Chapter Text
disconsolate
without consolation or comfort; unhappy.
Christmas time was for family. Tim Drake-Wayne wasn't part of the family whose windows were glowing with red and green lights a mile down the road from Drake Manor.
He was just Tim Drake, now. CEO, the youngest in Gotham history, under the guise of childcare he’d forged after emancipating himself. Fake Uncle John was living with him in the vacated master bedroom of Drake Manor where Tim curled up in dusty sheets when memories weren't enough.
The halls of the evacuated palace of artifacts that had surrounded Tim since he was a child glowed with their own light. The gray kind, the softened fluorescents burning his corneas through blue-light glasses. It was a painful sort of light– that tunneled the sleek, modernized hallways, seemingly endless the longer you stared.
Unease was like a viper coiled in Tim’s stomach, venom seeping into his veins as his laptop rested between his criss-cross applesauced legs, gaze distant over the dimming casework. No, his icy eyes were focused on the shimmer of Gotham snow and Wayne Manor splendor. Splendor he’d stopped enjoying when Jason integrated back into the family, when he’d rescued Brice from the time stream, and when Damian had become Robin like Tim never existed, Like Tim had never cried, bled, and lost himself and everything he knew and loved for the position.
He’d had to spend days awake in front of the Batcomputer, energy drinks littered by his feet and hands, not a soul sent to check on him as they grieved and called Tim mad for his belief. Even Alfred, the caring butler and grandfather in everything but name hadn’t noticed Tim’s absence in the upstairs of Wayne Manor. His lack of meals or proper hydration. He was grieving Brue, who’d practically become his son over the years. Red Robin– the persona Tim had never wanted took shape in that silence, in the beeping of buttons, and the near constant migraine of the bright screen. The suit he never thought he’d have to design staring in HD back at him, burning his eyes as Tim refused to blink, the design long sent to Lucius, no doubt producing it as he’d stared.
And now it was Christmas, and it had been two years since his epic round-the-world quest. Since he’d lost an organ and bled out in the desert sands, holding the body of his closest friend in his arms as she bled her life out over his new identity. Since he’d blown thousands of assassins to hell and ascended to leadership, resources he hadn’t even known at his calloused fingertips for months as he operated around the globe, millions of highly skilled warriors at his disposal. And yet he’d stuck to his closest friend– only friend, Pru. She’d been with him from start to end, Tam Fox joining them along the way, bleeding together, fighting side-by-side, and crying under the stars when the adrenaline finally trickled away.
And they still were at his side, even now, Pru away and in his status as Head of the League, and Tam watching his back at Wayne Enterprises as the youngest CEO in company history. Because even though Tim didn’t realize it, he was only seventeen. Emancipated, yes. Alone, yes. But still a child. And he didn’t think about that because if he did the anger would be back– the aching sadness.
Bruce, for all his strength, for all he’d done, hadn’t even known what Tim had done to bring him back, the threats he had faced from Dick, from Jason, and the attempts on his life from Damian. That, in his supposed death, could be forgiven, could be ignored.
But Bruce didn’t even care enough to know that Tim didn’t live at Wayne Manor anymore. That his room had long been cleaned out, only a comforter and a single photo of him on his first patrol as Robin, bo-staff clutched in one hand, Batman’s cape in the other, hanging over the bedframe. That he only showed for patrol. That Tim didn’t carry his emergency beacon because no one had answered it for nearly a year.
That he wasn’t even Bruce’s adopted son anymore.
Because maybe Tim, for all his genius, refused and deluded himself into believing that he was more than a soldier and a necessity to keep Batman from going mad.
Tim never had Bruce, a loving father with adoption papers to boot.
He’d had Batman, with strict training and barren interactions followed with reprimands.
And Tim had known his place– until that fateful day at Titan’s Tower. When Jason had appeared, his red helmet gleamed in the light of the backup generator. That was the day when Bruce had shown he’d cared. He rushed in, sliding on his knees to Tim’s side, his broken bones protruding sickeningly, his throat gushing blood and pooling to match the accents of his Robin suit. That was the day when the adoption papers Tim never thought he’d receive were signed, his position as ward replaced by the title of ‘son’. More than a mere replacement, as Jason had so charmingly taken to calling him.
But now he was reduced yet again, to the simple, thin man running his fathers— no Bruce Wayne’s company and staring pitifully at the Christmas joy tangibly exuding from what he’d once considered as home.
He could imagine it. The massive Christmas tree, reaching ten feet to the ceiling of the Manor’s living room, twinkling yellow-white lights twinkling sporadically wrapped and twined with tinsel across the artificial green pines. The ornaments he’d never known the origin of hanging precariously along each metal branch spinning with a slight draft coming naturally with the expansive halls. The bright, glinting star sitting proudly atop the top of the impressive, signature decoration, the angel maybe, that he’d seen once in his years at the sprawling Manor.
He could picture Alfred’s proud smile as he gazed upon the garlands draped around staircases, across balconies, and the timed Christmas lights put up around the gates and braided between false pines. Alfred’s dark eyes twinkled as he looked upon the feast that came with every holiday, roasted vegetables and ham adorning Wayne family’s fine China, the steam rising from the fresh meal as the family gathered in the gilded chairs, ready to eat.
Tim could’ve drawn the gleeful smile adorning Dick’s face as he piled his plate with the feast. The small lilt of Bruce’s usually thinned lips as he looked upon all three of his sons, together again. Even Alfred sitting beside the four men, his plate modestly full with his excellent cuisine.
It was perfect.
And Tim would never see or experience it anywhere but his mind.
His laptop had long gone dark, the clean screen black with forgotten motivation, the keys dulled with time and hundreds of cases accompanied with furious typing. Tim used to sit at the table in the Batcave as Bruce relayed his work. Now he received emails with simple PDFs attached with no pleasantries. Tim knew they were automated, the e-signature blared in bold black scribbles. Tim returned each solved file with an equally void forwarded Google Doc, his own signature hastily pasted to the bottom of the response. The ache in Tim’s chest when he did so was irrational; it was weak, and Tim knew it shouldn’t happen, not after all that happened, yet it did. The pitfalls of being human, he supposed.
There was nothing Tim hated more than a burn in his eyes and a sting in his sinuses. It meant that he’d cry, and Tim Drake wasn’t allowed to cry. The principle was drilled into his skull from infantry. A Drake doesn’t cry; a Drake doesn’t complain; and a Drake does not show weakness. And emotion was a weakness, especially in Gotham. And certainly as a CEO.
Tim knew, statistically, there was nothing weak about him, given history and present occurrences. But he still knew in his heart that he was feeble, nothing but a leaf in a hurricane. Tim also knew that these things were somewhat irrational, just as all beliefs he has surrounding family and caped business– but feelings were fickle things. You couldn’t stop them if you wanted to, and Tim couldn’t find it in himself to even pretend to give a damn.
Tim stared at the screen of his MacBook, the black reflecting his face, cheeks more gaunt and sculpted than he remembered, his jaw sharper than when he’d last looked in the mirror, and his lips thinner with irritation. But his eyes, once the color of glaciers hollow and almost white in their reflection, endless turmoil both clear as day and blacker than a Gotham night.
Tim scoffed and shook his hair, much too long to be professional but sentimental in the way he couldn’t bear to cut it. His hair was the last remnant of that trip around the world, hanging around his ears, last cut by Pru and Tam six months ago in his office at W.E. Styling it wasn’t much use but he did it anyway, the three piece suits making his shaggy layers less street-kid and more rugged-professional.
A soft smile graced Tim’s face, lips softening with the expression as his screen lit with a message. It was Pru, even in Nanda Parbat, remembering Tim, the simple ‘Merry Christmas’ making his whole day in one ‘ding’. His message back was equally short but no less fond, memories of his right-hand’s chocolate skin, buzzed, tattooed scalp, and rare glowing smile making his chest tighten all over again. God, he missed her, enough to board a one-way plane and not come back. Hell, he’d even bring Tam, business trips weren’t even unusual.
Case work filled his screen once against as he minimized his messages, the gruesome scene twisting his stomach, even after years of seasoned vigilante work. The multiple stab wounds oozed rust-colored blood, brain matter leaking onto cigarette littered pavement, a clear bullet would through the left side of the man’s forehead. A painful death, Tim was sure, especially considering how sporadic and drawn out the times of the man’s injuries were. Tim was slowly losing focus on the task as he shifted under silk sheets, his fuzzy Santa pajamas comfortable and lulling him into comfort only felt after eight-two hours awake. So not healthy, he knew, but when your boss was Batman it was best to be better than punctual with your assignments.
Unless you were his son, of course. Only then did you get respite, Tim would even go so far as to call it leniency. But that was irrelevant and Tim was more focused on justice, his hands quivering from caffeine as a long forgotten Monster – strawberry dreams, of course – was blindly grabbed from his nightstand, now room-temperature, but equally as good. The artificial flavor blossomed on his muted senses, long-awaited energy coursing through Tim’s veins, eyes focusing the longer he tipped the drink into his mouth.
The gore clicked into place on Tim’s screen, the brightness at its dimmest yet still enough glow to force a headache at Tim’s temples. Migraines were no stranger to Tim, his hours upon hours on phones, laptops, and wrist gauntlets making the blue tinge of technology more natural than sunlight. Timheld back a grimace as his focus shifted back to the case, still unsolved despite his usually stellar rate.
Maybe he needed a break.
But the only people who cared enough to enforce one were either halfway across the world or with their own family.
Tim Drake closed his eyes and gave himself the liberty of imagination.
Chapter Text
disconsolate
without consolation or comfort; unhappy.
Tim woke to a pitter of ice on his bedroom window. Snowflakes fell in a sheet of white, matching the throw blankets Janet had draped over the couches downstairs. Ice also pinged off the thick glass of Drake Manor’s windows, the dull gray morning nothing spectacular. Tim glanced out of the panes, his curtains fluttering in a draft, Wayne Manor stood stately and in the same position Tim had last seen it. This time the glow was gone, the lights that twinkled with red and green replaced with the soft sunrise Tim could no longer find beauty in.
He could just imagine the carnage of family breakfast, the kind he’d once been a part of, even as a spectator. Damian holding a knife no one could seem to confiscate, Dick laughing while he scrambled to take it, and Jason sitting beside the chaos stuffing waffles in his face, cackling around the sweet food as he watched. Bruce’s soft smile at the scene even while he held Damian in place so Dick could remove the young assassin’s weapon. Alfred’s fond reprimand for the sake of enforcement, no heat behind the scolding, his food slowly cooling on the glass plates he so carefully set out for every meal.
Tim didn’t stop to dwell, instead throwing the blankets over the laptop that had fallen closed and off his lap sometime during the night. His plants were warm and keeping the chill of the sprawling halls out, fluffy socks sifting with his toes as Tim garnered for purchase against the hardwood. His sweatshirt fell loose, hanging to his thighs, equally as warm. That was how he liked it. Hot to the point of overheating, yet cold enough to remind him just how human he was. Tim could almost mistake the clothing for an embrace in the draft of Drake Manor.
Tim Drake hadn’t had a hug in years.
