Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dick's on a mission, scavenging through the attic's treasures, hoping to unearth those old tapes that hold a piece of their history. These are the tapes Bruce used to film way back when he took Dick in. He'd always say they were like time capsules, glimpses of their lives that he wanted to cherish forever. Dick remembers how Jason had his own set of recordings too. Bruce would film them, catching all those goofy moments that made them who they are. Stupid stuff, but they meant the world to them.

Dick’s tapes? They're basically a collection of his climbing expeditions. Every time Dick watches them, it's like reliving those fearless escapades. And yeah, he’s seen Jason's tapes too, especially when Bruce would play them after they lost Jason. It was the only way Dick could handle being around Bruce back then.

Dick’s rummaging through these boxes, and he finds a tape labeled "Tim." Thing is, it's not with the others. Nope, this one's got its own little box, nestled with Tim's stuff from Drake Manor. It catches Dick off guard – raises his curiosity, as he had never physically seen Tim's tape, just as he hadn't seen Cass, or Damian, either though he knew they existed due to their presence among the collection. But it was his first time seeing Tim’s, maybe he never saw it because he was kept away from the rest? But why?

Dick grabs that box of memories and heads down to the media room, where everyone's gathered, ready for a trip down memory lane. Well, everyone except Tim. He's steered clear of the manor since Bruce's return from his time-traveling adventure. Tim's absence gnaws at Dick's conscience. He is acutely aware of the unfair treatment he had subjected Tim to during the period when Bruce was believed dead—taking away his Robin mantle, doubting him, and subsequently giving Robin to Damian.

But he’s been trying to make things right. Asking Tim to hang out, inviting him to every family event – you name it. Problem is, he keeps turning Dick down. Always some excuse, always something else he's got going on. Dick called him today, begged him to join, but got a half-hearted "I'll see if I can make it." Translation: he won't.

So here Dick is, in the media room, tapes in hand, facing the family. All eyes are on him as he announces, "Got the tapes, folks! Whose trip down memory lane do we want first? We've got yours truly, Jason, Cass, Damian, and Tim."

Out of the blue, Bruce practically shouts, "Tim's!" There's this strange mix of eagerness and confusion on his face. "What's so special about Tim's?" Dick asks, genuinely puzzled.

Bruce hesitates, looking like he's straining to remember something. "Where did you find it?" he asks, a furrow forming on his brow.

"It was in the attic, in a separate box with Tim's stuff," Dick explains. Bruce's expression twists, like he's trying to unravel a forgotten thread of memory. 

"Hey, Bruce, everything okay?" Dick presses, worried about what's going on in his head.

“I never made a tape for Tim,” Bruce admits, his words laced with hesitance. He can sense the collective gaze of his children fixed upon him, their curiosity palpable.

“What do you mean you never made a tape for Tim?” Dick's voice holds a mix of anger and bewilderment, a complex blend of emotions mirroring his internal conflict.

“You remember when Tim entered our lives, I wasn't exactly in a stable state,” Bruce reveals, a raw honesty in his tone. The weight of his children's attention intensifies, and their unspoken questions hang heavy in the air.

“No, Bruce.” Dick's expression shifts, betraying a profound sense of heartbreak. His siblings, too, regard Bruce with a mixture of skepticism and understanding. Bruce accepts their judgment; he knows he's earned it.

"I was dealing with my own pain, and my relationship with Tim was nothing like with you guys. Tim wasn't into the whole playful thing, he took everything seriously. I told him our relationship was strictly business, that being Robin was a job, and I was his boss," Bruce explains, guilt evident on his face as he admits his past mistakes.

“Damn it, Bruce,” Jason's exasperated voice breaks in, his gaze a blend of frustration and concern that Bruce can't escape.

"And what else could this be if not your recording?" Dick waves the small device in his hand.

"Honestly, I don't know. That's why I was confused about where it came from," Bruce replies.

"There's only one way to figure it out," Jason hints.

"I'm not sure, Jason. This might be something personal," Dick looks worried but also intrigued.

"Maybe it's a recording the kids' parents made," Jason shrugs.

"Could be," Dick concedes as he plugs the small device into the screens and settles back to watch.

Chapter Text

*Rec*

The screen stayed empty until a young Tim Drake popped up. He perched at his desk within his room at Drake Manor. The space was orderly yet barren. Clean walls and a solitary bed created an atmosphere akin to a prison cell, where even inmates might have posters or books, yet Tim had none.

"Hey, I'm Tim Drake. I'm eight years old, and today is July 12, 20XX." Tim adjusts his phone to display the date on camera. There's a moment of silence as Tim gazes at the lens, as if grappling with what to say.

"It's been a while since my parents left, a couple of months now, and I'm all alone. Summer break is here, and without school, I don't have anyone to talk to. I've gone months without speaking to anyone. I was starting to forget what my voice sounds like. So," Tim gestures toward the camera, "I thought maybe this would help. I just wanted to talk to someone." Weariness creeps into Tim's tone—a weight that's rare to hear in a child's voice.

"Okay, here's the thing. What I'm going to share is super confidential. You see, I'm a secret keeper, and I keep a lot of them." Tim's expression darkens. “But these aren't secrets that are entrusted to me. These are secrets I steal, secrets I hoard—some I hide even from myself, and some my own. Now, I can't spill all my secrets, or we'd be sitting here for days. So, I'll share the three most important ones." 

Tim raises a single finger, his eyes gleaming. "Firstly, a secret I managed to Steal—the world’s best kept secret, actually—the identity of Batman and Robin. It all started at a circus," Tim's gaze fills with a touch of wonder. "A journalist pressed my father about his limited public appearances with the family. Thus, he orchestrated a family outing to the circus, an effort to portray himself as a responsible father. That day was a whirlwind of nightmares and dreams, 'cause it's when I met Dick Grayson. He was different, you know? My parents aren't particularly affectionate, but when Dick hugged me, it etched itself into my memory. I could never erase that day, even if I tried to. Somebody even said Dick and I could pass as brothers. Dick grinned at me and said he wished he had a brother like me. Crazy, right? There are moments when I wonder if, perhaps, I go to Bludhaven, knock on his door, and jog his memory about those words—would he consider taking me in?" Tim lets out a scoff at his own wild idea.

"Anyway, he promised he'd do his family's signature flip for me, his number one fan. So, I waited—patiently, endlessly—but Dick never got the chance. His parents fell before they could do anything. I have nightmares about that day. I tried to watch videos of them; I thought that maybe if I saw them happy together, the nightmares would stop. I even got to see the famed quadruple somersault. Nothing helped, but that's how I found out the identity of Robin. I saw Robin execute a quadruple somersault, and since Dick Grayson was adopted by Bruce Wayne,” Tim shrugs, as if to say, "Well, you know." 

“Once the theory was there, all the other pieces matched: the money, the timelines, and so forth. Especially now that there's a new Robin, as Bruce just adopted Jason, and Dick moved to Bludhaven around the same time Nightwing made his debut.” Tim smiles at the camera, “I will keep their secret. I will keep them safe as they keep Gotham safe."

There is silence again, but this time it’s tinged with sadness. Tim's face contorts as if he’s in pain. “The second secret, the one I keep from myself, or at least try to, but it’s hard when you're constantly reminded of it. The secret that—" Tim hesitates, “that... that my parents don’t love me. My mother told me something once; she doesn’t think I remember. She thinks she said it to an unsuspecting child, a child who wouldn't understand the weight of her words. Unfortunately, I remember everything,” Tim pokes at his head. “It's a curse to remember every cruel thing. I have an eidetic memory, you see. So when my mother told me that she never wanted to have me, that she hated me, she didn't think it would affect me; she didn't think that the words would be seared into my skin, and I would be forced to look at them every time she spoke to me.” Tim looks at the camera with a touch of hope, as if he expects someone to jump out and provide him with all the answers to life's troubles—but the room remains empty. Suddenly, his expression changes; his face contorts. He takes a deep breath, his cheeks puffing out as he holds it for a moment before exhaling. "Well, that got pretty heavy," Tim laughs, trying to cover up the sadness, but the sound hangs in the quiet house.

“Well, moving on to the last secret, and the most important one. My secret, the one I can’t tell anyone ever." Tim begins to speak but no words emerge.

"Sorry, I've never actually said these words out loud," he admits. He takes a few deep breaths, collecting himself. "Okay, here goes: I'm a meta." The words rush out of his mouth in a blur. "There, I said it. Yes, I'm a metahuman. But I can't ever let anyone know because Batman isn't too keen on our kind." Tim's gaze flickers above the camera, his eyes widening. "Oh, look at the time! I've got to run—patrol's starting soon, and I've got some pictures to take." Tim winks at the camera, his tone lightening. "Catch you next time."

The screen fades to black.

Chapter Text

"Did he seriously just say he's a metahuman?" Steph's voice conveys sheer horror.

"Bruce, did you have any idea?" Dick's inquiry is almost unnecessary; the shock on Bruce's face tells the story.

"Okay, yes, the metahuman revelation is massive and all, but can we not overlook the glaring signs of neglect and mistreatment here? Leaving an eight-year-old home alone, the lack of physical affection from his parents, and his mother actually telling him she hates him. That's neglect and emotional abuse right there, not only that, but no kid should talk like that. He talks like he’s 50 not 8," Jason lays it all bare, his gaze locked onto Bruce. "Did you know about that, at least?"

"I was aware of the neglect, but the rest, I... I…" Bruce's words taper off, guilt evident in his expression. "But I'm almost certain I tested him for the meta gene..." Bruce's words falter as he absorbs his children's reactions.

"Seriously? That's your concern right now?" Jason retorts with biting sarcasm, his eyes fixated on Bruce with clear disdain.

Bruce attempts to explain himself, but Dick interjects sharply. "Did anyone have a clue about this? Did he confide in any of you?" He scans the room, meeting the guilt-ridden expressions. "Cass?"

"Little brother, sadness, pain, emptiness, sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, sadness, sadness, always," Cass responds with a nonchalant shrug.

“Wow, that’s not good,” Jason says, concerned. 

Dick presses play as the next entry starts rolling. 

“DICK!” Steph yells appalled.

“We need to know, I-I can’t help him if I don’t know what's wrong.” Dick looks guilty but determined. 

When there's no opposition Dick turns his attention toward the screen. 

Chapter Text

*Rec*

The video starts much like the first one, with Tim perched on his desk in the same sparsely decorated room. "Hey there, this is Tim Drake. It's been ages since I made that first video. I'm ten now and the date is February 12, 20XX," Tim begins with a hint of nostalgia. "I stumbled upon my old stuff and thought, why not do a follow-up? Mom and Dad are still, well, gone. They did pop in once or twice in the middle, which was kind of them," Tim comments with an almost nonchalant shrug. "I'm not lonely anymore, though. I've made some friends," he adds, clapping his hands in excitement.

"Remember last time I mentioned being a metahuman?" Tim's tone changes to one of enthusiasm. "Well, guess what? I can see GHOSTS!" Tim exclaims with dramatic jazz hands and outstretched arms, as if he's announcing it to the entire world. 

"Ghosts, spirits, souls, call them what you will," Tim continues, his tone becoming more serious. A hint of fear flickers in his eyes. "I used to be really afraid of them. Sometimes when they're confused or not ready to move on from what happened, they appear in the form they died in. And let me tell you, some deaths aren't pretty, especially here in Gotham. I used to ignore them, pretend they didn't exist, that I was just a normal kid. Grandma and grandpa helped keep them away too." A touch of sadness clouds Tim's eyes, but he still manages a smile. "They aren't my real grandparents. I never met my real grandparents. Martha and Thomas Wayne—yeah, Bruce Wayne's parents, Batman's parents—they told me to call them Grandpa and Grandma. They never really explained why, just said I'd understand someday." Tim shrugs and chuckles. "Honestly, I still don't quite get it. Anyway, Grandpa and Grandma have been around for a long time, and they've been watching over Bruce." Tim's face changes, and the brightness in his expression gives way to a heavy sadness. "They were here because of Bruce, but things changed when he adopted Jason. They didn’t need to stay anymore. My reaction? Honestly, not my proudest moment," Tim confesses, his voice carrying a mix of emotions. He gives the camera a shaky smile. "It involved a lot of tears, me practically begging them not to leave. They stuck around for another year because of that, but I could see how much it was taking a toll on them. They moved on because Bruce wasn't alone anymore, their son finally had his own family. They were content and ready to move on, but because of me, because of my selfishness, they stayed."

Tim let’s out a deep sigh. "I could sense I was holding them back from being happy. So, I mustered the courage to tell them I was ready for them to leave, that I didn't need them anymore. They wanted to stay longer, but I couldn't bear the thought of my selfishness hurting them any further. Now they're gone, and I miss them terribly. They were the only ones who truly talked to me," He admits, his voice carrying a longing tone. Tim chuckle’s, the joy and sadness blending. "They used to share countless stories about Bruce's childhood, insisting I was just like him. It feels like Bruce is my friend, like he's just a kid my age. Whenever I see him at a gala, I just want to walk up and talk to him like we're old pals. Tell him that, just like him, I love reading mystery novels, that I also climbed the tree in the backyard, and cried when I fell out. That I put random things together and proudly call them my inventions like he did."

Tim goes quiet for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips as he reminisces. "Grandma suggested I talk to Bruce, but deep down, I know better. I'd only end up freaking him out, making him suspicious. It's dangerous if Batman is suspicious of me. Not again. I won't make that mistake, especially if he still remembers what happened that one time," he says, looking at the camera with a cringe.

Switching to a different story, Tim becomes more animated as he recalls a past gala. "My first gala, and I was clueless. My parents value intelligence above all else, the only thing they appreciate about me. When I spotted Bruce Wayne, it threw me off. He was a puzzle, a highly intelligent man pretending to be dumb. I knew he was smart because his clumsiness was too calculated. There was intent to it, and I saw that. It bothered me because he hid the only cool thing about him. I was mad but also worried for him, thinking nobody would love him if he hid his intelligence. So, I saw him alone and went for it. He looked so surprised when this little kid tugged on his pants for attention, but he was kind. I messed it up by asking why he pretended to be dumb when it was obvious he was the smartest person in the room. He froze, changing from Brucie to Batman. He put his guard up immediately. He might have grilled me, but my parents saved me by showing up. After that, he eyed me at every gala. I tried to dodge him as much as I could," Tim huffs and shakes his head. "Never again."

Just like the last video, he glances above the camera at the clock and gasps, "It's patrol time. I gotta go. Until next time." 

The screen fades to black.  

Chapter Text

The room falls silent, everyone just staring at the mysterious tape, lost for words. A loud sniffle breaks the tension, and all eyes turn to the back of the room.

There's Bruce, wide-eyed and tears streaming down his face. In a whisper filled with reverence, he says, "He knew my parents."

Dick, looking concerned, asks, "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I never shared those stories with any of you. I've kept my childhood, my parents, a secret. Not because I don’t wanna talk about them but because it's just too painful. Not even Alfred knows those details," Bruce replies, his expression intense as if he's trying to piece something together.

Steph chimes in, a mix of fascination and fear in her voice, "So, it's real. Tim can... can see ghosts."

Suddenly, Jason bursts into laughter, a wild and maniacal sound. He looks at Bruce with amusement and says, "If Martha and Thomas Wayne raised Timbo, what does that make him—your brother or your son?" Jason laughs again, but this time, at the complex expression on Bruce's face, a mix of consideration and apprehension. The room fell into a heavy silence, with everyone sensing that Jason's laughter served as a mere cover for the deeper emotions he was concealing.

"You were spot-on regarding his parents, Jason," Dick spoke, breaking the silence as he directed his gaze towards Bruce. "Tim said that he feared—feared that concealing your intelligence would make you unlovable. It's clear his parents only noticed him when they were showing off how smart he was to their friends. They only loved him when he was useful to them." 

"Yeah, I could've told you that. It's glaringly obvious in his behavior," Jason scoffs.

Steph, looking confused, asks, "What are you talking about, Jason?"

Jason glances around at everyone, incredulous. "Wait, seriously?" He is met with blank looks. "So you're telling me none of you noticed that the kid refuses to take a break? He goes from one case to the next, never stopping. Always trying to be useful, attempting to do everything himself, never asking for help."

Dick's face falls, and he nods hauntingly. "I never noticed."

"Of course you didn't. It's hard to take advantage of him if you know what you're doing," Jason clarifies.

Dick looks horrified. "Jason, what are you talking about? We don't take advantage of Tim."

Jason scoffs.

"Jason," Dick yells in distress, "we don't take advantage of Tim."

Jason doesn't bother speaking.

Before Dick can continue, Damian interrupts, "Richard, are you aware that Drake boasts the highest number of successfully resolved cases among our team, surpassing the rest significantly? Despite assuming the position of CEO at Wayne Enterprises, he remains the principal architect of our collaborative missions, diligently formulating plans. Moreover, he consistently extends his assistance to the entirety of our team in resolving individual cases."

"We never asked him to do any of that," Dick tries to defend himself.

"You never asked him to stop either," Jason interrupts. "You and Bruce never ask Tim to take a break, even though you consistently take care of us. But if you see Tim working, you never do anything; you just let him work."

Dick's eyes widen as he falls into his seat, and Bruce wears a similar horrified expression.

Dick presses the button to play the next tape as he falls silent.

Chapter Text

*Rec*

The tape starts rolling, showing Tim still sitting on his desk amidst some small changes in the room. A new Batman and Robin poster hangs on the wall.

"Hey, it's Tim Drake. I'm twelve, nearly thirteen. My birthday's is a month away— Today’s date is June 13, 20XX.

My parents won't make it again," bitterness taints Tim's expression.

A profound silence stretches as Tim gazes at his lap, minutes ticking by before he inhales deeply. A strained smile emerges. "Well, it's okay. I'll celebrate with the Birds and the Bats." Tim hesitates, his voice carrying a mix of longing and rebellion. "I know I'm not supposed to interact with them, but maybe I can ask Jason for an autograph just this once. I'll be subtle, pretend I'm a street kid or something. Robin is—he's amazing," Tim's voice quivers with admiration. "Maybe he won't tell Batman, like that time he saved me from falling off the fire escape." Concern etches Tim's face. "I hope they're okay. Batman and Robin have been missing for a week. Maybe I should go to Wayne Manor, check if everything's okay. I can come up with an excuse; we're neighbors, after all. I really hope everything's okay." Tim's eyes dart to the side, and he abruptly rises from his chair.

"ROBIN?" Tim's excitement reverberates, but as reality sets in, the joy fades.

"Robin, no, no, no. Oh my god, Jason. No, no, no, this can't be happening. Not you, god, not you, Robin."

The screen goes blank.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jason slouches in his seat, his gaze fixed on the screen, surrounded by the weight of silence, while the rest of the family watches him intently. He struggles, his mind racing against a wall, desperately attempting to piece together fragments of his past—anything before the pit. But it's an elusive puzzle, and he can't grasp it. The realization strikes hard: he doesn't remember the fact that, apparently, he's been a ghost, a ghost known to Tim Drake.

“Jason,” Dick's voice comes out a little choked.

“I- I don’t remember it. I can’t really recall anything before the pit all that well. Just the miserable stuff, things that the pit could use to target you guys. The only reason I came to my senses was because of Tim’s pictures. The picture he had of me as Robin. I saw those and remembered that it wasn’t all bad, there were good moments, but-” Jason's voice falters, and he shakes his head, as if trying to dispel the haunting memories. Thoughts swirl like a storm in his mind.

“He never told you?” Dick asks, his words laced with hesitant concern.

“Told me what, Dick? That when I died, I became a ghost? Or that Tim apparently knew ghost me? Why would he tell me any of that? Why would he speak to me at all about any of this when the last time he tried, I SLIT HIS THROAT AND LEFT HIM TO DIE.”

Dick's expression deepens into sadness, a reflection of the turmoil evident on everyone's faces.

“Just play the next one, Dick. I can’t talk about this right now,” Jason says softly, his energy drained from the emotional turmoil and heated confrontation.

Dick nods solemnly, turning back around and clicking the button to start the next tape, leaving the room steeped in a heavy silence

Chapter Text

*Rec*

The tape starts, much like the others, with Tim sitting at his desk in the dimly lit Drake Manor.

“Hello, it’s Tim Drake. I’m thirteen, and the date is November 5th, 20XX. It’s been five months since Jason died,” Tim takes a deep breath, “and Batman’s not doing too well. He’s reckless, not to mention aggressive and brutal. He hurt a mugger so bad the other day that I had to call the ambulance just so he wouldn’t die. That’s not even the worst part; he’s letting them hit him. He doesn’t care to protect himself. I think he's trying to get himself killed.” Tim startles as he looks over at someone off-camera.

“Oh, hi Jason,” Tim’s face lights up with his megawatt star-struck smile.

He quiets a little but then looks back at the camera. “Oh, this? It’s nothing, just something stupid.” He moves to turn the camera off but pauses, as if listening to someone speaking.

He gives the camera a shy smile, “It’s just something I do when I want to talk to someone about what’s going on, or about my problems, or to share some secrets.” Tim's smile fades a little, “like a friend of sorts.”

It's quiet again, but then Tim lets out a snort and scoots over a little. “I don’t think you're gonna show, Jay,” Tim laughs again and looks at the camera, “Jason says hi,” He looks off to the side again as if listening to someone. Tim makes an offended sound. “I’m not saying that,” he rolls his eyes and sighs, “to future Tim, Jason’s asking if you’re taller yet.” Tim scoffs. “Just you watch, Jay, I’ll be taller than you.”

Tim watches hesitantly as his eyes roam around the room, as if following someone with his eyes. “How— How was Bruce?” Tim asks.

“...”

“That bad?”

“...”

“Shouldn’t Mr. Pennyworth be helping with that? Can he not just, you know, take the bottle away, or hide them all?”

“...”

“What about Dick?”

“...”

Tim sighs, “He’s not looking good out there, Jay. Batman is becoming too violent. I don’t want the people to turn on him. Not to mention people have noticed the lack of Robin, and there have been talks. They know it’s because of—of,” Tim looks guilty.

“...”

He cringes, “I’m sorry, Jay. This shouldn’t be your legacy. You’ve done too much good. People shouldn’t just forget that because of Batman’s actions.”

“...”

“I agree, he needs a Robin, but you can’t, and well, Dick’s Nightwing now so...” Tim has a look in his eyes that means he has an idea. “Jason, I can talk to Dick. I can try and convince him to come back.” Tim looks up with such excitement, but it fades the more he stares off at something. “What, you don’t think it’ll— Jason, why are you looking at me like that?”

“...”

Tim's face morphs into anger, “No, absolutely not. I’m not becoming Robin. Are you crazy? No, no.”

“...”

“Because, Jason, Robin is you, and I won’t replace you. I can’t. Robin is magic, and that magic is dead now. I don’t think it would be— I don’t—” Tim shakes his head repeatedly. “I WON’T DO THAT TO YOU.”

“...”

“No, Jason, I’ll talk to Dick, and that’s all. I can’t do anything else. Trust me; it’ll work. I can convince Dick.”

“...”

“I— Jason, I can’t—”

“...”

“OKAY! Okay, but I’m contacting Dick first. I will talk to him and I will beg him to come back, and if he doesn’t, then I’ll talk to Bruce, and only as a last resort will I even consider that terrible plan.”

“...”

Tim smiles, “Okay, I need a plan for Nightwing.” Tim turns to the camera and sighs.

The screen goes blank.

Chapter Text

“No, no, no!” Jason's voice trembles with desperation, his hands clutching at his hair as if trying to physically wrestle with the overwhelming emotions.

“Jason, breathe!” Bruce's tone is commanding, a desperate plea to bring some semblance of control to the chaotic situation.

“Oh god, oh god, what have I done?” Jason's breaths come in short gasps, his chest tight, as if he's struggling to get air into his lungs.

“Jason, calm down!” Dick's voice joins the chorus of concern, but the words seem distant as Jason's mind races, unable to process the weight of his actions.

“Calm down? Calm down? DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN. Did you see what I saw?” Jason's arm points accusingly towards the screen. “I beat the kid up, Dick. I beat him up for replacing me, but now I find out that I asked him too. That I saw my father's crumbling psyche and thought, you know what would help? A child in a costume to fight crime. Oh god, he didn’t even want to; he went out of his way to not be that.” Jason's admission is a raw confession, his eyes welling up with tears that escape without restraint.

Dick looks at him with guilt, a realization dawning on him. Everyone else wears sympathetic expressions, understanding the magnitude of Jason's revelation. Cass, however, stares at him with anger, a silent accusation that Jason accepts without protest.

“He didn’t wanna be Robin, Dick.” Jason laughs bitterly. “He didn’t wanna be Robin because he didn’t wanna replace me.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Jason's fingers dig into his hair, a desperate attempt to find some anchor in the torrent of emotions flooding him. How does one seek forgiveness for such a colossal mistake? What can he do to ever make amends for the pain he caused?

Hands gently pry Jason's fingers away from his scalp. It’s Bruce, his eyes reflecting an undeserved kindness. “We can go. You don’t have to watch anymore.” Bruce's fingers move tenderly through Jason's hair, a gesture of comfort and understanding.

Jason shakes his head, tears streaming down his face. “I need to know. I have to. I’m not leaving.” Determination laces his words, a commitment to face the consequences of his past actions, no matter how excruciating.

Jason looks up at Dick, their eyes locking in a moment heavy with unspoken understanding. Without a single word exchanged, Dick pushes the button, and the next tape starts rolling. The room is cloaked in a tense silence as the screen comes to life, unveiling the next chapter in the tape. 

Chapter Text

*Rec*

The tape starts as all the others. 

