Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tim wakes up and, from the get go, absolutely knows it’s a bad day.

He sits up as he breathes in, but it’s stuttery, like he can’t seem to make his lungs expand correctly, caught between a sob and a gasp.

He could feel it in the ache of his bones, the pounding of his head and the dryness of his throat. There are tears in his eyes, falling in rivers onto the pillow, and there’s sweat soaking up the sheets making his blankets and pajamas cling to his legs.

Night terrors. A bad dream.

There’s nothing else to it really. It’s nothing new. Not even uncommon in Wayne Manor. 

It’s like a fact of life– the sky is blue, the sun is hot, Dick Grayson’s recent MET gala outfit is still trending on TikTok, and Tim sometimes just wakes up feeling like a piece of shit.

He rubs his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, willing his heart to slow down.

Most of these dreams are of his nightlife. Of Young Justice fighting a losing battle. The Bats falling from the sky in sickening THUD!s. The heavy mistakes of his past making a reappearance and the people he's long since reconciled with looking at him with disgust.

These he knew how to handle– through quick check-ins that no one asks questions about, a peek at someone’s sleeping form in the middle of the night, and the occasional hugs of comfort when it gets so bad he can’t keep still. Those were easier. Familiar.

Now– Jack and Janet Drake making a reappearance tonight– now that was new.

Though the memory of the dream is fleeting, the feeling of it lingers in its wake. It’s stupid to be so angry about something he doesn’t remember, but he is. He thought he was over his stupid childhood and its stupid problems, but waking up in cold sweat like this reminds him that he isn’t.

That’s how Tim knows it’s a bad day– because he’s woken up to feeling too wound up, angry and hurt and grieving– teetering on the edge of snapping at the world with reckless abandon– and for what? Something as small as a shitty dream about his parents?

“Why?” Tim asks the room, asks the ghosts that sat on his chest and blew embers in his veins. There were barely even answers when they were alive much less when they were gone. “Why am I dreaming about you now?”

No one answers. Of course no one ever does when it comes to him and his parents.

Jack and Janet’s love was unconventional and they did try to be parents, but that did not mean they raised a son. They weren’t as good at being mom and dad as they were being archeologists, or business men, or socialites. They were distant at worst and absent at best- and Tim absolutely knows how it looks from the outside. 

He knows that if he thinks about everything that’s happened to him at an arm's length, it all boils down to this: emotional absence, child abandonment and maybe, kinda, a little bit of psychological trauma. He could still feel Janet Drake's nails on his scalp and Jack Drake's constant trigger happy fuse sometimes when he's really sentimental, but other than that, that was just it. Nothing too bad, but nothing good either.

Not the worst form of abuse, but still something that would put a frown on a social worker's face.

He finds that still, years after their deaths, he’s scared of putting a label on it though, of saying the words out loud, of saying how he felt and why he felt it, in case he comes to the realization of it, feels it, and crumbles. 

There’s no proper way to say it out loud anyways. ‘Yeah my parents weren’t there when I needed them and I could’ve died a thousand times without them knowing and I’m not even sure they cared if I did– but I’m all good aside from that.’

Tonight feels like it’s a hairline crack in the concrete wall he’s built around the fact and he’s not ready to face it- the labels- the memories- everything. Maybe never will be. Ever.

“Timmy?! Breakfast!”

Today’s just…a really bad day.

But then again, he’s gone through worse.

So he squashes the feeling of needing to hole up and breathes, throws off his ruined sheets and decides to pretend his hands aren’t shaking, like he’s not walking around with a knife in his heart.

As Tim prepares for his day, he muses still, like a kid that just doesn't know when to stop poking at a knee scrape. He knows it’s pathetic, to want to be comforted by someone dead, to want to be loved by someone he knows doesn’t love him the way he wants to be. What can they do? They’re gone just like how they were never there.

He knows this but knowing things is different than feeling it. 

Tim used to be so drunk on the idea that love would come and heal some broken part of him. That one day his parents would come home for good and they’d bridge their little family like how everyone says it’s supposed to go. He remembers how much he wished that all of the things they’ve done overseas were over– were finished– and it would go back to Tim and his mom and his dad.

They tried to love him in the only way they knew how to and he wished on bridges and falling stars and repeating numbers that it would somehow change for the better.

Every time they came back, there were the next flight tickets to prove him wrong. His lies that it’s okay crumble along the lies he tells himself that next time would be different. Tim used to pretend, back then, that he’s dead- that he didn’t contact them purposefully after a report card day, or missed their weekly check ins. When no Mrs. Mac showed up for a wellness check, he was pretty sure his parents pretended that he was too.

They didn't even think there was anything wrong through weeks of no contact, when Tim finally caves and begs for their attention.

And if Tim could die of heartbreak then Tim has died a thousand times.

Wishful thinking. Fat chance.

It’s been years but the thought guts him every time and the irritation that blooms at how much stupid hope he once had still stings.

He tries not to let it show as he pads into the kitchen fully dressed in slacks, laptop under an arm and making a beeline for the electric kettle.

Most of his siblings are here, filling the morning sounds with chatter and jokes. Last night’s Estola case had pulled every bat out for the bust. Damian’s been allowed to stay home from school, and Cass and Steph had stayed over rather than finish their movie night with Babs. Even had Dick sitting around the kitchen nook, having called in a sick leave from work.

In short, breakfast is nothing short of a spectacle. It's loud, and obnoxious, but Tim thinks he'd rather sit a meal down with them than spend all his time alone with his intrusive thoughts. Remembering Jack and Janet sometimes makes Tim feel like he needs to pass by his sibling’s usual haunts just to hear that he’s not alone in a too big of a mansion again. 

“You are not eating just that.” Jason shoves the tea mug away from Tim’s side of the counter. He’s wearing a Gotham Knights sweater under an apron that says “Oh crepe!”, one that Steph gave him for Christmas and he pretends to not love to bits. 

He looks like he’s in a good mood, bantering with Dick on the merits of using the Manor as a haven during the Zombie apocalypse– as if they didn’t already have protocols in place for it– when he’s not flipping pancakes on the side and stealing drinks from little brothers.

The Red Hood must be on good terms with the Bats this week. Jason looks cheerful, casual and familial like he doesn’t go dark on them once every two weeks.

Too bad Tim isn’t.

“I am and I will.” He spits out irritated, not bothering to take his eyes off of the excel sheet he’s got in front of him. Alfred has a no devices rule in place during meals, but it’s a good thing Alfred isn’t there to chastise him because Tim feels like he’s pulled too thin and a step away from snapping with his presentation the only thing grounding him.

He doesn’t even know why he’s tried going down to breakfast. He’s got a meeting in several hours proposing to speed up the hydro-electric space heaters project for the upcoming winter– or when Mr. Freeze gets out of Arkham– and he’s behind in the presentation for weeks. 

He’s not even hungry, gut still churning uncomfortably from the moment he woke up.

The conversation about the Legend of the Cheese Viking is too near and noisy on the other side of the breakfast nook. He’s trying to not think about his jumbled thoughts and messier feelings, but the atmosphere is too loud and too crowded than what he can handle today. Usually the white noise helps him focus. Today it is the opposite. It’s full of too many sounds and too many smells and talks about haunted animatronics and undead protocols and the sickly sweet scent of sugar that’s making his already scattered thoughts more scattered. 

He shuffles on his seat, annoyed at the overstimulation.

He could feel Jason’s flat look on his back.

Tim doesn’t care. He ignores it with the strength only a little sibling could have.

He’s busy trying not to think about the sensation crawling up on his neck by digging his nails into his palms, grounding himself and focusing on something dull like the expense report he’s going to give in the afternoon– 55% of manpower is going to Project Alpha 3 and that’s already stretched thin as it is so he’s planning to request for an additional budget increase of 5.3% at the very minimum for phase 1 of Sigma 2– but Steph’s laugh is grating on his nerves, and hates the way his brain kept on tuning in to Damian’s soliloquy from last week’s Powerpoint night.

A plate of grapes and jiggly pancakes gets pushed in front of him and he glances at it for a second. They’re beautiful in how delicate they look and a testament to Jason’s skill in the kitchen.

But the sight only makes his mouth taste like bitter ash.

Everything feels too much at this point.

He knows he should make his exit before he does anything rash with how much his blood is pounding in his ears.

