Chapter Text
The desire sat heavy on his stomach, unable to be digested and processed.
The need to follow through with his planning remained awfully stable, unresolved and longing.
The only thing stopping him from acting on was the superpowered figure that would soon appear, in an excuse to organise the remnants of a once lived in apartment.
The Nest was quiet. Not the suffocating, heavy silence of Wayne Manor but the hollow, settling quiet of a space that belonged entirely to him.
It was haunted by the ghost of his month-long absence.
Tim sat on the edge of a low cot, his back resting against the exposed brick. His left arm was still securely immobilized in the black sling, his shoulder throbbing with a dull, manageable ache.
On the crate next to him sat his medication, three plastic bottles, cleanly labeled, untouched until now.
He reached out with his right hand, his fingers stiff and clumsy, as he forced himself through his evening routine.
One anti-inflammatory. One nerve blocker. One fluoxetine.
He unscrewed the cap using his palm and his chest as leverage, refusing to use his bad arm.
He took the pills dry with a single swallow and barely reacted against the harsh bitter taste of them.
He didn't need to check his watch to make sure whether the half-kryptonian had arrived on time.
He felt the subtle shift in air pressure ten seconds before the soft knock echoed on the reinforced steel door.
Three slow taps. A pause. Two quick taps.
Tim didn't jump up. He didn't reach for a blade.
He just leaned his head back against the brick and called out, his voice quiet, raspy, but steady.
"It's unlocked"
The heavy door creaked open on it's hinges.
Kon stepped into the threshold. He wasn't wearing his leather jacket or his suit, but instead just a grey hoodie, dark jeans, and muddy sneakers.
In his arms, he carried heavy plastic bags filled with groceries, fresh water, and extra medical supplies.
He didn't cross the imaginary line Tim had drawn.
Kon stopped right at the threshold, his sneakers half-remaining on the entry mat.
He kept his head lowered, his posture deliberately relaxed, his hands visible and tightly gripping the plastic handles of the bags that threatened to rip.
He didn't scan the room with X-ray vision.
He didn't tilt his head to listen to Tim's lungs.
Instead, he kept his senses dialed down to human baseline, honoring as much of the strict boundary they had drawn forty-eight hours ago, as he could.
"Hey" Kon said softly. His voice was subdued, cautious, but free of the wild panic that had consumed him both on the rooftop, and during the search.
"Hey" Tim replied from the cot.
Kon set the bags down carefully on a wooden workbench just inside the door, keeping his movements slow and predictable.
"Brought the stuff you asked for. Extra gauze, the saline wipes, and some food. I made sure that you'll be able to use everything with no difficulty"
"Thanks" Tim said.
There was a hint of truth in his words.
He was thankful.
Not about their actions, about the place Kon had taken against him.
But instead about the persistence and trust they showed.
Tim himself didn't even know whether he was worth of the trust, not anymore atleast.
An awkward, heavy silence settled over the room, but for the first time in weeks, it wasn't hostile.
It was just space.
Atleast that's what Kon identified it as.
For Tim, the silence was slowly rotting away his limbs. The uncomfortable and deafening stillness made him want to clench his hands to fists and tear his eardrums out.
Kon looked at Tim, really looked at him, taking in the pale skin, the dark circles under his eyes, and the tense arms under the sling holding his shoulder tight.
He barely contained himself not to comment on them, afraid that Tim would pull up the walls and grow defensive.
"Bruce called me twice today" Kon announced quietly, not moving an inch closer.
"I didn't answer." He continued before Tim could even sigh.
Tim’s jaw shifted slightly, a faint flicker of relief softening the sharp line of his mouth when Kon finished his sentence.
"Dick will try next" Tim noted aloud.
"Let them" Kon muttered back. He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a small, heavy black box, setting it next to the grocery crate.
"I brought the encrypted comm. Single-frequency, straight to my ear. No Bat-relay, no server logs. You push the button, it pings me. Only me. That's it."
Tim stared at the box for a long moment. It wasn't a tracker. It was a lifeline, one he had chosen, on his own terms.
"So you're going to respect my wishes" Tim asked.
He knew he was asking a lot from the latter, concerning what he had been caught doing over the course of the last few months, yet he couldn't help but feel resentful around the thought of Kon listening in.
Kon nodded, taking a slow step back toward the open doorway.
