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It was the middle of the night when Tim found himself creeping through the old, worn hallways of the Kent’s house. It was just blooming into early spring, the windows still locked tight to keep warmth in. Kansas was different from Jersey in ways Tim hadn’t expected. It was quiet – eerily quiet. Once the sun set and the crickets came out, the lightning bugs glowed and the animals slept, there was quiet.
Gotham was never that quiet. The only city Tim had gone to that seemed to be engulfed in such overwhelming silence was Bludhaven and–
The door of Kon’s bedroom creaking open shocked Tim out of his thoughts. He felt stupid as he stepped in, just peering in to see a sleeping Kon. He was spread out, blankets half kicked off and socks missing. Tim knew he slept soundly – that Tim’s presence wouldn’t wake him. So Tim stepped in the room and closed the door again. He moved carefully so as to not trip, and positioned himself to sit on a plush beanbag in the corner of his room. Tim would never admit it, never tell Kon about sneaking in, about the nightmares and the dread. After everything he’d gone through, Tim couldn’t be alone.
Tim buried himself in a blanket, pulling it close. A nightmare was still lingering in his peripheral – the smell of blood and gunpowder looming on his clothes, Bruce’s voice ringing in his ears. It was like Kon’s bedroom melted away, replaced with the dull lights and decor of Dick’s bloodstained walls. Tim was sure, if he dared to get up to check, Dick would be the one strewn out in bed, covered in blood and brains and dead.
“Tim?” A voice called out. It was soft and low, just brimming with sleep. The body in the bed shifted, sitting up. Light flickered, Tim’s mind span, and he thought, for just a moment, he could see the blood pouring down the figure's head.
The figure got up quickly, stumbling over piles of clothes on the floor, landing awkwardly in front of Tim and kneeling. A distant lightpost shining through the window illuminated Kon’s worried face. There was no blood, Tim reminded himself. Kon’s hand gently cupped Tim’s cheek, wiping away a tear. “What's wrong?”
Tim sounded pathetic as he hiccuped out “nightmare” , all stuffy nosed and crying.
Kon was hesitant as he reached out “Can I touch you?” He asked.
Tim nodded, reaching forward and going almost limp in Kon’s hold. He needed something that felt real, that would make the shadows dissipate.
A sound – banging at the door – made the both of them jump. It sounded urgent, almost feverish, panicked. To Tim, it sounded like Bruce.
“Hey, its ok. Pops’ll get it,” Kon whispered. Tim let out a quiet snort.
“Man, you call him pops . Thats so fucking stupid” Tim laughed a little. Kon blushed in embarrassment.
“Hey, at least i’m better than Damian, who calls him unkie” he retorted, making Tim laugh a little harder.
“No, no, Damian only did that to piss off Bruce. And I will have you–”
Kon cut him off, turning to his bedroom door. Superhearing. “Holy shit, speak of the devil”
“What?”
Kon got up, dragging Tim with him. From the top of the staircase, they could see a small figure wrapped up in a hooded cloak. Tim practically jumped down half the staircase, calling out for his little brother. In the end, they met halfway, bodies slamming into each other in messy, heartbroken hugs. Damian was the first to leave – he wasn’t even permitted to stay for the funeral. It had to have been months since he’d seen any of his siblings, let alone Tim.
“三哥” Damian whispered in a soft, almost disbelieving voice. “ You’re here?”
“I’m right here, see?” Tim replied, squeezing Damian ever-so-lightly. “I’m right here.”
Damian let out a pained noise, like a hurt animal. “I missed you. I missed you I missed you I missed you ”
Doing the only thing he could think of, Tim started rubbing small circles on the boy’s back, shushing and cooing like the boy was still a young child. Damian cried; he cried until he coughed and hiccuped; until he soaked through Tim’s shirt with snot and tears; until he drifted off to sleep. All the while, Clark and Lois looked on with eyebrows knotted in worry and hurt. To see a child– to see Damian , at that– this shattered? It crushed them.
Carefully, Tim scooped up Damian. “I can put him to bed; he can stay with me, its ok.”
