Work Text:
It happened just like this.
Tim had a lead. A big one.
He did something stupid. Really stupid.
Some monster in makeup and purple heels beats him halfway to hell with a crowbar while Tim chokes on hysterical giggles.
There’s a bomb.
What a punch-line.
Kablewy. Kablam. Timothy Drake-Wayne blows up into hundreds of teeny little pieces.
Except he doesn’t.
He was screaming.
Screaming
adj.
- Uttering screams; shrieking.
- Having the nature of a scream; like a scream; shrill; sharp.
- Loud, sharp, and piercing to the ear.
verb.
- Present participle of scream.
noun.
- A high-pitched noise resembling a human cry.
He was wandering.
Wandering
noun.
- The act of one who wanders; a ramble or peregrination; a journeying hither and thither.
- A straying away, as from one's home or the right way; a deviation or digression in any way or from any course: as, the wandering of the thoughts; a wandering from duty.
- Incoherence of speech; raving; delirium.
Timothy Drake-Wayne was far from alive.
But maybe Tim will make it.
Alive
adj.
- Having life; living. synonym: living.
- In existence or operation; active.
- Full of living or moving things; abounding.
For a long time all Tim sees is green.
Bright, sickening, pulsating green.
Florescent green? Phosphorescent green? Electric Lime?
Tim tries to gouge his own eyes out.
He chokes on liquid and the green comes back worse.
Joker green?
Laughter.
His own damn laugh track with a chorus of breaking bones and wet rattling gasps.
Why is it all fucking green?
Make it stop.
Make him shut up.
Where’s Batman?
Where’s my Dad?
He’d even settle for Nightwing’s taunts and jabs.
It happened just like this.
Tim Drake-Wayne died.
Tim woke up.
Screamed.
He tore his fingernails out of their nailbeds. He scrabbled for a grip on woodgrain slick with blood. He rose from his own damn grave while choking on soil.
Wandered.
He couldn’t see. He was cold. Shivering. Gotham’s streets were slick with rain. Blood was left on coarse brick.
Tim woke up, but he didn’t live.
He wasn’t alive.
Lazarus Pits brought you back, but they brought you back twisted. Exaggerated. A caricature of yourself, hollowed out, and pumped full of green goo.
Tim was awake at who knows when, frantically checking his apartment’s kitchen drawers, and double-checking his security systems every other footstep.
Obviously, Batman nor the Joker were going to be lurking in his fucking drawers but tell that to his vomit-green paranoia.
Thank you, Talia for fucking over his thought processes. He used to be able to go hours without even thinking about something outside his cases, but now Tim was stuck in fifteen minute work loops.
He got up. He checked his locks. He checked his security alarms and defenses.
He checked his weapons. He checked the police scanners. He checked his trackers and cams.
He checked his kitchen drawers. He checked his many burner phones. He checked his case notes.
Sometimes he checked the toilet paper roll holder. Don’t question it.
It isn’t logical. Thanks.
Tim also checked the level of the Joker Toxin presence in his blood.
Because slamming a crowbar down on his limbs wasn’t enough for the fucker.
He tensed his hands around the pile of cutlery that he was rummaging through.
Because obviously Tim needed to “lighten up” while he was gargling blood.
Well, now he couldn’t hear laughter without wanting to rip his teeth out.
Tim wasn’t a very light-hearted person anymore. Not that he ever was.
Too serious. Too cold. Too logical.
He’d never been able to connect emotionally to the victims in his cases.
Of course he felt sympathy. Tim wasn’t heartless. He just couldn’t put himself in their shoes.
When somebody was panicking on the streets after seeing something or experiencing something traumatic, Tim ran them through the calming and shock procedures. He gave them a blanket. He rested a hand on their shoulders and spoke kindly, softly.
His heart thrummed steadily in his chest. His breathing was normal. His hands kept their non-clammy feeling.
Maybe it was because he’d never had anything that traumatizing happen to him in his lifetime. Maybe it’d be different now. When he went back to running physical cases instead of taking them down from the inside out. Dismantling them online and through databases, through electronics, through stealth missions.
Through the League’s fucked up assassin training.
Tim pointedly didn’t think about Ra’s. Although he understood Damian’s refusal of his second last name.
Still didn’t mean Tim liked Damian.
“Shit.” Tim pulled his hand away from the counter, inspecting the fork lodged into his hand. “This is not laughable.” He blinked away the bright green encroaching on his vision before pulling out a hidden med-kit.
He had stashes. Med-kit stashes.
Blood trickled down from the four small puncture wounds in the back of his hand.
There was a bird in his shitty little Bludhaven hideout.
His least favorite bird.
Civilian identity: Damian al Ghul-Wayne. Refuses to put down his hyphenated surname, instead opts out for just Wayne. Raised as an assassin, still moves like one. Metal spine. Certain enhanced senses because the al Ghuls are terrible parents. Terrible friend, even worse of an older brother. Likes Duke Thomas’ company more than any of his other siblings. Raging fucking hypocrite. Antisocial spectrum?
Vigilante identity: Nightwing. Primarily martial arts and sword fighting. Disturbingly flexible for somebody with such a heavy-set stature. Kind to victims and children, but barely follows the code he grew up with.
Nightwing was a fucking asshole.
Really, who waits four nights to answer a fake ransom note? Like painfully fake.
It was literally “come find me!!!!” in big glowing, flashy, sparkly letters. It was so refreshing that Nightwing wasn’t a total idiot. Don’t get him wrong, Tim positively hates Nightwing, but it’s so nice to have somebody who could keep up.
Crime lords weren’t all that smart at the end of the day.
No regrets though.
Tim actually had fun with creating a coded message inside the fake ransom. It was the little things.
Like drawing out your piece of shit older brother so you could mess with him a little.
Tim was currently situated in one of his many hidden compartments. Really the best way to get rid of his claustrophobia was to just stick himself in small spaces and write down his findings.
Yes, he analyzed and studied his panic attacks.
Fuck you.
That being perfectly said, if Nightwing didn’t grab the fucking USB drive, Tim was going to freak. He’d been studying the room top to bottom warily, but with the usual Bat-thoroughness.
Nightwing had also been ignoring the USB ever since he stepped (read: climbed in through the fucking roof and down the rafters) into the space. God, the Bat-paranoia was at an all time high.
