Chapter Text
When Tim finally cracks his eyes open, he isn’t really expecting Damian to still be there. Sure, he had heard his younger brother murmuring to him, his quiet words not quite revealing his actual thoughts though certainly hinting towards them, but he would have thought he’d leave soon afterwards.
Apparently not.
There’s a moment of silence between the two of them, neither moving as they examine the other. And then the heart monitor attached to his chest begins to blare, setting off a chain reaction of alarms ringing loudly. Tim shuts his eyes again, sighing softly.
Damian immediately flicks his face, scowling down at him when he reopens his eyes.
“Keep your eyes open, Timothy,” he hisses out. “You’ve been lazing around for a week already.”
Tim hums. A week is longer than expected, given that the last time he was killed in such a manner that his organs had to be regrown, it took only a couple of days for him to come back. He very pointedly decides not to say anything about that to Damian, however. The boy is looking at him as though he’ll disappear if he blinks, fists gripping his sheets so tightly that his knuckles will undoubtedly ache the moment he releases them. They stay clenched even as he hops off the bed to switch off the alarms.
“You will answer father’s questions,” he demands, and Tim tries not to grimace. He should have just called Pru instead; sure, she would have complained about having to break into a morgue to steal his body, but he’d prefer that than having to... explain everything.
“I don’t suppose I could... not?” he tentatively offers, and Damian’s glare suggests he’d very much like to test Tim’s immortality again.
“If you even think about-,” he starts to threaten, but is thankfully interrupted by the pounding of heavy footsteps against the floor of the Batcave.
Tim sucks in a preparatory breath and looks up, just as the door slams open. And Bruce bowls into the room, chest heaving, face pale and eyes bright with a cocktail of emotions.
He looks just like he did when Jason had died. For a moment, Tim can smell whiskey instead of antiseptic, but he chases the memory away. There are dark bruises under Bruce’s eyes, his visibly greasy hair sporting new strands of grey. He’s wearing old tattered sweatpants and a faded shirt for some college band he’s never listened to. He looks ragged and worn down.
And yet, he stares at Tim like he’s some sort of miracle.
“Tim,” he breathes out, “Tim.”
He takes a stumbling step forward, arm outstretched. Damian slips out without a word, shooting Tim one last heavy glance.
“Hey B,” tumbles out of Tim’s mouth, and Bruce- Bruce rears back like Tim has just shot him with Alfred’s double-barrel shotgun, face paling even further. And then he’s there, heavy hands on his shoulders as he tugs him close and shakes.
“Don’t,” he rasps out, “don’t say that. Don’t- you died, Tim. You died, don’t-,” he swallows down the rest of whatever he was going to say, breath hitching as his fingers dig into his skin.
Tim flounders.
He’s seen Bruce cry before. Of course he has, he was there in the aftermath of Jason’s death, helping Alfred pick up empty bottles while Bruce sobbed in his office. It’s different though, this time. Because Bruce suspiciously sounds like he’s about to cry over Tim.
Tim isn’t really sure if anyone has ever... cried over him.
Before he can think on that any further, he’s being crushed into a broad chest, a large hand reaching up to cup the back of his head and cradle it like he’s the most precious thing in the world. Like he can protect Tim from everything and everyone just by holding him close, by refusing to let go.
Something in Tim’s chest spasms and he automatically clings back, fingers gripping warm fabric as he breathes in the scent of home.
“Bruce,” he says, voice muffled by his shirt, and he’s horrified to find tears welling up in his eyes.
Why is he crying? Why is Bruce crying? Everything is alright, after all. Tim is alive, despite what happened, and once he explains it to Bruce, then he’ll realise that there’s nothing wrong too, that this is normal and it’s okay, and that he shouldn’t be grieving for someone like Tim, not when death doesn’t affect him long enough for it to matter.
“It’s okay, Bruce,” he mumbles, “it’s alright.”
The older man flinches again at his words and pulls back, hand slipping from his head to cup his cheek. Tim startles at the way he looks at him with something soft and wounded in his eyes. He’s never seen it directed at him before. Jason, yes, Dick, sometimes, Cass, when she can’t talk and ducks into his bed, even Damian whenever he says something particularly depressing about his life in the League.
But not Tim. Never Tim.
“How can you say that?” Bruce asks, voice hoarse. “I watched you die, Tim, held you as you bled out, only to learn that this- this is normal for you? That you’ve probably died under my watch without me ever knowing? How can you believe that that’s okay?”
Because I’ve been doing it since I was five, he doesn’t say.
Because it’s my normal and I don’t understand why you’re so upset.
“Because I’m alive, and that’s all that matters?” he says instead, purposefully flippant. Bruce’s eyes narrow and he lets his hands drop, lips slowly thinning.
“You purposefully withheld vital information from me, information that could have- Tim, did you even think about the effects this would have on us?”
The genuine grief in his words, a harsh, guttural sound lingering deep in Bruce’s chest, makes Tim shuffle uncomfortably, but he doesn’t relent.
“It never came up.” He licks his dry lips once, suddenly aware of how thirsty he is.
Bruce’s nostrils flare, and his knuckles whiten from where he’s balled his hands into fists.
“You’re being obtuse on purpose,” he grinds out, and Tim shrugs, noting how the grief is starting to fade into something stronger, something a bit like anger, and this, this he knows how to handle.
“I’ve never had to explain it to anyone, and since I always knew I’d be fine, then what does it matter?” he explains, watching carefully as he presses all the right buttons. Bruce rears back, eyes darkening.
“What does it-? What is wrong with you?” he demands. “I held you as you died in my arms, Tim, and you ask me why it matters?”
Logically, Tim knows that seeing the death of a family member has consequences. But it’s always been different for him. He comes back, after all, and he’s never actually had to deal with people grieving over him. So he pushes further.
