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Blue-black ink carefully makes a line on the back of Tim’s hand, wobbly but keenly focused, the smell of permanent marker drowning out everything around him. He hasn’t slept in five days now, and constantly forgets how long it’s been, so he makes a note of it somewhere he won’t lose it. Tim’s hands shake as he carefully puts the cap back on his Sharpie.
He’d had every opportunity to sleep--it’s July, so he doesn’t have to go to school. Where his brothers spend their free time with their friends, Tim works on cases, and when he doesn’t have any of that to do, he busies himself with something , anything that can keep him awake and distracted. Tim does not want to sleep. He’s been having recurring nightmares for weeks now, no doubt brought upon by a particular event drawing closer.
Tim hates his birthday. For him it was not a celebration of his life but a bitter reminder of all the times his parents promised they’d come home to do something with him and did not deliver, all the cold and lonely too-late birthday money checks coming in the mail, every time thinking I have no reason to be upset , this should be fine . It isn’t fine. Wasn’t. His parents aren’t even alive to not come home for his birthday. They died thinking I wasn’t good enough .
Around this time he frequently has dreams about them--nightmares, too, but so often he wakes from them crying that he doesn’t know the difference anymore. He would never tell, even though he promised he would: Tim can’t bear to have them look at him in that way that they do, like he’s a wounded animal, simply a child wronged by the world. He doesn’t want unsatisfied pitying eyes on him, careful voices scared to startle asking him over and over if he’s okay. He isn’t, but he’s Robin, and Robin doesn’t cry.
He’s turning sixteen, one of the most important milestones for a teenager where most get a car or throw an elaborate party: it’s almost funny how impossible that scenario would have been even if his parents were still alive. He’s hoping he’ll at least get a hug or something from Bruce--or maybe he just doesn’t want to consider the possibility that Bruce would treat him like his brothers, too overwhelmed by the idea of being a recipient to affection that he does not dare venture into such territory.
So, he’s been working. If he never goes to sleep, he won’t have nightmares. That was what he had originally thought, and it does make logical sense, only now he’s so sleep deprived he forgets how long he’s been awake.
Somewhere along the way, perhaps around day three, Tim had come to the conclusion that his parents abandoned him on purpose. He did not want to present this to the family without evidence, so he began creating a board like he would for any other tough case. The theory grew and twisted as he collected his fragments of memories and old bank statements: Tim had a clear thesis. Obviously, his parents had been intent to kill him all along so they could collect the insurance money.
He’s still stuck on the proof, which he’d be collecting more of if it weren’t for the fact that his parents had come back from the dead to punish him for his wrongdoing. Tim saw them, standing ominously down hallways and in the reflections of mirrors, always staring with cold eyes. He feels his soul has become compromised. He has holed up in his room, terrified of his parents coming to collect their bounty on the nineteenth of July.
Tonight is family dinner night--once a week they made sure they were all under one roof to eat together, a tradition unfamiliar and uncomfortable to Tim. It being family dinner means that he has to leave the safety of his room, and when it’s time he practically runs, afraid and bleary-eyed from exhaustion.
They’re chattering, lively as usual (with the exception of Bruce, who is never lively), debating over something that Tim doesn’t understand. Everything sounds like indistinguishable noise. He’s hardly present, and his eyes wander, brows furrowing in confusion when he spots the wallpaper shifting and moving. It makes the walls look like they’re melting, and it almost distracts him from--
“HOLY SHIT!” Tim leaps up from his seat, terrified of the grotesque and rotten form of his mother standing in the corner. She’s sickly and grey, still in her dig clothes, covered in blood and staring right at him. She starts towards him, and he grabs his chair in defense, backing up several feet from the table.
At some point he started sweating (maybe it was crying; he couldn’t tell), and he blinks, hard, and Janet is gone. Everyone is still seated, staring as if nothing happened and he was nuts for trying to defend himself.
“Hey, Tim?” Jason asks, and he’s trying not to laugh. Why is he about to laugh? “What are you doing?”
Tim looks frantically between him and Bruce. “Did you-- Did you not see that?!” Everyone shakes their heads, and Tim sets his chair down for a moment. He needed to think.
I can’t be hallucinating, he thinks. Hallucinations don’t start until four or five days, and it’s definitely only been, like, two. Suddenly, Tim remembers the tally marks, and looks at the back of his right hand. “Oh,” he says out loud. “Oh.” Tim puts his chair back and takes a seat. “Alfred, can I please have a coffee?”
He hears Dick’s voice. “Alfred isn’t even in the room right now.” He looks around. When did Alfred leave? Gears turn slowly in his head, brain buffering.
Suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder, and he shrieks, startled, turning to see that it’s just Jason. Jason? “Holy crap, how long have you been there?”
His brother is smiling. “I have literally been sitting next to you for twenty minutes. Are you high?”
Bruce is not smiling. “You look exhausted. How long has it been since you’ve last slept?”
“Uhm,” Tim stammers, and looks at his hand again. Five. “Five.”
“Five what ? Hours, days?” asks Dick.
He blinks. “What is today?”
Damian speaks up through a mouthful of food. “Friday, the eighteenth.”
Tim processes for a moment until he’s suddenly struck by the panicked realization of what that meant. “Wait-- Wait, if that’s today, then that means my parents are going to murder me tomorrow!” He exclaims, voice raising in volume and distress the longer he speaks. Jason is trying to pretend he’s not laughing, but it’s causing a ripple of giggles from everyone else at the table.
Well, everyone except Bruce. “Explain.”
Tim frowns. “I’ve explained this to you guys, like, six times already.”
“Uh, no ,” Dick says, staring. “You have never mentioned your parents wanting to murder you on your birthday!” Tim feels everyone’s eyes on him, eyes full of held-back sympathy and rage for what he’s been through.
