Chapter Text
Tim Drake had one purpose here. The machine only had enough energy for a one-way trip, too, so he guesses that it all works out in the end. It should all work out in the end, anyway, so long as he can get the job done. He’s got the flash drive prepared, the machine hooked up to the generator, and the Batcave spanning around him. This is the end. This is the last time he’s going to see the Batcave like it is now. Which, admittedly, isn’t the worst thing in the world, considering the smattering of blood that covers the display cases, and the mess of the medbay that nobody would want to clean up, and the bodies in the corner and maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. If there’s any possibility that the time he goes back to could end up as bad as this one, any possibility at all that he would have to live through this again, he doesn’t want to do it. But he has no choice in the matter, now does he. The plan had remained the same from the very beginning, and here he was trying to disobey Batman’s wishes. He never had been a good Robin, now had he.
But he was, wasn’t he? He went through all the steps necessary to get where he is now, he did the research, he studied the epidemiology needed to prevent any disease known to man up until this point, and he could only hope to whatever god existed that it would be enough. Because there was nothing in the blood of anyone who had contracted this to indicate what done this. Because all he had was guesses and speculation and for some unknown reason he had the chance to go back with this knowledge and hope beyond hope that he could make it better. That anyone could make it better. That he could find the Batman of the past and convince him this was a threat and Tim was not, and create the necessary support systems to keep Earth afloat.
So Tim has the time machine. And the blueprints. And the notes and blood samples and written account of what happened from any possible source and anything he could conceivably need from this version of reality. All so he can go to another one. Because that wasn’t terrifying in the slightest, nope. He had it all under control.
With all of this in mind, Tim places the flashdrives into the time machine, and steps in himself. It’s now or never, he tells himself. Or rather, then or never.
~~~
The first thing Tim Drake noticed when he was forcefully ejected from the time machine was that it put him in the wrong time. Well, it was actually that they always should’ve made the Batcave floor just a little less of a pain to land on, but the timeframe was an incredibly close second, and exponentially more important. The way the machine had ejected him meant that he was facing the wall of cases, where Jason’s Robin was front and center. Except there was no case of Jason’s Robin costume. Meaning Jason never died. Meaning someone is currently alive, as Robin, maybe even in this cave, and the time machine didn’t do its job right. And Tim was in his Robin costume. What, and he thinks this with every ounce of respect for Alfred he has, the fuck.
About seven seconds too late, Tim notices that the Batcave is empty. Frantically, he whips his head around to make sure that he’s not back in his time, but no, there’s still no extra Robin case, and there’s no blood on the wall, and there’s no bodies in the corner. The bodies of the people he loved. The bodies of people who would never be able to do good again. The bodies of-
There’s a voice coming from the stairs. It’s Batman, voice not so grating as the Batman Tim knows, not so lighthearted as the Brucie that’s the darling of the public. And Tim should move, should face the stairs and explain himself the second he can, but he can’t. He’s just staring at the corner where he can still see them, just barely through the haze of his vision.
The hand on his shoulder sets muscle memory into motion. Get the hand off, turn, attack. He’s done it hundreds of times before, and the height is so familiar that the punch to the trachea is one that might even get him a satisfied grunt.
Instead, he gets silence and two hands landing harder to secure his shoulders. Tim tries to push them up, tries to curl in on himself until he can get out of the grip and move, hands moving in unaimed punches and feet attempting badly angled kicks, but once the hands pass his ears he’s being turned again and his arms are jerked into a safety hold.
The world freezes. Batman is mumbling something in his ear, almost reassurances, but that’s not right, Batman never reassured him on anything other than saying his form was correct. Everything in his body is too tense, he’s a cable about to snap in Batman’s hands, because somehow they are Batman’s hands, the same calluses in the same places, the lines he can feel fold against his skin the same as the ones he’d traced on sleepless nights throughout the past week.
And he’s crying, he realizes, far too late. The tears are running down his cheeks unbidden, and the second he tries to go back to breathing through his nose he realizes he can’t, because the snot that built up with those tears somehow managed to escape his notice. So he’s crying, in the safety hold of a Batman that doesn’t know him, a Batman that hasn’t had to relearn grief, a Batman that probably thinks he’s a threat because Tim hasn’t managed to give any explanation.
But this Batman is still whispering reassurances in his ear. This Batman isn’t holding the safety hold too tight, or putting him in handcuffs or a prison cell, this Batman is letting him cry without judgement or reprimand.
Tim might not know how to deal with this Batman. This manages to be an oversight in the plan.
~~~
Bruce Wayne is incredibly confused. He’s the same level of concerned, but how a very small child in a blood-smattered Robin suit (with pants, which at this point is a little bit weird to see) managed to get into the Batcave with a bin full of papers and flashdrives only to mentally check out while staring at a corner, he doesn’t know. The large machine in the middle of the room with an open hatch might have something to do with it.
The child is currently crying in his arms, the bin forgotten on the floor. He keeps whispering in the child’s ear, but there’s no response to either the hold or the words. As softly as he can, he turns to face Alfred, not quite sure what response he’s looking for. Alfred motions towards the now open medbay, and moves to put on gloves.
Maneuvering the kid is easier than it should be, and the second he hits the bed in the bay Alfred is checking visible skin for injury. The kid doesn’t even seem to notice it, his eyes still trained on the same corner of the cave.
Alfred moves the kid’s arms and legs with a practiced eye, searching for any hint of injury outside of the crusted blood on the uniform. After a couple of minutes, he takes off the gloves and faces Bruce. “Nothing but some scratches. But I must say, Master Bruce, you will still be expected at dinner when the time arrives. The young sir will stay here without issue.”
Sure enough, when Bruce redirects his attention to the kid, he’s asleep.