Chapter Text
Tim woke the next morning with a splitting headache, a dry mouth, and a metric ton weight of guilt in his stomach. He knows he did something last night, the memories fuzzy and a blur, but it must’ve been something if Tim had to have a camera positions on him in the corner of the room. Speaking of, he looked around. The walls were a pale gray, empty save for framed posters and a shelf in the corner. The bed, though soft, wasn’t the lumpy one he has in his apartment nor was it the memory foam of his manor bed. Sunlight trailed in from the windows. It was hell against his sensitive eyes as he tried to blink away the spots in his vision, but eventually he was able to figure out where he was.
He was in the penthouse. His room in the penthouse. There was an IV hooked up to his arm, stinging in the crook of his elbow when he sat up. That didn’t help his headache either. What happened last night? He wracked his brain trying to remember.
List the facts, Tim thought, rubbing his eyes.
- He was on patrol when Bruce announced that Joker had escaped Arkham
- Jason, Damian, and Tim had to go to the second cave because the bridge blew up
- There was Joker Toxin in the tunnel because one followed him under.
- Tim inhaled the toxin and relapsed
- Jason and Damian were in—
Jason and Damian were in the cave! They were there when he got the giggles! Had they seen him? Did they know?
Did…did he do something to them?
The weight in his stomach felt heavier than ever at the thought. It was hard enough to try and stop it, to try and keep junior under lock and key, and Tim doesn’t think he’d be able to live with himself if they had gotten hurt because of him. Especially since he and Damian were finally starting to get along for the first time ever. Sure they still swapped insults, empty threats, and called each other names that left the others in amused, and horrified, gasps, but they weren’t actively going at each other’s throats anymore.
And, Tim will admit, it happened mostly out of guilt when Damian died. He was killed at the ripe age of twelve and the only interaction they had for two years was made of animosity and annoyance. Tim felt bad that, that was where their relationship left off. He would never be able to make amends, never apologize for what he’s done, never going to get the chance to be actual brothers. His relationship with Jason was doing far better than when they fist meet too, and he hopes he didn’t do anything to Jason either, but what if he did?
He needed to check on them, needed to make sure they were okay. His muscles aches as he tried to scoot to the edge of the bed, damn, what did he do? Why was he so sore? Last time he hurt like this was when he fought on Apokolips to save both Bruce and Damian. (Though Bruce needed saving because he was going to kill himself in his grief trying to get Damian back, and my, where has Tim seen that before? )
Rough hands caught him before he fell and Tim didn’t have to look up to know it was Bruce. He said, “You shouldn’t be out of bed yet” as he helped Tim back under the covers, this time propped up against the head board. Bruce looked tired. Dark circles under his eyes and disheveled bed hair, he hadn’t even shaved yet. The five o’clock shadow dusting his jaw and chin. Off topic, but Tim wished he could grow facial hair, if only to shave it smooth. He just wanted to say that he could grow it but chosen not to, not that he wishes he could because he can’t.
“How are you feeling?” Bruce placed a cup of water and pain killers in his hand.
“Like shit,” He answered swiftly. “What happened?”
“There were traces of excess toxin in your blood stream,” Bruce answered. “We think you inhaled some before you were able to contain it.”
The water didn’t seem to wash away the lump in his throat and made the weight in his stomach move around weird. “Did I..?” He cringed when Bruce nodded. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want his brothers to see him like that. “Are they okay?”
“They’re waiting to speak with you actually,” Bruce patted his leg.
“And the others? Are they okay?” Tim asked.
“They are doing fine, I imagine they’re at the manor waiting for an update about you,” He answered. “They might also have questions about it, as well.” Tim snapped his head to Bruce, questions? For him? Did Bruce tell them? “And before you asked, you said last night before you had fallen asleep that it was alright for me to tell them. They were going to know eventually, kiddo, and the longer this kept going, the longer and more dangerous it would be for you.”
“I know, but I thought you knew not to take advantage of my post-dose brain,” Tim groaned. “Like, seriously? That’s low. Even for you.”
“Jason had to administer the injection, Tim,” he countered. “It was only a matter of time before either he or Damian asked questions. And it would be unfair to the others to be kept out of the loop for something this important. Dick was already pretty pissed that we kept it from him as long as we have already.”
“Wow. Wow,” Tim dragged out the second word, betrayed. “You’re for real trying to guilt trip me for not telling Dick?” Bruce shrugged, as if it was a fact. “I was wrong before, this is a new low for you. Why are you like this? You weren’t like this when I met you.”
“That’s what nearly two decades of raising children and mentoring other teenagers does to someone,” Bruce got out of the bed, caressed his cheek the way a parent would, and made is way to the door. He turned back to Tim, hand on the door knob and a concerned look replaced the light one from just a few seconds ago, “Do you want to talk to them? They’ve been here all night to make sure you’re okay.”
Ah, Tim looked down at the sheets, that made the guilt heavier. He actually felt nauseous. The memories after he got into the tunnel were blurry at best, just splatters of red and gray, the pain in his throat and cheeks, and the always lingering laughter that never quiet went away after. If he concentrated enough he could vaguely remember seeing Damian, but it seemed like he couldn’t stomach the finer details.