He used to get them all the time. Dick used to wrap him in an infamous octopus hug, refusing to let go after a particularly bad night on patrol, or an extra difficult training session.
But then Bruce disappeared into the time stream, Damian had received the mantle of Robin before Tim could object, and Dick tried to send him to Arkham instead of believing his little brother.
The title felt foreign now. It had left a bad taste in his mouth as he said it, as he thought it. Dick had thought he was a lost cause. A mad little boy who belonged in the halls that held the worst of the worst to even cross Gotham’s streets. Tim had packed up and ran that night.
He’d gathered what little that mattered to his quest and gone. Out through the front door because Alfred was in the Cave running tech and Dick was taking Robin on his first patrol. His Nest waited in the Diamond District, his bike long paid off and shed of any trackers roaring down the busy uptown streets. The hum of the engine vibrated smoothly and comfortingly against Tim’s legs, the physicality of it grounding. The safe-house Tim had had on roster was cold in greeting, the lights were bright against his eyes, adjustment gradual after the darkness of Gotham’s night. The streetlight outside flickered, eventually winking out, and with a bitter laugh, Tim realized the similarity to his hope at that moment. Everything was gone. Everything he fought for— bled for. Snatched away like he didn’t matter.
And Tim supposed he didn’t. If he mattered he wouldn’t have to force his way into being Robin. Wouldn’t have been called crazy for holding a shred of hope with insubstantial evidence of his fath— Bruce’s life.
The threat echoes in Tim’s mind on the especially bad days. The ones where flashes of scalpels, metal tables, and sunbathed sand played on loop. The hours that passed with phantom itches of dried blood and the rough sensation of stitches on his fingertips. Those were long scabbed and scarred over, the coppery scent washed far, far down a Nanda Parbat shower drain. The memories never scrubbed off like the dead skin over battle scars Tim wasn’t quite keeping track of. They were like diseases; lingering, compromised long after recovery. Many things in Tim’s life were that way.
The Waynes were one of them.
They were a sickness to Tim; a vile thing that needed to be cut off before bile could rise in Tim’s throat or blood be welled underneath his nails, long, untrimmed, and jagged where he picked at his cuticles. The sickness had spread long before Tim lived with the Bats. It had started with that damn doorbell, that costume, and Tim— stupid, naive Tim stating “Batman needs a Robin.”
Maybe he was right, all those years ago. But even if he was, Tim shouldn’t have been the Robin Bruce needed. Tim shouldn’t have had to pretend to be Jason to pull a pistol from the Bat’s temple. He shouldn’t have to slur his words into a thick Gotham accent to simply be seen. Tim shouldn’t have to live in a Manor whose halls were only warm for the people who came before him.
But he did.
For a long, long time. Before he realized how horrid it was. Before Bruce was lost in time and Tim was so alone he didn’t know what it was like to be around people anymore. Before he lost a vital organ in a search for a father by paper instead of emotion. Before Ra’s was more loving in simple casework than Bruce was as Tim’s adopted father.
The proposal jewels were ornate. Dripping in gold, silver, emerald, sapphire, and diamond. Rubies littered a crown that rested in the top drawer of Tim’s nightstand. He glanced over at it, hand raised before he knew he'd used the appendage. Clothes too. Robes with fine gold embroidery, green and black silks and encrusted with the finest of fine jewels. Tim wore one of the rings now. A dainty thing. A simple band of pure gold, a single ruby slotted on the top of the band.
The red gem was shaped like a robin.
The robin Tim has centered in his new suit.
Only Ra’s had noticed the change in bird.
Only Ra’s noticed anything about Tim.
But Tim didn’t want an engagement. He wanted a person. He wanted someone who wasn’t immortal and conquesting the globe with assassins around every corner and watching through every traffic cam.
Tim is called ‘Detective’ now. The title had shifted from Batman to him sometime between Tim’s loss of a spleen and his use of the League’s resources.
Sometime before he blew tens of thousands of assassins into the air with planted hydrogen bombs in an escape/takeover.
And now Tim was back in Gotham. Still getting calls, receiving jewels, garnering proposals.
Now Tim was back in Drake Manor, someway, somehow craving the soft noticing that the Demon Head had given him.
It made Tim sick. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. He didn’t seem to care about anything these days anyway.
That was the problem with being lonely. Being alone.
You didn’t notice the absence of interaction, the void of silence until one day the chill in your bones wasn’t just due to a draft from empty hallways. It was from the unwavering knowledge that you didn’t truly matter. Because if you did, wouldn't someone have come for you by now?
When Tim finally got out of bed his slacks were fresh from the load he didn’t remember putting in the dryer. His phone had pinged: a meeting in Board Room 3 at 12:30.
Tim didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to see the bold letters of the name he could’ve bore if he was loved enough to be noticed.
The cold expanded, far worse than the gusts of wind outside in the middle of Gotham winter. The floor was cold under Tim’s feet, the hardwood chilled by the night, Tim’s feet warm from the thick blankets at odds with the frigid room. The pajama pants were bunched at Tim’s knees as he sat up slowly, his calves pale and shaking as he locked his knees to fully leave the bed. His phone was pinging incessantly in his palm, Tim’s eyes never leaving the floor, watching his feet shift away from the mahogany floors. His eyes drifted to the briefcase containing manilla folders of business reports and quarterly reviews. The cracked leather was familiar, a pen uncapped and poking out of one of the smaller compartments, probably completely dried out. His dress shoes, for every trip into the office, lay beside the bag, socks —plain navy— balled up inside, probably one of the only matching pairs he owned. His walk-in closet was open, his dove gray dress shirt hanging neatly, ironed, and scented with detergent and vanilla cologne— Tim was never one for overly masculine scents. His laptop was still closed and upside down behind him on the sheets, cold from hours of being shut down while Tim actually slept. Tim reached blindly with his left hand, his fingers flinching away from the cold metal of the device before bringing it to Tim’s sightline, picking it up as he finally fully stood.
His muscles burned, patrol still clinging to his tendons like wet socks after slipping in a puddle. Tim shucked off his sweatshirt, mourning the loss of the fuzzy fabric as a physical chill seeped under his pores, settling in to match the icy storm in his soul. His shirt was almost colder than the air, his fingers fumbling over the buttons as he shivered. Tim’s small walk out of his room and a sharp left to gather his slacks stretched like eternity, his unwillingness to be anything but comfortable and asleep dragging through his muscles like a shot of Ivy’s pollen. The smooth, expensive material of his pants slipped through calloused fingers, the dryer clanging shut beneath Tim’s hip as he moved to walk back into his room.
The cold air against Tim’s bare legs as he shrugged off the green pajamas was like taking a bucket of ice water after sitting in a jacuzzi for two hours. His slacks were cool against the pebbled skin, his almost emaciated figure looking more filled out in the expensive fabric, his muscled arms more prominent than in usual clothing. He could appreciate the way the fabric lay against his skin, the flattering attire playing into the flares of pride Tim always felt after putting together an excellent outfit. The socks were warm on his feet, dress shoes easily slipping over the navy material, Tim’s hand reaching for a tie as he squished his heel back and forth to move the shoe fully onto his foot. The silken material of the tie was a noose around Tim’s neck, the intricate knot pulling taut against his jugular, the epitome of professionalism, the execution of childhood.
Every fifth step creaked under Tim’s polished shoes, the sound bringing a wry smile to his face as he remembered the nights he’d memorized those creaks to avoid. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Tim bounced thoughtlessly down the steps at eleven o’ clock before patrol. Tim shook his head violently, his hair shaking in layers around his face as he reached the downstairs foyer.
White tiles surrounded Tim’s vision, the polished brightness throbbing behind Tim’s temple as he shielded his eyes and walked the memorized route to the Nespresso machine on the island. A cup sat awaiting, washed and placed there the morning before, a simple act future Tim always appreciated. The glass bowl of coffee pods sat beside the machine, shadowed with the lights off, only sunlight providing Tim with a clear view of the flavors.
His personal favorite was iced coconut vanilla, the rich, bitter undertones by a mix of smooth vanilla, the hint of tropical aftertastes creating an actually heavenly morning coffee. The soft whirring of the boiling water snapped Tim back to reality, the tantalizing scent of coffee permeating the stagnant kitchen air, Tim’s hands busying themselves with pouring copious amounts of ice into the travel mug he took to work. The soft plinking of fresh, boiling espresso hitting the glass mug brought a soft sense of warmth to Tim’s chest, the comfort of the beverage staggering in comparison to the chill in his soul. The fresh smell was only describable as home, the caffeinated beverage Tim’s only companion since that first archeological dig when he was six.
His parents never knew of the addiction. They never knew of the constant supply in the bottom left cabinet, the hidden coffee machine always underneath the sink, a place Jack and Janet Drake would never venture.
His nanny also never knew of the caffeine Tim consumed. The old lady had stopped coming around after Tim turned eight. His eighth birthday was a lonely thing, an affair of silence and a Doordashed chocolate bundt cake. But it was also the day Tim bought himself an aluminium spinning rack for the coffee pods. The day the Nespresso machine stayed in permanent residence on the expansive marble countertop.
His only gift had been a credit card, the latest phone pocketed by the whole Drake family before it even hit the market. Tim appreciated the debit —with access to all of the family’s fortune— more than any faux sentiment, such of which would probably be wholly opposite to what Tim actually did enjoy.
Tim scoffed the silence away, pouring the delectable beverage into his travel cup with shaking hands that he refused to acknowledge. The lid was screwed on and Tim was walking with confidence he didn’t feel outside and to his car, the key fob blaring the horn to signal its unlocking. Tim clicked the side button, the heater starting, his suit jacket only doing so much to bar the chill as his eyes swept over all he could see.
Unfortunately, Wayne Manor was what he could see.
The windows were bright again. This time it was the plain, yellow lights that hung off every wall sconce, the glow was homely, and Tim could practically see the shadows of the family meandering around the halls, the main living room. Tim could even delude himself into believing he saw Alfred in the third story, duster in hand gazing at Drake Manor just as Tim gazed back.
The engine of his BMW revved to life and all Tim saw when he looked back was lighting and eroding stone.
But, yet again, Tim allowed himself to imagine.
Notes:
I don't know if this is OOC so... yeah.
Chapter Text
disconsolate
without consolation or comfort; unhappy.
The board room was warm, the heater rushing Lysol scented air into the sleek professional setting. Tim sat at the head of the table, his ankles crossed beneath the table, leaned back in the leather-backed chair, a report and graph on paper in front of him, a presentation taking note in his peripheral. The old stockholder’s mouth was still moving, his voice background noise and practically begging Tim to fall asleep on the mahogany table like a lunatic.
A loop of AC and the clicking of a mouse to change the slides were the only noises Tim could bring himself to focus on. The graphs that lie in front of him made the whole speech Mr. Smith was giving wholly unnecessary, but bringing that up would discredit his position, so alas, Tim suffered. He was already ninety percent sure even speaking would make the board stare incredulously, it was like reliving the “children should be seen not heard” as a full grown (kind of) adult.
Bruce had said at the start of Tim’s career, that the board members preferred to be listened to, not answered or spoken to.