“As I said, it happens all the time. I am sorry I put you in that position, if I had been confident in my ability to extract myself, then I wouldn’t have called you.”
He sees the exact moment Bruce tips from anger into rage.
“You- is this a game to you?” he thunders out, and Tim settles into the distraction, even as his chest tightens.
“Of course not, it’s just my normality,” he repeats. “Bruce, I’ve been doing this for over a decade now.”
It’s a mistake to say that, Tim instantly knows.
Bruce stares at him, eyes wide and uncharacteristically expressive. Tim swallows through his dry throat at the sheer horror on his adoptive father’s face, the anger disappearing instantly as he does the math and realises how young he would have been when he first died.
“Tim,” he starts to say, voice cracking. “Tim, how old-?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
It sounds flat, even to his own ears, and Bruce just keeps looking at him with a pale face and trembling lips. Tim opens his mouth to try and do damage control, but the door slams open again, cutting him off before he can try. Tim swallows again.
Dick stands there, eyes wide and face exhausted, as he takes the scene in. Bruce looks up, mouth in a thin line. Somehow, he looks even more haggard than before. For a moment, none of them speak.
And then Dick is moving forward, arms reaching out to cradle Tim close to him, and despite the sourness of their last few interactions, despite the things that remain unsaid bubbling beneath the surface- Dick is his big brother. It’s so easy to sag forward into his warmth, to feel safe and protected and alive.
He doesn’t know how long he’s wrapped up in Dick’s embrace, his chest hitching against Tim’s cheek as he tries to hide his sobs from him, and Tim’s stomach twists.
“Heya, Timmy,” Dick finally murmurs into his hair, voice breaking at his name. “We missed you.”
“I’m right here,” he tries to point out, but his oldest brother just shakes his head and says nothing.
It isn’t until Bruce clears his throat that they part, and Dick wipes his face, trying to give Tim a wobbly smile.
“Here, Tim,” Bruce says quietly, holding out a water bottle. “I should have given this to you when you first woke up.”
He nods wordlessly, taking the bottle and cracking open the seal, finally soothing his itchy throat. He wonders why it’s so dry; the last time he had to spend more than a day recovering, he woke up just fine.
It’s not until the tangy taste of iron mixes with the water that he realises his throat is likely still covered in dried blood from when he coughed it up.
And for some reason, it’s that thought that finally pries through his false calm and flippancy. Dying brutally is nothing new to him. It likely never will be. But being pinned there like a bug in a case, knowing that unless he got help, he’d keep reforming over and over around the intrusion until finally, his body stopped trying and remade itself from a finger again?
That is far more unsettling.
And Tim- Tim is so tired. What’s the point in trying to run and hide from this? They know now. They all know. And he’s going to have to unpick every death, every trauma, and force them to live through it too. Isn’t it better if he gives them redacted and edited accounts, rather than having Bruce scour through security cam footage and dig through his belongings until he witnesses the full extent of Tim’s existence? He’s already plagued them with one horrific death after all.
Screwing the lid of the bottle back on and dropping it into his lap, Tim takes a deep breath. And then another. And another, until he’s scrubbing his face tiredly and trying to force the words to come out. It was easier with Pru. She’d listen, if he told her, but she never poked and prodded beyond her own morbid fascination.
With Ra’s, well. There was little choice there, and it was far more academic and hypothetical in nature.
This discussion in comparison will result in... feelings. And he doesn’t mean it in some blithe way or as a flippant quip. No, he means it as an acknowledgement of the inevitable fallout that will follow this. People are not used to death. Not even the Bats, as much as they’d proclaim it shaped them. The only one who would maybe understand is Jason, and he’s still so traumatised by his own death that it would probably set him off even more.
Because death did not create Batman.
Grief created Batman, and Robin, and Nightwing, and Red Robin, and Oracle, and Batgirl, and Red Hood, and, and, and.
Death doesn’t create.
It certainly didn’t create Tim Drake.
He licks his lips again, finally lifting his head to look at his father and brother.
“I know it’s pointless to ask,” he starts to say, voice soft, “but I’m going to ask anyway. Do you really need to know? Isn’t it enough to know that I’ll come back at some point?”
Bruce furrows his brow, and Tim knows exactly what the man is thinking: of course he needs to know. As a detective, as Batman, there is no price too high for information. But Dick catches on to Tim’s unspoken question, catches on to the warning layered in his voice.
“How bad?” Dick asks quietly as his fingers curl into fists. “How bad is it?”
“At a certain point, I ran out of journals to document my deaths in.”
Dick inhales sharply, fingers digging into the sheets as though they’re all that’s keeping him in place. Bruce looks like Tim just punched him in the gut.
“Deaths. Deaths. As in more than one. Fuck. Fuck,” Dick murmurs, voice steadily growing in volume, and Tim shrugs.
“I was unsupervised as a kid. You already knew this.”
There’s silence in the room as his words settle, Bruce and Dick both looking at him with something unbearably fragile in their eyes.
“Not like this,” Bruce finally says. “Tim, you said- a decade?”
“Answer my question first. Is it worth knowing?” he repeats, the words hard but necessary. “You can walk away now, knowing that ultimately, I’ll be fine. Hell, I’d prefer it.”
Dick makes a choked noise.
“Tim, you can’t... you can’t just ask us to walk away from this. How can you even ask that?”
His voice trembles, face pale as he reaches out to grab him again. But Tim stops him, hands wrapping around his older brother’s wrists.
“Because this is normal, Dick. All of this? It’s my every day. And I don’t-... look. You don’t have to know the details, okay? This is me telling you that knowing more will just be... hard,” he finishes lamely, and Dick lets out a wet laugh, pulling his wrists away.
“It’s already been ‘hard’, Tim,” he snaps out.
Not like this, Tim doesn’t say.
