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Tim moves silently in the manor, socked feet dragging against the carpeted floor in ways that surely made Alfred hate him as he gathered more and more animal fur by the bottoms of his soles. He knows because he’s been told time and time again that he shouldn’t. He knows because he’s been told that the fur clogs the washing machine and the grime that builds up doesn’t come away no matter how long it’s soaked.
He knows Alfred would hate him. He finds himself uncaring.
He knows he’s dragging his socks through the carpet in ways that would make his adopted grandfather angry and hate him but his feet are heavy and the shuffling is making him feel something and it’s the only thing that’s currently passing through the haze that’s curtaining his brain.
And so he marches on, aimlessly through the halls but emotionally on the death row.
Today is Saturday. If the bedside clock and the morning sun that woke him up hours ago was to be believed, it’s also a little after lunch. Saturday meant Alfred was out to do groceries for the movie night tonight. It’s Saturday and everyone is in the manor and everyone will be patrolling tonight like some weird family bonding and he should be bouncing ecstatically because they haven’t done this since Jason went undercover for three months, and it’s finally something they can do now that he’s back and Dick is coming in from Blud and Cass is free from Birds of Prey work–
–But he just woke up again from sleep and he hasn’t done anything today and he’s already tired and tired and oh so tired .
He’s so tired it doesn’t even spark a feeling of anticipation he usually felt for these nights. He’s so tired he doesn’t care.
So. He knows Alfred would hate him and he’s not feeling anything about the family tradition and the thought of his big brother coming home doesn’t even make him smile. He knows something is wrong, but he still finds himself uncaring.
Tim felt very… off . He doesn’t like it.
There's a strong urge to be okay and be productive, and be the Tim Drake last week that made a wind powered space heater for the homeless or the Red Robin a week before that that made a drug bust that led to 23 arrests but he finds himself to be the Tim now where he feels hopeless and lazy and staticky and it takes too much of his energy to just breathe .
Tim knows what pain feels like. He also wasn’t a stranger to happiness. And love. He knew love. Dick makes sure they were all well versed in it the moment each of them steps out of the mansion or the Batcave’s doors.
But what he always didn’t know what to expect when the emptiness came. It was like living outside of your head– a ghost following your body. A soul just slightly off center by a few inches.
Hours are blurring together and Tim knows he should be doing something about it but all he’s feeling now is numbness intersped by the muted tickle on his feet, the sand heavy in his mouth and the prickly thrumming of static under his skin, worming its way through his veins and eating him alive.
He knows he’s not depressed though. He doesn’t want to kill himself, thank God for that . He just…particularly doesn’t want to be alive right now. God knows he feels like he isn’t. There’s a fog in his brain and he wants to be okay but he doesn’t know how to even start to care about wanting to be okay. He’s surely not depressed because he’s been there and done that and this is not the overwhelming sense of sadness that permeates and tinted every waking moment of his life when Kon and Bart were dead and Bruce was lost in the time stream, and especially when he just lost Robin to Damian’s initial assassin level temper tantrums—
No.
He knows pain. He knows happiness. He knows love. But this–
This time, it’s just…it’s like he died sometime in the night and his body just kept moving on without him.
It’s like the wirings in his brain shifted and disconnected and Tim’s body is dragging him aimlessly through the manor halls while his mind is plugging a Type C port in the VGA connector and not particularly caring if it doesn’t fit.
He knows he’s in a bad place. He knows because he could feel it, but feeling doesn’t mean he cares.
“Tim? Chum?”
If Tim can jump, he would have. But his limbs were molass, being stuck in your own mind can do that, and right now his brain isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders. Even looking at Bruce felt like looking at him through a veil or a slightly concave piece of glass.
So instead, he pauses. “Yeah?”
“What are you doing here? This is going into the West Wing chum.”
“I was taking a walk.”