“Hello, this is Tim Drake. The date is December 10th, 20XX and I'm still 13 and...” Tim lets out a big sigh and runs his hands through his hair. Tim spreads out his arms and leans back with a wicked grin on his face. “I'm Robin.” 

Tim looks to the side. His wicked grin smoothing out into a genuine smile. “How was that?” 

Blush creeps into Tim's face, making him look as red as a tomato. He scratches the back of his head and preens. “Thanks Jay!”

Tim turns back to the camera. He sighs and scrunches his nose. “Nightwing didn't take it too well when I showed up at his place and told him to go back to being Robin because his father was suicidal. He was…” 

Tim's head turns his head sideways as if he's listening to someone.

Tim smiles sadly and huffs a laugh. “He wasn't a piece of shit Jason, he was just sad, he's grieving too.” 

“Anyways, I talked to Dick. I talk to Mr. Wayne. I even talk to Mr. Pennyworth and nothing. As a last resort I had to do Jason's stupid plan so I'm robin.”

Tim looks apprehensive. “Been Robin for a month now and it's going well, I would say. Bruce is…”

“...” 

“He's not that bad Jason, he lost a kid. You have to remember that. Then, this random kid shows up and tells him to train him. It has to be hard. He's getting better. He's not drinking as much and he isn't as aggressive. He'll get better over time.”  

“...”

“It's training Jason, he has to hit hard. It's okay, I can take it.”

“...”

“My hand wasn't-It wasn't broken, just sprained. I'm fine. Can we just not talk about this? Can we… I don't want to talk about this anymore.” Tim makes a face that suggests he's getting tired of defending Bruce.

Tim turns away from where he had been looking and towards the camera, reaching for it to turn it off, but he pauses. A huge grin overtakes his face as he looks towards the side again. “Really?” Tim's head snaps towards the camera as excitement overtakes his face. “Jason says he is gonna teach me a very special Robin move,” Tim turns to the side and then back towards the camera. “A special secret Robin move.” He emphasizes. 

Tim moves towards the middle of his room. Creating space between himself and the furniture, he drops into a fighting stance.

"Okay, I'm ready!”     

Tim stands in the middle of the room looking to the side and nods as he adjusts his pose. He kicks into the air and promptly falls on his back. 

“Stop laughing Jay, it's not that funny” Tim pouts looking mad. 

Tim goes to say something else, but he looks down and freezes in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat at the sight before him.

A translucent form flickers erratically before Tim. He appears in a tattered costume, blood and bruises covering his body.

"Jason?" Tim whispers, his voice trembling with disbelief.

Jason's presence fluctuates, Tim and Jason exchange bewildered glances, unable to comprehend the supernatural spectacle unfolding before them.

As Jason flickers back into view, his translucent form solidifying once more, he stares in astonishment at the ghostly image of himself in the mirror. His features contort with disbelief, his eyes widening in realization at the sight of his own corporeal form.

"What... how is this possible?" Jason murmurs, his voice trembling with uncertainty. His ghostly form flickers intermittently, wavering between visibility and obscurity. As he materializes momentarily, his ethereal figure solidifies, only to dissolve into the shadows.

Suddenly, Jason materializes once more, his ghostly form flickering in and out of existence like a faulty lightbulb.

For a moment, it seems as though Jason will solidify into something tangible, something real. But then, in the blink of an eye, he starts vanishing once more, leaving behind only a sense of unease and the lingering echo of his presence.

Tim's eyes widen with desperation as he watches Jason's spectral form fade into the darkness.

"No, no, don't go!" Tim pleads, his voice trembling with emotion as tears well in his eyes. He rushes forward, reaching out a hand in a futile attempt to halt Jason's departure.

Jason pauses, his translucent form wavering as he turns to face Tim, his features softened by his desperation.

"I'm sorry," Jason whispers, his voice barely audible above the mournful echoes of the manor. "I have to go."

But Tim refuses to accept his departure, his heartrending sobs echoing through the empty halls as he clings desperately to the fading remnants of Jason's presence.

"Please, don't leave me!" Tim cries, his voice cracking with raw emotion. "I need you here with me."

"I'll always be with you, Tim," Jason murmurs, his voice tinged with sorrow as he reaches out a hand to brush away Tim's tears. "Even if you can't see me, I'll be watching over you."

With a final, lingering glance, Jason's ghostly form fades into the darkness, leaving Tim alone in the abandoned mansion, his cries echoing through the empty halls.

“Please, he’s my brother, please,” Tim begs, pleading, “give him back, give him back!” he screams over and over again, but there is no one to hear his prayers.

Anger takes hold of Tim like a raging storm, consuming him from within as he unleashes his fury upon his surroundings. He starts uprooting his room, ripping the sheets off the bed and tearing down posters from the walls. With each violent motion, he releases the pent-up frustration and anguish that have been festering inside him.

A vase shatters, sending shards flying in all directions as Tim flings it off the dresser, the sound of its destruction echoing through the room. The chaos only fuels his rage further, his movements fueled by a primal need to vent his overwhelming emotions.

But then, suddenly, he stops.

His breath comes in harsh, ragged gasps, his chest heaving with the exertion of his outburst. Tears stream down his face, mixing with the sweat and anger that have consumed him.

Tim's trembling hand reaches out, picking up a shard from the ground. His gaze fixates on the shard with an unsettling intensity, his fingers tightening around it as if drawn to its sharp edges. A flicker of desperation dances in his eyes as he brings the shard dangerously close to his arm.

Suddenly, his gaze snaps towards the camera, his eyes wild with a mixture of anguish and rage. With heavy, determined steps, Tim advances towards the camera, the shard clenched tightly in his hand. His movements are deliberate, purposeful, as if driven by a force beyond his control.

And then, in a swift, violent motion, he slams the shard into the ground, the impact reverberating through the room like a thunderclap. The camera jolts with the force of the blow, capturing only a brief glimpse of darkness before the screen goes black, engulfing everything in a shroud of silence.

Chapter Text

Nobody moves, nobody breathes, as they all stare at the blank screen, trying to process the unsettling scene they've just witnessed. The air hangs heavy with unspoken tension, each of them grappling with the weight of what they've seen.

None of them have the courage to address the disturbing display they've just witnessed. It's as if they're frozen in time, trapped in a moment of collective disbelief. They've never seen Tim like that before—never seen him unravel in such a raw and visceral manner. Even in the face of his parents' deaths, Tim had remained stoic, distant, almost detached. Looking back now, they realize that perhaps his lack of visible emotion had been a defense mechanism, a way to shield himself from the pain of his loss.

To them, Tim had always seemed like an enigma—a puzzle with too many missing pieces. His parents had been strangers to him, mere vessels through which he had come into existence. Dick had perhaps come the closest to seeing Tim at his lowest point, during Bruce's supposed death. Yet, even then, Tim's descent into darkness hadn't been as pronounced, as raw as what they've just witnessed. 

Dick had believed Bruce to be dead, had mourned him as a father figure, but Tim's reaction had been... different. He had been consumed by a frantic desperation, a relentless determination to prove that Bruce was still alive. And when he had finally succeeded, when Bruce had returned from the dead, Tim's relief had been overshadowed by his hurt and betrayal.

Dick had never meant to hurt Tim, never intended to cause him pain. But in his quest to protect him, to shield him from the harsh realities of their world, he had inadvertently pushed him away. He had dismissed Tim's claims, doubted his instincts, and in doing so, had shattered the fragile trust between them.

He had hoped that everything would go back to normal once Tim returned, that their bond would be as strong as ever. But he had been sorely mistaken. Tim had come back changed—haunted by his experiences, scarred by his journey. And try as he might, Dick couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed him, that he had irreparably damaged their relationship. 

Jason, who had momentarily stilled during the playback, suddenly erupts again. He shoves Bruce back with a force that takes the older man by surprise, causing him to stumble and land hard on his backside. Bruce's expression shifts from confusion to guilt as he lets out a whimper, stunned by Jason's sudden aggression.

“You broke his hand?” Jason's voice is filled with disgust as he stares down at Bruce, his eyes blazing with fury.

Bruce tries to form words in his defense, but they falter on his tongue. “I didn’t— I wouldn’t— I— I…” He struggles to explain, but the truth hangs heavy in the air, undeniable and damning.

“YOU BROKE HIS HAND!” Jason's voice echoes through the room, filled with accusation and righteous anger.

Bruce cringes, his facade of stoicism crumbling under the weight of his guilt. “I don’t remember. I was drunk a lot those days,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper. He watches as horror dawns on the faces of the children present, their expressions mirroring the betrayal they feel.

“You disgust me, Bruce,” Steph's voice cuts through the tense silence, her words echoing the sentiments shared by all present.

Bruce can only bow his head in shame, his remorse palpable in the heavy silence that follows. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

Jason huffs in response, turning away from Bruce as if he no longer holds any value in his eyes. His gaze shifts to the screen, his expression pinched with a mixture of anger and sorrow as he continues to grapple with the painful revelations unfolding before him.

“That was me?” Jason's voice is barely above a whisper, filled with disbelief and dawning realization. “That was me, right? Oh god, that was the day I crawled out of my grave.”

Cass, sensing Jason's grief, stands and walks towards him, her movements gentle yet determined. “He called me his brother, and I—” Jason's eyes meet Cass's, and her expression twists in pain. Cass is adept at reading body language, and Jason's turmoil seems to reflect in her own being.

“He called me his brother, Cass,” Jason repeats, his voice trembling with sorrow. “He became Robin for me, he saved Bruce for me, he gave up his normal life because I asked him to. I dragged him into this, and I couldn’t even—” His voice breaks, choked by tears and regret.

Cass pulls Jason into her arms, holding him close as he sobs, his grief pouring out in waves of anguish. “I know,” she murmurs softly, patting him on the back in a gesture of comfort.

“I think watching these tapes will be the death of me,” Jason admits, his voice strained with emotion.

“You can—” Dick begins to suggest, but Jason interrupts him, his resolve firm.

“But I have to watch because I owe it to Tim,” Jason asserts, his tone resolute. “Dick's right. We need to know so we can fix it. God knows Tim won’t even say anything.”

“Jason—” Bruce attempts to interject, but Jason cuts him off abruptly.

“Shut up, Bruce,” Jason's voice is sharp, filled with determination. “I will fix it, I will, I will, I will! Because he’s my brother. He’s my brother, and I will fix it. I’ll help Tim because he’s…” Jason's voice falters, haunted by the weight of his words. “He’s my brother.”

Jason wipes his eyes, clears his throat, and motions to Dick, who nods with a determined expression.

He presses the button, and the next tape starts, the anticipation heavy in the air as they brace themselves for what revelations may come.

Chapter Text

*Rec*

The tape begins with the same familiar background, but this time, a different figure occupies the chair. It's Robin, but the suit is torn, and scratches mar his body. The most unsettling sight is the blood—there's too much of it to be solely his own, especially considering the minor injuries visible on Robin's form. The toll of unseen battles is evident in the weariness etched upon his face.

Slowly, Robin peels the domino mask from his face, revealing an unsettling expression underneath. “This is Tim Drake,” he begins, his voice carrying a weight of grief and resignation. “The date is August 16, 20XX, and I am 15. It’s been a year and a half since Jason moved on, and I…” A tear trails down Tim's face, but his expression remains eerily unchanged. He seems almost catatonic, disconnected from the present moment. His gaze is distant, as if lost in a haze.

“I miss him,” Tim continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “I hope wherever he is, he's happy. I hope he's with grandpa and grandma, just having the time of his life.” More tears fall, But then, amidst the tears, comes a laugh—a brittle, hollow sound that echoes in the empty room. It's a laugh that rings false, devoid of the joy it should carry. It's the laughter of someone who has known too much pain, who has stared into the abyss and found it staring back.

“I did something—” Tim's words are cut short by the insistent ringing of his phone. His eyes flick away from the wall, drawn to the device in his hand.

There's a subtle pinch in Tim's expression, a fleeting moment of discomfort that goes unnoticed by anyone not paying close attention. He maintains a neutral facade as the phone continues to ring, allowing it to pierce the silence of the room for a few moments before finally accepting the call.

“Hello?” Tim's voice is groggy, as if in a haze of just waking from sleep.

“Tim,” Bruce's voice emanates from the phone, the sound filling the quiet room.

“Bruce?”

“Tim, where are you?” Bruce's question hangs in the air, hesitant and weighted with unspoken worry.

“I’m at home, Bruce. At Drake Manor. Why? What’s wrong?” Despite the concern in his tone, Tim's expression remains stoic. He continues to gaze at the phone with an almost disinterested demeanor, his features betraying none of the unease evident in his voice.

The silence that follows Bruce's question stretches on, leaving Tim to fill the void with his own apprehensions.

“Do you want me to come in, Bruce? Is everything okay? Is Dick okay?” Tim's questions spill forth, portraying a concern for his family, even as his outward appearance remains untouched by any worry. 

“No, Tim, everything is fine. Dick is fine,” Bruce's voice wavers with hesitation. “There was a break-in.”

“Where?” Tim's voice carries a sense of urgency.

“Arkham.”

“Okay, Bruce, I'm coming in,” Tim's desperation is palpable, but his actions betray his words as he remains seated, shuffling papers on his desk with apparent disinterest.

“No, Tim, there's no need for that,” Bruce interjects.

“Bruce, it's Arkham. You can't handle it alone. It's either me or I call Dick.”

“Dick is already here,” Bruce reveals, his words hanging heavy in the air.

“Dick's already there? What's going on, Bruce? Who escaped?” Tim's questions come rapid-fire.

“Nobody broke out,” Bruce's tone is stern, commanding attention.

“I don't understand—”

“Someone broke into Arkham.”

Tim's expression remains blank as he absorbs the gravity of Bruce's words.

“What does that mean? Why did someone break into Arkham?”

“To get to Joker,” Bruce's response is like a thunderbolt, sending a shiver down Tim's spine.

Tim gasps quietly, his voice trembling with uncertainty. “Is he—Is he alive?” The words stutter out of him, barely audible.

There is a prolonged silence, stretching the tension until Bruce finally responds in a quiet tone. “Yes, he’s alive, but…” Bruce hesitates, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. “He’s paralyzed. He won’t be able to move anymore.”

Tim feigns another gasp, his heart pounding in his chest. “What happened?”

“He was beaten severely with a blunt instrument,” Bruce explains, his voice tinged with sorrow. “He was found lying in a pool of his own blood. There was also severe damage to his vocal cords. He can’t speak or— or laugh anymore.”

“Oh my God,” Tim's voice is filled with shock and horror. “Are—Are there any suspects? Any evidence as to who might have done this?” His words spill forth in a rush, his mind racing with possibilities and fears.

“No, there’s no evidence. Whoever did this was very smart. None of the cameras picked up on anybody entering or leaving Arkham. The camera in Joker's cell was moved, so we literally don't know what went on in there,” Bruce explains, his tone heavy with frustration.

“Oh—do you need help? Maybe I could take a look—” Tim offers, eager to assist in any way he can.

“No, that's alright. Dick and I have it covered. I was just checking in to see how you were doing. You should go back to sleep,” Bruce interrupts gently, his voice firm.

“It’s okay, Bruce. I’m awake now, and I can help. Just let me—” Tim persists, unwilling to be dismissed so easily.

“No, Tim, like I said, we are okay. We don’t need you,” Bruce's words sting, and Tim cringes at the wording. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, Bruce hangs up before Tim can get another word in. 

As Tim stares at the now silent phone, his expression remains unchanged, locked in a stoic mask that betrays nothing. But then, something shifts. His features contort unnaturally, twisting into a grin that stretches too wide, too unnaturally across his small face. It's a smile that seems out of place, almost grotesque in its appearance.

And then, he starts to laugh—a hysterical, manic laughter that echoes through the empty room. Each bout of laughter stifles his breath, rendering him unable to remember to breathe as he laughs too hard, too uncontrollably. His face turns red with exertion, and for a moment, it seems as though he might just pass out from the intensity of his laughter.

But eventually, the laughter subsides, replaced by desperate gasps for breath as his chest heaves with the effort of calming himself down. Slowly, his face returns to its stoic facade, the laughter leaving behind no trace of emotion.

With deliberate slowness, Tim turns his face towards the camera, his expression morphing into one that would send shivers down anyone's spine. It's devoid of any emotion, his eyes as blank as his expression.

“Happy Birthday, Jason,” Tim's voice is monotone, devoid of any warmth or sentiment.

And with that, the screen goes blank, leaving behind a chilling silence that hangs heavy in the air.

Chapter Text

Jaws hang open, expressions ranging from horror to disbelief to fascination plastered across the faces of those in the room.

It's Damian who breaks the stunned silence, turning to face his father with a mixture of incredulity and curiosity. "Did Drake just lie to you and get away with it?" His words hang in the air, a challenge wrapped in a question.

Bruce, who had been staring at the screen in disbelief, shifts his gaze to Damian, his expression contorted into something sour. He opens his mouth to respond but then seems to think better of it, his words dying on his lips as if he's just remembered something important. Instead, he turns his attention to Jason.

Jason, with tears streaming down his face, wears a small, gentle smile. There's a look of profound gratitude in his eyes, as if he's been touched by something deeply moving. Despite the turmoil of the moment, there's a sense of peace in Jason's expression. 

“I always thought that nobody cared enough to avenge me, turns out I had just been banking on the wrong people,” Jason's laughter cuts through the tense atmosphere, each bitter chuckle echoing with a painful truth. “He was just a kid, a kid who only knew me for a little, but still cared enough. God, Tim—”

“Jason, this is not okay. What Tim did was wrong,” Bruce interjects, his voice tinged with frustration and disappointment, his brows furrowed with concern.

Jason's face hardens as he slowly turns to face Bruce, his gaze piercing and unforgiving. Beside him, his siblings watch on with a mixture of disbelief and anger, their eyes fixed on Bruce with accusatory stares.

“Oh, wow, the hypocrite is speaking,” Jason's words drip with venom as he addresses Bruce directly, his voice laced with bitterness.

Bruce winces, the weight of Jason's accusations bearing down on him like a heavy burden. “You know, Tim told me about what you did after my death,” Jason continues, his smile morphing into something dark and menacing. “He told me all about how many people you landed in the ER, how many people you broke, some permanently.”

“I was—” Bruce begins to protest, but Jason cuts him off with a bitter laugh, his laughter a chilling reminder of the pain and betrayal that lingers between them.

“And at least Tim did it to a psychopathic murderer, but you? You did it to low-level criminals. Purse snatchers and muggers. You know, the people who have a high chance to redeem themselves,” Jason's words are sharp, each syllable dripping with disdain and contempt. “Not to mention you even did it to Tim, remember Bruce? You broke his hand.”

Bruce's resolve crumbles under the weight of Jason's accusations, his silence a stark admission of guilt and regret. He struggles to find the right words, his throat constricted with emotion as he grapples with the realization of his own failings.

“So tell me, Bruce, what makes you so special? Huh? What makes you the judge, jury, and executioner? Why do you get to decide which people get beaten to a pulp and which don't?” Jason's gaze remains fixed on Bruce, his expression unyielding as he waits for a response. But Bruce remains silent, his eyes betraying a mixture of turmoil and resignation. The weight of Jason's words hangs heavy in the air, each accusation a painful reminder of Bruce's own failings.

“Well, don’t get quiet on me now. I know how much you love to preach. Come on then, we are all waiting,” Jason's voice is sharp, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife.

Bruce's gaze shifts to his children, their eyes filled with varying degrees of distrust and disappointment. He can feel the weight of their collective judgment bearing down on him, a silent indictment of his actions and decisions.

In that moment, Bruce knows that he must confront the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it may be. But the words elude him, lost in a sea of regret and remorse. He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound emerges, his silence a poignant acknowledgment of the wounds that he has inflicted upon his family.

As the silence stretches on, Bruce can feel the weight of his children's gaze, each one a reminder of the consequences of his actions. And in that moment, he understands that he must find a way to make amends, to earn back the trust that he has so carelessly squandered. But for now, all he can do is meet their eyes, his own filled with a silent plea for forgiveness.

Steph's interruption jolts Bruce from his inner musings, her words cutting through the heavy silence like a sharp blade. He turns to face her, his expression a mixture of surprise and curiosity, sensing the weight of her words.

“The lying Robin,” Steph draws all eyes to her as she speaks. Her expression is one of deep contemplation, brows furrowed in recollection of a conversation that had clearly left a mark.

“What?” Jason's voice carries a mix of confusion and curiosity as he turns to face Steph, his gaze searching for clarity in her words.

“It’s a conversation I had with Tim,” Steph begins, her tone somber as she recalls the memory. “We were talking about Robins and how we were remembered. He said that Dick was the flying Robin, Jason the brawling Robin,” she pauses, a flicker of discomfort crossing her features, “I was the girl Robin, and Damian was the stabby Robin.” Steph lets out a huff of frustration at the labels they had been assigned.

“I asked him what kind of Robin he was,” Steph continues, her voice tinged with sadness, “and he said he was the Robin that lies to Batman.”

Jason's expression shifts, a mixture of realization and sorrow dawning on his features as Steph's words sink in.

Steph's gesture towards the screen draws everyone's attention back to the grim reality playing out before them, a silent testament to the weight of Tim's words.

“I thought he was exaggerating, but clearly not,” Steph remarks, her voice tinged with a mixture of disbelief and resignation. Her gaze remains fixed on the screen, where Tim's confession still echoes in the room.

“I wonder if he’s ever told you the truth about anything?” Jason's accusation hangs heavy in the air, his gaze piercing as he directs his words at Bruce. There's a rawness to his tone, a bitterness born of years of disappointment and betrayal. “Or maybe you just never cared enough to check.”

Bruce remains silent, his expression impassive as he absorbs Jason's accusation. There's a heaviness in his chest, a nagging sense of guilt that he can't shake off. He knows that there's truth in Jason's words, a painful acknowledgment of the distance that has grown between them over the years.

In the tense silence that follows, the weight of Bruce's silence hangs over the room like a shroud, a stark reminder of the fractures that have formed within their family. And as Dick presses the button for the next tape, the room falls into a heavy silence once more, each member of the Batfamily grappling with their own demons in the wake of Tim's revelations.

Chapter Text

*Rec*

The tape starts with an unfamiliar scene, a departure from the usual setting of barren halls or the familiar rooms of Drake Manor. Instead, Tim Drake is seated in a lavish living room, clad in his pajamas, cradling a cup of coffee in his hands.

“This is Tim Drake. It’s December 14th, 20XX, and I'm 16,” Tim begins, his voice calm yet tinged with a hint of weariness. He glances around the room, taking in his surroundings before turning his attention back to the camera.

“I’m at the Titan’s Tower. There's a new rogue who has it out for Batman, like that’s anything new,” Tim says with a small scoff, the weight of the ongoing battles evident in his words. “‘The Red Hood is dangerous,’ is what Bruce said before shipping me off here.”

Tim takes a sip of his coffee, the warmth seeming to soothe his tense shoulders. “I don’t think that Red Hood is a bad guy. I think his approach to reducing crime is actually effective, and he’s yielding actual results. Crime is significantly down in the alley.”

There's a thoughtful pause as Tim considers his words, the flicker of uncertainty crossing his features briefly before he continues, his voice steady and resolute. “He’s doing what Batman can’t, and I commend him for that,” Tim continues, his voice carrying a note of admiration. His eyes soften, betraying a hint of nostalgia as he reflects on the enigmatic figure of the Red Hood. “There’s something so familiar about him—the way he cares for the alley, the way he protects the women and children, his passion.”

A genuine smile graces Tim’s lips, a rare expression that seems to light up his features with warmth and sincerity. It’s a departure from the polished facade he often wears, a glimpse into the depths of his true feelings. As he sinks into the plush sofa, a sense of ease washes over him, his body language reflecting the genuine connection he feels to the Red Hood.

“He reminds me of Jason,” Tim admits softly, the words carrying a weight of both fondness and longing.

The lights abruptly flicker off, plunging the room into darkness. Tim's instincts kick into high gear, visible through the tension in his muscles as he swiftly rises to his feet grabbing his bo. The camera captures every detail, from the ominous echo of approaching footsteps to the chilling sound of a mechanized voice piercing the silence.

"Come out, come out wherever you are, little birdy," the voice taunts, its cold precision sending shivers down Tim's spine.

A figure emerges from the shadows, clad in a menacing red helmet and armed with an arsenal of weapons. Tim's recognition of the intruder is evident in the narrowing of his eyes, though his demeanor remains steady, betraying none of the unease he feels within.

"Red Hood? I was just talking about you," Tim says, his voice steady, masking the tension beneath the surface.

The subtle tilt of the Red Hood's helmet hints at his confusion, before he regains his composure. With a deliberate motion, he readies himself for action, his steely determination palpable through the screen.

The Red Hood smirks beneath his helmet, his malice gleaming in the dim light. "Daddy Bats thought he could hide you from me, Bird Boy? Guess again."

The ensuing battle is a flurry of motion, captured in rapid succession by the camera. Tim and the Red Hood exchange blows with deadly precision, the intensity of their confrontation evident in the chaos that ensues. Furniture topples, glass shatters, and the room becomes a battleground as they push themselves to their limits.

Tim's strategic mind is on full display as he seeks out opportunities to gain the upper hand. With a swift maneuver, he delivers a powerful blow, momentarily staggering the Red Hood.

But the intruder quickly recovers, his grin widening as he brandishes one of his many guns, the metal glinting menacingly in the dim light. Tim's muscles tense as the Red Hood's finger tightens on the trigger of his weapon, the metallic click echoing ominously in the silence.

Before Tim can react, there's a sharp crack as the gun fires, the sound reverberating through the room like a thunderclap. Pain explodes in Tim's leg as the bullet tears through flesh and bone, searing agony lancing through his body like a white-hot flame.