No, nobody gets to comment on Tim’s paranoia because it isn’t Bat-paranoia.
Batman wouldn’t want him back. Bruce wouldn’t even want him back
He didn’t even kill the Joker. Just sent Nightwing to do it. Just sent the one person who hated Tim more than anything to kill the Joker.
Tim had originally fucked around in Gotham a bit, but after finding out the Joker was very much dead and that Bruce was very much not the one to take revenge… well Big Wing was his next stop. God, Bruce was enough of a slack-spined piece of shit to make his eldest son murder a Gotham villain.
Because Tim wasn’t a fucking idiot. He figured out the Joker was dead just fine and Tim had to grapple with the fact that Bruce wouldn’t even betray his own goddamn code for his kid.
Tim could imagine how that went.
“Son, I need you to murder the Joker because I’m too much of a little bitch with my moral code and no killing rule! Despite the fact that you vowed to never kill again, I want you to do this for me, because our family has unhealthy levels of codependency.” Except Bruce would never say that many words.
And Nightwing would willingly do it because he was Daddy’s Bitch.
Tim wasn’t even a good enough Shrike to have Batman lose his shit on a fucking psycho.
Well, great. Now Tim was the psycho who couldn’t stop quietly giggling inside the sound-proofed compartment.
He wiped the tears from his eyes momentarily as Nightwing stepped closer to the table harboring both the ciphered note and the USB. Finally.
Tim watched closely as Nightwing turned it over, brushing his thumbs against the insignia Tim had engraved the drive with. Nightwing held it up to his face to get a better look and the mechanism unlocked, activating and releasing a cloud of gas.
Tim grinned.
This time it wasn’t due to the potent levels of Giggle Juice in his blood.
Nightwing unwillingly took a few gasps of the gas before grabbing the rebreather stashed away in his hidden apartment. He slapped the back of his neck, whirling around, his stance unsteady.
They really shouldn’t have relied on Tim for Scarecrow’s Fear Gas antidotes. All it did was give Tim the ability to create an even worse concoction.
Nightwing would be a good test subject. He wasn’t an innocent bystander and he had access to people who could eventually create a cure. Nightwing would end up fine and dandy with some fun nightmares and a three-day fever, but he’d live.
They were going to understand where they stood in this new dynamic.
Tim was the fucking enigma. The new player in the game.
They wouldn’t know what hit them unless he wanted them to know.
See, Tim didn’t want them to die. He wasn’t going to do something as messy and pointless as murder was. Why do that to the Bats, when Tim could just play games with them?
Surely just torturing the local vigilantes while taking down crime lords was better revenge than just murder . Murder was so… boring.
Supplying the Bats with extreme trauma and mental illnesses that they didn’t have yet however? Yeah.
It gave Tim something interesting to work on.
Or it would if Nightwing would stop fucking screaming. Jesus. Even Tim wasn’t this fucking loud on Fear Gas.
He was on the floor, his hands digging into his face as his back arched into another scream. Tim wrinkled his nose, he had spent many a night like that since the Lazarus Pit– since the Joker– since Ethiopia.
Nightwing whimpered, trying to curl in on himself before his body was wracked with unwelcomed shivers. “Tim? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, so so sorry– ”
Oh for fuck’s sake.
Tim opened the secured door, stepping out into the room with a very compromised Damian. If he wasn’t on the good shit, Nightwing would have immediately engaged with Tim. Instead, he was on the floor, writhing around, and trembling like a leaf.
“Hey, birdie.” Tim nudged him with a foot, only getting a violent flinch in response. “Betcha don’t know whose name you’re screaming out.” He crouched down next to Nightwing, his mechanized voice modulator echoing throughout the room.
There was just the frenzied shaking of Nightwing’s head, his gloved hands applying enough pressure to the sides of his face that Tim was sure there were going to be deep bruises. “I didn’t mean it… I didn’t. I didn’t.” Tim grabbed both of his wrists, pulling them away from his face. “Don’t touch me… please don’t touch me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t.”
Tim clamped down on Nightwing’s wrists, eliciting a whimper and a quick struggle.
He was trying really hard to breathe through the green dripping down into his vision, but it wasn’t really working . “God, you’re pathetic, Wing’. A little gas makes you lose your shit, huh? Just–” Tim sighed, letting go of Nightwing’s wrists to grab a knife. Slowly tearing at the kevlar to grab at the small distress button woven into the suit. “Stay still for a moment, will you?”
Man, he missed Alfred.
The one good person in that fucked up mess Bruce and Damian attempted to call a family now.
Actually, Cass was good. Tim had liked Cass.
Stephanie was a sore subject at the moment though. More at 3pm.
All it took was a kid being tortured and then blown up to jumpstart all those loving familial emotions.
Tim wanted to puke.
Nightwing had long since pulled away from Tim’s hands, tilting his face far away. His hands were pulled up onto his chest, trembling harsher than Tim would think possible. “Y’know, I used to look up to you. I used to want to prove something to you, but… seeing you like this? Well, I really wasn’t looking up to much, was I?”
“Timmy? ” Tim plunged the knife into Nightwing’s shoulder, eliciting a hoarse cry from the older vigilante.
Timmy. Little Timmy. I just want to hear that sweet, sweet scream of yours!
“Don’t you call me that.” He grabbed the knife and twisted it out. There wasn’t a scream this time, just a harsh intake of breath and a tear that leaked through Nightwing’s mask solvent. “You don’t get to fucking call me that. If you just stayed still, you wouldn’t have this gaping hole in your shoulder!”
Finish him!
You know, they had actually played Mortal Kombat together once, after they made a brief truce which got immediately broken. It wasn’t too awful.
Tim had always wanted an older brother.
Duke had been nice, but… with Damian he’d always had something to prove.
Couple that with being neglected as a child and never being able to adequately bring pride and honor to his parents, you got a young Tim attempting to impress one Damian Wayne.
Well, then Tim fucking died. Capital ‘D’ Died.
Hell, maybe if Nightwing were to be murdered by the Red Hood, Daddy Dearest would come for Tim’s head. The Blood Son would be avenged, of course. Not some adopted kid who was stupid enough to fall for a trap that cost him his life.