“A walk.” Bruce mimics, an eyebrow raised. Tim tries not to think too much about the expression. He knows he doesn’t have the energy to even if he wanted. “A walk. Towards the West Wing. Where no one goes to.”
“Yes?” There’s a chanting in the back of Tim’s head that’s telling him to smile and laugh it off because he knows it's wrong to feel that way, and wrong to make Bruce worry and wrong to be Tim at the moment. You know, make it seem like a joke. He tries, but it doesn’t work because even replying felt a little delayed. “A walk.”
He smiles again, trying harder to tap into the energy levels that were pretty nonexistent. He’s pretty sure his face just twitched.
Bruce looks at him up and down. “A walk.”
Suddenly, there’s a look on Bruce’s face that doesn’t sit well with Tim. He's not sure what tipped him off- if it's the slope of his frown or the minute hardness in his eyes that gives way to...something.
Tim made that look come up.
In the back of Tim’s head, he’s screaming because Bruce knows something’s wrong with him . Bruce must see that he’s a dead boy living in his body and his mind is yelling at him because he’s been Robin and you never get over the feeling of wanting to comfort your Batman and he doesn’t want Bruce to see how empty he feels, like a huldrekall from those myths with empty bodies where a living person should be–
–but there’s sand in Tim’s mouth and static in his brain and Bruce is looking at him with a frown on his face and something in his eyes that Tim can’t comprehend.
Tim shuffles his feet just to feel something and hopes it’s enough feeling to make his voice less flatter than it sounds.
“Yeah…am I disturbing you?”
Bruce’s face softens. It’s a small movement where the trenches on his forehead releasing tension by a fraction of an inch. A small nod and tilt at the corner of his mouth.
“Not really.” Bruce says, tilting his head back to the opposite side of where Tim was dragging his body to. “Listen, Tim, I’m just finishing something off right now, but can you find Jason for me?”
Somehow, Tim is both grateful Bruce doesn’t see his struggles and partly disappointed that Bruce wasn’t able to tell he’s dying .
Mostly, he just feels tired .
But it’s Bruce, his Batman. And his Batman needed his Robin to do something , no matter what, and Tim has always been Bruce’s Robin .
“Okay.” Tim says.
He waits for Bruce to say something else. Bruce does nothing, but continues to cast him that look of softness that would make Tim uncomfortable if he didn’t feel too much like a puppet on broken strings.
“Okay.”
So Tim leaves the hall and turns to find Jason. He’s always been great at following orders. At least now he doesn’t seem like the ghost he feels himself to be.
Besides, even in his stupor, he knows it was an easy task. Menial. Jason’s always in the library.
“Jason.” Tim says.
“Timbo.” Jason replies.
Tim shifts from foot to foot. “Bruce is looking for you.”
The older teen doesn’t even look up at him from where he’s reading some hardbound book Tim doesn’t even try to read the title of. “What does he want?”
“I don’t know.”
“The fuck you don’t know.”
Jason snaps, irritated as he turns another page. Lifts his feet on the coffee table as if he’s doubling down on the comfort of his seat and opposite of what Tim’s asking. “Look, the old man knows I don’t agree with just calling me up at random times. He’s not the boss of me.”
“Well, he’s asking.” Tim says again.
“No.”
“Jason, it’s Bruce .”
“I said no, you fucking hear me Replacement. I said no– ” Jason growls, tearing his eyes off the page with swirling green behind those teal blue eyes and brows furrowed til—til they weren't. “Oh.”
Tim would flinch if he doesn’t feel so empty, so done and so fucking tired. Instead, he shuffles his feet once more. Alfred would really hate him by the crustiness he feels with each drag of his foot.
“Bruce needs you.” Tim says again flatly.
“I know. You said that already.” Jason grumbles, placing the book on the table besides his orange juice and dragging a hand through his hair. He squeezes himself closer to the end of the sofa, patting the seat next to him. “Come here.”
Tim frowns. “But Bruce needs you.”
“I know and I think I know what he wants, come here Red.”