Tim had thought that that was bullshit.
He still listened to Bruce.
His coffee had been drained on the drive to the background of his playlist, the matte travel mug dumped on the expensive desk in his office with his briefcase and jacket. He pictured the expansive surface and floor-to-ceiling windows, the ice swirling and melting in the temperature-safe, metal container, his jacket slowly slipping off the back of his chair, and his briefcase hastily thrown across the mousepad.
Tim’s hands itched to open the sleek black MacBook in front of him, the case he’d abandoned lying in between tabs of Excel Spreadsheets and Google Docs full of Wayne Enterprises and Drake Industries stocks and patents. The two companies were two of his namesakes, his passions, and all he could focus on a good portion of the time.
The moment he’d turned seventeen he’d gotten an email in the Bialyan desert telling Tim he’d inherited the position of CEO and all shares of Drake Industries. That triggered a pitifully large panic attack that ended in Tim inhaling at least a pound of sand and a pebble to the eye. He was essentially competing with himself, faking stolen patents when all he was doing was copy-pasting the DI logo onto the new smart-chip W.E. came out with but never fully developed two months previous.
No one knew, of course. He would never be able to manage the two if anyone did. He was pretty sure that even Bruce never bothered to look at exactly who was running his company, only knowing that it was in semi-good hands.
Tim was also fairly sure that not a single soul– well, maybe a few, even knew that DI was under new ownership, the website and Google search result not changed from the fill-in CEO when Tim was still waiting for the will to take effect. That was a shred of assurance in his life, one of the only ones left, if Tim was being completely honest.
Then the bright fluorescents blared back into the room, the table reflecting the bright white directly into Tim's skull. Tim carefully stood, his chair rolling back a few inches, his composure intact as he softly adjusted a cufflink that wasn’t out of place and glanced around the room.
His praise for thoroughness was brief, but the meaning was sincere and faces lightened around the table and he nodded his head, combed hair falling softly, hand reaching out to shake the presenter’s who’d crossed the room. His hand was pudgy, no callouses or a hint of hard work in the fingers and Tim’s own shook firmly up and down, an intimidation tactic acceptable in the business world. He saw the unnerved look as Tim stared at Mr. Smith, letting go after a moment and gathering his files in a swift scoop and tap on the table, brickly walking from the room, his dress shoes gleaming, clothes perfectly ironed.
Tim opted to take the stairs up to his floor, the one dedicated to Tam and himself, his legs stiff from sitting, muscles underworked from a night of skipping patrol. It was a quick two stories, his thoughts swirling as usual, coldness still slowing his steps imperceptibly. His fingers shook weakly around the printed papers, a show of weakness easily exploited by his enemies, Jason or Damian taking the opening in stride.
Tim stopped with a violent halt, stumbling and falling to a knee on the concrete stairs as he turned over his thoughts again. Fuck. He thought of Jason as an enemy. He thought of Damian as an assailant. He was terrified of even showing humanity for fear of ammunition around them.
The realization weighed him down, his papers dropping and fluttering uselessly next to him as he fist shook where he clenched it. With a scream of frustration bubbling in his throat he drove his knuckles down next to his knee, the stripe of yellow on the otherwise gray steps crunching and splintering under his fist. Tears dribbled in his eyes, the concealer he’d tediously applied to hide the vicious dark circled threatened by the saline weakness.
A watery scoff escaped Tim’s throat, the choked, pathetic sound directed at himself and himself only. What kind of man was he if he couldn’t acknowledge his own enemies without breaking down because of a measly title they could’ve held. They could’ve been his brothers, he was unwillingly reminded by his own subconscious, a sneer finding its way to his lips as he stood shakily, papers crinkling as he haphazardly gathered them in his bleeding fist, dutifully ignoring the crater next to his loafer.
The rest of the walk was spent with his eyes downcast, his knuckles growing sore, and his pride wounded by nothing more than his own mind.
Tim was only marginally grateful when Tam wasn’t in the hallway of the top floor, her office door closed down the hall from his as he opened the door to his own, the plaque reading his name shining dimly in the industrial lighting.
The unwelcome coldness of his office knocked into his lungs as he inhaled shallowly, taking note of how his jacket was hanging just barely off one side of the wing-backed chair behind his desk. The windows overlooked the Gotham skyline, the sun shrouded by smog and the gloom of Gotham itself, as usual, but still beautiful in a way only a Gothamite could appreciate. HIs phone was face up next to his briefcase as he approached almost silent against the rug he;d thrown on the floor a few days after taking the position. The screen was lit with a flood of messages he wasn’t sure how to feel about, the screensaver of himself, Kon, and Bart convered by the blazing groupchat name ‘fuck batman’ and the incessent buzzing. While he agreed wholeheartedly with the name, a flinch still surfaced at the contacts that accompanied said chat.
Dick, Jason, and Damian. The three people in the world he was least comfortable around. They were talking mindlessly about frisbees and their ability to be lethal, which Tim found absolutely idiotic, but alas, the notifications still crossed the screen, unable to ignore. He reached out, his papers long forgotten, his fingers clicking hesitantly, face ID unlocking, the messages still pinging consistently as he read through the stream.
The brothers often forgot Tim was in the chat, from his time as present in the core Wayne’s circle, now far on the outskirts, yet not removed.
Tim couldn’t bring himself to leave, the phantom memories of simply reading the messages, or the occasional group photo that got sent for Damian and Jason to save from Dick panging lightly in Tim’s heart, his own messages never sent despite the longing to type something.
His cowardice was pathetic, yet he’d come to expect it from himself, the amount of times his finger hovered over the ‘leave conversation’ button obscene. He never acted, his thoughts echoing past fondness, a smidgen of hope, logic and knowledge could never quite snuff out.
Tim’s throat hurt from the scoff he let out, his pointed finger jamming on the screen violently as he clicked ‘mute chat,’ a chance at preventing melancholy, even if slightly.
Tim rounded the desk, slumping into the plush seat and banging his head down against the wooden surface, his ears ringing from the impact. Good. It prevented him from picturing himself as a part of that conversation, offering dry sarcasm, unhelpful, idiotic solutions tumbling from his messages, beaming as he looked upon the messages.
Tim closed his eyes and let himself imagine, because, so it seemed, imagination was all Tim had.
Chapter Text
disconsolate
without consolation or comfort; unhappy
The Batcave was drafty on good days, downright a winter wind on bad ones. This was a bad day, Tim’s hair whipping into his eyes, obscuring the white lenses of his domino mask as he gathered to the side of the mission circle, already knowing he would be patrolling on his own. He was always alone, not just on the roofs of Gotham, but in his apartment, office, and soul.
But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the bo staff collapsed and resting at the small of his back, cape obscuring the weapon and his hidden glock, only for emergencies, as well as the serrated knives on his thighs. None of the Bats quite knew of them, but they’d never asked either. They never ask about anything, Tim’s mind so helpfully reminded him.
Batman was gruff in his assignments. Tim to the Diamond District, as usual, Hood to Crime Alley, Nightwing and Robing patrolling most of the rest of the city, and Batman… staking out Black Mask. Because that wasn’t risky at all, Tim thought with a barely restrained snort, the simple absurdity of the world’s (self-procclaimed) greatest detective not picking up on the fact that a solo-recon on one of the most dangerous people in Gotham amusing to a disturbing degree.
Damian looked to Dick, his eyes gleaming, his hand clutching the mask, their comfortability together clear.
They were bonded like that because Damian was Dick’s Robin. They were so close because Tim was fired and kicked out.
Tim winced and looked away, offering a quick "Affirmative," as he stalked to his bike, the matte black and red accented thing beautiful and ridiculously outfitted with tech. He appreciated the sleek lines, the familiarity, and the hum of the engine. Grounding, and a reminder of Tim’s place on the globe, if not his place within the Bat’s ever-growing ranks.
The roar of ignition echoed over Bruce’s next sentence, Tim unapologetic as he peeled out of the blue-lit road and into the Gotham night. The confidence that the domino mask and reinforced HUD helmet brought was unmatched, adrenaline seeping into his veins the longer wind roared and snapped through his cape, the ruby red underside of the fabric a swirl of the violence dished out of the littered sidewalks every night. A real grin lifted Tim’s cheeks so high they hurt, unused dimples caving in his paper pale cheeks, the wind burn and steady vibration of the powerful engine against kevlar Tim’s— no, Red Robin’s link to the Gotham skyline. To the justice, and sometimes, the vengeance Batman started his crusade for in the first place, that he swore to protect when he rang Wayne Manor’s melodic doorbell. The grin turned down a bit at the corners, quickly returning as he passed the rusted fire escapes and rain splattered doorsteps, his city, in a blur of color and flickering street lights.
The Diamond District arrived in a flair of stainless steel, whitened concrete, and sporadic stained glass windows bracketing towering skyscrapers, boldened and neon lit company names blaring into the polluted night sky.
Wayne Enterprises blurred by in a flash of white and gothic architecture, Drake Industries following a block after, its modern design a sharp contrast to most other buildings in Gotham. His two namesakes shot a pang of something like pride through his ribs, the bruises on his abdomen tweaking slightly as he turned to watch them fade behind him, the days old contusions still roughly sore from lack of recuperation.
His shoulder also twinged from the dislocation two days ago, popped back into place after the fight, the relief palpable, the throbbing pain immense.
Tim hadn’t had backup, six members of Two-Face’s gang, machine guns blazing, and knives lunging. Tim had managed, his time with Lady Shiva more useful than ever, his shots lethal with no Bats around to comment on. HIs face had relaxed, his posture stiffened, and his feet moving and slashing, stabbing bluntly into bodies, collarbones shattering even as he’d been thrown into the brick wall, his shoulder useless at his side as he’d continued his battle.
Things had wrapped up quickly after that, his shoulder going back into place, Tim’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurt.
He’d gone straight home to his Nest after patrol, his suit going into the specialized machine for washing, his wounds tenderly treated and pushed past the next morning.
And now Tim was slightly regretting not going to Alfred. The hassle and bedrest it saved him was the only reason he didn’t pause his route.
The bike brought him back to the present, engine roaring loudly in the night, bounding off the buildings and drawing attention from the cars still out this late. Tim grinned a bit wider under his helmet, revving again and pulling him on the peg, his front wheel lifting high off the dark asphalt, coming back down after a few moments, and continuing down to the outskirts of the Diamond District where his route started.
The rest of the drive was peaceful, Tim only dwindling as he rounded the last corner and slowed to an abrupt stop, already downing the kickstand and swinging off the bike. He pulled open the clasp of his helmet with a soft click, the HUD winking off as he pulled the protective gear the rest of the way off, balancing it on top of the seat gently. Tim’s hair stuck up at unfortunately odd angles, the vigilante taking the hair tie he’d borrowed from Steph to pull his hair back into a loose bun at the middle of his head, some of the layers falling free and framing his mask.
Tim’s mouth quirked up a bit as he pictured her comment about hippie man buns, and “you’re one gay motherfucker.” She wouldn’t be wrong, she knew him too well.
