Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

      I can feel Gotham aching under my feet. She’s dying, she can’t come back from this. I’ve felt it in the back of my mind for a while now. She’s barely holding on as her Knights stray farther and farther from her light– or lack thereof. I don’t want to admit it, but I can tell how tired she is. Sometimes I can't tell if it’s her pain and weariness I’m feeling, or my own. 

      When I’m running high on the rooftops with no sound other than her ever-present, buzzing chorus, I feel her. In a way that’s akin to worship. I feel her fill my bones and take over my body. On nights like those, I feel reaffirmed in my role as her Knight. Maybe she can tell when my devotion is waning– when I want to run far, far away to a place no one knows the name Batman, much less Drake or Wayne. Where no one knows me, or thinks they do.

      On nights like these, the shadows of Gotham loom large, and I find myself caught in an endless chase, heart pounding like a wild drum. I yearn to run, to break free from the chains of this relentless city. With every stride toward the boundaries, the wind rushes past me, whispering secrets of freedom and dreams unfulfilled. 

      Yet, on these haunting nights, that palpable longing spirals into an exquisite pain that grips my very soul, twisting deep in my bones. It’s as if the city itself calls to me, taunting my every step, reminding me of a life I could have lived but never did. Just when I think I might escape, she—this unyielding force—pulls me back into her grasp, her embrace both a comfort and a cage.

      I stand at the edge of despair, an emotion swelling within me that I can only describe as loss, an ache that has no name. But what is it that I truly stand to lose? My heart wrestles with this question, for I clutch tightly to nothing but shadows, a life spent in pursuit of a dream that remains just beyond my reach. The night deepens, the air thick with unspoken words, and I am left alone with my haunting thoughts, echoing into the silence.

      In the morning, I watch the sunrise, trying to chase the idea that there might be more for me, outside of Gotham, outside of the cape. As the sun clears the horizon and the day goes on, I lose the idea that maybe, just maybe, I’m not where I’m meant to be. The idea usually fades completely by noon, which I can tell only by the digital clock on the bottom right of my screen.

      Tonight, though, there’s an urgency in her pain, in her screams. I can feel it rise through my shaky legs every time I make contact with demolished rooftops. Her pain is beginning to become my own. There's not much left of her. The first wave knocked out most of her infrastructure– just as it was intended to. In the rubble that was left, you could see the occasional civilian huddled under a collapsed roof. The situation was bad, even by Gotham standards. 

. “Red Robin, your tracker is off. Explain.” 

      I hear Batman’s voice buzz from my comm. It seemed even he wasn’t immune to the gravity of the situation. His usual ‘I swallow glass every day’ was replaced with more of a ‘I’m a depressed chainsmoker in the middle of a midlife crisis.’ It was a nice change of pace, but it really did come at a bad time. If he knew what I was thinking about his voice, he probably would lecture me on staying focused and on task– if I was lucky. Nowadays, he didn't even say enough for it to be considered a lecture. Part of me misses them, because at least then he took his time to tell me all the ways I’d failed to meet his expectations. 

      It was like this back when I first became Robin. He couldn’t even look at me during the first few months. I knew it was because I reminded him too much of what he lost. Too much of Jason. As a 10 year old child whose parents probably didn’t even remember how old he was, the excuse wore thin quickly. I had heard every excuse under the sun by that age. Whether it be death or work, it would only ever be an excuse. I saw just how quickly he got over Jason’s death when Damian showed up. Just how fast Dick came back to the manor for his baby brother. Even then, I knew that no matter how much time passed, no matter how much grief counseling he underwent, I would never get the same attention, never measure up to the past Robins. Not because I wasn’t talented enough, but because he would never let me. As much as Jason loved to call me Replacement, Bruce couldn't even find a place for me, much less give me Jason’s. It hurts even more now that I’ve watched him make room for Damian. He didn’t pick Damian either; he didn’t choose to have a son, so why was I so different? Why was I not enough? I was ready to give my life for his damn Mission– for him.

      “Who knows, everything is malfunctioning right now. Must’ve gotten damaged. I’m still circling where the damage is the worst, trying to find survivors,” I replied monotonously. If I were being honest, which I never have been and never will be, I’d tell him that I ditched the tracker miles ago. By ditched, I mean I smashed it under the boot of my heel. Repeatedly. I couldn’t let Batman catch on to my plan. He needed to be there when this all came to pass. 

. “Fine,” he grumbles out.

      “Tt- you cannot even ensure the perpetuity of your gear, yet you brag of your intelligence? It’s for the best you aren’t on the main team, you would certainly find a way to mess that up as well,” I can hear the demon brat drawl. His voice tight with what is probably pain. 

. “Really? Don’t you think we have better things to focus on?”

. “Red Robin, stop occupying the channel.”