Jason doesn’t understand so Tim tries again. “Bruce needs you Jason.”
Tim doesn’t. Bruce does.
How can Jason not understand that?
Jason growls, something low, and before Tim knows it, his body’s up in the air, gangly limbs flying and uncontrollable–
–and in the scuffle, as if in slow motion, his foot tips the orange juice. Tim sees the moment the fluid splashes around and over the glass’ edges–
– and he sees the moment it tips and falls and lands on Jason’s book with a shrill THUD! and suddenly everything is crashing and overwhelming and his emotions are back with a vengeance and he wishes he didn’t ask for the haze to lift because now he has to face the humiliation of tipping the glass and Jason’s anger on ruining his book and the self hate of being idiotic and clumsy that suddenly injects into his bloodstream like venom that’s making his heartbeat pound hard in his chest and in his ears and he’s feeling again but he’s still so tired and it’s too much, so very too much and his eyes were prickling and his chest was constricting and—
–and Jason’s arms are around him and present and there and petting his hair like it doesn’t matter, like nothing matters, carding soft fingers through his hair and softer words into his ear.
“It’s okay, it’s okay Tim, it’s okay.” Jason chants. “Breathe, Red. Just breathe little brother. Remember our training? In four out four? Can you do that for me?”
Of course he can. He’s always been great at following orders.
He lets the breaths take over, expanding his chest with air and letting Jason’s words envelop him like a blanket.
When Tim finally found his words, he sees Jason leaning back to give him space, but the grip on his arms stays just as grounding. “Am I dying?”
“No.” Jason replies with certainty, continuing to pet his hair as if it’s second nature. Tim tries not too lean too much into it. Knows he must be doing such a bad job by the way Jason chuckles. Doesn’t care because Jason still continues to pet his hair . “I think you just dissociated for a moment.”
That wasn’t right. Tim doesn’t dissociate . So he frowns. “Was I really?”
“I think so. Do you want to be crying in the arms of the brother that beat you half to death three years ago just for funsies ?”
“Oh.” Tim says, belatedly realizing he’s crying . Humiliation colors his cheeks. “No.”
Jason smiles, a soft smile that Tim rarely sees unless it was with Alfred or he’s injured– and even in cases of the latter it took Jason ages after his mother hen ranting about injuries before he shines the look on him.
Tim thinks it’s nice.
It certainly suited Jason more than the scowl he swears is permanently etched on his face.
“I’m sorry.” He says after a while, pushing Jason off. He knows he shouldn’t be apologizing, but the words tumble out of his mouth. He carefully uses his sleeves to mop the falling tears. “I didn’t– I didn’t want to bother you. I just…I just felt so empty. Sorry Jason.”
Jason doesn’t let him get up. Instead, he puts a heavy hand on Tim’s shoulder.
“Stop being an idiot Tim. Do you want to be comforted or not?”
“Yes… No?” A pause. “Should I? Do I deserve to be?”
Jason’s face melts. It’s the same look on Bruce’s face, the frown that says Tim’s said too much and the glint in his eye that said it didn’t matter.
Fond , Tim’s head supplies. Soft sadness, but still fond.
“Yeah, little Red. You don’t deserve to be anything except being happy. It’s why we’re here, yeah? Why Bruce sent you to find me?”
“Maybe. Still, you’re probably busy and I ruined your book and I shouldn’t–”
For the second time that day, he gets manhandled by a strong grip.
“Shut the fuck up and rest up little Red.” Jason says, crushing him back into his side. Tim realizes how heavy he feels next to Jason, who is so warm and stable and grounding . Nothing felt real but it's okay because Jason was carding calloused fingers pick through greasy tangles. Realizes how tired he still feels. “Stop thinking little brother and just rest.”
Tim’s always been great at following orders.
He’s tired and his brother is here, telling him to rest. He closes his eyes and lets the fingers that card through his hair lull him into sleep.