A laugh slipped through and Tim had to take a small break from taunting the man on the ground.
“I thought you were supposed to be better than this.” The Blood Son, the True Heir, the First Shrike, and the Grandson of the Demon’s Head. God, Tim had heard it recited so many times. “Instead Nightwing is going to bleed out on the floor of some dingy Bludhaven warehouse. Such a shame… and right after Bats lost a little Shrike. Carrying on the family tradition?”
Nightwing’s eyes widened.
“Are your sensitive little ears ringing? Or well… they will be.” Tim put his hands on his hips. “Say, how do you like explosives? ”
There was a distinct lack of a response.
“Say, you’ll really… go out with a bang!” Tim did finger-guns but only got a wide-eyed stare in return.
Ha, Tim went out with a bang once.
Thrashing and screaming and getting up onto his feet to disarm a bomb he never would have been able to disarm.
Ended really well for him.
Jeez, tough crowd. “Well, it’s been a blast, but I’ve really got to go now.”
Nightwing would wiggle his way out of this. He was annoyingly good at that.
Tim was supposed to be the cockroach! La cucaracha. Nightwing could be a stink-bug or something. Maybe a pretty butterfly, who fucking knew.
“You’re dead. I killed you. You’re dead. Stay dead.” Nightwing was mumbling now, but the venom laced through his voice was so disgustingly audible.
Why couldn’t Tim have just stayed dead. Why did he come back? Why did he come back wrong? Why didn’t his Dad save him?
Tim snorted. “You didn’t kill me, dude. Some guy in frilly white tights and makeup did it for you, but because I’m a better person. I’m the better person. I’m gonna activate your little distress beacon and then I’m gonna start that damn bomb timer.”
He pressed the button, watching it blink steadily. “And you’re gonna experience what I did, waiting and calling and crying out for my Dad who never came. For a Batman who never showed up. Who wouldn’t even murder the fucking clown who murdered me! He just got his shitty, unwanted, piece of shit assassin kid to do it for him.”
Nightwing had gone quiet, just eerily still and tense in the way that one was when expecting to be hit.
Green encroached on Tim’s vision once more and by Golly, he could just hear the laughter.
Ooo, that was a new shade of green. He’d have to try and color match it on MS Paint later.
He was coping, fuck off.
“Well. Glad we had that talk, bud.” Tim stood up, brushing off his pant legs.
He sent a harsh kick to Nightwing’s side. There wasn’t even a satisfying cry to go with it. He just rolled over.
Tim had given up screaming. So there was the next best thing. Laughter. Laughing and laughing and laughing and why couldn’t he stop why couldn’t he breathe–
Tim clenched his hands a few times, rolling them into fists before tossing the knife down near Nightwing. He made sure the USB drive was somewhat near Nightwing’s trembling form, and he left.
Through the window, per vigilante and villain/crime lord ushe.
He never actually started the bomb’s timer.
He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to see another bird go up in flames. He wouldn’t.
Tim had thrown off his helmet, it hit the floor with a harsh clank, but he was so much more focused on the fit of laughter that was stealing his breath away.
He had a handle on the Joker Toxin.
He did. Tim had always been good with shit like this. Toxicology was and has always been a long-term interest.
Not that it did him much good.
Not when he was too giggly to measure out a dose of the antidote and complete an intramuscular injection.
Listen, the IV route wasn’t going to happen when his limbs were trying to fly away without him.
Really. It was starting to get old.
Whatever idiot decided to mix the Joker Toxin and the Lazarus Pit together was on Tim’s shit list.
Oh wait, yeah. A big thank you to the al Ghul family and Mr. Clown.
Although Giggle Gas was good in terms of alliteration. Laugh-a-load was just fucking stupid.
Tim wheezed and choked and sputtered, but it was all drowned out by laughter. Tears welled up in his eyes.
Crunch. Crack. Bang. Crash. Clang.
He pulled at his hair and stared. The strands wound and woven in between his fingers, indenting his skin with thin lines.
Green.
Just barely.
Tim screamed and kicked and yelled and dug his nails further into his cheeks.
His face was drawn unnaturally up into a smile.
Tim sure as hell didn’t feel like smiling.
It was another hour until he calmed down.
It was another thirty before his hands were still enough to start another round of the antidote.
It would be another four weeks before these fits would taper off. Tim had calculated it for hours. Going over the numbers again and again. He drew a lot of blood that day and the day after that.
That week there had been deep purple, green, and black covering the inside of his elbows.
The Red Hood was back in business! In Gotham again.
Bludhaven made him sick at the moment so he was back to being Bruce’s least favorite crime lord/problem-child.
He had a play-date with the newest baby bird on Gotham’s cast-iron emo freak rooftops. Turns out, the Batcomputer’s system wasn’t too hard to hack into once you knew the code. Especially if you had helped develop said code.
He always had been better than Bruce with computers.
Anyways, this all meant that Tim knew their patrol patterns, their cases, and where the littlest bird would be tonight!
It also meant Tim had the ability to find their notes on his cool new drugs. No, it was not about Nightwing’s recovery. He didn’t care about Damian’s dumb face.
Jason Todd was nothing new to Tim. Some kid from Crime Alley with good enough reflexes but a smart mouth. Violent. Easy to anger. Young. Not even out of middle school.
Wouldn’t it be nice for Tim to get those years back? No, instead he was an undead seventeen year old who spent the last three years either stuck in his own head or doing whatever the fuck Ra’s al Ghul wanted while planning a very very thought-out escape.
Tim paused his chewing. Yes, he was having a quick dinner and he wanted to finish it. A light gray cape had flashed into his peripherals. He sighed, stuffing his sandwich back into its crumpled paper bag before shoving the half-face fitted mask back on his face.
He fiddled around with the belt around his waist.
There were plenty of fresh, new, and funky toxins to test out.
Too many choices honestly.
Who gave him access to all these chemicals!? Tim threw up his hands with a yell.
That’s what he got for being a little evil baby genius… dangerous chemicals…
The little replacement was tucked into the corner of a rooftop, watching out over the city with some high powered binoculars. Ew, Tim very much remembers look-out nights and ass cramps.
He was perfectly in shape, but you try sitting in the same place, on cold, hard concrete, and not getting ass cramps.
