Chapter Text
Tim Drake lay in his old bedroom at Wayne Manor, staring up at the ornate ceiling he used to see as a kid. It was strange being back here—not as Red Robin, not as the family’s black sheep, but as something fragile. Weak. His condition was deteriorating rapidly, the radioactive substance he’d been exposed to on a mission wreaking havoc on his body.
Even the combined efforts of the Justice League and STAR Labs hadn’t found a cure yet. They could only stabilize him for short periods. But every stabilization came with the same grim prognosis: It’s spreading.
He turned his head slightly, wincing as pain flared through his side. A soft knock at the door brought him out of his thoughts.
“Hey, Timbo,” Jason Todd said, stepping into the room with a plate of food in hand. “You didn’t eat dinner. Alfred’s worried. You know how he gets.”
Tim sighed. “I’m not hungry.”
Jason dropped into the chair beside the bed, setting the plate on the nightstand. “Don’t care. You gotta eat. And if you don’t, I’m force-feeding you like a baby bird.”
Tim smirked faintly at that, though the effort clearly took something out of him. Jason frowned.
“You look worse today.”
“Gee, thanks,” Tim muttered, closing his eyes. “Always good to have your brutal honesty, Jason.”
Jason leaned back, his arms crossed. He looked like he wanted to say something but stopped himself. After a long pause, he muttered, “You know, you’re not allowed to die. You’re too annoying to go out like this.”
Tim cracked an eye open, surprised at the raw emotion in Jason’s voice. Before he could respond, the door opened again, and Damian walked in with a book tucked under his arm.
“You’re still alive, Drake,” Damian said flatly, though his tone lacked its usual venom. “I suppose that’s a good sign.”
“Nice to see you too, Damian,” Tim said, his voice hoarse.
Damian glanced at Jason, then at Tim. “Father wanted me to give you this,” he said, holding out the book. “It’s from the library. He thought it might…distract you.”
Tim took the book with trembling hands. It was one of his favorites—a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories. He blinked, touched despite himself.
“Thanks, Damian.”
Damian shifted awkwardly before turning and leaving the room without another word.
Jason snorted. “Kid’s not great with feelings.”
“Neither are you,” Tim shot back, his smirk returning briefly.
Jason rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
-/-/-/-/-
Later that night, Tim woke to find Dick sitting beside his bed. He was dozing off, his head resting against the back of the chair. Tim watched him for a moment, memories of their brotherly bond tugging at his heart. He didn’t have the strength to wake him, but knowing Dick was there brought a small measure of comfort.
When Tim turned his head, he saw Bruce standing in the doorway, his face shadowed and unreadable. Their relationship had been strained for years, but the concern etched into Bruce’s features was undeniable.
“You should be resting,” Bruce said quietly.
Tim coughed weakly. “Can’t sleep much these days. Feels like my insides are burning.”
Bruce walked over to the bed, standing stiffly at Tim’s side. “We’re doing everything we can. The League, STAR Labs—”
“I know,” Tim interrupted. “I know you’re trying.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Bruce reached out, placing a hand on Tim’s shoulder. It was an uncharacteristic gesture of warmth, and it surprised them both.
“You’re stronger than this, Tim,” Bruce said firmly. “You’ll get through it.”
Tim wanted to believe him, but the exhaustion in his bones made it hard.
-/-/-/-/-
Days turned into weeks, and Tim’s condition continued to decline. The family rallied around him in ways he hadn’t expected. Jason stayed up late to keep him company, cracking jokes to distract him from the pain. Damian brought him tea and argued about the best detective stories. Dick coordinated updates with STAR Labs, refusing to leave Tim’s side for more than a few hours at a time. And Bruce…Bruce was there, always watching, always strategizing, as if he could will a solution into existence.
But it was Alfred who was the constant. The butler was a quiet, steady presence, ensuring Tim was as comfortable as possible. He never showed fear, never faltered, even when the others did.
One night, Tim woke to find Alfred adjusting the blankets around him.
“You don’t have to keep fussing over me, Alfred,” Tim said weakly.
Alfred smiled gently. “It is my privilege, Master Tim. You are family, after all.”
Tim’s eyes filled with tears he didn’t have the energy to wipe away. He hadn’t felt like he belonged in this family for a long time. But now, as they rallied around him, he realized that maybe he’d been wrong.