“I haven’t even started and you’re already upset,” he points out instead, “seriously, we can all just forget about this.”
Bruce looks at him, eyes tight and lips trembling.
“Tim,” he says, before pausing, wetting his lips. “Tim, son, I held you as you-,”
“-As I died, yes, you’ve said,” he cuts in, waving off the bubbling grief of his adoptive father dismissively.
Bruce rears back as though struck, while Dick stares at Tim like he’s never seen him before. And oh, Tim hasn’t forgotten just how similar Dick is to Bruce in the end. They’re both so easy to goad when the right spots are poked and prodded.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dick starts, eyes starting to burn with disbelief and rage. “How can you just-?”
“Dick,” Tim cuts in, voice cruel, “I died for the first time because my parents couldn’t be bothered to supervise me in a pool. I was five. Then, they encouraged me to take showers because I was too afraid of the water to get in the bath, and that was oh so frustrating for them. Unfortunately for them, my nanny enjoyed a bit too much wine, and forgot to put any sort of anti-slip mat, so a few months after my first death, I slipped and smashed my head open.”
Dick’s mouth drops open, horror clear in the shine of his eyes, but Tim isn’t finished. Dick wanted to know what was wrong with Tim, well, wish fucking granted. Bruce seems like he doesn’t know whether to storm out or grab him and make him stop. Good, he thinks viciously. If they want to know, then he’d make sure they’d regret it. This isn’t Pandora’s Box. There is no hope to be found at the bottom of the truth, and maybe once Bruce and Dick understand that, they’ll let it go.
They’ll let him go, a small part of him whispers, sad and grieving and forever five years old, waiting for someone to realise he wasn’t there anymore. He pushes it down, drowns it just like he drowned all those years ago, and ignores the memories of chlorine burning the back of his throat.
“After that, well, I just had to experiment, you know? I did my research, anti-suicide forums were very helpful on that regard, toddled up to the attic, and hung myself. Woke up a few hours later gasping for breath, and almost died again. Then there was the bleach, and boy, was that aftermath tough to clean up.
“I was a bit traumatised by that, and decided to hold off on the old experiments, though I did make quite a few notes. Unfortunately, Ra’s al Ghul currently has them, so I can’t show you. My decision not to die lasted quite a while, up until I was shot in the head by a gang member while following Batman and Robin. Thankfully he dumped me in the trash and not the bay, but it still wasn’t a fun experience.”
“Tim...” Dick whines brokenly, face pale as bone as he reaches for him, but Tim smacks his hands away, because he isn’t finished. He doesn’t want the soft pity or broken grief or the endless self-blame that is rooted in this family like an infection in their bones, always curdling every interaction and discussion.
“After that, well, I was a bit reckless. Have you ever crawled your way back home with a flattered lung and road rash so severe you can see your rib cage? I have. How about being gutted in an alleyway and being robbed while your intestines hung out? Oh, but we can’t forget being shot in the thigh and pushed down the stairs, can we! That was a double death, you know, woke up from my neck being snapped just to bleed out from a shredded artery. Cheers for that, Jason, you broke my streak of not dying while being Robin,” he says sarcastically, words pulling awkwardly at his mouth. In the corner of his eye, Bruce flinches, and Tim is so sick and tired of the man taking everything onto himself, of diminishing everyone else’s struggles because heavens forbid someone other than him has an emotion or is to blame.
If Bruce dares to take Tim’s deaths as his own, if he uses the horror and pain and agony that Tim went through over and over as more fuel, then Tim is going to disappear and join Pru.
“Tim,” Bruce warbles out, and Tim tries not to snarl.
“No, Bruce, I never died under your watch until that point, so you can take your guilt complex and shove it up your-!”
Arms wrap around him, warm and familiar, a head of black hair tucking into his neck as he freezes. Cassandra has always been the strongest of them all, and he can feel it in the way she’s gripping him like he’ll disappear any moment now, body trembling and face wet from where it’s pressed against his skin.
“Leave,” she orders, voice muffled.
Bruce and Dick look wrecked, faces sallow and grieving, even as they try to protest. But Cass isn’t having any of it.
“Leave!”
They leave.
Carefully, Tim brings his arms up to hold Cass back. She’s always cried loudly, almost out of spite for the silence beaten into her as a child. But right now, she weeps without a sound. He swallows, his own eyes burning as he buries his face into her collarbone, fingers twisting into the sweater he recognises as his own.
Neither of them says a word for a while. They just hold onto one another and try to breathe.
“You promised,” is the first thing Cass says to him, voice hoarse and accusatory. “You promised you’d be okay.”
“I am,” he tries to rasp out, and the way she tightens her grip feels like a warning, so he quickly corrects himself: “I thought I was.”
“You lied,” she says mournfully, “you lied, and I let you go.”
From where she’s tangled with him, he can’t see her face, but the minute shift of her shoulder tells him that she’s spiralling, and he quickly goes to pull away. She tries to tighten her hold, but he needs to look her in the face.
“Cass, I promise I thought I was okay,” he repeats, and she lets out a sigh so deep he can feel it in his bones.
“Lying,” she breathes out into his ear, “to me, to yourself, to everyone.”
And that-
Tim doesn’t know how to respond to that. It’s becoming something of a pattern, because other people are so complicated and expect things he can’t give. But Cass is different. And so, he decides to be truthful for once.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he finally admits, because that’s the crux of it; he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what’s the right thing to tell them, how he needs to react, how he convinces everyone that this is normal and always has been.
Cass just leans back in, tucking her head beneath his chin, and she holds him with a gentleness that makes his eyes sting.
“Words are hard,” she agrees, and he lets out a strangled chuckle.
Both of them stay quiet for a moment, neither quite sure how to continue. Cass will listen to him, she won’t interrupt, she won’t start to tear up or blame herself or look at him with wide eyed horror on her face.
