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It’s 4:15AM and Tim is dead. Tim died three days ago when he stupidly went to confront Ra’s al Ghul by himself without actually telling anyone about his dumb plan and went and got himself thrown out of a goddamn building, survival hinging only on his brother being good enough, fast enough to make it there on time to catch him-
No. None of that is true. Well, actually—a lot of that is true, but Tim’s not dead. He’s alive. He’s alive and safe and sleeping in his bed right now. He’s alive because Dick was able to make it there, he’s alive because Dick was fast enough, he’s alive because Dick caught him.
Tim’s alive because his plan just barely managed to work out just in time.
Just in time isn’t that much of a consolation for Dick, though. When he closes his eyes and tries to go sleep all he can see are the myriad of ways that Tim’s plan for Dick to somehow manage to save him could have gone wrong over and over and over again. Tim being permanently injured just because Dick wasn’t there to help him out, or worse, because Dick messed up the catch. Taking off Tim’s cowl after saving him and seeing his little brother’s pupils blown wide and eyes unseeing, a hallmark sign of a severe brain injury. Tim ending up in a persistent vegetative state or coma for god knows how long as a result. Tim getting killed by Ra’s before even getting thrown out of the building. Tim being brought back to the cave only to succumb to his extensive injuries.
Dick getting there a minute late, just in time to see his brother’s body hit the ground.
He throws his blanket off and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He sits there a minute, head in his hands as he grounds himself. Floor firm under his feet, air blowing from the ceiling fan rustling his hair, feeling his chest expand and contract rhythmically as he takes deep breaths.
Okay, he’s good. He should get under the covers and get to sleep now.
No, he shouldn’t. He should go check on Tim. Make sure he’s still breathing and hasn’t suddenly developed a collapsed lung days later from his rib injuries. That’s what he should do.
He stands up with a sigh. Now that he’s got that idea in his head, there’s no way he’s getting to sleep. The door creaks as he opens it into the hallway. It makes Dick wince. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard, really. Things don’t creak in the penthouse.
Things really shouldn’t be creaking in Wayne Manor, either. It has only been two years since it was completely rebuilt from the ground up, all new design and materials—nothing like the old, weathered mansion Dick grew up in, with the walls that would always settle at two in the morning and wake him up with a loud crack, the squeaky stairs that Dick had to hop over so he wouldn’t wake anyone while he was sneaking down to the kitchen, the wind that would howl past the windows and seep in through the ancient windowpanes—he always did need at least three blankets on him in the dead of winter...
Well, Dick supposes it wouldn’t exactly still be Wayne Manor if it wasn’t at least a little spooky and creaky regardless of how old it was. Maybe it’s just the nature of the property. The house could have been built yesterday and it would still probably be haunted somehow.
He pads his way down the hall—quietly, so not to wake anyone, no need to bother anyone just because he's being paranoid—towards Tim's room. He opens the door as quietly as he can—seriously, even for a probably haunted house, the creaking seems excessive—and peeks in. Tim headed up to bed a couple of hours ago with a big yawn. Tim will be laying there peacefully—sleeping and breathing and alive—and Dick can go back to bed, his neuroses calmed and
Except—except the bed is empty. It looks untouched. Dick's heart catches in his throat. He was fooling himself, wasn't he? He only imagined he saved Tim, Tim is dead, Tim's plan failed-
He whirls around, shutting the door with a firm, loud click. But he can't bring himself to care if he's making too much noise now, he has to find Tim, he has to-
First things first, he has to calm down and not panic. Tim is alive. To actually believe otherwise is utter nonsense. They ate dinner together ten hours ago. Tim not being in bed means just that—he's not in bed. The kid can and will sleep anywhere. He probably just passed out at one of his usual haunts on the way up.
Dick takes the steps two at a time to get down to the main level faster. The kitchen island—empty. The couch in the study—empty. The recliner in the den—empty. The bean bag in the library—empty. Dick can feel his heartbeat quicken as he starts to feel a bit more antsy. He should have found Tim by now. Maybe he was fooling himself. Maybe he was-
No. He can't let himself think that. There's a million places Tim could be in the house. It's certainly big enough. The bench in the laundry room—empty. The door to the patio—open?
The sight makes Dick slow down to a stop. Doors don't just get left open here. Not with their security.
He steps out into to warm night air, scanning the area and there, sprawled out on the grass like a starfish, is Tim. Dick heaves a sigh of relief as he makes his way over and plops down on the ground next to him. From the door he thought Tim might've been sleeping on the lawn like the little weirdo he is, but here he can see that Tim is wide awake, bright blue eyes wide open and just staring up at the dark sky.
Tim doesn't even flinch, clearly completely unsurprised by Dick's sudden arrival. Well, it's not like Dick was actually trying to sneak up on him or anything this time. The way he was practically running through the main floor of the Manor as he looked meant that Tim probably heard him coming from a mile away. Anybody would have.
If he had been trying though, Tim never would have heard him coming-
But really, that doesn't matter. He's just happy he finally found Tim. Dick can feel his breathing start to even out just seeing his little brother, safe and breathing, a physical reminder that Dick did save him and all the horrible visions in his head were just that—visions, not reality.
"Shouldn't you be in bed?" Tim asks, breaking the silence first.
"Shouldn't you?" Dick answers the question with his own. Tim's lips quirk into a small smile.
"You got me there," Tim says, pushing himself up with his arms so he's sitting. "I probably should be. Alfie would have nice little conniption if he knew I wasn't. But I, uh, tried and I couldn't fall asleep. Thought I'd come out and get some fresh air instead."
Dick raises an eyebrow. "You? Couldn't fall asleep?" he asks in disbelief. "Am I talking to the same Tim who told me he fell asleep on a rollercoaster? What are you, sick?" He can't help but laugh at the absurdity. He and Bruce—they never had to worry too much about Tim getting enough sleep despite their odd hours. Whenever they looked over at him it seemed like they'd always catch him dozing in some god-awful, painful looking position. Tim had his rough nights—it was inevitable, all things considered—but at least he slept wherever and whenever he could. Dick and Bruce were always the ones who were pushing themselves to the brink trying to fit twenty-five hours of work in a twenty-four hour day, the ones trying to see how many days in a row they could survive on two hours of sleep because there was always one more thing to do, one more thing to research, any more sleep than absolutely necessary was just time wasted-
Truly, a terrible way to live. Tim may have been falling asleep on dates, but Dick was always privately grateful that the kid could somehow fall asleep anywhere and everywhere, regardless of situation. At least he wasn’t so far gone that he could only fall asleep when he forced himself to, or only at times when he was truly able to feel safe—which were always far and few between.
Tim scratches the back of his neck as he ducks his head. "Well, it's kind of hard to just fall asleep to rest when your body's gotten used to about 4 broken hours a night for the past six months straight."
That stops Dick's laughter up short. Thinking of Tim's months gone still makes something in him ache something awful. I'm leaving, Dick. And I need you to let me go.
And he did. Watched Tim's cape flutter behind him as he rode away—away from home, away from Dick. Leaving Dick alone with the city when he needed all the help he could get, leaving because he was drowning in grief he needed to hold on to his one belief and Dick was stretched so thin with everything else he didn't have enough left to give Tim anything close to what he needed, leaving Dick with nothing but anger and anguish and worry and guilt—how could Tim do this to him, would Dick ever see him again, would he be even safe without Dick there to protect him if he got into a tight spot? Or would Dick lose a brother so shortly after losing his father—and have to live with choosing to let Tim go instead of continuing to fight to try to make him stay?
The sharp edges of all those feelings have long since dulled, though. How could Dick keep honing them when Tim came back—just because Dick asked him to—to help with the Black Lanterns, looking just as tired and out of sorts and unmoored as Dick constantly felt back in those days? Even though Tim had left them again, gone almost as soon as he came, it didn't cut the way it had the first time.
"Tim, you trust me?"
"Of course. Do it."
Even after their fights, even after everything—Tim hadn't hesitated a second before answering him. No matter what happened between them—Tim trusted him.
So Dick had to trust Tim too. Believe in me. That's what Tim had asked. Not help him, not believe him, but believe in him. So Dick did. He believed in Tim's fortitude—that his brother would be able to work through his struggles and come through brighter and better than ever—and he believed in Tim's love for them (for him, for Alfred, for people like Helena and Cassie and Babs, and even for the city itself)—that once he was ready, he would come home where he belonged, back to the people he loved so fiercely.