He had to see them, they were there and he knows they have questions. And he needed to know if they were okay too.
Tim nodded his head. “Okay. I’ll send them in.” Bruce was halfway out the door when he spoke again, “And Tim?” He looked at Bruce. “It wasn’t you fault. You didn’t…you weren’t yourself.”
Ominously vague and unhelpful to lift the weight from his gut. Thanks Bruce.
He didn’t know how long he had till Jason and Damian came in, didn’t know what state they’d be in or how they act around him. It’s changed now, their relationships. It’s shifted in a way that might not be able to go back to how it once was. At least when Damian popped into their lives, the shaking settled after a while. Like an earthquake, the years after being an aftershock till it finally stood firm and still and Tim just had to cause another one.
Waiting felt like torture (Especially since he hasn’t eaten in twenty-four hours.)
Seconds felt like hours as he watched the clouds pass over downtown Gotham. Light gray clouds that most people would think would rain at any time but were really just the norm here. It was quiet here despite it being so centralized in the city, the honking of horns below or engine roars didn’t reach his ears. There was no loud fights or cracks of gun shots, back fire, or sirens to disrupt his sleep or distract his thoughts. The quiet was violent sometimes.
A knock at his door shook him from his thoughts—what little there was after a switch, he was still trying to decipher the jumbled mess that was his own crazed laughter from the out of sync memories. A few times Damian voice would call out, yelling for him to stop, and he’d snap out of his mental dive. His heart racing and the remnants of his laugh and the snap of a bone echoing in his head.
“Come in,” He called out. Jason poked his head in first. He had a butterfly band aid on his hairline, the skin beneath a light pink with the fresh wound still exposed down the center. More white band aids could be seen under his cut off shirt, wrapping around his shoulder and around his forearm. Tim noticed he walked with a slight limp, favoring the left side. What had he done?
Damian followed in after him, pressed close to Jason’s back. He couldn’t see much of him, just the left side where a bandage wrapped around his neck and a large purple bruise had formed on his temple, but there just had to be more. The guilt was screaming at him, suffocating him from the inside out because there was something bigger than a bruise on his little brother, something worse than a bandage on the right side of his neck. It was hurting him that he couldn’t see what it was.
“We wanted to make sure you were okay,” Jason said, closing the door behind them. he took a few steps forward, but it seemed like Damian kept him from getting too close, the distance of the bed separating them could have been the Atlantic if Tim didn’t know better. “You looked pretty out of it after we gave you the injection.”
“Switching back, um, takes a lot out of me sometimes,” he answered, swallowing the lump in his throat. Tim leaned to the side, trying to see Damian from where he was behind Jason. Was—Was Damian hiding from him. “Are you guys okay? You look a bit banged up. Damian? You alright?”
Damian retreated further behind Jason’s figure. He could see Jason’s shirt tighten on the side, no doubt Damian was holding it from behind. Normally, Tim would be a little glad Damian was finally acting like a kid. Hiding behind his big brother and avoiding eye contact as if he was sca—
No. Damian couldn’t be—he can’t, it was Damian, he just couldn’t be.
“Remember what I told you last night, baby bat,” Jason reached behind him and placed his hand on Damian’s shoulder. Slowly, Damian made his way out from behind Jason. The band aid wrapped fully around his neck, unlike Jason’s, it was thicker too. Another bruise dotted his jaw, a dark purple like the other, and when he fully showed himself, it was like Tim was being suffocated by the guilt.
His arm was in a sling, tucked tight to his torso with a cast wrapped around his elbow and a good part of his forearm and bicep. Damian didn’t meet his eyes. Green eyes stared off to the side as he stuck close to Jason’s side, hesitant to step further than he already was. And god, he looked like a kid, a scared kid who didn’t want to get close to what had hurt him.
The realization hit him; the guilt, the echoes of Damian’s voice in his head, the fuzzy memories of what had happened—Tim was the one that hurt him. He is who Damian was scared of. And wasn’t that ironic, Tim—the person who Damian had hated and tried to rid the family of—being one of the few people Damian was now scared of. A part of him wanted to laugh at it, but the other part squashed that thought as soon as it came. How could make a joke about that? Tim hurt his baby brother, he hurt his big brother, he doesn’t even remember doing it.
And that’s the worst part, he thinks. He doesn’t remember if they yelled for him to stop. Doesn’t know if they called out his name, hoping he’d snap back to reality. Did they try that? Did they yell in his ears, straining against him and whatever attacks and combos he did to them, begging for help or for Tim to go back to his right state of mind? Because he’s sure they didn’t know about this when it happened, they probably just thought he had snapped and finally got back at the two people who tried to kill him. Attacking with a cunning ruthlessness that Tim has reserved for Ra’s and Ra’s alone.
How much of that strength did he use against them? The overflowing anger and rage at the world itself that bleed in to punches and kicks too powerful to be considered Batman approved. Did he use that strength against Jason? Against Damian?