Because Cass is Cass is Cass, and she is his sister before anything else. She knows better than most what it’s like to be unheard.
“I think dying has been the one constant in my life,” he confesses into her hair, half hoping she won’t hear him. But she does. Of course she does, and she goes still at his words, chest hitching as she waits for him to continue.
And unlike the bitter torrent he threw at Bruce and Dick, unlike the caustic sarcasm he spewed to amuse Pru, unlike the clinical observations he noted down for himself and Ra’s, what begins to pour out of his chest hurts in a way he’s swallowed down since that first lungful of water.
He tells her about the pool, the bathroom, the attic, the kitchen. He tells her about the fevers and the bullet holes and the shredded skin. He tells her about road rash and infection, about organs rupturing and bleeding out, about severed limbs and exposed innards.
And she listens. She doesn’t weep, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t tell him to stop.
She just... listens, until he runs out of half-remembered deaths and his voice is hoarse.
“It’s normal,” he eventually finds himself saying, “that’s the thing, it’s normal to me. And no-one’s ever asked before. No-one’s ever noticed unless I died in front of them, and even then it’s a toss-up, though to be fair, I actively try to prevent people from connecting the dots.
“I think a part of me actively wants to die, Cass,” spills out of his mouth, and he regrets it as she flinches against him, the first sign of movement since he started talking, but he can’t stop. “And not in a permanent, suicidal depressed way, but like there’s some biological imperative that makes me seek out death over and over. Because what other explanation is there? I was five when I died the first time, and then I killed myself to test it. Multiple times. And even when I tried to avoid it, it still lingered in my mind.
“Why did I do that stuff? Why did I record it? Why do I still pull that shit, over and over, choosing death like it’s the easiest thing in the world?”
Cass is silent in his arms, her breath tickling his neck in a steady rhythm. But she doesn’t let go.
Instead, the room is disrupted by a clearing throat, and Tim’s eyes dart up, even as Cass stays quiet. Alfred stands there, wrinkles pronounced and looking more exhausted than ever. At the sight of him, Tim can’t help flinching, guilt bubbling beneath his skin as the older man slowly approaches them.
“If I may, Timothy, Cassandra?”
Cassandra doesn’t move to kick the older man out, not like she did with Bruce and Dick, and Alfred-
Well, Alfred is Alfred.
And so, Tim nods.
“How much did you hear?” he rasps out as Alfred steps closer.
“Enough to know that you’ve been suffering alone for far too long, dear boy,” he replies, and the gentleness in his hand as he rests it on Tim’s shoulder is so familiar and comforting, it hurts.
“It’s not really suffering,” he protests weakly, and Cass’ arms tighten around him.
“Pain... is not normal,” she forces out, and he tries to reach up to stop her from talking when she doesn’t want to, but she flicks him away. “Silence... was my normal. But it was wrong.”
Tim swallows, throat dry and eyes burning as he leans back and looks at his older sister until the softness on her face is too much. Alfred’s hand tightens gently, slowly drawing him into an embrace as Cass tangles their hands together.
“Do you understand?” she asks quietly, squeezing each of his fingers. “Dying may be your normal. But it is still wrong.”
And that-
He can’t-
It’s different, he tells himself through the haze of confusion, grief and frustration. Cass was forced into silence by David Cain, while Tim willingly let himself die over and over to test it.
The blood at the back of his throat burns, even after being washed away by water, and he tries to wave Cass’ words away.
“It’s not the same,” he tries to explain, voice cracking as he stumbles over the words. “Your- David forced you into that, he raised you that way, you were just a kid-!”
“Weren’t you too?”
Tim whips around to the door, eyes widening at the sight of Jason, who quickly raises his hands in a placating manner.
“Master Jason,” Alfred says, voice neutral, “I do believe it would be best not to overwhelm Timothy at the moment.”
Tim blinks in surprise at the open coolness in his tone, but Jason seems... unsurprised, even as his shoulders tense.
“If Tim wants me to leave, I will, I promise.”
Cass’ hand tightens slightly, and he can imagine her eyes narrowing.
“No pressure,” she whispers into Tim’s ear, and Tim-
He doesn’t understand what’s going on.
“It’s fine?” he says haltingly, and the relief on Jason’s face is palpable. He takes another step inside, cautiously approaching Tim’s bed while keeping his eyes averted.
“Sorry for interrupting,” he rasps out, before clearing his throat. “I, uh, couldn’t help but listen.”
“...it’s alright? It’s the Batcave. Eavesdropping is a given?”
“It should not be,” Alfred murmurs derisively, but his former iciness seems to have thawed slightly. Cass remains in a defensive position however.
“Regardless, I also, uh, I wanted to apologise. A lot. For... well. For killing you.”
His voice lowers towards the end, and the sheer guilt in the words feels like being punched in the face. Tim can’t help but blink rapidly, eyebrows furrowing as the previous frostiness surges back to life in the room.
“Dude, is that what this is all about? It’s fine, seriously. I was more pissed off about the broken fingers. No worries,” Tim tries to wave him off, desperate to force things back to normal.
Given the disbelief in everyone’s eyes, he figures it wouldn’t be that simple.
“Tim,” Jason says slowly, “I killed you.”
“Jason,” Tim parrots back, equally slow. “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.”
Alfred looks away at that reminder, and Jason flinches as well. Cass remains steady in Tim’s arms, but her muscles are coiled and cling onto him with desperation.
“You can’t- How can you just wave that away?” Jason finally forces out, throat hoarse, and Tim is getting really tired of his reactions to things being waved away,
“Look, Jason, was it frustrating to be killed by you? Yeah. Did I feel a little bit betrayed? Sure! But I’m not mad about it. It doesn’t mean anything, really.”
