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Every case was rough. He dealt with cases of rape, murder, hate crimes, drug overdoses, sexual assault, pedophilia, sexism, etcetera. Name a social issue and Tim had experienced and dealt with it, no doubt about it.
Every case sucked to deal with.
But some were harder to get through than others.
Tim found that after cases like the one he was presently dealing with were especially difficult for him to make a quick rebound off. Dick could brush this one off as easily as he did the other ones (but not the rape cases, never those), Jason would probably forget about it (he’d never forget the overdoses; he couldn’t), Duke would probably never really have to deal with something like this (but the Joker victims always have him stuck, whenever Joker tries to be different and strike under the sun), and Damian probably wouldn’t give it a second thought (the murder cases always make him struggle a bit, regardless the age of the victim).
For Tim, though. This case he’s just finished is one he can’t move on from so soon.
He’s sitting in his seat at the desk he has in his room of his apartment, legs hugged close to his chest and mouth pressed to his knees as he blankly stares at the screen of his laptop.
Dick’s issue was rape and sex crime cases. Jason’s was drug-related cases. Duke’s was Jokerized victims. Cass’ was mutilation. Damian’s was murder.
Tim’s was attempted rape; attempted molestation, especially that toward a minor, along with the crimes actually fulfilled. He had less difficulty with drug crimes, Jokerized victims, mutilation, murder, and the like, because…
Maybe he’s just weird.
But then again there’s— she’s standing in front of him, his arms are bound, her hand is getting too close to him, and he doesn’t want it— his traumas.
He tries to remind himself that Dick is the one who was actually raped. He tries to remind himself that Cass saved him, just in time— but what if she hadn’t? What if she’d gotten there too late; what if she hadn’t shown up at all?— and nothing happened aside from a little of his collarbone being exposed.
But he knows it’s unhealthy. He knows that trying to minimize his trauma is toxic behavior. He knows that it’s better to recognize his trauma for what it is— trauma.
He knows.
Knowing and practicing, though, are two very different things. It’s especially hard to practice healthy coping mechanisms because of how he grew up; who he grew up with—or, better said, who he didn’t grow up with. (“Your mommy and daddy are working very hard so you can eat, Timothy, so be grateful that you have them.”)
So it’s a little hard to admit certain facts to himself and actually process them as the truths they are.
Case in point: Tim knows he has trauma pertaining to sexual assault; it’s a fact and he understands that. But it’s only during times like these where he has a case like this one where he realizes the depth that comes along with that sentence—it’s only during times like these where he realizes just what a loaded statement “I have trauma” is.
In his field of work, trauma is just something you sign for in the “Terms of Agreement” section of whatever fucked-up contract you fill out when you decide to don a domino. Everyone has trauma; it makes sense that he would have his own. He’s long accepted that.
To sound like a broken record, though; knowing and practicing are different things.
He knows he has trauma; knowing.
He forgets the depth—the weight—to having it, and therefore forgets to process it; practicing.
Two very, very different things.
You know you have a cut, and you know you should treat it.
Knowing.
You grab a band-aid and neosporin and apply both.
Practicing.
Different.
So Tim sits there, staring at the screen dotted with words, entirely zoned out. He’s lost in his head but not at the same time.
He’s just kind of… existing, not really doing anything on any level aside from living.
There’s something in the room that changes and has Tim slowly returning to himself, bit by bit. First he blinks a little at the page, squints at it as if he’s seeing it for the first time—which it feels like he is. Second comes the smell; obscenely cheesy pizza and some sodas. Third the music and sounds process.
Someone’s in his apartment.
Brow crinkling, Tim glances at his phone which rests beside his laptop; he feels like it’s the original disturbance that drew his attention. He extends an arm—picks the phone up—and unlocks it, opening his messages to find he has three unread texts from Dick, and one from Jason.
His question of Who is answered, and his next one of Why is pretty easy to solve too: Tim’s laptop is synced with the Batcave, so Bruce and anyone else who has access to it can see what case he’s working on.
A small, sober smile touches the corners of Tim’s lips.
Seconds later he’s turning his phone off, closing the laptop, and burying his face in his legs with a long sigh.
The thing isn’t that he’s ungrateful; it’s more he’s not sure how well he’ll be able to function. He’s not sure how he’ll be able to… to interact, for lack of a better word.
He’s grateful they’re here. He’s so, so grateful that they noticed, that they care, that they came to visit.
He’s grateful.
But (and there’s always a ‘but’ when someone says something nice, isn’t there) he doesn’t know if he can be a functional person the way they might expect him to be—doesn’t know if he can act they way they think he will.
He just doesn’t know.
You need to know if you want to practice.
Tim’s expecting a knock on his door any second; Dick and Jason are visiting, they brought food and soda, they’re waiting for him. They want to talk to him. He’s not sure if he knows what he’s going to do if they knock, but “ We’ll cross that bridge when we get there” and all that jazz, right?
He ends up zoning out again, eyes closed, hugging his legs to his chest, face pressed to his knees.