“Where’s Bruce?” Tim gulps back the panic static in his brain, shoulders rising defensively and glaring holes into his laptop as if the numbers can pull him away from the thrumming that’s making his hands shake. He can even barely call Bruce dad on occasions like these, feeling the guilt over replacing Jack Drake as a father figure is too much to handle, even if the man deserves it more than Jack ever did. But Tim knows Bruce can help him today. Bruce could distract him, maybe they could run the presentation to the board and fill his head with numbers instead of feelings. Maybe they could discuss the Estola drug deal from last night, on how the murder of a woman had led to her husband’s spiral into drugs and distribution, or how they have to round out the remaining loyalist- cult members even- before they can consider the case even close. 

Maybe the man could see that Tim’s not okay, and that Tim’s not being Tim, and that Tim is about to explode into nothing and Bruce can swoop in and make it okay. Like how Batman always knows what to do.

Dick gives him a curious look and a knot in Tim’s stomach forms.

“Timmy, it’s nearly a quarter past nine in the morning. Alfred’s already taken Bruce to WE.” Dick says slowly, like he doesn’t know how to approach a subject, eyeing the tense lines Tim knows are written in his shoulders. “He let you sleep in knowing you’ve been hell bent on that drug deal report til four am— hey are you alright there, baby brother?”

“I’m fine.” Tim says, crossing his arms and closing his eyes to breathe in. “It’s fine. This is fine. I can just, catch up to them on my bike or something–”

There’s an aggressive SWISH! of the pan on the grill as Jason flips another pancake. 

“No. You are not skipping a meal even for the end of the fucking world, Timbo.” The man grumbles. “Jesus fucking Christ love yourself for once, brat. It’s like we’re more interested in keeping you alive than you are.”

There it was again. Love.

The word forces him to remember late night calls and early morning flights. Forces him to remember that his dad loved too little– too cold and aloof but Jack’s the one who gave extra allowances and supported his hobbies in all aspects except his physical presence. Forces out the thought that mom loved too much– liberally telling him that she loves him, as if that’s the cure-all the world needed– as if it would fix their relationship– and Tim knows this because she used to repeat ‘I love you’s at least thrice when they talked through Zoom.

Forces the memories of them loving him, them telling him this over and over again, but still left and missed birthdays and graduations, and Passovers, and hobbies and most of his fucking life.

Love, like that has ever helped him before.

If he’s irritated before– well, he’s beyond furious now.

“Shut up, Jason.” Tim says, heat rising up his face, crawling from the depths of his stomach and clawing up his throat. Some distant part of his mind is screaming at him that he needs to back off, but it’s so much easier to let the anger burn through his body than go back to the grief that’s settled in his gut.

Jack should be proud to learn at least the lessons of his aggression stuck with his kid.

He knows it’s not Jason’s fault that he’s a bundle of exposed nerves and landmines, but everything is too big and too much and too loud– and for once he doesn’t want to think, but focusing on everything and anything is just building up to the explosion in his veins.

“The fuck you say?!”

“I said, shut up!” Tim snaps.

“How the fuck are we brothers, Jesus.” Jason curses, slamming his skillet again on the stove so hard it rings. “Ungrateful little shit.”

The conversation on the other side of the breakfast nook– one that was so long and convoluted Damian hasn’t noticed Cass stealing his blueberries– stops. Shuts up like he wanted it to in the first place.

But they’re looking at both of them, eyes curious.

It’s driving knives into his skin.

“Timmy?” Dick says, unsure. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

His gaze is warm– but it might as well be scalding. A hand’s reaching out for Tim’s own clenched fist and he flinches away like it really burns.

Tim feels so infuriated he could burst at the seams. 

“Don’t touch me!” Tim screams.

That gets everyone’s attention on him, Cass frowning mid chew and Steph’s eyes blown wide, and Jason’s mouth opened at a retort–

He’s burning up.

He feels ten again, with a different set of family members around the table laughing, talking about their days with quick witty remarks– up until the conversation turns, a voice pitched too wrong or a topic too sensitive, and it devolves to him sitting in the sidelines listening to how he just can’t get anything right and reminding them why they left him in the first place.

“No! Shut up! Shut the hell up!” He’s yelling now, frantic, red hot and trying to suppress the urge to break something with his fists. So far, he’s only managed to stop himself from throwing a punch. “Fuck off! FUCK OFF!”

For God’s sake Timothy you’re a Drake, act like it– Christ it’s like we haven’t brought you up with manners–, he hears Janet stern in his ears and it pushes him off the edge because it's funny, Janet never raised him in all his years-

Tim stands up, closes his laptop in one go, shuts up the voices around him, and flees.

–

Tim just wants to get away and work peacefully without people nagging at him for once. The world is too big and too loud and too much still.

He wants everyone to just fucking shut up. 

A dark thought creeps into his brain, wondering if he finally understands that that’s what Janet wanted from him in the first place, nails no longer needed to dig into his arm so he could focus and stop rambling and get to the point already because honestly Timothy stop being too much–

The thought alone makes him screech to a halt and the taxi behind him presses on its horn for a full eleven seconds before he shakes off the chills and continues down the road. He curses Janet’s name in his head– and immediately feels guilty for cursing the dead like that.

The trip downtown on his motorbike was quick, but he doesn’t know if it’s because of his speed, or that he’s so used to the streets, or that he’s lost time again with every ugly churn of his thoughts and prickle of his skin.

Tim’s too angry to face anyone at the moment, so he doesn’t go directly to WE to avoid snapping at any unlucky soul. He takes a left at Washington Ave instead.

Plum Coffee, is a quaint and quiet coffee shop that he likes for their imported arabica beans. It’s a small one, something that’s nestled between the towering highrises of the Financial District without sacrificing its cozyness for a more urban aesthetic. He’s grateful that it’s one of those shops that has seen too many local celebrities to care about someone like Timothy Wayne coming in, but it’s small enough that there were hardly any interns around the place waiting for their orders on a Wednesday morning.

The ambiance is perfect when he comes in, door jingling behind him. It’s not too loud in the room, just enough to focus but not enough to startle, and the pastel blues of the wallpaper doesn’t feel oppressing. The air smells like coffee and cinnamon, and blaring softly from the speakers is a lo-fi version of one of Billie Eilish’s songs that reminds him so much of Cass’ room he expects her soft voice to sing along to some lines. It makes him take a breath, but not enough to uncoil the vipers in his gut.

When Tim takes his order of caramel macchiato to one of the mismatched and overly fluffy lounge chairs, he untenses some more.

He takes out his laptop, the motions of setting up the mouse coming in like second nature. Tim refreshes his email, checks his messages and skims the news on his phone while he waits for the device to boot up.

There’s five new strongly worded back and forths between Lucius and Mr. Weathers from the product team since he’s last checked. He shouldn’t really be that invested and should’ve long stopped keeping up, but he thinks the passive aggressiveness is as entertaining to him as Peruvian soap operas are to Alfred. Focusing on the spat helps calm him a little thinking how long it would take for Bruce to step in. Dick thinks they’ll reach fifty ‘re:’s in the subject head first. Tim thinks it’s going to involve HR before that.

He checks his social media next, only opening some of the notifications and ignoring the rest. He sees Steph had sent him fifteen cat videos on Instagram last night, and one meme from this morning. She’s going to give him crap for his meltdown later, but the little cheering frog on screen makes him grip the phone a little looser when he realizes he’s been holding it too tightly.

He doesn’t reply to any of them at all, though something less hostile settles in his chest and douses all the burning anger.

By the time he’s opened the family chat to Cass’ pictures of Damian with Titus– followed by an emoji heart wall of text– and imputed his 14 character long alphanumeric password, he’s already feeling a little bit better. Looser. There are no intrusive thoughts in sight.

The tight coil in his stomach seems to ease up, though not disappear altogether.

He thinks it's only then could he finally breathe.

Tim takes one, long and deep, taking a pause and shaking the static out from under his skin and shoving the feelings of guilt from his breakfast breakdown down, down, down.

He cracks his fingers, sipping the drink in his hands, and dives into what he’s meant to be doing. The WE budget and product proposal. Work.

There are two problems with the current spreadsheet he's dealing with. One is the insights– or lack of it. The board will eat him alive if he shows productivity going down but not writing the why of it going down. They won’t care that Ryan has been on paternity leave, or that Debbie had just recently onboarded with the project– no, he has to research on how internal and market factors made it so that most of his team has been stretched of their limits and that he needs to hire new people so they could get Project Sigma 2 out by end of the year.

That in itself takes half an hour of research, and another to be put up in three detailed slides.