The tension skyrockets, and he wants to bash his head against something, because clearly, he just said another wrong thing.
“How can it not mean anything?” Jason demands. “I want to tear the Joker to shreds for what he did to me.”
“And rightfully so. But it’s different with me. It’s my normal and that’s okay, Cass,” he answers, shooting a look to his older sister. “Look, trying to understand it just makes people upset, okay? Seriously, it’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal. You dying is... not a big deal.”
“Yeah.”
“Lying,” Cass interrupts, voice cold and distant.
Tim scowls. “I’m not!”
“It is a big deal. It is big to me. To Alfred. To Jason,” she insists, and he tries not to scream.
“Cassandra is correct, Timothy. Perhaps you do not find it distressing, but we do. I wish you never had to experience all that pain. I wish it never became your ‘normal’,” Alfred says quietly, his words washing over the room. “Just as I wish that Jason never had to suffer at the hands of the Joker.”
Tim tries to breathe while Jason croaks out a distressed: “Alfie...”
“Okay, yes, I understand that. But Jason’s death and trauma are... look, they’re real, okay? He genuinely died. I don’t.”
He doesn’t know who he’s talking to at this point, because clearly, no-one believes him. Tim clears his throat instead.
“It’s different,” he repeats, looking towards Jason for some sort of backup, but the lopsided smile on Jason’s face makes him want to cry.
“How so, Tim? How is it different? We both died, we both came back, if it’s meaningful with me, why isn’t it meaningful when it happens to you?”
“It just is! This- There’s no need to worry when I come back because it’s a guarantee, whereas with you- It’s just- It’s-!”
“-a tragedy,” Jason finishes, “because I’m loved, and you’re not. Because if all those deaths mean something, then it means that you suffered. It means that those deaths were unfair. In a twisted way, if your deaths mean something, then it means that everything else was for nothing. That in the long run, Timothy Drake suffered for nothing. Right?”
The room falls silent as Jason’s words settle between them. Tim stares at the man who could have been his brother, fists subconsciously clenching his sheets, even as Cass tries to pry them loose.
“Get out,” spills out of Tim’s lips. “All of you. Out.”
“Timothy-,” Alfred starts, but Tim just shakes his head.
Because what the fuck is he meant to say to that?
‘Thanks for dismantling my entire psyche after apologising for snapping my neck’?
Tim would rather die again. There’s probably a vat of acid or something around here that he can dissolve himself in and respawn somewhere far away in like, Maine or Uruguay, right? Because his deaths don’t matter. They don’t.
They don’t.
He doesn’t matter, bubbles up softly in his head, gentle and quiet and unnoticed like a drowning child. He swallows thickly past the gnarled knot in his throat as Jason and Alfred shuffle out, forcing out a sigh that seems to steal too much from his lungs.
“That means you too, Cass.”
“No.”
The word echoes through the room like a slap, and he opens his mouth to hiss something back, but she shushes him. Carefully, she slips out of his arms, but her hands remain close, fingers brushing against his wrists as she sits opposite from him. Her eyes burn with some unnamed feeling, but there are tears on her cheeks as she lifts one of his hands and places a kiss on his pulse point.
“I am not leaving. Not again. Not anymore.”
“Cass,” he says, voice dangerously close to cracking, but she just squeezes his wrists gently.
“It is not okay,” she whispers brokenly, but with a kindness he hates and loves in equal measure, “and that is alright.”
Tim chokes, tears welling up and spilling down his face, even as he tries to force the shaking sobs back down, chest aching from the force of it. He holds his breath, hoping that the lack of oxygen will starve his impending breakdown away, but Cass-
Cass thumps him.
“Cry, stupid,” she says, voice trembling.
And Tim-
Tim breathes.
And he finally breaks.
He collapses forward into his sister, chest heaving with sobs that practically tear their way out of his throat, and it hurts more than any death he’s died before. Cass is crying with him, loud and open, but she doesn’t stop holding him, she doesn’t let him go for a second.
“Why did it never matter?” he hiccups out. “Why does it always take me dying for people to notice?”
“Why did you not tell me?” Cass counters, sniffing into his shoulder. “I would have been there.”
And that hurts, because Tim- Tim knows it’s a lie. He knows it deep in his cracked and scarred bones, that even if anyone had known, nothing would have changed.
“But you weren’t!” Tim howls. “None of you were! Whenever I need you, whenever I think about telling you, you all disappear! I needed you when Bruce disappeared, I needed Dick when Damian attacked me, I needed Bruce when Jason killed me, I needed my parents when I died in that fucking house over and over-!”
He whines into Cass’ neck, voice breaking as his throat spasms and aches.
“Why am I never first?” he finally admits hoarsely.
Cass shudders, a wounded sound escaping her chest, even as she weeps and clings on tightly.
“I’m sorry,” is all she says through her tears. “I’m sorry.”
And Tim can only cry even harder.
His eyes feel swollen when he opens them, and he winces, despite the low light of the room. His face is sticky and his throat hurts, and somehow, he physically feels worse despite being fully healed. His body feels heavy, despite the numb void inside his chest, and he sucks in a trembling breath.
Beside him, Cass is a comforting weight, though their crying session has blocked her nose enough to make her snore softly. He only vaguely remembers what happened after Cass began apologising. He knows he was cruel.
He tends to be, when vulnerable.
But she had stayed.
Tim scrubs at his face, swallowing through his hoarse throat and trying not to cough. He pats around for some water, only to still as a bottle is handed to him.
“Here,” a low voice rasps out.
Bruce sits in the chair next to the bed, clothes rumpled and face still full of stubble.
“I can leave if you want,” he says, unknowingly echoing his second son, and despite himself, Tim snorts.