     I can’t even find it in myself to be annoyed. He’s twelve, he’s just twelve, I tell myself. The comment was elementary at best, and I can hardly say I took offense to it. No, the barbs that hurt were when he pointed out things I already knew. You’re only here because you forced yourself in. He’s only letting you stay here out of pity. He never picked you; he never wanted you. He should’ve left you to rot in that empty house. 

      A part of me sometimes tries to convince myself that Bruce isn’t aware of what he’s doing, or Nightwing, for that matter. Maybe they’re just so focused on Damian, so focused on the Mission, that they don’t realize I’m being pushed out. A bigger part of me knows just how stupid I’d have to be to believe that. I’ve seen enough happy families to know that it was possible. Possible to love all of your kids– except I wasn’t one of his kids. Damian was right, I am just an outsider. But that was a choice I made. I saw the gap and I widened it. I chose to extract myself from the tangled, rotted mess they call a family. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

      I can’t believe I was worried about him catching on to what I was doing. Sure, he was a great detective, but to solve a case, you’d have to pay enough attention to know there even was one. I’ve been slipping under Bruce’s radar since he knew my name. I was fucking stalking him, and he didn’t even notice. That should have been a bigger tell that no matter what I did, he wouldn’t pay attention to me. He likes to think he knows what all of his ‘wards’ are doing at all times, but that’s just a delusion. He’s a mortal man, not the Moniter. Ever since I moved into an apartment, closer to Wayne Industries, I've told them – his oversight has been getting less and less. At this point, we hardly ever spoke, even on patrol. Neither of us mentioned the measly one camera and two bugs he planted. I’d bet my CEO position that Dick got at least twice as many when he moved out.

      I wish he would figure out what I was planning. I wish he would call me stupid and reckless. I wish he would talk me out of it and go in my place. To be honest, I’d be happy with just the stupid part. Deep down, I knew he would never notice I was acting off. Part of me wants to attribute my trickery to my own skill, but I know that’s not all of it. Even I would be pressed to get something past Batman if he were paying attention.

      I make my way through the remains of Gotham, doing my best to ignore the survivors. I hate myself when they look at me with their expressions of hope. Every particle of my being wants to help them, wants to stop and tell them it’ll be ok. Or at least keep them company in their final moments. I have to keep telling myself that I need to keep pushing to get to the cave. If I reach it, if I succeed, none of them will have to feel this pain.

      The closer I get, the heavier my chest feels. It’s as if Gotham is collapsing in me– or it could just be my broken ribs. The reality of the situation is finally settling in. If my plan works, I won’t come back to Gotham. Hell, I won’t even come back to this earth. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’m not… upset. Overthinking is my specialty; it’s what makes me so good at being Robin. But right now, I feel my mind blanking as my body moves as if controlled. Never seeing anyone I know ever again should break me, but I can’t think of even one person I would miss. Finally, I feel some clarity, like an epiphany. I could never bring myself to leave Gotham; the guilt would’ve eaten me alive. Now, if everything works out, I will have made the ultimate sacrifice. It was like a parting gift. I will have given myself up for the mission, which should allow me to be free. Right?

      My comms are silent, as is Gotham, by the time I make it to the Batcave. At this point, I’m sure I have a concussion, at least tw– ouch ahh– ok, let's go with three, broken ribs. I pushed aside the pain; it got easier with every injury– every scrape, every fracture, it just made it easier to keep pushing in the long run. I wish it didn’t. 

      As I reach the cave, I feel lighter than ever. The weight in my chest lifts, as if Gotham finally approves of my plan. Each step I take brings me closer to my future. Even if I end up dead from some disease I never developed immunity to, lack of oxygen, or even trampled by some monster, at least I’ll feel a sense of freedom, even if it is short-lived. The last time I think I was free was when I was a stupid nine year old chasing Batman and Robin across the rooftops. When I still thought someone cared for me. Surprisingly, when no one cares or notices you, you don’t feel free. All you feel is want– at least for me.

      Walking through the cave, I notice that most of the video feed from our dominoes is still connected to the computers. I must be one of the unluckiest motherfuckers alive to see this. On each screen is every cape’s point of view. It’s from their views that I see the killing blow being struck. Batman falls to blast that I know even he can’t survive from. The feed dies, but I can see the result from Robin’s camera. In a mess of blood and bones, Batman drops. 

      A scream filled with more rage than I knew could exist in such a small body tears itself out of Robin’s mouth. He wades through the bodies and ruins until he reaches his father. From there, he makes his final stand, taking out an impressive number of assassins until he inevitably joins his fallen father in a heap, eventually trampled by the incoming enemy forces. 

      I turn my eyes to another screen, this one showing Nightwing’s view. I can tell he won’t last much longer. His pulse is dropping as well as his blood pressure, the computer tells me. He looks towards Red Hood and says, “If I’m going down, at least it’s next to you, Little Wing.”