He’s not sure how many hours pass with him unresponsive. He’s not sure how long he was staring at the darkness behind his eyelids. He’s not sure how long he’s drifting in the limbo of nothing.
But he knows that when he comes back to himself enough to feel like crying, Dick is doing something on the carpet behind him, and Jason’s reading a book to Dick out loud on his bed. He knows that his big brothers stayed, music’s still softly playing in the background, the smell of pizza and soda is lingering, and he’s not alone.
Something must change in his posture—maybe he curled up a little tighter—because Jason pauses his reading and Dick moves, his footsteps muffled against the carpet but audible all the same, the only sound the soft background music.
“Can I put my hand on your back?” Dick asks.
The emotion with a tight grip against Tim’s throat won’t let him voice a response, so he just nods.
Dick rests his hand flat on Tim’s shoulder blade.
“Should I keep reading?” Jason checks.
Proverbial hand around his throat getting tighter, Tim mutely nods again.
Jason picks up where he left off.
Minutes pass and Dick leaves his hand there, Jason keeps reading, and Tim’s slowly feeling human again, and he’s feeling like he’s about to break.
Crying is a good method to process, and having responded to his brothers is also good progress, even if the replies were nonverbal.
Knowing, check. Practicing, almost check.
Another minute later and something must change in his body language again; Jason stops reading, and Dick asks, “Can I put my other hand on your back?”
This time, Tim manages to croak out a broken, “Yeah.”
Dick rests a second hand on Tim’s opposite shoulder blade, and asks a follow up question.
“Can I rub your back?”
Back to being unable to speak, Tim nods his agreement.
Dick starts slowly massaging the tight muscles in Tim’s back, and Tim’s walls crumble a little more.
Again Jason asks if he should keep going, and Tim nods a second time, so he continues again where he left off.
His verbal response was another good step in the right direction.
Knowing, check. Practicing, very nearly check.
Tim doesn’t last longer than three minutes before he’s cracked.
A lone tear slips down his cheek and, even if his face is hidden from their view, Dick and Jason pause in what they’re doing.
Instead of ask if he continues reading, Tim hears Jason move off the bed and walk over to where he and Dick are.
Instead of ask if he continues massaging, Dick asks, “Can we hug you?”
Tim’s got an anaconda squeezing his throat, now, so he can’t answer no matter how hard he tries.
So he nods.
Hugging him at the odd angle they have must be a little awkward, especially with how Tim’s sitting, but his brothers don’t comment as they make something work, both of them holding him.
And Tim doesn’t have a hope in the world of lasting any longer.
He starts crying, and he starts crying hard—like he’s never cried a single time before in his life. (Maybe he hasn’t. He’s not sure; can’t remember. He thinks he did, when Jack died, but all that’s a blur.)
Tim’s body trembles with how hard he’s crying—sharp jerks of his shoulders that can’t make hugging him any easier—and he’s biting his lip in a feeble attempt to smother any noise he might make, but that effort only makes the sounds pitiful.
His brothers hold him throughout it all, even tightening their embrace a little at one point.
They don’t leave.
They do the very opposite, actually, staying with him throughout his break down— knowing, check. Practicing, check— and he cries until he can’t anymore.
When he’s done Tim taps Dick’s arm (he’s pretty sure it’s Dick’s, because Jason has more muscle) and waits for his brothers to ease up a little. (He doesn’t want them to let go, really doesn’t want them to let go.)
Jason lets go first, pulling away completely but to ruffle Tim’s hair. Dick pulls back but leaves an arm slung over Tim’s shoulders.
“So,” Jason starts, body language entirely lackadaisical, a stark contrast to the little wet marks on his shirt that Tim knows are from his tears, “you up for some pizza?”
Dick chuckles. “Jason rented us a movie, too.”
Tim isn’t quite one hundred percent yet, but he’s getting there. He’s close enough to crack as much of a smile as he can, and say, “Yeah.”
Jason nods once, slaps Tim’s back, then heads out the bedroom, calling, “Dick drank all the goddamn Sprite, so all ya got to pick from is Mountain Dew and Pepsi,” over his shoulder.
“I hate Pepsi,” Tim mumbles as he and Dick follow Jason.
Dick just laughs again.
Twenty minutes later finds the three of them on Tim’s couch, a plate with a slice of pizza way too oily to be legal in his hands, a cup of Mountain Dew precariously (dangerously) secured (sandwiched) between himself and Dick, Dick to Tim’s left and Jason to his right, both pressed as close as they can comfortably be as they watch Up.
“You’re totally gonna cry,” Dick comments to Jason, his face turning without his eyes leaving the screen.
Tim laughs a little at Jason’s scoff and remark of, “I bet fifteen bucks you’ll start crying before I do.”
“I’m betting with Jason,” Tim says, taking a bite out of the greasy pizza and hating yet loving it.
“I,” Dick replies as the music changes, “am about to be thirty dollars richer.”
And, roughly an hour or so later, Dick is indeed thirty dollars richer.
But, as Tim pays up, he’s of the opinion he has just about everything he needs.
Knowing, check. Practicing…
Check.