Work Text:
It felt wrong.
So, so, wrong to see his brother don the cowl that he swore he would never wear. To never become.
But Dick Grayson was the only option.
And it hurt.
Because it meant that Dick really believed that Bruce was gone— that Dick didn't believe him, even with all the evidence that led to Bruce's trail, scattered like breadcrumbs across the world.
Tim had proof. It wasn't just theories. It wasn't hope or grief talking. He had coordinates. Echoes. Clues. Shit he had sent to the Justice League, hoping that someone— anyone— was able to help him bring Bruce back.
And yet, Dick still didn't believe him.
Instead, he took away the one thing that made Tim feel like he mattered, and gave it away to a kid that tried to kill him multiple times.
Damian.
Bruce's son.
That fucking hurt.
But giving Robin away to Damian wasn't what hurt most— it was Dick not believing him, thinking that whatever so-called theory Tim came up with was just delusions. Hope.
It was like Tim didn't know who Dick was anymore.
It felt like— he was losing Dick too.
Dick was supposed to be his brother. His anchor. Someone who defended him. Someone who stood by him. Someone who loved him— believed him.
But now?
Now all Dick was… was a stranger.
A shell of someone he used to know.
And even now that Bruce was back— all thanks to him— nothing had changed. Not a single word. No apology. Not even an acknowledgement from Dick.
Instead, Dick disappeared.
Like he wasn't truly there in the first place.
The distance was still there. The bond was still broken between them.
He’d thought— hoped— that once Bruce was back, everything would be fine.
But it’s been weeks since Bruce returned. Weeks since Dick disappeared— to Blüdhaven, to New York. To wherever the fuck he decided to go. Not a single glance of him in Gotham. No text. No call.
Of course he’d been foolish to think things would go back to normal.
Because Tim wasn't Jason.
Wasn't the brother who Dick would go to lengths for. Wasn't the brother who Dick gave Robin to. Wasn't the brother who had died. Wasn't the brother Dick would turn a blind eye for, despite a ledger gushing red.
He was just Tim.
He was no one’s son. No one’s brother.
Just a boy who felt like he needed to prove something— not to Bruce, but to Dick.
A knock on his door broke him out of his thoughts. Tim sighed through his nose sharply, eyes flicking away from the photograph of him and Dick— taken during Dick’s Flying Grayson days. Hours before everything changed.
He got up and opened the door, mildly surprised to find Bruce standing on the other side of the door instead of Alfred. (Maybe— just maybe— he’d hoped it would be Dick.)
Bruce stood there, looking slightly awkward, with the way he kept shifting his weight from one foot to another.
Tim blinked. “Bruce?”
“Tim,” Bruce said, voice low and uncertain.
“Bruce,” Tim said flatly, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “Are you here to just say my name or did you need something?”
“I—” Bruce cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was wondering if you’ve seen Dick lately. He hasn't been answering my texts or calls.”
Tim tried not to let any emotions show on his face. But his jaw did clench, ever so slightly. “No. I haven't. You will probably have more luck with Jason or Damian.”
The only two people who Dick obviously only trusted now, even with all the shit they had done to him and to Tim.
If Bruce noticed the way he spat their names, he didn't show it. Didn't call it out. Instead, he only pressed his lips into thin lines.
“I haven't… seen any of them since I came back,” Bruce admitted sheepishly, sighing heavily. “Which is funny, considering Damian lives with us.”
Tim huffed out a humourless, bitter laugh, fingers drumming against his bicep. “Yeah. Real funny.”
Bruce sighed, raking a hand through his hair before dropping it to his sides. He looked like he was in pain. “Listen, Tim,” he started, glancing past him before his eyes shifted back to Tim’s. “I know Dick giving away the mantle to Damian hurt you.”
Tim just stared at him, not offering a response.
Because of course the most emotionally repressed person in the whole wide world noticed something was wrong. Real fucking funny.
Bruce took that silence as permission to continue.
“But I also know that losing Robin isn't the only thing hurting you. There’s more to it— something deeper, something I don’t know. And whatever it is, it’s eating you alive. I can see that much.”
Had he really been that obvious in his brooding?
Great. Just great. If even Bruce can tell something was wrong emotionally, then Tim was either slipping— or Bruce had been looking.
“Things happen, Bruce,” Tim said after a beat, voice clipped. “It’s been a rough year. Everyone changed. Relationships fell apart.”
Babs was busy.
Jason was still out there, killing people.