Tim dropped down, his boots hitting against the rooftop with a loud thunk. The little bird unsurprisingly quickly turned around, his hands already wrapped around a weapon.
Good to know he was somewhat competent.
A bo staff. A bō. A “What are you doing with that weapon, baby bird? ”
“Hitting you with it, bitch.” Tim rolled his eyes, dodging the sloppy hit from the teeny little Shrike.
Shoulda known Bruce would replace him with somebody who uses the exact same weapon, but worse than Tim had ever been with it.
The kid held it like it was gonna bite him. Although he did manage to get one solid hit in on Tim’s abdomen. It didn’t do much thanks to his armor and padding, but it was the thought that counts.
He caught it as Jason went to hit him in the side, pulling it from the abnormally strong grip he had on it.
Jesus, what did they feed this kid? He was built like a four foot, ten powerhouse. “You should pick a weapon that you can actually use. This one doesn’t fit you at all. Too rash, too reckless.”
Tim whirled the staff around, “Too aggressive. Why’d you pick it?”
Jason’s mouth was pulled back into a snarl, his hands raised in fists. His stance wasn’t awful, but he definitely wasn’t very trained at the moment. A brawler. Must have come with being a street kid.
Tim had the money to afford pepper spray. Jason must have gotten by with his fists and street smarts.
Obviously not smart enough considering he was facing off with a guy who had been dunked into a Lazarus Pit and shoved full of Hehe-Haha Toxin.
“I chose it because of my predecessor, now fuck off. Give it back.” Jason held out an expectant hand, like Tim wasn’t a threat just because he hadn’t shot him or thrown a knife into his unprotected throat.
Aww, wasn’t that sweet? The little guy wanted to honor him even in death. More like he just had to succeed at being the ultimate replacement for Tim while he himself was either out fucking around murdering criminals, or curled up on the floor of his dingy bedroom sweating his balls off due to nightmares.
“How about… no?” Tim faked taking a moment to think about it, tapping his masked chin. “How about I do this?” He slammed the staff down into the kid’s knees, watching him buckle and fall with a grin.
Yes. It was sadistic, just a bit, but also Tim felt like he was living in a pickle jar so what did it matter?
Let him enjoy things. God.
“I didn’t expect the Bats to send a replacement out so soon. I really thought it’d be what, a year of grief? At least .” Tim leaned his foot down onto Jason’s chest, taking some glee in the scrabbling and snarling child beneath.
He was like an angry feral kitten.
“They must’ve not cared about the last Shrike, huh? They let their birdie fly the nest and right into the mouth of a smiling, cackling cat. Isn’t that right?”
Jason was wheezing underneath the weight of Tim’s body. His movements becoming sloppier where they were rather exact before. Sluggish almost. “ Shut up. You fuckin’ gassed Nightwing like it was nothin’. Batman was– he was actin’ out before I got ere’.”
He eased up on Jason’s ribs for a moment, letting the kid take a few gasping breaths. “Oh? How is Big Wing’ these days? Wasn’t sure how the fever would play out, but it did last at least a week right?”
Jason’s mouth was set into a shaky line, “You’re sick, Tim. We heard the laughter, okay? On Nightwing’s patrol footage. We have an antidote to the toxin if you’d just–”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence due to the fact that Jason now had two broken ribs!
“What do you think you’re talking about?” Tim tilted his head to the side, having to raise his voice over the cursing, yelling child below. “You think I don’t know about the levels of that shit in my blood? What? You think I’m some sort of fucking lunatic ? That I’m crazy?”
Jason shook his head violently.
“Of course you do. You Bats don’t care. It’s all just some sick powerplay for you. Well, I guess I can play along.” Tim drew out a vial from his belt, holding it up to the dampened moonlight.
Jason got a good long look at it before trying to ease the boot off his chest. He wanted an out .
Tim had wanted a fucking out too.
“How long do you think they’d take to find you? Writhing and screaming?” He rolled the vial around in his hand. “Maybe if you started seizing. Your vitals spike and your eyes roll back into your head as they try to wake you. Oh! What if you flatline or choke on your own blood? It’d be another bird on their wall to stare at. To feel guilty about. Because it’s all about them.”
“Tim,” Jason choked out, his eyes wide against the lenses of his mask. “Please.”
Stupid idiot fucking family of goddamn detectives who couldn’t keep their noses to themselves.
“Tim died, Shrike! He died a scared little boy.” Tim rolled his shoulders back. “He didn’t come back right. Okay? Do you understand, Replacement? Nod.”
Jason shook his head, pushing at the growing pressure on his broken ribs. “You’re still him. Still Shrike. You can have it back. Bruce wants you back.”
Fuck, this kid really wasn’t getting it through his thick head. Maybe he needed a demonstration.
Tim hadn’t been that happy, eager to please kid in a while.
He’d been fucked up.
What good was innocence when Tim had died screaming and crying for his family to save him?
“Why don’t you say ahhh, Replacement?” He pried Jason’s jaws open, pouring the vial’s liquid down his throat before forcing him to swallow. “Guess we both have front row seats to this test!”
The concoction wasn’t lethal. It was just going to hurt Jason a lot more than it was going to hurt Tim.
Jason looked nauseous. “Don’t you try throwing that back up, kid. It’s either this or I send you back to the rest of the Bats with more broken than just your ribs and pride.”
“Shut up! ” Jason had to struggle to catch his breath. “Stop acting like you’re some fuckin’ villain. You’re just a– jus’ a–” Tim lifted his boot and his body weight along with it.
The kid couldn’t even make it to his feet, like a little baby deer.
“Y’r still jus’ a scared kid.” Jason barked, slurring his words and pointing at him, his hands shaking more than the rest of his body.
You weren’t supposed to kick people while they were down. Or at least, that’s what Damian had always said.
Hypocritical piece of shit.
Jason crumpled further under the hit. Tim grabbed him by the collar of his suit, where the cape connected to the padded kevlar. “Fuck you, fuck the Bats, fuck the Joker, and Talia, and fuck everybody for trying to tell me who I am!”
Tim lost himself in the act of pulling his arm back to hit the person beneath him
Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
He dug his hands into the twisted feeling of rage and paranoia and insecurity and he let himself drown in it for a while.