He didn't offer a pitying smile, and he didn't try to lecture Tim on getting more sleep.
No matter hw much each sight of Tim made him wish he could.
He was deathly afraid that Tim would see it as a demand, something he was going to get pressured into.
And the last thing Kon wanted to do was push him away.
He simply paused before the threshold, his hand moving backwards to rest on the heavy steel door, not wanting to look away for even a moment.
Kon pulled the steel door shut, the latch engaging with a heavy, solid clack.
"I'll start organising, tell me where to move everything" Kon announced, his voice tearing through the silence as he opened the plastic bags and begun moving to the kitchen.
During the next few minutes that followed, Tim didn't order Kon around. No. He let the latter do whatever he wanted with the place.
It's not like Tim was one to concern himself with interior design and organisation.
Yet, suddenly amidst the growing silence that grew over the apartment once again, Kon sparked another conversation.
"Tim you're- You're my friend"
Tim froze. The words hit his chest with the blunt-force impact of a sledgehammer, knocking every drop of excess air clean out of his lungs.
"Your bestfriend" Tim corrected once he grew satisfied with the amount of air in his lungs. Because Kon's statement had knocked out all the excess air from his system.
Because Kon's statement had drawn such a rigid, impermeable line defining their relationship.
A line that could drive a agonizing wedge right through Tim's fragile, blooming doubts.
An isolated, selfish part inside Tim had hoped Kon’s words would be enough to deter him, to anchor him so tightly to the earth that his other, darker burning desire would burn out completely.
He felt disgusting for putting such a monstrous weight on Kon's back.
Without Kon even knowing it.
Kon’s next words were literally sitting on the scale that would determine whether Tim lived or died, and Kon didn't even know how impactful his words were on Tim's fate.
From Kon's side, he thought he was doing the right thing.
Because Tim needed a friend. He needed stability, unconditional support, a safe harbor.
Kon was terrified putting Tim under immense, unbearable pressure by having one of his closest friend, turn around their friendship in hopes of pursuing a romantic relationship.
Had they been more honest with eachother and what they wanted. Had they both confessed the love that was suffocating them, of the desperation in their chests- perhaps the outcome wouldn't have been this.
Instead, Tim just smiled a faint, empty smile. "Yeah. Best friends."
"I'll be back on Thursday with the rest of the medical supplies" Kon said, his eyes meeting Tim's, a soft smile reaching his eyes. "Unless you ping me earlier."
"Thursday is fine" Tim replied, the edges of his lips slightly quivering.
Kon hesitated for half a second, a soft, genuine warmth breaking through his exhausted face. "Get some sleep, Tim." For the split second that it took Tim to answer, Kon swore heard his own heart skip a beat, realising what he had said.
Yet the response was enough to calm his nerves.
"Yeah. You too, Kon."
The air in the room felt heavy, almost liquid, as the medication seemed to began to interact with his body.
It was an overwhelming, leaden weight pressing down directly behind his eyes.
Within twenty minutes of throwing away the last the container, his vision began to split and double.
His surroundings lost their sharp edges, turning into a smeared blur of light and shadow. A strange, metallic coldness crept through his limbs, starting in his fingertips and moving inward until his hands felt massive, clumsy, and entirely detached from his brain.
When he tried to shift his weight to stand, his knees simply folded beneath him.
His body felt like a puppet with cut strings, dropping him hard onto the cold tiled floor of the bathroom.
He swore under his breath, the loud thud of his body collapsing was still ringing in his ears.
Yet he couldn't help but smile.
A sick, twisted part in him couldn't help but react to the current situation with pure euphoria.
Then came the wave of violent nausea. It didn't start in his stomach.
Instead it hit like an electric shock straight from the back of his neck.
His body bucked in a sudden, involuntary spasm, his actions irritating his stomach which was struggling to process the chemical overload.
He retched violently, but his brain was too foggy to fully coordinate the movement. He couldn't push himself up off the walls.
He was awfully determined for this to work.
He was persistent on letting his body suffer through the toxic amounts medicine.
As he leaned on his side, his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps that felt unnatural and far away, like listening to someone else breathe in an empty room.
His cheek was pressed flat against the bathroom tiles, but he barely felt the temperature.
There were sweat streaks coating his skin, glistening it against the harsh lighting of the bathroom.
