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The road hums pleasantly beneath his bike’s tires. He knows this road better than perhaps any other. Better than the interstate cutting between Jump City and San Francisco. Better than the bridge connecting Blüdhaven to Gotham. Better than the ferry coasting between the old Titan’s Tower and the mainland.
He might even know it better than Gotham’s rooftops. Than the Watchtower’s zeta-tube.
Garden State Parkway.
A two hour stretch tracing New Jersey’s coastline, connecting Gotham and Metropolis.
It’s a strangely difficult trip to route. Figuring out which of the bridges off the island are open. Paying the toll. Making the ferry.
Dick pulled this trip all the time when he was a kid. Usually in the dead of night and usually to piss off B.
But, hey, it’s not his fault Clark has the uncanny ability to actually listen to what Dick is saying.
He lets out a breath. His heart squeezes, a familiar but new pang of grief. What he’d give to have one last spat with B.
Thinking of Bruce being alive makes him think of Tim and. “Call Tim Drake,” he instructs.
His helmet buzzes once, a haptic acknowledgement. It doesn’t ring. Too much anxiety.
He tightens his grip on the handles, twisting the throttle with his right hand. Dick Grayson: Professional Problem Eloper.
New Jersey sprawls on either side. Honeysuckle chocks out the native undergrowth, languishing in the shade of the pines. A mile marker is bent at the bottom, wind storm from over the summer. A muddy white pick up with a LexCorp bumper sticker goes around him, not so much merging as swerving.
Dick flips off the driver.
There’s a minivan with a bike rack on top, one adult, two children. The mom driving scowls. The kids in the back scream Let It Go.
Dick regrets flipping off the driver.
In his helmet speakers, he hears, “This number is no longer available.” Not even a voicemail.
He swallows thickly, heart pounding in his chest.
“It’s okay,” he mumbles. “Cassie said he left the country. He probably switched numbers.” He darts from one mile marker to the next, twisting the throttle once more. While it’s nothing like flying, the wind shuddering through his riding jacket and jeans gives just a touch more clarity. “It’s okay.”
He takes a breath, holds it for half a second, and releases it.
Dead pine tree. Guard rail. Hands. Pick up. Bike rack.
Tim has changed his number before, multiple times. He gets paranoid and manic and he forgets to tell people he’s switched it.
Throttle. Brake. Leather jacket. Hiking boots.
His brother is upset and he’s out of contact. He’s allowed his space. God knows Dick has needed a break from the family more than once.
Tires on asphalt. Wind whipping. F rozen soundtrack.
Tim has many supports in his life. Maybe not as many as he used to, but he has people he can reach out to who aren’t Dick. He has people who can care for him even when he won’t accept it from Dick.
Stale sweat. Burning rubber.
If he’s in trouble, Tim knows to put aside his pride. He knows to call on others to take the weight. Even if it’s only because it’s a strategic advantage, Tim isn’t like Dami or Steph. He knows his limits and he knows when pushing past them will be too much.
Tangy saliva.
He takes in a breath, holds it for six seconds, and lets it out just as slow. His heart isn’t so erratic now. His vision is clear.
He probably should have pulled over. His therapist will have words about this. But he’s dedicated hundreds of hours to driving courses around the US. Batman appropriated League funds just to build a ‘realistic alien invasion’ motorcycle driving scenario. Dick does wheelies in it.
Hopefully, she’ll be more proud that he identified the panic attack before it started and grounded himself instead of white knuckling through it with an inviting grin.
He passes the apple orchard billboard. It’s five miles further down the road than he last checked. Highway hypnosis, in a manner of speaking.
His eyes feel crusty but he can’t wipe them. His exit isn’t for another thirty-five minutes.
He should call Wally or Donna or Babs or Clark. The quiet echoes, it bubbles in his veins. The force of the wind isn’t enough pressure to contain all his spilling fear.
“Activate comms, code November Whiskey Three-Twenty.”
There’s a soft ding. “Activated. Welcome, Batman.”
He’ll never get used to that. It crawls up his spine, that sick, wrong sensation. Like he’s trapped in another universe. Like he’s watching a line get tampered with.
“Call…” He’s not sure what callsign Tim is using. His friends text every few days and it’s a different one every time. “Call Red Robin.”
It’s the one Babs mentioned and she’s the admin who regularly updates designations in the system.
“Accessing,” the system announces. He gently guides his bike around half a hub cap cluttering the road. The Buick newly behind him clomps right over it. Further back, the Frozen sing-a-long transitions to Moana.
He alternates squeezing his fists. First following the Fibonacci sequence, then proportioning the lengths of each road on this journey south, equating ten miles to a second and switching hands on each turn. Quick dots give way to the twelve seconds of the toll road and the system says, “Comm Delta Whiskey One-One is currently unmonitored. Leave a message with Comm Delta Whiskey One-One?”
He clears his throat, eyes suddenly misty.
This is… This is good, he decides. Tim hasn’t blocked him on comms, a feature programmed to meet the conditions of Red Hood’s truce.
He’s sent Tim probably a dozen emails, usually the best way to get ahold of his brother. They’ve gone unanswered. His texts have bounced. His calls were going to voicemail.
Aside from a few of Damian’s reports being flagged as Incomplete, Tim hasn’t been in the BatSystem at all.
He knows, he knows, he’s taking advantage. That leaving a voicemail will strain their already tenuous relationship. That maybe Tim has drawn the line at Dick, but not Batman, and that he’ll ruin his chances of forgiveness by trying to talk to Tim through a Red Robin channel.
Logic collides with a tangled ball of worry.
He can’t sleep. His favorite foods taste like chalk. Alfred’s gotten on his case about drinking enough water. He zones out listening to Wally talk about work, circling circling circling the same cynical thoughts.