Tim staggers backward, his vision swims as he clutches at his wounded leg, blood seeps between his fingers, staining them crimson. Each movement is a struggle against the overwhelming tide of agony. He grits his teeth against the pain, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he struggles to remain conscious.

The Red Hood looms over Tim, his presence commanding and menacing as he surveys the aftermath of his attack. His expression is icy, devoid of any remorse as he watches Tim wither in pain. Jason's actions are swift and brutal. With a surge of rage, he tears Tim's bo out of his grasp and snaps it in half. Gripping one of the broken halves, jagged ends glinting menacingly, he raises it high before bringing it down with savage force onto Tim's throat.

Jason's strike is precise, ensuring the wound is not too deep. He doesn't want Tim to bleed out just yet. Jason wants to prolong his suffering. The broken edge of the bo presses against Tim's throat, causing pain but not immediately fatal damage.

"That's what happens when you play hero, Replacement," he sneers, his voice laced with contempt. "You get hurt. You suffer. And in the end, you lose."

Tim's breath catches in his throat, a mixture of fear and anger boiling within him at the Red Hood's callous words. "What, you thought being Robin made you invincible?" the Red Hood continues, his tone mocking. "That the big bad Bat would always be there to protect you? How much you wanna bet the previous Robin thought that too, till he died in the desert alone like a fool."

"Don't you dare," Tim screams, his voice raw with emotion. "Don't you dare talk about him, you don't know anything."

But the Red Hood remains unfazed, his gaze unwavering as he delivers his chilling retort. "On the contrary, I knew Jason Todd all too well," he declares, his words sending a shiver down Tim's spine. "I know all about Bruce Wayne and his army of child soldiers. It began with Dick Grayson, but it will end with you, Tim Drake."

With a cruel twist of his hand, the Red Hood presses down on Tim's bullet wound, eliciting a cry of pain from the young hero. The agony radiates through Tim's body. The pain is unbearable enough to make Tim forget about freaking out over how Hood knows about their identities.

"The old man didn't even wait a year before replacing the last one. How long do you think he's going to wait to replace you?" Hood's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. Tim's eyes widen with a mix of horror and understanding, the weight of Hood's words sinking in.

Resignation and apprehension flicker in Tim’s eyes. The camera captures the clenched fists, the tension in his jaw, and the subtle quiver in his lip, revealing his thought process all too well.

Tim had long understood his role as a mere pawn in Batman's game, a disposable piece on the chessboard of justice. Yet, despite this knowledge, the prospect of being replaced sends shivers down his spine.

Why does it hurt so much? He had accepted his fate, embraced it even, but now the reality of his expendability weighs heavily on his shoulders, threatening to suffocate him under its crushing burden. The thought of being discarded, of being deemed unworthy, strikes a deep chord of fear and insecurity within Tim, shaking the very foundation of his identity. His eyes dart around the room, searching for some semblance of reassurance, some anchor to hold onto, but he finds none. His struggle to come to terms with his own vulnerability is laid bare for all to see. The camera captures the subtle tremor in his hands and the furrow of his brow.

Something about what Hood says lingers in Tim’s mind. His entire being feels frozen, as if time has slowed to a crawl, allowing the weight of Hood's words to sink in. The subtle shift in his expression as a veil of realization descends over him. Thoughts swirl in his mind at a dizzying pace, there is a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as puzzle pieces click into place with frightening clarity. The realization hits him like a tidal wave, overwhelming and suffocating.

"Jason?" Tim's voice quivers with a mixture of hope and desperation, his gaze pleading for confirmation.

The Red Hood freezes, a peculiar sound comes from within his helmet. It's a distorted noise, a twisted echo that might have been laughter if not for the mechanical filter of his mask. "Well, they did say you were the smart one," he says, his voice dripping with a chilling mixture of mockery and amusement.

With a fluid motion, the Red Hood reaches up and unclasps his helmet, the sound of metal sliding against metal filling the room like a whispered promise of revelation. As the helmet falls away, it reveals the face of a man Tim thought he knew all too well—a face he never expected to see beneath the mask of the Red Hood.

Shock courses through Tim's veins like an electric current as he stares into the eyes of his brother, his friend, and his former mentor, Jason Todd, his features twist with a mixture of pain and anger. For a moment, the world seems to tilt on its axis as Tim grapples with the truth of what he's seeing, the implications of Jason's betrayal crashing over him like a tidal wave.

"You..." Tim breathes, his voice barely a whisper as he struggles to make sense of the revelation before him. "Jason, why?"

But Jason offers no answers, no explanations for his actions as he stands before Tim, his expression unreadable as he watches with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

"How did you manage to figure it out before the old man?" Hood's voice carries a note of genuine curiosity, mingled with a hint of surprise.

"Maybe he's not looking as closely as I am," Tim sighs, the words escaping him with a heavy weight of resignation. It's as if the fight within him dissipates, leaving behind a sense of weariness and defeat.

Jason's head tilts to the side, a smirk playing on his lips as he surveys Tim's defeated form. The green glint in his eyes intensifies, reflecting a hint of mockery and cruelty.

"What's this, Replacement? Ready to throw in the towel already?" His voice drips with sarcasm, each word laced with disdain. He nudges Tim's body with his foot, the gesture more taunting than supportive.

"Come on, we're supposed to be Robins, aren't we? Or did you forget that part?" Jason's tone is biting, his laughter tinged with mockery as he challenges. His laughter echoes in the room, chilling and ominous. "We don't give up until we're dead, and I came here looking for a fight," he sneers, his voice dripping with malice. "Well, before I kill you, obviously."

Tim stays silent, his eyes fixed on Jason, filled with longing. It's as if he's silently begging Jason to come closer. Jason senses the intensity in Tim's gaze and instinctively pulls back a little. Tim's stare feels heavy, laden with emotion, making the air between them thick with unspoken words.

"Fine, pretender," Jason retorts, his voice edged with tension. "If you're that eager to meet your end, I'll grant your wish." He raises his gun, aiming it at Tim's head. But Tim remains unmoved, simply tilting his head slightly to the side to maintain eye contact with Jason, undeterred by the gun in his line of sight. Jason's discomfort is evident as his eyes flicker, and the intensity of the green falters slightly.

“Any last words, Tim Drake?” Jason's voice carries a hint of finality as his finger twitches on the trigger.

Tim's smile softens, filled with genuine adoration as he looks at Jason. "I'm so glad you're alive, Jay," he whispers, his voice tinged with emotion.

The green in Jason's eyes fades, recoiling so suddenly that he momentarily forgets its existence. He glances around at his surroundings, then back at Tim, now unconscious before him.

"Timmy?" Jason says softly, his voice carrying a mixture of confusion and concern.

As if getting hit over the head, Jason remembers everything he’s done. What he came to the tower to do. The realization draws on him as his face goes through every emotion. He looks back at Tim immediately, dropping down to his knees and putting pressure on Tim's wounds.

“No, No, No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Please no, no, no, I didn’t want this, Please no. Kid, Kid,” Jason tries to shake Tim to consciousness but to no avail. Jason pats around Tim's clothes and pulls out a small chip. He presses the button as a red light flickers on. “I’m sorry, Tim. I’m so sorry.”

Jason waits till he hears the whirring of the zeta and then takes off running. The camera shows Batman and Nightwing entering the room with their weapons raised. As soon as they see Tim lying on the ground, they rush towards him.

The screen goes blank.

Chapter Text

There's a grunt followed by a thud, and everyone in the room whips their heads toward the source of the sound. It's Jason, clutching his head with his face contorted in pain.

"Jason!" Dick starts to run towards him but halts midway, frozen by what he sees.

Jason's eyes glow green, causing Dick to catch his breath, preparing himself to restrain Jason if necessary. He positions himself protectively in front of Damian and Steph, while Cass calmly observes Jason, poised to intervene if needed. Bruce, too, is prepared, though it seems unnecessary.

For once, Jason's anger isn't directed at anyone else. It's turned inward, a seething frustration with himself. His eyes flicker, mirroring the memories flooding his mind. Memories of a kid—sweet, kind, and cute—that he used to know and adore long before his death. A kid he would watch on rooftops, bounding and leaping, always trailing after him with a camera around his neck. Jason would keep a vigilant eye on him, ensuring he stayed out of trouble, which he never did. He'd rescue the kid from fire escapes and keep the rogues at bay, making sure nobody dared to harm him. Jason remembers the kid's kindness, how he'd always bring food, clothes, and blankets for the street kids.

That's why Jason found himself in the kid's house when he died. He had been thinking about the kid, worrying about who would protect him if Jason weren't around. Lost in thought, Jason had been wandering the streets of Gotham when suddenly, there he was, standing in the kid's room.

The kid had seen him, the only person who could. He looked at Jason with such reverence, a look that hadn't faded even when his happiness evaporated upon realizing Jason was dead. The kid had grieved him, even when he could see and talk to him. Jason had been confused before he realized that the kid was grieving Jason’s life. He was grieving for the life Jason could have had, grieving the things he could have done, the things he could have been. 

He had only grown more fond of the kid with each passing day. How could he not? 

The kid was more than just a genius; he was a beacon of light to Jason. His wit was infectious, his humor a balm to Jason's soul. He was nothing like the entitled brats Jason had encountered at high society galas. No, this kid was in a league of his own.

But what truly set him apart was his kindness. He had molded himself into a genuinely compassionate person, always prioritizing the needs of others over his own. Jason had witnessed it time and time again, the way the kid would give of himself without hesitation, even to people as undeserving as his own parents. It was awe-inspiring, the level of selflessness this kid possessed.

Despite all the hardships he faced, the kid never lost his spirit. He remained a fierce advocate for justice, always standing up for what was right, even if it meant standing alone. Jason couldn't help but admire him, this fearless spitfire with a heart of gold. 

The bond between them grew stronger with each passing day. The kid always listened to Jason's ideas, no matter how outlandish they seemed, and he would go out of his way to help not just Jason, but his family as well. It was a rare and precious gift, to have someone like that in his corner.

Jason remembered the devastation on the kid's face when he had started to disappear; it broke Jason's heart. He had been cursing out the universe for pulling shit like this. He had died and been taken from his family; he couldn’t even talk to them because they couldn’t see him. And when he had finally found someone who understood him, who loved him, who saw him, he was being taken from him too. The kid had been in shambles, trying to hold on to Jason as best he could. For the first time, Jason had tried to stay dead. He didn’t want anything that would cause his kid pain, even if it meant being alive. But yet again, the universe had been a bitch and tore him from the kid's side.

The kid who was Jason’s brother.

The kid who is Jason’s brother.

The kid who is Tim Drake-Wayne.

Jason comes to himself finally. All the disjoined memories falling into place. 

"Jason," Dick's voice carries a mix of concern and hope as he hesitantly calls out to him, noticing the return of the teal hue in Jason's eyes.

Jason's head snaps towards Dick, his expression wrought with a whirlwind of emotions, causing Dick to instinctively recoil slightly.

"I remember," Jason's voice trembles, his forehead glistening with sweat. "I remember everything."

Dick's apprehension melts away, replaced by a surge of empathy and understanding as he gazes at Jason with renewed intensity. 

"What do you remember?" Dick's voice carries a gentle curiosity.

"I remember that I didn't ask him to be Robin because of Bruce," Jason's words come out with a mix of clarity and emotion. He can see the confusion ripple across everyone's expressions.

"I asked him to be Robin because he just was," Jason continues, his gaze drifting into the past.

"What do you mean?" Steph's voice breaks the silence, her eyes reflecting a blend of curiosity and concern.

Jason's expression becomes mesmerized as memories flood back to him. "We all became Robin," he begins, his voice tinged with a hint of nostalgia, "we all had different reasons, selfish reasons." He looks to Dick, "You wanted revenge," he says softly, acknowledging the pain they both shared. “I wanted to matter.” Then, his gaze shifts to Steph, "You wanted to prove yourself," he says with a hint of admiration. Turning to Damian, he adds, "And you, you just thought it was your birthright."

"We all learned to be Robin, but Tim," Jason's voice trembles, each word heavy with the weight of his memories, "He was already Robin. He was already out there doing what we were doing, just without a costume. He was Crime Alley's unsung hero before Bruce even thought to adopt me. I wanted him to be Robin because I thought Robin would help him, not Bruce," Jason's voice breaks, tears welling in his eyes as he struggles to contain the overwhelming emotions.

"Jason, what's wrong?" Steph's voice is soft, filled with concern as she watches Jason unravel before her.

"I remember how much I adored that kid," Jason continues, his voice now barely above a whisper, choked with sorrow and regret. "I loved him as Jason Todd, as Jason Todd Wayne, and as Robin. He was my kid, my brother, my family. I hated being dead, but when I found Tim, I didn't mind it so much because he made me feel alive."

A sob escapes Jason's lips, his chest heaving with the weight of his confession. "I still don't remember too much about being catatonic, but I do remember that when I woke up in my grave, I was angry. I was angry that I was alive, that I was ripped from Tim. It's what made me dig out. I wanted to go back to Tim, but as soon as I was out, it all caught up to me. It became too much, and I shut down. Until I woke up being drowned in the pit and then being poisoned by Talia."

The pain in Jason's voice is palpable, his anguish echoing in the room as the depth of his love for Tim becomes painfully clear.

Jason stares at the now blank screen, horror etched into every line of his face. “How could I even begin to make amends? How could a mere apology possibly atone for something as horrific as this? For years, I have tried to find justification—Talia poisoning my mind, the pit driving me to madness, Tim taking my place—but now I see the truth. I’m just a coward, unable to face the enormity of my actions. A hypocrite, espousing ideals of protection while committing unspeakable acts. I'm his Joker," Jason whispers hoarsely, his hands clawing at his face in despair.

Cass catches him once again as he breaks down completely. His screams fill the air, his body thrashing with anguish, but Cass holds him steady, her presence a solid anchor in the storm. She pats his back gently. "You bad brother, I bad sister, we bad family," she says softly, her voice a comforting presence in the chaos, "but we fight now, we fight for Tim. We don't give up. You don't give up on him."

Jason looks at her, his expression shattered and raw. "Should we even try? We're no good for him, Cass. He should hate us. He should leave, start a new life, never speak to us again. What could we even do for him?"

Cass sighs, her gaze steady as she meets Jason's eyes. "Tim loves you very much," she says quietly, her words carrying the weight of truth. Jason's eyes widen in disbelief, but Cass continues, "I see every time he look at you. I see love every time he look at us. Love and pain. He want love, he—he..."

Cass struggles with words, feeling the weight of inadequacy settle heavy on her shoulders. She knows that no amount of language can fully encapsulate the depth of Tim's love. "Tim's love bigger than this, bigger than ours," she murmurs, her voice tinged with frustration. She cringes inwardly, yearning desperately to convey her meaning. The only person who ever truly understood her without words was Tim. With him, she didn't need elaborate explanations.

"His love harder, stronger, yes?" Cass implores, her eyes searching Jason's for comprehension. She hopes he can grasp the magnitude of what she's trying to convey.

Jason meets her gaze, his eyes gleaming with a newfound understanding and empathy. "Yes," he replies simply, his voice soft but resolute. The weight of Cass's words settling over him like a revelation. They may be broken, flawed, but together, they will fight for Tim. They will not give up.

Chapter Text

*Rec*

The camera focuses on Tim Drake, seated in the barren halls of the Drake manor. Unlike his usual surroundings, he now sits in the living room, with a haunting portrait hanging on the wall behind him. In the portrait, three figures are depicted: a woman with short brunette hair, her smile belying the steel in her eyes; a man with black hair, his face stern and his eyes disinterested; and a child with dark hair and blue eyes, his grin seemingly carefree but with a hint of underlying passion.

Tim's gaze is fixed on his trembling hands, his expression on the verge of breaking into tears. His leg is encased in a cast, along with two fingers on his right hand and one finger on his left. Bruises and cuts mar his face, evidence of recent turmoil.

"I'm Tim Drake, I'm sixteen," Tim begins, his voice barely above a whisper. He looks up at the camera, his eyes rimmed red with pain and sorrow.

"Jason's alive," Tim's voice trembles with emotion as he utters the words, the weight of the revelation evident in his haunted expression. 

Tim's smile wavers, his struggle to contain his emotions evident as he speaks. "He's alive," he manages, though his expression falters momentarily. "He doesn't remember me, but that doesn't matter because he's—he's alive, yeah!"

Despite his attempt at cheeriness, Tim's facade begins to crumble as he replays his own words. "He doesn't remember me..." His face goes blank, the weight of realization settling heavy in his heart. 

Tim remains still, his gaze fixed off to the side as if lost in a daze. A few minutes pass, during which Tim appears motionless, but then he shifts ever so slightly, a subtle movement that might go unnoticed by those untrained in observation. His eyes clear, and a genuine smile graces his lips.

"Hello, Sel," Tim greets, just as a hand slips into his hair.

"Hello, Kitten," Selina purrs as she enters the frame, sliding in next to Tim.

"What are you doing here?" Tim shivers slightly as Selina runs her fingers through his hair.

"I'm checking in on my favorite kid," Selina replies with a playful smirk.

Tim hums in response, leaning into the comforting touch of Selina's hand. Selina smiles softly as she watches Tim begin to relax under her gentle ministrations.

"How are you doing, Tim?" Selina asks, her tone gentle.

"I'm fine," Tim responds automatically, though the tension in his voice belies his words.

Selina sighs, her expression softening with concern as she waits for Tim to speak. "I'm doing as well as I can, Sel," Tim finally admits, his voice tinged with defeat.

"That's not very comforting, Kit," Selina replies gently.

"I don't know what else to tell you, Mimi," Tim says, his tone resigned. 

"I think you should tell Bruce everything, Tim. About your parents, their trips, this house," Selina suggests, her hands gently cradling Tim's face. "You. Tell him everything about yourself, let him love you."

Tim's smile is tinged with sadness. "Bruce doesn't need another son," he says quietly. "He needs a partner, and that's what I am, or was. I'm really not sure anymore."

"What do you mean?" Selina prompts, her concern deepening.

"Bruce was in a state because both his sons were gone, but now they're both back, so I might not be useful anymore," Tim explains, his voice heavy with uncertainty.

Selina doesn't respond verbally, but the pained expression on her face speaks volumes. Despite her inner turmoil, she holds and comforts Tim with a tenderness that reveals her deep care for the troubled young man.

"Is it me, Sel?" Tim's voice is filled with uncertainty, his eyes clouded with tears.

Selina hums questioningly, her heart aching at the sight of Tim's distress.

"Am I broken? Is it hard to love me? Am I unlovable?" Tim's tears fall freely now, his pain palpable.

Selina's expression falters, tears welling in her own eyes as she cradles Tim in her arms. He feels too fragile, too weightless, yet he fits perfectly into the embrace of her slender arms. "Nonsense! Who told you that?" she exclaims, her voice filled with emotion.

"Nobody, Mimi, nobody needs to tell me. I can see it for myself," Tim whispers, “There’s nobody here,” his voice haunted, as if he's forgotten there's someone else in the room with him.

"Tim, look at me!" Selina commands, her voice firm yet gentle. Tim turns his face towards her, his eyes meeting hers.

"I am here, Kitten. I love you," Selina declares with unwavering sincerity. "I have loved you since I broke into this godforsaken place to rob the vultures but found a Robin instead." A soft laugh escapes her lips, and her expression softens with fondness as she reminisces.

"You were so little, yet so smart. You knew me already, knew who I was, what I was here for. You even offered to walk me to your parents' safe," Selina laughs, her amusement evident.

"It was so jarring for me. I came to rob what I thought would be an empty manor, and what I found was an incredibly intelligent child. A child who was too young to be by himself. I almost ran the other way, but then you called out to me," Selina continues, her smirk widening.

"You were so calm, just gazed up at me from your computer and said 'Hello Miss Kyle.' I was terrified, but then you simply got up and asked me to follow you to the safe, opened it, and just stood there waiting for me to take your stuff," Selina reminisces, her eyes softening as she looks down at Tim, who returns her smile.

"I decided then that I would be coming back here again and again, and not for the valuables," she adds with a fond chuckle.

"So no, Tim, you are not unlovable because it took me a minute to love you, and I'm not the only one. Ivy and Harley ask about you all the time. You are their Robin, the Robin that sees them for the flawed people they are. You had an entire strategy for Ivy to improve the plant life in Gotham. Harley still talks about how you're helping her try to get her license back. Riddler complains about being stuck in Arkham because every time he comes up with a new riddle or plan, you visit him and solve them all before he can do any damage. When he has broken out, he doesn’t target anyone anymore because he says you won't visit him if he hurts people."

"You have actively made a difference in people's lives, Tim. All the rogues respect you or are scared of you. Scarecrow doesn't break out as often because he's scared of you. He constantly talks about how his gas doesn't affect you and how you keep kicking his ass," Selina laughs openly. "Don't sell yourself short, Kitten. You are much loved, if not by the heroes, then by the civilians, the rogues, and by the sirens."

Selina's words lift a weight off Tim's shoulders, filling him with a newfound sense of purpose and belonging. Her reassurances make his eyes light up, a glimmer of hope breaking through the darkness of his doubts. 

"Thank you, Mimi," Tim says shyly, ducking his head.

Selina rolls her eyes fondly. "When will you let me get you a cat so you can stop calling me that? You said you always wanted a cat that you would name Mimi, so why has it become my nickname?" she teases gently.

Tim smiles sadly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I wanted a cat so I wouldn't be lonely anymore, and then you came around, so..." he trails off with a shrug.

Understanding dawns on Selina's face as she realizes what Tim is trying to say. She smiles warmly and nods, acknowledging the unspoken sentiment between them.

As Selina begins to hum a soft tune, Tim lies down, resting his head in her lap. She gently runs her fingers through his hair, watching as his eyes begin to grow heavy.

Slowly, Tim's eyes flutter closed as he succumbs to sleep, finding solace in Selina's comforting presence.

Selina gazes towards the camera, a warm smile playing on her lips as she winks before leaning forward.

The screen fades to black.

Chapter Text

The room once again descends into silence, the revelations about Tim leaving the occupants processing new information. Dick, who believed he was closest to Tim, felt a pang of confusion as he observed Tim's ease and comfort with someone else, surpassing anything Tim had ever exhibited with him.

Bruce, who had a past relationship with Selina, also found himself puzzled and somewhat hurt. Despite their deep connection, Selina had never mentioned her close bond with one of his children. They had shared everything during their time together, discussing even the most intimate details of their lives, including his children. So why hadn't she brought up Tim?

"At least the kid had one parent that wasn't a piece of shit," Jason remarks, his gaze flickering to Bruce with a hint of accusation. His complexion had paled slightly, witnessing the aftermath of his attack on Tim. It wasn't easy for him to see the consequences of his actions. After the incident, he had purposefully avoided looking back to see how it had affected Tim. The memories of that moment were clouded by the overpowering influence of the pit, likely because facing the truth was too painful. Jason had let the pit consume him, leading to a rampage after the tower. When he regained his senses, he could barely recall anything, only a vague sense of guilt lingered. He recognized the hypocrisy of his actions and agreed to the truce, choosing to avoid Tim as much as possible.

“Selina never talked about Tim when we were together," Bruce explains, his tone tinged with surprise. "We discussed you kids, but she never gave any indication of how close she was to Tim."

"Maybe she simply didn’t think you were worth it," Jason sneers, his bitterness evident.

"Bruce, are you sure?" Dick interjects, ignoring Jason's insult.

"Yeah, she never—" Bruce pauses abruptly, his expression shifting as a memory resurfaces. The day they had broken up, Selina had said something that hadn't made sense at the time. But reflecting back, it seemed she might have been referring to Tim. The breakup had affected Bruce more deeply than Selina, perhaps because she had been the one to end things. It had blindsided Bruce, as their relationship had seemed fulfilling to him. It had been one of his happier times, but for Selina, it was evidently not the same.

"She did talk about him, didn't she? You were just too dense to get it. 'World's greatest detective,' my ass," Jason interjects, seizing the opportunity to remind Bruce of his shortcomings as a father.

Bruce cringes, a pained expression crossing his features. "Selina broke up with me because, as she put it, I 'couldn’t prioritize my relationships properly,'" he admits, his voice tinged with regret. "At the time, I thought she was referring to our relationship, which confused me because I believed I was prioritizing it heavily."

He continues, recounting Selina's words with a sense of realization dawning upon him. "She said that I couldn’t see past my own problems and focus on others. That I couldn’t take on problems one at a time. That if someone needed my help, I would put all my energy and focus on them, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing as long as I remembered that other people still existed. That just because one person was facing problems didn’t mean that others weren’t. That just because I was dealing with one person's issues didn’t mean I could ignore everyone else's." 

Bruce's children all nod in agreement with Selina's assessment, their expressions solemn as they watch their father's reaction. Bruce stares blankly at them, realization dawning upon him. He hadn't realized his children felt this way as well.

Dick steps forward, sensing his father's confusion. "Bruce, you can’t be surprised by this," he begins gently. "Selina isn’t the only one who has told you this; I've told you this multiple times. You become too consumed by one thing and forget that other people exist. When you adopted Jason, I understood that he needed your help, and I was happy that you were being a good father to him. But you forgot that I was also a kid who needed you, that I also had problems. And this isn’t just something you do with us; it's something you also do with your cases. You get too involved in them that you forget about us."

Dick's words hang heavily in the air, each one piercing through the silence of the room. Bruce's expression shifts, a mix of guilt and realization crossing his features as he absorbs Dick's accusation.