Clark eyed the sleeping child. “Are you sure? I mean…you and him have a history…”
“It's fine. I’m not…We…We’ve lost so much; I don’t want to worry about losing another brother,” Tim whispered in as soft a tone as he could muster. Clark nodded at him with a tight, unsure smile before telling them to get some rest. Tim brought Damian upstairs, past the family photos and art that covered the old farm house’s walls and open windowed breeze-blown lace curtains. The guest bedroom walls were a baby pink sort of color, with dark wooden furniture and a white wicker basket filled with flowers. There's a light blue bookshelf in the corner, filled with long-faded children's books and sewing instructions; a small statue of a cherub rested next to a particular faded copy of Miss Suzy . The bedsheets were slightly scratchy, a dull white with little pink and blue flowers dotted across it. Tim couldn’t help but notice how small Damian looked tucked into that big, old bed.
The next day was strange. Tim had woken up at sunrise, same as always, and went out to the chicken coop to help collect eggs for breakfast. The farm was almost perfectly still in the early spring morning; the air smelt of clover and lemongrass and little dandelions were sprouting across the fields. A small herd of horses that roamed past an old wooden fence huffed and nosed Tim’s arm in greeting as he walked by. Inside, Ma Kent was at the stove cutting up potatoes and sausage. She was wearing her pajamas, a blue ruffled shirt and floral sleep pants, and a pair of reading glasses sat on the very tip of her nose. “Good morning, sweetie,” she greeted, voice warm, tonal, and slightly gruff with an old smoker’s accent.
“Good morning,” Tim replied, placing the eggs next to the cutting board. With a yawn and padded footsteps, a little boy stepped into the room. His blue eyes scrunched up with sleep, tiredness lingered in his stance, and the soft red blanket that wrapped around his shoulders.
Ma turned to the child and smiled sweetly. “Jon, can you help Tim set the table, dear? Breakfast will be ready soon.”
“Of course!” Jon replied. He yawed for a long moment. Tim was busy gathering silverware, so he decided to gather cups.
“Why’s there an extra set?” Jon asked as he set up cups next to all the placemats. “Also, milk?”
“I’ll have orange juice, and Damian’s staying for a little while” Tim answered, face stuck in the fridge to gather the breakfast drinks.
Jon perked up, completely dropping the blanket he was coddled in. “Damian’s here?”
Tim was swift, picking up the blanket in the same breath as pouring cups of milk for the table. His veins thrummed with energy – residual lesions from years of training. Neurons firing in a million languages, all freezing and waiting for a hit back, except, he wasn’t fighting. Tim– Tim was pouring milk. He was, in fact, overpouring the milk and spilling it.
“Shit, shit” He muttered to himself, dropping the carton on the table and stepping back. It was like he was radioactive, all distorted and like he could feel every cell in his body breathe. There was a hand lingering on his shoulder, someone calling his name and–
It was an automatic response, like some biological program, that made Tim grab the wrist and lift the body over his back, slamming the person into the table. One hand held the body’s arm behind his back, Tim’s other hand gripping tight on the back of Jon’s neck. He let go with a scurry.
“Oh my god, oh god, oh my god” Tim whimpered. He looked around; everyone was awake now, and they were all looking at him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I– I thought–”
Shining brilliant blue eyes met his own, and Clark Kent was kneeling so Tim could look down at him. The man’s hand just barely drifted in front of him, not quite touching Tim’s trembling shoulders. “Its ok, Tim. You’re ok. We need you to take deep breaths.”
Tim leaned forward, resting his head on Clark’s shoulder. His body stopped jittering as hard. Clarks chest rose and fell calmly, and Tim tried to follow suit. Sometimes it was hard to remember he was safe here, that he didn’t have to fight to survive or get the crap beat out of him. It was like he was always waiting for that sneak attack, for Bruce’s crushing blows when he made mistakes, for it all to end. But Clark…Clark could break him a second, and he didn’t. He never yelled at Tim for making mistakes, for dropping things or slipping up on his chores. Clark holds him when he cries, when he’s so, so afraid of getting hurt again.
Tim decided to skip breakfast that morning, deciding to stay in his room instead. He sat with the gnawing loneliness, laying in that old, wooden bed and drifting in and out of sleep. Time passes in slow moments, Tim’s head carefully tilted to say he could watch the family of bluebirds outside his window.
The door opened with a creek, and Damian quietly padded in. He looked tired, a large bruise yellowing on his cheekbone. He moved carefully, setting down a plate on the nightstand. “I brought you breakfast for when you wake up,” He whispered. The room filled with silence, and Tim tried to slow his breathing– look like he’s asleep.
Instead of leaving, Damian crawls into the bed. The mattress dipped as he curled up against Tim’s back. Soft, whispered cries escaped Damian, muffled by the pillows. Tim waited a moment to see if Damian leaves. When it was decided that Damian didn’t plan on rising any time soon, Tim decided to roll over so he was looking down at his baby brother. Still “sleeping”, Tim moved forward and wrapped an arm around Damian, pulling him into a protective hold.