A second issue is that he’d been so caught up on the Estola case that he'd been working on the data set as he went rather than building formulas from the get go. It was a painstakingly long month full of ridding Gotham’s underbelly of murders and drugs– and they even found themselves at the precipice of a gang war before they finally got patriarch Brutus Estola apprehended. Tim hadn’t been able to focus on anything aside from it– instead just copy+pasting enough of the data from the SSBUDGET Sig2 - 080720.xls file to use for his presentation rather than making dynamic formulas like Lucius advised him to do. So he does now, painstakingly recreating everything, peppering VLOOKUP and SUMIFs when needed.

That took another two hours.

His pocket vibrates, and a quick look shows that Damian’s calling him, but Tim’s too focused on exporting the data to the powerpoint to answer. He always picks up his phone— despite not wanting to hear about Damian’s annoying brags or whatever the gremlin wanted— but thinks better of it today and hits the drop call button instead. He’s not…avoiding explaining himself to the kid for this morning's breakdown– he’s just on a roll, and hopes to finish at least the first portion of his presentation before taking a break.

Or that's what he tells himself.

He thinks Damian will probably understand. Tim is trying to crunch out the numbers of the team and he can't be distracted. Debbie's still on maternity leave- or was it Ryan?- and he still has to account how many other people should be onboarded and what it would do for his operations. If Damian doesn’t understand that he's busy, Tim can always sic Dick on the boy.

There’s also a message from Bruce, asking him if he’s alright and if he wants to reschedule the presentation to next week, but Tim ignores it. He can do this, he just really has to stop being so distracted. It's not like Tim can't. Besides, if Jack Drake were alive, he would say that Tim should have an aneurysm first before rescheduling something, like how he’s always forced him to go to school even at the height of a 102 degree fever. 102%, like the minimum needed revenue on the first month to pour back into funding for next year.

He opts to not reply and hopes Bruce will take that as a no, he doesn’t need to reschedule the meeting.

To Tim’s surprise, his phone flashes again, bright and buzzing through the default ringtone while he tries to remember his operations strategy and irritation blooming in his chest.

Damian.

Tim huffs at his screen, because Damian should really take a hint that no means no. He drops the call, sends a ‘Call Json instead.’ and puts his phone on silent for good measure.

The Sigma 2 project should forecast a 3% ROI in the next 2 years, which is small, but he thinks he could insert a spiel about tying it up with the Social Welfare Committee to get his budget. Now, if he could just understand why his formula's reporting back an error, he could finally move on to financials.

It takes an embarrassing long while before he first notices the screams. Echoing through the streets, getting louder and louder as civilians pass by to run for cover.

That makes him jump, phone immediately in hand and finally accepting another call from Damian, as he stands up to peer outside the floor length windows.

“Drake!” Damian grunts. There’s clacking in the background and the signal of the call is pretty weak. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for minutes now!”

He’s in the cave, Tim’s mind supplies. Robin had a shoulder injury last night.

“What the hell are you doing, Drake! Answer your damn coms!”

Tim huffs, trying to get a peek at the windows and past the franctic bodies.

“What part of my god-awful meltdown made you think I’m bringing my gear with me!”

“I don’t know– you’re the one with three shark repellents on you at all times!”

“I’m not in WE!” Tim whispers aggressively into the mic, thanking that it was just him and the baristas in the shop. If they heard any parts of his conversation, they weren’t letting on, instead focusing on the burning car outside from behind the bar that's a little bit too close for comfort. It wasn’t even that he didn’t have his gear with him at all times– having left with just his work laptop bag and not his backpack, there’s nothing on him right now that can connect to the bats aside from his personal cell phone.

He’s not really expecting to be Red Robin before lunch.

“I’m not exactly online right at the moment–!”

The burning car explodes.

It knocks Tim back, hip and shoulder aching as he gets knocked back several feet in a shower of glass. He’s gotten an arm up in time to save his face from the shards– but he’s pretty sure he had twisted the other wrist during the fall.

“Drake! What was that?” Comes the tinny shout from his phone.

“I’m–” Tim chokes through a wheeze as he takes stock of himself. Aside from the wrist, he just feels out of breath– maybe a paper cut or two- from the blast. “I’m alright. There’s a bomb right outside the coffee shop–”

“Idiot. Sit still!”

“I’m fine!” Tim grits out. 

Tim grips his phone and looks at the other people in the room.

“Are you both okay?” Tim coughs into his elbow as he looks at the frightened baristas.

“We’re fine!” The guy says, wiping his eyes. The girl shakes her head no, but the guy’s already got a hand on her shoulder, pushing her back and close to him. “Dude, are you okay? You fell!”

Tim waves his comment away. “Can you guys move? Is there a place you can stay in the backrooms?”

“I– I think we can. There’s the fridge at the back– hey, what are you doing?”

Tim has already jumped the counter, looking at both of them thoroughly. The girl looks shaky, but otherwise unharmed. The guy on the other hand has a head wound that’s sluggishly bleeding. Without his gear, Tim can’t really staunch the flow, so he takes some table napkins to see the damage and concludes that it’s just a shallow wound.

“Put pressure on that.” He tells him. “Look, I’m going to see what’s happening outside. Emergency services will be here in a couple of minutes, and I need you guys to hide in the backroom just in case– can you do that?”

Both of them nod. “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine.” Tim tells them, ushering them to the back and firmly closing the door. It wasn’t hard. These people were true Gothamites by the way they hardly made a fuss for him to join their probable panic room. Gothamites know never to let a stranger in your panic room.

Belatedly, he realizes his name’s being called from the cellphone in his hands.

“Still here.” Tim says.

“Good. I’d loathe to tell our brothers you’re dead because you’re being stupid.” Damian curses, but he sounds relieved as the clacking keys pass through the channel. “It seems like there are multiple bombings and live shooters around your area. I’ve already pinged Father and the rest of them are suited up.”

There’s an argument from behind him, and Tim can hear the rev of a motorcycle engine start through the receiver. “Sit tight, Hood says he’s coming for you. Don’t you dare move from there or I swear Richard’s going to be incorrigible!”

“Yeah, yeah, gremlin, I’m sitting still.” Tim says, peeking behind the ruined counter and having absolutely no intention of sitting still. The glass has shattered from the initial blast and it looks like nothing’s catching on fire aside from the light smouldering, but there’s no signs of the perp just yet aside from the faint sounds of a rifle. “I’m by Washington and Third and there’s an active shooter down the street.”

“Take a com next time!” Damian grumbles into his ear. 

“I’ll remember that in my next dramatic exit– now pipe down I think I hear them.”

Damian clicks his tongue, but the keys continue to ring in his ear. 

The screaming has subsided– meaning the Gothamites on the streets are hopefully hiding. Tim tries to squash the feeling of dread and guilt if the reason they’re not making noise is because they're dead. 

Tim hops back onto the selling floor, creeping slowly to make no noise over the scattered glass and keeping his phone under his chin, injured wrist tucked close. There’s no signs of life on the street aside from the smoldering car wreck and several bullet holes on the ground. No signs of blood on the ground either– which is a relief.

With adrenaline pumping in his veins, he can recall taking at least twenty minutes from Wayne Manor to the Diamond District at the very least.

Hood’s probably going to be here in ten.

He clings to that thought as he peeks around the ruined doorway, only to immediately freeze up when the shooting resumes.

“THIS IS FOR MY FATHER!”

“Oh shit.” Tim whispers, ducking down. The far away gunshots sound much closer this time, and he can hear the heavy yelling of an armed man two stores away.

"Who the hell is that?"

“A man who’s more anger than dignity. May he fucking rot in jail like the bastard deserves.” Short hair, caucasian, stocky build. There’s something on the look on his face that tickles Tim’s brain– a look he’s pretty sure he’s seen in a case file somewhere. 

But what?

"Noclueactiveshootergottogobye!" Tim drops Damian's call.

“Books? Waste of time, he says!”

Tim watches as the man decimates a bookstore with the pull of a trigger.

“Hail Brutus, a man who I thought wanted me but actually wanted a punching bag more! The fucking bastard!”

More bullets.

“The man had taught me nothing but pure grief! And what has he done? Left a boy orphaned, and nothing but full of rage! He’s done nothing for me! Killed my mother for insurance and left me days on end pretending I was dead! Now he’s left me with nothing— no money, no power, nothing but the fuckin’ wrath of the Bats on my tail.”