"She was definitely talking about Tim," Jason continues, his voice laden with frustration. "We have so many people in this room with problems, and at one time or another, you have been there for all of us. But I can’t remember a single time that Tim came to you or any of us with problems. And just because he never came to us with problems, we assumed he didn’t have any."

Jason's gaze then turns to his father, his eyes searching for answers. "Have you ever checked on him, even once?" he asks, his tone a mixture of disappointment and bitterness.

Bruce doesn’t need to think about it, he already knows he hasn’t. His face reflects his thoughts because all of his kids look at him with disappointment and anger. 

Steph's words slice through the tension in the room, carrying a palpable bitterness as she voices her thoughts. "We've failed him so miserably that even the rogues have taken him under their wing," she remarks with a frustrated exhale. "I always wondered about the Riddler, how he transformed from a callous villain who cared little for the harm he caused to someone actively avoiding it. And let's be real, his escapes? They're almost enjoyable now. His puzzles and schemes have reached a level of sophistication that's genuinely challenging. Should've guessed it was Tim's influence."

Dick nods in silent agreement, offering his own insights. "It's the same with Ivy and Harley. They've turned away from violence and chaos for years. Now, they tend to their own affairs, even doing some good. Ivy's revived the plant life in Gotham Park and set up a greenhouse for public visitation. Harley's been helping people navigate the bureaucracy, offering advice on getting licenses."

Jason's expression shifts, darkening with concern and remorse as he contemplates Tim's actions. "I've seen the kid face off against Scarecrow. He took a full blast to the face and kept fighting. I assumed he'd administered the antidote right away because he carried on like nothing had happened," Jason confesses, his voice heavy with sorrow. "I didn't check on him," he murmurs, his admission dripping with remorse and self-blame.

A sharp laugh cuts through the tension. "Drake's quite effective, isn't he?" The speaker's tone is pointed. "He achieved what your mission was, Father. He rehabilitated the rogues by offering them alternatives instead of just tossing them back into Arkham to repeat the cycle."

A stunned silence falls over the room. Damian's unexpected praise for Tim, coupled with his subtle criticism of Bruce, leaves everyone speechless. It's a rare occurrence for Damian to speak favorably of Tim, let alone juxtapose that with disparagement toward Bruce.

"Play the next tape, Grayson," Damian urges, breaking the silence. "The sooner we uncover all of Drake's secrets, the sooner we can assist him." His words carry a sense of urgency, indicating a shift in his perspective towards Tim and the necessity of understanding his actions.

Chapter Text

*Rec*

The camera pans to Tim Drake who is sitting in his room at Drake Manor. The room that hosted a young Tim fascination with Batman and Robin has become barren yet again. The poster and figurines are gone, giving it a prison cell vibe once again. 

“Tim Drake, seventeen.” His voice is flat, his face a mask of emotionless calm, but his eyes are wide and haunted, staring into the distance. "Steph dead." A hollow laugh escapes him; if you weren't watching the tape, you might not believe it came from him. It's fleeting, vanishing as quickly as it appeared, and his expression remains disturbingly unchanged. 

"But she isn’t dead, you see, because she isn’t here. I can’t see her, which means she’s alive." Another manic laugh breaks through, discordant and wrong on his face. 

"That would be fine if she needed space. She almost died; if anyone deserves space, it’s her. But what I take issue with is the mental torture." His lips twist into a grotesque smile, too wide, too strained. 

"She’s pretending to be a ghost and haunting me." His laugh is too loud, too desperate. "She’s pretending to be a ghost and haunting a guy who can actually see ghosts, who is haunted by them every minute of every day.”

Tim's expression shifts then, his shoulders slumping as visible sadness washes over him, almost childlike in its raw vulnerability. His big doe eyes widen, his lips turn downward, and his eyebrows knit together in distress. "I don’t understand why she would do that. We are friends, yes? Best friends even? We dated, but I didn’t know how to be a good boyfriend. Maybe that’s why she’s mad, but I tried to do what she wanted.” There’s a desperation in his voice, like a child pleading for adults to listen and believe him “I always listened when she asked me to do something. I always tried to be good enough for her. She said that I didn’t like her enough, but I did. I liked her a lot. She said that I was too emotionless, too invested, too distracted, too much of a soldier, too reserved, too robotic, too obsessive, TOO TOO TOO…"

Tim's eyes flash with anger as he looks directly at the camera, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind only profound sadness. "Always too much of everything and never enough for anything."

“I love her—” Tim's face suddenly shuts down. His eye twitches, and his entire demeanor shifts to one of rigid annoyance.

“Mother, Father,” Tim calls out, his eyes drifting away from the camera and to the side. The room remains empty.

“…”

“You’re dead, I’m assuming,” Tim says, his face stoic.

“…”

“Yes, I can see ghosts. Which you now are.”

“…”

“You can leave, go into the light, disappear, I don’t know. I’m really not an expert on what happens next. That’s up to you.”

“…”

“Yes, I’m very upset. I’ll be sure to grieve you publicly so that everyone knows just how sad I am, how much I loved you, and how you were good parents, blah blah blah. You’ll have a good funeral.”

“...”

Tim looks confused now. "I don’t know you. To me, it's like a stranger is dead. You were never here to raise me, to let me form an attachment, to like you. I don’t know how you want me to react."

“…”

Tim smiles, but it's awful, like someone is holding a gun to his head and forcing him. "You told me to be cold and calculated. Use people, get ahead, never let them see the real you, keep them close but never let them in. Well," Tim's head tilts to the side, his eyes as cold as ice, his hands spread out, "This is the fruit of your labor."

He laughs, his eyebrow arching. "What, did you think you would be different? Why? You've been dead to me for years now. This just makes it more physical."

“…”

Tim's eyes widen, a giggle slips out, and he looks almost manic. "What did you do? Really? Well, if I started, we would be here all day, but I could give you some highlights, yes? Hmm, let's see. There was that one time I begged to go with you because I missed you and wanted to spend time with you, and you locked me in my room and left. I was in there for two days without any food before I managed to break out. Thank God I had put some water bottles in there, or you might have come home to a corpse."

"Or that time you forgot me at a restaurant and I had to walk back home in the blistering cold. Or the first time you put your hands on me. You remember that, don't you, Jack? You beat me simply because I dropped your drink. Or that time I spent too long talking to Bruce at a gala and you slapped me and accused me of trying to seduce him." Tim laughs particularly hard at that. "You called me a whore and a bunch of other names. Remember that, Janet?"

"Or all the times you simply weren’t here to help me. Like the time I drank bleach thinking it was medicine because I was too sick to think straight. Thank God for Mrs. Mac, right? Or yet again, you would have come home to a dead body. Or—"

“...”

"What? Don’t like hearing about it?" Tim's voice is sharp, laced with bitterness and pain.

“…”

Tim's face straightens, his expression going blank once more. "Just go. I’ll make sure everyone knows just how great you were, and I’ll take care of everything."

“…”

His voice trembles slightly, betraying the depth of his hurt. "I’ll mourn you the way you loved me—only in front of other people."

There’s a whisper, and then silence. Tim’s face crumples, his body collapsing under the weight of the realization. He looks up, eyes wide with shock and grief. "They are gone.” 

“My parents are dead. MY PARENTS ARE DEAD!" The words tear from his throat, raw and anguished, as tears stream down his face. His screams echo through the empty house, filled with a pain that’s almost tangible.

He drops onto his bed, curling into himself, and the camera continues to record. It captures every shudder, every sob, every tear. His body is almost motionless, eyes staring blankly ahead, tears falling endlessly. The room feels colder, emptier, as his despair fills the space.

The camera keeps recording, faithfully documenting the broken boy, his silent, endless suffering. Hours pass, each minute stretching unbearably, until the camera finally dies, leaving behind a record of Tim's unfiltered agony.

Chapter Text

“Steph, what the hell?” Jason yells, staring at her in horror.

Steph doesn’t look back. She just crumples into herself, tears streaming down her face, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

“I…I—” She breaks down completely, her words dissolving into uncontrollable crying.

Jason lets her wallow in her guilt because he understands. He can't judge her for whatever she did; he’s been no better himself.

But there are others he can be mad at. He turns to Bruce, who already looks ashen.

“Even though you claim to be the world’s best detective and are trained to see abuse, to pick up on the signs, not knowing about the emotional abuse is somewhat understandable—it’s subtle, insidious. But not picking up on the physical abuse? That’s just…” Jason shakes his head, at a loss for words. “It’s horrible. It’s disgusting. It’s inexcusable.”

He then turns to Dick, his eyes burning with anger. “And you, oh great big brother. Too busy seeing what you wanted to see and not what you should have. Too busy letting someone else carry your burdens to even wonder if he was old enough to bear them.”

Dick’s face pales, his voice shaking. “I didn’t know…”

“You didn’t know? Really? That’s your excuse?” Jason's voice is laced with sarcasm and disbelief.

“It’s not an excuse,” Dick tries to defend himself, his voice trembling.

“How many times does the brat hurl insults at you when you check on him? How many times does he say he’s fine, yet you know he’s not? Has he ever asked you for help?”

Dick’s face grows even paler. “No, but I—”

“Yet you help him anyway, don’t you? Because you care about him, because he’s your brother. He doesn’t need to say anything for you to know he needs you. Yet you have the audacity to tell me you didn’t know about Tim simply because he never said anything? Never told you?”

Jason’s voice rises with each word, his fury palpable. “Get over yourself, Dick. You got distracted by all the squeaky wheels,” he says, motioning to everyone in the room. “You need people to like you, to need you. You need them to be vocal about it. It has to be physical, because then others will praise you for a job well done when that person shows improvement. You get all the credit for helping them get better.”

The room falls silent, the weight of Jason’s words hanging in the air. Steph's sobs are the only sound, a heartbreaking backdrop to the tense confrontation. Bruce and Dick are left to grapple with their guilt and shame, unable to find words to defend themselves against the truth in Jason's accusations. 

Damian's voice slices through the heavy silence, his tone unusually tender. “Richard,” he begins, the softness in his voice catching Dick off guard.

Dick turns to Damian, a sad smile playing on his lips. “Yes, Damian.”

“Richard,” Damian starts again, choosing his words with care, “I need to be honest with you because I respect you. Todd mentioned you've made me a better person, and he's right.”

Dick nodds, his heart aching. “Go ahead, Damian.”

“Richard, you are a very good brother, but you don't know how to deal with silence. You are too attracted to things that make noise.”

Dick's eyebrows scrunch in confusion. “Dami, I don’t understand—”

“You are used to screaming and fighting,” Damian continues. “Everyone knows when you have a problem with anything because you usually scream at Father loud enough for all of us to hear. When we have a problem, we scream as well. I have done my fair share of screaming and fighting, so has Todd, and Brown too.”

Damian pauses, his eyes locking with Dick's, intensity radiating from his gaze. “But Drake... he’s never been one to scream or fight in front of anyone. I’ve watched you flounder in the face of his silence. You don’t know how to handle it, so you do what you think is right. Because you never had to ask when one of us had a problem—we’d scream it at you—you forgot how to ask. You never asked Tim what was wrong; you just took.”

A sigh escaped Damian, tinged with regret. “It’s why I felt justified in my behavior. My mother taught me to take, so I took. I took everything from Drake, and I felt vindicated because you let me.”

Dick's face crumples as Damian's words hit him like a punch to the gut. He looks utterly devastated, his eyes wide with horror and regret. The realization sinks in, overwhelming him with a crushing weight: he has been so focused on the loud, overt cries for help from his other siblings that he completely missed Tim’s quiet suffering. 

“No, no, no, but I—” Dick’s voice breaks as his heart shatters. He looks around the room, seeing the same realization reflected in the eyes of his family. His chest feels like it’s been trampled on, like someone decided to carve out his heart.

A loud sob steals everyone's attention. It's Steph; she's breaking down. Jason pulls her closer, holding her tightly. “I failed him,” she cries out brokenly.

“Welcome to the club, Blondie,” Jason murmurs, his voice heavy with guilt.

“No, no, you don’t understand. He was my—he is my best friend. He was always there. Even when he was being horrible, he was there. When I was being horrible, he was there. Even at our worst, he was there. He never left me. He was always, always there. Oh my God, I abandoned him.” She looks at Dick sharply, but he is lost in his own misery.

Her anger fizzles out. She can’t really blame Dick; she was the one who believed him over Tim. She feels like the real idiot, the one who let her best friend down when he needed her the most. She sags as Jason’s lowers her down into the seat. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Jason murmurs, patting her head gently. Then, with a sudden intensity, he yells, “DICK!”

Dick flinches, snapping out of his daze, his eyes wide and haunted. Jason is staring at him with an expression Dick can’t quite place, but it makes his stomach sink with dread.

Desperately trying to avoid Jason's piercing gaze, Dick looks away and presses the button to start the next tape, his hands trembling.

Chapter Text

*Rec*

The screen flickers to life, revealing Tim Drake sitting at his desk. This time, the desk isn't in the Drake manor; it's in the Wayne manor. Yet, the room has the same barren, impersonal vibe. Tim sits there, staring at the camera with a blank expression. “Tim Drake, seventeen,” he says flatly. His head tilts slightly as if he's listening to someone. Awareness flickers in his eyes, but his solemn look remains, as if all the life has drained out of him.

“So much has happened in just a couple of months. It feels like I made the last one years ago, but it’s been…” Tim trails off, his eyes looking hazy. He jolts again, glancing to the side, nods, then returns his gaze to the camera. “Steph’s not dead or pretending to be dead anymore. I don’t know what we are. I don’t, I don’t know. My parents are dead.” He shrugs. “Bruce tried to adopt me.” Tim huffs. “I don’t know what moral obligation he was trying to fulfill, but I didn’t want to be a burden. Just one unwanted child being passed around from parent to parent. I told him I had an uncle, and it worked for a while. He didn’t bother looking into it in the beginning. I don’t know what happened, but suddenly he was being nice and telling me he wanted to adopt me. Guilt maybe. I’m not too sure, but he gave me a big speech and—” Tim chuckles, a faint smile crossing his face. “I believed it. It was—it felt nice to be wanted. I let him adopt me.”

Tim's smile fades as quickly as it came. “It was so good, so good for a while. Me, Bruce, Alfred Dick, and Jason was coming around too. He usually came when I wasn’t around, but that’s okay as long as he came home. It was good, yeah.” The smile dies completely. “I should have known. It was too good. It was good, and I don’t deserve good.” Tim laughs bitterly. “I forgot that I was broken. That there is something wrong with me. That I destroy everything I touch.”

“Conner was the first. Ain’t that right, Kon?” Tim looks to his side, to the empty room. “They couldn’t let you live.” Tim laughs again, a hollow sound. “Killed for the crime of making Tim Drake happy.” 

“...”

“I’m fine, Kon,” Tim mutters, glancing to the side.

“...”

“I am talking to someone, or something in this case.” He points to the camera. “The only thing willing to listen and put up with me always.”

“...”

Tim's voice is eerily calm as he addresses the camera. “I’m not in shock, Kon. I’m fine. Anyway, you’re interrupting my session.” He turns back to the camera, his demeanor shifting. “As I was saying, Kon was first, dead. Then Bart,” Tim pauses, his expression contemplative, “though he’s not really dead because he’s not here. So that means he’s lost. I don’t know where he is, but I will find him.” His eyes take on a faraway look again. “But it still doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone.”

“Gone, gone, gone,” Tim giggles, a sound devoid of mirth. “And if that wasn’t enough—Steph, Mother, Father, Kon, Bart weren’t enough—they took Bruce too. That’s right, Bruce is dead, or so everyone believes. Everyone except me because of this stupid power I have. Again, he’s not here, so he’s not dead. Which means he’s lost too, and it’s up to me to find him.”

“It’s up to me, it’s up to me, it’s up to me,” Tim starts muttering to himself over and over again. He’s holding his folded legs to his chest, rocking back and forth. He looks like a lost doe. He looks so much like a doll in that moment—pale, skinny, wide-eyed, and childlike.

“But I can’t focus,” Tim says, his voice trembling. “I can’t focus on finding Bart, finding Bruce, and trying to bring Kon back. I can’t focus on anything because of the kid. Bruce’s son. Biological son. I don’t know why, but he hates me.” A giggle slips out, tinged with bitterness. “You know, I was so excited because it was finally my turn to be a big brother. I always wanted siblings. I remember asking my parents, but they laughed in my face, so I never asked again. But when I came here, I knew it was inevitable. I knew Bruce wouldn’t be able to refuse taking in another child.”

Tim’s eyes glaze over, lost in his memories. “I thought it would be different. I thought I’d finally have a family, brothers, someone I could spoil. But then Damian came, and he hated me from the start. He made me feel like I didn’t belong. Like I was an intruder in what supposed to be my own home.”

His voice breaks, tears welling up in his eyes. “I tried, you know? I really tried to be a good brother. I wanted to be someone he could look up to, someone he could rely on. But he just kept pushing me away. And now, with everything else going on, I feel like I’m drowning. I can’t focus on anything because all I can think about is how much he hates me.”

"..." Tim turns his head, listening intently to Kon.

"Bruce isn’t my father. I’ve never had a father. What exactly are they supposed to do?" Tim asks, his voice carrying a blend of bitterness and curiosity.

"..."

"By your definition, I’m Bruce’s father. I took care of him. When he wouldn’t move away from the Batcomputer for days, I pulled him away. When he drank himself to shit, I put him to bed. When he wouldn’t leave his bed, I brought him food, made sure he ate it. I forced him to take showers too. I tended to his injuries. He was never once grateful, quite the opposite actually. He was rude, mean, and cruel. He would yell, scream, throw stuff. He would tell me that he didn’t want me there, that I wasn’t his son." Tim lets out a bitter laugh. "Nevermind that he would constantly call me Jason. I genuinely think he didn’t know my name till a few years in. I was there for him through the worst period of his life, I made him better. Yet here we are at the worst period of my life, and where is he?"

There is only silence.

"So what does this make Bruce? What title should he hold? I have only ever existed to make his life easier. What is my purpose now that he’s gone? Who am I? What title do I hold now?"

"..."

"I was fascinated by Bruce’s grief, you know. Don’t get me wrong, it was devastating. It broke my heart to see him like that. I was fascinated because I couldn’t fathom loving someone so much that it would turn you into such a husk. I always wondered if someone would even love me enough. It was cruel of me to hope that maybe someone would be that affected. I was naive; I hadn’t known grief yet. Now that I have, I’m glad that no one loves me enough."

Tim’s face twitches, and he shakes his head as a sad smile overtakes his features. “That was a lie. I still wish someone would love me that much. But it’s fine if no one does.”

He takes a deep breath, his eyes reflecting a mix of longing and resignation. His phone lights up, indicating a message. “Dick is back,” Tim says after checking, his voice trembling slightly with relief. “I’m going to go talk to him. I need help, and I trust him to believe me about Bruce, no matter how outlandish it sounds.”

Tim’s lips curve into a genuine smile, a rare sight given the weight of his recent words. “I’ve lost a lot of people, but I’m so glad I have Dick.” His eyes shine with a glimmer of hope. “Dick is my brother, and he promised me he would always be there for me. I've heard that so many times, but coming from Dick, it’s different. I believe him.”

His expression softens further as he thinks about his older brother. “Dick has always been there for me, through everything. He’s the one constant, the one person who makes me feel like I’m not alone in all of this.”

Tim’s eyes flicker with a mixture of hope and fear as he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what I’d do without him. He’s the only one who’s never given up on me, who’s always seen me for who I am, not just another Robin.”

He turns the camera off with a smile on his face, though it’s tinged with the weight of everything he’s just confessed.

Chapter Text

When you ask a child about pain, they will usually tell you about their scraped knee, the fall they took, or the time they broke a bone. If you ask 9-year-old Dick about pain, he will not tell you about the several bones he broke practicing his acrobatics, or how many times the circus animals have scratched him.

No, none of that.

He will tell you about the happiness he felt flying with his parents. About his final act with them and the joy he felt when he saw his parents flying towards him. He'll talk about how their smiles met his own, a moment of pure, unadulterated joy that seemed to stretch on forever.

And then he’ll tell you about how it could all be taken in a single second.

He’ll tell you about the awful sounds that will haunt his dreams for years to come: the snapping of a rope, the thump of bodies hitting the ground, and the cracking of bones. He’ll tell you about the sights that still flicker into view every time he closes his eyes. The smile falling from his parents' lips when they realized something was wrong, the unnatural widening of their eyes, the horror of anticipation, the acceptance of their fates, more blood than you could ever imagine, and the horrible positions the human body can contort into. He'll describe the weight of silence that followed, the deafening roar of the crowd turning into a stunned, horrified murmur, and how everything within him shattered along with his parents' fall.

When you ask teenagers about pain, they will usually tell you about heartbreak, failing classes, losing games, and fighting with their parents. If you ask 17-year-old Dick about pain, he will tell you about the comfort of having someone there who understands what you’ve been through, the relief of having someone to take care of you when you can’t do it yourself, and the happiness of having someone care about you. He’ll talk about how Bruce found him, a broken boy with no place to go, and gave him a new home. He'll recount the nights spent in the Batcave, the silent understanding they shared as they both grappled with their grief.

And then he’ll tell you about how one bad moment can ruin everything.

He’ll tell you about the devastation of not remembering your parents' faces, the loneliness you feel when the person you love most doesn’t understand you anymore, the hopelessness of outgrowing your comforts, the heartbreak of finally loving another person enough to see them as your parent only for them to never think of you as their son. He'll describe the agony of never being adopted, the constant fear of being abandoned, and the dread of striking out on your own without anyone to fall back on.

Dick will speak of the discomfort of going back home after being away for so long, how the familiar halls of Wayne Manor felt foreign and unwelcoming. He'll recount the horror of being replaced, the sting of seeing a new kid being adopted after a month while he waited for years and never got it. He'll describe the anger that bubbled up, the rage at Bruce for moving on so quickly, and the disgust of not being able to accept the kid when he had always wanted siblings.

If you ask adults about pain they’ll tell you about responsibilities, growing apart, trying and failing. If you ask 22 year old Dick about pain he’ll tell you about the joy of having a brother, having someone look up to you, having someone to go home for, loving someone that much again.

And then he’ll tell you how one missed call can be the end of everything. 

He’ll tell you about hearing a voicemail from your brother telling you that he’s running away, he’ll tell you about rushing home to find your brother missing, he’ll tell you about your father telling you that your brother is dead, him telling you that he held the funral without you, that he didn’t think you’d want to come because you treated your brother like shit, he’ll tell you about being numb, he’ll tell you about the grief of losing a brother, he’ll tell you about the depression that threatens to swallow you whole, he’ll tell you about a kid begging you to come home because your father is killing himself, he’ll tell you about refusing because you just can’t do it, he’ll tell you about going back because of the all consuming fear of losing the only family you have left, he’ll tell you about the pain of having to rely on a child, of looking at the child and seeing your dead brother, of having to be better for your new brother where you couldn’t for the previous one, of seeing your brother’s slit neck as they lay bleeding out on the floor, of finding out that your dead brother is alive and hates you, of gaining another brother just to lose your father, of having to take from one brother just to appease another.

If you asked Dick about pain yesterday, he would have told you that it was a thing of the past. That everything bad had already happened, that now were the happy days. Days where he could protect his city and hang out with his family.

If you ask Dick about pain at this very moment, he won’t hear you.

Dick’s ears are ringing. He can see Jason’s lips moving; he knows Jason is angry and is probably yelling, but Dick can’t hear anything. His eyes leave Jason and fall on Damian. Damian is looking at him weirdly. Why is Damian looking at him like that? Now Damian is speaking, but he still can’t hear him. Damian's expression changes to something he can recognize. It’s concern. Why is Damian concerned about him?

Is it because of the pain in his chest or maybe the burning in his lungs? Bruce’s face enters his vision; he’s screaming something. Dick looks at his lips, maybe that will help him.

Breathe.

Bruce is telling him to breathe. That can’t be right because Dick is breathing, right?

The burning is getting more painful.

It’s cold; there is something cold in his mouth. His hands are cold too. He looks down and opens his fists. It’s ice. There’s ice in his palms.

He looks up at Bruce. “Can you hear me, chum?” Bruce's voice finally breaks through the ringing in his ears, but it sounds distant, like he’s underwater.

Dick tries to speak, but his throat feels tight. He gasps for air, the cold sensation from the ice juxtaposed with the burning in his chest. He feels disoriented, his vision blurring at the edges.

“Dick, breathe with me,” Bruce’s voice is firmer now, more insistent. He starts a rhythmic pattern, breathing in deeply and exhaling slowly. “Follow my lead.”

Dick focuses on Bruce’s eyes, grounding himself. He tries to mimic Bruce’s breathing, struggling to control the rapid rise and fall of his chest. His breaths are ragged at first, but gradually, they start to sync with Bruce’s.

The room starts to come back into focus. He can hear Jason’s voice, still laced with frustration but quieter now. Damian is closer, his hand resting on Dick’s shoulder, a rare display of concern.

“Dick,” Jason’s voice breaks through, softer than before. “Are you okay?”

Dick nods slowly, feeling the tightness in his chest begin to ease. He swallows hard, his throat still dry and scratchy. “I’m… I’m okay,” he manages to say, though his voice is hoarse.

Bruce keeps his gaze steady on Dick, not moving until he’s sure Dick’s breathing has returned to normal. “You had a panic attack,” he says gently. 

Now that Dick can think straight, he remembers why he had a panic attack. Was it because he apparently knew next to nothing about his brother? Or because he thought he was this awesome brother but turns out he’s just a piece of shit? Or because he’s selfish? Or because when he lost one brother, he vowed to do better and he thought he was, but really he was just seeing what he wanted to make himself feel better? Really, it could be a multitude of reasons.

