn't work, he settled to just send a reassuring grin in the man's direction. "What's one more dead Robin? I'm not even family.”
Hot drops of water splashed against his face, and he frowned, smile fading away as he began to wonder when he had started to cry.
Oh.
He wasn't the one crying.
Tim opened his mouth to say something, what exactly, he didn't know, but found that he didn't have the energy to speak.
Darkness spread over his vision, the world around him fading in and out disorientingly, as he felt himself start to slip under the sea of death, not even trying to stay afloat.
His eyes fluttered shut, to tired to stay open, even as the figure above him screamed and shouted, and Tim relaxed, body weakening even more every second as he bled out.
And then his heart gave one last thump, and everything was finally quiet at last.
________________________________________
Drake was late, Damian noted with irritation, and, for the third time in the last two minutes, he glanced at the clock hanging from the wall of the Batcave.
The imbecile was supposed to have arrived over ten minutes ago for their sparring practice, but was clearly nowhere in sight.
He held back a sigh of annoyance, foot tapping impatiently against the stone floor.
I'll give him five minutes, before fetching him myself, Damain decided, eyes once again flittering back towards the clock.
Tic.
Tic.
Tic.
Tic- Yeah, no, fuck this.
Damian had given Drake more than enough time to come by himself, and honestly, what should he have expected from the disappointment of the family?
With a huff, he stood, walking to the elevator leading up to the manor with a scowl adorning his face.
The only reason he had actually agreed the do a training session with the idiot was because Richard had asked him to.
Honestly, Drake seemed to make everything worse.
He would be better off if the ex-Robin was dead, in fact, they all would, Drake was just a waste of space at this point.
Not even bothering to hide his footsteps, Damian makes his way towards the imbecile's room, and by the time he reached the door, his irritation was back in full force, before pounding on the wood.
“DRAKE!” He howls. “What's taking you so long, you utter imbecile?”
A few seconds pass without a reply, and Damian’s annoyance turns to anger, and he opens his mouth, ready to shout again, but is interrupted.
“FUCK OFF!” Come the breathless scream, muffled and full of emotion.
Damian can only pause.
Something wasn't right.
That… that didn't sound like Drake.
Drake was the kind of person who always hid his emotions behind a calm mask, never even letting anyone see the crack beneath it.
Heck, not even Damian could tell what the teenager was truly feeling most of the time, something which he hated with a burning passion.
Basically, the thing was, Drake didn't do emotions.
Didn't do real smiles, dead eyes surrounded with bruises like dark smudges, looking like he had never had a good night's sleep in his life.
So.
Why was Drake showing them now?
His previous anger mostly forgotten, Damian called back cautiously, “Drake?”
It's not like he actually cared for the imbecile, it’s just, well, if anything happened to the ex-Robin while they were the only two people in the manor, the blame would most likely fall onto him.
The reply he got back was slurred, words tripping against each other. “Look, demon brat, I honestly don’ give a sh’t what you wan’. I never ‘ave, and hopefully nev’r will. ‘M busy, so just leave me ‘lone, won' ya?”
Now he knew something was wrong.
Damian hesitated, torn between ignoring whatever was happening and just leaving, or actually dping something about it.
“I’m coming in!” He shouted, before pulling out the hidden knife wrapped around his thigh, slashing a circle around the handle, making the knob and lock fall to the ground with a metallic thump.
Just what exactly had Drake gotten into this time?
He pushed the door open, eyes glancing around the room wearily, only to realize that the older boy wasn't there.
Confusion flitted through him, and Damian walked forward, mind absorbing the background until he noticed something that made him freeze.
The bathroom door was shut.
Underneath it, a small pool of blood gathered under it, seeping into the marble.
For a second, a strange kind of calm slowly settles over him, a cold feeling spreading throughout his body like a chill as he observed this quietly.
And then the moment ended.
Fear, the one emotion Damian never would have thought he'd feel for Drake, spiked from his chest, overwhelming and all too sudden.
“DRAKE!” He shouted, pounding his fist against the door with all his might, straining his ears to try to make out any noise.
Silence.
Damian jiggled the doorknob, panic now fully overtaking his senses. “TIMOTHY!”
No reply.
He waited a beat, before, in the words of Jason Todd, decided to “fuck it” and kick open the door.