There’s a sound of a car alarm in the distance, silenced only by a POP! POP! POP!

“I'd rather die and I'm taking everyone with me!”

The more Tim listens, the more he’s disgusted. The man is clearly out of his mind in his rampage and only wants to hurt people in his grief. There's a funny thought that tickles his brain, something about it being the recurring theme of the day.

Tim doesn't dare let that train of thought go deeper, merely thinking a 'Parental issues? Get in line buddy!' in quiet quip.

The man's getting closer, too, wrecking the antique shop in front and leaving the old sofa on the showcase nothing more but splintered wood and eviscerated cotton.

Tim tries to back pedal, to hide behind the bar because the man is too close for comfort and too crazy to confront– if not the ruined counter, then he’ll even take shelter behind the ruined booths- because he’s not Red Robin, the man with a plan, right now he’s just Tim Drake, sitting helplessly and unarmed as he waits for his brother to come pick him up–

And almost immediately locks eyes with the gunman. 

A man with an AR-15.

“And this is for my mother. A woman who’s taught me to burn the world as much as it’s burned me.” The man says. Tim realizes, by the dimple on his cheeks and the crazed look in his eyes, that he’s looking at the face of Ricardo Estola, the right hand man of the Estolas who’d evaded capture the night before. The twenty-something maniac who shot Robin and used their fretting to disappear into the night. 

Yeah. That’s the guy he’s been trying to name.

Ricardo smiles, yellow teeth shining with glee. “May she be proud of me for finishing what she’s dreamed of: hell on fucking earth.”

He raises his gun, and Tim raises his hands in surrender. 

“Nothing personal, kid.”

Tim doesn’t flinch– he’s long since learned that reaction out of him.

He does take the blow to the chest— and then another one above that– and then one more to the arm— and suddenly there’s no air in Tim’s lungs left for him to scream.

Someone else does.

“NO!”

He hits the ground, his head breaking his fall, but it’s his midsection that’s screaming at him in white hot blaring PAIN!

There’s grunting all around him, yelling, and panicked shrieks, but Tim’s too focused on the sharp wound on his torso to make sense of anything. He doesn’t want to look down— doesn’t need to look down to know it's bad. He knows his arm’s only been clipped– thanks whoever’s up there that it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been–  his body is worrying by the amount of warmth that's seeping into his polo shit. He doesn’t want to look– but his imagination’s swinging and he’s filled with fear and morbid curiosity of what’s happening right just below his seventh rib.

So he does.

Both the wounds are fresh, one where his spleen used to be and another above it, gaping, bleeding red all over the crisp white shirt and gushing out in rivers and rivers. He tries to scream– because that looks fucking awful–

But he can’t find his breath.

“Shhh, babybird, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

Jason. That’s Red Hood, leaning over him, helmet off and hair in sweat plastered tufts over his face.

Tim doesn't realize he’s crying until Jason wipes his eyes for him.

“Red Hood calling in—fuck— three GSW and a 10-32- it's Red Robin. Live gunman down. I’m doing field dressing but I can’t move RR til I staunch the flow– we need an evac, like yesterday! ” Jason says as he starts pulling out bandages from the multitude of pockets on his pants. Tim tries to ground himself by noting where he’s pulled what, but his whole world is so lit up in pain that he couldn’t focus on anything but Red Hood’s panicked face. “No other injuries or civilians on site- breathe, baby bird, you’re panicking– I know it hurts but please just keep on breathing. You’ve always been the best of us in following directions so don’t go breaking that now, yeah?”

He’d like to say ‘pot meet kettle’, but doesn’t. Couldn’t.

It’s a struggle even to follow the directions he’s given.

Jason's cursing something low on his coms that Tim can't even decipher.

“Hood I–” He starts and ends up coughing– doesn’t finish when Jason proceeds to place his hands on the wound and pushes.

Only then does Tim find that he finally has the breath to scream.

Hood shushes him, both hands strong and the only thing that’s tethering him to consciousness when all he wants to do is pass out so it fucking stops hurting for once.

“You’re here.” He manages to splutter out in between gasps. “You’re actually h-“ gasps. “—here.”

“Gremlin has a tracker on you and I didn’t ask where, but they’re on their way baby Red, you hear me?” Jason growls. “They’re just rounding up similar attacks around the district, but every–fucking–one of us is out to save your sorry ass so we can tease you about it later, just, fuck, just hang on tight and breathe.”

Tim tries. For Jason, if not himself.

He does as much as he can, but his breath is stuttery, like he can’t seem to make his lungs expand correctly. He’s getting worse, he realizes. Much, much worse. He’s losing feeling in his toes and the pressure Hood’s keeping on his stomach is ebbing away replaced by numbness. 

It’s bad.

“Shhh, Timbo.” Hood’s still here, he’s never left, but he’s cussing more under his breath than openly, quieter, smaller, trying so hard to focus on the task at hand than do anything more.

He brushes a hand on his cheek before it turns back to where the other hand is steadily squeezing Tim’s torso together. 

By God, Tim misses its warmth immediately, and he uses his remaining energy to lean into it.

He’s never going to make fun of all the hair ruffles his older siblings give him if he ever survives. They joke about him being touch starved– and it apparently only takes Tim on his last breaths to realize it’s true. 

“You’re okay just hold on, I’m here.”

“Jay.” Tim whimpers, grasping wildly until his fingers close around Jason’s sleeve. He has to say it. That he’s sorry for this morning- for everything. That he appreciates them and all these years. He has to let them know that even if they didn’t love him, he does, and he’s so fucking sorry.

It’s more than what his parents had left him before they left him for Haiti.

“I’m sorry–”

“–Shut up, Red!–”

“–and I love you.” Coughs. “You know that, right? You guys have to know that, right?”

They all had to. They had too many sleepovers and movie nights and snowball fights to not. Tim let them braid his hair. He watched their six on field and was the one to go to when Bruce needed cajoling. He even scrambled the manor security cameras that one time to let them smuggle a litter of kittens for Cass and Damian even when he knew they were prone to getting caught.

“Yeah, but c’mon Pretender, today’s not the day for goodbyes so do what you told me this morning and shut the fuck up!”

Jason pries Tim’s fingers off the leather and takes the hand in his, gives a squeeze, and returns to the wound. He leans forward, and Tim hisses in pain as the pressure on his abdomen doubles and his vision grows into pinpricks. 

He thinks he might even have blacked out a little.

“Shit, shit–”

“It’s bad isn’t it?” Tim whispers, because he knows he’s on the verge of wailing if he doesn’t. “I’m going to die, aren’t I, Jay?”

“Get that shit out of here!” Hood snarls. He takes another packaged field gauze from his pocket to layer on the ones that are soaked through. Jason’s bullheaded like that, as if he’s stitching ligaments and bones and viscera together under the layers of soaked medical gauze just from the sheer force of will. “No one’s fucking dying– that’s my fucking thing!”

There’s an odd shift in the older boy’s brows, a scowl so deep that Tim would’ve panicked at that look– it usually accompanies sudden narrowing of Red Hood’s eyes that usually showed green– but he finds that he can’t be any more hysterical than he already is.

He coughs up and there’s the taste of rust in his mouth and phlegm stuck to the back of his throat that tastes too much like iron to be anything but blood. He tries not to sob at the thought of not making it out.

He fails.

“Shh, shh, Tim, I got you, you’re not going to die,” Jason’s brows furrow deeper and Tim realizes he’s said the sentiment out loud, “just don’t fucking dare go to sleep, they’re here, they’re almost fucking here— WING, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!”

Tim sobs again when he hears the urgent tinny reply from Hood’s communicator. 

His family is on their way to him. Him. He knows they’re panicking over him and he knows it shouldn’t, but the thought is enough to keep him warm against the growing cold. 

They won’t leave him to die like his parents repeatedly did, and he knows this in his bones.

“Ten— FUCK!– Okay, okay, you hear that Timbo? They’ll be here in ten minutes. Just hold on for ten minutes please, baby Red, please, please—“

Jason’s chanting a litany, begging, eyes frantic as he doubles his efforts. Tim thinks he hasn’t heard Jason so choked up since they watched The Lovely Bones a year ago.