Then Jason whimpered. Whimpered.
Tim dropped him like a burning coal, putting as much distance as he could between them on the rooftop.
What had he been doing?
This was a kid. Tim had been a kid.
He had pleaded and pleaded.
I’m sorry. I’ll be good. I’ll be better.
Why hadn’t he stopped?
He just wanted it to stop. Tim had just wanted some quiet. Some closure.
He wanted a hug.
From anybody. From Duke or Stephanie or even Damian.
He wanted a hug from his Dad. His shitty Dad who didn’t even take the time to grieve for him. Who didn’t realize Tim was still in his coffin crying and screaming.
Jason curled in on himself, no doubt feeling the effects of the non-lethal dose of the toxin Tim had created– and the beating.
It was just supposed to hurt for a while.
He hadn’t meant to start beating the kid’s face in.
It wasn’t like… it wasn’t like Tim was torturing him.
He wouldn’t.
He wasn’t like him.
He hadn’t.
Tim approached Jason again, keeping his movements slow. Jason was staring at him behind his arms with a wavering glare.
He deserved that.
“Dick.” Jason mumbled, trying to keep the distance between he and Tim.
Tim wanted to wash his hands. Again and again and again and–
“Yeah, whatever. I’m going to give you the antidote, just stay still.” Tim fiddled around with one of his pockets on the utility belt, opening a small baggy that contained a sterilized needle and yet another vial. “I don’t actually know how much of this you need, so we’re going to be taking an educated guess today, Replacement.”
“Stop stickin’ shit in me. I dun’ wann’it.” Jason made a half-hearted effort to push Tim’s hands away. “Jus’ ping Batman.” Gesturing towards the stylized “S” over his heart.
He couldn’t ping Batman. How could he face his Dad after beating his new kid up? He didn’t mean to. He didn’t want to. He didn’t. Stop making him. STOP IT–
“I want nothing to do with him. So, we’re going to do this my way. Alright?” Tim rolled up the sleeve of the suit, Jason continuing his glare, and stifling his whimpers of pain the best he could.
His skin was clammy and the trembling was reminiscent of Tim’s encounter with Nightwing two weeks ago. Tim grimaced as he prepped the crook of Jason’s elbow for the injection.
Jason groaned, “Pinche cabrón.”
“Oh, so you can get that insult out all fine and dandy, huh?”
Jason grinned, a small flash of teeth.
Smiles haunted the space behind his eyelids. Tim couldn’t sleep at night. Couldn’t sleep right. Why did everything have to be ruined by that fucking clown–
Tim flicked the needle twice before giving Jason the antidote. “Now, would you like the Sesame Street band-aids or the Star Wars ones?”
They were nostalgic. He bought them because he wanted to. Because they felt like home. And Tim couldn’t go home anymore.
“Wh–”
“Sesame Street? Good choice, here’s Grover.” He slapped a band-aid down on the small prick in Jason’s skin. “Well, I oughta’ go, huh? I expect Big Ol’ Bats to be here any minute.”
The thought of Bruce finding him wailing on a kid half his size made Tim sick. He was a monster. It was only a matter of time before his Dad called him one to his face.
And he’d be right. It would be right. He’d been made into a monster–
“Wait–” Jason furrowed his brows, the trembling was beginning to ease.
“I mean, who’d want to see me? Right?” Tim tugged at his hair for a moment. “I just tried to torture a child!”
Tim had been a kid. Why wasn’t he a kid anymore? He wanted it back. Bring it back. Give him those years back–
“Holy shit, shut up! Would you fuckin’ listen to me?” Jason waved his hands around before wincing. His body would be sore for a while.
Haha, have fun on the bench.
Tim wished he stayed on that bench. He should have just stayed in the Cave. At home with Alfie. He could have–
“Come back, Tim. Please? ” Jason shuffled around so he was sitting up. “The whole family misses you. Cass never shuts up about you. Steph is getting better, but she misses you a shit ton. Duke is drowning himself in work whenever he’s home! Damian is well… I don’t really know what Damian’s up to when he isn’t home.”
That makes the two of them.
He’d only ever wanted to prove himself to Damian. He just wanted a brother. Why didn’t Tim deserve a family?
Tim clenched his fists, breathing through the pure, unbridled anger that threatened to take control at the mention of his past “family.”
Jason tensed for a moment before taking another deep breath. Tim didn’t miss the wince.
All of them had broken ribs from time to time, Jason would live, and Tim was definitely not feeling guilty about being the one who caused that injury.
He didn’t mean to. He didn’t. He was sorry. He was sorry.
“I haven’t had a– a family in years, Tim. This is the first time in a while that people actually want to be around me! They want to know about the books I’m reading and whether or not I’m okay!”
Tim had just wanted a hug. In those last moments. He just wanted arms larger and stronger than his to wrap around his middle. To tuck his face into a shoulder. To block out and protect him from the laugher. There was so much laughter–
“They want to spend time with me, Tim… but I can’t help but not shake this feeling that I’m just filling the hole for somebody who isn’t there. They miss you, Tim. I’m just… I’m just your replacement. Like you were saying.”
Tim had been a replacement. Now the cycle was being repeated. Who was going to break this bird? Had Tim already done it?
“They can’t miss a dead kid, baby bird.” Tim smiled softly underneath his mask. He sighed, standing up from the crouched position he’d been in to give the antidote to Jason. “Don’t come after me. Don’t try to find me. You won’t be getting an antidote next time.”
Tim stepped onto the ledge, readying his grapple. He made sure not to look back at the semi-compromised child behind him.
Jason still called out as Tim was about to drop. “That means there will be a next time! See you later, dumbass!”
Despite himself, Tim laughed before leaving.
He hated laughing. He hated the way it made his throat feel. His mouth. His lips. He hated it. He hated it.
Jason had his own good-natured smile creeping up on his face.
“Tim.” Black Bat was situated on the railing of a building, staring down at him. The frown was evident in her voice.
Man , he just wanted to get back to his safehouse without running into the gaggle of children Bruce had.
“Ah-ah. Codenames. Jeez, Nightwing is still the same about that, right? Or was it just him playing favorite kid to hate with me?” Tim stared up at his younger– his something. He didn’t know what Cass was.