Tim’s thighs flexed as he crouched next to the bike, his knees creaking as he clicked the button next to the oil valve, the bike’s external tech slowly fading into nothingness, a favor returned to Tim by Zatanna from a solved case. He was the only Bat with the pleasure of such camouflage, the rest of them seemingly inheriting Bruce’s aversion to the mystic arts. Tim, however, thought magic was cool, as were metas. He could understand paranoia on Bruce’s part, but a ban? A complete shutdown of any such presences in his city? That was what Tim failed to understand. One of many things he couldn’t understand about Bruce Wayne. Tim suspected that the man was just as much a cowl as Batman, a human made up of nothing but pain and the need to better things in a violent, and constantly losing battle.
That was the one thing Bruce couldn’t understand.
Gotham, Tim’s home, Tim’s whole life, was… lost. It was a neverending war, and would still be one long after Bruce Wayne, long after Batman. And, so it seemed, Tim was the only one who could grasp that fact.
He was happy to instill justice for those who couldn’t; was happy to spend his nights worn to the bone and flying through the air, cape whipping behind him.
But it didn’t mean anything. Not in the long run.
Not when Batman couldn’t grasp that ending evil was the only way to stop it.
But Tim would never dare do such a thing, Batman’s ‘no kill’ rule so deeply instilled it would be sacreligious to even mention such methods. Well, not to Jason, but apparently he was the exception now that he ‘wasn’t like that anymore.’
Jason wasn’t like that… but Red Hood was.
And they just wanted him back, disregarding everything to make sure he stuck around.
Tim’s job was done; he didn’t have to be a placeholder anymore. He just had to be there when he was needed.
And that was rare. So rarely that his absence didn’t seem ti be minded Manor-wide.
Tim was okay with that, it was what he signed up for when he’d blackmailed his way into a dead kid’s mantle.
It only made sense that once that dead kid was back he wouldn’t need to be the ‘forced inclusion,’ anymore. Just… a background character in a story of the most unconventional family in Gotham history. He was okay with that, he told himself, his forehead thunking down onto the motorcycle, the metal still warm from the ride through Gotham. The street light washed the pavement in light, puddles that never seemed to dry up reflecting a distorted version of his face, the somber line of his lips making his eyes narrow in annoyance at his own feebleness.
Tim stood with a pop of his knees, cape rising with him from where the fabric had fanned out around him. Tim pulled his shoulders back, falling into the easy confidence that came with the Red Robin suit, stalking out of the alley, shadows seemingly clinging to him as he went. Years of stealth training and intimate knowledge of the time-whethered streets of Gotham assisted him, his body contorting and sticking to the walls, his grapple firing with a hiss and crunch of stone.
His body was weightless, stomach dropping to the asphalt below as he rocketed upwards, the reinforced steel line holding his weight, his grip tight around the device tightening as he neared the roof he aimed for.
Anxiety was always hand-in-hand with the swing of the Bat-lines, springing through the air a mix of joy and fear that never quite faded. However, Tim’s situation has been much worse in the past years. Not fear of falling; fear of plummeting because of a Batarang that aimed for his line.
The incident was the tipping point for his distance, which truly propelled him to throw himself full-steam ahead to search for Bruce. The phantom slice and snap, the wisps of Damian’s smug face behind his Robin mask haunting him just as much as his trauma.
He remembered Dick’s accusatory glance when he’d explained the situation, seemingly believing that Tim was the one aggravating Damian, and not the opposite. Tim could understand not wanting to act brashly; to view the world in shades of gray, it was what had suited Dick’s morality for decades.
But that was black and white.
That was when Tim stopped seeing Richard Grayson-Wayne as a brother.
HIs bag had long been packed with a red and black duffel bag underneath the four-poster bed in the guest room he’d occupied since his adoption.
Bruce had given Alfred instruction to set up a room in the East guest wing, instead of the West family wing, when he was simply Robin and living at Drake Manor.
His direct demand had not changed once the papers were signed, and Tim couldn’t help but feel the sting.
Tim purposely left the room blank, none of the identicality of the other rooms in the wing changing after his inhabitation. The dresser was the same, but with clothes filling the drawers. The desk sat in the same neat corner beside the door, barren of decor sans a single picture frame of his Young Justice friends and two laptops (one for work, one for cases). The four poster bed couldn’t have been changed if he’d wanted it, but Tim had kept the crisp white sheets and red and gold comforter, the ottoman at the foot of the bed untouched besides the shoes stored neatly underneath.
The closet was solely for his bo staff, a Robin suit that Tim had known in his bones he’d never wear again, and combat boots, with a single yellow utility belt (slimmer than Batman’s) slung over the hanger by the traffic light suit.
He’d unlocked the biometric lock on the belt, clipping it around his torso like a crossbody purse, the latch clicking loudly over his ribs. His staff was contracted and solved in one of the many cargo pockets of the black pants he’d strategically chosen to wear. Such as the tight dry-fit navy tee, the clinging fabric flexible and light.
His utility belt was slim but dug sharply into his ribs as he slipped on the combat boots over his thick cotton socks, the laces loose and double-knotted as he moved on.
Sharp gravel dug abruptly into Tim’s knees, the padding light due to rare strikes on his legs. The pricks of pain grounded TIm, but flashbacks drew him quickly back in, a stranger in his own body as he watching his past self reverently caress the cape of the Robin suit he’d fought for before slinging the strap of his go-bag loosely over his shoulder next to his utility belt, hidden under a hastily thrown on windbreaker, black and nondescript.
Tim grunted as he shook his head roughly to the side, pulling up onto his feet by the lip of the brick building. His back creaked with protest as he straightened, the holster of his bo staff and concealed (as well as secret) gun, the two weapons a comfort and disturbance to Tim.
The gun was a recent addition to his patrol arsenal, but not new to Tim. His first exposure had, of course, been Jason pulling one to his forehead, the second during his time with the Assassins Three, Pru, Zed, and Owens, his precious friends. The weapon had found a home on the small of his back sometime between boarding a train to the deserts of Saudi Arabia and venturing on foot over the sprawling dunes, rippling with heat.
Tim was a voyeur to his memories, his feet moving across the roof as he reminisced the motorized scene of Pru shooting a makeshift dummy as part of his long-range rifle training. Trust Tim when he says if not for learning how to be a sniper he may well not have survived the LOA.
The stillness of holding a military-grade weapon on a shifting, red sand dune made the solidity of a Gotham rooftop easy, similarly to his stealth as he watched a drug smuggler from his perch a street away. Only a fool would leave his windows open as he sorted his inventory of illegal merchandise. Thankfully, this dealer was a fool, and his back faced the window, suitcase open with the evidence, Tim’s portable camera sniping the shot, zooming impeccably after he’d pulled it from his slim utility belt before trading the device for his staff and leaping down to the building next to his target.
Tim would have to move in swiftly, the open window saving a good amount of time as well as providing a bout of evidence to hold up in court. Really, he was making Tim’s job far too easy, his time facing immense struggle leaving Tim’s hands itching for action, even brutality he’d garnered from Ra’s.
Tim waited another ten minutes, the clock striking exactly 12:27 A.M. before Red Robin crashed through the fluttering, blackout curtains of the target’s apartment, cape fanning out dramatically as Tim rose from his landing position, one knee on the ground, the other foot planted firmly by the end of his staff digging into the dingy hardwood.
The choked scream Tim heard as he raised his head last, whites of his domino narrowing on the man, now holding a pistol, though the shaking ruined the effect. Tim’s glove creaked on the gleaming silver bo staff as he stalked toward the man’s trembling frame, the safety and first shot going off a moment too late as Tim lunged low and knocked his free fist upwards into the man’s wrist, the bones cracking satisfyingly underneath his knuckles. His staff followed soon after, the metal sweeping the man from his feet, the green eyes staring back at him wide and fearful as Tim lowered the end of the bo staff to rest against his windpipe, left hand reaching to his comm, clicking on the main channel to reach Oracle.
Voices flooded Tim’s ear, his eyes narrowing with a suppressed flinch at the onslaught of static. He cleared his throat roughly, silencing the line before speaking slowly.
“Drug dealer busted at the edges of the DD, requesting police pickup at my location,” Tim’s voice never wavered once, even at Damian’s scoff of disapproval (of what, Tim didn’t know). “Oh, and, Hood, I might suggest keeping a tighter hold, this guy had a Crime Alley accent and instinct all over him.”
Jason’s boisterous offense cracked through the device in Tim’s ear, the wince real this time, the vigilante knowing that the man beneath him could probably hear the resurrected man even from there.
“Red Robin out.”
He muted the comm line before anyone got another word out, most likely Bruce or Dick with another placation and request to ‘stop provoking your brother.’ Tim scoffed lowly, removing the staff slowly, letting the man breathe a sigh or relief before Tim drove the blunt end of the weapon into his temple hard enough to break skin, the pathetic dealer unconscious before Tim even moved back.
The sound of distant sirens wrenched Tim into action, diving cleanly through the open window his grapple gun nicked smoothly from his belt and fired before he’d dropped ten feet, smoothly flying to the same room he’d watched from. Tim made quick work of opening his gauntlet and sending the GCPD the photos he’d taken for evidence, though the scene was likely more than enough.
Tim folded his hands and pressed them into his upper back, arching back and relishing in the smooth zipper-like pop of his vertebrae, a soft grunt falling from his lips, hand moving to the side of his chin as he straightened his neck offering a similar series of loud ‘pops’ as he tilted his head to each side with pressure from the heel of his palm. A small relieved smile made its way to Tim’s face, the lightness of his skeleton allowing Tim to roll his shoulders and crane his neck in a deep circle.
Tim watched from his perch as three officers, guns raised, burst into the target’s dingy apartment, taking in the scene, lowering their weapons and radioing for evidence collection and tagging, one cuffing the man he’d hauled into a standing position. With deeper satisfaction in his now lightened bones, Tim moved deeper into the Diamond District.
The weightlessness that came with grappling onto a nearby building caused a heady rush to enter his nerve endings, the continuous lightness that came with flying through crisp air followed him all the way to Wayne Enterprises’ rooftop. The helipad was in the center of the old building, Tim’s feet planted squarely on the ledge, his cape snapping behind him with crisp ruffling, gazing out at the foggy skyline, a sense of peace entering his soul, a rush of shivers raking through his chest as his eyes closed behind the white lenses of his mask.
In another universe Tim could see himself sitting where he stood, cape pooled around his back as he and Dick, Batman next to his oldest son, the three of them licking as ice cream cones from the 24/7 shop a block away.
But that was another universe. But still, imagination was all Tim seemed to have.
He let himself fall into the haze of a false reality where he was wanted.
He let himself imagine peace that didn’t stem from pain and adrenaline.
Notes:
Next chapter in a different POV!
Chapter 5
Notes:
Jason's POV!!
This was... disturbingly hard to write, so I apologize if none of this makes sense!
Chapter Text
disconsolate
without consolation or comfort; unhappy.