“I’m so sorry.” Tim gasps, “For today I mean. I just— I just wanted some peace for a bit and I didn’t mean the things I said. It wasn’t f–fair of me. Can you tell them–” He splutters around his words because God, Janet was right about Tim doing nothing right, “–tell them–”

“Shut up, Pretender, shut the fuck up– we know– now SHUT UP! Please, for the love of God, shut up please please—”

“—tell them that I’m sorry, that you have to be strong for each other and to be careful because–” He gulps, “because I can’t be there to plan for all contingencies and cover for you anymore if you need to hide something fro-from dad or Alfie—Hood, please, tell them they have to know I’m not going to be there to anymore–”

“—just shut up, please, hold on Red, please–”

“–And tell them I love them, Jason, promise me you’d tell them so they’d know–” a desperate breath. Tim feels so pathetic with snot falling down his face, but he has to let them know how much he doesn’t want to go. “You know that I– you– you’re a part of that. That I love you, right?”

His tears don’t stop because Jason keeps crying and the older man’s begging for him to hold on between sobbing and keeping pressure on the wound. Jason’s the strongest of the lot of them. Jason never begs.

 Tim never wanted to see Jason beg for anything, because his big brother deserved the world after everything that’s happened, but here he is making him.

Despite everything, Tim feels so fucking awful about it.

Jason is crying and Tim is so sorry.

“I’m so sorry it had,” Tim gasps, “I’m sorry it had to be you J–Jay.”

Tim didn’t even notice when the man’s ‘please please please’s became ‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry’s.

“I love you, I love you, I love you–” Tim counters desperately, snot and tears freely flowing but he can’t seem to get the words out enough through his sobs even if he’s trying so hard to get them out. “It’s okay Jay, I don’t expect you to save me, I– I just wanted you to know. Be strong for them– you can’t let anyone stop just for me, okay?”

Jason’s rough grip is extremely soft as he wipes Tim’s cheek again. He doesn’t stop his own from falling either.

Tim didn’t know his brother could be that soft. He's always so brash, so strong, to be caught being anything but.

He’s almost hysterical as he thinks about how Jason should prepare himself for some teasing in the afterlife. Hopes they won’t meet in heaven anytime soon either, knowing fully how death hits them harder than most.

If he could wrangle God’s arm so his family could have a good life, he would, but he entrusts his big brother to be there for everyone in the aftermath the way he's there with Tim now.

“Okay, but Jesus, Timmy, don’t die on me.” Jason says, one last time, soft and gentle.

“I’m tired, Jay,” He says. “It’s not your fault– I’m just tired.” 

It’s too hard to keep his eyes open. The distant part of his brain registers that he’s not even feeling the pressure anymore, and the world is swimming, blurry.

He knows he’s fading. Fast.

He thinks this is it.

He thinks this is a game over. That this is it.

This must be what death is like– hurting and drowning on land as a climax of the car crash that is his day.

“Where's dad?” He sobs one last time, tired, wrung out. Bruce always made things better. "I– I want dad."

He doesn’t see Jason tense and uncoil. Doesn’t feel Jason as he gives up the fight in keeping Tim in one piece. Doesn’t see Jason turning off his communicator for privacy, or that Jason’s trembling, or Jason’s face is twisted in grief like he’s the one dying– like he’s the one who’s begging for his dad to hurry up and save him.

Jason’s been here before, dying, broken, all the feeling of invincibility because of their training and status as vigilantes failing. 

And it’s Tim’s turn now, body failing and crashing. If he’s not drowning and coughing around his blood and spit, he should be thinking about how it’s going to affect his big brother. His brother who’s trying so hard to keep Tim breathing despite both of them knowing only one of them is coming back home. Who’s going to have to tell the rest of the family the truth.

It will all end the same way for both of them, apparently.

Tim knows Bruce will be too late again.

At least Jason’s here. Jason’s strong. Jason can keep them all going even if Tim’s long been buried six-feet underground.

He does hear Jason sob. Tim’s cheek twitches and finds that he finds he can’t hold a frown.

“I’m so sorry, baby bird.” Jason says, in the solemn whisper of a prayer. "It's just going to be me today. I'm so sorry."

Stupid. Tim thinks, trying to fight his eyelids because he doesn’t remember closing them even if he knows he should. So stupid Big Red, you have nothing to apologize for. How are we brothers? You’re such an idiot.

“Go to sleep, Tim. I– We’ll all be here when you wake up, you hear me?”

And a liar.

But it was a pretty little lie among many. He’s used to it. He’s grown up with it. Why is this one different?

Tim tries to give him a smile, crusted snot and all. 

He hopes it’s not the last memory his big brother will have of him, or else he’d have to wrestle God on this too and try to make the memory of his dying look like it didn’t hurt. Use some cosmic photoshop to try and not give his brother nightmares.

The grip of consciousness he’s been trying to hold loosens.

“I’m glad it’s you.” Tim breathes, letting go. You who’s here for me. You who comforted me. You who never promised to come back but still did. You who loved me. 

You who knew better. 

They live as a consequence of their past— and it’s Jason who knows more than anyone when to let go. To not fight death when it’s so imminent. Tim knows with unbridled faith getting dunked in the Lazarus out of grief is out of the question, because his big brother is here to know better. 

Jason is strong. Jason’s going to keep everyone from falling apart.

Tim knows this with his last breaths.

Tim loves him for it. Despite it. Because of it.

There’s a ghost of a kiss on the crown of his head, rough and unpracticed, but oh so terribly kind. “I love you, little brother, go ahead, close your eyes, it’s fine—“

He smiles again, content– or his mouth twitches— he doesn’t know and it doesn’t matter. The dead don't care about schematics like that.

His family loves him. 

You hear that? 

He’s loved.

“Thanks Jay.” He says, barely a breath.

And all went black.

–

Then he wakes up.

He just does.

One moment, everything is void of anything, and the next he’s rubbing his eyes off of the crusty build up and blinking up to the white LED lights that’s borderline painful in his eyes. 

There’s no swimming up to consciousness, no floating up, no desperate clawing up to the land of the living others would wax poetry about.

It might as well be one of those times when he’s fallen asleep during movie nights to popcorn in his hair and drool on the poor sap that’s caught between him and a pillow– only now everything aches and his tongue is drier than the Sahara.

“You’re awake.”

A statement more than a question. Damian stands next to him, hands wrapped around the aluminum guard rails of the medical bed. His tiny brows are furrowed and he’s wearing an old Gotham Knights sweater that’s too big for his small frame. Even if he’s rolled up the sleeves and tucked the fabric by his shoulders, it makes him look smaller– younger– than he is.

“You must need water.” The boy says, and Tim is just grateful he’s gotten past that initial hostility they both had with each other as a straw passes his lips. He’s grateful to just savor the water, that he doesn’t need to worry about being poisoned on top of the growing headache and dull pain on his chest.

“Your chest might hurt. Richard had to inject you with an adrenaline shot directly through the heart before compressions.”

Damian takes the straw away when Tim releases it, waves a croaky ‘thanks’ away and places the empty glass on the counter. He clicks the ‘call’ button on the wall and resumes his post on the side, sketching light lines on his notebook.

“How long?” Tim asks, voice scratchy and unused. He must’ve been down under longer than he anticipated.

“Two days, medically induced.” Damian says, almost bored as he draws and twists the pad in his hands for a new angle. “And then one more, once Leslie took you off of pentobarbital. I had to hack Father’s servers to reschedule that dumb WE meeting you mentioned before. It’s now on the fifteenth next month and ample time for you to finish up that materials canvassing you’re missing on slide twenty-three. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Of course the kid had hacked the servers and his presentation. Tim cracks his lips, but he smiles tiredly anyways. “Thanks, Dames.”

“Do not make this a recurring incident.” The boy huffs.

Tim appreciates Damian’s dependable attitude at this very moment. The board members would eat him alive if he missed one, and he could see all the disproving looks he’d receive if he took another no show– as if dying was not a reasonable excuse to not attend. 

Tim blows away the bangs that are flopping into his eyes as he turns his attention back to the ceiling. He’s already wondering how hard he could get his hands back on his laptop til–

Damian clicks his tongue sharply. “Again, Brown is showing her penchant for butterfly clips is more aesthetic than use. That must be annoying, she should have known better by now.”

“I’ve had worse.” Tim jokes, lifting a casted arm to vaguely motion towards his…everything.

He could feel Damian frown at him. 

“You’re not going to make death jokes now, are you? Todd’s already annoying and they’re very distasteful even then.”

Not to mention fresh, but both of them don't voice it out loud.

“Oh.” Is all Tim could reply.