And Dick doesn't regret that. Doesn't regret standing back and letting Tim do what he needed to do. Because his belief in Tim paid off, didn't it? Tim did come home, with an air of cool confidence, finally secure in himself, no longer desperate and grieving, and with the evidence he went searching for--he needed—to prove to himself and everyone else that Bruce wasn't just not dead, he was actively traveling through time—from one century to the next based on the artifacts that Tim brought back with him. And Dick was more than happy to admit that Tim was right all along—that somehow with only one clue and a desperate hope, he was onto the truth that nobody had it in them to believe all those months ago. Dick's truly never been happier to be proven wrong.
Tim managed to do everything he had set out to do, all by himself. Dick couldn't be prouder of how he's grown. But still—the thought of Tim out there searching, with only the League of Assassins backing him for those long six months...
Dick had helped Alfred patch Tim up in the cave, the best his trembling hands would allow anyways. He was really probably more of a hindrance than anything, the way Alfred had kept sighing and tsking at him.
But Dick couldn't sit still and wait, not when Tim was in that bad of condition. Dark bruises on his arms and legs, cuts and cracked ribs, the shape of a foot neatly stamped on his torso, scars that Dick knows Tim didn't have before including one particularly nasty one on his left side.
Tim had worked himself out—found what he needed to find, yes. But what else had he gotten along the way? The ire of Ra's al Ghul and a knack for thinking up plans that would be sure to give Dick nightmares for months? A sleep schedule that was just as bad as Bruce at his absolute worst, one that Tim would have been lecturing the man about until he finally gave up and went to go take a nap?
What had happened to Tim while he away?
Tim is still looking down at the ground between his legs, like he can’t bring himself look at Dick after casually bringing up the one topic that would almost definitely hurt them the most like it was absolutely nothing—with no easing into it whatsoever, just a casual implication of a terrible time. It’s so—so Tim. It had been so long—Dick was so focused on his relief that Tim was home and that things would get back to normal again he had almost forgotten how good Tim was at that. Dick clenches his jaw. This was supposed to be about assuaging his fears, making him feel better so he could get to sleep. This was just going to end up hurting, wasn’t it? “Tim,” he says softly, “What happened out there?”
Tim might not be looking at him, but his flinch is obvious. “I, uh—is that important right now?” he asks weakly, like he doesn’t know the answer to that, like he’s not the one who brought the subject up to begin with, like he’s not he one who started this all to begin with, like his misadventures didn’t end up with Ra’s al Ghul kicking him out a window and guaranteeing Dick nightmares for the next three years at minimum-
It’s always been his most irritating trait. Dick can’t help the aggravated sigh he makes. “I don’t know, Tim, is it important?” he snaps. “You’re the one who mentioned it.” That one hits home—Tim finally looks back up at him, guilt written all over his face.
“I—yeah, I did, didn’t I?” he finally says. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said—you were just trying to make conversation and I’m the one who-” Tim can’t seem to get the words out, like for once in his life he’s having trouble figuring out what to say to Dick.
It’s weird. Dick doesn’t like it. His anger deflates as almost as quick as it came on, seeing Tim struggle like that. Even at their worst, all those months ago, Tim never had an issue telling Dick exactly what was on his mind—even if it was something Dick really didn’t want to hear.
So why is he having trouble now?
It pokes at another deep-seated fear of Dick’s, one that he’s been doing his best to ignore since Tim came back and smiled and laughed like nothing that happened—that despite the fact that Tim can look him straight in the eye and affirm how much he trusts Dick with no hesitation despite everything that happened between them, did things irrevocably change? Does Dick still have Tim’s trust but not his confidence?
“Tim,” Dick says. It’s enough to get Tim to stop stammering. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. I’m not—you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” It’s true, as much as it pains Dick to say it. As much as he might want Tim to open up and tell him everything again, like he used to, Tim’s entitled to his privacy about what he’s gone through, same as the rest of them.
Tim looks forlorn. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you…” he trails off. He looks back up to the sky again.
“It’s not?”
“No, it’s just—I can’t—I’m sorry.”
That stings more than it has a right to. It’s—fine. Dick can accept it. It’s not like Tim hates him, it’s just not something he wants to talk to Dick about. He’s entitled to that. He doesn’t have to tell Dick everything. “That’s alright,” he says, offering Tim a smile, a peace offering. They can move on from this conversation, let it rest, go back to more superficial topics if that’s what Tim needs.
“No, it’s not,” Tim says, clearly frustrated. “I want to tell to you, I do, but…” he bends up his knees, wrapping his arms around them. He shakes a bit. Dick reaches out a hand, placing on Tim’s shoulder as if to steady him. Tim takes a big, shuddering breath. “If I tell you, you’ll hate yourself and I can’t—I can’t-”
“Woah, Tim,” Dick says, squeezing the shoulder under his hand softly. “Don’t—it’s fine, it’s okay. You’re fine. Don’t let yourself get so worked up about this, it’s not good for you. I’m not—don’t worry about me.”
Tim lets out a laugh at that. “Easier said than done,” he lifts his head up and wipes at his eyes roughly. “You’re Batman. You’re Dick. It’s in my blood to worry about you.”
Dick snorts. How very—Tim of him. It is a bit relieving, though. No matter what may have changed while he was gone, Tim was most definitely still Tim. “You’re ridiculous,” he says.
“I think you mean to say absolutely precious,” Tim replies with a smirk.
Dick scoffs and rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide his smile. It feels like they just overcame an unexpected hurdle somehow. It’s a good feeling.
But not a good enough one that he can just gloss over what Tim said. Forget his nightmares about what could have potentially happened to Tim three days ago, if what happened to Tim was really as bad as he's implying with that statement...
Dick doesn't want to know. It will haunt him forever. He does want to know. His little brother shouldn't have be alone with it just to protect Dick.
"You think I would hate myself if you told me, huh?" Dick asks. What can he say? Tim's not the only one in the family who won't let things go.
Tim looks down at the ground again for a moment, clearly steeling himself before he looks back up to meet Dick's eyes again. His gaze is steady, confident. "Dick, I know you would hate yourself if I told you," he says matter-of-factly, like there's no doubt in his mind that it's true.
Which means it probably is. Tim has always been able to read him annoyingly well.
"I just—If I tell you about all the stupid things that I did, the things that happened...even though the decisions were mine, the choices were mine, even though I was the one who told you to let me go off on my own—you would still blame yourself for letting me leave in the first place," Tim continues with a plaintive smile on his face. He reaches down to break off a blade of grass, rolling it back and forth mindlessly between his fingers.
Dick nudges him softly with his foot. "That's kind of my job as your big brother, you know. And I take that very seriously. I would hate to get lax and get kicked out of the big brothers hall of fame," he says. That, at least, gets a small chuckle out of Tim.
"You really think you're in the big brothers hall of fame?" Tim asks, raising and eyebrow with a cheeky grin on his face.
"Oh-ho, you think I'm not?" Dick asks. Tim just gives an innocent shrug. Dick scoffs in mock-disbelief and reaches a hand up to whack him, Tim parries him easily, full on laughing now. They exchange soft blows for a few minutes, just like old times, before Dick finally sneaks a hand through Tim's defenses and ruffles his hair. "Seriously, though, Tim," Dick says once Tim stops his grumbling, all traces of jest gone from his voice. "You have to know you can tell me anything, yea? Doesn't matter if it upsets me, doesn't matter if it makes me feel bad—or guilty, doesn't matter if you think it's not important. I don't want you to feel like you have to hold it in just to protect me. I know-" he hesitates just a moment. Wonders for a second if he should even poke at this particular wound. "I know that I probably let you down back then, made you feel you couldn't talk to me, that I wasn't there for you-"
"What? Dick, no," Tim interrupts. "That's not it at all! God, you were right—I really had nothing to go on except for the portrait and a crazy hope—how could I have explained any of it to you when I could barely explain to myself how I knew it was true-" he cuts himself off with a sigh before looking over at Dick with a rueful grin. "I never doubted for a second that you'd listen to me once I actually had proof. I know I can talk to you about anything, I just-" he smiles ruefully. "I'm sorry. I can't bring myself to put anything more on your plate right now when you're already having trouble sleeping and running around the manor just to check and see if I'm actually alive."