Jason liked to think he knew his brothers well. They were family, plain and simple, even if they hadn’t always been treated as such. He would die — again — for them, kill for them, break every law created just to get them home safe and sound. He had seen Dick through most stages of his life, as Dick had been there, even if distantly, through Jason’s. Jason had been there for Damian’s slow but steady reformation, slowly shifting away from his upbringing in the LOA, Jason fighting by his side to reign in the Pit.
The only brother Jason couldn’t seem to understand, to get by his side, was Tim. His second youngest sibling had been gone for years, barely a word past patrol, and even then it was either crude snippets or clipped sarcasm, biting right to the bone. The insults were cold cut, muttered and only caught in the silence between echoing laughter in the Cave.
Jason knew his history with the young CEO and vigilante had been some of the worst they could have. Jason thought that that had been moved past, that he had been forgiven, even if barely. But then Bruce had ‘died,’ disappeared into the time stream and all had gone to shit. Tim had gone almost manic with despair, lingering hope and futile evidence ‘proving’ that Bruce was alive. Said that Jason of all people should know a fake death. Jason had pretended that didn’t sting, that the green hadn’t washed over his vision, and prayed that nothing had been said in retribution in the minutes he’d lost to the Pit.
Then Tim had gone upstairs in a flurry of rage, Dick only sighing tiredly and pulling on the cowl like it was a burden and grabbing Damian by the shoulder to send him right up after Tim. Jason had stalked to his bike, helmer already on, HUD flickering with his memorized patrol route, Dick following behind, veering off toward the Batmobile.
They’d returned four hours later to find a hastily scrawled note pinned to the Batcomuter.
Gone HUNTING
-Tim.
That was the last they heard of him for nineteen months.
The the CCTV alert came through, the doorbell had rung, and there stood Timothy fucking Drake, stitched from head to toe, Buce motherfucking Wayne behind him, a cap pulled low over his eyes. They were filthy, Tim’s clothes ripped, dusted with golden sand, BRice not much better, the same grains littered in the little hair visible underneath his cap, similar stitches to Tim littering his visible arms. Alfred had ushered the two quickly into the threshold, the rich accent cracking as he yelled for the first time in his long service, all the brothers falling over themselves to answer the butler’s shrill cry.
Jason had watched as they barreled through the doors, his gun at his side, safety off and loosely gripped in a shaking hand. Dick carried a kitchen knife, Damian his katana, their own fear for the butler hurrying their actions.
His neon green eyes, flickering teal with fear for Alfred scanning the old man from head to toe, acknowledging his shaking hands, gloves pulled off and his arm half-raised in the direction of the door.
Dck’s breath stuttered behind him, knife clunking blade first into the woven carpet, hands lunging forward but halting to a stop with a jerk of his honed muscles. Damian reacted similarly, tracing his younger brother’;s movements as his hands shook around his chosen weapon, one hand cupping his mouth uncharacteristically.
Jason traced their stares, the Lazarus in his irises dimming the farther they moved.
Jason froze again, gun wavering and falling to the ground with a muted clang, thankfully without a misfire. He scanned over the two Waynes in the doorway, the first real look without a muted sun clouding his vision.
They looked like shit.
It had been one year and seven long months since Jason had last seen Tim in person. He looked completely different. Tim weathered, his brilliant blue eyes dimmed with exhaustion deeper than Jason had ever seen it. Bone-deep weariness, the shadows black under his eyes, a black eyes to accentuate the look. Worse, was the jagged, hastily sewn up half-moon scar cutting under his left eyes, puckered and red and sure to scar violently. It was hideous. A mark on Tim’s somewhat ethereal looks, pale skin almost translucent, skinnier than before, clutching an energy drink in one hand, Bruce carrying an identical one in his own.
Jason lurched forward, Bruce’s face, one he’d claimed to hate for so long, calming an emptiness that had crawled into his heart.
The Dick ran past him, the retired acrobat lunging into Bruce’s arms, the Monster spilling over their clothes, clinging to their skin, and sloshing onto the carpet. Neither of them seemed to care, even Alfred holding back his usual reprimand in favor of slowly walking forward, the hands that had fallen to his sides raised again. He moved to cup Bruce’s cheeks over Dick’s shoulders, the two grown men sobbing together, Alfred’s own eyes softening with tears.
Tim stood alone, sipping his Monster and watching the display with a mix of quiet pride and deadened eyes. Damian dropped his own blade, mouth still cupped by one hand, jade eyes sharpening with the onslaught of silent sobs, sprinting forward and launching himself into Dick’s side, clinging to his older brother and presumed-dead father. Jason moved forward slowly, glancing at Tim again from the corner of his eye, noting the heavy black and red duffel bag falling to the floor with a measured third, Tim's shoulders relaxing infinitesimally as the weight receded. Jason walked again with measured steps, clasping Alfred’s shoulders with one hand, drawing him onto the hug as he clung to Dick’s back, breathing in his usual cologne and the earthy, slightly sweaty scent of his returned father.
Jason wasn’t sure how long they’d stayed, clinging to each other in a storm of emotion. Hours, maybe, seconds ticking by without care, his father — though he’d never say so to the man — finally returned and with his family.
They parted when Dick shifted back, his sobs finally done, Damian following his oldest brother, moving to let Alfred finally embrace his pseudo-son fully.
Jason glanced to the side.
Tim and his duffel bag were gone.
A small sprinkling of sand was the only indication he’d ever been there.
Jason silently cursed himself for ignoring the boy, after all he’d done — and who knows what that was — to return their father after all this time, all alone. He didn’t dwell long, Alfred’s honeyed accent, thicker with emotion, calling the family to lunch, offering to cook Bruce’s favorite pasta salad for the man, the aforementioned Bat’s bearded, scuffed face breaking into a smile as he stared at his father figure. He went upstairs shortly after, washing up, shaving, and returning smelling like woodsy bodywash and his clean face still bearing exhaustion, peace quickly overwhelming his features as he cast his eyes upon his sons.
Tim was still absent, Jason couldn’t help but notice, still not voicing such observations as a wooden bowl full to the brim with corkscrew pasta, drenched in pesto, balsamic vinaigrette, and tomatoes passing by his face, plates already set in front of him.
Bruce hadn’t spoken much, which was understandable, his expressions enough of a comfort to his family as he sat and piled his plate high with the cold dish in the center on the dining table, followed by a soft basket of bread, butter and jam set out quickly after. Cutlery clinked against porcelain, the Waynes enjoying their meal, finally whole after two years of inexplicable absence throughout the halls of the Manor.
But still no Tim.
Once again, Jason hadn’t commented.
He cursed himself in the present, and back then, the guilt slowly easting him alive, even now, two years later, when Red Robin still patrolled, and Tim Drake still thrived at Wayne Enterprises.
Jason knew Tim was distant with them, it was obvious, but everyone else still seemed to be in denial over the fact, their willful ignorance irritating, Jason’s lack of commentary on the matter causing a pang of agony in his ribs.
Tim was most close with Stephanie and Cass, his estrangement not new with the original Wayne brothers. But Stephanie was in Hong Kong with Cass— had been for nearly three years, since before Tim had returned. She hadn’t visited much, once for the holidays, last year, where Tim — yet again — hadn’t made an appearance, Steph and Cass, shamefully, not seeking him out in the slightest.
Jason blinked back to the present with the static of the old TV in front of him and the feeling on his couch’s springs poking into his thighs.
Patrol had long since ended, Tim’s clipped reprimand about him not cleaning up his territory enough ringing through his ears lightly, the indignation fading but still valid as he stared at his helmet, gear still on, no motivation to take it off. Jason could admit Tim’s solo takedown of the drug ring was slightly impressive, his detective work especially so, not that voicing it would get him anything other than an incredulous stare and teasing from his other two siblings.
A slight flash of resentment settled in Jason’s bones at the realization.
Tim had always been distant… before Jason returned and ever more so after.
The Replacement’s use had run out, Jason thought lightly, cursing himself after the rage of the Lazarus Pit taking over his vision for a moment. A choked scoff caught in his throat, leather creaking as Jason stood slowly, his knees locking as his hips shifted off the threadbare material. Dick had bid his goodbye in the Cave with an octopus hug that definitely bruised a rib or two, Dmaian offering his own oddly affectionate, threatening goodbye, Bruce a signature grunt and nod as his red motorcycle peeled out of the lit pathway with a stuttering roar.
Tim hadn’t returned to the Cave after his patrol, his debrief already entered remotely, every trace of him gone by the time the rest of them had gotten back to the massive headquarters. The Batcomputer had been powered on, Babs sitting in her chair at the helm, Red Robin’s icon dark, trackers placing him in his condo in the Diamond District, close to the end of his route.
Jason moved to his kitchen, fingers loosening the straps holding up his chestplate, the black kevlar with the emblazoned red bat falling gently to his dining tale as he continued the journey to his coffee machine. Heavy combat boots thudded dully against his hardwood, shoebox kitchen opening around Jason’s enormous form, the pot sitting on his stove, clear bowl of coffee grounds tucked into the corner of cracked tile.
The minutes it took for the caffeinated beverage to brew, Jason moved back out to the main area of his apartment, shedding his boots, the laces coarse under his hands, the footwear chucked loosely towards the door, his prized leather jacket the only part that he took care with draping over a dining chair. His undershirt clung to his skin, the light gray dry-fit soft against his biceps, stretching easily as Jason brought his hands above his head, back cracking lightly as he did so. His cargo pants were rough cotton, clinging tightly to his thighs before fanning out lightly around his knees, pockets full with smoke bombs and other useful tools, knives clearly displayed on his outer thighs, guns also holstered beside them.
The soft hiss of his coffee being done carried Jason back to the cramped kitchen, pouring the steaming hot beverage into a waiting mug. It was a chipped thing, white, but yellowed with time and repeated use, the rim chipped in some places but not sharp enough to cut. The words ‘World’s Okay-est Son’ were cracking along the ceramic, a short burst of humor warming Jason’s ribs, pairing with the almost burning pain of holding the mug of coffee.
Jason’s steps were shuffled as he meandered lowly to the dining table, setting down the mug next to his chestplate and carefully unstrapping the guns and knives from his legs, sorting the smokebombs, and sedative gasses into the plastic containers he strategically left out before every patrol.
The first sip of the black coffee seared his tongue and tastebuds, the burn grounding in a toxic sort of way. His thoughts circled back to Tim, annoyingly, as he meandered to his small bedroom, his coffee drained some ten minutes ago in between sorting away his gear and cracking all the bones he could manage.
Jason couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a substantial conversation with the younger man, their status a mix of insult and injury based on a foundation of pain and tears, messages written in blood the first interaction between the two vigilantes.
Jason felt the burn of regret mingle with the softness of flannel pajama pants as he pulled them on, the cool air hitting the scarred tissue of his chest as he recalled all that had happened between him and his younger brother. The mintiness of Jason’s toothpaste was calming as he ran his tongue over his teeth and fell facefirst into his bed, the cotton sheets cold against his abdomen, pillow similarly chilly against his cheeks.
Jason never apologized. Not for Titans Tower; not for the broken bones that had taken months to heal.
Jason hadn’t apologized for the eight months it took before Tim’s voice was its normal pitch because Jason had slit Tim’s throat and left his vocal chords split.