For a moment, he thinks about sending him away. Thinks about yelling at the man he wishes was his father, he wishes would look at him like he looks at the rest of his children. Thinks about letting the remaining knot inside his chest fester and clog his throat, until his desires twist into resentment.
He thinks about getting up and leaving, never to return.
“No,” he whispers instead. “You can stay.”
Bruce nods with a heavy head, eyes not quite meeting Tim’s.
“Tim,” he starts, voice cautious “I would like... to apologise. For... everything. For making your pain about myself and my guilt. For not noticing how much you went through. For... not being there when you needed me most.”
Tim takes a swig of water to avoid answering, but Bruce isn’t finished.
“I have never wanted to make you feel... like you do not matter. Like your pain and suffering doesn’t matter. Because it does, Tim. You matter, and I am so, so sorry you’ve had to go through this by yourself. If you want me to listen, I will.”
Tim swallows, the water cooling his throat, but the lump has returned, and all he can do is nod. For a moment, neither of them say anything, and Tim blinks away the tears that have started to burn in his eyes again.
Bruce notices.
“Can I... Tim, can I hug you?” he asks softly, and for some reason, the hesitation in his voice, the distress and grief- it’s too much.
Tim bursts into tears again, even as he nods, and Bruce practically dives forward and scoops him up, no sign of hesitation despite Tim’s crying. Crushed against Bruce’s chest, Tim lets himself fall apart all over again, the desperation from before warping into something raw and grieving. But he doesn’t talk.
Tim doesn’t have any words left to say, not while he’s occupied with weeping. Cass slips out quietly as he cries, only giving him a soft squeeze and a kiss on his greasy head before disappearing, but Bruce stays, warm and steady, large hands running through his hair.
“I’m sorry, Tim,” he whispers, and the gentleness makes him start all over. Even when he tries to stop, Bruce keeps holding him. A part of him wants to be angry. Wants to scream and yell and push Bruce away, but he’s so, so tired of feeling things.
“Why is it,” he eventually rasps out after calming down, “that you only show up and seem to care at the worst moments? And sometimes, not even then?”
He licks his dry lips, and finally decides to just... be truthful for once.
“I can’t keep doing this,” he admits. “Every time I think things might be different, but you just... don’t listen to me. You make a promise, and then you disappear. I just... I don’t know what you want from me, Bruce.”
Bruce inhales sharply at his words, but Tim can’t find it in himself to regret them. He’s tired of the push and pull, tired of not knowing if he actually is Bruce’s son or just another vigilante, tired of having to choose to be competent and reliable.
He chose to clean up Bruce’s messes, yes, but Tim is so, so tired.
“I’m not... good with feelings,” Bruce finally says, but he doesn’t make a move to push Tim away. “But you have always... astounded me with your ability to read people. You’re intelligent. You’re quick and clever. Most of all, Tim, you- you tend to be kind. Even when... when I don’t deserve it. You were there in my worst moments. You dragged me out of that darkness over and over, supported me both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You were... you are an astounding person.”
Silence lingers between them for a moment, and Tim swallows thickly as the words ring in his ears. But Bruce isn’t finished.
“And yet... it should have occurred to me,” he continues, “that a- a child shouldn’t have to support themselves and an adult. That it isn’t their... responsibility to make sure the grownups are okay first, and themselves second. I... should have checked in on you, Tim. I should have listened to you, or... at least, made you feel that I would listen. And I am so sorry that I didn’t.”
Carefully, he pulls away from Tim to look him in the face.
“I’m sorry that... every time you reached out, I made it about myself and my guilt, or brushed you off. I’m sorry I- made you feel like you didn’t matter, that your... your deaths were meaningless,” he swallows, hands reaching up to cup Tim’s face. “The world, my life, it... it’s infinitely better because you are in it.”
Tim can’t stop the tears that leak out of his eyes, but Bruce just gently wipes them away, his own eyes shining wetly.
“Do you really want to know? About... all of it. Me dying, over and over and over?” Tim warbles out, the words cracking as he does so. Bruce closes his eyes briefly, before opening them, still shiny, but accepting.
“It’s going to break my heart,” he says, voice hoarse but honest. “Because you’re my son, Tim, and I love you. But I would rather know and be heartbroken, than look away when you... get hurt.”
“You sure, Bruce?” Tim asks again.
Without saying anything, he’s pulled forward again, into his father’s arms. He can feel Bruce swallow against his forehead, can feel the way his fingers are digging in just a bit too hard, and Tim- Tim sags, hands reaching up to grab back.
“You’re my son,” is all Bruce says back, chest rumbling against his face.
And for once, Tim feels like it’s the truth.
So he opens his mouth, and talks for what feels like hours. Like Cass, he tells Bruce about every major death, about the memorable ones and the painful ones, the ones he didn’t mind and the ones that made him pray he’d never wake up. Bruce flinches or makes a wounded noise every so often, but he doesn’t interrupt except to give Tim water. He stays by his side, face paling every now and then, but he doesn’t move away from Tim.
By the end of it, he’s shaking, shoulders shuddering as he takes several loud breaths.
“I told you,” Tim says quietly. “I told you it would be easier not to know.”
At that, Bruce snaps his head up, lips pressed into a trembling frown.
“Maybe,” he admits, “but not for me. Not when it’s you.”
Tim tries not to cry at that. He would have thought that after crying over and over again for the past few hours, there would be nothing left. And yet, here he is, tears streaming down his face one more time. Bruce lets out a distraught sound at the sight and clutches Tim close, hand cupping his head as rocks him gently.
“I’ll say it as many times as needed, Tim,” he says quietly. “You’re my son, and I love you. I’m... I’m sorry I made you ever think otherwise.”
He leans his cheek against his father’s chest, breathing in deeply as he tries to stop crying. His head is pounding and his eyes ache, and he feels like someone’s taken every single coherent thought and scooped it out, leaving him hollow and brainless.