The more time passed, he felt a heavy, dark stupor swallowing him, he could hear the muffled, frantic sound of footsteps rushing down the hallway and someone shouting his name, but his mouth refused to form words, producing only a faint, wet moan followed by a wince just as the sound of the door slamming and wood fibers tearing apart, filled his ears.
He felt a small gust of wind spread throughout his body, and suddenly there were warm trembling hands touching his body, trying to assess to the situation.
Tim could barely decipher the words Kon was practically screaming, amidst the panic that made his eardrums ring.
"Tim! Tim? What did you take? Come on Tim! what did you take?" Kon's warm hands although panicked out of his mind, gently held his face, trying to pry Tim's eyelids open.
"Look at me, look at me, Tim- What- Can you hear me? What did you take?"
Kon desperately used his X-ray to see the state of Tim's body, what was his heartrate? How was his organs handling the definite overdose?
He would use his super-hearing, if his own heart and breathing wasn't fucking up his ability to concentrate on the correct heart.
Before Tim even knew it, he was hunched over the toilet with Kon's fingers shoved inside his mouth, making him gag out and throw up whatever it was that he took.
Kon terribly grimaced at the sound of Tim gagging and choking on his fingers as he was unwillingly vomiting his guts out.
When Kon was finaly satisfied with the amount of the drugs out of Tim's system, he took his fingers out.
His body leaned backwards, he sank back onto his heels on the slick bathroom tiles, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon at full speed.
His trembling hands hovered over Tim, wanting to touch him, to pull him close, to anchor him, but terrified that any sudden movement would break whatever fragile thread of life Tim was still clinging to.
Tim slumped against the side of the porcelain bowl, his forehead resting against the cold rim. His body was shaking violently, cold sweat and vomit remnants dripping from his chin onto the wet floor. His throat burned with bile and stomach acid, every muscle in his torso aching from the sudden, forced violent contractions.
Why?
The word screamed inside Tim's head, silent and bitter.
Because why couldn't Kon just let it be? Why did he keep coming back?
He felt like a ghost trapped in a corpse. A zombie bound to a broken frame, forced to drag himself through the motions of living just to satisfy the people who couldn't bear to let him go.
He was a walking dead man, a husk that breathed only because everyone around him refused to let the pulse fade.
With persistance that far surpassed Tim's will to keep going.
"Tim... talk to me," Kon choked out, his voice cracking violently. He grabbed a damp towel from the rack, his fingers shaking so hard he almost dropped it, and gently wiped the sweat and vomit from Tim's face and neck. "Please. Talk to me. Is there anything left inside? Do I need to get you to an ER? Do I call Bruce?" Kon's words were followed by his own supressed sobs.
"No" Tim rasped. The word was a dry, broken whisper that tore through his raw throat. He tried to pull away from Kon's touch, his bad shoulder screaming in protest, but he didn't have the strength to shift his weight more than an inch. "Don't... don't call him."
"Then tell me what you were thinking!" Kon snapped, the sudden flare of anger immediately collapsing into a desperate, sobbing plead. "You promised! You said you were taking the meds to get better- You- You said you just needed space!"
"I am taking them" Tim muttered, his eyes half-closed, staring numbly at the drain in the floor. "I took... all of them. I just wanted... the noise to stop, Kon. I wanted the broken parts to stop hurting."
Kon closed his eyes, pressing his palms flat against his face as a ragged sob escaped his throat.
The realization that Tim was running out of life, settled into his chest like a kryptonite weapon crushing his insides.
Tim wasn't fighting to survive anymore. He was just waiting for the clock to run out, and I'm forcing him to stay awake for as much time possibleuntil the execution.
"I can't do this, Tim" Kon whispered, his voice trembling as he lowered his hands and looked at Tim's hollow, exhausted face. "I can't keep pulling you back from the edge if you're jumping off on purpose. I thought- if I gave you space, if I trusted you, you'd find a reason to hold on."
"I don't have a reason," Tim said flatly. The complete lack of emotion in his tone was worse than if he had screamed. "I'm already dead, Kon. Whether you guys like it or not. Every time I take a breath, it feels like I'm wearing someone else's skin... I'm just-... a body moving around because you won't let me lay down."
Kon leaned forward, resting his forehead against Tim's uninjured shoulder. The heat radiating off Superboy was intense, a stark contrast to the deathly chill clinging to Tim's clammy skin.
"Then let me be the reason" Kon breathed into the quiet dark of the bathroom.
"If you can't live for yourself right now, if you feel like a ghost... then let me hold the weight. You don't have to fix everything today or- or anytime soon. Just... stay. Let me carry the pieces until you're ready to pick them back up." The mere thought that Kon might not be enough to hold Tim down, sparked emotions of utter uselesness from Kon's side.
Tim swallowed hard, his dry throat burning in response. He looked down at the dark curl of Kon's hair pressed against his right shoulder, feeling the shuddering breaths of the half-Kryptonian who could tear down buildings, yet was entirely undone by a handful of pills taken by someone he considered a friend.
"It hurts, Kon" Tim whispered, a single tear slipping down his pale cheek, cutting a warm path through the cold sweat. "Living like this... it hurts every second."
"I know" Kon said softly, lifting his head to look Tim dead in the eye, his own blue eyes red-rimmed and fierce with unconditional devotion. "I know it hurts. But you're not a dead man, Tim. Not to me. You're still here. And I'm not letting you go."
Silence settled back over the small bathroom, heavy and bruised, but the suffocating air felt slightly lighter. Kon gently gathered Tim into his arms, lifting him off the cold tiles like he weighed nothing at all, and carried him out of the dark toward Tims undone bed.
The half-kryptonian felt content, for tonight, to simply guard every shallow breath until the morning came.
The month that followed the overdose felt, at times, almost like healing.
It was a quiet, fragile sort of domesticity. Kon practically lived at the loft, moving with a hyper-vigilant gentleness, learning the exact rhythm of Tim’s rehabilitation.
They now sat close on the rusted fire escape on Tim's apartment building, shoulders touching in the dim, lead-shielded light.
They shared their low-spoken jokes, quiet meals, and long, heavy silences that no longer felt like landmines. To either of them.
There were moments when Kon’s hand would linger on the back of Tim’s neck, warm, steady, anchoring, and Tim would close his eyes, leaning into the contact, feeling the terrifyingly sweet ache of something that felt like salvation.
They were dancing on the sharp edge of confession. Tim could feel it in the way Kon looked at him when he thought Tim was sleeping and Kon could feel it in the way Tim’s breathing settled only when Superboy was within arm’s reach.
Then came the rainy Tuesday in late October.
They were sitting on the edge of the workbench, sorting through Tim’s physical therapy grips. The silence between them had grown heavy, thick with an unspoken truth that seemed to vibrate in the cool air. Tim had looked up, his dark eyes locked onto Kon’s lips, the pulse in his throat hammering a fast, desperate confession. He was ready to drop the armor. He was ready to give up the ghost and let Kon have all of him.
Kon had cleared his throat, his face pained, terrified of pushing Tim too hard, terrified of becoming another stressor in a life already burdened by trauma. He reached out, his thumb brushing a stray lock of black hair from Tim’s forehead, his voice laced with a desperate, protective earnestness.
"How are you feeling?"
"Good" Tim responded with a faint smile, his gaze lingering on Kon's eyes for a second longer.
Kon wasn't exactly content with Tim's response, but he couldn't help but feel the truthfulness in Tim's words.
Kon finally found it in himself to not worry as much. Because he would never stop worrying when it came to Tim.
Because, over the course of the last three weeks, Tim was acting... Better.
He was responsive. He did his hand exercises without complaint. He took his prescribed doses right in front of Kon, swallowed them with water, and handed the empty glass back with a calm, clear expression.
He had convinced the bats, through brief, cold comm-pings, that he was stabilizing.
He convinced Kon that the storm had finally passed. He made everything look so terrifyingly okay.
On a freezing Friday night at 3:00 AM, while Kon was away on a mandatory Young Justice off-world debrief, Tim stood in the harsh, fluorescent glare of his small bathroom.
That faithful night, Tim could finally drop the act of a healthy individual.
The air smelled of copper, damp cement, and bleach. In his functional right hand, Tim held a six-inch tactical combat blade, high-carbon steel, double-edged, cold as ice.
His breathing came in heavy, ragged hitches, his reflection in the mirror staring back at him with sunken, hollow eyes.
For a second, his fingers trembled. A instinctual, primitive wave of fear washed over him, telling him to drop the steel, to step back, to wait for Kon's boots to land on the roof as he returned from his mission. He backed his hips against the sink, hyperventilating, almost backing down.
Do it, he urged himself, his internal voice rising into a sharp, bitter hype. Stop dragging him down with a corpse. Let him be free. Open the door and embrace it.
And as for the bats, don't you think they'd be better off without you, having to bite down on their insults and suffer through your failures just because they see you as a weak, damaged replacement.
His own mind was turning against him, encouraging such a vile act.
Tim closed his eyes, pulled a deep, final breath into his lungs, and drove the blade straight into his own abdomen.
The steel sliced through skin and muscle with a sickening, wet friction. Tim’s eyes flew open, his jaw locking in a silent, violent shock as the pain exploded through his core like liquid fire. But he didn't stop.
The violent attack against his own body went on. Tim felt his breath being ripped from him, his diaphragm spasming as with a desperate, frantic surge of strength and desperation to finish this off, he gripped the hilt, twisted the metal ninety degrees, and dragged it out.
Tim swore loudly as the blade ripped from the tight hold it had gotten around his intestine and abdominal muscles.
The blood-slicked hilt, he dropped it, clattering now uselessly against the tiles.
His insides had wrapped around it like limp spaghetti around a fork.
The ridge on the base of the blade made the pull out even more agonising, tearing through the layers of twisted bowels with a slow yank from his own arm.
The serrated knife got removed without a single second thought, leaving Tim's person in a matter of seconds.
Hot, dark crimson poured out over his hands, pooling rapidly across the white porcelain tiles, soaking through his clothes, spreading in a thick, steaming tide.
Each hard thump against his ribcage send another wave of agony on the worsening pain.
Even a mere breath made the situation feel painful.
He collapsed heavily to his knees, his forehead slamming against the icy bathroom tiles.
Every movement his body made involuntary reminded him of the torn fibers.
Every single pulse of his racing heart forced a fresh jet of blood against the lacerated muscle, firing a blinding wave of white light across his vision.
It started deep, where the blade had sheared through his stomach wall. A sickening, acid-hot wash flooded his insides, turning his lower abdomen into a sheet of live, burning wires.
The internal burn flared into something unholy, a searing tear that made his knees buckle. His vision went completely white for a terrifying half-second, the edges of his sight turning into static.
His body wheezed and at the same time choked out every remaining air.
His legs were drawn closer even if the movement made the pain more overwhelming.
Tim's face was scrunched up, his teeth gritted so tightly against each other Tim swore he was starting to hear cracking.
He let out a breathless groan that, had he had more air, would resemble a scream.
The pain was absolute, a searing, blinding agony that tore through his nervous system.
And yet, as Tim lay on his side in his own blood, his chest heaving with weak, shallow gasps, his lips pulled back into a small, broken laugh.
It was a wet, breathless sound, echoing softly off the cold tiles. He laughed because the doubt was finally gone. He laughed because the agonizing weight of trying to survive, trying to be fixed, trying to be nothing more than a friend, was dissolving into the freezing air. There were no more calculations to make. No more 30-second movement windows, no more beta-blockers, no more lies.
He knew, with absolute and beautiful certainty, that he was beyond saving now.
Tim closed his eyes, resting his cheek in the spreading pool of warm blood, and let the sweet, dark embrace of the end take him at last.
The key code for Tim's (seemingly normal) apartment’s reinforced door hadn't changed, but the mood bringing them there had.
It was supposed to be a peace offering. A low-stakes, non-negotiable olive branch carefully negotiated through Kon two days prior.
Dick was carrying a battered cardboard box containing an ancient Monopoly board and a bag of takeout from the Chinese place Tim used to order from during long nights at the Computer.
Jason lagged slightly behind, two six-packs of ginger ale swinging from his fingers, his leather jacket squeaking with every step. Damian marched up the stairs ahead of them both, his chin tilted high, carrying a small leather case of high-end drawing pencils he’d spent forty minutes picking out under the pretense of 'replacing Drake's inferior tools'.
"If he tries to pretend he isn't home, I'm throwing a spring roll at his head" Jason muttered, stepping up to the final stair of the third-floor.
"He knows we're coming, Jay" Dick said, a nervous, hopeful energy buzzing in his voice. He shifted the board game under his arm. "Atleast I think he does. Kon confirmed mutliple times that he's home right now"
Damian didn't wait for them to finish debating. He stepped up to the keypad, his small, gloved fingers punching in the six-digit sequence with crisp precision.