Sleep claimed him unwittingly, the last remnant of Tim’s stitched up, pained face the last thing Jason remembered before unconsciousness claimed him, branding his eyelids with dreams.
Chapter Text
disconsolate
without consolation or comfort; unhappy.
Tim had splurged on his ridiculously spacious and luxurious apartment in uptown Gotham, the rent high, the people on an even higher pedestal. It had three bedrooms, an open floor plan, and a plush creme couch, two leather armchairs, and a glass-top coffee table, decorated with a shallow tray holding unused coasters and a pot of fake flowers — hydrangeas, his mother’s favorite — the ambiance peaceful, modern, and clean. The kitchen was equally furnished, dark navy barstools lining the kitchen island, diagonal to a round dining table, which seated four. Black marble countertops met blue and white tile and drywall, lined with ceramic pots filled with spices, ladles, spatulas, and cooking knives, organized in their respectful spaces. The cabinets opened with a push of a concealed button, housing clear plates, IKEA generic white bowls, and blue glass cups and wine glasses, coffee mugs in another, smaller compartment. The fridge was dark gray, the screen lit with the temperature, time, and to-do list Tim barely checked.
The master bedroom was spacious, memory foam mattress barely touched from Tim’s self-imposed sleep deprivation, the desk next to the walk-in closet well-loved and cluttering with pots of miscellaneous pens and pencils, papers and folders strewn across every available surface, computer consistently plugged in to the charger threaded through a hole in the corner of the furniture.
Tim rarely used the penthouse, despite him paying the rent for the year, only taking up the space of it after particularly draining patrols, such as the one last night, his crash and burn in the sterile flat immediate as he crawled through the window, key strategically placed on the unreachable windowsill.
The Red Robin suit hung in a compartment behind the false wall of the closet next to a high-tech computer built into the actual drywall, his weapon in a hanging holster. Tim had changed quickly into low-hung sweatpants, taking his laptop under his arm, foregoing a shirt in the miserably hot afterwaves of being trapped in kevlar for hours, exertion burning his nerve endings.
The cushions of his barely used couch caught him in a criss-cross position, his laptop tucked neatly, balancing in the space between his legs, screen burning bright as he opened it. Tim sighed wearily, setting the device aside, groaning lowly as he stood, venturing to the kitchen, opening the fridge, a rush of cold air causing the tingle of goosebumps to arise on his exposed flesh. He quickly swiped a Strawberry Dreams Monster from the bottom shelf of the fridge’s door, closing the appliance with his hip as he cracked the top with a pop and hiss of air. The scent of artificial strawberry wafted over his nose, the first sip turning into a small chug of four swallows, Tim’s exhale of sweetness propelling him back to his Macbook.
Condensation froze Tim’s palm as he collapsed again into the cushions, stretching his arm forward, muscles twining with soreness at the extended movement, the can meeting class with a soft thunk. Tim’s computer sat still open to Google Drive, his private encrypted account filled to the brim with PDFs of cases and police files he’d not so subtly stolen from GCPD records. Browsers littered the browser, the Bat network far-reaching and running multiple diagnostics at Tim’s expert coding.
A small hum of satisfaction reverberated through Tim’s chest as he typed ‘SOLVED’ in Times New Roman at the top of the encrypted drug dealer’s case file.
Ten minutes of reading morbid coroner’s reports on a new homicide string later, Tim remembered the cold source of energy on his table, left hamd reaching toward it absentmindedly, his right still scrolling through witness reports.
He clumsily pulled the can to his mouth, having to rotate the can against his lips to tilt the liquid into his mouth, the chill of it comforting in a way the lonely breeze of his soul wasn’t. Tim shifted so he sat criss cross applesauce — a wry smile slid across his lips at the childish name — balancing his Mac between his knees, sliding the can between his thighs, resting at a light diagonal against his sweatpants, the chill only barely penetrating the comfortable garment.
Tim’s eyebrows scrunched together, scrolling back up on Commissioner Gordon’s direct notes on the homicide string, the coherent and organized paragraph sending a flash of horror down his spine.
“Killer seems to exhibit a pattern; victims under twenty, clothes torn between abdomen and lower thigh, no signs of sexual assault, Knife wounds were inflicted surgically into the skin, some over vital organs, a late twenties female missing her liver; an early thirties male his kidney. Organ harvesting and trafficking is a small possibility. Also a possible medical background, preciseness of the wounds and extractions too clean for inexperience. Bodies were moved after mutilation, dumped in the Narrows and, once, in downtown Bowery. Urgent case; all hands.”
Tim blinked slowly, eyes closing a moment too long, terror zinging through his ribs, a small splash nausea settling in his stomach. Tim tapped his finger on the tab of the can, slowly tracing the rim before picking it up loosely and taking a sip, scrolling down once again to the witness statements.
One old woman found the first body outside her apartment building in the late afternoon, blood pooling on the pavement, wounds new and the body still warm as she’d dialed GCPD. Another young man found a young girl — late teens, Tim realized with horror — in the alley behind the pub he worked at, the body long dead and cold, this time, body seemingly drained of all blood.
Tim wanted to gag, instead taking a few long swallows of his drink, shaking his hair out of his face. With annoyance he set down the drink between his legs again, raking a cold, slightly wet hand through his hair, taking a bright pink rubberband on his wrist to gather the silky black strands into a small ponytail.
He bowed his head low, chin touching his chest, dropping his arms to rub the heels of his palm aggressively against his eyes, white spots appearing behind his eyelids.
He’d been in the vigilante game for years, been solving some of the worst cold cases for years, but aversion to gore was only natural, Tim supposes. Compartmentalizing that train of thought and closing the tab Tim took two more greedy swallows of his drink, the sticky, strawberry sweetness coating his tongue.
Tim’s knees popped aggressively as he stood. He set his laptop — closed, of course — and tossed it onto the creme material, can dangling from his fingertips as Tim wandered down the hallway to the apartment’s master bedroom.
The room was a clean thing.
There wasn’t a single trace of anything Tim in the space.
He preferred the silent mausoleum of Drake Manor because, at least there, Tim had seeped his very essence into the places he went. Couches in different sitting rooms dipped where he spent hours sitting; a coffee ground he couldn’t bring himself to pick up as he rushed out the door.
And most importantly– his photos.
They hung on the walls, now bare of emotionless paintings and clay tablets, the smiling faces of Young Justice, Tam, in one, Pru, Owens, and Z. Tim, even, with a beam across his cheeks after he was blackout drunk on his seventeenth birthday, the angle wrong, the lens smudged with the Sahara’s sands.
But Tim’s eyes were crinkled at the corners, barely used smile lines making his eyes cave into squints, his arms around Owns and Pru, Z behind the camera, glasses and a simmering campfire behind them, sand in their greasy hair — except for Pru, because she was bald, which also surprisingly worked for her — and their clothes wrinkled.
That had been the happiest he'd looked in months — thirteen to be exact — so Tim spared no expense to print and frame it the largest it could go and hang it in an alcove in the main sitting room where a TV was supposed to go.
The coldness of the white walls reminded Tim of a hospital, the chill matching the one in his bones as he wandered Drake Manor a little too late at night or a little too early in the morning. The photos were bursts of color, passion, and the odd beauty of the black and white Gotham skyline. Passing them at 3AM on the way back to his well-loved room was like standing under the heater vent right as the temperature rushed through the house.
Tim drained the rest of the can in a few gulps, savoring the flavor, flopping face first into the downy bed he’d barely used, the can clattering on the floor somewhere where he’d thrown it. His bare chest and abs rubbed lightly against the fuzzy, folded over sheet sending shocks of comfort, amplified by the lavender vanilla detergent still clinging to the material.
The tacky strawberry flavor clung to his tastebuds, foregoing brushing his teeth as exhaustion made a particularly persuasive argument. Tim imagined the days, so many years ago, where the flavor of strawberries lingered on his tongue because of a late-afternoon picnic in a stupidly sunny San Francisco park, Tim having to lather on so much sunscreen he reeked of coconut SPF.
Sleep and chill clung to Tim, his eyes closing heavily as he rolled onto his side, clutching his pillow between his arms, hugging the thing, cheek smushing as he tumbled into the waiting arms of rest, a small smile on his face as, this time, he simply remembered, no imagination needed.
Chapter Text
disconsolate
without consolation or comfort; unhappy.
The next week of January passed in a flurry of audits from two companies, an absurd amount of employees let go because they skimmed off the top — in both WE and DI — and Tim writing a dangerously large check. Though it was worth it for DI to expand their non-profit, clean-tech medical clinics to less fortunate countries.
January was always the hardest month for Tim, the Christmas events, New Years galas that happened weeks after the actual day, and unnecessarily long meetings with the board sucking up his time like a sponge to water.
One such gala was the one Tim was getting ready for, the mirror leaning in the corner of his room at Drake Manor providing head-to-toe visuals of Tim’s appearance.
His suit was a brilliant navy, a three piece, the vest underneath pinstripe and tapered at the waist, white dress shirt perfectly pressed, jacket hanging open. His tie was a pinstripe to match the suit vest, tucked neatly underneath with a silver pin keeping the immaculate knot in place. The pants were pressed and the exact shade of navy, shoes polished so brightly Tim could see his reflection. His cufflinks were silver, to match the tie clip, with beautiful sky blue stones. His makeup was clean and unnoticeable, the concealer hiding his bags blended expertly after years of practice, powder patted into the product matching the silken sheen of his pale skin. His eyebrows were tamed neatly, but not colored in, his hair dark and plucked into perfect shapes, his eyelashes curled gently upward to make his eyes brighter and bigger. His lips were touched gently by a gentle red stain, the plush color natural and almost unnoticeable.
Tim allowed his lips to curl into a perfect gala smile, teeth white and straight, shining and masking him into the perfect socialite, even his eyes reflecting a slight sparkle, ready to make the business partners swoon and sign a deal.
Letting the smile drop, Tim grabbed his phone and slipped it gently into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, looping his keys around on finger, twirling the fob around and around as he walked carefully down the winding steps of Drake Manor, still avoiding the creaky steps by instinct, shoes clicking against mahogany floors.
He’d chosen a flashy car for the night, appealing to the sickening show of wealth he was about to walk into. The Ferrari was a perfect matte purple, trimmings black and polished brightly, windows tinted as dark as Tim could make them, the doors swinging upwards silently as he pressed the unlock key. Tim sunk into the plush leather seats, seatbelt clicking into place, doors closing behind him as Tim pressed the engine button, car purring to life beneath him.
The garage opened with the small click of a button in the dashboard Tim putting the car in reverse and peeling out quickly. Tim double checked his hair in the rearview mirror, the strands polished and slicked back except for two that hung perfectly on his forehead and cheeks. One satisfied he pulled fully onto the street, engine roaring down the road as he sped to City Hall.
Tim let one hand fall to his thigh, his palm turning the wheel, finger loose and uncurled as downtown Gotham flew by in a swirl of neon lights and smog. Soft R&B played through the radio, Tim taking each turn in a drift and burn of tires, finally nearing uptown where the gala was hosted.