He felt tears well up a little as he covered his mouth, hand shaking as he lifted it. “Did I…Did I do that?” Their silence answered for them. Tim did that. He hurt his brothers. He was the reason Jason limped and Damian had a cast. He shut his eyes, head hanging in his hands and the guilt climbed to choke him from the inside out. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—oh god, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, you didn—” Jason began.
“No, it’s not okay,” Tim cut him off, digging the heel of his palm in to his eyes. “I hurt you guys, so don’t say it is because it isn’t!”
“You weren’t you, Tim, I understand that.” Jason sat on the bed, pulling his hands from his face. “Do you hold my fuckin’ pit rages against me? Like when I stormed the tower and almost killed you, do you still hate me for that?”
“No! I don’t, you were all hopped up on pit juice an’ everything.”
“So why would I do that same to you and Joker toxin, hm?” Jason cocked his head. “It’s the same fuckin’ thing, just a different kind of green. And like you, I can’t really control it when it happens. I don’t really know what I’m doing till I come out of it and the mess I made. That’d be pretty shitty and hypocritical of me to judge you for that, Timbit, and I am upset you’d think I’d do that you ya.”
“I know, but still, I’m sorry I hurt you,” Tim wiped his nose. “Damian?” He still didn’t look at Tim when he called his name, though he didn’t get closer, standing behind Jason, but closer nonetheless. And Tim wasn’t going to lie. It hurt him to see the kid so reserved and quiet towards him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break your arm.”
Damian chewed on his lip before speaking, “I forgive you for your actions, like Todd said, your mental state was because of forces out of your control. I cannot hold you accountable for that, however—” When Damian finally looked at him, his green eyes were glassy with unshed tears. There was a puffiness to them that Tim rarely saw and a look to his baby brother that was a different kind of hurt than physical. It was one that dug deep into a fear Tim suspected was there and hated that he now knows exists. “Of the two of us, why were your attacks solely focused on me? Do you still not trust me that your subconscious deemed me a threat to eliminate?”
Oh. There goes his heart. Shot out the window with a grenade launcher and sliced up into little pieces.
And here comes his trophy for the “Worlds Worst Brother.” Tim would like to thank his parents, his neuroticism, and the card reader at the quicki-mart that declined his card the other day.
“What? No! No, no, Damian I trust you!” Tim shot up in his spot, shuffling over to the edge of the bed, thankful that Jason urged Damian closer to him. It was harder to speak now that Tim could see the small cuts and scrapes that didn’t need band aids, the edges of an angry bruise hidden beneath the bandage around his neck. “I can’t excuse what I did with the toxin, and I wish I could give you an explanation why it happened—but whatever I said, whatever I did wasn’t me, and I’m so sorry it happened. I’d never do that to you, you know that.
“And I understand if you don’t see me the same as before, it’s all different now,” Tim ran a hand through his hair. “But your my little brother, I could never hurt you like that, ever.” Carefully, Tim wrapped Damian in a hug, mindful of the cast and whatever other injuries he could have. The tension in Damian shifted to trembling as the kid finally let himself feel whatever it was that was brewing in him. Face buried in Tim’s shoulder, good arm wrapped around Tim and holding tight to the back of his shirt. “And I can never tell you how sorry I am that you had to see me like that. I’ve never wanted anyone to see me like that.”
Tim felt Jason scoot closer to them, his arm wrapping around loosely in his version of a hug. He didn’t mind it though.
Damian sniffled as he pulled away, eyes red and his face flushed. He cleared his throat, wiping at the wet tacks on his cheeks, “At least now I understand why grandfather was so interested in you now.”
“And why’s that?” Jason asked.
“He is, as Brown would say, ‘unhinged,” Damian answered. “It makes sense with context.”
“Oh my god,” Tim smiled, a genuine chuckle spilling from his lips. He could see the tiniest of tenses in his brothers besides him, how their minds immediately were reminded of the last nights events, but it dissipated when they realized how different it sounded. Whereas Juniors laugh was high pitched and scratchy, the forced laughed cutting him up from the inside out, Tim’s was closer to his actual voice. It was lighter and clear and held no malice as it danced in the air. “Hearing you say “unhinged” is unhinged in and of itself. A for effort, though.”
Damian gave a small laugh, Jason laughing beside him. His brothers had seen a side of Tim he wished died long ago, one that he hoped the Lazarus pit cured him of when he got dipped to heal his spontaneous splenectomy. Things weren’t going to be the same between the three of them anymore, wasn’t going to be the same with the others either. Tim doesn’t want the others to see him like that either, to know what Tim’s looks like as it stretched and contorted into a misshapen mirror of the Joker, to hear his voice grate their ears with hysterical laughter and words spat out coated in toxin and chemicals.
But as Tim sat in his bed, his brothers beside him, he knows there was new solidarity between him and his brothers. A new level of trust and understanding that couldn’t be match by the others. Like Jason and his pit rages, they know he didn’t have control over Junior. It was it’s own being, one made of pain, electricity, and an isolated strand of toxin that existed nowhere but within Tim. The actions it took, the choices it made, were ones Tim would never make in a million years and he’s glad his brothers know that.