“Yeah, oh.” Damian mimics, making Tim fondly wrinkle his nose at the false-arrogant cadence. If Tim were to be told that two years ago, he would’ve been up in arms for the tone, injured or not. Now he knows better, that Damian hides his worry behind his sarcasm and how he squares his jaw to stop himself from saying what he actually means. 

He’s like Bruce in that sense, saying nothing but everything if you know his tells.

The scratching stops, and Tim looks over curiously only to see the boy look at him, face in a glare. “Do not do that again, Drake. I can’t have you worry our family like that.”

And Damian is like Dick in a way too– long having learned that being explicit of his thoughts to lessen miscommunication.

“Okay.” Tim breathes. Promises.

Damian only nods, then goes back to sketching as if they never did.

There’s no denying, in the breaths between moments, that Damian loves him in his own assassin-baby-upbringing way. 

Tim realizes this as the air settles and his eyes close to rest while they wait for Alfred. Aside from the heart monitor, the only noise in the room is the soft sounds of charcoal on paper, but never silence— and most definitely never the overbearing weight of the overconcerned.

It’s peaceful. Companionable.

There was no way of telling for sure that they’d reach this level of comfort due to their less than stellar beginnings, but here they were, waiting together with no thrown threats in the air. But more than that, he realizes, it’s been there all along. It's in the way there’s always a stash of Tim's preferred tea blends in all of his known safehouses along Robin’s patrol route, in the post-it notes to remind him of his maintenance medicine, it’s in the the paint and charcoal renditions of his favorite photographs in his bedroom.

Nowadays, Damian even hesitates when he stabs him during live weapons training, and blows him up for fun rather than murderous intent like the endearingly annoying little brother that he is.

Damian is his family and he loves him and Damian seems to love him back.

They’re brothers. Actually brothers.

Take that Janet Drake.

Tim always wanted a little brother but his parents always treated the ask like it was any other of his childhood wants. 

No Timothy, we’re not having this conversation. Why don’t you focus on your studies first and when you get straight A’s, I’ll think about it.

It took a while, but he’s glad he has one now. 

He smiles. 

His heart is big, touched, swelling so much in realizing that his baby brother’s still here and he’s not going anywhere even if they both know Alfred’s already on his way down to the med bay. His little brother cares.

The sweet thought settles on his chest warmly.

He croaks out a soft ‘Thanks’, one that doesn’t need to be expounded on.

Damian huffs, clicks his tongue, and Tim can imagine him scrunching his nose in that adorable way that reminds him of Alfred the cat.

“Idiot.” Damian mutters, but the voice is light in its sarcasm.

Tim laughs despite his aching throat.

–

“You flatlined, Timmy.” Dick whispers once, a tone far too soft and far too small to belong to him. The night was long and the others were out on the field– except for Nightwing who’s hands still shook as they reached out, even if it’s been a few days and Tim is farthest he’s been from death’s door. 

Dick’s been on vigil duty for a few days now, and it looks like he’s not leaving it. 

“You flatlined and for a moment, I thought that was it.”

Tim at first had been embarrassed to hear about it– waking up the second time and seeing everyone gathered around him breathing relieved breaths was never an easy thing to come to. He was adamantly telling everyone he’s okay, joking their worries away, but accepting their comforting touches. It was easier to laugh and hold the memory of burning and pain and not being able to breathe at arms length than to think how close he was to dying.

For the past week, he’s just…sad about it. Tired.

The fatigue that creeps up while he’s healing is nothing compared to the guilt that flashes every time anyone from the family glances at his too pale face. He only knows of it because he feels it lingering, feels the concern when they think he isn’t looking. He used to frown at this– at their overbearing care– til he got a glimpse of his own reflection in the mornings and saw the bruises that coat his eyes. He didn't even argue when Cass sat on him so he'd finally go to sleep after.

“What do we say to death?” Tim whispers back. If it were Steph, she would’ve pretended to have fallen for it, would have giggled ‘Not today!’.

But it wasn’t Steph with him.

“Close call, huh.” Tim says, aiming again for light teasing but still falling pathetically flat. He thinks gallows humor never really worked well unless it’s their own deaths to make fun of. He takes his older brother’s hand, squeezing it tight as if to show that that was then and this is now. “I’m not dead though, Dick. You got me in time.”

He‘s the person Tim looked out for when he looked like Bruce’s overbearing mother henning had been too much, quippy replies somehow leading everyone out of Tim’s room doing this or that and giving him the space he needed. There’s always an undercurrent of worry then, like he wasn’t so accepting of Tim’s short trip to the spirit realm like he was letting on. 

Worry he could blatantly see now.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Dick still looks as broken as he sounds. His mouth was in a thin line and his brows furrowed so low it looked permanently etched on his face.  “You don’t understand– you– you died.”

Tim frowns. Of course he understands. Dying, he means. He felt it in the edges of his vision and succumbed to the fall of darkness. He was the one there. 

He could see Dick’s eyes watering from where he rested on his side, one arm up cushioned under his head, and the other slung over Tim’s frame. If Tim tunes out the dull throbbing of his stomach, he’d think this was any other night that Dick has wormed his way into Tim’s room after a round of nightmares, full of hugs and comfort and promises that it’s okay, that big brother’s here for him like, how Dick will always will be. He could see it still– the way Dick held him close enough to make sure he’s comforted, but still far enough that it’s not oppressive. 

His big brother was kind like that, a man who grew up to cater everyone’s needs.

Jack and Janet Drake would’ve eaten him and his bleeding heart alive.

“We almost lost you.” Dick whispers again, an urgent breath plucked from his lungs, as if he’s afraid that speaking too loud would shatter reality and he’d come to wake up in a reality where they had actually failed. “Twice, Tim. You flatlined Twice. I had to give you an adrenaline shot, then CPR, then bring you to the cave, then we couldn’t make you stable enough before Alfred could prep up and I thought that was it–”

He knows this too. The proof is there in the needle pricks on his arm and a bruise on his sternum, one that perfectly fits the size of his big brother’s palm.

Tim has already accessed the incident report the moment he could safely bribe Cass without the threat of being told on. His sister merely flicked his forehead, got him his laptop, and went back to playing the New Horizon beside him. She always knew better than to tell him no like the rest of them, holding his hand until he got through the guilt enough to sleep.

Dick lifts his hand to cradle Tim’s face affectionately, cups his chin and cheek as he takes a bitter breath. Only, Tim knows better to see it as just a sweet gesture– Dick’s fingers ghosted his carotid from where it lays. Whether consciously or not, his big brother’s hands are still looking for a pulse.

“I almost lost you. You were–” a harsh breath, “I was going to lose another baby brother.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I almost did and I don’t know what to do if I did.”

Dick’s eyes are grieving the possibilities today. 

The lump in Tim’s throat is almost unbearable to swallow around. 

So Tim brings their foreheads together, solemn, with a hand on the back of Dick’s neck. He bridges the gap Dick leaves for personal space knowing the man needs to crush the anxiety more than Tim needs to breathe. That Dick needs this, and against all odds, against everything that Tim has been warring with himself before the incident, that Dick needs Tim.

The gesture is awkward for his position, and he’s pretty sure he’s straining the stitches on his midsection, but he pushes the feeling down because he needs this and he needs his family to know that–

–”I’m sorry, Dick. I didn’t mean to.”–

–that whatever would take him away would never be something he’d wanted.

And Dick closes his eyes and laughs, mirthless, hurt, broken as he pets Tim’s oily hair.

“Of all the idiotic things to say, you’re– you’re actually apologizing about dying—“ he says, breath tickling the cannula stuck to Tim’s nose. “Oh Timmy…”

Dick sighs long and deep.

“I love you so much.” The man says, moving only to murmur into Tim’s hairline, squishing the remainder of the space between them. “You’re not allowed to die, Timmy. Never ever.”

Tim just buried his face further into the embrace to avoid replying.

–

He’s not…avoiding Jason. Not really. 

“Where are you going?”

It’s hard to avoid someone who is always conveniently appearing in Tim’s usual haunts.

Tim frowns into his empty drink, not even bothering to look up from where he’s focusing on balancing his mug between his torso and his sling. If he wasn’t listening for the creak from the old servant’s secret entrance behind the leftmost bookshelf, he wouldn’t have noticed Jason coming in not even five minutes ago. Jason somehow had appeared in the library, book cracked open as if he'd been there the entire time.

He doesn’t even know why Jason would care if they were just going to continue to pretend that Jason hasn’t been hovering out of sight for two weeks. The man hasn’t even excused himself from living in the manor claiming to be suffocated by all the bodies that live there. Even Cass knew better than stalk him in the hallways, preferring instead to ambush him in his room.