Spotlights flashed obnoxiously in muted colors and moved thematically along the red carpeted stars, paparazzi cameras flashing endlessly as Tim pulled to the curb, valet already waiting.
Tim opened the door, the smooth engine purring as Tim eased his foot off the brake, handing his key fob to the valet, the young man easily taking his place in the driver’s seat, the door closing just as Tim rounded the hood. Faces turned, stares boring into Tim’s own face, their eyes beams or judgement and slight awe. Murmurs spread, some about WE and his position as CEO. Some about how he looked so eerily similar to Janet Drake, his mother and one of the most imposing social figures of Gotham’s high society.
Tim walked slowly enough that he didn’t look frantic, but quick enough that the whispers were nothing more than white noise. Tim put extra sway into his hips, a bright smile and fake twinkle in his eyes, dialing up the socialite act to one thousand, his pale face and natural paleness slightly imposing in likeness of his mother.
His loafer hit the red carpet and suddenly every camera was pointed his way, his shoes a muffled thud against carpet-covered concrete, one hand raised slightly in a finger wave, smile never faltering, ignoring most questions, only bothering with a wink or two for appearances sake.
Tim’s eyes were half-closed, protection against the barrage of light, no doubt to be later edited and made to look more intentional and seductive than it was.
All media was good media, Tim guessed. Truly, he had no abject problem with being objectified or subjected to very clearly overage reporters commenting on his looks and build. HIs media presence was mostly magazine shoots, occasional adverts for partnerships, and scattered tweets about scripted events. His only real issue with only having presence for his looks and being ‘Gotham’s newest most eligible bachelor,’ was the fact that no one seemed to notice the good he was doing at both Wayne Enterprises and Drake Industries.
His thoughts came to a skittering halt as Vicki Vale, Gotham’s most notorious tabloid — and disrespectful — journalist shoved a mic in his face, practically screaming her question. “Are you still with the Waynes, Mr. Drake?!” Tim almost choked at the absurdity, but Vle steamrolled on. “You’ve dropped the hyphen in your surname, what does this say about your ties with the Waynes?” That time, Tim did let out a stuttering cough, looking her in the eyes with the driest criticism he could muster Janet’s coldness seeping into his uncannily familiar eyes.
Tim turned to face her fully after a count of two, his shoulders pushed back, eyes dull and firm as he responded, succinct and cutthroat in the simplicity.
“My affiliation with Bruce Wayne and his family is long over. I am running his company and that is the extent of our relationship, my name from my parents and my parents only— something Mr. Wayne is not.”
Tim almost felt bad, guilt slowly clawing at his ribcage as he moved onto the brilliantly lit doors, stepping into the gala with reporters scribbling his quote behind him. Tim knew that at least a dozen articles would be printed before the New Years Gala was even over, but the chill in his bones despite the heater pumping necessary warmth into the cavernous room made it difficult for Tim to care at all.
Tim could imagine a world where he walked up that carpet with Bruce, Dick, Jason, and even Damian, answering questions with them instead of about them.
But, for once, Tim didn’t have time for imagination, instead focusing on the fa;se twinkle in his eyes, and the dimples he forced into his smile.
Chapter 8
Notes:
Dick's POV for this one, and its a wild ride, man, and I'm also obsessed with the idea of Tim looking ethereal and not human.
Chapter Text
disconsolate
without consolation or comfort; unhappy.
Dick hated galas with a fiery passion. The displays of wealth, status, and blatant disregard for poverty sickening him right down to the pits of his stomach. He’d grown up comfortably, his core and base memories of warm candle-based lighting, high ceilings of striped fabric fluttering in slight breezes, and the dull racket of the circus’s train moving from one city to the next. He’d been raised in warmth, ruffled hair, and community so tightly knit they were family, blood or not.
Bruce Wayne taking him in was the best his life could've gone after the accident. He’d had it all— the academy, the friends, the clothes, the status… but the warmth he’d grown up in, and the values he’d been raised around for the majority of his developmental years stuck to him, influencing his morals, opinions, and everything valuable about him.
Robin had been his mantle— his purpose for years, an outlet for the violence he’d tried to suppress, the explosions after repression too much to bear. Bruce had given him that, given Dick justice for the warmth and love he’d had growing up, the two of them forming their own bond in the fight for a better world.
Then there had been Jason. A spitfire of a boy brought in by the scruff of his neck and screech that would've made Black Canary’s ears bleed. He’d been on the streets for years, his mom dead, his dad long gone, caught with a tire iron and the hubcaps to the Batmobile in hand. Bruce had opened the doors of the aforementioned car with a bleeding gash on his forehead, cowl down, and a glint in his eye that promised adoption papers and a costume. Dick had been on the outs with Bruce at the time, wanting to branch out on his own and explore what it was to be his own hero, with his own name.
Robin had been passed to Jason a month after he’d gone to Happy Harbor, Artemis, Kid Flash, Aqualad, and Superboy in tow. He’d made himself Nightwing, the first — admittedly garish — model of his suit in a biometrically locked case in tow.
Then a news article came across his desk, a photo of Robin, grappling across the roof, green booty shorts, yellow undertoned cape, and pixie boots for all of Gotham to see.
It took Dick another three months to return to Gotham, greeted by an overexuberant boy, still too skinny for his age, and enough light in his smile to power ten blocks.
Dick felt the warmth of his childhood seep in a bit then, promising himself to be the best brother he could be for Jason.
And he was. He returned to Gotham, staying in his old room at the Manor— across the hall from Jason, and made changes to his suit, training Jason, laughing with Jason, and tackling him into loving hugs along the way. They’d become brothers in the best sense of the word. They patrolled together, Nightwing’s sleeker, black-based suit with a single electric blue bird plastered across his chest blending into the background as Robin took the stage, taking down goons left and right, Dick barely needing to step in at times, taking the brunt of the fight at others. They bantered, they cried, and they were so perfectly matched that the life the Manor most often lacked was soon overflowing with raucous laughter and enough shared love to make the lights shine a bit brighter.
Dick had always been tactile, growing up in a travelling circus will do that, and Jason was very obviously touch-starved. Dick had had no one to hug for years, his own teammates — besides Wally, his best pal — almost repulsed by hugs and casual physical affection. Jason had no such qualms, tackling Dick as he entered the Manor after an errand, Dick doing the same as Jason left for school. The two of them squeezed their hands together, shared blankets, and cuddled after nightmares, almost codependent in the way they grasped each other wearily after a straining patrol.
Bruce was equally adverse to touch, pulling away or tensing at the smallest side-hug, or clasp of his shoulder, only seeming to fall into embraces from Alfred, who was almost sickeningly sweet to Dick and most oftenly, Jason. He called them ‘his boys,’ becoming a loving grandfather of sorts, tea, cookies, and advice plentiful as he took the more emotional parental role that Bruce was too shy for.
Then Jason had passed and the frigid lifelessness had crawled through Wayne Manor once again.
Dick had been off-world, defending the cosmos with Koriand’r, a new addition to his second hero team, the Titans, Jason taking his spot as leader with Young Justice. Roy and Wally had shifted to the Titans with Dick, Rachel, or rather, Raven, a new addition they’d found. The five of them returning from Tamaran run ragged, Dick practically springing to the Zeta, his bags discarded in a heap on the floor, running to the main sitting room for a hug from his little brother.
Instead he found Alfred, a single cup of tea and a half-finished knitting project in front of him. That was a tip-off for two reasons, the first being that Alfred never, never left a cup of Earl Grey to go cold, the second being that when he sat to knit, he didn’t stop until he rose from the plush chair to do something else.
No, Alfred was sitting disturbingly still, his chest rising and falling, elbows on his knees, hands folded in front of his mouth, barely looking up at Dick before his eyes glazed over with shocking tears. All he said was that he was sorry before he exhaled with a shocking amount of wobble in his voice, hands trembling violently as he picked up his cup of forgotten tea, knitting supplies tucked haphazardly under his arm as he walked slowly out of the room.
Bruce entered five minutes later, face unnervingly blank as he explained what happened.
There was no inflection in his voice as he told Dick he’d held Jason’s funeral without him.
There was no dip in the pitch of his flat tone as he told Dick that Jason — his Little Wing — had been beaten to death by the Joker.
He didn’t even blink as he said that the fucking madman who murdered his brother was still alive in a simple padded room at Arkham he’d already escaped from dozen of times.
Dick had covered his mouth and sobbed. Dick ran out the doors of Wayne Manor and sprinted the whole damn way to the small graveyard on the edge of the property. Dick fell to his knees on the days-old dirt covering his brother’s coffin. Dick had cried so painfully, the hurt so deep-rooted in his chest he barely noticed when it sharpened. Dick only took a pause of breath to note the way his grief sharpened into needles and blades, digging into his cardiovascular system, heart burning with delayed palpitations.
He’d called for Bruce, who he was sure had followed, collapsing against his brother's tombstone and passed out, tears still running down his face.
He woke up in his bed at the Manor, diagnosed with Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy. He’d been put on beta-blockers and anti-anxiety meds to help manage stress hormones that had triggered the condition, his grief so intense his heart had literally broken. He’d have laughed at the irony if not for the stilt in his breath and the sobs clawing at his burning chest. He was told the pain and the condition would pass in the following weeks.
Dick almost laughed at Dr. Leslie, the mere idea of his grief falling away after a simple two weeks, absurd.
He’d lost his brother, the one person who’d brought the warmth back.
Even if the Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy passed— the grief wouldn’t.
Even if he recovered from Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy— he wouldn't recover from the loss.
Then he’d gone to Bludhaven, a sister city to Gotham, an hour out, and Nightwing became its protector. Dick got a sliver of his life back, the freedom of the air — for once not polluted — unmatched.
Five months later his doorbell rang.
Dick had opened the door, facing straight forward not a soul in the hallway, ding dong ditching he’d supposed. Then a throat had cleared and Dick’s head turned down so fast his neck ached.
A tiny, probably nine-year old child was on his doorstep alone with only a camera and half-empty backpack in tow. His eyes were an unsettling shade of pale blue, the kind of shade that bored into your soul, the viewer seeing everything whether you wanted it or not. HIs skin was equally as pale, so much so the boy’s veins were visible under the exposed skin of his elbow, the color shining through uncannily in the flickering light. His lips were pale pink, so devoid of the color it looked almost intentional in the way it didn’t match the rest of the child’s complexion.
He didn’t look human.
Then he’d asked to come inside, his voice tinkling and light in a way Dick swore echoed throughout his apartment, the child stepping around him and carefully toeing off his converse.
Dick was creeped out, to say the least. Then that same church bell voice rang out behind him, Dick still facing the closed door in shock.
His name was Timothy Drake, apparently, and, if Dick remembered correctly, his old next-door neighbor. In Gotham. Dick did not live in Gotham anymore… he lived an hour away from Gotham. This child was barely ten and Dick was almost 100% sure his parents were not cool with this little visit.
“I know you’re Nightwing,” Tim had said next, that almost mechanically blank voice ringing in Dick’s ears like a bad case of Tinnitus. “And I know that Robin died, because Jason Todd is dead.”
