Chapter Text
disconsolate
without consolation or comfort; unhappy.
Christmas time was for family. Tim Drake-Wayne wasn't part of the family whose windows were glowing with red and green lights a mile down the road from Drake Manor.
He was just Tim Drake, now. CEO, the youngest in Gotham history, under the guise of childcare he’d forged after emancipating himself. Fake Uncle John was living with him in the vacated master bedroom of Drake Manor where Tim curled up in dusty sheets when memories weren't enough.
The halls of the evacuated palace of artifacts that had surrounded Tim since he was a child glowed with their own light. The gray kind, the softened fluorescents burning his corneas through blue-light glasses. It was a painful sort of light– that tunneled the sleek, modernized hallways, seemingly endless the longer you stared.
Unease was like a viper coiled in Tim’s stomach, venom seeping into his veins as his laptop rested between his criss-cross applesauced legs, gaze distant over the dimming casework. No, his icy eyes were focused on the shimmer of Gotham snow and Wayne Manor splendor. Splendor he’d stopped enjoying when Jason integrated back into the family, when he’d rescued Brice from the time stream, and when Damian had become Robin like Tim never existed, Like Tim had never cried, bled, and lost himself and everything he knew and loved for the position.
He’d had to spend days awake in front of the Batcomputer, energy drinks littered by his feet and hands, not a soul sent to check on him as they grieved and called Tim mad for his belief. Even Alfred, the caring butler and grandfather in everything but name hadn’t noticed Tim’s absence in the upstairs of Wayne Manor. His lack of meals or proper hydration. He was grieving Brue, who’d practically become his son over the years. Red Robin– the persona Tim had never wanted took shape in that silence, in the beeping of buttons, and the near constant migraine of the bright screen. The suit he never thought he’d have to design staring in HD back at him, burning his eyes as Tim refused to blink, the design long sent to Lucius, no doubt producing it as he’d stared.
And now it was Christmas, and it had been two years since his epic round-the-world quest. Since he’d lost an organ and bled out in the desert sands, holding the body of his closest friend in his arms as she bled her life out over his new identity. Since he’d blown thousands of assassins to hell and ascended to leadership, resources he hadn’t even known at his calloused fingertips for months as he operated around the globe, millions of highly skilled warriors at his disposal. And yet he’d stuck to his closest friend– only friend, Pru. She’d been with him from start to end, Tam Fox joining them along the way, bleeding together, fighting side-by-side, and crying under the stars when the adrenaline finally trickled away.
And they still were at his side, even now, Pru away and in his status as Head of the League, and Tam watching his back at Wayne Enterprises as the youngest CEO in company history. Because even though Tim didn’t realize it, he was only seventeen. Emancipated, yes. Alone, yes. But still a child. And he didn’t think about that because if he did the anger would be back– the aching sadness.
Bruce, for all his strength, for all he’d done, hadn’t even known what Tim had done to bring him back, the threats he had faced from Dick, from Jason, and the attempts on his life from Damian. That, in his supposed death, could be forgiven, could be ignored.
But Bruce didn’t even care enough to know that Tim didn’t live at Wayne Manor anymore. That his room had long been cleaned out, only a comforter and a single photo of him on his first patrol as Robin, bo-staff clutched in one hand, Batman’s cape in the other, hanging over the bedframe. That he only showed for patrol. That Tim didn’t carry his emergency beacon because no one had answered it for nearly a year.
That he wasn’t even Bruce’s adopted son anymore.
Because maybe Tim, for all his genius, refused and deluded himself into believing that he was more than a soldier and a necessity to keep Batman from going mad.
Tim never had Bruce, a loving father with adoption papers to boot.
He’d had Batman, with strict training and barren interactions followed with reprimands.
And Tim had known his place– until that fateful day at Titan’s Tower. When Jason had appeared, his red helmet gleamed in the light of the backup generator. That was the day when Bruce had shown he’d cared. He rushed in, sliding on his knees to Tim’s side, his broken bones protruding sickeningly, his throat gushing blood and pooling to match the accents of his Robin suit. That was the day when the adoption papers Tim never thought he’d receive were signed, his position as ward replaced by the title of ‘son’. More than a mere replacement, as Jason had so charmingly taken to calling him.
But now he was reduced yet again, to the simple, thin man running his fathers— no Bruce Wayne’s company and staring pitifully at the Christmas joy tangibly exuding from what he’d once considered as home.
He could imagine it. The massive Christmas tree, reaching ten feet to the ceiling of the Manor’s living room, twinkling yellow-white lights twinkling sporadically wrapped and twined with tinsel across the artificial green pines. The ornaments he’d never known the origin of hanging precariously along each metal branch spinning with a slight draft coming naturally with the expansive halls. The bright, glinting star sitting proudly atop the top of the impressive, signature decoration, the angel maybe, that he’d seen once in his years at the sprawling Manor.