He started his advanced rhythmic gymnastics class with the demeanour and instructions reserved for his itty bitties.
If he can chip away, unravel, diminish—even the slightest amount—his stress about Tim’s well-being, he’ll take it.
He releases the parkway’s twelve second dash. “Yes.”
“Message recording.”
He waits for the beep. There isn’t one. Tim removed that function, the tone bothering him. It was a sensory thing except that it reminded him of all the calls his parents never answered.
“Hey, Tim.” His throat is tight. He forces a cleansing breath out his nose. “I’m heading to therapy and thought I’d give you a call.” He pauses. He doesn’t… want Tim to think he’s pushing.
Mentioning a therapist last time sent things absolutely spiralling and he’s intent on learning from his mistakes.
If Tim doesn’t want to go to therapy, he doesn’t have to go to therapy. He’s- fuck, technically his custody has reverted to Dick per B’s will. Shit, he’s definitely being a negligent guardian.
He releases the tension in his shoulders as much as he’s able while keeping control of his bike. Technically, technically, he has custody of Tim. Tim is seventeen and has been forced to act as an adult for most of his life. While true, it doesn’t make it right. (And maybe if Tim saw a therapist, he’d realize that-)
Okay. He’s caught in a loop. He imagines the waterfall rushing down in the Cave and sends the thoughts sprawling through its crashing waves.
“We’re starting to get some fall color,” he comments. This stretch of road is mostly pines, but there are some oaks and maples dotting the path. “I think-” Damian will enjoy jumping in the pile of leaves that the Manor’s groundskeepers have collected since I was a kid. “-it’ll be a cold winter. Since it was mild last year and the summer was so unbearably hot.” He huffs out a laugh. “I’m sure you’ve already modeled the weather better than NOAA.”
Tim had a meteorology phase when he was younger. Mostly guided by wanting to predict which nights were good for Batography and which were best spent in REM.
Dick vividly remembers being lectured on the predictors of a thunderstorm back before he desperately needed that warning. Family of detectives, Tim used to text a heads up whenever Blüdhaven was expecting a storm.
“I hope the weather’s nice wherever you are. It’s starting to get cold here and you know Gotham—all clouds. I think Alfred is going to start cramming Vitamin D supplements down my throat if I don’t get some more sun soon.”
More so, Wally’s been on that. When he doesn’t feel the Speed Force nipping at his heels, their lunch breaks have been featuring far more tropical locales than usual.
The sun’s due to set about the time he’ll arrive at his therapist’s office. In a week or two, he’ll probably start zeta-tubing to appointments. The dark combined with the unpredictable winter weather makes the bike commute a bigger risk than he’s willing to take.
He considers feeling bad about taking advantage of the sophisticated and expensive intraplanetary travel system, but decides against it. B’s—now (kinda, it’s complicated and no lawyer has explained it to satisfaction) Dick’s—money pays for system upkeep. It’s a gut-churning perk, one of the few he’s found in these grief-laden months.
He’ll miss his bike rides though. Mandatory alone time, which Audre insists he needs.
“If you come back with a darker tan than me though, I’m going to be mad,” he jokes. “Wear lots of sunscreen.”
Tim burns easily, pasty white skin and horrendous time blindness. Maybe that’s why he’s been so out of touch. Stuck in a project and unaware that weeks have passed since he last made check in.
“Anyway, call anytime. I miss you. I hope you’re okay, and I’m always here to talk. To listen.” He blinks away collecting tears. “Love you, Timmy… End of message.”
“Message ended. Review message?”
“No.”
“Message sent.”
“Deactivate comms. November Whiskey Three-Twenty.”
The system doesn’t say goodbye. It’s this that tips him over the edge. He catches sight of the nearest exit and urges his bike toward it.
He’s gasping for breath by the time he jams his boot against the kickstand. “Fuck,” he mutters. His fingers clench around his jacket, right over his heart.
It crashes over him, the grief.
B. His parents. Jason. Wally. Steph.
“Tim isn’t dead.” It’s a strangling mantra. Barely reassuring. He’s lost people to more than death.
How does he manage to find the last straw of every person he loves? How does he fail them in every way conceivable?
“Tim isn’t dead.”
His brother needs time to cool off. One of his friends will get in touch with him. Or Tam Fox will track him down. Or he’ll reach out on his own.
“Tim isn’t dead.”
But so many people are. And coming back doesn’t make up for the absence. He’s buried in soul-sucking mourning that he’s not allowed to experience lest he offend the survivors. Lest he break character.
The tightrope he walks is a garrote.
He just. He just wants a break. He just wants time to breathe.
He wants to lay his head against Wally’s chest and join Damian on Titus’ walk and dance with Cass and go to a shooting range with Jason and goad Babs into watching bad rom coms and concoct glitter bombs with Steph and listen to Tim ramble about his latest coding project.
He just wants to exist with his family without holding them steady.
He used to pride himself in being integral, irreplaceable, to every organziation he joined. He didn’t register his load bearing position in the family until everything came crashing down. It burns now, acid in his veins, being so needed.
Everyone else in his life gets to die, but he has to carry on. He has to-
He catches himself.
Right.
Fuck.
He slips his phone out of his pocket and times and dates the thought in his notes app. The memo is innocuously labeled brain tracker to divert the loved ones who inevitably go through his phone.
An alarm goes off as he closes the app. Therapy in twenty minutes. He sighs. He’s made what should be a thirty minute drive in less time. Hopefully the ferry cooperates, Audre doesn’t accept that excuse anymore.
Maybe he should start taking the zeta next week regardless of weather. Less time to sit in his thoughts. Less time to crumble from his worries about his brother.
“Tim isn’t dead,” he says one last time to the autumn air. The rest, he can figure out.