Dick's the one that's wincing now. So much for poking at any wounds Tim might have. He managed to that back around on Dick like a pro. "You, ah, you figured that out?" He really was hoping it wasn't too noticeable. Really, it was just a quick reassurance here and there, only enough to remind him of reality when he needed it.
"If you want to keep secrets, find a new family that isn't chock full of detectives," Tim says. "...Also, you kind of keep looking at me like I’m a ghost. It’s a little obvious.”
“I—sorry,” Dick says apologetically. “But don’t mind it, okay? I’ll get over it eventually, so don’t feel like you have to use that as an excuse to keep things bottled up-”
“Do you remember,” Tim says suddenly, looking back up at the sky. “When we were Batman and Robin?”
When they were—does he mean all those years ago? When Tim was still wet behind the ears and Dick was just flying by the seat of his pants trying to fill in for Bruce? That’s—what does that have to do with anything? “Of course I remember when we were Batman and Robin. Kind of hard to forget.”
Tim smiles sheepishly. “You remember when we had to make it over to Blackgate, but we couldn’t go by water—you said it would be suicide—so we had to use the wings? To make it over the guard towers without being noticed?”
Dick can picture it in his mind. Standing at the edge of the tallest building across the bay from Blackgate, Tim’s face pale and eyes wide behind his mask as he admitted he wasn’t sure if he was quite up to making the trip. “You tapped out. It was the right decision—you weren’t ready. I was pretty proud of you for making it.”
Tim shorts. “Jeez, I was such a wuss,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “But. Um. You told me something then—that it was better for me to realize my limits than to figure out too late I didn’t know them after all. It was—really good advice.” He looks back over at Dick. “So, um, Dick. It’s better to realize your limits now. It’s okay to step back while you deal with what you’ve got going on before you start adding something you’re not actually ready for.”
Dick barks out a laugh. “How the student becomes the teacher,” he teases. “Can’t believe I’m getting lectured by a teenager. What is my life coming to?”
“What can I say? I see a Batman and the chiding just flows out like chemicals into the Gotham Bay-”
“Brat,” Dick says fondly, reaching out to ruffle Tim’s hair again. Tim ducks his head a little, but doesn’t try too hard to avoid it. “So I have to work soaring past my limits?”
“Not just you,” Tim rests his head on his knees. “Dick, I just got back. There’s still a lot I need to—I have to get my head straight too, you know. Still figuring out what I want to share and what I want to keep to myself, still managing to screw up and say things I’m not ready to bring up—leading to conversations that I'm not anywhere near prepared to have.” He snorts softly. “It’s a mess, isn’t it?”
It is. For both of them. It’s not going to be an easy one to sort through, either. There’s so much to go through—with so much anger and hurt and worry and love making it even harder. If they dive in without being completely ready for what’s there, they risk making everything worse—don’t they? Tim’s right.
He’s a good kid. Smart. Dick’s glad he’s got a little brother like him.
“You got good eventually,” Dick says. Tim looks at him questioningly. “At flying with the wing-gliders. You can keep up with the best of us now. When you were ready, you were flying.”
Tim grins at him. “Yea. But I’ll never be as good at flying as you.” Dick throws his arm out, pulls Tim into a side-hug. The sun is starting to peek up over the horizon, colors muted by the ever-present Gotham smog. Soon it would be morning. So much for checking on Tim quick and then being able to get some sleep. “You know,” Tim says. “When I was traveling through the deserts of Iraq, I’d look up in the sky and see all the stars and thought to myself—despite how amazing it was to actually see the universe clearly splayed up there for once, it still had nothing on the ugly, permanently hazy sky over Gotham to me.”
It’s not everything, but it’s something. “The smog really does ruin it, doesn’t it?”
“It’s terrible, isn’t it? I think the pollution might be worse than I remember,” Tim sighs. “Still glad to see it again. Really hammers in that I’m really, finally home.”
Home and safe and alive to watch the sun rise over the city with Dick.
It’s enough for now.