When they both re-awoke, the brothers just stayed in bed for a long time. They took in the quiet of the afternoon birdsong and wind through trees.
“I have something for you,” Tim said after a long time of quiet. He got up from the bed and pulled out his backpack from the corner. Inside were some bits and bobs, and at the very bottom sat an old, plush elephant. Tim took the plush and put down the bag before sitting back on the bed. He held it in his hands carefully – the plush’s soft fur had practically been rubbed away, its head lopped to the right, and one button eye missing. “This is Zitka.” Tim stated in a reserved voice. From the corner of his eye, he could see Damian looking at the old toy.
“She was Dick’s, when he was a kid.” A moment of hesitation, the fact lingered in the air. Tim continued, “Dick gave him to me after my dad died. He said that…since Zitka always helped when he missed his parents…” Tim stopped, a lump in his throat. He tried to breathe, to push away the tears that were threatening to fall. “Um…I know…I just…You and Dick…He was the Batman to your Robin.” he pushed the plush into Damian’s hands, with a final “You left before I could give her to you.”
Damian looked at the toy that was sitting in front of him. “Tim,” he whispered, “Its my fault.”
“W–what–?” Tim asked, his head shaking back and forth like he was trying to clear an etch-a-sketch thought process.
“Dicks…Dick’s death…” Damian turned away. “His suicide. It was my fault. I don’t deserve his comfort.”
Tim placed a gentle hand on Damian’s shoulder. “No, no, Dami, 弟弟 , of course it's not your fault. It's not your fault at all; it's none of our fault.”
Damian’s knuckles turned white as he gripped at the sheets. His shoulders trembled harshly. “It is. Robin– Robin is supposed to keep Batman out of the darkness. I was his Robin, and I failed. That’s what Father said: I was his Robin. ”
There was silence in the warm, homely farm house. There was silence in Tim’s mind– not a single thought besides the crushing realization of Damian’s statement. Just the denting of metal as Bruce’s hands fist collides with the Batcomputer, the far off sound of muffled fighting as Cass pulls him down the stairs to the cave. Yelling, crashing–
Damian, the youngest of the whole family, Dick's Robin, his almost-son, was standing in front of Batman, pointing at him accusatively and shaking with anger. He was demanding, no, shouting, for answers on why his eldest brother was dead.
“ YOU WERE HIS FATHER. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO LOVE HIM, TO LOVE US. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO KEEP US SAFE. YOU WERE OUR BATMAN. YOU WERE DICK’S BATMAN”
Batman, on the other hand, stayed completely still. His cowl was still on and he seemed every bit the Dark Knight Gotham knew and feared. Except his figure was slumped just ever-so-slightly forward than it should've been. And for the fact he was letting his son throw accusations, insults and even punches his way, seemingly unbothered.
“And? Damian, you were his Robin.”
Tim was at a loss for words. All he could do was sit and watch Damian stew in his guilt. “弟弟,” he whispered in disbelief, “弟弟,” he repeated, like a prayer, like calling him could somehow pull Damian out of his own mind. Again, “弟弟, look at me.”
Damian’s eyes were wide with tears, glowing green irises that looked so much like his fathers it was disconcerting. He scanned Tim’s face, lingering to take in all the little scrapes and scars. Tim looked…tired.
“Your father is a fool and a bastard, and he’s wrong.” Tim stated forcefully. “Dick loved you more than anything else in the multiverse. He would have watched the world burn if it meant making you smile. You– you were his son, Dami.” He let out a forced laugh “God, if Dick knew what Bruce has done, he’d come back just to drag that man down to hell.”
With a tilt of his head, Damian hummed in confusion. Then, Tim remembered, Damian left before Superman arrived that night…
“Bruce, he isn’t in his right mind, more than normal. He…he hurt Barbra – reparalyzed her from the shoulders down. He– he nearly made me down in my own blood. He’s not…he’s wrong. What he’s doing is wrong. What he said to you is wrong. Its not your fault, and its not Robin’s job to keep Batman from the dark. He could make his own choices, without dragging his children down with him.” Tim took a deep breath.
Hesitantly, Damian reached forward and grabbed the stuffed elephant. He held it between them. “We can share her” he whispered, a tone of finality at the decision. Tim put a gentle hand on the plush’s head.