Cass was somewhere— somewhere that wasn't Gotham.
Steph was doing her own thing now.
Damian was… Damian.
And Dick didn't believe him.
Bruce frowned, clearly unconvinced. “You and Dick are close. You’re brothers. That kind of bond doesn't just fall apart. Not easily.”
“Were,” Tim corrected, eyes narrowing. “We were close. Not anymore, B. Like I said— lots of things changed while you were gone.”
Bruce sighed again, looking like he had aged fifty years older. His shoulders slumped slightly, and for a moment— just a moment— Tim could see how tired, how old Bruce was starting to look.
It was unnerving.
“I get that, son,” Bruce said quietly.
Tim nearly flinched at the word.
He wasn't Bruce’s son. That was Damian— that was Dick, and even Jason.
But not Tim.
He was just a placeholder.
Just someone keeping the seat warm before someone else claimed it. Before it got too cold.
A stand-in.
A replacement.
A nobody.
He might have a room and his things in the Manor, a suit to put on in the BatCave— but he didn't have a place in the family. Not really.
“I know things changed while I was gone,” Bruce continued on, gaze firm and steady, unaware of Tim’s self-doubts. “I missed… a lot. More than I realised. But I’m here now. And I’m trying. I just— I want my sons to get along again. Or at least talk to each other.”
Tim looked down, jaw tight. His nails dug into the crook of his arms where they were still crossed over his chest, holding himself together by a thread.
He didn't know what to feel.
Angry? Hurt?
Tired— definitely tired.
He wanted to yell. To demand where this version of Bruce— a father Tim needed the most— had been. To ask why Dick had turned his back on him, why nobody believed him, why the only thing keeping him going was spite and desperate hope that proving Bruce was alive would somehow officially earn his place in the family.
But he didn't say any of that.
Instead, Tim exhaled slowly before giving Bruce a single nod. “I’ll see to it.”
He knew that wasn't the answer Bruce was looking for, with the way his gaze lingered on Tim for a moment, like he wanted to say something more— do more— but he only gave a short nod in return.
Then, to Tim’s surprise, Bruce stepped forward, bringing him into a hug. It wasn't awkward— it wasn't exactly a Dick Grayson hug— but it was still… loving. Warm.
“Thank you, Tim. For everything,” Bruce whispered into his hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head before letting go. “Get some rest, son.”
Tim stood there, frozen for a beat too long.
He didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't know what to do with it.
He didn't know what it meant. To Bruce— to himself.
He doesn't want to hope— that he was part of something real. Something that wasn't just a role he was filling, a placeholder waiting to be replaced.
By the time Tim found it in himself to look up again, Bruce was already gone.
He stood there for a moment longer, the feeling of Bruce’s embrace still lingering on his skin. For the first time in years, he couldn't help but to think that maybe— just maybe— he had a place in the family.
A son.
Then, with a shaky breath, Tim closed the door with a soft click, and sat down hard on the edge of his bed, the weight of it all— months of pain, of being right and alone, of holding himself together with sheer stubborn will— finally crashing over him.
He buried his face in his hands and let himself cry.
It was quiet again.
Too quiet.
But the silence was familiar. Tim lived in silence for years— sometimes a comfort in his loneliest moments. But other times, it was just a cruel reminder of how alone he truly was.
He didn't know how long he’d cried for— an hour, probably. Longer.
All he knew was that his throat burned, his eyes stung, and the pressure in his chest stopped throbbing so violently. He didn't move from where he’d sunk to the floor— which he didn't realise he did until now— curled next to his bed, arm thrown over his face like it could protect him from the horrors of the world— from himself.
The knock on his window barely registered.
It came again. A soft tap tap against the glass.
He blinked blearily, arm falling from his eyes. Turned just enough to see the silhouette hovering just outside.
Kon.
Tim didn't think twice before dragging himself up despite his body aching. His fingers trembled as they unlocked the window, pushing it open.
Kon entered without a word.
One look from him— knowing, sharp, worried— and he was moving forward, wrapping his arms around Tim.
He didn't resist. Didn't push away. Didn't brush it off or pretend he was fine.
Kon didn't ask too. He didn't push. Didn't speak. Didn't say it’s okay or try to fix it. He just hugged Tim close to his chest— like he was something fragile, precious— as if he knew Tim needed it. Needed the comfort. Needed someone to hold him.
His arms around Tim were strong— grounding, familiar— and Tim let himself be held, his breath hitching at the contact. Barely a sound, but Kon heard it. Of course he did. He always did.