He tells Jason that, prickling a little at the constant supervision. He was never one to be noticed, and now that everyone keeps him in their line of sight, he wonders why he constantly asked for it when he was young.

A little bit too late of a learning, if Jack and Janet Drake were to be asked.

“Did you take a page out of the gremlin’s book and put a tracker on me or what?” He grumbles. “I’m just getting coffee.”

The tea prior has long dried up, but he’d be damned if he uses a new cup for another drink. He doesn’t need Alfred to wash two when he can just reuse this one.

“The fuck you are.” Jason says, standing up only to away the chipped ‘Not watercolor!’ mug from his hands.

“Come on, Jason! I’m not going to keel over just because of Folgers.” Tim huffs, but had no energy to make a move on the stolen drink. “I am not fragile.”

“Leslie said no caffeine so I’m saying no as well.” The older man growls, pointedly putting the mug on the far side table and aggressively opening his book.

“Fine. You know, if you’re depriving me of coffee, might as well kill me.”

“Shut up. Not funny.” Jason looks pained, squaring his jaw. “You almost died recently, Tim. Stop being an ass about it.”

“I know.” He does because it seems like no one is making him forget about it anytime soon. Steph keeps finding ways to sleep over at the manor despite the longer commute to Gotham U, Bruce hasn’t gone back to the office since, and Cass has been leaving him treats on his nightstand so he doesn’t have to go to the kitchen when he wakes up peckish at night.

It’s sweet, but they kept on not. Leaving. Him. Alone.

“It’s been two weeks, Jason! I don’t understand what you’re upset about anymore! You’re not the one to talk about making light about your own death.” Tim spits, irritated. “Everyone keeps saying I died! So what? You all did too!”

It’s not Tim’s fault that Jason’s having a bad few weeks all because he saw Tim have it worse.

“I’m upset because you don’t get it!” Jason yells. He’s scowling something fierce as he stubbornly tries to keep the book in front of his face. Tim thinks he should back off, that this is how it all started in the first place, but he can’t help the burning anger that spills in his gut too. He’s too riled up.

“You don’t get that we could’ve lost you, or that you were saying your goodbyes then and I had to sit through them thinking that was it! You don’t get it!”

“What don’t I get?!” Tim has to ask. “Me saying goodbye?! What– you’d rather I didn’t?

“No! I’d rather you don’t die!” Jason growls out. “You don’t get that we would’ve been packing up your shit now instead of lecturing you!

“I know!”

“You think what, you died once and it’s a haha-hihi moment we can all forget about? Tim, you died and I was there!”

“I know!”

“You act like me facing them, telling them– telling them all the shit you told me was okay?”

“I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?!”

“Yeah but it was still shit and I didn’t need to know what it was like having my brother’s dead weight in my arms, OKAY! I was inconsolable as Dick was doing compressions Tim! Did you even realize that?!” 

That shuts Tim up. 

A morbid sense of curiosity thrums in his brain, loud and obnoxious. 

“Is that what you felt? In the end when–” When you were dying? 

Jason stops from where he’s reading– pretending to read at this point– and stops a flinch, like he didn’t expect the question.

“You were good, Jason.” Tim tells his brother, closing his eyes as he slid down the seat. He’s trying so hard not to look Jason in the eye as he counts his breath. “You knew what to say and everything was– everything was peaceful. I didn’t think having you there instead of anyone else would’ve made such a lasting impact. You made it sound like everything would be okay when I’m– yeah. That you would hold the rest of them up when I couldn’t.”

There was no denying it. Jason Todd, out of everyone in the family, was the best person to have when you’re dying. He’d card calloused fingers through your hair and make you believe that death was as simple as just falling asleep.

It’s as if he just knows what you need, in those last moments before the inevitable.

Because he’s been there before.

That’s why he’s the strongest of them all.

Jason tugs at his hair, the curls sticking up in damp tufts as Tim’s eyes open in the next breath to the anguish on his brother's face. “Christ, Tim, fuck.”

Or so Tim thought.

Tim can hardly speak, his voice as lost as his fight is.

“This is so fucked up. This family is so fucked up.” Jason mumbles. “Fucking shit, goddammit. You didn’t think that– you didn’t know you mattered enough to me that I’d be fucked up about it too? Fuck!”

Tim keeps his silence. 

Jason sighs, and Tim feels like the world has shifted under him. He was saying goodbye two weeks ago hoping the fall out wouldn’t make waves. He’d entrusted Jason to not let them fall apart.

He’s alive two weeks after realizing it did matter– that Jason, out of the lot of them, would be most affected by it because he was the one left behind.

Too many times he’s thought about his parents not caring if he dies that it's too late to see that the family he has now does.

“I love you too much for that.”

There’s heat behind his eyes. Guilt crashing, anger amplified. He wishes it’s back to that uncaring void of his childhood rather than feel everyone around him tiptoe because they love him. So what if he died? They should carry on. Jack and Janet certainly would.

It’s too much.

“If this is how you act because you love me, then I wish you loved me less.” Tim spits out in a harsh whisper.

Jason actually flinches.

Tim frowns and slaps a hand to his lips, as if chasing the flying words out of his mouth. His eyes are wide.

“I didn’t mean that.”

But it’s too late. Jason’s face is angry as he stands up and extracts himself from the library.

–

“Chum?”

“Go away.”

Tim doesn’t feel like he could face his family right now. Word flies– of course it fucking does. The manor is full of paper thin walls and hidden vents, and what happened that afternoon in the library might as well be a concert– especially for curious bats.

They made him like the idea of love and actually liking being loved, but after everything that’s happened and everything said and done, it feels like he’s lost his privilege for it. Even Cass was apparently giving him a wide berth from the lack of snacks on his nightstand when he went to his room yesterday.

Tim feels crappy, jaw clenched at the thought of how much he’s just ruined everything.

“Go away, Bruce.” He says tiredly, not even bothering to uncoil from the tight ball he’s wrapped himself in. “I’m tired.”

“Tim, son, can I come in?”

He’s spent the past few days prickling against everyone’s hovering. Why is it that now that he gets what he wanted, all he wants is for it to come back?

Tim doesn’t answer, too embarrassed to admit a ‘Yes’.

“Tim? Can you hear me?”

Bruce walks into the room and closes the door behind him, face hidden in a silhouette.

“Chum, are you okay?”

“No.” Tim says as he stubbornly digs deeper into his blanket nest.

“Sweetheart, can you look at me?” Bruce pleads. “Please? I need to know you’re okay.”

Tim flushes in shame as he turns a bit to acknowledge the presence, but not enough to fully meet the man’s eye. He doesn't think he deserves their kindness, not even now, not even from Bruce. There’s a dip in the other side of his bed from where Bruce has perched on it.

“You called for me, you know.” Bruce says, shoulders slumped like a defeated man. Tim swallows- he doesn't like being the reason for this look on Bruce at all. “I could hear you.”

“I was dying.” Tim huffs apologetically, “I just– I wanted my dad. I'm sorry you had to hear that.”

He's sorry for a lot of things, but is too fucking late for a whole lot of them.

“I know.” A deep sigh. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you chum.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, you and I both know it.” There’s a hand on Tim’s head, and Tim freezes for a second before he registers the warmth as something soothing, and not nails digging into his scalp. Janet Drake was never one to understand when an action hurt, whether she meant it or not. Bruce knows better.“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

Tim doesn’t know how to respond to that— so he doesn’t.

“You know I love you, too, right? That I thank whatever deity is up there that I can tell you this now face to face, but I do.” Bruce admits softly, stealing a kiss on his hairline. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, and it could’ve been your final hours and I’m so sorry I haven’t reminded you recently that I love you.”

Tears spring to Tim’s eyes, the fight from this afternoon still fresh on his mind and he can’t help it. He starts sniffling into his pillow.

“I ruined it, Bruce.” He admits.

The older man just hums in acknowledgement, neither agreeing or disagreeing, running soft callused fingers through Tim’s hair the way he likes it.

“Bruce– I– I was just so angry, dad. Everyone just won’t leave me alone, and I just wanted coffee, and things got heated, and I didn’t realize I was asking too much from Jason–” Tim laments, balling his hands on his comforter as if the anger could be stripped away with the throb of his injured wrist. It doesn’t relent. “I’m so used to everyone not caring about me, and I know everyone does, but I’ve lived my life so long when it’s just me that– that– that–”

“That it’s overwhelming to have people on your side.” Bruce finishes. “I know chum, I heard you had a bad morning before that, didn’t you?”