“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.”
Weeks passed, and in all the moments when Damian wasn't working outside, or doing chores, or eating meals, Zitka sat snugly in his arms. Only once had someone commented on her– when Ma Kent noticed a small rip on her leg.
“We can fix it,” she offered, examining the toy in her hands. Damian had given it to her, hesitantly explaining that got caught on something and tore. “It's easy, I can teach you.”
“Yeah?” Damian echoed, unsurely.
“Yeah, we can fix her right up. We can even sew it so you wont even tell shes been torn.”
Damian looked at the old plush elephant “What if…what if we sew it up with colored string? Like– close the gap like that, so, I dunno.” he mumbled the last part, cheeks flushed and head bowed in embarrassment “It kinda looks like a scar”
Ma Kent smiled warmly. “I think that's an excellent idea. Say, upstairs in my room there's a table with a sewing machine, and in the drawer below there's needles and all different spools of thread. Why don’t you go up there and pick what color you’d like to sew her up with? And bring down a needle, too.”
“Alright,” Damian replied before going upstairs. He came back down with what Ma asked– a needle and a bright blue thread– the same color of Nightwing’s crest.
“Thats a beautiful color, dear. Come here, let me show you” She sat down and patted the couch next to her. Damian sat, too, and leaned forward to watch as Ma carefully threaded the needle. Her old hands were tan with sun-spots and freckles from days out in the sun, and she moved with a delicate touch.
Damian was entranced as he saw the way Ma carefully and lovingly made each stitch. When she got half-way through the rip, she held the needle out to Damian, asking “Do you want to try the rest?”
“I’ll try” Damian said unsurely. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the small needle– his stitches weren’t neat like Ma’s, they crisscrossed and overlapped in no pattern. Despite the messy look, it was still patched up. Damian passed it back to Ma to tie off the last stitches.
“Here you are, sweety, all fixed.” She said, passing the stuffed toy back to Damian. Damian took it in his arms and held it close, muttering a thank you.
The door opened and closed quietly, and Tim stepped into the room. He looked tired, still dressed in yesterday’s hoodie and jeans despite it being well into midday.
“You’re home.” Ma said, a bit of bite in her voice. “You smell like cigarettes.”
Tim rubbed at his eyes, mumbling some excuse or another. Even Damian could tell he was hungover, just from the way the kid tripped and stumbled up the stairs to their shared room.
“He does that a lot.” Ma sighed to herself. “More– before you got here…”
“I’m going to check on him,” Damian decided, standing up from the couch and carrying Zitka with him.
The door to their bedroom was half-closed, window blinds fully shuttered and lights turned off. Wind blew in from one of the windows, and Tim sprawled across the bed, a burning cigarette in hand.
“Hi,” Damian whispered. He paused, waited for Tim to tell him to leave, then walked further in. “You should hold her,” he said, placing Zitka in Tim’s arms.
Tim looked over at him, a small smile forming. “Hi, Dami. How's your day?” he asked, quickly putting out the cigarette.
“It was ok, Ma was teaching me how to sew. Zitka had a hole in her leg”
Tim felt a lump arise in his throat. He couldn’t help but wonder if Damian knew – the burn was from a dropped burning cigarette. He couldn't bring himself to ask.
"Where'd you go, last night?" Damian asked, voice brimming with worry and something else, fear, maybe.
"You don't have to worry about that." Tim replied.
He looked at Damian, studying his face and small frame and trembling hands. Sometimes, after everything, it was hard to remember Damian was still just a kid. And yet, Damian looked so small, clutching onto that old plush elephant with watering eyes and trembling voice, whispering "You're not going to kill yourself too, right?"
Tim thought he felt his heart shatter at that moment. His breathing hitched in his throat, sore from smoke, and his whole body practically jumped forward to hold onto his little brother. "No no, Dami I wouldn't do that. I'm not gonna do that. I promise."
Damian just let himself cry into his brother's chest. "You're all I have left, 三哥, please don't go, too"
"I would never, never, Dami," Tim whispered over the lump in his throat. He gently ran his fingers though Damian's hair in a comforting way– like Dick used to do.
Tim wanted to fix this – to hold Damian close and be what he needs. Damian needed Dick – they all did.
So Tim just held him close, promising that it was ok. That tomorrow would be better. That they would heal.
Tim wasn’t another Bruce, or DIck – he wasn’t a caretaker, not really, but he was going to make this work.
He had to, for Damian’s sake.