“Okay.” Cass tilted her head. “You’re hurt.”
Tim might’ve been shot at a little earlier. It was nothing he couldn’t handle. “Nothing I can’t handle, go away.”
She hopped down, annoyingly graceful and steady on her feet. Tim rolled his eyes, but felt a warm thing in his chest at her antics.
He didn’t miss her. Tim missed nobody. The Red Hood missed nobody.
“I will help.” Yeah, he wasn’t going to wiggle his way out of this one, but maybe he could specify the terms of this agreement.
“No more Bats.” Cass nodded. “No trackers.” She nodded again. “No asking me to come back ‘home.’” Cass nodded once more, but slower. More reluctant.
“Good. C’mere.” He made motion for her to follow him and she did, as Cass proceeded to destroy every tracker she had on her suit.
There were many.
Sigh, Bat-Paranoia.
There was bound to be a fit going on down in the Cave now.
Maybe Nightwing would be called in.
“Home, sweet home.” Tim opened the door, his dingy little apartment’s couch looking more and more appealing by the second.
His side ached, okay?
Cass looked around for a moment before stepping inside and taking off her cowl-mask-thing. Her face was blank, but the baby-fat of being thirteen was still there.
She practically looked the same.
Tim didn’t. He sighed, taking off the half-mask before grabbing the med-kit underneath the coffee table. “Make yourself at home.”
Cass nodded, turning towards the kitchen.
“That was a joke, Cass.”
She grinned, “Code-names.”
“I didn’t mean inside the safe-house.” Tim rolled his eyes, sitting down and shedding the layers of body armor, padding, and his ratty shirt. He hissed in pain as he peeled the last layer covering the wound.
“I make tea?” Cass barely glanced at the bullet hole in his side. She had a box of peppermint tea that Tim had bought for no reason in her hands.
“Yeah, sure.” Tim shrugged. If she wanted tea, Cass could have tea. He wasn’t going to brew any anytime soon.
Cass got to making her cup of tea (and one for Tim) and Tim got to work patching himself up. Goodie.
“You look different.” Cass said, still staring at her steeping tea bags. “Not bad different. Just different.”
Tim had to look up from his stitching job, wincing at the pulled flesh. “I do, don’t I?”
He did. Tim hated it.
He lost the baby-fat in his face, but Cass had kept hers so it was okay.
Tim was still here. It was okay.
He was here and he wasn’t there.
Here, not there.
That’s all he had to be.
“I miss you.” Cass finally looked up, tears streaking down her face. Like raindrops on the Batmobile’s window. He used to watch them while reporting patrol. It rained a lot in Gotham. “I hate you.”
Tim’s throat had a lump in it. “You hate me?” He kept his voice level, slightly inclined towards curiosity.
“I hate you for hurting Damian. I hate you for hurting Jason. I hurt you for hurting Steph and Bruce and Alfred. I hate you for leaving.” Cass panted, frustration making her stomp her feet. “I miss you. I miss you. I hate you for not coming back.”
“I didn’t leave, Cass. I died.”
“But why didn’t you come home? ” She scrunched up her face, trying to wipe the tears away. “I want my brother.”
“You have Damian and Duke.” Tim had to avert his gaze, instead choosing to continue stitching up his side. He couldn’t look at her. She hated him.
“It’s not the same! It’s not. It’s not and you know it!” Cass sniffled. “We thought– I thought you were gone forever.”
“I thought you accepted my terms for you to come in here. That included no asking me to come back to the Manor or to the Cave.” Tim growled, pulling the fishing wire tight before finishing the stitches.
“I am not!”
“Aren’t you?”
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet after Cass’ outburst.
Tim’s heart hurt and he didn’t know why.
“There are tears in my tea.” Cass sounded like shit. It made sense. She never really yelled.
It was Tim’s fault she had.
“Put sugar in it.” Tim pointed towards the sugar container on the counter.
“And in yours?” Cass questioned.
Tim shrugged. “If you want.”
She spooned out sugar into each of the cups. The clinking of the spoon against the mug’s sides was loud, but Tim… he just–
He missed it. He missed Cass too.
There was a mug in front of his face, Cass being on the other end of it.
It had been a gift. From Damian.
A Christmas gift. It was weird.
Damian was supposed to have hated him, but he bought him some stupid mug with a cat on it.
And Tim liked it. He kept it. He stole it from his room in the Manor.
Cass had put his tea in it.
“Don’t get tears in the tea. You will need more sugar.” Cass sounded solemn.
Tim hadn’t even noticed he was crying. “Thanks, baby bat.” He offered her a small smile and he got one in return.
“Want me to finish?” She pointed to his side.
“Sure. If you want.”
Cass nodded and Tim drank his tea.
Peppermint tasted like home.
“This is an intervention.” Signal was in his living room. Room of living. The livingest of rooms. The most alive– Duke. Duke was in his living room. “You should go out for lunch with me!”
“What.” Tim narrowed his eyes under his cup of coffee. It was eight in the morning. Tim was in pain.
Tim was a crime lord.
What the fuck was Duke doing in his house? Apartment. Thing.
“Lunch! You, me, possibly the entire family, and a picnic!” Duke did finger-guns and segwayed those to jazz hands somehow. “We need to talk about the whole… murder thing.”
“Duke. It is like eight o’clock.” Tim rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m busy. I’m sure you’re busy with fighting the boring fight, and I’m this close to grabbing a gun and shooting you. Just so you leave me alone.”
Tim couldn’t believe Cass tattled about his safehouse location. The betrayal was painful (though he couldn’t stay mad at Cass. She had the puppy-dog eyes down to a “T”), but hearing Duke’s voice when nobody should be speaking was even worse.
“C’mon. You wouldn’t shoot me, man.”
Tim glared at him. Duke proceeded to shuffle around his feet a bit. “I stabbed Damian and did a bit of light torture to him and Jason. I don’t think shooting will be too far from that.”
“Okay, this is why I had an intervention and a speech planned but due to your remarks about guns I have forgotten it. This is your fault, Tim.”
“Get out and shut my window behind you. Also, tell the rest of the Bats to fuck off. Next time I see you, I’m bringing a gun to your fist-fight. Got it?”
Duke flashed him a thumbs up and jumped out Tim’s gaping window.