      The words only seem to anger the pit-raged man even more. The red helmet that still occasionally appears in my nightmares turns towards the screen I’m watching. “Don’t you fucking dare, Dick. You don’t get to pull this shit. You don’t get to die on me,’ he growls out.

      I always knew he had a soft spot for Dick, especially after he found out he killed the Joker that one time. In a ball of fire, both of their feeds are taken over until all that's left is static. Steph had already died; she was taken out in the initial blasts. I knew that, but I still turned to her screen, hoping beyond hope. I had never really forgiven her for the whole Red Robin gang war shit she pulled after she came back from the dead, and I don’t think I ever will, but a part of me still loved her. I had to keep telling myself that none of their deaths mattered because I would go back and change it, but I still felt tears streaming down my dirt-stained face. I widen my view so I can see all of the feeds, including non-Gotham heroes. One by one, they all turn to static. I’m grateful I turned off my comms before I came into the cave. I don’t believe I would be able to do this if I were hearing their screams. I force down all the emotions, because what good are they gonna do me now? Everyone is dead. I’m all that's left. I keep walking.

      As the door to the vault gets closer, I can feel my heart beating faster. Finally, I stop in front of the door. A simple BioScan gives me access to a place that looks like a supervillain’s dream store. Rows and rows of shelves line the room, with display tables occupying the center. It’s normally illuminated by blue fluorescents, but the crisis alarm turned them red, just making the situation more dramatic. Really, I didn’t even know why we did the whole red lights thing. It seemed counterproductive; it only made people more stressed and less productive.

      In the middle of the room, surrounded by three inch thick plexiglass and probably a billion other security measures, knowing Batman was a paranoid motherfucker that didn’t even accept birthday gifts without having them scanned and tested. On a small plaque drilled onto the stand was an inscription, ‘D.T.D., Origin: Earth-13, Alexandra Luther’. I had heard the story of Alexandra Luther and how she was smart enough to create a device allowing her to travel through dimensions. Yet, she clearly lacked creativity and ended up naming it the Dimension Traveling Device. I mean… really?

      Apparently, before Batman took the device, she was able to put some sort of fail-safe on it. She was able to almost child-lock it, limiting it to one dimension, but still allowing its time-traveling capabilities. Batman had never allowed me to study the device, but I got the gist. The device could safely go back in time, but when the person who travelled backwards reaches the exact point in time at which they activated the device, they would be, for lack of a better word, flung across the multiverse.  Part of me (a lot of me) was terrified at the lack of control the device allowed me. I wouldn’t be able to know where I would land after I fell through the multiverse. 

      When I reached the case, I carefully entered the passcode and pressed my thumb to the scan for yet another Biometric scan and begged whatever higher being there was, that didn’t want him dead, that this worked. After a soft click and hiss, the case opened, granting me access. 

      Whelp, guess we’ll find out soon enough, I think, as I input the time I want to go back to, making sure I have a firm grasp on my bag. If I go back without the plan and resources locked in my computer’s drive, then all this will be for nothing. I don’t think I could handle watching everyone fall again. The first time unlocked feelings even I didn’t know I had. This will either be my saving grace or a creative way to kill myself. I’m not quite sure which.

Chapter Text

     “Shit!” What the fuck just happened? I feel like my insides want to be my outsides, but aren’t brave enough to make the change. 2/10, would not recommend. The travel only exacerbated my injuries, and honestly, I just wanna lie down now.

     I don’t know how I thought I could come back without anyone knowing I’m from the future. Holy shit, I’m from the future. That’s gonna fuck with my head for a while. I look like I played tag with King Croc in the sewers and lost miserably. My suit is in tatters, with most of my gear either broken or just straight up missing. If I leave the vault looking like this, I know Batman is gonna be suspicious. The paranoid bastard’ll probably think I killed somebody. After the Boomerang fiasco, it seems the only time he talks to me is to make sure I didn’t become homicidal. Every time I speak to him, I feel myself getting just a little bit closer to the edge. I really can’t wait to see his face when I toss myself off. Maybe he’ll get flashbacks to that time Damian pushed me off the dinosaur, and I went splat on the floor. Superman knows he hasn’t thought about it since it happened.

     Pulling myself up off the floor, I can feel my muscles burn in protest. Fuck, I wanna lie down. On the floor are now some very nice– very suspicious– bloodstains. I really hope cleaning the vault isn’t on Alfred’s to-do list. At least, not for a couple of weeks.  Exiting the room, I force my face into a casual expression. The door opens, leading into the cave where only Batman and Nightwing are present.