It was callous, the way he’d said it. Just like Bruce had been when Dick found out in the first place. Dick wanted to scream at that moment, Tim demanding he return as Robin forcing a disturbingly loud laugh from his throat. Tim hadn’t laughed with him, Dick sobering quicker than he thought was possible as he realized the small child was serious.
Even all these years later Dick couldn’t bring himself to be ashamed for the violent snap he’d aimed at the boy, words sharper than a Batarang, Dick’s apathy to the small tears in the child’s eyes a moment of embarrassment in his early adulthood.
Dick had told Tim — in an admittedly brutal way — that Batman needed Robin so bad he should do it himself.
Three months later there was a new Robin, new pants, cape undertone with red, flying across Gotham with brutal efficiency, for one, absent of a grin. Soft smiles, and pet name reassurances, yes, but the light both he and Jason had brought noticeably absent. Dick is enraged, driving to the Manor after his shift at the BCPD taking the grandfather clock entrance into the Cave, his fists balled, disregarding Tim completely as he screamed. He wasn’t entirely sure what about, even to this day the argument is a blank spot. Dick knew there was something about endangering another child, brutal, blatant criticism of Tim, even as the — shockingly — thirteen year old was still present.
Another few months passed, Dick came back to Gotham, and even he— still filled with resentment and grief, could admit that Tim Drake was a spectacular Robin. Clean, clinical, and a natural detective, seeing angles no one else could. But no matter how phenomenal, Dick couldn’t help the nagging thought that Tim was just a… fill-in for Jason, the Robin DIck had trained and officially passed the mantle too. Jason who was his brother, unlike Tim who was, as reported, not even living in the Manor.
The boy left after every patrol, his suit tucked cleanly on the very back of the rack, forgotten until the next night when he arrived at the door, laptop tucked under his skinny arm. Dick was always shocked how… small the boy was, even after a multitude of visits over Tim’s first year as Robin.
Then Dick had gotten the call.
That Tim was found at Titans Tower, beaten bloody, bones sticking out his skin, wheezing, heart stopping every other beat, his staff coated with a sticky sheen of O Negative, the words “JASON WAS HERE” written in the same blood around his body.
Dick was pulled between sick to his stomach and hopeful that Jason was actually alive.
The hope won.
It was almost shameful— almost. Because, no matter how slowly or aggressively, Jason returned. He was back, half-time at the Manor, Dick full-time, Bludhaven on the backburner for the foreseeable future.
That was four years ago.
Then Damian Wayne arrived. The ‘Blood Son,’ ridiculously arrogant and consistent in the belief that everything would be his, as if the rest of the adoptive sons and wards didn’t exist. Dick didn’t mind, not really, accounting for his upbringing in the League of Assassins, indoctrinated world-views deeply rooted in Damian’s psyche. He was aggressive, especially to Tim, believing he was the most prominent threat, the second youngest Wayne simply existing, constantly provoked, or perhaps provoking when Dick wasn’t around.
Then, another year later, Damian barely adjusted, accepting Dick, going from calling his selectively Grayson to calling his Richard, still staying consistent with ‘Drake’ and ‘Todd.’
Two months later, Bruce died.
Tim went off the fucking rails, rant after rant of evidence so obscure it sounded made up. He made powerpoints goddamnit. Dick had half a mind to send the younger vigilante to Arkham with how insane he’d sounded; he brought the matter to Alfred, the darkness in the older butler’s eyes at the mere concept terrifying to say the least.
Damina regressed a year and a half of progress, violence and almost daily assassination attempts on Tim before Dick finally snapped and gave him the Robin suit to give the youngest Wayne an outlet.
TIm had walked into the Cave just in time to see Damian show off the kevlar suit, Dick having no time to explain before a slight water formed in Tim’s eyes and his hands shook around his cup of coffee.
Dick had simply sighed, too exhausted to go after him, the cowl over his eyes a weight that made it impossible to move.
Three hours later Dick and Damian had arrived, smiles — well, Dick was smiling — on their faces.
Tim was gone.
They didn’t see him for nineteen months after that, Dick barely able to rest for many reasons, one being a nagging sense of odd guilt for Tim’s absence. It was absurd, the weight in his chest, so he ignored it, Jason appearing more often to help Dick, his presence making it easier to avoid the negativity Tim’s void left.
Then the doorbell rang, Alfred had shouted so loudly Dick had heard it from the family wing, instantly on edge because of the mere sound of the butler’s cry. Damian had met him halfway down the winding stairs, the two of them carrying respective weapons, Dick without his escrima sticks in case it was an intruder, to avoid any sort of connection.
They hurtled into the main foyer and there had stood Bruce Wayne, an energy drink in hand, covered in stitches, grime, and bruises. And behind him was one equally — if not more — injured Timothy Jackson Drake.
The next six hours were filled with tears, laughter, tired hugs, and pasta salad.
Dick hadn’t noticed the lack of his second youngest brother.
He didn’t know of Tim’s absence after the return until nearly a week later when he’d arrived in the Cave in a brand new suit, a brand new name, and a wall of ice Dick didn’t care enough to pick away at. Damian needed him more, the youngest still re-readjusting, first with Bruce gone, the grief palpable, and now with him back like nothing but a covert ops had happened.
Now, another three years later Tim was still as frigid as after his dubbed ‘Brucequest.’ The aforementioned teenage CEO would be in attendance at tonight's New Years gala. The Waynes, including a newly re-legally-alived Jason, were in a sleek black limo, driven by Alfred, of course. They were five minutes out to City Hall and Bruce was still making sure Damian and Jason remembered that these people expected high-society manners, no matter the fact they were adopted.
Dick hated galas.
He prayed the night would go by quickly, closing his eyes until they reached their destination, a headache already blooming before the door even opened.
The paparazzi were always disturbingly persistent in their quest for a scoop or a good shot. At galas they were worse, which is why Dick rarely attended, only there tonight because of an important speech or whatnot that was happening later.
The limo doors clicked open simultaneously, Jason, Damian, and Bruce all falling silent and schooling any and all annoyance in their expressions, falling into the Wayne mask.
Dick hit the curb first, Jason, then Bruce, and finally Damian following, the four of them smiling, waving, and ignoring questions all the way to the double doors spilling out yellow light like an artificial day.
The four of them entered in a swirl of silk and designer fabrics, gleaming watches, and effortless smiles. By default Dick’s eyes swept the perimeter, noting the security at each entrance, which may seem overkill to anyone who hasn’t lived in Gotham.
Then his eyes traced over the crowd.
With Tim front and goddamn center, eyes twinkling and smiler brighter and more alive than Dick had seen in a long while. His suit was immaculate, jewelry simple but twinkling under the crystal chandelier. Jason flanked his left, staring the same direction he was, his own eyes tracing the shape of Tim’s tinkling, harp-esque laugh, appealing to old Mrs. Clark, both of them holding crystal flukes of champagne, Tim definitely wasn’t old enough to be drinking. That was the way of the Gotham elite, Dick had learned.
The teenage vigilante kept sipping on the bubbly alcohol between small bouts of laughter, the older lady he was conversing with reaching out almost constantly to swat at his arm.
Jason scoffed under his breath, swiping an identical flask from a nearby waiter, Damian also muttering about ‘Drake,’ and ‘Only he would act so foolish in public.’ Dick looked over at his brothers, Jason’s flute of stupidly expensive champagne already drained, Damian’s tie being fiddled with by an absentminded hand, Brucie Wayne already across the room chugging from a whole bottle of Prosecco, raucous laughter echoing all the way to the corner Dick and his brothers hid in.
By the time Dick looked back to where Tim stood the younger boy was gone, now swept up the arms of an older man, at least young forties, on the dancefloor, a slow waltz echoing as Tim was dipped low, a smile on his face, those same unnervingly pale blue eyes twinkling with mirth. Dick grimaced at the twirling duo, the difference in their ages and the well-known fact that Tim is underage nagging violently at his instincts. Jason seemed to agree as his knuckles creaked and cracked the thin crystal of his glass.
Dick turned away when Damian cleared his throat, the three of them dissolving into conversation.
Dick didn’t look at Tim for the rest of the night.
Pages Navigation
lesbian_nerd_pjo_koftl_batfam on Chapter 1 Thu 20 Nov 2025 11:35PM UTC
Comment Actions
aalalyalyx on Chapter 1 Fri 21 Nov 2025 12:51AM UTC
Comment Actions
Anonymous Creator on Chapter 1 Wed 26 Nov 2025 05:28AM UTC
Last Edited Wed 26 Nov 2025 05:28AM UTC
Comment Actions
Habita2099 on Chapter 1 Thu 27 Nov 2025 04:21PM UTC
Comment Actions
Habita2099 on Chapter 2 Thu 27 Nov 2025 04:33PM UTC
Comment Actions
Ghost_Reader_No_6 on Chapter 2 Fri 28 Nov 2025 08:55AM UTC
Comment Actions
Anonymous Creator on Chapter 2 Fri 28 Nov 2025 09:57AM UTC
Comment Actions
Ekaterinn on Chapter 3 Tue 25 Nov 2025 12:20AM UTC
Comment Actions
Habita2099 on Chapter 3 Thu 27 Nov 2025 04:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
Nayu16 on Chapter 3 Fri 28 Nov 2025 04:48AM UTC
Comment Actions
Anonymous Creator on Chapter 3 Fri 28 Nov 2025 09:59AM UTC
Comment Actions
Habita2099 on Chapter 4 Fri 28 Nov 2025 08:50AM UTC
Comment Actions
Jackell18 on Chapter 4 Fri 28 Nov 2025 08:51AM UTC
Comment Actions
Ghost_Reader_No_6 on Chapter 4 Fri 28 Nov 2025 09:04AM UTC
Comment Actions
Anonymous Creator on Chapter 4 Fri 28 Nov 2025 09:58AM UTC
Comment Actions
Trinity_1024 on Chapter 4 Fri 28 Nov 2025 04:00PM UTC
Comment Actions
Anonymous Creator on Chapter 4 Sat 29 Nov 2025 10:53PM UTC
Comment Actions
C4xCocoa on Chapter 4 Fri 28 Nov 2025 05:33PM UTC
Comment Actions
Scatterskies on Chapter 4 Fri 28 Nov 2025 08:17PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mushroom_Fairy on Chapter 4 Fri 28 Nov 2025 10:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
Ekaterinn on Chapter 4 Sat 29 Nov 2025 12:46AM UTC
Comment Actions
kenski on Chapter 4 Sat 29 Nov 2025 03:20PM UTC
Comment Actions
Anonymous Creator on Chapter 4 Sat 29 Nov 2025 10:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
luvvluckkyy on Chapter 4 Sat 29 Nov 2025 10:42PM UTC
Comment Actions
Anonymous Creator on Chapter 4 Sat 29 Nov 2025 10:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
Kachh0w on Chapter 4 Sun 30 Nov 2025 02:09PM UTC
Comment Actions
Master_Torch_Master on Chapter 5 Tue 02 Dec 2025 12:43AM UTC
Comment Actions
Anonymous Creator on Chapter 5 Tue 02 Dec 2025 12:58AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation