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It starts as any other day, so Tim never sees it coming. A bit of bad luck here, a fallen coffee there. Nothing to warrant worry.
Nothing to give him an inkling of the shitstorm that hits him.
It hasn’t been this kind of week, and this is not how Tim plans to die.
Still, this is a hell of a lot of blood.
*
He was set up from the start, Tim realizes it now. That warehouse was always meant to be his grave.
One of Maroni’s men must have found his tracker, fed him wrong information to lure him there.
Tim was careless, distracted, overconfident, arrogant. He should’ve known something wasn’t right.
Instead, he walked right into their trap.
The truck drives over a bump in the road, jostling Tim painfully. His vision goes white-hot, and he thinks he might have passed out for a second, because the truck seems to have stopped now. His whole body aches, and breathing is like setting himself on fire from inside out.
Being shot once is an inconvenience of the job.
Being shot at enough that a bullet finally pierces kevlar is definitely above his pay grade.
The truck jostles, and reality blurs.
*
Tim is tired. So, so tired.
His muscles ache, adrenaline can only take him so far. But still, he holds on to the bar, pushing his body up.
It hurts, but it’s necessary. He needs to be ready, he needs to be better. Batman needs him to be better.
Mistakes like that, they can’t happen. He slips in a fight again, Batman might not be there to help him. Worse, he can get someone else hurt.
How can he be Robin if he keeps screwing everything up?
So he needs to train harder, longer, further.
But he is so tired. Was he this tired before? Doesn’t matter. Tim punches the dummy again.
Hadn’t he been doing push-ups just now?
A sharp pain on his stomach almost makes him double over. Tim looks down, confused, and watches with morbid fascination as a red stain blooms on his white shirt. It grows larger and larger, until blood is dripping on the Cave’s stone floor.
Wait. Wasn’t he on the training mats?
Reality flickers, like a glitch on a video-game. It’s all wrong, Tim frowns. The table should be on the left, and the Batmobile hasn’t looked like that in a long time–
Tim hasn’t been Robin in a long time, either.
Another wave of pain hits, closer, raw, real, and Tim screams–
*
Tim screams, already regretting waking up.
Someone is calling his name, but it sounds muted, distant, washed out. The voice is familiar, and Tim wants to tell them to let him go back to sleep.
He wants to tell them to please, put him down. This being carried thing, it hurts with every step. Come on, guys. He has a gut wound, they should know better than move him around like this.
Gunshots ring in the distance, too loud not to pierce through the haze, the smell of smoke. Tim frowns, trying to open his eyes. Is that Jason? He shouldn’t smoke, they’ve talked about that before. He coughs, his mouth comes up red, copper.
The arms around him tighten, the voice speaks again. Tim still can’t quite make out the words, but the cadence is familiar, comforting.
It hits him then, he’s not in the truck anymore. He’s being rescued.
Maybe if he weren’t in so much pain, maybe then Tim would feel embarrassed, or humiliated, but right now, all he feels is relief, cold against the burning wounds.
Feeling safer, calmer, Tim lets himself drift off again.
*
The Manor is always surprisingly quiet in the mornings, even when most of them crash there. Tim likes it, the quiet. It’s peaceful, it’s calming, it’s nice.
Tim wakes up, his body aching after last night’s patrol. He tries to remember the details, but it’s all foggy, blurred. Shaking himself off, he heads downstairs.
The dining room is crowded, and Tim can’t figure out why he didn’t hear them. Bruce sits at the head of the table, reading a newspaper. Damian is at his left, scowling and ranting about something Tim has no interest in. Dick is beside him, busy with a bowl filled with disgustingly sugary cereal.
A grape hits Tim in the forehead, and he glares at Jason, throwing it back. His brother shrugs, as if saying whoops . Tim hopes he chokes on that toast. At his side, Cass giggles sleepily, and pats the empty seat beside her. Tim smiles, complies, a little surprised Stephanie hasn’t joined Jason in the Grape War.
Alfred tuts disapprovingly, and Steph laughs. Duke looks like he might be reconsidering his decision of being associated with this family. Barbara, jaded against the insanities of meals at Wayne Manor, passes him the salt.
It’s a chaotic sort of peace, but Tim can’t remember the last time they had all been sitting here like this. No shop talk, no shouting, no fighting, no passive-aggressive comments.
Lunch time had always been an especially hard hour to track everyone down–
Hadn’t he just woken up?
He looks down at his watch, it blinks back 12:00 pm. Christ, he needs to stop sleeping in so late.
Bruce puts the newspaper down, smiles a the full table. He looks proud, happy, ruffling Damian’s hair.
Sunlight comes in through the window, catching on Steph’s blond hair, making it shine golden. She turns, meeting his eyes, and grins mischievously. Tim sighs long-suffering, mostly just for show, expecting another grape to the face. Instead, a popcorn hits him in the eye.
He catches it where it’s rolled between couch cushions, turning it around in his hand. When had they moved to the living room? And popcorn?
Disappointment fills him. It’s a dream, he realizes.
Still, even as realization hits him, even as everything begins to blur and fade and shatter, Tim holds on to it desperately. Just a little longer–
In the end, it slips through his fingers like sand.
*
“Tim?”
A voice calls him, but Tim feels a little like he’s floating. He opens his eyes slowly, carefully, blinking at the sudden too bright lights.
“Shit, sorry,” the voice says, and then there’s rustling, and the light is dimmed.
He’s in his room at the Manor, Tim realizes. The pain is mostly gone, dulled to a faint aching on his abdomen, and his whole body feels numb against the soft blankets.
“Feeling better?” It’s Dick who asks, sitting down in a chair by the bed. He looks tired, a bruise is blooming on his jaw, and his eyes are concerned, relieved, fond. “You gave us quite a scare back there.”
“What happened?” his memories are scattered, filled with blanks he can’t quite fix right now. “How did you find me?”
Dick gives him a flat look. “Do you honestly believe Bruce doesn’t have a hundred and one trackers in everyone’s suits?”
“You do have a point, I guess.” Tim tries to sit up, ignoring the needling pain when he moves, but a hand stops him, pushing him back. Dick gives him a stern look, as if daring him to try that again. “What? I’m not invalid.”
“No, you just got shot in the stomach last night, ” he says pointedly, “Alfred says you need to rest right now.”
Shifting into a more comfortable position, Tim sighs, feeling strangely melancholic. “Thanks, by the way. For saving me and all.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dick shrugs, propping his feet up in the bed, “Jason is always down for exploding things, and I’m always down for punching mobsters in the face. Especially when they kidnap our little brother.”
Dick tousles his hair, and Tim bats him away, glaring, mostly for show. The meds always make him sluggish, sleepy, and this time is no exception. He yawns, “yeah, thanks anyway.”
“You’re welcome, Timmy. That’s what we’re here for.”
Tim falls asleep, and this time he doesn’t dream.