“I’m here,” Kon whispered against his forehead as he brushed Tim’s hair back, fingers gentle. “You don’t need to say anything.”
And Tim didn't.
He just clung to him.
Kon’s hoodie smelled like the rain and that stupid body wash he liked. He instinctively leaned in more, nuzzling Kon’s neck as his fingers tightened around the fabric, as if afraid that letting go might make Kon disappear.
“C’mon,” Kon murmured quietly, gently guiding them both to the bed. His hand never left Tim’s back, warm and steady, grounding him in ways only Kon could.
Tim didn't resist. He let himself be pulled down onto the bed, letting the blanket fall around them as Kon settled next to him, wrapping him up like a shield. Tim pressed in close, tucked under Kon’s chin, his breath shaky but evening out as Kon held him tighter.
They stayed like that in silence. No words were needed.
Kon’s fingers drifted slowly through Tim’s hair, massaging a scalp in careful circles, the action soothing and gentle. His other arm rested around his waist, firm and assuring.
Tim let out a slow breath, listening to Kon’s steady heartbeat beneath him— keeping him anchored, keeping him from spiraling.
“He hugged me earlier,” Tim murmured against Kon’s collarbone, voice barely above a whisper. But he knew Kon was listening— heard him. “He thanked me. Called me his son.”
Kon hummed softly, his fingers never stopping their gentle motions through Tim’s hair. “That’s because you are,” he said quietly, without hesitation. “You always have been.”
“Didn't feel like it,” Tim muttered, the words barely audible. “Dick’s brother? Maybe. Bruce’s son? That’s not me. I’m just someone who popped up into his life to make sure Batman stays in check.”
“But he adopted you,” Kon reminded gently, his hand tilting Tim’s chin just enough for them to meet each other’s gaze. “You’re his son— as much as Dick is. As much as Damian is. As much as Jason is.”
Tim stayed quiet for a moment, eyes looking away from Kon.
“I miss Dick,” he admitted quietly, as if speaking out loud would summon the man— the brother— he used to know.
He'd been missing Dick ever since their fallout. Even though they'd passed each other in costume a few times, it had never been enough.
That had just been Batman and Red Robin.
Not Dick Grayson and Tim Drake.
Kon’s gaze softened. “I know,” he said softly, thumb brushing along his lips. “Have you tried talking to him?”
Tim let out a humourless huff. “What would I even say to him? ‘Hey, remember the time we talked without arguing? When you took the only thing that grounded me? Good times, huh?’” He shook his head, sighing. “He hasn't been seen lately. No calls or texts from him either since Bruce’s return.”
Kon’s brows furrowed in concern. “Bruce returned three weeks ago,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Dick’s been off-grid ever since?”
Tim nodded, the motion small and tired. “I figured he was giving Bruce space. Or maybe me. Maybe both.” His voice grew quieter. “He does that sometimes— vanishing when it gets too much.”
Kon’s hand slid from Tim’s chin to cradle the back of his neck. “But you know where to find him, don’t you?”
Tim hesitated.
“I have a few guesses,” he admitted finally, voice rough. “His apartment in Blüd. Old safehouses. Places we used to crash at.” A beat. “Jason probably knows. Or at least suspects.”
Kon’s fingers played with the hair at the nape of Tim’s neck, light and absent, but still grounding. His hair had gotten longer lately, Tim realised. “Then ask.”
Tim snorted, eyes falling shut. “Yeah, let me ask the estranged brother who tried to kill me multiple times because it's a good idea.”
“Would you rather ask the shortstack who will maim you on sight instead?” Kon grinned, not unkindly. “Because those two are your only option here, babe.”
Tim groaned softly but didn't argue. Because it was true.
He sighed, burying his face into the crook of Kon’s neck, breathing in his scent. “I’ll ask Jason if I ever catch him on patrol.”
Kon only hummed, wrapping his arms around Tim, holding him close as he pressed a kiss to his forehead.
Tim let himself be loved.
The air stank of gunpowder and blood.
It always does in Crime Alley.
Red Robin landed silently on the rafters, catching a glance of the unmistakable flash of red in the warehouse. He was covered in blood— definitely not his— but there was a knife sticking out of his bicep as he loomed over a terrified man, surrounded by dead bodies.
A gruesome, ugly scene.
It doesn't surprise Tim.
Not really.
