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Tim pulls the cape tighter around himself as he lies on the hard, cold floor of the abandoned shack– he’s somewhere north-west of al-Ḥilla, and he knows he could’ve just found proper shelter, but he can’t afford to get compromised. The warm wind howls outside, rattling the wooden boards on the roof, but despite the temperature, the howling itself is enough to send shivers down Tim’s spine.
“God, I need some sleep.”
Maybe– he thinks– it’s the fact that he hasn’t eaten in over forty-eight hours, metabolism slowing down to conserve the little energy it needs to push through the days. Tim closes his eyes, curling on himself. He’s cold. He knows it’s not cold. But– he is.
The darkness of the night surrounds him. It has been months since he set out on this mission to find his d– Bruce Wayne, his mentor, the man he considers family.
He finds himself laughing, bitter. This quest of his, this never-ending urge he has to rescue the man– from himself, from others, it doesn’t matter, because Tim is always going to find him, he’s always going to rescue him.
Even if nobody believes in him.
Even if nobody trusts him.
Even if he, himself, sometimes wavers.
The others– they don’t believe him, they didn’t believe him when he told them that Bruce is alive. They think he’s sleep-deprived, high on caffeine, grieving, they tell him that clinging onto false hope that their father is alive is Tim’s way of working through it. Tim’s heart aches at their disbelief, and whenever he sees their eyes filled with pity and concern in his mind, his heart clenches, twists in his hollow chest.
He knows he’s right. Tim knows.
He’s sworn to prove them wrong, to find Bruce and bring him back to Gotham, to reunite him with the others– Tim knows he can.
He thinks. He’s– he’s fairly sure he can.
“I’m– insane, aren’t I?” he chuckles, to himself.
Maybe he is, maybe he is going insane, maybe he is seeing things that aren’t there. Maybe, just maybe, all of this is just some– he’s not sure– some absurd mental getaway from mourning.
Tim curls up into a ball, tears welling up in his eyes behind the cowl.
“Nope, not doin’ that, Timothy.” he whispers, lifting the cowl and scrubbing his face furiously, gloves scratchy against the dry skin.
Think now, cry later.
And when he curses himself out, he’s always 'Timothy'. Never 'Tim', never 'Drake' and not even 'Robin', which is what surprises him the most.
Just 'Timothy', because the voice that yells at him, the voice that creeps up from his insides and crawls out of his mouth whenever he reprimands himself– it’s always Janet’s.
Jack’s, too, sometimes.
But mostly Janet’s.
Tim just lets it be.
He can’t afford to break down, not now– there’s no way he’s going to let anyone see just how scared and alone he feels. Because– because he’s not. Scared.
He’s– he’s not.
Tim has everything under control, and he has to keep his focus because Bruce needs him. And– and because he needs Bruce, and so do the others.
Bruce is lost somewhere, relying on Tim to find him, and he can’t and won’t let him down.
Shaky fingers claw at his uniform sleeves, and he’s painfully aware that it’s just a pathetic attempt at soothing himself. He’s distressed, dehydrated, starved, confused, borderline manic– Tim isn’t too far gone not to be self-aware.
And– he almost finds himself missing the Daughter of Acheron’s touch. It was brief, predatory, terrifying and cold. And yet. He almost misses her hands on his clothed chest, on his biceps, he misses her lips brushing against his cheeks and–
“You,” he breathes out, eyes closed as he wills the memory away, a sick grin on his lips, “you sure are fucked up in the head, Timothy.”
Because he knows it’s wrong. He knows he hated it. He knows he still does, and he hates what almost happened, he hates remembering the fear and helplessness and– the resignation he felt at that moment.
And Tim– he’s not going to admit it, the words are never going to leave his mouth, but for a moment, just for a moment, he’d given up.
Not only on fighting against that woman.
He had given up, full stop.
Because– fuck it. Fuck saving Bruce, fuck proving himself to the others, fuck being in constant pain, abused and belittled and–
“No. I– stop. Stop it.”
He shakes his head. Tim closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath, trying to muster what inner strength he has left. He can’t just– not care.
He can’t do that to Bruce, he can’t do that to himself, to the others, to Dick.
Because Dick misses Blüdhaven, and he can’t hide it from Tim, no matter how hard he tries to seem indestructible, to shoulder the burden of the cowl alone despite being very vocal about not wanting to be the Batman ever since he became his own persona.
Tim can’t give up on finding Bruce. He can’t do that.
And before he knows, there’s tears trickling down his cheeks, mingling with the cold sweat. Once again, Tim lifts his cowl, wiping his brow and cheeks.
“Fucking– fuck. Stop it.”
He weeps, quiet, laying on the uncomfortable ground. The wind is still rattling the boards above. And Tim– he wishes he could take a warm bath and be bundled up in a thick, weighted blanket, on the Manor’s couch.
He can almost see it when he closes his eyes, he can almost feel it– the couch dipping next to where his head is, a broad, warm hand carding through his hair as the TV hums in the background.
He smells the tea that Alfred sets on the extendable sled coffee table that Tim despises after having hit his malleolus against it countless times, he hears Damian’s remark on how surprised he is that Tim isn’t refusing the tea in favour of coffee, he hears Dick telling Damian to be quiet because Tim’s resting before he works on making sure that the blanket’s properly tucked under his frame.
The couch dips again, near his feet, and suddenly Jason is there?
That makes Tim’s delusion fade into thin fog.
“Fucked up in the head, yup.” he murmurs, popping the ‘p’ as he blinks the remainder of tears away.
He snorts, quiet.
“That was– Damian wouldn’t let Dick shut him up. He’d–” another chuckle, curt, “he’d tell him how foolish must you be, Grayson, to speak to the Heir to the Demon like that!” he murmurs, a pathetic attempt of an accent in his voice.
A pause.
“No, wait, that– didn’t sound like Damian. I hope he didn’t wire my cowl. Hey, Damian? If you’re hearing this, I’m sorry, I know you don’t sound like that, kid.”
Another pause, longer.
“And,” Tim swallows, thick, “and if you’re listening, I promise I’m going to bring him back. I promise. I– I’m bringing him back, okay?”
Did– did he make the right decision by relinquishing the Robin mantle? Being Robin is– was something that he’d always cherished, it was his purpose, his call. And logically, he knows why Dick picked Damian to become the new Robin, he’s explained it to him thoroughly, Tim understands his reasoning, there’s no flaw in it. But– the nights feel empty without the cape and the thrill. Being Red Robin, his own thing, it’s not the same.
It will never be the same.
Robin gave Tim magic, and now he feels– odd. Jason always uses that word, ‘pretender’, and that’s what Tim has always been. Pretended to be Jason during Jason’s absence, pretended to know what he was doing as he kept Bruce from spiraling, and now– now he’s pretending to be something he can’t be, an independent, self-relying hero.
Tim is no hero, though, he’s a kid, scared and alone and cold and– and he wants his dad. A shiver rocks his frame, spine curling as he kicks in reflex.
“I’ll find you, dad. I know you’re out there. Just– hold on.”