Fucker didn’t even shut it.
(Duke ended up coming back the next day. They did have lunch that time.)
Tim was stuck between a hard place and another very hard place.
Blood was practically coating the inside of his mouth and he, from experience, knew what a concussion felt like very well.
Also the room was swirling, so that didn’t help.
It had been a normal case. Tim was gathering intel, identifying patterns, committing a bit of homicide. Like he was saying, normal.
Except now he was also limping home and creating pools of blood underneath him whenever he took a step.
Fun times.
What was worse is that the Bats were out and definitely tailing him
Mostly because Tim could see the Spoiler outfit from a mile away. Steph was never meant to be sneaky.
Although she was very good at worming her way into people’s hearts. Annoyingly.
“Hey… Timmers,” Spoiler landed on the pavement nearby, the whirring of her grappling gun resetting slowly jogging Tim out of his thoughts and blood loss haze. “Not looking so hot, huh?”
“Fuck off, Spoiler. I don’t want your help crashing on my couch tonight.” His words were a bit more venomous than he expected, but Tim was also sporting two more bullet holes and one more stabbing than he had expected as well. “I’m perfectly able to drag my ass back to my place in one piece.”
“Really?” Her voice sounded sad. Steph’s voice never sounded sad. It was out of place.
Then again, he remembers comforting her plenty. He missed her.
They didn’t deserve to be missed.
“You still there, Boy Bl– Tim?” Steph had shut her eyes tight for a moment. “C’mere, just let me help carry you back, alright? No Cave, no trackers, no nothing. Just a friend helping a friend.”
Tim snorted. “We aren’t friends anymore, Stephanie.”
There was an arm under his and he gasped when the weight was taken off of his wounds. “I’d like to be again.”
Tim…
He what?
Why did it matter?
He had lunch with Duke a month ago. It was actually a good time.
Cass had been over more than once. Peppermint tea was now a fucking priority on his grocery lists.
Damian was MIA and Tim appreciated it.
Steph– God, he missed Steph. He missed their jokes and their friendship. He missed bantering with somebody.
He missed the closeness.
Steph had been family.
“Tim, stay with me. Can’t shut your eyes, alright?” He hadn’t even noticed the world went dark before he pried his eyes open again.
The dingy streets of Gotham were no more welcome a sight than they had been before, but at least the streetlights made it a bit easier for him to focus– and to gauge the distance to his safehouse.
It was just the one really.
Tim had gotten rid of the others.
He didn’t know why.
“Okay, this is gonna suck, but I need to put you down for a second.” Stephanie leaned him against the railing of the steps.
Tim had to clamp his jaw shut on a strangled scream.
It was shaping out to be a bad night.
“One, two, three–” She hoisted him up again and this time Tim let himself shout a string of curses that would have sent Alfred to an early grave.
Do not think about graves do not think about–
“Sorry, sorry.”
“S’fine. Shut up,” Tim’s words sounded garbled. Then again, he was gonna need a blood transfusion. Where had he stuck those? “Er, blood bags in m’ fridge.”
“You just keep blood in the fridge?” Steph had taken her mask off, her face was in her usual “I don’t know how to take that information, but that’s funny as shit,” and Tim grinned. “Oh my God, you’re totally going to be feeling this tomorrow.”
Tim shrugged. He would be.
It was gonna suck.
“You’re gonna hate me for this, but honestly it’s sorta payback… so just like– stay still,” Tim furrowed his brow.
Oh hell no. “Steph, don’t you dare.” He made to get up but there was a small jab to his neck. “Fuck you. Fuck you.”
“Sorry, Timberlina. I don’t want you moving while I get the basic work done.” She ran a hand through his hair, letting it linger for a second as Tim’s eyes drooped.
He really didn’t want to sleep.
Maybe the sedative would keep the dreams away. Maybe Stephanie would.
He couldn’t get rid of the distrust that tensed his muscles.
“Eurghh,” Tim groaned. His mouth tasted like cotton balls and sandpaper.
“What an eloquent turn of phrase, Timothy.” Steph was still in his apartment.
Tim looked around groggily. Tim was still in his apartment.
He eyed Stephanie’s hands warily. “Waddu’ you have?” Curse the aftereffects of sleep.
“Water?” She rolled her eyes. “Paranoid, much? Gonna be giving Bruce a run for his money?”
“Fuck Bruce.” Tim grabbed the cup of water from her, mindful of the IV he just managed to notice sticking out of his arm.
Steph threw her head back in a harsh cackle. “Stick it to the man, Tim. Stick it to the man.” Her voice tapered off into something soft and fond.
“I missed you, ya’ big lump.” She rested her face on the palm of her hand, leaning over the back of the couch to look down at him.
“Yeah, so everyone keeps saying.” Tim grumbled around his water before gulping it down. Damn, when was the last time he actually drank water?
“We should go to the aquarium,” Steph spoke through her fingers. “The one we planned to go to before… just before.”
Before he died. Before Tim left. Before Tim became the person he was. Before Tim was paranoid and angry and tired enough to stare at the edge of a rooftop a little too long–
Tim sighed, “Yeah?”
He could hear her swallow. “Yeah. I think we should.”
The glow of the table lamp was bringing out the pale yellow of Steph’s hair. It was also making the tears in her eyes that much more visible.
Maybe home was a cup of water and the care of a friend.
Maybe home was the color purple and a ratty couch stained with blood.
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Me too.”
Why the fuck was there another Bat in his living room? And why the absolute gobsmacker fuckin’ lollipops was it Damian Wayne standing there with a cat and a bag of takeout?
“Timothy.” Damian sounded so out of place it was laughable. If Tim didn’t want to throw the book on the table at him.
“Oh, is it not Drake anymore? I distinctly remember your snarl of disapproval and the feeling of your fist smashing into my jaw.”
He saw the wince. God, when did Damian become the epitome of human emotion?
“No, it isn’t.” Damian raised his back of takeout. “I brought food.”
“And a cat.” Tim deadpanned.
“Of course, he is a kitten. He cannot be left alone by himself at the moment. Therefore, I brought him with.” There was the Damian he knew. Just… softer. Less harsh around his vowels.
More caring.
Kind even.