And yet, it doesn’t hurt as much as before. Despite the very physical pain of his tears and yelling, the tight knot that had previously threatened to choke him has loosened.
That could also just be the exhaustion speaking.
Carefully, Tim begins to extract himself from the iron bars that are Bruce’s arms, and his father quickly lets go once he begins to shuffle.
“You okay?” Bruce asks haltingly, and Tim pauses.
“No,” he finds himself saying. “But I think I will be. After a nap. Can I go to my room?”
Bruce chuckles weakly.
“Yes, of course. Just... stay in the Manor for a while? Please?”
It’s probably a sign of his fatigue that Tim didn’t even think about bolting. And yet something small and warm bubbles up at the request, because... Bruce wants him to stay. Bruce would worry if he left.
And Tim thinks that if he did leave, then Bruce would go after him for once.
“I will,” he croaks out, throat tight. “I promise.”
Bruce sags in relief, but doesn’t say anything else, instead helping Tim out of the bed as supporting him as they make their way upstairs. His limbs are fairly weak, but that’s fairly standard for a regeneration that long. Granted, he wasn’t as shaky after the explosion, but he figures that was because his legs had to be reconstructed from scratch and therefore didn’t just lie there uselessly.
When they reach his room, Bruce lingers, uncertain whether to follow him or not.
“I’ll be okay,” Tim finally says, and his father sighs, before nodding.
“If you need anything, just... let us know, okay?”
Despite himself, Tim leans forward and hugs him.
“Yeah,” he repeats. “I will.”
With a last squeeze, Tim finally hobbles into his room and shuts the door, before collapsing onto his bed. He’s asleep before he’s even landed.
Tim wakes up to a small weight beside him, and he blinks blearily, wondering when Cass crept in. Except, as he wipes the sleep away from his eyes, he realises that the body next to him is far too small to be his sister’s. His lips part in surprise as he looks at Damian curled up beside him, brows furrowed and expression serious, even in sleep.
Before he knows it, Tim’s stroking the younger boy’s head, realising that this is probably the longest he’s ever touched Damian in a way that wasn’t them fighting.
A green eye cracks open, staring at him balefully.
“I will only allow this once,” he snaps out, though much of the heat has been leeched out and replaced with sleepiness, “so enjoy it while you can, Timothy.”
His eyes close again. And then open again.
"Did I ever kill you, Timothy?" he asks, voice fragile. And Tim can’t help but smile.
"You wish," he retorts lightly, and the younger boy scowls.
But he relaxes.
"Probably for the best," he sniffs out. "My assassination techniques aren't meant for scrubs."
Tim can't help but laugh, even as he tugs Damian into a hug.
He wakes up again to another weight settling beside him, and he stares up into Dick’s wide eyes.
“Sorry,” his older brother mumbles. “I can leave if you want-,”
And Tim is so tired of fighting with Dick.
“I’m sorry for provoking you,” he says, fingers reaching out to grab Dick’s sleeve. “And for being purposefully obtuse in the car. And for lying to you.”
Dick swallows, eyes glassy.
“I’m sorry for not listening to you and for... making you think I was choosing Damian over you. I’m sorry for pushing you, and for leaving you to be killed, and yelling at you, and-,”
Tim leans forward and hugs his brother. Long, familiar arms wrap back around him, holding him tight as Dick weeps silently into his hair.
“I love you, Timmy. You’re my little brother, and I just... God, I should have asked more. I should have done... more.”
Tim exhales into Dick’s shirt, eyes closing.
“Maybe,” he says quietly, “but I didn’t want anyone to know. And even when I did... I didn’t make it easy. It still hurts though, Dick. You didn’t even stop to listen, because you just... never stay. Instead you blow up and get angry and disappear, before showing up and pretending nothing happened. And that... that really fucking sucks, Dick.”
“I know,” his brother replies, even as his voice cracks. “And I’m sorry. You can hurt for as long as you need to. But... I’m gonna be there if you need me. And I’ll do better. I swear.”
“You better,” Tim mumbles back, fingers tightening in his brother’s shirt. “Because I’ll kick your ass otherwise, you dick. I’m tired of chasing after people.”
Dick laughs wetly.
“So am I,” he says, “so am I.”
“Less running, more sleeping,” a voice pipes up tiredly, and Tim chuckles at Cass’ sleepy face popping out from the covers.
“Okay, okay,” he whispers. But he doesn’t let go, even as he drifts back off into sleep.
Light is beginning to stream into his room when Tim wakes up again, and he blinks blearily as he takes in his surroundings. Dick, Cass and Damian are still in his bed, curled up or spread out in equal measure, limbs tangled and warm against his skin.
And yet, there is someone missing.
Carefully, Tim extracts himself from the pile, tiptoeing out into the hallway and curling his toes against the cold floor as he wonders where Jason might be. With quiet steps, he pads downstairs to the kitchen, peering past the door to see if Alfred is already making breakfast and has seen Jason.
To his surprise, the kitchen is empty. As is the dining room. It isn’t until he wanders onto the patio that he spots Alfred, sat on a bench facing the garden, eyes distant and unfocused. A cup of tea sits beside him, but there’s no plume of steam suggesting that it’s fresh.
“Alfred?” he asks cautiously, and the old man startles, old hands already moving to grab a weapon that isn’t there. For a moment, Tim is worried that Alfred doesn’t recognise him. But then he relaxes, exhaling deeply, even as he waves him over.
Tim shivers in the early morning breeze, but goes to join his grandfather in all but blood. A warm jacket is instantly draped over his shoulder, and he’s about to protest, but Alfred’s stern look quiets him.
Neither of them say anything for a while, instead watching the curling morning mist slowly evaporate into dew on the grass, the morning sun only just beginning to peek above the horizon.