Dick’s mind races, each thought more painful than the last. How did things get so bad? How did he miss so much? He prided himself on being the glue that held them all together, but now it feels like he’s the one unraveling.

He wasn’t the glue; it was Tim. It had always been Tim. Tim and his sacrifices. How could he forget all that Tim had done for them?

Tim had been Dick’s first brother. Jason and Dick had only begun to explore their brotherhood when Jason had died. Tim had been his only brother for four years, four years where Tim had been the person he’d loved most in the world. He had overcompensated a lot too because of his guilt about Jason. Dick had feared that one day Tim would tell him that he was too much, but he never did. Tim was always willing to take everything Dick gave him. He acted like he was starved for affection. That should have been a red flag, but Dick chose to ignore it because he was just happy about finally being enough for someone.

How had he missed the signs? The silent cries for help? Tim had been there for all of them, holding them together while Dick believed he was the one keeping the family intact.

The memories flood back: Tim staying up late to help him with cases, Tim always being there to listen, Tim never asking for anything in return. Dick had taken it all for granted, assuming that Tim was okay because he never complained. But now he realizes that Tim was bearing the weight of the family’s troubles, silently and without recognition.

Dick’s mind races with regret. He remembers the way Tim used to light up when he praised him, the way he always sought his approval. He remembers the times Tim patched him up after a rough night, always with a gentle touch and a reassuring smile. How had he missed the fact that Tim was giving so much of himself, while asking for so little in return?

Dick remembers that night so vividly because it was the only time he had ever seen Tim so angry. But it wasn’t the yelling anger. No, Tim’s anger was quiet; it was cold. He wore it like armor. Dick had seen him put it on the second the words “You’re acting crazy” slipped from his lips. Tim had grown colder the more Dick disregarded him. It came to a head when Damian showed up in the Robin costume.

The memory is vivid, every detail etched into his mind. The way Tim’s eyes had gone from hopeful to shattered in an instant. The way his voice had lost its warmth, replaced by a steely resolve that Dick had never heard before. He realized in that second that he had done something so horrible that he could never take it back. He remembers reaching out, trying to bridge the gap he had unknowingly created, only to find it was too wide, too deep. He had tried justifying himself to Tim so desperately. He’d tried telling Tim that he was Dick’s equal, that he was meant for more than just Robin, but it was already too late.

He had seen Tim completely shut himself off. His last words as he walked out of the cave were “My name is Tim Wayne.” Dick hadn’t caught it then, but after months of replaying that moment in his head again and again, he knows Tim was saying goodbye. He was giving himself permission, for the last time, to say that he belonged in this family.

Dick had broken something precious, something that words couldn’t mend. He had taken Tim’s loyalty, his dedication, and tossed it aside, thinking he was doing the right thing.

Tim had been his first brother, his anchor in a world that was constantly shifting. He had given everything to the family, to Dick, and in return, he had been cast aside.

The whole family was looking at him with concern, their expressions a mix of worry and confusion. They were asking if he was okay, voices overlapping in a chorus of concern. Dick just played the next tape because he didn’t deserve their concern. He didn’t deserve anything after what he’d done.

Chapter Text

*Rec*

The screen flickers to life, revealing Tim Drake in a setting unlike any they have seen before. He’s in a lavish room. The walls are beige and rock, adorned with tapestries. Lanterns hang from the ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow. It all looks very royal. Tim himself is adorned in elaborate clothes, wearing a green and gold suit. His skin, usually pale, is now a warm honey color.

“This is Tim Drake. If you are watching this, I’m probably dead.” Tim’s voice is calm, but the weight of his words hangs heavy in the air. “I’m with the League, and I don’t know if I will make it out. I’ve already lost my spleen, which someone should get back from Ra’s. I’m pretty sure he’s keeping it in a jar somewhere, and I don’t feel comfortable with what that could mean.”

The absurdity of the statement might have made anyone laugh under different circumstances, but here, it just underscores the dire situation Tim is in. 

“I was looking for Bruce, and he’s the only one who believed me and offered me his resources. Which I hate to admit were actually helpful because I did find Bruce. I will attach all the information and the plan to bring him back.”

There’s a pause, and Tim's face softens as he addresses Bruce directly. “Bruce, if you’re watching this, welcome back. I'm happy you’ve made it home.” Tim smiles, but it’s tired. It looks like it’s taking everything in him to do it. “I’ve fulfilled my duty as Robin. I’ve kept you safe and I’ve kept you alive. It’s up to you now to take care of the family and yourself. I would like to rest now.” 

“If you find my body, don’t bury me with my parents. Don’t bury me at all; cremate me and spread my ashes far away from each other. I don’t want to pull a Jason.” Tim huffs lightly, trying to ease the somber mood with a touch of his characteristic humor.

Tim then looks straight into the camera, his gaze piercing through the lens as if reaching out to each of them individually. “Cass, I love you. You have been the most incredible sister to me. What little kindness I’ve known in my life has been because of you, and I will love you and think of you till my dying breath. I hope to see you again one day, but not too soon, yeah? Take all the time in the world.”

The camera focuses on Tim’s face, capturing the sincerity in his eyes as he speaks to each of them.

“Jason,” Tim’s face twitches with a mix of emotion, “I love you and I forgive you.” He lets out a small, bittersweet laugh. “Actually, forgiving implies that I was ever mad. You could have killed me, and I still wouldn’t be mad. You are my brother, Jason. Have been for a long time. Longer than you’ve probably known me. I know you won’t understand this, and I wish I had the time to tell you, but I don’t. I want you to go home, Jason. Be with your family, let them care for you. I know you probably think that no one can love you after everything, but remember this: there was a kid once who loved you very much. He saw you at your best and loved you, and he saw you at your absolute worst and loved you still. So go home, Jason. I know your family feels the same.”

“Steph,” Tim says with a warm, heartfelt tone, “oh Steph. I love you so much. It was an honor to love you and be loved by you. I’m sorry for not being enough, Steph. I’m so sorry for all the mistakes I made, but I want you to know one thing, Steph: you were always enough. You try so hard, Steph, so hard, but you don’t need to. You are enough, and I know you will do great things.”

“Damian,” Tim says, his voice soft and affectionate, “my baby brother. I wish we could have had more time, but still, I didn’t need time to love you. I know you tried to hide it, but I saw the kindness inside you. I hope you can share that kindness with your family, Damian. They really need it. I wish I could have given you Robin. I don’t want you to remember it as a bittersweet thing. I don’t want you to think that I never wanted to give it to you because I did. Oh, I so desperately wanted to be the one to give it to you. Try to have fun, Damian. You are the light to Batman’s darkness. You are Robin, and being Robin gives you magic.”

“Dick,” Tim’s face darkens as he struggles with his emotions, “I-I...” His voice chokes up, the words barely audible. “I love you.”

Before Tim can speak again, a noise echoes through the room. It’s a sharp, unsettling sound that interrupts the peace.

Ra’s al Ghul's presence changes the atmosphere entirely. The moment he steps into view, Tim’s previously open and vulnerable demeanor shifts to one of controlled, calculated coldness. His shoulders straighten, and his gaze hardens into a steely resolve, effectively masking the fear that gnaws at him. The warmth in his eyes is replaced with a chilling detachment, as though he is preparing himself for a confrontation rather than a conversation.

“Detective, how are you today?” Ra’s al Ghul’s voice is smooth, almost patronizing, as he rounds to stand beside Tim. The confidence in his posture and the glint in his eyes suggest a man who is utterly certain of his power and influence.

“Ra’s,” Tim acknowledges him with a curt nod, his voice betraying none of the anxiety he might feel. The interaction feels like a carefully choreographed dance, each word and gesture measured and deliberate.

“Congratulations on the success of your mission, Detective,” Ra’s continues, his tone laced with a hint of mockery. “I must say, this is the first time there have been no casualties.”

Tim’s response is immediate and flat, his voice devoid of emotion. “Yes, well prioritizing the lives of your subordinates does tend to yield these kinds of results.”

Ra’s raises an eyebrow, his smile widening. “You’ve exceeded my expectations, Timothy. For years, I’ve sought someone worthy of my attention, someone worthy to be my heir. The older Detective was who I had in mind for a long time. He trained here after all. I hoped that he would give up his foolish morals and come back, but he continues to disappoint me.”

Tim’s eyes flicker with a brief, involuntary flash of emotion—a mix of anger and sadness—before he regains his composure. Ra’s' smile is almost predatory as he continues.

“Where he has disappointed me, you have soared, Detective.”

Tim’s brows furrow slightly, a small tell of his unease despite his best efforts to remain unaffected. “What do you want, Ra’s?”

Ra’s al Ghul’s gaze sharpens, his smile growing more sinister. “You, Detective. I want you to be my heir. You are the best of them.”

Tim’s reaction is almost instinctive, his response laced with a mixture of defiance and underlying fear. “Pass.”

The twitch in Tim’s jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes, all give away the fear that he tries so hard to hide. Ra’s al Ghul’s expression doesn’t falter; instead, it grows colder, more commanding.

Ra’s al Ghul’s voice cuts through the opulence of the room, his gestures sweeping across the lavish surroundings that starkly contrast with Tim’s grim demeanor. “Look around,” he commands, his tone dripping with authority. “This is the League, Detective. Here, you have no choice.”

Tim’s voice trembles with desperation. “I’m the weakest,” he admits. “I’ve never beaten Dick in a spar, and I’m sure you’re aware of my failure at the Titans Tower. Jason nearly killed me.”

Ra’s’s eyes narrow with disdain, his voice a sharp edge. “You think me a fool, Timothy? I am aware of your training with Shiva. You had the power to defeat Jason, yet you chose to be subdued rather than reveal your true strength. Your pretense is transparent.”

Tim’s jaw tightens, his face a mask of anger and fear.

Ra’s’s voice is unyielding, his demeanor coldly authoritative. “Your games will not work here. You will fight, or you will die. Your training starts tomorrow. You will become my heir.”

Tim’s eyes blaze with defiance, though his voice cracks under the strain. “You can’t keep me here.”

Ra’s’s smile is chillingly calm as he gestures to a darkened corner of the room. “Oh, I think I can,” he says, his tone laced with menace.

Tim’s gaze follows Ra’s’s gesture, his eyes widening in horror. In the shadows, Tim sees Tam, bound and frightened. His breath hitches as he whispers her name, “Tam.”

Ra’s’s smile deepens, a cruel satisfaction in his voice. “If you want her to survive, you will comply with my demands.” His eyes gleam with a terrifying assurance as he adds, “I shall see you tomorrow, my heir.”

With a final, commanding nod, Ra’s exits, his robe trailing like a dark spectre.

Tim turns back to the camera, his face a portrait of raw, unfiltered fear. “Help,” he breathes out, the word barely a whisper as his eyes plead for a rescue that feels increasingly out of reach. The screen abruptly fades to black, leaving his desperate plea echoing in the void.

Chapter Text

Damian remembers his childhood vividly, especially the words his mother used to drill into him. She would often say he was too kind, as if kindness were a weakness that would doom him. She believed it needed to be beaten out of him, turning him into a cold, calculating weapon. Over time, he was stripped of softness, of anything remotely human, until all that remained was his relentless pursuit of being the best. Survival was paramount, and weakness was eradicated at all costs.

But now, as Damian stands watching his brother, his mind is in turmoil. He looks at Tim—his brother, who has always been better than him. Tim, who accomplished more than Damian could ever dream of, who was lauded by heroes and held in high esteem by their father and even Ra’s al Ghul. Yet here Tim is, giving up. He’s watching the best of them, the one who held the family together, record his final message. He hears Tim say he wants to rest, and it makes no sense to Damian.

He doesn’t understand how someone as exceptional as Tim, as powerful and capable as Red Robin, could ever want to give up. Tim has achieved more than Damian has even dared to wish for. He’s the hero Damian has long aspired to be—the embodiment of everything the League taught him to admire and the family taught him to respect. Yet, seeing Tim in this moment, broken and exhausted, doesn't bring the satisfaction Damian once thought it would.

It doesn’t feel good.

For the first time, Damian sees Tim not as a rival but as something else entirely—someone driven by an entirely different fuel. Tim is made of kindness, Damian realizes, an essence his mother had once told him was weak. But it’s that very kindness that built this family. It’s the selflessness Tim embodies, the willingness to sacrifice himself, that has kept them all together. Without that, without Tim... Damian feels hollow.

Tim’s desire to rest, to stop, isn’t something Damian can comprehend—not yet. But he can’t deny that watching his brother, the best of them, crumble under the weight of his burdens makes him question everything. It doesn’t feel right.

"This is all my fault," Dick whispers, his voice barely audible, but the weight of his words cuts through the room. His face is pale, horror-stricken, as if he's just now realizing the full extent of his actions.

"Dick—" Bruce begins, his voice low, probably trying to offer some words of comfort, but Dick isn't having it.

"NO!" Dick’s voice cracks, the shout echoing off the walls as his breath comes in ragged gasps. "You don't know what I've done." His eyes are wild, haunted, like he's fighting something too big for him to contain.

The room goes dead silent. Nobody dares to speak, the tension thick, suffocating. Dick's chest heaves with every breath, but the real battle seems to be inside him, a war between guilt and the need to confess. He’s unraveling before their eyes.

Finally, Jason steps forward, his voice sharp and unforgiving. "What did you do?" His tone is accusatory, not softened by sympathy or the instinct to protect. Jason doesn’t coddle. His eyes narrow, studying Dick, waiting for the answer that’s already forming in his mind. He knows that look—he’s seen it before in the mirror, right before everything comes undone.

Dick's eyes meet Jason's, and there’s a flash of something raw, something broken. Guilt. The kind of guilt that wraps around your throat and doesn’t let go. Jason’s eyes flicker a dangerous shade of green, the Lazarus pit’s influence creeping in because he recognizes that expression. He knows what it feels like to carry the weight of a mistake so heavy that it changes you.

Whatever Dick did, Jason already knows—it’s bad. Bad enough that even Dick, the so-called golden son, can’t hide from it anymore.

“When he came to me with the information that Bruce was alive, I—I…” Dick’s voice breaks. “I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t believe him. It hurt too much, so I just... I thought he was grieving. That he wasn’t ready to let go, so... I did it for him.”

A beat of silence follows, thick with tension. Steph’s eyes narrow, her jaw clenched, as she asks the question everyone’s too stunned to voice. “What do you mean?” Her tone is cold, cutting.

Dick’s gaze drops, unable to meet hers. “I took Robin from him,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “And gave it to Damian.”

The room falls into a dead silence. Everyone is frozen, their shock palpable. No one expected this. Not from him.

“I didn’t do it to hurt him,” Dick continues, his voice strained with a mixture of guilt and desperate justification. “I only wanted him to grow. I wanted him to move on from Robin, to be my partner, not my sidekick. I wanted more for him.” His words stumble out, but they’re hollow now, as if even he doesn’t believe them anymore. His shoulders slump under the weight of his failure.

“I was just going through too much,” he tries to explain, but the guilt keeps tightening around him. “Bruce was dead. I was Batman. Damian was my responsibility, and I was just... it was a lot. I dropped the ball with Tim.” His voice wavers, breaking under the pressure of his own admission. “I couldn’t believe him. I didn’t even have it in me to listen—to hope. So I—I was…” His voice falters, trembling as the realization sets in. “I told him he was crazy. I didn’t know he’d leave like that.”

The last words fall from his lips, heavy with regret. There’s no defense left in his voice, only the raw pain of knowing he pushed away someone who needed him most.

A sudden crash reverberates through the room, making everyone flinch and whip around. Jason stands over the wreckage of the chair he was sitting in, his chest heaving as his fists tighten at his sides. His eyes lock onto Dick's, and they blaze a sickly, pit-fueled green.

Before anyone can react, Jason moves as if to launch himself at Dick, his rage palpable, the intent clear. But before he can take more than a step, he’s being held back—Cass on one side, Bruce on the other. They’re straining to restrain him, pulling him away from Dick as Jason thrashes, desperate to give in to the raw fury burning through him. The Lazarus Pit screams in his veins, urging him to tear Dick apart.

But Dick doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look scared. In fact, there’s something almost eager in his expression. Like he’s welcoming the punishment. Like he believes he deserves it.

Jason freezes, his breath ragged as he takes in the sight of Dick, the man who shattered Tim’s trust, looking like he’s begging for pain. Slowly, Jason stops struggling. He takes a deep breath in, his muscles trembling as the anger ebbs just enough for him to regain control. The green in his eyes fades as Cass cautiously releases her grip.

Jason looks down at the arm Bruce still holds, his expression hardening. He meets Bruce's gaze, then roughly shoves him back. Bruce stumbles, a rare display of imbalance, but says nothing.

“I’m not gonna tell you how incredibly stupid what you did was,” Jason says, his voice low and laced with controlled fury. “Because I can see you already know that. And honestly, it’d be pretty hypocritical of me, considering I’ve done my share of stupid things where the kid’s concerned too.”

Dick nods, barely, his face ashen.

“But I will tell you this.” Jason's voice tightens, words sharp as daggers. “What you did was the worst thing you could’ve done to him. He trusted you, Dick. You were his only brother at that point. The one he came to for everything. You were everything to him, and you took that trust and destroyed it.”

Jason's eyes narrow, his voice now a cold, simmering anger as he looks directly at Dick.

"He came to you with the broken pieces of himself," Jason says, his voice steady but filled with venom. "He was hoping you could help him— fix him. But instead, you shattered him even further. You took those pieces, those last fragile parts of him, and you smashed them.”

Dick flinches, the words hitting him like physical blows. Jason’s gaze doesn’t waver, each word deliberate, sharp.

“He trusted you to help him when he had no one else. And you broke him.”

The weight of Jason’s words hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. Dick’s eyes widen, his face growing paler. His legs buckle beneath him, and he collapses into a nearby chair as if the force of Jason’s words alone knocked the strength out of him.

Jason, too, lowers himself into another chair, his rage simmering just below the surface, but controlled. There’s nothing more to say. His words cut deep, and the silence that follows is as painful as the confrontation itself.

Steph shifts in her seat, her heart racing. Jason’s words hit her too, even though they weren’t directed at her. She feels the guilt gnawing at her, knowing she’s not blameless either. She stands, forcing herself to move. With trembling hands, she presses play on the next tape. Her stomach churns with dread, wishing it could all just end. Wishing there were no more tapes, no more pain for Tim.

Chapter Text

*Rec*

The screen flickers to life, revealing an elegant loft. Despite the clutter of boxes scattered around, the space feels organized and tidy.

A weary young man steps into view. "Tim Drake. I'm seventeen. This is probably my last tape. I've been through so much this year that I can't even imagine going through anything else. I'm done."

A heavy silence follows, but it’s not just any silence—it feels ominous, a warning of harsh truths about to be revealed.

"I almost died," he says, his voice steady but weary. "I come close to dying almost every week, but this time was different. Usually, I fight—every time. But this time, I didn’t."

Tim takes a deep breath, as if preparing for the weight of his next words. "Steph died. My parents died. Kon died. Bart died. Bruce died. Dick took Robin from me, called me crazy, and suggested I should be institutionalized. Damian tried to kill me. I left to look for Bruce, ran into Ra’s. He said he'd help. Gave me people, resources... I got them killed. I got impaled in the process. Lost my spleen. Then Ra’s held me hostage, let me run the League, gave me access to everything, so I blew it up.

I ran back to Gotham. Ra’s was furious. He followed me, tried to take over everything. But I didn’t let him. I became an emancipated minor and took over Wayne Enterprises."

Tim pauses, and for a moment, it seems he’s finished speaking. But then he continues, his voice tinged with irony. "Ra's was furious, so he kicked me out a window." A hollow laugh escapes him. "I was falling, and for the first time, I felt peace. I had done everything—I protected everyone and kept them safe. I was free. It felt so good to give up and not worry about what came next because there would be no next. It was all over. I think I was happy. But then Dick ruined it. He caught me."

Another harsh laugh spills from his lips. "He wasn’t there when I needed him, but when I finally didn’t need anyone—when I was ready to let go—he shows up."

“He asked me how I knew he would catch me. What was I supposed to say? That I didn’t know? That I really wanted to hit the ground, for it to finally be over? That I hate him for catching me, I hate him for being there for the one thing I didn’t need him for. No, I couldn’t say that. Dick would have had me committed to Arkham. Maybe that’s where I belong. So, I told him he was my brother, that I knew he would be there for me. What a bunch of bullshit. The funniest part? How easily he believed me. He didn’t even question it." Tim's voice trails off, leaving a heavy silence.

After a pause, he resumes. "You thought that was it? Nope. I’ve got more shitty things that happened to me. Bruce is back, and everything has gone back to normal—except Dick never apologized. He’s pretending it never happened. Bruce is back, but I didn’t get a thank you or even a ‘Hey, Tim, son, you've done so much. I appreciate you.’ Nope. He hasn’t said a word. He’s returned all gung-ho about being a better parent, so he’s spending tons of time with his kids. The kids that he actually wanted. Oh, and Damian? He cut my line. That was an experience. I wouldn’t have bothered catching myself if the building had been taller, but the little shit cut it on a short swing, so if I fell, it would only injure me severely, not kill me.”

"Because of Ra's obsession with me, his entire family has become fixated on me, too. His daughter, Nyssa... she tried to get me to have a baby with her—well not tried more like she forced me. She chained me to a wall and..." Tim's breath hitches, a wave of panic flickering across his face. He pauses, letting the tension settle before he continues. "Anyway, thank God for Cass."

At the mention of his sister, Tim’s face transforms; a genuine smile emerges, brightening his expression momentarily. "She saved me. I think she’s the only reason I’m alive right now. Well her and Selina. Every time I think about them, I feel this weight lift, like they are my anchors in the storm. I’m terrified of hurting them. I never want to see that look of sadness or heartbreak in their eyes."

But then, the light fades from his smile, and a deep sadness settles in its place. His face twitches, muscles tensing as he struggles to hold back tears. "But my biggest fear? It’s that one day my pain will overwhelm my fear of hurting them. That one day the darkness inside will consume me?"

Tim’s expression grows solemn, and his voice drops to a whisper. "A year, I think. I only have a year left in me. I can give them a year—just one more year—and then..." His words trail off, the weight of his unspoken thoughts hanging heavy in the silence. The vulnerability in his eyes reveals a deep sense of despair, as if he’s staring into an abyss he can’t escape.

Tim straightens up as he glances behind him. After a brief moment, someone else steps into the frame.

“Hello, Kitten,” Selina purrs, her voice smooth and warm.

Tim's face lights up with a genuine smile. “Hello, Mimi.”

“I’ve barely seen you since you got back, Kit,” she remarks, a hint of concern lacing her tone.

Tim hums softly in response, and Selina gently brushes his hair back from his forehead. “I’ve been busy.”

“I can see that,” she replies, gesturing to the cluttered apartment around them. “Why aren’t you at the manor, Tim?”

“I’ve outgrown my usefulness there, Sel,” he replies, his voice heavy with resignation.

Selina’s expression crumbles, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Oh, Kitten…”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he interrupts, his tone softening. “Can we just hang out? I’ve missed you.”

Selina’s smile returns, but it’s tinged with sadness. “Of course. I brought dinner. Go wash up while I get everything ready.”

Tim nods, rising to his feet. He turns back to the camera, as if just remembering its presence. “I got it. You go; I’ll clean up.”

He gives her a smile, one that’s both hopeful and vulnerable, before walking away.

As soon as Tim is out of sight, Selina's smile fades, replaced by heartbreak and concern that pour out of her as she watches him leave. She turns her gaze to the camera, a deep urgency in her eyes. “Do something. Help him, love him, see him. Please, do something, or you’ll lose him forever.” Tears stream down her cheeks, each drop reflecting her fear and desperation.

“I hope you find this soon.” With her final words, she reaches for the camera, her fingers trembling as she turns it off.

The screen fades to black, leaving behind the echoes of her desperation.

Chapter Text

There is utter silence. No one dares to move. If they move, it all becomes real. If they move, they’ll have to face that they’ve just watched a video where Tim Drake has spoken about ending his life within a year. If they move, they’ll have to check how long ago this was filmed. And if they move, they risk finding out if it’s been more than a year and they’ve already lost him. If they move...

“When?” Jason’s voice breaks the stillness, staring at the blank screen in horror.

Everyone’s eyes are on him.

“When?” he repeats, his voice laced with urgency now. “When was it filmed?”

A deep, unspoken fear ripples through them all. It’s Dick who finally moves to check, his heart pounding so loudly he can barely hear anything else. He feels light-headed, like he might pass out, but somehow, his legs carry him closer to the screen. He has to know.

As soon as his eyes find the date, his body gives out, collapsing to his knees. Relief floods him, so intense it almost hurts. “Six months,” he hears himself grit out, his voice strained with a mixture of pain and gratitude.

He laughs shakily, suddenly remembering he’d texted Tim only hours ago—and gotten a response. He shares this with the others, and they all crumble with the same overwhelming relief, the weight of dread melting away.

The dread returns almost instantly, a heavy, choking presence filling the room as the full weight of everything Tim shared sinks in.

“We—” Dick begins to say, but he’s cut off as Jason bolts from the room. His expression is enough to send everyone rushing after him. Jason sprints down the hall, his strides urgent and unrelenting until he suddenly skids to a halt.

“Alfred, where does Tim live?” he yells across the hall, eyes locked on where Alfred is seated.

Alfred says nothing, but the others catch up, breathing hard as they look between Jason and Alfred, waiting.

“Alfie, please, it’s an emergency.” There’s something in Jason’s eyes—something raw and desperate—that causes Alfred to waver.

Finally, Alfred nods, his own gaze heavy with unspoken concern. “I shall send it to you, Master Jason.”

