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The manor is quiet as Tim closes the entrance to the Cave behind him. It's just past four in the morning — usually, Tim will keep working much later than this, pushing himself to the very limit, but it's been hard to focus lately. And they've been stretched thin for months, still trying desperately to fill in the gaping hole in their ranks where one of their own had once been. Tim's exhausted, to the point where even energy drinks and coffee can't help anymore.
He sighs quietly and heads for the kitchen, intending to grab a quick glass of water before heading off to bed. He's so out of it he doesn't even notice the shadow already present in the kitchen until he flicks the lights on and looks up.
Tim blinks, halting in his tracks. "Dick?"
His brother's head lifts at Tim's voice. He stares at Tim for a moment, his face blank. He knows someone's in the kitchen at least, but if he's recognized Tim himself, he doesn't show any sign of it.
"Dick?" Tim says again, even knowing he's not going to get an answer. He comes farther into the kitchen, circling around the counter to reach his brother. "What are you doing up — oh."
Dick blinks at him, then looks back down toward where shattered ceramic surrounds his bare feet. When Tim follows his gaze, he can see fragments of faces, split apart into half-a-dozen pieces. After a moment, he recognizes the fractured image: a couple years back, Dick (and Alfred) had managed to wrangle the entire family into a group photo. Tim had later gotten it printed on a coffee mug and presented it to his brother as his Christmas gift. Dick had laughed and immediately declared it his new favorite mug. He'd used it every chance he got.
Now the mug is broken at Dick's feet. It could be repaired, of course, and part of Tim's brain is already pencilling in time this week to glue it back together, but the cracks will always be there.
The mug will be fixed. But Tim glances at Dick's vacant gaze and can't help but be reminded that some things can't be.
There's water on the floor too. Alfred will no doubt be displeased about the water that will have sunken into the polished wood, but it's too late to do much about that now. Tim glances at the mess, and something in his heart sinks when he sees it's half-dried already. How long had Dick just been standing there before Tim arrived?
Tim takes a moment to close his eyes and temporarily breathe away the months-old agony still sitting in his chest. Alfred retired to bed an hour ago and is certainly asleep by now, and Bruce is away on League business. Damian is with the Kents for the weekend. Everyone else is staying at their respective apartment or safe-house. It's just Tim left to handle this.
At least Dick seems to have avoided cutting himself on the shards.
"Okay," he says after a moment. He pauses to take another slow breath. "Okay. Can you — I gotta clean this up, okay, Dick? So I need you to move back. Can you do that?"
Dick looks at him again when he speaks, but he doesn't move until Tim puts a gentle hand on his shoulder and pushes. Then he obligingly shuffles back, until he's standing right next to the sink.
"Stay there, please," Tim says.
Dick stays silent, and Tim goes to grab gloves and a small container they usually use for leftovers. Fortunately, Dick doesn't move in the short time it takes him to come back. Tim pulls on the gloves and kneels to pick up the jagged ceramic pieces and put them in the container. He can feel his brother's eyes on his back the whole time.
Once Tim has all the pieces, he snaps the lid on and sets the container on the counter, tucked against the wall. Alfred will know not to throw it away. Then Tim quickly wipes up the remaining water with a hand towel.
Dick is still in the same spot when Tim's finally finished. Tim swallows and forces himself to meet his eyes. It takes a long moment, but then Dick's face brightens with at least some degree of recognition. He smiles at Tim, expression going happy and cheerful and still so empty around the edges, and Tim's eyes sting.
"Dick, I — " he starts, then cuts himself off. He doesn't know what to say, and Dick doesn't even seem to understand words half the time.
He just… he misses his brother. Dick's standing right in front of him, looking at him like he's the most important thing in the world, and all Tim can feel is the gaping hole inside him that used to be filled with his brother's presence.
Dick is here, but he isn't. He's lost, and there's nothing Tim can do about it. If there's a way to get him back, to heal him, they haven't found it. He'd thought it'd been bad when he'd thought Dick was dead, after the Crime Syndicate, but it's nothing compared to this. It's nothing compared to mourning a man who's still alive.
And sometimes Dick will look at him like he is just now, with that familiar smile, the warm and kind one that whispers you're important, I'm here, I love you, and it almost feels just like it had been before.
But it never will again, not really, because there's always going to be something unfocused about that smile now. Always something distant in his eyes, and Tim's not sure if it's because Dick is only seeing the little kid he used to be or if because he's not really seeing Tim at all.
He doesn't know which is worse.
It's Tim's fault. If Dick were here, he'd argue with him. He'd tell Tim he was wrong. But he's not here, and Tim knows that's his fault. The guy had been aiming for Tim. The blow from the pipe had a good chance of breaking his arm, based on the angle and force he'd swung it, but Dick had intervened. He'd stepped in the way. He'd protected Tim, just like he'd always had. The pipe had caught Dick directly on the head.
All Dick's skills, all his experience, it didn't matter. In the end, he was just a man, as susceptible to traumatic brain injuries as anyone else. In the end, he was just a man with a long history of concussions who took one too many hits to the head.
Tim wants to be mad. He wants to be furious. He wants to seize his brother and shake him like a rag-doll and scream, why did you do that? Why didn't you just let my arm get broken? Why couldn't you have just protected yourself for once in your life?
But it's hard to feel anything except that yawning chasm of grief when Dick looks at him like that. So much like he used to. Nothing at all like he used to.
Tim would have rather had his arm broken. Tim would have willingly broken every single bone in his body if that's what it took to save Dick from being reduced to this.
Tim has to blink back the tears are threatening to rise again. They slide down his throat instead, thick and hot. The water seeps into his lungs, making every breath rattle with the force of his grief, while the salt settles in his heart like a tangible, unbearable weight. The blood rushing in burns and sears with each pulsing heartbeat.
It's a reminder that Tim's alive. It's a reminder that Dick is too empty to say the same.
Gently, Tim wraps a hand around Dick's wrist and uses that to guide him out of the kitchen. Dick goes pliantly. His movements are somehow as fluid and graceful as ever, even with his mind lost, and it hurts Tim's chest, seeing the physical remnants of his brother still left in this walking, breathing, hollow shell.
"Let's go back to bed, okay?" Tim suggests softly. "It's late. You must be tired."
Dick just smiles at him again, devoted and loving and distant all at once. Tim wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants his big brother back so badly it burns, like a red-hot brand of grief pressed directly into an open festering wound. Instead, all Tim has is a broken coffee mug, an empty smile, and the ghost his brother left behind.