“You know,” Alfred suddenly starts, “I don’t think I’ve ever quite failed someone as much as I have failed you.”
Tim can’t help but flinch in surprise, eyes widening as he turns to look at the older man. And yet, he continues to stare forward, resolutely not looking back at Tim.
“Alfred...” he begins to say, but the man lifts up a quiet hand.
“Forgive me, Timothy, for interrupting, but I would like... to explain myself for a moment.”
There’s silence for a moment as Alfred lifts up his cup of tea and takes a sip, face wrinkling at the coolness of it, and despite himself, Tim chuckles silently.
“When you came to our doorstep, you were... barely a teenager. And yet, I welcomed your assistance. Perhaps some could even say I took advantage of your kindness. In some ways, I relied on it. When Master Bruce was locked in his room, when he wasn’t eating, when I was on the verge of giving up, over and over, you were there. You still believed in something. And I was relieved.
“I should be ashamed of that, but I’m not. It most likely makes me a less than savoury person, yet I cannot bring myself to regret your help. Not when it brought my boy back to me.”
For a moment, the only sound is distant birdsong. And then Alfred adds quietly:
“Not when it brought me you.”
Tim swallows.
Finally, Alfred turns to look at him, and there are tears in his eyes.
“I want to apologise, Tim. For not looking closely. For letting you shoulder a burden this old man could not. For standing to the side while you were suffering. For not... for not knowing when my boy was dying in plain sight.”
He chokes on the last words, the tears finally escaping his eyes, and Tim doesn’t even think about it. He reaches out and grabs Alfred, burrowing his head into the familiar scent of tea leaves and the cigars he pretends he doesn’t smoke.
“It’s okay,” he mumbles into his waistcoat. “Or, well, it’s not okay, I guess. I was angry at your neutrality sometimes. But... I still love you, Alfred. Even when I was at my most destructive, I still loved you. You and everyone else.”
A trembling hand reaches up to cup his head, and he can hear Alfred’s hitched breaths.
“I love you as well, my dear boy.”
They don’t embrace for long; but it is enough for Tim to feel warm, despite the early morning chill. Eventually, Alfred brushes himself off, lifting his cold cup of tea and clearing his throat.
“I should begin making breakfast,” he announces, and Tim smiles.
“Anything good?” he asks.
“Eggs Florentine, I think. Protein and iron to... well. Replenish your spirit.”
“I look forward to it,” Tim says honestly, and Alfred nods, standing up and moving back inside.
Tim’s about to call back to ask him where Jason is, when the distant scent of cigarette smoke fills his lungs. And Tim knows where the other boy is. Forcing himself up, Tim heads inside as well, and begins the trek to the roof.
Jason sits on the edge of the roof, cigarette hanging between his fingers as he stares off into the horizon. The sun is only just beginning to rise properly, but the grey morning light is enough to make out his hunched shoulders.
“Wondered when you’d show up,” he says tonelessly, gruff voice echoing against the tiles.
“Really? How many cigarettes have you smoked waiting for me to figure out where you are?” Tim asks teasingly, moving forward to sit next to Jason. The older man glares down at him, but doesn’t move.
“Why are you up here, Jason?” he eventually asks, and Jason shrugs.
“Needed to think. Besides, I didn’t think I was welcome to the slumber party,” he replies, and despite the mocking in his tone, there’s no real heat. Tim hums.
“You are. Welcome, I mean. I meant what I said, Jason. I don’t... I don’t hold a grudge or hate you for killing me.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I do. I thought I’d be the last one, you know. The only and last dead Robin. And then I go and fucking kill you. And you let me.”
Tim frowns at that, brows furrowing.
“I didn’t exactly let you,” he points out, trying not to sound too irritated. “You were bigger than me and ambushed me. I didn’t just lay down and let you punt me down the stairs.”
Jason huffs.
“It shouldn’t have happened in the first place.”
Tim snorts, and Jason turns to look at him balefully, eyes narrowed.
“According to everyone, I shouldn’t have died at five. Or six. Or any other time. But I did. And that became-,”
“Normal, I know, I’m beginning to think it’s your favourite word, kid,” Jason interrupts, lips curved into a frown. “It isn’t, though. I meant what I said before. Though the whole part about no-one loving you wasn’t me being mean, I meant it from, like, your perspective. You think you don’t mean anything, so therefore, your deaths don’t mean anything.”
“I figured.”
They’re silent for a moment, neither quite sure how to continue. Jason takes another drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling playfully as he exhales. Eventually, he talks again.
“How about this,” he offers, “I’ll accept that you don’t hold a grudge over the whole... Tower thing, if you accept that you dying is shit and shouldn’t happen.”
Tim blinks.
“That’s... gonna take a while for me to do,” he admits hesitantly, “the accepting my deaths thing, not you killing me.”
“Nah, that’s not how this deal works. Until you can accept the other, then I’m not off the hook for... for killing you.”
And Tim... Tim doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“You’ll have to stick around for that,” he finds himself saying instead. “I need someone to teach me how to be angry over dying, and I figure you’re the expert.”
And Jason laughs. It’s loud and strong and full of humour, and Tim finds himself laughing alongside the man he could someday call brother.
“Alright,” Jason acquiesces eventually, wiping tears away. “I guess I could show up now and again.”
“Then it’s a deal,” Tim agrees.
They shake hands beneath the morning sun, palms warm and slightly dusty from the tiles, and the scent of cigarettes lingering on Tim’s fingertips.
“Now come join the slumber party,” Tim says. “We need someone to push Dick out of the way.”
On the sun-warmed rooftop, Jason laughs again.
“Fine, fine. Last one there has to steal his blankets,” he quips, before darting away.
And in the morning light, yelling after Jason and collapsing into the pile of his siblings, Tim thinks that he might be able to live for something other than death.