Jason gives a sharp nod, turning to leave, but Alfred’s voice stops him.

“Be careful,” he says, his tone firm yet gentle. “Don’t feed him promises, just to starve him again.”

Jason’s jaw tightens, and he swallows hard, the weight of Alfred’s words cutting deep. Without another word, he sprints to the garage, yanking the keys from their place on the wall. He’s about to drive off when suddenly all the car doors open.

“We can’t all fit!” he shouts, but his words go unheard as the entire family crams into the vehicle, each determined to be there.

Under any other circumstances, Jason would have put up a fight, but right now, there’s only one thing on his mind. He slams his foot on the gas, his thoughts focused entirely on Tim, hoping they’re not too late.

It’s a miracle they make it to the theatre in one piece. The car is packed, everyone pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, breaths held as Jason pushes the speedometer past any rational limit. They fly through red lights and swerve around cars, their single thought propelling them forward: Tim needs us. Somehow, they arrive without a scratch, but no one dares exhale just yet.

Now, they stand frozen on the sidewalk, staring at the theatre Tim calls home, uncertain how to proceed. Breaking in through the windows would mean scaling the building—too slow, especially in their civilian clothes. Besides, they all know Tim well enough to assume he’d rigged every possible entry with defences, maybe even traps. That leaves them with only one option: the front door. It should be the obvious choice. Under normal circumstances, it would be. But this isn’t any ordinary apartment building.

As they gather at the theatre’s entrance, Bruce feels his pulse pound, raw and painful. When he realized where they were headed, his heart nearly stopped. Here. This place, this theatre—where his parents were murdered, the darkest site of his life. And now, knowing Tim has somehow chosen this place as his refuge… the thought makes Bruce’s chest tighten with a pain he hasn’t felt in years.

But he pushes it aside, focusing instead on Tim. I have to help him. I can’t think about myself right now. The man who once couldn’t bear to stand on this very sidewalk now forces himself to look up at the entrance, facing his deepest pain and every ghost that lingers here, because there is something worse now—much worse. The thought of losing Tim eclipses every past tragedy.

Funny, he thinks bitterly, how life comes full circle. Years ago, this place was a haunting reminder of what he’d lost, a symbol of his life’s most shattering moment. And yet here he stands again, facing the possibility of losing yet another loved one. Only this time, the pain is deeper, darker, almost unbearable.

Bruce takes a breath, steeling himself as his gaze lingers on the theatre door. For Tim, he will confront whatever ghosts wait inside. They all will. With a quiet, determined nod, he leads them forward.

As soon as the door closes behind them, lights flicker to life, and a familiar, automated voice fills the room, eerily reminiscent of the Zeta tubes.

“Scanning…”

Bruce tenses as the light shifts onto him, holding his breath.

“Recognized: Bruce Wayne. Access denied.”

A flicker of emotion crosses Bruce’s face—hurt, confusion, maybe disbelief—but he doesn’t comment. He merely steps aside, expression guarded, and nudges Dick forward.

Dick shifts uncomfortably as the lights sweep over him. “Recognized: Dick Grayson. Access denied.”

Dick's face mirrors Bruce's—a cocktail of disappointment and something that feels like betrayal. He swallows hard and turns back to the group, his silence heavy.

“Where’s Cass?” Stephanie’s voice breaks through the tension as she looks around. “She’ll get in, for sure. He’d let her in…”

But Cass is nowhere to be found, and the realization seems to tighten the air around them.

“Damn it,” Jason mutters, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Okay, maybe…” Stephanie steps in front of the scanner, her hands clenched tightly at her sides.

“Recognized: Stephanie Brown. Access denied.”

Her face crumbles, hurt glistening in her eyes. She looks as if she might burst into tears right then and there, and Jason’s jaw clenches at the sight.

“Alright, so what now?” Jason’s voice holds a strained edge as he glances around, searching for a plan. Anything.

“Jason, you try,” Dick urges, his voice breaking.

Jason scoffs. “Seriously? You think I stand a chance? It didn’t let you in or Blondie over there. Why the hell would it let me in?”

“Because…” Dick’s voice is barely a whisper, lips trembling, “…you were always his favorite.”

“Was. Past tense, Dickhead,” Jason shoots back, but there’s a sliver of doubt in his voice.

“Just try, Jason,” Dick presses, desperation clear in his tone. With a reluctant sigh, Jason steps forward.

“Recognized: Jason Todd Wayne. Access granted.”

The door slides open with a soft hiss, but Jason freezes, staring at the entryway, dumbfounded. He can barely process what he’s seeing—Tim has given him access, him of all people. And he’s used Jason’s full name. He blinks, trying to make sense of the mix of surprise, relief, and an unfamiliar ache in his chest. He takes a breath, his voice breaking as he whispers, “Why me…?”

Jason steps through the threshold, and the door instantly slides shut behind him with a cold, final click, locking the others out once more. Startled, he tries to pry it open, but it doesn’t budge. Outside, Damian instinctively pulls a knife from his boot, intent on forcing the door.

“Recognized: Damian Wayne. Access granted.”

The door slides open, and Damian’s knife clatters to the ground, the metallic echo filling the tense silence.

Jason glances over, catching the faintest glimmer of pride on Damian’s face, quickly smothered by an indifferent mask. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes linger just long enough to remind them all of the rivalry and envy that had often lingered between him and Tim.

“Alright, Damian, stay there. Don’t move,” Jason says firmly. “Everyone else, you come in first.”

Bruce, Dick, and Stephanie enter, each moving past Damian. Once they’re safely inside, Damian follows, slipping the knife back into his boot. They head toward the elevator in silence, tension pressing around them as they ascend.

When the doors slide open, they immediately recognize the room from Tim’s video. It’s almost identical, though a few minor details have changed—new boxes here, some stray papers there. But everything feels like a moment suspended in time. Then they see her: Cassandra, sitting calmly on the couch, her presence a strange but reassuring anchor.

She waves at them, unbothered, as if she’d been expecting them all along.

“Of course. She’s already here,” Jason mutters, rolling his eyes but visibly relieved.

“Where’s Tim?” Dick asks, unable to keep the urgency from his voice.

Cass shrugs nonchalantly. “Waiting for you.”

Dick nods, glancing around anxiously. “Okay, which way is his room?”

Cass points down the hall, but before anyone can move, they freeze. There, standing in the doorway, is Tim himself, watching them quietly.

For a second, nobody speaks. They simply stare back, unsure of what to say or where to begin.

Chapter Text

Tim steps forward, and Jason can’t help but think he looks like a raccoon. Dark circles shadow his eyes, which look sunken and wary. His hair is greasy, clinging to his forehead, and the oversized shirt he’s wearing hangs limply on his frame. 

But what gets to Jason the most isn’t the state of Tim’s clothes or the exhaustion written into every line of his body; it’s the look in his eyes—a raw, terrified expression, as if he’s staring at ghosts rather than his own family.

Suddenly, Tim moves, darting over to a cluttered coffee table and grabbing a small remote. Before anyone can react, he presses a button, and the screen on the wall lights up.

Jason’s expecting some video or another grim warning, but instead, the screen fills with graphs of heartbeats, a live feed showing their racing pulses.

It hits Jason like a punch to the gut. Of course. He remembers now—Tim can see ghosts. And here they all are, practically appearing out of nowhere after who knows how long without a word to the kid. No calls, no messages, nothing. They might as well be ghosts.

Damn, he thinks bitterly. I’m an idiot.

Why don’t any of them ever stop to think? Why do they keep stumbling forward, leaving each other in the dark until it’s almost too late? Jason knows why he didn’t—because the second he saw that video, the fear of losing Tim took over, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But standing here, watching Tim’s haunted eyes roam over each of them with suspicion and exhaustion, he feels that familiar ache of regret. He knows he’s not the only one feeling it.

Tim’s face falls as he stares at the data, deflating like a puppet with its strings cut. His shoulders slump, and his head tilts as he squints at them, almost like he’s trying to make sense of some incomprehensible puzzle.

“Hallucinations?” he mutters to himself, his voice low, as he stares at them as if testing their solidity. Then, slowly, he cocks his head to the side, watching them like a curious, weary bird.

His gaze settles on Jason, his brow furrowing with vague confusion. “Dream?” he whispers, almost like he’s asking Jason himself. He looks at each of them in turn—Dick, Stephanie, Damian, Bruce—and something dark flickers in his expression, just for a moment. “Or… nightmare?” His voice is soft, detached, as if he’s no longer fully present.

Tim steps up to Jason, a small, wistful smile on his face. Jason is too shocked to move, barely daring to breathe.

“Are you here to kill me?” Tim asks gently, the words dropping like stones into the silence.

Jason’s breath catches, his chest tight with shock. He tries to speak, but no words come, so he shakes his head hard, desperate to communicate the truth.

Tim nods slowly, as if processing. “Not a nightmare, then?”

There’s a hazy look in Tim’s eyes, his body swaying slightly, like he’s caught in a daze. “Then… why are you here?” His voice softens, laced with a plea he’s trying to hide.

Jason’s voice finally finds him, breaking and low. “To take care of you, Tim.” The words are barely above a whisper, but Tim hears them, and his face lights up with a fragile, hopeful smile.

“A good dream, then,” Tim murmurs, blinking as though trying to hold onto the moment. “Haven’t had one of those in a while.”

Jason takes a small step closer, his gaze steady and gentle. “It’s not a dream, Tim. I’m really here. We’re all here.”

Tim’s face twists in quiet confusion as he studies Jason, the hope in his eyes flickering. “Of course it’s a dream,” he says softly. “You’re here to take care of me… things like that only happen in dreams.”

Jason’s heart clenches at the words, at the raw disbelief on Tim’s face, the years of loneliness and unspoken pain etched into every line. He reaches out, slowly, letting his hand rest gently on Tim’s shoulder. “Not this time,” he says, his voice firm and full of promise. 

Tim hums softly, a sound that carries disbelief, as if Jason’s words aren’t penetrating the fog in his mind. His skin gleams with sweat, and his eyes—glassy and unfocused—haven’t been clear since they arrived.

Jason frowns, concern tightening his features. He reaches out, pressing the back of his hand to Tim’s forehead. The heat he feels is immediate and alarming.

“Shit, he’s burning up!” Jason calls out, just as Tim’s legs buckle beneath him. Jason catches him effortlessly, cradling Tim as he collapses into his arms.

Bruce is beside them in an instant, his face grim and composed, but his eyes betray his worry. “Get the med kit,” Bruce orders sharply, already assessing Tim’s condition.

Someone—Jason can’t even register who—places the kit beside Bruce as he pulls out a thermometer. His movements are quick but precise, years of practiced urgency guiding his hands.

“103,” Bruce mutters, his voice tight with dread. “Shit, that’s high.” He looks up, barking orders. “Dick, fill the bath. Not too cold.”

“I know!” Dick yells back, already sprinting toward the bathroom.

Bruce leans over Tim, lightly slapping his cheeks to keep him conscious. “Tim, stay with me,” he urges, his tone firm but edged with something raw. “Open your eyes.”

Jason’s mind is racing, piecing things together from the video. “He doesn’t have a spleen,” he mutters, the words tumbling out as he remembers.

Bruce freezes for a fraction of a second, the implications hitting him hard. “Infection,” he says grimly, more to himself than anyone else. He refocuses immediately, his hands steady as he continues his efforts. “We need to get his fever down. Fast.”

Jason holds Tim tighter, his own heart pounding. “Come on, Tim,” he murmurs, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Don’t do this to us. We’re here now.”

Tim stirs faintly, mumbling incoherently under his breath. It’s enough to give them all a sliver of hope, but the urgency of the situation hangs heavy in the air.

Jason carries Tim toward the bathroom, his movements quick but careful. The rest of them follow closely, their collective anxiety palpable in the small hallway. As Jason steps through the door, Bruce suddenly reaches out, stopping him with a firm grip.

“What?” Jason barks, irritation flashing in his voice as he glances back.

Bruce doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulls up Tim’s sleeve, exposing a cut on his arm. It’s not deep, nor is it particularly large, but the sight of it makes Jason’s stomach twist. The area around it is red, swollen, and oozing pus—a clear sign of infection.

For anyone else, it might have been a minor concern. But for Tim—who no longer has a spleen—it’s a life-threatening emergency.

Jason doesn’t waste another second. He steps into the tub, still holding Tim securely. Lowering both of them into the water, Jason feels the chill seep through his clothes, but his only focus is on Tim.

The shock of the water jolts Tim awake, his body reacting violently. He starts thrashing, his limbs flailing as he squirms in Jason’s grip, panic overtaking him.

“It’s okay, Timmy,” Jason says, his voice as soothing as he can manage. He tightens his hold, keeping Tim from hurting himself further. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Bruce kneels beside the tub, his face a mask of calm, but his voice trembles with emotion as he speaks. “Tim, it’s alright. I’m here, Timmy. I’m here.”

Tim’s struggles only grow more frantic. Tears streak down his face as he sobs, the sound raw and filled with anguish. “No, please,” he cries, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please stop—it hurts, it hurts.”

Jason’s chest tightens painfully, his heart breaking at the sight of Tim like this. The younger boy’s voice is drenched in fear and desperation, his words cutting deep into Jason’s soul.

Jason presses his forehead against Tim’s, his voice cracking as he whispers, “I’m so sorry, Tim. I hate this—I hate that I have to do this. But I’m here. I promise I won’t leave you.”

Bruce reaches out, his hand brushing over Tim’s hair in a rare, tender gesture. “You’re not alone, Timmy,” he murmurs softly. “We’ve got you.”

Tim sobs harder, but his thrashing begins to slow, his strength fading. The room is filled with the sound of his ragged breaths and quiet reassurances from both Jason and Bruce.

Jason feels the water start to cool against his skin, a small comfort in the heat radiating off Tim. For now, all they can do is keep him there, hope the fever breaks, and pray that the infection hasn’t already done irreparable damage.

Chapter Text

It takes hours for Tim’s fever to break, the room stifling with the tension of held breaths and quiet murmurs. Days pass before he regains full consciousness, and even then, his moments of clarity are fleeting. He drifts in and out, his eyes glassy and unfocused, murmuring words that make no sense. He doesn’t recognize anyone—not Dick’s reassuring smile, not Steph’s gentle voice, not even Bruce’s steady, commanding presence.

But nobody leaves.

They fall into a rhythm, an unspoken agreement binding them together. They take turns watching over Tim, sitting beside his bed with tired eyes and whispered reassurances. They replace the cool washcloths on his burning forehead, coaxing him to drink sips of water or broth when he stirs. Alfred and Leslie drop by frequently, prescribing medicines, checking vitals, and offering quiet advice in the face of worry that no one voices aloud.

They keep the apartment running like clockwork, cooking meals, tidying spaces that barely see use, folding laundry that’s long been forgotten. Still, they sleep on the floor in Tim’s room, blankets and pillows sprawled haphazardly even though there are enough spare bedrooms to accommodate everyone.

Every morning, they wake up sore, their bodies aching from the hard floor and restless nights. Yet, no one complains. No one even considers leaving.

This isn’t about convenience. It’s about Tim, about showing him that he’s not alone. Not now, not ever.

After what feels like an eternity of feverish haze, Tim finally wakes with full lucidity. The world comes into focus slowly, shapes and colors sharpening as his body aches. His head throbs dully, but the sensation is familiar—he’s been here before.

This is the aftermath of a high fever, something he knows well from his earlier years, back when grief and loneliness seemed to cling to him like a second skin. Back then, everything seemed to make him sick, and with no one else to rely on, he would hire temporary nurses. They’d stay for about a week, just long enough for him to recover. He never told Selina or Cass—never wanted to burden them. It wasn’t their job to take care of him, and besides, he’d been trained from a young age to fend for himself.

But as his vision clears, Tim’s heart stutters at what he sees. Sitting beside him, slumped forward with his head resting near Tim’s hand, is Jason Todd.

For a moment, Tim wonders if this is a dream, or worse, a fever-induced hallucination. It wouldn’t be the first time his mind played tricks on him.

“Jason?” he croaks, his voice cracked and barely audible.

Even so, the sound is enough. Jason stirs, groaning softly as he lifts his head. His bleary eyes meet Tim’s, and for a split second, disbelief flickers across his face before relief washes it away.

Then Tim notices the hands.

Jason’s hand is clasped firmly around his own, the warmth and pressure unmistakably real. Tim flexes his fingers slightly, feeling Jason’s solid grip.

The warmth anchors him, grounding him in a way that no fever dream ever could.

“Hey, Timmers,” Jason says, his voice low and rough from what must have been hours—or days—of vigilance. His lips twitch into a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Finally decided to wake up, huh?”

Tim blinks, his mind struggling to catch up. “You’re really here?” he whispers, his throat burning with the effort.

Jason snorts, but his grip on Tim’s hand tightens, just for a moment. “Yeah, kid. I’m here. And you’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

Tim’s gaze softens for the briefest of moments, like a flicker of light in the dark, but then it hardens into something unyielding—steel forged from years of self-preservation. He meets Jason’s eyes, his voice cold and firm.

“What do you want?”

Jason’s heart cracks at the question, the raw defensiveness in Tim’s tone cutting deeper than any blade. This wasn’t how family was supposed to sound. Tim’s words are a shield, protecting him from people who were supposed to be his safety net.

Jason forces himself to keep his expression neutral, though the weight of Tim’s distrust feels suffocating. “Nothing, kid,” he says, his voice quieter than he intended. “Just wanted to take care of you.”

Tim scoffs, the sound bitter and disbelieving. “You sound so real, but you can’t be if you’re talking like that.”

Jason flinches at the words, but he presses on. “I am real, kid.”

Tim’s eyes narrow, sharp as daggers. “Well, if you’re real, I’d like you to get the hell out of my house.”

The steel in Tim’s voice matches the fire in his eyes, and Jason jolts slightly at the force behind it. He’d never heard Tim like this before—so cold, so detached, as if he were speaking to a stranger rather than someone who was supposed to be family.

Jason opens his mouth to respond, but the words catch in his throat. He wasn’t sure what hurt more: Tim’s refusal to believe him or the anger simmering behind every word.

The door creaks open, and Dick steps inside, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion. His eyes widen when they meet Tim’s half-lidded gaze, and for a moment, he just stares.

“You’re awake,” Dick says, his voice thick with relief.

“Astute as always, Dick,” Tim mutters, his tone flat and edged with sarcasm.

Dick flinches as if struck. He opens his mouth to respond, but the sharpness in Tim’s words leaves him fumbling for something to say. “I... I’m glad you’re okay,” he settles on, his voice softer now.

Tim’s eyes narrow. “Who else is here?”

Dick hesitates, trying to gauge Tim’s mood. “Everyone’s here,” he finally says, forcing a tentative smile. “We were all worried about you, Tim.”

Tim doesn’t respond, just turns his head away, his gaze fixed on a far corner of the room.

Dick swallows hard, the silence between them heavy. Taking a deep breath, he raises his voice slightly. “He’s awake!”

The shout echoes through the apartment, and soon, the sound of hurried footsteps fills the hallway. One by one, the others begin to trickle in, their faces a mixture of relief and apprehension.

Tim watches them silently, his expression unreadable, the weight of the unspoken tension settling over the room like a suffocating fog.

“Great, everyone’s here,” Tim mutters sarcastically, his gaze flicking over the group.

Bruce steps forward, his voice calm but heavy with concern. “How are you feeling, Tim?”

Tim shrugs, his tone dismissive. “Like I had a fever. It’s not my first rodeo.” He leans back against the pillows, crossing his arms defensively. “I’m fine, so you guys can all get out of my house now.”

Bruce’s jaw tightens. “Tim, we’re—”

“Can you not?” Tim cuts him off, his irritation boiling over. His eyes lock on Bruce’s, cold and unyielding. “Whatever this is, please don’t. Don’t act like you care or like you’re here to take care of me or whatever other bullshit is about to come out of your mouth.”

“Tim—”

“No,” Tim snaps, his voice louder now. “I haven’t needed it these last few years, and I don’t need it now. Whatever guilty conscience is making you feel this way, kill it. Leave me alone. Alright?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unforgiving. Bruce’s face hardens, but there’s something flickering behind his eyes—guilt, maybe, or hurt. Around the room, the others look uncomfortable, shifting on their feet, unsure of what to say.

“Tim,” Dick starts gently, stepping forward.

“Don’t.” Tim’s voice wavers slightly, but his glare is unrelenting. “Just don’t.”

The room falls into a stunned silence at Tim’s words, his sharp tone cutting through the fragile hope that had brought them all there, the weight of Tim’s pain pressing down on them all.

Chapter Text

“Tim” Jason calls.

Tim’s throat feels tight. He’s ready—ready to shut Jason down, to give him the same cold dismissal he gave the others. But when he looks at Jason, really looks at him, the words catch in his throat.

Jason looks desperate. His usual bravado is gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded. His eyes—normally sharp with mischief or anger—are filled with something else entirely. Hurt. Guilt. Pleading.

Tim hates it.

“Tim, please,” Jason’s voice is quieter now, rough around the edges like he is struggling to hold himself together. “Just hear me out, okay? I swear, if you still want me gone after, I’ll go. Just… let me say something.”

There is so much hope in Jason’s face, fragile and uncertain.

Tim clenches his fists beneath the blankets, his body rigid. He can’t let them in again. He can’t afford to.

But damn it, Jason always makes things difficult.

“Tim,” Jason tries again, his voice quieter now, pleading.

Tim clenches his jaw, willing himself to stay cold, to stay distant. “No.”

That one word, sharp and final, seems to drain the last bit of hope from Jason’s face. His shoulders sag, his lips parting like he wants to argue, to say something—anything—but no words come out.

Tim sees it, sees the pain written all over Jason’s face, and if he’s being honest with himself, it hurts. It hurts more than he expected. He never wanted to see that look on Jason, or on any of them, really. But what hurts worse is the memory of being abandoned, of being left behind, of being the afterthought in a family that was supposed to be his. He can’t let them in. He won’t.

He steels himself, eyes narrowing, voice curling into something bitter and sharp. “Hurts, doesn’t it? When all you want to do is talk, explain yourself, but the other person has no interest?” Tim gives Jason a wry, humorless smile. “At least I’m not beating the shit out of you and slitting your throat.”

Jason sucks in a breath, his expression twisting into something unreadable—anger, regret, shame. Maybe all of it. Around them, the others are frozen, the weight of Tim’s words settling over them like a suffocating fog.

Jason swallows hard, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “That’s not—”

But Tim just looks away, already shutting down, already pulling back behind the walls he’s built. “Get out,” he says, quieter this time, but no less firm.

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to stay firm. He can’t do this. He won’t. Letting them in only means setting himself up for disappointment again.

“Tim,” Jason calls again, softer this time.

Tim exhales sharply through his nose, forcing himself to look at Jason. His expression hasn’t changed—he still looks like he’s bracing for a blow, like he’s desperate for something Tim isn’t sure he can give.

Tim wants to be cruel, to push him away before Jason can hurt him first. But his voice betrays him when he finally speaks.

“What do you want, Jason?” His tone is weary, not sharp like he intended.

Jason takes a hesitant step closer. “Just to talk.”

Tim exhales again, slower this time, his resolve slipping just a fraction. He could give Jason that much, he supposes. Just this once.

“I can’t,” Tim chokes out, his voice raw, barely above a whisper. “Please, I can’t.”

Jason flinches at the desperation in Tim’s tone but doesn’t back down. “Why?”

Tim swallows hard, his hands curling into fists against the sheets. His breath is shaky, his entire body tense like he’s holding himself together by a thread. When he finally speaks, his voice wavers, but the bitterness in it is sharp enough to cut.

“Because it’s all I have left,” he whispers. “You took everything from me. All of you did. I have nothing left to give—not my trust, not my forgiveness.” He lifts his gaze to Jason, his eyes shining with something fractured, something barely held together. “So let me keep my hate. Please.”

Jason exhales shakily, the weight of Tim’s words hitting him like a punch to the gut. He doesn’t try to argue, doesn’t try to defend himself. He just moves closer, slow and cautious, like Tim is something fragile—something that’s already been shattered too many times.

He sinks onto the edge of the bed, hesitating for just a moment before saying, voice quiet and aching—

“I’m sorry, Tim.”

Tim flinches but doesn’t move away. His breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast. He squeezes his eyes shut again, as if that will stop the way Jason’s voice shakes—like an apology isn’t enough, like Jason knows it’ll never be enough.

“I don’t want your sorry,” Tim whispers, his voice barely holding together. “I just want to be left alone.”

Jason doesn’t leave. Instead, he rests his forearms on his knees, his hands clenched together like he’s trying to hold himself back from reaching for Tim.

“I know,” Jason says. “And if that’s what you really want, I’ll go. But you don’t have to do this alone, Tim. You never had to.”

Tim lets out a hollow laugh. “That’s rich coming from you.”

Jason flinches, but he doesn’t fight it. He takes it, like he’s willing to endure every hit Tim throws his way.

“I know,” Jason says again, quieter this time. “And I wish I could take it all back. I wish I’d been there. I wish we all had.”

Tim clenches his jaw, looking away. His throat is tight, his head pounding from the fever, from exhaustion, from holding himself together with nothing but sheer willpower.

Jason watches him for a long moment before he speaks again, voice steady despite the weight of it.

“I’ll go if you want me to,” Jason says, rising to his feet. “But if you ever change your mind, if you ever get tired of hating me—of hating all of us—I’ll still be here.”

Tim doesn’t look at him, doesn’t acknowledge the words. But Jason waits, just for a moment, like he’s hoping Tim will stop him.

He doesn’t.

So Jason turns and walks away, leaving Tim alone with the only thing he’s willing to hold on to.