Jason’s always been one for theatrical brutality— if the incident at Titans Tower and severed heads in a duffle bag were anything to go by.
He didn't say anything. Didn't announce his presence. Just watched as Red Hood beat the shit out of the man, mercy be damned.
Tim knew that Jason knew he was there. He was simply showing off.
At last, for what seemed like hours, Tim watched as Red Hood rose up to his height, casually plucking the knife out and rolled his shoulders before unlatching his helmet, fishing out his pack of cigarettes and lighter.
“What do you want, Robin?” Jason spat as he lit up a stick without turning to Tim. A slow smirk forming on his face. “Oh wait— you're not Robin anymore, aren't you?”
Tim didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he dropped soundlessly from the rafters, boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. His cape stirred slightly behind him, settling as he straightened.
“I’m not here for a fight,” he said calmly, gaze flicking over to the bloody scene, grimacing internally. Batman’s not gonna be happy. “I just want to talk.”
Jason didn't look at him, not directly. Just exhaled smoke and snorted, tilted his head lazily. “Since when are we on talking terms?”
“We’re not,” Tim said steadily, eyes sharp beneath his mask. “I just want to know where Dick is.”
Jason barked out a laugh, smoke curling lazy from the corner of his lips. “Aww, the little bird misses his big brother and comes flying to the big, bad Red Hood for answers.”
Tim didn't respond. Just stood there, impassive.
Jason took a long drag of his cigarette, letting the silence stretch between them. “How does it feel, Timmy? Losing the only brother who ever gave a shit about you… to someone who replaced you? Hurts, huh?”
Tim’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. And Jason, of course, noticed it. He always did.
Jason smirked, sharp and cruel. “Yeah. Figured that’d sting.”
“I just want to know if you’ve seen him,” Tim said slowly, like he was talking to a cornered animal, eyes narrowing. “I need to talk to him.”
Jason sneered, stepping over one of the bodies with careless ease, flicking ashes off his cigarette. “What makes you think I know where Goldie is? I’m not his brother, remember?”
“But you always seem to know where everyone is anyway,” Tim said, voice flat.
Jason chuckled. “Well,” he drawled, gesturing to Tim with his cigarette between his fingers. “When your hobbies include murder and mayhem, you tend to keep tabs on the people who might try to stop you. Or get in the way. Or beg for the golden boy's location because he can’t manage it on his own.”
He took another drag. “But hey,” he added with mock innocence, smoke curling around him. “I guess all those detective and stalking skills don’t mean much when you’re spiraling, huh?”
Tim’s fingers twitched by his side, voice quiet and raw. “Please, Jason. Just tell me where he is.”
Jason blinked at that— at the desperation in his voice— then tilted his head slowly. Something unreadable flickered in his expression.
A beat passed.
Then, casually, “He’s in Blüdhaven.”
Tim blinked in surprise at the sudden change of attitude. But he doesn't question it. Not when Jason was willing to give away Dick’s location despite his taunts earlier.
“Where exactly?”
Jason shrugged, flicking the cigarette butt to the floor, crushing it with his boot. “His apartment, maybe. Or a safehouse. He switches sometimes— hard to keep up.”
Tim nodded once, breathing out a small, “Thank you. I owe you one, Jason.”
Jason scoffed, waving him off dismissively. “Don’t thank me. I’m not doing this for you,” he grunted, pulling his helmet over his head. “Fuck off before I start shootin’. And I better not see you lingering in my territory again, fucker.”
Tim watched as Jason melted into the shadows like a ghost, leaving behind the blood and corpses with Tim. He lingered for a moment before going off his own way.
Time to find Dick.
His first instinct was to check Dick’s apartment— and he was glad he did.
The apartment was dark, except for the flickering light from the TV.
Tim landed softly on the fire escape, peering through the window. Someone was lying on the couch— Dick, probably— so he knocked gently on the glass.
But instead of coming face to face with Dick, it was Wally who sat up from the couch, rubbing his face tiredly like he hadn't been resting well lately.
Tim watched as Wally turned toward the window, brows lifting in surprise at the sight of him. The redhead didn't hesitate— he was on his feet in a second, unlocking the latch and pushing the window open to let Tim inside.
“Tim,” Wally said in greeting, stepping back to give him space to enter and flipping on the lights, which made Tim squint against the sudden brightness. “Didn't know you were stopping by.”
“Yeah,” Tim breathed out, voice low as he climbed in. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes sweeping over the apartment before his gaze settled back on Wally. “Sorry for dropping in unannounced. I just… is Dick around?”