No matter what happened next, he wasn’t alone.
-/-/-/-/-
The days passed, and Tim’s condition only worsened. His skin grew paler, his breathing more labored. The radioactive substance had done something irreparable to his cells, and though STAR Labs and the League worked tirelessly, they could offer little more than experimental treatments that barely kept him stable.
Every breath felt like a battle, but Tim refused to give up entirely. Still, he could feel his body betraying him. And so could the others.
It was late one night when Jason burst into the room, a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looked wild, his hair disheveled and his eyes burning with frustration.
“What are you doing?” Tim croaked, his voice barely audible.
Jason looked at Tim, his jaw clenched. "I’m gonna find that bastard who had that radioactive crap. There’s gotta be an antidote. Or at least a lead. Something.”
Tim shook his head weakly. “Jason… you know it’s not that simple. They’ve already tried—”
“I don’t care!” Jason snapped, his voice breaking. “I’m not just sitting here while you… while this thing eats you alive.”
Tim watched him, his heart aching. He wanted to tell Jason to stay, but he didn’t have the strength to argue. Jason stormed out before Tim could find the words.
-/-/-/-/-
The next morning, Damian was at his bedside, reading aloud from one of Tim’s old case files. It was something mundane, a cold case Tim had shelved years ago. But Damian’s sharp voice cut through the haze of Tim’s pain, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.
“I don’t know why you bothered with this case,” Damian muttered, flipping the page. “The clues are pedestrian at best. Even a novice detective could solve it.”
Tim smiled faintly. “Then…why don’t you solve it?”
Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Because you’re supposed to,” he said quietly, his voice softening in a way that almost hurt to hear. “You’re supposed to get better and solve this. You’re supposed to get up and keep being a nuisance to me.”
Tim’s chest tightened, but not from the illness. “Damian…”
“Don’t get sentimental, Drake,” Damian snapped, his eyes narrowing. But Tim could see the worry there, lurking behind the boy’s bravado.
-/-/-/-/-
By the time evening fell, Dick was sitting at Tim’s side again, his hand resting gently on Tim’s shoulder.
“You’re so quiet,” Dick said softly. “It’s not like you.”
Tim tried to muster a reply, but his body betrayed him. His voice caught in his throat, and all he could do was cough weakly.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Dick said quickly, leaning forward. “You don’t have to talk. Just rest.”
Tim shook his head faintly, his eyes pleading. He didn’t want to rest. He didn’t want to fade away without saying something, without letting them know how much he appreciated them being here.
But the words wouldn’t come.
-/-/-/-
Bruce came in later that night, long after everyone else had gone to bed. Tim was half-asleep, his body too weak to do much else. But he felt Bruce’s presence, the way the man’s shadow fell over him like a protective cloak.
“I failed you,” Bruce said quietly, his voice heavy with guilt.
Tim’s eyes fluttered open, barely able to focus on the towering figure beside him.
“I should have found a way to stop this,” Bruce continued. “I should have protected you.”
“You…didn’t fail,” Tim rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “You…never failed.”
Bruce sat down, his expression unreadable. For a long time, neither of them spoke. Then Bruce leaned forward, his hand brushing Tim’s.
“I’ll fix this,” Bruce said, his voice steely. “I don’t care what it takes. I’ll fix it.”
Tim wanted to believe him. But as the darkness pulled at him, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on.
-/-/-/-
The next morning, Alfred entered the room to find Tim barely conscious. His breathing was shallow, his skin clammy. Alfred’s heart clenched, but he moved with practiced calm, adjusting the machines and medications that kept Tim alive.
“Master Tim” Alfred said softly, his voice unwavering. “It is not time to give up. You are stronger than you know.”
Tim’s eyes fluttered open, tears glistening at the corners. “I’m tired, Alfred.”
“I know,” Alfred said, his voice breaking for the first time. He placed a gentle hand on Tim’s head, smoothing his hair like he had when Tim was a boy. “But you must keep fighting. For all of us.”
Tim’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “You…always knew how to guilt-trip me.”
Alfred chuckled, though the sound was heavy with emotion. “Indeed. And I shall continue to do so until you are well again.”
As Tim drifted off to sleep, surrounded by the love and care of his family, Alfred remained by his side, silently willing him to hold on just a little longer.