Tim hasn’t been through that, though. At least, he’s pretty sure they never outright tried to murder him, but he needs to explain it--before he can stop himself, words begin falling out of his mouth at whatever volume or pitch they wanted, eyes wild like a madman. “I HAVE THIS THEORY THAT SECRETLY, MY ENTIRE LIFE, MY PARENTS WERE PLOTTING TO MURDER ME SO THEY COULD COMMIT INSURANCE FRAUD. I HAVE AN EVIDENCE BOARD ALREADY, BUT I HAVEN’T QUITE PROVED IT, BUT I KNOW THEY’RE SNEAKING AROUND THE HOUSE, BECAUSE I S--”
Damian interrupts him. “--Richard, you told me that birthday murder attempt trials were not normal, yet Timothy --”
Dick pats Damian’s shoulder. Jason is laughing hysterically. “It’s not normal, no. Tim is just… really tired.” Tim looks at them, then at Jason, then Bruce, his entire body nearly vibrating from the heinous amount of caffeine he’s consumed on top of no sleep. “Alright, Tim. It’s night-night time,” Dick says.
Alarm bells go off and Tim starts to panic. “What?! No, I can’t , they’re go--”
“They are dead, Tim--” comes Bruce’s voice.
“--WHAT IF THEY DECIDE TO COME BACK?!” he says, near hyperventilation.
Beside him, Jason chuckles and gestures to himself, “Hey, I mean--”
“Oh my God,” Dick says, exasperated. “Stop encouraging him.”
“ I can’t sleep! ” Tim cries, and he feels like he’s going to throw up. “I can’t sleep! I’ve tried, and I can’t! I won’t, and you can’t make me! ” Robin doesn’t cry , he thinks as he is reduced to tears. The chatter around him tunes out, and his ears ring. The only thing he can hear is the sound of him beating himself up for crying in front of Batman (as if he has not already done that). Fragments of the conversation float through his ears now and again; ‘Sedation’, ‘Tie him down?’, ‘just tell him … sleep”. Whatever they were saying, Tim doesn’t like the sound of it.
“Tim. I’ll play guitar for you,” says someone, and Tim is suddenly snapped back to reality, his exhausted sobs on pause as he processes the voice. Of course , Tim thinks, Jay’s guitar .
Over the years, Jason had taken up several musical instruments, but he mainly played two: the drums (for his anger) and classical guitar (for his love of the finer things in life). His room was soundproofed after many loud, loud nights, and happened to be one of the only soundproofed rooms in the house. Jason was extremely talented, especially at guitar, but most of the family rarely heard him play as he practiced mainly in his bedroom.
Tim, however, knew his brother’s playing very well. Often, they spent the later hours of the night in each other’s company, one doing something to make ambient background noise for the other to fall asleep to. They have found that Tim only falls (and stays) asleep when Jason is practicing soft Spanish melodies on his classical guitar. It’s soothing, and he always feels something when he listens, some special feeling of safety that only arises during this occasion.
Tim stills. “... Okay,” he says, and sniffles.
Everyone except Jason and Tim look at each other like someone just proved two plus two equals five. “Wait, really?” Dick asks, bewildered.
Jason grins. “I’m going to win. Watch,” he says, and stands to take Tim upstairs.
Tim is able to make it up the stairs himself (surprising everyone) and Jason leads them to his room. It’s neat and clean as ever, a lone guitar on a stand on the far side of the room next to the drum set. Jason goes to get it, and Tim climbs into bed, looking small amongst the fluffy comforter and pillows. Dick, Damian and Bruce watch quietly from the doorway. Tim doesn’t seem to mind.
Jason sits next to Tim’s feet, adjusting himself to be in classical playing position. Tim’s still wide awake, and it’s not until Jason does a few measures of tremolo warmups that his eyelids begin to droop. He begins playing a moody, romantic piece, at allegro--much faster than you’d think for someone trying to lull someone to sleep--but he knows it’s Tim’s favorite, Carcassi’s Etude No 7 . It’s short, but breathtaking, played with the skill of a years-trained professional; Tim is asleep before the song ends. Not wanting to disturb him, the spectators stage whisper their cheers and praise.
“Thanks,” Jason laughs, at a regular volume. He knows Tim is out . When he’s truly asleep, he won’t wake for anything. “Alright, now I want five dollars from all of you.”
“Jay, this was never a bet,” says Bruce.
Jason gives him a skeptical look. “Uh, it is, and I won.”
Damian interrupts. “Wait, so can we go to the zoo tomorrow, then?” They never figured out where to take Tim for his birthday. The task was being spearheaded by Damian, and because he is Bruce’s son, he has a need to make a plan for everything.
“If Tim wants to,” Dick replies, gesturing to the bed.
Damian frowns. “How are we supposed to know if he wants to or not?! He’s asleep !” He had no desire to wake him up, because Day-Five Tim was frankly horrifying.
“It’s his birthday,” says Jason. “Guess we have to wait.”
Damian huffs and crosses his arms. “Unacceptable. We must make a plan at once,” he says, and Dick and Jason make eye contact, trying not to laugh. “Timothy enjoys the aquarium,” Damian says primly, as if he didn’t intentionally bring up the aquarium because he wanted to go, too. “We are going. It has been decided.” At the look on Bruce’s face, he addresses Tim directly. “What say you, Drake?” Tim remains fast asleep, all the worries and frowns gone from his face, reminiscent of a sleeping angel. “He didn’t say no,” Damian concludes.
Bruce looks to Dick for help, who just shrugs. Scowling, he herds the boys out of Jason’s room, staying behind just a moment to press a kiss onto Tim’s forehead.