Wally’s expression shifted, softening into something like concern. “He’s here,” he confirmed gently. “In the bedroom, resting.”
There was a brief pause.
“But he’s… not really himself.”
Tim’s brows furrowed in worry as he glanced at the closed door of Dick’s bedroom. “Is he drugged? Drunk? Dosed with gas?”
“No— he’s…” Wally hesitated, running his fingers through his hair with a sigh. “I think everything he went through as Batman is finally catching up to him. Being someone he never wanted to be was killing him.”
Tim’s stomach twisted. He glanced at the door again, suddenly unsure if he was ready to see what Wally meant by that.
“I’m worried for him,” Wally continued on, following his gaze. “He does this— sure, but it never got this bad, y’know? He barely eats, barely sleeps. And when he’s out on patrol, he doesn't even try to dodge punches. He just… takes it. Hurts himself on purpose.”
Tim’s breath hitched, turning to Wally. “You’re serious?”
When he came here, when he promised Kon that he’d find Dick— he expected himself to get angry at Dick, to demand answers, reasons why he disappeared, why he stopped answering calls, why he didn't believe. Tim had come ready for a confrontation. Ready to fight if he had to.
But not this.
Not Wally standing in front of him, looking more exhausted than Tim had ever seen him, admitting that Dick was breaking. That the version of his brother Tim remembered— confident, lighthearted, untouchable— was barely holding on.
Wally nodded grimly. “I’ve tried talking to him. But he would brush it off every time I tried to bring it up. Says he’s fine. Says he needs time. But it’s been weeks, Tim.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “I don't know how to help him— he won’t let me. And I’m scared that one day, he’s going to fall and won’t catch himself.”
Tim swallowed hard, the words sitting heavily in his chest.
Dick not catching himself—
The idea felt wrong. Impossible. Like watching the sun flicker out.
Because Dick was always the one who did catch himself. Who caught them when they fell. Who smiled through blood, bruises, grief and said, “We’ve got this.”
And now?
Now he was falling, and no one knew how to catch him.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Tim asked quietly.
Wally’s lips thinned, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, gently, “Would you have come if I had?”
Tim flinched. Just barely— but Wally seemed to notice it.
Because the truth was— he wasn't sure. If it weren't for Bruce or Kon, Tim wouldn't be here.
Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything neither of them knew how to fix.
Then Wally sighed, glancing toward the door again. “You can try to talk to him, if you want. Just… be gentle. He might listen to you.”
Tim wasn't sure about that. He wasn't sure Dick even saw him the same way anymore.
But he nodded anyway.
He tugged his mask off and unclasped his utility belt, pulling off his cape. He set his stuff onto the couch and moved to knock.
“Dick?” Tim called out softly, throwing a glance over his shoulder. Wally just gave him a quiet, encouraging nod.
Hesitating slightly, Tim took a deep breath before turning the knob and pushing open the door as gently as he could to not startle Dick. It felt like approaching a terrified animal— slow, careful, afraid of doing more harm.
The room was dark, not even a single light filtering through the curtains. The only illumination came from the faint glow of the hallway behind Tim, casting a soft silver of light across the bedroom floor.
He stepped in slowly, the floorboards creaking faintly under his boots. His eyes adjusted to the dimness just enough to make out the figure curled up on the bed— blankets half-kicked off, hair a dark mess against the pillow.
It was Dick. Or at least, the shape of him.
But something about the sight made Tim pause.
Because this wasn't the man he knew. Not the Nightwing who showed off flips and cartwheels on rooftops. Not the Dick who made him pancakes every morning when he's in town, making him laugh with his jokes. This Dick looked… smaller. Still. Hollowed out.
He was facing the wall, one hand curled beneath the pillow, the other limp and bandaged, resting on top of the sheets. Even with minimal lighting, the bruises along his shoulders were impossible to miss. A bottle of water sat untouched on the nightstand beside unopened painkillers.
Wally hadn't been lying— this was probably the worst Tim had ever seen him.
He swallowed hard.
He wasn't sure if Dick was asleep or just pretending to be.
Tim hovered in the doorway, hesitant. The air felt fragile— like one wrong word might make the room collapse.
Still, he whispered, “Dick…?”
No answer.
“Hey,” he tried again, a little louder, shifting closer to the bed. “It’s me. Tim.”
The brother you seem to forget, he doesn't say.
There was a pause. Long enough for Tim to think that Dick was truly sleeping.