He could picture Alfred’s proud smile as he gazed upon the garlands draped around staircases, across balconies, and the timed Christmas lights put up around the gates and braided between false pines. Alfred’s dark eyes twinkled as he looked upon the feast that came with every holiday, roasted vegetables and ham adorning Wayne family’s fine China, the steam rising from the fresh meal as the family gathered in the gilded chairs, ready to eat.
Tim could’ve drawn the gleeful smile adorning Dick’s face as he piled his plate with the feast. The small lilt of Bruce’s usually thinned lips as he looked upon all three of his sons, together again. Even Alfred sitting beside the four men, his plate modestly full with his excellent cuisine.
It was perfect.
And Tim would never see or experience it anywhere but his mind.
His laptop had long gone dark, the clean screen black with forgotten motivation, the keys dulled with time and hundreds of cases accompanied with furious typing. Tim used to sit at the table in the Batcave as Bruce relayed his work. Now he received emails with simple PDFs attached with no pleasantries. Tim knew they were automated, the e-signature blared in bold black scribbles. Tim returned each solved file with an equally void forwarded Google Doc, his own signature hastily pasted to the bottom of the response. The ache in Tim’s chest when he did so was irrational; it was weak, and Tim knew it shouldn’t happen, not after all that happened, yet it did. The pitfalls of being human, he supposed.
There was nothing Tim hated more than a burn in his eyes and a sting in his sinuses. It meant that he’d cry, and Tim Drake wasn’t allowed to cry. The principle was drilled into his skull from infantry. A Drake doesn’t cry; a Drake doesn’t complain; and a Drake does not show weakness. And emotion was a weakness, especially in Gotham. And certainly as a CEO.
Tim knew, statistically, there was nothing weak about him, given history and present occurrences. But he still knew in his heart that he was feeble, nothing but a leaf in a hurricane. Tim also knew that these things were somewhat irrational, just as all beliefs he has surrounding family and caped business– but feelings were fickle things. You couldn’t stop them if you wanted to, and Tim couldn’t find it in himself to even pretend to give a damn.
Tim stared at the screen of his MacBook, the black reflecting his face, cheeks more gaunt and sculpted than he remembered, his jaw sharper than when he’d last looked in the mirror, and his lips thinner with irritation. But his eyes, once the color of glaciers hollow and almost white in their reflection, endless turmoil both clear as day and blacker than a Gotham night.
Tim scoffed and shook his hair, much too long to be professional but sentimental in the way he couldn’t bear to cut it. His hair was the last remnant of that trip around the world, hanging around his ears, last cut by Pru and Tam six months ago in his office at W.E. Styling it wasn’t much use but he did it anyway, the three piece suits making his shaggy layers less street-kid and more rugged-professional.
A soft smile graced Tim’s face, lips softening with the expression as his screen lit with a message. It was Pru, even in Nanda Parbat, remembering Tim, the simple ‘Merry Christmas’ making his whole day in one ‘ding’. His message back was equally short but no less fond, memories of his right-hand’s chocolate skin, buzzed, tattooed scalp, and rare glowing smile making his chest tighten all over again. God, he missed her, enough to board a one-way plane and not come back. Hell, he’d even bring Tam, business trips weren’t even unusual.
Case work filled his screen once against as he minimized his messages, the gruesome scene twisting his stomach, even after years of seasoned vigilante work. The multiple stab wounds oozed rust-colored blood, brain matter leaking onto cigarette littered pavement, a clear bullet would through the left side of the man’s forehead. A painful death, Tim was sure, especially considering how sporadic and drawn out the times of the man’s injuries were. Tim was slowly losing focus on the task as he shifted under silk sheets, his fuzzy Santa pajamas comfortable and lulling him into comfort only felt after eight-two hours awake. So not healthy, he knew, but when your boss was Batman it was best to be better than punctual with your assignments.
Unless you were his son, of course. Only then did you get respite, Tim would even go so far as to call it leniency. But that was irrelevant and Tim was more focused on justice, his hands quivering from caffeine as a long forgotten Monster – strawberry dreams, of course – was blindly grabbed from his nightstand, now room-temperature, but equally as good. The artificial flavor blossomed on his muted senses, long-awaited energy coursing through Tim’s veins, eyes focusing the longer he tipped the drink into his mouth.
The gore clicked into place on Tim’s screen, the brightness at its dimmest yet still enough glow to force a headache at Tim’s temples. Migraines were no stranger to Tim, his hours upon hours on phones, laptops, and wrist gauntlets making the blue tinge of technology more natural than sunlight. Timheld back a grimace as his focus shifted back to the case, still unsolved despite his usually stellar rate.
Maybe he needed a break.
But the only people who cared enough to enforce one were either halfway across the world or with their own family.
Tim Drake closed his eyes and gave himself the liberty of imagination.