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Tim Drake was going to die.
It was a fact, undeniable, so true and inevitable it hurt.
He felt that truth in the wind whipping through his cape, brushing like a lover over the half-torn off left side of his cowl. He felt it in the tears gathering and trailing upwards, in the deep cuts and bruises that felt stuck full of needles with the chilly, polluted air. He felt that truth as glass trailed after him from the penthouse window of Wayne Enterprises, the quickly fading silhouette of Ra’s al Ghul staring down at him. He felt it as the blaring horns of late-night traffic grew louder, in the way he looked down and saw ant-like figures growing steadily larger. He felt it in the hastily stitched surgical scar on his side, burning with exertion and the all-encompassing knowledge that death was near, trailing its icy fingers over his spine, up his neck, and down his throat.
But even as he felt, knew, and saw the truth before his own eyes, one covered by a white lens, the other black, bruised, and almost shut— Tim Drake couldn’t bring himself to care.
He remembered, instead.
He saw Drake Manor, the mausoleum of gothic artifacts, sleek lines, and distant but their parents who had neglected him.
He remembered the cramped, stale air of the two hour commercial bus ride to Bludhaven, wheels groaning under him, blue seats cracking and lumpy, the windows fogged with time.
He remembered the trek from the meager station to downtown, the six flights of stairs to Dick Grayson’s apartment.
He remembered the stunned face of his childhood hero as Tim had rung the doorbell.
He remembered the almost hysterical laugh that had rattled Dick’s chest when Tim had asked for him to return as Robin, even the callous evidence of Batman’s brutality and the near-death of a purse-snatcher not persuading him.
He remembered the doorbell of Wayne Manor pushing inwards against his pointer finger, the door dutifully swinging open after mere moments of waiting, Alfred Pennyworth greeting him with professional warmth.
He remembered Bruce’s study, the teapot on the desk cold to the touch, one cup half-filled, strewn paperwork and manilla folders, two picture frames turned away from the door, rows of books, a comfortable chair across from the man.
He remembered the petrifying anger that Bruce had offered when Tim had first presented the fact that Batman needed a Robin.
He remembered flying across Gotham’s skyline, the pipes under his feet thrumming with energy and appreciation for her shadowed protectors.
He remembered Jason’s return, the blood that had spilled on the Titan’s Tower flooring, the agony coursing through his wrist, leg, and ribs, node broken, lip split, staff by his side, twisted oddly, head lolled to one side, the words JASON TODD WAS HERE circling his broken form.
He remembered the guttural screams Bart and Cassie had released unwillingly when they returned to the Tower what felt like hours after Hood — Jason — had left.
He remembered the pain of chest compressions, setting his nose and other broken bones, prodding to find bruises or breaks along his ribs, and the choked sob Dick had offered when he burst into the Cave, spotting Tim and learning what had happened.
He remembered the gut-wrenching fear when Jason returned almost full-time to the Manor, the knives he constantly kept, the armor he subtly thickened, and the way he leered at Tim with painful nicknames and berating of his skill.
He remembered Damian’s arrival especially vividly; the brat had instantly tried to size him up, murder attempts going unacknowledged following consistently, the closest call being the snapped grapple, his near neck-breaking fall finally prompting a lecture to Damian.
He remembered walking into the Cave, hearing Bruce was dead, crumbling to the floor with sobs, nobody consoling him as his chest heaved so hard he’d run to throw up all his meals on the last day.
He remembered seeing that painting and knowing with certainty that Bruce — his dad — was alive.
He remembered being called crazy, worthy of an Arkham cell, hysterical with grief, and the most cutting, hearing Dick admit to Alfred that Tim could never be his Robin.
He remembered arriving into the Cave with sleep ringing in his bones after days awake, tremors in his hands, laying his eyes upon Dick in the cowl, and hearing Damian’s haughty voice announcing that Tim’s job was done, that he was Robin now.
He remembered seeing a brand new Robin design on the assassin prince’s body, fist swinging before he knew what was happening, the twelve year old going sprawling, more than deserved but guilty still clawing at Tim.
He remembered packing a bag, leaving a note, disabling trackers, ditching phones and comms, opting for burners and radios only.
He remembered loneliness, Paris, shitty hotels, and the birth of Red Robin.
He remembered Pru, Ownes, and Z attempting to kill him on a rooftop before siding with him in his quest.
He remembered nights around a dwindling campfire with cheap beer in hand, food long finished, laughter filling the air.
He remembered the miserable desert, heat beating down on Tim's pasty skin.
He remembered the Widower, thanking Tim for playing the game.
He remembered the feel of Pru’s blood on his hands, the sight of Owens and Z, dead on the sand, and the agony shooting from his abdomen as he crawled across the dunes with Pru in his back.
He remembered losing consciousness with a League assassin looming over him.
He remembered waking up in the middle of surgery, his spleen gone and Lazarus water filling lungs to speedrun recovery.
He remembered being touched, trained, and claimed by Ra’s, skin crawling with every caress and piece of finery.
He remembered crushing the Council of Spiders in his fist, unyielding and ruthless.
He remembered his game finally coming to an end as he acquired the League’s assets, detonator and countdown running, the heat of explosions swallowing his skin, Pru by his side smiling wickedly as the Cradle crumbled.
He remembered arriving back in Gotham, hastily demanding Lucius transfer everything to do with W.E. to Tim immediately.
He remembered Ra’s arriving in the top-floor office, floor to ceiling windows panning over Gotham’s night sky, her heart thrumming through Tim, grateful for his return.
He remembered the rush of heady victory, even as strike after strike landed on him, Tim holding his own, yet not winning.
He remembered the sound of shattering glass, a murmured “Well played, my dear Detective," before he fell.
His heart lay cold and crusted over with despair between his rib cage, and Tim couldn’t help but think that rib cage was disturbingly accurate to the way Tim’s heart thrummed like it wished to be free from its place in his body. Gotham at night had always been a wonder to Tim, the smog parting for a toxic, glowing yellow moon, the current crescent so slim it seemed to disappear in the lighting of billboards and flashing OPEN signs in restaurant windows far, yet approaching, below him.
Tim closed his eyes shut, arms fanning out, spread eagle, preparing to meet his end, simply enjoying the wind in his half-exposed hair. The fingers he splayed wide clenched on frigid air, not felt beneath the gloves but caressing his lips like a lover, poison drawing Tim to his death.
Gotham herself breathed, the traffic below screeching in warning, billboards flickering rapidly, like the very pulse of the city demanded his survival. Rain poured suddenly from sullen skies, mixing with the saltine of Tim’s tears, the sorrow of his home dragging him down, down, down toward demise.
He turned his face again, the streets trembling with worry of one of its protectors, his eyes closing in morbid acceptance. The veins of the city pulsed in the telephone lines, the metal structures channeling the palpable cries of the city Tim had spent his life protecting, caring for, and now dying for.
He didn’t regret a thing.
Bruce would be proud, he’d done it. He’d gotten the proof, he’d demolished Ra's life's work, he’d destroyed bases, and he’d placed Wayne Enterprises from the immortal assassin’s grasp.
Not a bad day.
Tim heard a cry, guttural, primal, too loud and cracked to be human. His eyes shot open, neck cracking painfully to the sound, freezing the position in place he watched Dick, in full Batman gear hurtle towards him, though his mind slowed like a fly in amber, his oldest brother seeming to move in slow motion.
The ground was too near, the OPEN signs flickering far too close, a thunderclap of Gotham’s fury shattering his view of Dick.
Tim’s neck cracked against the pavement.
His blood splattered.
Dick cried in pure agony, so close yet too far.