“You all can get out too,” Tim says, his voice cold as he waves them off with a dismissive flick of his hand.

No one moves at first, uncertainty flickering across their faces. They hesitate, lingering like they think they can fix this, like there’s still something left to salvage.

“Now,” Tim snaps, his patience fraying. His eyes are hard, unreadable, but there’s a crack beneath the surface—something raw, something exhausted.

One by one, they start to file out, reluctant but knowing better than to push him. The room feels heavier with every step they take, the silence stretching unbearably thin.

Dick lingers the longest, glancing at Tim like he wants to say something—like he’s searching for some last chance, some unspoken plea.

But Tim doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t give him that chance.

So, with a deep, reluctant breath, Dick stands and follows the others out, leaving Tim alone.

Chapter Text

They’ve been sitting in the den ever since Tim kicked them out.

Twenty-four hours. A full day of eating, sleeping, and stewing in silence, each of them stuck in the same spot, unable to think about anything except what they’ve learned about Tim—what they’ve seen.

Jason had been the first to break away a few hours ago, disappearing into his room with a gruff "Need space to think." But now, the sound of footsteps draws their attention.

Jason stands at the entrance, shrugging into his jacket.

“Where are you going?” Steph asks, eyes narrowing.

“To Tim.” He bends down to put on his boots, moving with quiet determination.

That gets everyone’s attention. Instantly, they snap out of their trance, backs straightening, eyes widening.

“What?! You can't!” Dick exclaims, pushing himself to his feet.

“Says who?” Jason asks, voice already laced with annoyance.

“Tim. Tim says so. Did you forget how he kicked us out last night?”

“I remember.”

“Then what are you doing?”

Jason exhales through his nose. “He asked us to leave, and we did. He never said we couldn’t come back.” He stands, adjusting his jacket. “I’m worried. I just wanna check on him, make sure he’s okay. He’s probably asleep. I’ll make him breakfast and leave. He doesn’t have anyone to take care of him.”

His brows furrow, a flicker of something raw crossing his face.

Dick opens his mouth, but he doesn’t have an argument. Because, honestly? It is a good plan.

So, instead of pushing back, he stands and reaches for his own jacket.

Jason’s eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”

“That’s a really good idea, Little Wing. I’m coming with you.”

The second the words leave Dick’s mouth, the others are moving—standing, grabbing their coats and shoes, falling into formation like they’ve done a thousand times before.

Jason groans. “Not again.” He bolts for the door, walking fast, breaking into a near jog toward the car. He’s in, key in the ignition, foot on the gas—

But then the doors all slam open, and suddenly the car is full.

Jason groans louder but drives anyway.

Tim’s apartment is eerily silent when they get there.

They slip inside carefully, mindful not to disturb him if he’s resting. But the second they step past the threshold, they freeze.

The apartment is wrecked.

The once clean, precisely arranged space is now in chaos. Furniture overturned, objects shattered, papers scattered—like a storm tore through. Jason’s first instinct is break-in, but then he sees him.

Tim is sitting in the middle of the destruction, feet bare and bloody from the broken glass around him.

He doesn’t react to their entrance.

He doesn’t move.

He just sits there, staring at nothing. Dazed. Hollow. Like he’s not even really there.

“Tim,” Jason whispers, stepping toward him.

The others snap out of their shock, slipping seamlessly into vigilante mode. They fan out, silently combing through the apartment, checking for any signs of forced entry. Just in case.

Jason doesn’t move. His hands tremble as he reaches for Tim, fingers threading gently into his matted hair.

Tim flinches.

He jerks away so fast he nearly topples over, shoulders rising to shield his ears, eyes wide and fearful.

“Hey, hey—it’s just me, Tim. It’s just me.” Jason murmurs, keeping his touch featherlight, his voice soft.

Tim stares at him for a long, unreadable moment before his body relaxes. But the tension never fully leaves him. His gaze drifts past Jason, back to the void he was staring into before.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is hoarse, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

Jason swallows. “Came to check on you. Make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine.”

Jason’s eyes drop to Tim’s feet—bloody, raw, littered with glass. His stomach churns.

“You’re bleeding, buddy.”

Tim follows his gaze, staring at his own mangled feet as if he’s just now noticing the damage. He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

A small thud sounds beside them.

Jason glances up to see Damian crouched nearby, holding out a first aid kit. His expression is unreadable, but the gesture speaks volumes. Jason takes it without a word.

“Tim, do you mind?”

Tim doesn’t look at him, just gives a lazy flick of his wrist in permission.

Jason works carefully, removing each shard with precision, disinfecting the wounds, and wrapping them up in clean bandages.

Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t make a sound. It’s like he doesn’t even feel it.

Jason finally ties off the last bandage. “There. That should be good now.”

Tim’s eyes drift down to his feet, studying the neat wrappings. Then, so softly it’s almost inaudible, he mutters, “First time for everything.”

Jason pauses, watching him. The others have gathered around now, silent observers.

“First time?” Jason asks, voice gentle.

Tim looks up and offers a small smile. But it’s empty. Hollow.

“First time your hands have caused comfort instead of pain.”

Something inside Jason shatters.

The words land like a gut punch, knocking the breath from his lungs. Before he can stop himself, tears spill down his face, silent and unrelenting. 

Tim's eyes widen as he takes in Jason’s tears, his brows knitting together in confusion.

“What are you doing?” Tim asks hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jason looks at him, sorrow etched into every line of his face. “I’m crying, Tim.”

Tim blinks, his lips parting slightly. “Why?”

Jason lets out a shaky breath, a bitter huff of laughter escaping despite the weight crushing his chest. “Because I’m sad that I hurt you, Tim. I’m so fucking sorry it’s making it hard to breathe.” His voice cracks, and he presses a hand to his chest. “It hurts. Right here.”

He shakes his head, his expression crumbling. “I’m just an idiot. We all are”

The room is too quiet, the air too thick. Jason watches as Tim's gaze sharpens, flickering between them all like he’s waiting for the next attack.

Tim hums but doesn’t say anything else. Jason clears his throat. “Do you wanna move to the sofa, Babybird? Can’t be too comfortable on the floor.”

Tim nods and shifts, then winces as he remembers the state of his feet. Before he can say anything, Jason holds out his hands. “May I?”

Tim stares at Jason for too long, his expression unreadable, making Jason shift awkwardly on his feet. But Jason doesn’t pull away, doesn’t drop his hands. He just waits.

Finally, Tim nods. Jason moves immediately, scooping him up like he weighs nothing. He settles Tim onto the sofa carefully, taking a seat beside him. The others follow, finding their own seats like they’re trying not to spook a wild animal.

Jason glances around at the wreckage, and Tim follows his gaze. The mess is… bad. He cringes, rubbing at his temple. He never fully remembers these moments. One minute he’s standing, struggling to breathe, and the next, he’s waking up to destruction.

Bruce breaks the silence first. “What happened here, Tim?” His voice is gentle.

Tim swallows hard. “I happened.”

“Why?”

Tim huffs a humorless laugh. “Didn’t you hear? It’s because I’m crazy.”

Jason freezes.

Tim turns to Dick, mock confusion painted across his face. “You didn’t tell Bruce?” His head tilts, the movement eerily slow. “Here I thought you loved telling this story. You told it to the whole Justice League pretty easily.”

Dick goes pale, his breath hitching. “Tim—”

Tears are already streaming down Dick’s face, but Tim doesn’t stop. His voice drips venom.

“Come on, Dick. Tell Bruce all about how I’m crazy, how I need to be institutionalized.”

Jason stiffens as Tim smiles—no, not a smile. A baring of teeth. Something eerie, something wrong.

Tim turns to Bruce, still grinning. “You gotta hear this, B. It’s good stuff.”

“Tim—”

He whips his head back to Dick, manic light in his eyes. “Oh, don’t leave out the part about why you thought I was crazy.”

Dick looks shattered, his hands shaking. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m so sorry. Please, Tim. Please.”

Tim laughs. It’s sharp, bitter, cutting.

“Oh, that’s how I begged you to believe me.”

Chapter Text

Dick can no longer hold his head up. His whole body shakes with his sobs. He stumbles forward, dropping to his knees in front of Tim.

“I’m sorry, Tim. I’m so sorry. It was me. I was the one who was crazy,” he chokes out, voice raw and broken. “I think—I think I genuinely lost my mind. I’m so sorry. Please believe me.”

Tim stares down at him, expression unreadable.

Jason’s eyes narrow, suspicion creeping into his voice. “What did you do, Dick? What didn’t you tell us?”

Dick wipes his face with trembling hands, sucking in a deep breath like it might steady him. “A few months after Bruce’s death—” He stops, seeing the way Tim flinches. He corrects himself. “After Bruce’s disappearance.”

Bruce stays silent, but his hands clench on his knees.

“Tim came to me with evidence,” Dick continues, voice thick.

“Evidence of what?” Bruce asks, his voice eerily calm.

Dick hesitates, the weight of his failure pressing down on him. “Evidence that you were alive. That you were lost in time.”

The room freezes.

Jason swears under his breath.

“At the time, it seemed so far-fetched,” Dick continues, forcing the words out. “We had a body. We’d already held the funeral. And I was struggling—I was suddenly Batman. I had to keep an eye on Damian. He was threatening to leave and go back to the league.

“And then Tim came to me with this theory—this evidence.” Dick swallows hard. “I just didn’t have it in me to indulge him. I thought it was grief. He’d lost so many people, and I was just—I was barely holding on myself. I couldn’t afford to hope. I just couldn’t.

“So I told him—” Dick’s breath shudders. “I told him he was acting crazy.”

Tim flinches as if Dick physically struck him. Dick’s mouth opens, but no words come. He swallows, struggling, choking on whatever feeble explanation he’s trying to give. Finally, he takes a shuddering breath and forces the words out.

“I—I gave Robin to Damian.”

Tim stills. Then he laughs. It’s not a sound of amusement. It’s sharp and jagged, filled with something raw and fraying at the edges.

“ Gave. ” Tim echoes mockingly. His breath comes quicker now, his eyes too wide, his expression twisting into something unhinged. “Such a simple word. You gave Robin to Damian, like it was a goddamn present.”

Dick flinches again, but Tim isn’t done.

“You just gave it to him, like it didn’t mean anything.” His voice rises, cracking under the weight of his anger, his pain. “How about we say what really happened, Dick? You ripped it from me. You took the only thing that was holding me together. You tore out my heart and then stomped on it for good measure.”

His breathing is ragged now, hands trembling as he curls them into fists.

“You took something I fought and bled for. Something I clawed and begged for. Something I endured for. Something I earned. And you handed it over to someone who tried to kill me— repeatedly —like it was a fucking gift. ”

Silence crashes over them like a tidal wave.

Dick is crying openly now, shaking with silent sobs, but Tim doesn’t stop. He can’t. The wound is open, bleeding, and he has spent too long biting his tongue.

“Do you have any idea what you did to me?” Tim asks, voice thick with something dark and broken. “Robin was all I had left. And you took it from me. And then—” his breath hitches, a sharp, strangled sound, “—then you had the audacity to call me crazy.”

Tim’s voice shakes, but not with fear—no, it’s something sharper, something that burns. His breath is ragged, his whole body trembling with the force of what he’s kept buried for too long.

“You didn’t just dismiss me,” he seethes. “You made sure no one would listen to me. You told the whole damn Justice League. You turned my friends against me. You made sure I was isolated —so fucking alone that no one was willing to help me.”

Dick is gasping for breath now, shaking his head as if trying to deny it, as if trying to take it back, but Tim doesn’t stop.

“I went through hell because you didn’t believe me.” His voice cracks, and it’s like something inside him is fracturing, shattering beyond repair. “Because you couldn’t have hope. Because you wouldn’t. ”

The room is deathly silent, the weight of his words suffocating.

“And for what? ” Tim laughs bitterly, the sound jagged and broken. “Because bringing back the dead is such an anomaly, right? Like it doesn’t happen every goddamn day in this family?”

His chest rises and falls in harsh, uneven breaths. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“I was right,” he whispers, his voice hollow now. “Bruce was alive. And you—” He swallows, his throat tight. “You nearly killed me for being right.”

Dick goes quiet. They all do.

What can you say to something like that?

Tim’s voice is like ice now, detached and hollow. “You made sure to remind me of my place,” he says. “Why are you upset now that I finally learned it?”

No one moves.

“I’ve done my best to stay away from your family,” he continues, tone bitterly calm. “I do what you ask of me—I run your company, I solve your cases, I make your plans. I’ve been doing my job. ” He glances at Dick, then Bruce. “What, is my performance not good enough? I’ll try harder.”

There’s a soft sound, like something breaking—Bruce.

He’s already moving before anyone can process it, dropping to his knees in front of Tim like his legs have given out beneath him. Tears stream freely down his face.

“Tim… honey, please,” Bruce’s voice cracks. “You are my son. You are my son. I love you so much, Tim—”

Tim looks at him with cold amusement, like Bruce is some stranger off the street.

“If I died tomorrow,” Tim says softly, “would you even know? ”

Bruce flinches like he’s been slapped.

“When was the last time you saw me without a mask? When was the last time you called me? Texted me? Asked me how I was doing?”

No one dares to speak. Not even breathe.

“You don’t know me, Bruce. You know the version of me I created to make your life easier. The ‘good soldier.’”

Tim leans forward, just a little, voice trembling now but still sharp with hurt.

“What’s my favorite color, Bruce? My favorite food? What do I do when I’m not working? What scares me? Who do I admire? What did I want to be before this?”

Bruce’s mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.

“These are normal things,” Tim whispers. “Things every parent is supposed to know about their kid.”

“Yellow.” Bruce whispers. 

Tim stares at him.

Something in his chest twists painfully, like a dam cracking but not quite breaking. He isn’t sure if it’s anger or heartbreak—probably both.

“Yellow?” Tim repeats.

Bruce nods, his expression trembling but soft, so soft. “You said… if happiness had a color, it would be yellow. You described it like sunlight on your skin, like warmth that finds you even in the cold.” He huffs a shaky breath, something close to a smile. “You rambled on about it for twenty minutes because one of Ivy’s spores blinded me for a day and you didn’t want me to panic. You told me what every color felt like.” He touches Tim’s hand gently, like he’s afraid it’ll be pulled away.

“You told me so many things that felt like yellow. I think… it ought to be your favorite.”

Tim swallows, but his throat is dry. His fingers twitch.

Bruce keeps going, hesitant, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. “You run on coffee, which isn’t healthy—” he manages a weak chuckle “—but your favorite food is lasagna. Not any lasagna though… your mom’s. You told me it was the only thing she really knew how to cook, the only thing she ever made you. Alfred made it once, I remember, and you didn’t eat it.”

Tim’s breath catches.

“You said it didn’t taste right.”

There’s a pause. Bruce’s voice drops.

“What do you do when you’re not working?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Tim. I think… you don’t know either. Because you’re always working. I made you think you had to. I dumped a company on you, I left a mission on your shoulders, I asked for reports instead of asking if you were okay. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. You should be doing things you love, spending time with your siblings. That’s what I want for you.”

“You admire Jason, you always have—even after everything.”

Jason’s eyes widen, locking on Tim’s with that look—like he’s realizing something crucial for the first time. Like the storm inside him has stilled for just a moment.

“I used to keep an eye on you at galas…” Bruce says softly, “and I’d always catch you looking at Jason.”

Tim doesn’t deny it.

Bruce continues, “At first I was scared. I didn’t know what you were planning. But then I saw it. The way you looked at him… like he hung the stars. And that look—it never went away.”

Jason swallows hard, unable to hide the way that hits him.

“It’s why Robin mattered to you so much,” Bruce says. “Not just because you wanted to help me. You did it because you couldn’t let Jason’s legacy disappear. Because you believed in him. Because you loved what Robin stood for—and what Jason stood for.”

Tim doesn’t speak. But his fingers curl slightly against his knee, like holding onto something he can’t put into words yet. 

“You believed Jason deserved to be remembered. Not just as a tragedy. But as a hero. ” 

Jason looks visibly shaken now, like someone just rewrote his past in front of him.

Bruce keeps going, softly, grounding them both. “You wanted to be a photographer. That was your dream. You told me once that you loved how a single frame could capture a moment of honesty. That the camera never lied, even when people did.”

He pauses, a breath catching in his throat. “But you also said you had to study business—for your parents. You wanted to take over the company, not because you cared about it, but because you thought it would make them proud.”

Tim swipes at his face, almost angry at the tears welling in his eyes.

“Your photos…” Bruce smiles sadly. “They were incredible. You had that gift when you were ten, Tim. You saw the world in angles no one else did. You could find beauty in chaos. I still have the photo you took of Alfred, by the garden. He didn’t even know you’d taken it—it was just… him, as he was. It’s one of my favorite pictures.”

“You were amazing,” Bruce whispers. “You are amazing. I failed you in so many ways. I let the world take your dreams and didn’t even notice.”

Bruce’s eyes are glistening, his hand now cupping Tim’s cheek.

“You’re scared of being alone, Tim.”

Tim flinches, barely.

“I think you have been… for a long time.” Bruce’s voice breaks. “And that’s on me. I knew. I saw it, I knew. I remember when you got sick and I told you to go home and rest. I thought—God, I thought your parents would take care of you. You didn’t want to go. You kept making excuses. You were scared.”

His voice is full of anguish now, barely above a whisper.

“You were sick, and I sent you back to an empty house.”

Bruce crumbles, his sobs raw and gut-wrenching. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, son. I failed you. Over and over. I love you, Tim.”

Chapter Text

Tim stared at Bruce, completely shell-shocked.  He had only ever seen Bruce act like this once—when he was grieving Jason. The idea that Bruce could possibly feel that strongly about him, too... Tim couldn’t begin to comprehend it.

“Tim, I gotta tell you something,” Jason’s voice cut through his spiralling thoughts.

Tim turned toward him. Jason’s face was soft, almost stricken, shadowed by something that looked like grief.

“We found—” Jason hesitated, shaking his head before forcing himself to continue, “We saw your tapes.”

The faint light that had sparked in Tim’s eyes snuffed out instantly.

Tim smiled—a small, hollow thing. “I always wondered where they ended up. I knew Selina took them, but I never found out what she did with them.” He let out a short, humourless hum. “So this was pity.”

“No!” Jason reached out, desperate. “No, Tim, please don’t think that. I—Tim, I remember everything.”

Tim’s eyes widened, something fragile flickering across his face.

“Watching the tapes—it made me remember,” Jason said, voice cracking. “I—fuck—Tim, I love you. You’re my little brother. You were my little brother then, and you’re my little brother now.”

Jason choked back a sob, his hand trembling where it hovered between them.
“And I’m so goddamn sorry, Timmy. I’m sorry for not remembering you. For what I did at the tower. For all of it. I’m so, so sorry.”

“You remember...” Tim whispered, like he barely dared to believe it.

“I do. And Tim, I need you to know—none of us are here out of pity. We’re here because we love you. Because we realized just how fucking bad we’ve been at showing it.”

Jason dropped his voice, thick with emotion.
“And I swear to you, Tim... I will never hurt you again. In fact, if you want—if it would make it better—I’ll kneel before you and hand you a knife. You can do whatever you want. Hurt me, scream at me, hate me—anything. And no matter what, Tim, I’ll still be here. I’ll still come when you call. I swear it.”

Tim couldn’t process it. Couldn’t even breathe.
Jason wasn’t lying—Tim could see it. Every word, every shaky breath was real. The conviction in his voice, in his eyes... it pinned Tim in place.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t look away.

“It’s too much,” Tim whispers, voice so soft it barely cuts through the quiet of the room. “It’s all too much. I can’t… I can’t accept all of this in one night. I need time to think.”

His words don’t carry anger or rejection—just raw vulnerability. He looks like he’s holding himself together by a thread, like one wrong move might undo him completely.

Jason swallows the ache building in his chest and nods slowly, gently. “Okay. Yeah, that’s okay, Timbo. Take all the time you need.”
He offers a small, steady smile. “We’ll be here. I promise.”

Tim doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at Jason with those heartbreakingly sad eyes, wide and glassy, like he’s trying to memorize him—like he’s afraid if he blinks, they’ll all disappear.

“I’ll call you,” Tim murmurs finally, voice still trembling.

Jason nods again. It feels like goodbye and not, all at once.

He stands, and the rest of the family quietly follows his lead. No one says a word. No one protests. There’s a reverence to the silence—respect for what Tim needs, even if it hurts.

They file out one by one.

Jason’s the last at the door. He glances back for one final look—just one more second. And it nearly knocks the air out of him.

Tim is still sitting there. Still. Small. Looking after them with so much longing in his eyes, it physically hurts.
Like he wants to call them back. Like he’s screaming for them to stay without saying a word.

Jason nearly stumbles over his own feet from the force of it. Every instinct he has screams to go back. To grab Tim and hold him and never let go again.

But he doesn’t.

Because Tim asked for time. And Jason’s going to give it to him. No matter how much it kills him to walk away.

He places his hand on the doorframe, just for a second, grounding himself.

“We’ll be here,” he whispers again, more to himself than anyone else.

And then he’s gone.

Chapter Text

Breakfast is quiet. Unnervingly so. The only sounds echoing through the manor are the soft clinks of silverware against plates, the scrape of cutlery, and subdued chewing. No one says a word.

They’re all thinking about Tim—about everything that had gone right, and all that had gone so terribly wrong. The anxiety is thick in the room. Will Tim call again? Can they make it up to him? Will he let them back into his life? Can they earn that place again?

Then a loud bang shatters the stillness, making every vigilante at the table flinch, shoulders instinctively tensing.

“BRUCE!” a voice roars.

Selina Kyle storms around the corner, wild-eyed and furious. “BRUCE! WHERE IS HE? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

“Selina, what—?” Bruce, still groggy, rises slowly from his chair, confusion etched into his face.

“WHERE IS MY SON?!” she shouts again.

The words hit like a bullet. Bruce freezes. Everyone does.

“S-Son?” Bruce echoes, but then the realization hits. His eyes widen in horror. “Tim? What’s happened to Tim?”

He steps forward, now fully awake. The rest of the family rushes up behind him.

“That’s what I want to know!” Selina shouts, pointing at Bruce, voice trembling. “What did you do to him? Where is he?!”

“What do you mean? He should be at his nest—” Bruce begins.

“He’s not there.” Selina’s voice wavers now, panic replacing rage.

“WHAT?!” Jason shouts, already on his feet.

“Relax, he’s probably just at work,” Dick says quickly, trying to calm him down.

“No. He’s not at work. He’s not anywhere he’s supposed to be. I checked everywhere. I thought maybe he was here—I saw the apartment, it was clean for once. I’ve been out of town a few weeks, but I called him every few days. No answer. Not lately.” Her voice breaks. “I always know where he is. But this time... I don’t.”

“You knew we were at his place?” Jason asks.

“I figured. It was too tidy. I guessed you’d all finally shown up,” she snaps. “I hoped that meant something. That maybe—just maybe—you’d fixed it. But now he’s gone.”

“What did you say to him?” she demands, eyes narrowing on Bruce.

“We didn’t do anything!” Dick says quickly. “We apologized. We told him we were sorry, that we love him, that we want him with us. We told him he’s family.”

“Took you long enough,” Selina mutters, and Dick looks away, guilt heavy in his eyes.

“I know. I’m sorry, Selina.”

“You found the tapes then?” she asks, quieter now.

They all nod.

Selina starts pacing. “Okay. Okay… What was his reaction? What did he say?”

“He was sick,” Dick says softly. “An infection. We stayed with him until he got better. But then… he made us leave. Said he needed time. The next day, we went back. He was still weak, but he talked to us. Said he’d call. And then… we left. He was at his nest. That’s the last we saw him.”

Selina turns to Bruce. This time her gaze is unreadable, but it makes Bruce visibly uncomfortable.

“We’ll find him,” Bruce says, voice sharp with resolve. But it isn’t Bruce speaking anymore—it’s Batman.

He turns on his heel, already moving toward the Cave. The family follows in silent urgency. At the Batcomputer, Bruce begins cycling through every public camera feed in Gotham.

“Batman,” Oracle’s voice cuts in. “What’s going on?”

“Barbara,” Bruce says. The name makes everyone freeze. He never uses real names over the comms. “Find Tim.”

A pause. Then Oracle replies, “Give me a sec.”

They wait.

A beat later, “Bruce… I found him.”

“What? Where?” Bruce asks, not bothering to mask the desperation.

“He wasn’t on your feeds,” she says, almost amused. “But mine? He’s all over them.”

“What do you mean?” Dick asks.

“I mean… he wanted to be seen. He walked straight into the range of every hidden camera I have—ones even he shouldn’t know about.”

“Why would he—” Jason starts, but stops when Barbara adds:

“And Bruce? He’s not alone.”

The screen flickers—and there he is. Tim. Surrounded by League assassins.

“Fuck!” Jason snaps, already halfway into his suit.

Bruce doesn’t move, just stares at the feed, his expression darkening.

“Suit up,” he finally says, voice like gravel. “Oracle, Gotham’s yours. Call Tim’s friends. Tell them what’s happened. Have them meet us there.”

“Bruce…” Dick says cautiously.

But Bruce cuts him off. “He took my son. I will not lose another. Not again.”

Dick nods, turns to follow the others—but Bruce calls out once more.

“Dick.”

He stops. Looks back.

“Don’t hold back.”

Those words hit Dick like a physical blow.

Because everyone knows. But no one says it. Not out loud.

Jason Todd was never the angry Robin.

That title has always quietly belonged to Dick Grayson.

The rage had always been there—from the moment his parents died. Bruce saw it in the circus, when Dick sat bloodstained beneath the trapeze. His first lesson had been to hold back . Every fight, every mission—it had always been about control .

