Chapter Text
tap, tap.
Tim traces the dented, rough lines that define the cold marble tiles beneath him with a gloved finger. He’s sitting criss-crossed, slim body leaning forward so that he can stare blankly at the white floor with his vacant, pale blue eyes. It’s freakishly cold. He shivers - he’s not in his heat-insulated uniform, but rather a loose shirt and gray sweatpants. No weapons, they can’t trust him with any.
With another shudder, Tim pulls back and shifts his hand behind him to support himself as he averts his attention to the ceiling. His other arm hangs limply by his side - it’s sore and he doesn’t want to feel it even as dull throbs race through it like a heartbeat. They had decided not to bind him up in a straitjacket because it was too painful for them.
The ceiling is speckled, with dirty dots scattered against the white canvas - more interesting than the floor. Good, it gives him something to occupy his mind of and to distract himself while he waits. He counts each individual dot, starting over every time he loses track of which speckle he had already counted and which he had not. He gives up after a while - has it been an hour? Minutes? He’s lost track of time, and his gaze flickers to the padded walls that let him scream out all of his frustrations and pain without hurting the ones outside the small, too tight room he’s locked in, as well as making sure he can’t smash his skull against the walls. It’s not like he tries to; he’s a vigilante anyway, he could do it without the walls, and they know this, even if all he does is sit there numbly and stare. Tim zones out, losing track of time again. The harsh white lights transfixed in the ceiling don’t help him either; it burns his eyes and he hates it.
There’s a rustle and a muffled clicking of locks opening, and Tim whips his head around while keeping his own body perfectly still. The door hidden into the padded wall opens and a hazy figure appears in the doorway.
“Dick,” Tim whispers hoarsely, eyes bloodshot and wild, even if it’s dampened by his hollowness.
“Hey, babybird,” The man says softly, a tight smile on his face. He hesitates before taking a step closer to Tim, like the younger is a crazed animal that would snap out at him any moment. “... Good morning.”
Tim leans back and uncrosses his legs so that he could hug his knees and rock back and forth for a brief moment before he rises shakily. “Dick, please .”
Dick takes a step back in caution, ending in a defensive and tense position, and sees the hurt flickering across his younger brother’s face. It’s painful, it’s so painful for him but he had to endure it. He has to endure it for Tim. At least, that’s what he tells himself every morning to force himself out of bed and every night to force himself to go through those horrible, horrible dreams.
“I’m not supposed to be here,” Tim says, pleading , stumbling on his own feet. “I… I can’t be here right now, I have things to do and I need-”
“Tim,” Dick says softly, and a foot is out of the padded cell, “You’re not okay right now. You can’t go out there.” You’re going to hurt people and hurt yourself.
“You don’t understand !” There’s a wild look flaring up in Tim’s eyes again, and his frazzled, uncombed hair doesn’t help his image. Dick doesn’t want to find exactly what kind of edge his voice takes on, but there’s frustration and anger and tears. He takes another unstable step forward, nearing the edge of the unlocked room. “I’m not…” His voice trails off into something softer, more genuine, full of grief and pain. “I’m not insane. Please, believe me, Dick, I got cleared… I… Stop looking at me like that .” Another step forward, muscles coiled and ready to lash out.
That alone makes Dick melt enough to want to just give everything up. Let his little brother who was suffering so much out, tell the others that he had escaped. His heart can’t take it. But he doesn’t - and he doesn’t know why, but at that moment, he manages a forced out “No.”
“Dick,” Tim says again, voice raw. “ Please .”
Dick takes a deep breath and shuts the door in the former Robin’s face before he locks everything up again, breathing heavily. Hot tears spring to his own eyes, and he runs away, away from all of this .
Inside the padlocked, padded room, Tim opens his mouth.
And this time, he screams.
No one hears him.
Tim picks at his bloodied nails. There’s a chunk of flesh missing from his cheek, rough around the edges from where he had forcibly dug his fingernails in and ripped it off. Blood burns crimson from under his eyes to where the dip starts in his hollowed cheeks, dripping to paint the rest of his face and some of his neck in the same tainted color. It lightens once it’s mixed with his frustrated tears like blossoming watercolors, just as it’s spread across his pale skin like a canvas.
He just wants to feel something, anything , just to ground himself and think, but his mind is a foggy haze like a single lamp shining through a thick, muddy mist. Barely visible. He hates it. He hates it, because he’s supposed to be the detective . He’s supposed to be the one who could think, he’s supposed to be the one that figures out all of their problems. That’s all he’s good for, and now? He can’t even hear his own thoughts, and even if he could, no one would believe anything that comes out of his mouth.
Tim sits there for a while longer, cycling through an array of different positions before the door opens again with a heavy swing outwards, and the second robin stands in the doorway this time. Jason’s leaning against the frame, hip cocked and brow raised to mask the concern that he clearly displays with the rest of his body, but Tim doesn’t tell him that. He hears a sharp hiss between the other’s teeth, feels the eyes bare into his cheek, but he doesn’t flinch under the intense gaze. Instead, he simply pulls his eyes up to meet the other’s piercing green-flecked blues, and they silently stare at one another, challenging to pull away.
Jason finally breaks the spell with a clipped, “Hey, Replacement,” before he disappears from the doorway for a few moments. Tim doesn’t bother slipping out - he knows from the heavy footfalls that it’s no use, for Jason would be right around the corner, and could easily take on his weakened and defenseless state. And so, he waits until his brother comes back with a plate of food, curtsy of Alfred’s. It’s a paper plate and no utensils because they all know what Tim could do with a simple fork and knife. He doesn’t take up the offer, and so Jason sighs and shifts his weight so that he could place the meal in front of him.
“Look, kid,” Jason says, “I know that you’re probably not in the mood for eating, and I can’t blame you, but you’re going to fucking starve to death at this rate.”
No answer.
He pinches the bridge of his nose and continues, “I know what it’s like. Well, kinda, I’ve been pit-mad, y’know,” a quick glance at Tim’s throat before a wince, “But you have to cooperate. ‘Else it’s not going to get better, so just please don’t,” He gestures with his fingers to Tim’s cheek. A pause. “Which on accord, I gotta get Alfie here.” Jason retreats out of his cell, but doesn’t lock the door this time. Tim doesn’t know why. Is it because Jason knows what it’s like to be locked up, and felt pity for him? Is he an ally and trying to help him? Does he think that Tim wouldn’t do anything because he had already been too broken ? Or did he simply forget?
The questions swirl in Tim’s head as he tries to do his best to ignore them. He rises to his feet again, but collapses almost immediately as his legs give out uselessly under him. But no one claims that the Bats aren’t determined for a reason , and so the teenager starts to crawl. He inches himself along the cold tiles by pushing forward with the little strength he has left in his arms to drag his legs behind him. Core strength - he veers upward to touch the handle, wildly thrusts it aside, and works the door open. It almost swings by its own accord for him.
Tim’s pale blue eyes dilate to adjust to the new light, and his head hurts. It’s much dimmer than the harsh, artificial lights in his padded cell, but still rather bright, but in a more natural, soothing way. His nails scrape along hard rock. His shirt pulls up as he continues forward, rubbing his stomach raw along the rough terrain.
He’s home.
His eyes can trace the soundless shapes of the bats overhead, perched on stalactites from the roof of the cave, which is basked in the quiet blue light of the computers all around. He grabs blindly for a railing, and once he makes contact, he starts to hoist his body up into the same position he would use to start a simple flip over the bar. And that he does, letting go at the last moment to plunge into the bottomless darkness below.