But then, there was movement on the bed— slowly, like it physically hurt— Dick stirred. He shifted onto his back, eyes fluttering open and blinking blearily up at Tim, disoriented, the edges of a frown tugging at his face like it was too much effort to fully form it.
“Tim…?” Dick rasped. His voice sounded wrecked, like it hadn't been used in days. “What are… what are you doing here…?”
Tim licked his lips and shrugged, swallowing around a lump in his throat. “...Thought I’d check in,” he said softly, trying to keep his tone light and casual. “Haven't seen you in a while. Even Jason was getting worried.”
Dick blinked slowly before struggling to sit up, only for him to give up halfway, sinking back into the pillow with a grimace. The movement caused his blanket to slip, revealing even more bruises and bandages wrapped around him like a mummy.
“I’m sorry,” Dick croaked out, dragging a hand down his face.
Tim’s brows pinched. That wasn't what he was expecting.
“...For what?” he asked carefully, making sure to keep his voice steady.
There was silence.
For a second, Tim thought that maybe he’d fallen asleep.
Then, Dick spoke— so quietly that Tim almost missed it.
“For not believing you,” he said, his head tilting just enough to meet Tim’s gaze. “For giving Robin away to Damian. For not being the brother you needed. For… all of it.”
Tim’s throat tightened.
He didn't say a thing— he didn't know what to say.
He hadn't expected this at all.
But Dick continued on, his eyes avoiding Tim’s. “I was scared,” he admitted, voice barely a whisper. “I was scared that if I hoped— if I believed— I would lose you too.”
“But you didn't,” Tim said before he could stop himself, the words leaving his mouth sharper than intended.
“I didn't,” Dick echoed, barely audible. His eyes fluttered shut, hands clutching the sheets. “And I lost you anyway. Because I didn't believe you.”
Tim swallowed hard. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, hands clenching by his sides. Then, softly, he said, “I’m sorry too.”
Dick’s eyes met his again, a frown appearing on his face. “What for? You didn't do anything—”
“For lashing out on you when you just wanted to help,” Tim cut in, his voice low and strained. “I should've been there to help you with Damian, with Batman— but I left instead.”
“But you leaving brought Bruce back,” Dick protested, his voice hoarse but firm. “If you didn't— if you stayed— Bruce wouldn't have returned.”
“But you needed me too,” Tim murmured, voice barely a whisper.
Tim watched as Dick’s gaze softened with something like guilt.
“I did,” Dick whispered, voice cracking just a little. “I needed you more than I ever did. But Bruce needed you more— so I didn't ask you to stay.”
Tim chewed on his bottom lip. “Even when you didn't believe that Bruce was alive?”
Dick’s expression crumpled at that— just slightly, enough for Tim to catch it.
“I think some part of me did,” he admitted, voice quiet. “Some stupid, desperate part that wanted to believe you. But the rest of me… I was tired, Tim. I was juggling between taking care of a murderous ten year old, protecting the city in a mantle I didn't want, while fighting off an estranged, angry brother—”
He laughed once, dry and hollow.
“It was all too much. I couldn't afford to hope. Not after everything we’ve lost.”
Tim was quiet for a long moment.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, listening to Dick and looking at him with understanding.
“I get it,” Tim said eventually, his voice small but steady. “I do. I didn’t back then— I was too angry, too hurt. But now…”
He exhaled slowly, fingers twitching by his sides like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know how. He never did, not really.
And that was the problem.
“I can see that you were hurt too. Because you were carrying everything. Alone.”
Dick looked away, chewing on his bottom lip.
“Someone had to. No one else would,” he said. “And you were gone.”
“I didn't want to be,” Tim said, stepping forward before he could blink. “I thought you didn't trust me. I thought that you chose Damian over me.”
“I didn’t.” Dick’s gaze snapped back to his, suddenly fierce despite the tears gathering in his eyes. “Tim, I never chose him over you. He needed someone to help him. To show him a way that didn't involve homicide.”
“Yeah, I know,” Tim chuckled, settling himself at the edge of Dick’s bed. “He really has homicidal tendencies, huh?”
Dick huffed out a soft laugh, shifting slightly and patting the empty space beside him. “He really does. I mean, Talia is his mother. He takes after her.”
Tim took the invitation, settling beside his brother.
Dick didn't look at him right away, but the tension in his shoulders had eased— just a little. Enough that Tim could breathe easier.
It’ll get better, eventually.