And now Bruce was telling him to let it go.

To unleash it.

Dick straightens. The air in the Cave seems to drop several degrees.

The others glance at him—wide-eyed, wary.

Not afraid of him . But of what might be left behind when he’s done.

“Clark,” Bruce says to the empty air. “I’m going to Nanda Parbat. Come when I call.”

He steps into the Batplane. They all follow.

And this time, no one speaks. No one dares to.

Because the war for Tim Drake has just begun and intended to win it, no matter what it takes. 

They don’t bother with disguises.

There’s no plan, no stealth. Just fury. Unrestrained and boiling in their veins.

The Batplane lands with a violent hiss of steam right at the gates of the League’s mountain stronghold—The Cradle. They don’t wait. The moment the hatch opens, they’re on the ground, sprinting forward like hellfire given form.

The assassins were waiting.

It doesn’t matter.

They come at the family in waves, but they may as well be paper against a storm. If the Bat-family had come clear-headed, they would’ve taken the enemies down quietly, efficiently. Minimal damage. In and out.

But they are not calm.

They are furious.

This isn’t justice. It isn’t tactics. This is vengeance. For everything they’ve said and done too late. For every time Tim asked for help and they hadn’t heard him. For every apology they only gave after the damage was done.

You can hear bones break. Cries of pain echo down the stone halls. Blood paints the stone floor like angry red brushstrokes.

And still, they keep moving forward.

They step over the fallen without a word, fury sharpening their every step, until they reach the main hall—the heart of the Cradle. At its center, seated like a twisted king on a throne of arrogance, is Ra’s al Ghul.

And at his feet—on his knees—is Tim.

Tim looks like a ghost. His shoulders sag forward, his head hangs low like he’s barely conscious. Blood stains his lip and temple. His wrists are bound in front of him, and he sways slightly, like his body forgot how to hold itself up.

Bruce sees him—and something cold and deadly settles behind his eyes.

Ra’s stands with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Ah, Detective,” he calls out, spreading his arms mockingly. “Welcome. I was wondering how long it would take you.”

The League moves around them, slipping from shadows, dozens of them—silent and watching. Waiting.

Tim lifts his head slowly. His eyes—dull but aware—sweep over them all.

Then they land on Bruce. And for just a second, the corners of his mouth twitch upward. A tiny, broken smile.

Damian steps forward, fury tight in his chest. “Grandfather,” he spits. “What is the meaning of this?”

Ra’s tilts his head, his voice smooth like poison. “A ceremony, my dear boy. One that was rudely interrupted. I was just about to name my new heir.”

“I told you—I don’t want this,” Tim croaks. His voice is hoarse, worn.

“And as I’ve told you,” Ra’s replies silkily, “I no longer care what you want.”

“Let him go,” Bruce growls. It’s not a request.

Ra’s chuckles. “And why would I do that? You haven’t shown this boy any care in years. It was I who found him wandering the world, broken and looking for a family. I gave him shelter, resources, and purpose. I saved him when you didn’t even know he was missing.”

Bruce’s jaw clenches so hard you can hear the grind of his teeth.

Jason steps forward, voice sharp like a blade. “Don’t pretend this was mercy. You used him. Trapped him. Forced him into your war. Don’t dress up your selfishness in silk.”

Ra’s doesn’t even blink. He just smiles.

But then Tim shifts.

His head lifts a little higher. “Let me go, Ra’s.”

“I don’t think so, Detective.”

“You will… if you know what’s good for you,” Bruce bites.

Ra’s arches an eyebrow. “Or what, Detective? Will you all scowl at me until I surrender?”

Before Bruce can respond—

Crash.

The wall explodes inward, dust and stone flying, and three figures tumble into the hall in a blur of color and power—Superboy, Wonder Girl, and Impulse.

Tim’s eyes go wide.

Bruce exhales one word: “Clark.”

Behind them, a gust of air, a low hum—and Superman himself descends from the broken ceiling, landing silently at Bruce’s side.

“Really?” Steph steps forward, smug. “You still think you’ve got the upper hand?”

Ra’s frowns, his eyes narrowing—but he doesn’t move. “This is the League of Assassins. I have a thousand warriors in these mountains.”

“You’re going to need more than that,” Connor mutters, fists glowing.

But then—

Tim speaks again, and his voice is suddenly steadier. Stronger.

“No, he won’t.”

Everyone turns to him.

Tim’s looking right at Ra’s now, expression hard.

“Let me go. Or you’re going to lose your bases.”

A flicker of something—uncertainty—moves across Ra’s face. “You’re bluffing. I already found your bombs. All of them.”

Tim’s smile returns, this time sharp.

“You found the ones I wanted you to find.”

Ra’s jaw twitches.

“We’ve been here before, Ra’s. You should try a different ending this time.”

The room is still.

Silent.

And deadly.

Tim lifts his wrists. “Want a demonstration?”

Ra’s stares at him for a long, cold moment. The mask of smug superiority cracks—just slightly. 

Tim takes Ra’s silence as confirmation and leans forward, his smile twitching unnervingly at the edges.

“How about the closest one,” he says softly, his voice curling through the air like smoke. “Something you can hear. Something you can feel.”

His eyes are wide now—glinting with something wild and unhinged. Even with his wrists bound, he twists them with practiced ease, revealing a small, flickering screen strapped to the inside of his arm.

He presses a command.

Nothing happens.

The room freezes.

No one moves. Not Ra’s. Not Bruce. Not the assassins in the shadows. They all hold their breath like the floor itself has turned into glass. One misstep and the world shatters.

Silence.

A minute passes.

Then another.

Two.

Three.

Still, nothing.

Ra’s finally speaks, his voice cool and amused. “Well, Detective. I wouldn’t say I’m disappointed, but—”

BOOM.

A thunderous explosion rips through the mountain in the distance. The entire stronghold shakes. Dust rains from the ceiling. A few assassins lose their footing. 

Ra’s goes rigid. His face twists in fury.

“Well, Ra’s ,” Tim says coldly, still smiling. “I would say I’m disappointed. I really thought you'd have stopped underestimating me by now.”

Without a word, Ra’s unsheathes his sword in a flash and presses the blade tight against Tim’s throat.

“And here I thought you liked me,” Tim croaks out, his tone dry and edged with sarcasm, like the blade at his neck.

“I wouldn’t joke, Detective,” Ra’s snarls. “I could kill you. I have the Lazarus Pit. I could always fix the damage.”

At that, the rest of the Bat-family steps forward, tense and ready to strike.

Tim doesn’t flinch. He meets Ra’s gaze with defiance that burns. “And then what? You bring me back? Sure. But you won’t have me . You’ll have whatever’s left after the Pit rips me apart. That rage? That madness? Maybe I kill you. Maybe I kill myself. Either way, you lose.”

Ra’s doesn’t move.

Tim leans into the blade just a fraction, drawing the tiniest bead of blood.

“You want me because of my mind. Because I’m sharp. Because I see through you. You want to mold me—shape me into your weapon. But if you kill me now, you lose everything. The bases I’ve already marked. The data I’ve scattered. And them—” He gestures toward his family, who now stand at the ready behind him. “They’ll burn what I missed and cripple every last one of your people.”

Ra’s snarls.

The tension in the room is a taut wire.

Then—

Without warning—

The blade slices.

A line opens across Tim’s neck. Blood wells and spills.

“TIM!” Bruce roars.

Chaos erupts.

Assassins flood the space, cutting off their path. Screams and the clash of metal fill the room. The Bat-family fights with everything they have, tearing through the onslaught. For a few agonizing moments, Tim is lost in the sea of bodies and blades.

Then—finally—they break through.

And there he is.

Tim, still kneeling, one hand pressed to the side of his neck, blood dripping through his fingers, painting red onto the stone.

Bruce is the first to reach him, dropping to his knees.

“I’m okay,” Tim mutters, breath shallow but steady. “Just a flesh wound…”

Cass steadies him. Jason’s hand clenches into a fist. Damian’s eyes are wild with amazement.

Tim winces but smiles. “Fucker couldn’t let me have the last word.” 

Chapter Text

“Everyone to the Batplane!” Bruce’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding.

He grabs Tim with both hands—more forceful than gentle—and hauls him up, cradling his limp weight against his chest as he bolts for the exit. The others move instinctively, covering the retreat, fighting off the assassins trailing behind like shadows refusing to let go.

They board the plane in a blur of motion and blood and desperation. Bruce lays Tim down on the bench with the care of someone afraid to see the damage more clearly. Jason doesn’t hesitate—he rushes to the medkit, knees hitting the floor hard beside Tim, hands already working, already trembling.

Blood is still trickling from Tim’s neck. Too much of it.

“Hold still,” Jason mutters.

Tim flinches as the antiseptic stings. His eyes crack open, unfocused. He stares at Jason for a moment before a crooked smile tugs at his lips. “Ironic, isn’t it?” he rasps, voice raw.

Jason doesn’t answer. He just presses harder on the gauze, pretending he can ignore the tight ache crawling through his chest.

“Where’s Dick?” Bruce shouts, eyes scanning the cramped cabin.

Jason’s head jerks up. He scans the space—Cass. Damian. Bart. Kon. Cassie. Steph. Bruce. Clark. Tim.

No Dick.

Bruce steps toward the hatch and peers outside, jaw clenched. “Clark, can you—”

But Clark’s already gone, a streak of blue and red vanishing into the night.

“Where did Dick go?” Bruce demands.

“He ran after Ra’s,” Bart replies, hesitant.

“ What? ” The word detonates out of Bruce like a thunderclap.

Moments later, Clark returns, lowering through the hatch with a furious-looking Dick slung over one arm. His suit is torn and spattered with blood, his knuckles split open. Fury radiates off of him like heat.

The hatch seals behind them. The plane lifts.

Silence descends like a shroud.

Damian moves wordlessly to Dick, setting down another medkit beside him. Dick doesn’t even look at it. His fists are clenched. He’s still breathing like he’s in the middle of a fight.

“Where was he?” Bruce asks Clark in a low voice.

Clark sighs, quiet and tired. “Fighting some guy in a white costume.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow. “He fought the White Ghost?”

Clark rubs the back of his neck. “Well… it was more like he pummeled the guy. There wasn’t a lot of fighting back.”

Jason finishes wrapping the bandage around Tim’s neck. It’s not pretty, but it’s holding.

“It’s gonna scar,” he says.

Tim smirks weakly. “Maybe I should get someone to do the front and back too. Make it a perfect circle.”

No one laughs.

He whistles low. “Tough crowd.”

From the corner of the cabin, a voice finally breaks through. “Rob, dude… why didn’t you call for me?” Kon asks, his voice cracking around the edges.

Tim startles, as if just realizing he’s there. His expression softens. “Oh. I forgot,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“You forgot ? How do you forget something like this?” Kon’s voice rises, pain blooming in every word.

Tim leans his head back against the wall, his eyes distant. “When you call someone’s name enough times and they never answer… you stop calling.”

Silence again.

Bart shifts uncomfortably. Kon looks away. The ache in the room becomes a living thing.

“It’s okay,” Tim says gently. “I had a plan. I always have a plan. I know how to get myself out.”

Steph steps forward, eyes sharp. “But what if you can’t , Tim? What if one day you don’t ? You should be able to count on someone. You should know that someone is coming .”

“I can’t afford that luxury,” Tim says, quiet but firm.

“Why not?” she presses.

His voice drops even further. “Because it hurts when they don’t.”

Jason’s knees buckle. He slides down onto the bench beside Tim, his breath leaving him like a collapse.

Tim glances around the plane, his expression unreadable.

“I’ve been abandoned by everyone in this room at some point,” he says. Not accusatory. Not angry. Just… truthful . “I hoped. I wished. I prayed that someone would come. But you didn’t. So I stopped hoping. I stopped praying. I stopped believing.”

He shrugs, and it’s the saddest gesture Jason’s ever seen. “So I learned to get myself out. You can’t blame me for that.”

And the brutal thing is— no one can . Not a single person in that plane can meet his eyes.

Jason had once hoped he’d be the last one to know what it felt like—to scream in your soul for someone to come for you and hear nothing but silence in return. He’d hoped no one else would carry that pain.

But he had helped create it in someone else. And now it sat there between them, a chasm filled with every unspoken apology.

No one speaks after that.

No one moves.

The silence stays, thick and suffocating, until the plane touches down in the Batcave, cold and hollow.

And still, no one says a word.

Tim isn’t even fully out of the plane before someone’s arms are around him.

He exhales softly, the tension in his shoulders melting.
“Hi, Mimi,” he smiles.

Selina pulls back just enough to see his face. Her eyes search him, wide and worried. “I was so scared.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t exactly mean to get kidnapped—it just kind of happened,” Tim shrugs, offering a sheepish smile.

Her gaze catches the bandages on his throat. Her expression hardens.

“It’s nothing,” Tim says quickly. “Not deep. Just a flesh wound. Apparently Ra’s missed me.”

Selina doesn’t laugh.

Tim sighs. “Why is everyone else allowed to joke about their trauma, but not me?”

Before she can answer, Alfred’s voice floats in from the hallway, calm and steady as always.

“Dinner is ready. Perhaps everyone would like to clean up and meet in the dining room?”

The team stands frozen until Tim yawns and stretches. “I’m starving. A shower and some food sound amazing, Alfred. Thank you.” He pads off toward the showers like it’s any normal day.

The rest of them remain unmoving, stuck in the gravity of everything unsaid.

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “Well? What are you all waiting for?”

That gets them moving.

Cleaned and changed, they all drift into the dining room, where Alfred has prepared a feast. They take their seats one by one, the air heavy and muted.

Everyone eats in a haze—quiet, slow, distant.

Except Tim.

He devours his plate like he hasn’t eaten in days, his appetite unapologetic. The silence makes it more noticeable, but he doesn’t seem to care. When he finishes, he stands without a word, and his team—Kon, Bart, and Cassie —rises with him and follows.

Eventually, Clark stands too.

“Thanks for coming, Clark,” Bruce says quietly.

Clark turns, eyes tired. “Anytime. It’s the least I could do. I wasn’t good to him when you were gone. He deserved better.” Then he leaves, the door closing softly behind him.

Bruce stares after him and whispers, “Yeah… he did.”

They find Tim in the den, curled on the couch, head resting in Selina’s lap as she runs her fingers gently through his hair. His eyes are closed, his breathing calm.

Cass and Steph are with him as well and judging by Steph's eyes which are red and swollen they've been talking.

One by one, the others join them. Some sit, some lean against walls or furniture. Nobody speaks. An hour passes like that—wordless, suspended in the stillness.

Then Tim sits up.

His voice is soft. “Why did you come for me?”

Jason doesn’t hesitate. “Why wouldn’t we? You’re my brother, Tim. I will always come for you. That’s a promise.”

Tim’s gaze flickers. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can. And I just did.” Jason leans forward, his eyes fierce with conviction. “Tim, listen to me. You are my brother . I will always come for you.”

Tim looks away. “I had it handled. I could’ve gotten out.”

Bruce nods. “Yeah, you did. Of course you did. You’re smart, Tim. Brilliant, even. I knew you’d get out. But I didn’t come because I thought you couldn’t—I came because the thought of you hurt and alone… I couldn’t bear it. I came because I didn’t want you to think no one was coming. I didn’t want you to believe that again. Not ever again. I won’t lose you again, Tim.”

Tim swallows hard. “You never had me to begin with, Bruce.”

Bruce steps forward, eyes glistening. “But I always had you in my heart, Tim. Always.”

He kneels before him. “I’ve made so many mistakes. More than I can count. But you’ve always been my son. You will always be my son. And I won’t let you go on thinking I don’t care—because I do. So much.”

His voice wavers.

“I love you, Tim. I love you. I love listening to you talk about photography—how excited you get about lighting and angles. I love when we work cases together, even though you don’t need me—you’ve been smarter than me since you were twelve. But it’s an honor to watch you work.”

Bruce’s voice thickens, his eyes pleading.

“I want you to skate in the halls. I want you to bicker with your brothers, shout, pick fights. I want you to take up space , Tim. All the space you want. I want to come home and see your stuff everywhere and be reminded that you’re here. Because I’m so glad you exist.”

A tear slips down Bruce’s cheek.

“Come home, Tim. Please… come home.”

Tim’s tears fall freely now, silent but unrelenting.

Then a soft voice cuts through the room.

“Akhi.”

It’s Damian.

He steps forward, small and still. “Akhi,” he says again, voice barely above a whisper.

Tim looks up, startled.

“Come home, Akhi. I’m sorry I tried to drive you away. I was scared and lonely, and all I wanted was Father’s approval. The things I did—the things I said—they were wrong. And I’m sorry.”

Damian swallows.

“It took me too long to realize I didn’t want you gone. I wanted you to stay . I tried so hard to push you out, I didn’t see how much I needed you here. Please… give me a chance. Let me prove I’m worthy of being loved by you. Of being your brother.”

The entire room holds its breath.

Tim cups Damian’s face with both hands.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Tim says gently. “I already love you. You’re my brother, Damian. I’ve always seen you that way. You were just a kid… and I know what the League did to you. I saw it. I lived it. And I’m proud of how far you’ve come.”

His thumb brushes a tear from Damian’s cheek.

“I won’t lie—it hurt. What you did, what you said. It hurt a lot. But I’ll never hold it against you. Never.”

Damian crashes into him, arms wrapping around his waist tightly. Tim hugs him back.

There was just one person left. One person who hadn’t said a word since stepping off that plane.

Dick.

He had watched everything unfold in silence—Tim’s return, the reunion, the apologies, the tears. He had stayed quiet, unmoving, like a ghost in the corner of the room.

Damian finally pulled back from Tim, offering him a rare, genuine smile.

Tim smiled back.

For a moment, everything was calm.

Then Dick spoke, his voice soft, tentative. “Can I talk to Tim alone? Please?”

He looked at Tim directly. “If that’s okay with you?”

Tim paused, then nodded.

The others quietly left the room, the silence thickening again once the last footsteps faded away.

Dick didn’t sit across from Tim.

Instead, he crawled forward and settled on the floor beside him, leaning back, so that Tim was looking down at him. It was deliberate—Tim could tell. Dick was giving him the power here, giving him control.

Tim said nothing. He waited.

Dick inhaled shakily.

“I don’t have anything good to say,” he began, his voice rough. “I messed up. I kept messing up… because I didn’t know how to fix it. And worse than that—I pretended like there wasn’t anything to fix.”

His gaze dropped to the floor.

“I just… I wanted you back so badly. I missed you. I missed my brother. But after Bruce died, everything just—shut down. It felt like I wasn’t even in my own body anymore. Like I was watching myself from the outside, making mistake after mistake… and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t reach myself.”

He gave a bitter laugh, wiping at his eyes.

“Damian was… well, Damian. And then you came to me, telling me Bruce was alive, and Tim, I—I should have listened. I should have believed you. You’ve always been my light, Tim. Every time I’m with you, I feel like I can breathe again. Like the weight on my shoulders lifts.”

Dick’s voice cracked.

“You’re my safeguard. You’ve always been my safeguard. I would do anything for you—a thousand times over. But when you told me Bruce was alive…” He shut his eyes tightly. “I don’t know what happened. Something inside me just… broke. And for the first time, you felt like a weight. Not because you are , but because I was already drowning, and suddenly it was one more thing I couldn’t carry. And that’s not your fault, Tim. It’s mine.”

He looks up at Tim again, tears slipping freely down his cheeks now.

“And I hated myself for it. Because I’ve never felt that way about you. Not once. And the guilt—God, it made me feel even more disconnected. So I pushed you away. And I just kept pushing.”

Tim doesn’t look away.

“I know what I did, Tim,” Dick whispers. “I know . I hurt you. And then I kept hurting you.”

His voice grows urgent. Desperate.

“But I need you to know something. I need you to believe this, even if you can’t believe anything else about me.”

He reaches forward, barely brushing Tim’s knee.

“I love you, Tim. You’re my brother. You’re my family. You can question my judgment, my decisions, my leadership—but don’t ever question that. ”

He breaks.

“I love you. I would die for you, I would kill for you, I—”

Dick’s voice shatters as a sob wracks through him. He buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as years of pain and regret pour out of him.

And Tim…

Tim doesn’t move for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he slides down off the couch to the floor and pulls Dick into his arms.

Dick clutches at him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear again.

And Tim holds on.

Because some things don’t need words.

Some things are felt .

Some things are earned .

“I can’t forgive you. Not yet,” Tim said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. 

There was a pause, thick with guilt and longing. Then the other replied, steady but soft, “That’s okay. I’m not asking for your forgiveness—I don’t deserve it yet. But I’ll earn it, Tim. I’ll show you how much you mean to me. Every single day, if I have to.”

Tim didn’t respond right away. A subtle hum escaped him, not quite agreement, not quite dismissal—just a sign he’d heard, and maybe even believed him. Slowly, he looked up, his expression unreadable but tired. Worn.

“Can you… call the others in?” he asked, shifting slightly in his seat. “There’s something I need to talk about.”

Moments later, they were all gathered in the room again—quiet, expectant, and tense, as though the air itself was holding its breath.

Tim took a deep breath, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, then met their eyes one by one.

“I think I want to go to therapy,” Tim says, his voice quiet but clear. The words hang in the air like a fragile thread.

“I want us all to go,” he continues, looking around the room at each of them. “Harley said it might be good for us… and I think I need it.”

He pauses, swallowing hard. His hands are trembling slightly in his lap.

“Every time I’m in a dangerous situation… I think about just giving up. Letting go. It would be easier.” His voice cracks. “I don’t think I’ve cared about dying for a long time now.”

Silence falls over the room like a thick fog. Bruce feels it hit him like a punch to the gut. His throat tightens, and when he speaks, it’s barely above a whisper.

“Tim…” he starts, but the words won’t come. All he can think about are the close calls, the blood on his son’s skin, the hollow look in his eyes after missions. How many times had Tim been one breath away from death… and how many times had he welcomed it?

“I think that’s a good idea, Tim,” Bruce finally manages. His voice is rough, cracked with guilt and unspoken grief. “I’ll go with you.”

He knows he has to. He has to show up now. Show up like he should have a long time ago.

“I will too,” Dick says gently, stepping forward without hesitation. The others nod, one by one, silent but resolute.

Jason crosses his arms, leaning against the wall, but his voice is firm. “We should do family therapy too. All of us. Or even in pairs. There’s… a lot of broken things in this family. If we don’t work on them, we’ll just keep hurting each other.”

Selina hums softly in agreement. “That’s a good idea, Jason.”

Jason looks at her, and a rare, sincere smile touches his lips.

Tim shifts, his eyes scanning the faces of the people who have meant everything and nothing at the same time. The people who have built him up and broken him down.

“One last thing,” he says, and his voice sharpens like glass. Everyone stills.

“This is your last chance,” he says, steady now. “I’ve given everything I have. If you break me again… I’m done. I will leave. I’ll go somewhere none of you can find me, and I won’t come back.”

His words fall like thunder, final and raw. And for the first time, everyone truly hears him—not just his voice, but the quiet desperation he’s carried for years.

Their faces are grim—no arguments, no deflections. Just the heavy silence of a family that has finally heard one of its own cry out, and is choosing to listen. They’ve taken Tim’s warning seriously. For once, the weight of his words doesn't vanish into the void.

Then, as if pulled by instinct, Tim finds himself being lifted gently and placed into someone’s lap. He blinks up, startled—until he sees who it is.

Jason.

Strong arms wrap around him, holding him close like something precious, something breakable that he refuses to let slip through his fingers again. Tim exhales shakily and melts into the warmth of him. He’s always had a soft spot for the second Robin, for the way Jason cared with his whole heart, even when he pretended not to.

Jason presses a kiss to Tim’s forehead, his voice low and soft. “Let’s just hope that day never comes.”

And then—chaos.

Damian wedges himself between them with all the subtlety of a brick through glass, glaring at Jason like he’s overstayed his welcome. Dick follows, wrapping his arms around all three of them with the over-enthusiasm of an octopus on caffeine. Bruce steps in, a little slower, but with a kind of quiet gravity that grounds them all. Cass slips in silently, like a whisper of wind, and finally—Steph crashes into the pile with a laugh and a thud, limbs flailing and unapologetic.

Tim is buried in them, lost in the crush of arms and warmth and the chaotic tangle that is his family—and he’s smiling. No, more than that.

He’s happy.

He glances up and sees Selina standing off to the side, a rare softness in her expression. He beams at her.

“Welcome home, Kitten,” Tim says, grinning through the emotion in his voice.

Tim sticks his tongue out at her.

Selina lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Watch it, kid,” she teases—but then Bruce is there behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her gently in, grounding her, too.

“You and I will have words,” Selina speaks with a light tone, but there's an unmistakable edge beneath it.

Bruce sighs, something tender in his expression, and leans in to rest his forehead against hers. “I missed you, darling. Thank you for looking out for our son.”

Selina freezes for half a second, momentarily stunned by the rawness in his voice, the sincerity in his eyes. She recovers quickly—but her smirk is softer now, her posture easier.

“Yeah, well… he’s just that—” She falters, looking at Tim, searching for a word big enough to describe everything he is. Smart. Brave. Broken. Kind. Endlessly selfless. She comes up empty.

But she doesn’t need to finish.

Bruce follows her gaze and says quietly, “I know.”

Tim looks down, a faint flush rising to his cheeks, and turns his head away with a small, private smile. This moment, this warmth, this mess of people who care even when they don’t know how—

Maybe it isn’t perfect. Maybe they’re all still cracked and stumbling through their healing.

But maybe—just maybe—it’s a beginning.