The heavy steel door unlocked with a loud, mechanical click, swinging inward on its oiled hinges.
"Drake" Damian announced, stepping over the threshold into the entry mat. "We have arrived. The food is getting cold, and Todd insisted on bringing—"
He stopped.
The silence inside the loft wasn't the quiet of a man reading on a cot or working on a laptop. It was a dense, heavy, absolute stillness, the kind of vacuum that exists only when an engine has completely stopped running.
The air smelled sharply of cold copper and bleach.
"Tim?" Dick called out, his cheerful tone instantly evaporating, replaced by the instinctual, sharp edge of Nightwing. He set the takeout bag and the board game down on the workbench near the door without making a sound. "Timmy?"
Jason didn't say anything. His eyes immediately darted to the floor.
At the end of the short hallway leading to the back of the loft, a thin, dark line of wet crimson had crept out from beneath the shut bathroom door, pooling quietly in the slight dip of the concrete floor.
"Stay back," Jason growled, his voice dropping an octave, his body instantly tense.
"Jason-" Dick was already moving, his boots covering the distance across the loft in three frantic, soundless strides. "Tim!"
Dick didn't wait. He grabbed the handle and shoved the bathroom door wide open.
The scene inside was framed in the harsh, unflinching white light of a single fluorescent bulb.
Tim lay on his side on the cold porcelain tiles. His dark hoodie was soaked through, the deep red stain spreading across his chest and stomach, pooling thick and heavy beneath his still, pale form.
His functional right hand rested limp inches away from a blood-slicked tactical blade.
His face was entirely relaxed, eventhe deep lines of exhaustion and pain smoothed away into an eerie, beautiful quiet.
His eyes were half-closed, staring softly at nothing.
The breath went out of Dick so hard it sounded like he’d been struck in the chest with an iron bar.
His knees simply gave out. He collapsed straight down onto the wet tiles, his hands hovering frantically over Tim’s chest, terrified to touch the blood, terrified to confirm what his eyes were seeing.
"No" Dick muttered, his voice a tiny, high-pitched thread. "No, no, no... Timmy, no, please, no..." He reached out, his trembling fingers pressing hard into the cold curve of Tim’s neck, searching for a pulse he knew wasn't there. "Bruce! Somebody! Jason, help me, his heart-no, no, no!"
Behind him, Jason stood in the doorway.
He didn't rush in. He didn't drop to his knees. He didn't call out for a medic or reach for his phone.
The moment Jason’s eyes landed on the blade, the massive volume of blood on the floor, and the complete, unnatural stillness of Tim's chest, he knew.
He had seen enough dead bodies in Crime Alley to recognize the exact second a soul left a vessel.
Tim was gone.
Beyond CPR.
Beyond trauma surgeon response times.
Beyond miracles.
And in the very same microsecond that brutal truth slammed into Jason's mind, he heard the sharp, sudden intake of breath behind him as Damian stepped up to the doorway, his green eyes widening in confusion and rising terror.
"What is-" Damian started to whisper, his voice high and small.
Jason didn't let him finish.
Before the younger could process the red pool, before his mind could register his brother's lifeless form, Jason pivoted on his heel, spun around, and wrapped his broad arms around Damian.
He pulled the boy violently into his chest, burying Damian’s face hard against the heavy leather of his jacket. With his left hand, Jason reached up, pressing his palm firmly against the back of Damian's head, locking him in place, forcing him to face the dark hallway, completely obscuring the doorway behind them.
"Todd- let me go! What is-" Damian struggled, his small hands pushing against Jason's ribs, his voice laced with sudden, panicked confusion. "What happened to Drake?! Let me-"
"Don't look" Jason choked out.
His own voice sounded like it was breaking over glass, raw and wrecked, but his grip on the boy was an iron vise. He squeezed Damian tighter, shielding him with his entire frame, taking the full, crushing weight of the horror so the youngest didn't have to see it.
"Don't look, kid" Jason repeated, his chest heaving as a single, silent tear cut through the grime on his cheek, staring blankly over Damian's head into the dark loft while Dick's broken, sobbing no's echoed off the bathroom tile behind them. "Just stay right here. Don't look."
Jason's luck felt like a curse.
Having to look at your brother's half-dead body whenever the two of you were in a room was far from a blessing.
He wanted Tim to stay the furthest from the line that seperated life and death.
But now he had only and utterly failed.