It was fucking weird. “I see.” Tim gestured towards the table-for-two. He actually had to buy another chair since Duke kept coming over for lunches. At this point it might be grifting. “Well, are you gonna set the food down or are you gonna keep standing there like an idiot?”
Damian rolled his eyes but didn’t return the jab. Again, fucking weird.
He set the food down, slowly taking each container out and supplying Tim with the names of each dish as well. It was shitty Chinese takeout. Damian hated this stuff.
It was exactly what Tim used to order.
It was exactly his order.
Why did he feel like crying? Fuck.
“Are you actually going to eat this?” Tim raised an eyebrow.
“Why else would I buy it?” Damian sat down, pulling out his own set of chopsticks from who knows where. “I took the liberty of ordering a set of the vegetarian and the regular option each.”
“Oh.” He stood there for a moment before sliding into his seat. He didn’t really know how to respond.
“Well, are you going to eat or are you just going to sit there like an idiot?” Damian grinned and it was still sharp. Just not like it used to be. He looked tired.
Damian looked really really tired.
Maybe it was the way his shoulders were slumped where there should be perfect posture. Maybe it was the deep bags under his eyes and the pallor ashen look of his skin where there should be a dark, warm brown.
“Yeah, I’m gonna eat.” Tim snapped, proceeding to grab one of the red paper packages containing chopsticks. “What’s the cat’s name?”
“Alfred.”
Tim sputtered and Damian looked so fucking pleased and smug that he wanted to slap him. “And Alfred thinks what? About this name?”
“He secretly adores it.” Damian smiled small and soft down at the kitten in his lap, who was repeatedly pawing at a plastic bag. “He enjoys having me back at the Manor.”
Tim snorts, “I bet. You were always his favorite. The blood son.”
Damian’s smile tapered off into something more melancholy. Something that twinged with regret. “I do not believe son is an accurate descriptor.”
“Is this your Damian way of saying you’re having a fight with Daddy?” Tim rolled his eyes, picking at the food in front of him. It was good. It was actually warm too.
There had been too many recent meals of cold eggs and room temperature protein shakes.
“No.” Damian shrugged, effectively dropping the subject.
Good. Tim didn’t want to get into that either. Bruce and Damian could keep their issues to themselves.
“Why are you here, Damian?” He set his chopsticks down with a clatter.
Damian stared at him lazily, absentmindedly petting the head of the kitten glaring at Tim. “We need to talk. People talk over dinner. I brought dinner. We are talking.”
“Fuck, I see you’re still pretending to be a human being.” Tim rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What do you want to talk about? Your shitty behavior? My shitty behavior? Do you want an apology? Is that it?”
“No.” Damian shrugged again.
Tim saw green.
“Will you actually fucking say something with substance? You’re in my place, uninvited, so you’re lucky I haven’t decided to throw a knife at you!” Tim gripped the edges of the table.
Damian had the gall to continue eating the food in front of him. “Finish your food.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you haven’t eaten an actual meal for the past week. You’re not taking care of yourself, so I’m making sure that you will at least eat tonight.” Damian looked up from his dish, a determined set to his eyebrows was enough to make Tim squint in confusion.
“What.” Tim deflated, running his hands through his hair. “What are you even talking about? Why do my eating habits matter to you?”
“Because you matter to me.”
Tim laughed.
He stopped laughing.
“No I don’t. You made that abundantly clear.”
Damian sighed, “I’m sorry.”
Tim stared down at his food. “What?”
Why did his voice sound small?
“I’m sorry. I was an awful person to you. An awful excuse for a brother, let alone an older brother. I was supposed to take care of you– and I was supposed to care.” Damian had set his chopsticks down, lacing his fingers together in front of him on the table. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”
“When I looked at you, Tim. I only saw myself and I hated it. I thought after my Fa– after Bruce had kicked me out at seventeen, that it would be just that. I was kicked out and Duke would stay because he was the better son. But then you came along.”
“Wh–” Tim was cut off by Damian’s hand.
“Let me finish.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “Bruce– He– I had died. Not long before. I had died and then I came back. I didn’t understand where I was in the world anymore. I was missing months of my life, months that I will never get back, and Bruce had promised that he loved me. That he cared and that he would do better.”
“And then, he kicked me out. For something dumb and irresponsible and a idiotic mistake that all teenagers make. I didn’t listen.” Damian shrugged. “I do not listen very well, but I am learning to. I want to have a place in your life, if you will let me. I want to do better for you. There was a time where I’d just be doing this to take away my guilt and shame, and maybe it still is for me, just a bit.”
Damian looked him in the eyes, like an equal.
Like an equal. Like a brother.
“I want to be your brother, Tim. I just have to know if you’ll have me. I will make mistakes. I will in fact, fuck up as Jason says, but I love you.” Damian was crying. There were tears on his cheeks. Actual fucking tears. “I’m sorry it took so much for me to see that I do. I’m sorry.”
“I can’t forgive you.” Tim mumbled, his voice heavy and tired and there was a tightness in his chest.
“I don’t want you to.” Damian dipped his head.
“I don’t– I can’t come home. To the Manor. That isn’t–” Tim opened and shut his mouth a few times. “That isn’t my home anymore. I won’t.”
Damian stood up and Tim flinched back.
And then, Damian held out his arms.
Like in a hug.
“I am not very touchy-feely, but I have been around all of my younger siblings for months and they like hugs,” Damian spat out the word like a piece of rotten food. “But, do you want one?”
What did Tim want?
What the fuck did he want?
Why was he even here?
Tim had just wanted a hug. In those last moments. He just wanted arms larger and stronger than his to wrap around his middle. To tuck his face into a shoulder. To block out and protect him from the laugher. There was so much laughter–
He wanted a hug.
From anybody. From Duke or Stephanie or even Damian.
He wanted a hug from his Dad. His shitty Dad who didn’t even take the time to grieve for him. Who didn’t realize Tim was still in his coffin crying and screaming.
Tim fell into Damian’s arms and his older brother held him. Just held him there.
“I don’t– I don’t even have a home anymore.” Tim whispered, tears soaking through Damian’s sweater collar.
Damian only held him tighter, “Oh, little bird, you’re already home.”
Home was shitty takeout and tears and apologies and purple and peppermint and lunch and jazz hands.
Home was just his family.
Tim had a family.