Tim nods.

“It looks like you were hurting even before then, Tim. It’s not your fault to need space.”

Tim frowns. “But I didn’t want space when I went to breakfast then. I just–”

“Didn’t want to be lonely.” Bruce nods along, making Tim’s bangs flop into his face as the hand moves with the movement. “I get it Tim, you didn’t have to tell me. Dick understood the moment you snapped at Jason. No one blames you. And during the attack–”

“–you mean when I died–?”

“During the attack,” Bruce’s hands stills a bit, and Tim shifts so he could look at his dad from his peripherals. “It was a pretty bad time for you and Jason too.”

“Yeah.” Tim admits. “I was hysterical, Bruce. I didn’t know that Jason’s– Jason was having a pretty bad time being strong then. Even today at the library.”

“I don’t think anyone could be strong seeing a loved one like that.” Bruce agrees.

“Still. I didn’t need to blow up on him like that.”

“I know.” Bruce says. “But I also know you were chafing under all the attention. Did you know I had Damian and Steph back off buying you all of Target’s Hallmark ‘Get Well Soon’ cards and stop Dick from trying out stress baking on top of everything? I had to run interference but it seems like I was only able to hold off the worst of them.”

Tim laughs wetly as he imagines Dick with rock hard muffins. “That would be a mess.”

“Agreed.”

Bruce's eyes are soft and sad, like he's not seeing well and whole Tim at the moment.

"I was trying to give you space too, you know." Bruce shifts over, and Tim grumbles a little bit when he falls back on his pillows, but then hands are on the sides of his face making him look his father straight into his eyes. “But not the lesson here. They do these because you’re loved, Tim. I know your siblings can be a bit too much– don’t give me that look, a month ago you filled Dick’s room with blue glitter when he had that depressive episode– yes I know about that– but that’s because they love you. All the attention is just them fretting over you– let them, Tim.”

Bruce rubs Tim’s cheek under a love worn thumb, his face gentle and stern. “Sure, sometimes it’s too overwhelming, especially from where you come from. But remember that we almost lost you. You were telling us a future without you and I—“ Bruce’s voice stutters. “And we couldn’t imagine it. You asking all those things— it’s gutwrenching to imagine a world without you Tim. No one is strong enough for that. Not even Batman.”

Tim feels the heavy stone of guilt settle again on his stomach watching his dad right now.

“I know everyone’s trying to Tim-proof the place, but you have to know we can’t live without you. Saying ‘I love you’ is not enough. Not in this family. That was a pretty hard ordeal for everyone and I think they deserve to bubble wrap you like they initially planned.

“But,” Bruce wipes Tim's eyelashes. “It’s not wrong to tell them to back off when it’s too much either, remember that. If Jason’s too annoying, tell him. When Cass can’t stop stealing everyone’s socks and puts it in your drawer, tell her. Our love will not diminish just because of some words. The limits do not exist. We need you— and if that means backing off a bit, then we’ll do it. That’s what love is, Tim.”

There’s silence for a bit, as Tim turns the ideas in his head.

And then—

“Did you just quote Mean Girls at me?”

“I did and I’ll do it again to make you understand what I’m saying.” 

He can’t help it. Tim giggles.

Bruce frowns, though his face remains amused. “Although you do need to apologize to Jason for yelling at him and I’m going to have to do something about the sack of flour in the kitchen now that they’re finally off their mother henning.”

Tim laughs at this, finally, trying to rub his wet eyes discreetly while Bruce pretends to fiddle the pillows behind his back.

It takes a while for what Bruce said to sink in, but the man just patiently waits until Tim’s sniffles subsides.

“Are you sure they’re not angry at me?” He asks.

Bruce smiles, the thousand kilowatt smile that’s reserved for family. “I’m surprised they haven’t planted cameras in here just to make sure you didn’t keel over while you’re angsting, to be honest.”

Tim huffs, and Bruce just ruffles his hair gently. There's something to say when he doesn't freeze up at all with the action.

“Why don’t we go get your siblings and have a sleepover on my bed? It’s been a few weeks since you took over the place like the warm starfishes that you are.”

“I’d like that.” Tim says. “Thanks, for everything, dad.”

Tim smiles, a small one, nods once, and gets to his feet, only stumbling once with the guidance of his dad. 

–

“I’m sorry.” Tim whispers hesitantly beside the bed as Jason looks up at him. “I, uh, I was out of line, and I didn’t mean to say that. I actually appreciate it. You. Everything.”

The man is silent, one green eye just peeking from where he’s got his face squished into the pillow. Tim’s not surprised most of his brothers have already taken comfort in Bruce’s bedroom as they picked up Cass from hers.

“And, uh, I’m glad to be your brother, and what I said when–” He sucks in a breath. “what I said before, I uh, I meant it then. I love you– all of you– and I’m sorry.”

“Shut up.” Jason says.

Tim frowns. “What?”

“I said, shut the eff up.” Jason grabs him by the arm and tugs him gently into bed, careful of his injuries, oh so careful of Tim. “We’ve both finished our quota of apologies for the year. No more sorries. We’re being good little bats and will actually sleep for once in our messed up lives.”

“Idiot little brother.” Cass says as she climbs up next to him, and Tim’s smile is watery as he accepts the kiss on the cheek and ruffling of his hair. He accepts Damian’s kick in his shins too, the action softening when the boy hooks their ankles together under the blankets.

“Are you coming, B-man?” Dick asks, hand wrapped firmly on Tim’s wrist from the other side of the bed. “There’s always room in your massive Alaskan. Come on, old man, don’t let us get the cuddle party started without you.”

Bruce smiles, quiet, tenderly. “What? A man can’t have a moment relishing that his family is safely tucked in first?”

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Jason grumbles, and Tim feels it more than he hears it, squished between Cass and him. 

There’s the laughter of a content father. “Fine, scoot over, Dick, I’d like to be with my bed-stealing kids now.”

Tim tries to commit everything– the smiles, the pressure of the arms around him, someone’s ice cold feet on his legs, the hair that’s tickling his cheek– all of it into memory.

He’s home.

He’s with family.

He’s loved.

“Love you.” Tim says, to the slowly retiring room, to no one and everyone at once, and falls to rest.

–

“You got a matching gravestone picked out?”

“A whole funeral, actually. I’m blaring Helena and hiring Gerard Way for the reception.” He glances to the side. “Why? You don’t?”

“I was just planning on reusing mine.” Jason jokes, but his body is tensed up as he leans on the tree trunk. “You know you don’t owe it to them to be here.”

“I know.” Tim says, still staring at the gravestones in front of him. “I just, I just wanted to ask why.”

“Why?”

“Why.” Tim nods solemnly. 

He remembers now. He has so many of them. Why did you do it? Why did you always leave? Why did you keep my hopes up that you’d stay? Why did you love me so differently when I loved you so unconditionally despite your absences?

Why did you make me think that love is so unattainable that it still fucks with me everyday despite it radiating from everyone around me now that you’re gone?

Jason is looking casually uninterested as he gazes on something in the distance. Liar, Tim thinks, knowing Jason is more than invested. Bats are terribly curious creatures.

“You gonna expand on that, or what?”

“Or what.” Tim smiles a bit, sad, but hopeful. He puts the flowers on top of his parent’s graves, gently like a bittersweet goodbye.

Jack, Janet, would you be angry at me when I say I feel more loved now that you’re gone?

Maybe he’ll ask them in the afterlife. Hopefully not anytime soon.

He still doesn't say the trauma he feels over his parents out loud. Not today.

But he knows by the slightest twinge of hurt that it’s better now, a shallower wound, a mild stomach ache and no longer a knife twist in his gut.

Maybe in the future he’ll come to terms that the greatest thing they’ve ever done was to stay away.

Maybe some days he’ll tell the family, the ones who stayed, about it too.

“Little shit.” Jason says, but his voice is humorous, and he ruffles Tim’s hair as he passes to get to the motorcycle. “You ready to go home yet, Timbo? Big bird’s gotten hold of Babs’ Netflix account and I want to be early enough to stop Damian from making us watch Soul Eater again– Christ if I know why we’re leeching off of Babs when our dad’s literally Bruce fucking Wayne.”

Tim smiles, turning around to follow his big brother out of there. He doesn’t look back.