The wood slammed against the opposing wall with a resounding thud, and Damian didn't wait for the noise to vanish before bolting into the bathroom.
Only to immediately freeze.
It was like his very blood had frozen solid, veins and muscles unable to move as he stared with horror at the scene in front of him.
“Drake?” Damian whispered, the only words he could manage to get out as his eyes widened.
In front of him, Drake- no, Timothy was laying inside an empty bathtub, one arm dangling over the side and the other resting on his torso.
The teen's face was paler than a corpse, his eyes closed, and the only color in the room was the sickening red spilling from his limp wrists like rubies.
For a chilling second, Damian thought that Timothy was dead, before noticing the faint rise and fall of his chest, and it felt like a heavy weight had been lifted slightly off his shoulders.
“You utter imbecile!” He shouted, rushing towards the ex-Robin, muttering curses under his breath as his hands hovered over the bloody wrists, horror filling inside him.
Fuck.
Timothy's head tilted up to meet him, unfocused and glassy as the boy squinted at Damian, who was noting this in the back of his mind as he began to press down on the open wounds, hoping to quench the blood flowing all over, his hands quickly staining red.
“Br’ce?” Timothy murmured, words slurred and he snapped to attention emerald eyes meeting ice blue. “Wha’ are you doin’ ‘ere?
“Seriously Drake?” Damian screamed, holding back the tears gathering in his eyes, something he couldn't quite understand. "What exactly are you trying to accomplish by this!”
Look.
Damain hated Drake.
Why shouldn't he?
After all, it always seemed like the older boy was the center of attention, with Richard and Todd always joking around with him and ruffling his hair, fondness clear in their interactions.
Drake was always the smartest in the room, and he somehow didn't know it, which was infuriating.
He just seemed to fit in with the family, not even realizing his own place as he moped around, avoiding the family even though he didn't even have to try to win their affection, while Damian was over here fighting desperately to be seen, to be loved.
And Drake just made it seem effortless, yet he constantly pushed everyone away, knowing that they loved him and just hurting them by purposely ignoring that.
It was just unfair.
From the moment Damian had laid eyes on the caffeine-addicted teen, he had wished that he would die.
Countless murder attempts later, and the coward was still alive, and he hated it.
Damian had always thought that Drake would die by either his hand or a world-ending threat, sacrificing himself to the “greater good”.
Not- this.
Not the coward's way out.
Because from all his interactions with Drake, the one thing that always stuck out was the fact that even though the others noticed it too, they didn't understand what it truly meant, for Drake was tired.
He was always tired, and barely tried to hide it, yet he stayed up later and later, avoiding sleep like it was the plague.
Coward.
Running away after patrol before anyone could interact with him, constantly hiding in his room, avoiding everyone.
That fucking coward.
And here Drake was, being the coward and choosing to end his own life without even thinking about how it would affect everyone else.
Richard would sob and scream, pressing the limp body of Tim to his chest as close as he could, wailing and wailing in a never ending wail, one that was filled with heartbreak and grief and pain because their brother was dead, and it was all their fault.
Todd just stared numbly at the scene, face pale and body trembling as he clenched his fists, obviously fighting back tears as his breathing grew heavier and heavier.
Alfred had left almost immediately, but was no doubt breaking down somewhere else in the house.
Bruce had fallen to his knees, staring at his trembling, blood soaked hands from trying to stem the blood even though it was too late, tears falling unbridled and free.
And Damian?
Well.
“Come on, you idiot! What made you think you could just kill yourself, huh?! What would Richard think?” At this point his voice was hoarse, every word scratching against his raw throat, but he ignored it.
Timothy stared back, and for the first time since he had come in, his blurred eyes focused slightly on Damian's panicked form.
“ ‘s okay, don’ worry. Wh’t’s one more dead Robin? ‘M not even f’m’ly.” Timothy's voice was even more slurred, as he spoke slowly, one hand weakly struggling for a second against Damian's firm grip before giving up, instead shooting a peaceful smile in his direction.
With that, Damian couldn't hold back the white hot tears that slipped out, falling onto the dying teen’s face as he began to cry.
Every second felt like an eternity, as Tim’s breaths became shallow, lungs feebly trying to take in oxygen, his chest rising less and less.
Even as he died, Timothy Jackson Drake looked peaceful, the everlasting tiredness that seemed to always hang over him disappearing as he entered his final sleep.