      My relationship with Nightwing is strained, characterized by tense greetings and his refusal to acknowledge the harm his actions have caused me. Sometimes I wonder if he truly understands just how much he hurt me when he took away Robin and the Titans; he even attempted to take away my freedom. He’s supposed to be the Golden Boy, the one who keeps this family together, but I see him as a kid who never got the chance to grow up. True, he moved out and got a job, but he still cannot see himself as someone independent from Batman. He even quit his job, just to come running back to Batman. In his eyes, he will always be Batman’s sidekick. It's quite sad when you think about it—just how emotionally stunted he is. You can see the damage in how he handles not only his romantic relationships but also his familial ones. 

      I've observed his interactions with Damian, and while he is more of a father to Damian than Bruce will ever be, he still carries this sense of being a child frozen in time. He should recognize that by indulging Damian, he’s only causing him harm in the long run. Damian will likely grow up to be overtly cruel with a sense of superiority, just like his mother. I could theorize that this is how he copes with the bleak and violent life he leads, but ultimately, he is just compensating for the fact that we are all child soldiers with bad jokes and insincerity. Walking through the cave, Batman doesn’t so much as glance my way as he types on the batcomputer. Ha, and I gave him so much credit for catching everything.

      “Red! Hey, it's been a while since I’ve seen you in the cave. How’s that smuggling case in the Narrows going?” Nightwing greets me with a smile that looks just a bit too big for his face.

      “I put that case to rest three weeks ago. I’ve been focusing on a life insurance scam. We had a whole conversation about it like two days ago on patrol. Ring a bell?” I reply with what I know is a monotonous voice that gets me strained expressions and dirty looks.
Nightwing’s smile quickly falls from his face. I almost feel bad for him. Almost.

      “Right, how could I forget. Sorry, Timmy, I’ve just been so swamped lately, you know?”

      “We’re in the cave, Nightwing, don’t name-drop.”

      He sighs, “My bad, Red.”

      I give him a slight glance as I walk away to the lockers. Maybe I’m being too hard on him, but I know if I so much as let any emotion into my voice, I will break down sobbing. My emotions feel different than what I’m told they’re supposed to feel like. Right now, I feel like there’s a black hole in my stomach, sucking up any and all emotions I should be feeling. I know that when I finally lie down, they’ll all hit me at once. 
When I get into the lockers, I don’t bother taking a shower to wash off the blood and grime. I change into civies as quickly as I can, practically drooling at the thought of my bed. With my clothes changed, I head towards the elevators. If I pause at the door in the hope that Batman will say something to me– anything–, then that’s my business. 

      The doors open with an automated sound, leading into a steel box that totally doesn’t give me claustrophobia. The first time I rode down in it to the Batcave, I couldn’t stop smiling. Everything I had dreamed of was coming true. I saved my hero. I gained what I thought was an adult who actually cared for me. In the end, though, I ended up right back where I started—running across the Gotham rooftops alone– coming back to a big empty house filled with people who looked right through me like I was nothing. I think I was better off in my childhood home. There was no one there, but that meant there was no one to hurt me. At night, I sometimes wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t staged an intervention for Batman. What kind of person would I be? Would I even still be alive? A hero at all?
If I didn’t have my training, I wouldn’t have noticed Bruce appear behind me. He looks as emotionally constipated as ever. When he’s being Bruce– but still in the manor– there are subtle differences between him and Batman. They aren’t as noticeable as when he’s Brucie. 

      “Hey, sport, I wanted to talk to you about something. And I want you to hear me out before you respond,” Bruce says. 

      “Of course,” I reply, even though the only thing I want to do is get back to my Nest.

      “Damian has been wanting to take a more involved position in the company. He really wants to prove himself. I was hoping you could give him a tour, maybe set him up with an internship– something to get him ready for when he takes over,” he says as if he were just talking about the weather. Although you wouldn’t be able to tell from his tone, he only has one when he isn’t Brucie. The idea that Damian would someday lead the company makes me sick to my stomach. I knew it was coming. I’ve been preparing myself mentally for when one of the things I worked hardest for in life, the only thing I had left that was mine, would be taken from me. It was just so sudden. I didn’t understand why I was only finding out now– this was five weeks in the past. I should’ve already known about this.

      “I- Absolutely, we have to get the true heir ready.”

      “Please, don’t be like this, Timmy. You know I don’t see it like that. I just need Damian to feel comfortable and secure in his place in this family.”
      It was the same thing he said to me when he adopted me– not that it lasted very long; I was emancipated less than a year after, when he disappeared. The same thing Nightwing had said when he took Robin and the Titans from me. The same thing that had me screaming inside: didn't I deserve to feel safe, didn’t I deserve to be loved? But I have long since moved on from the childish notion that these people would ever love me. I don’t think they’re even capable of it. Not true love– maybe some twisted form of obsession, but not love. How could they be? They had never experienced it themselves. It was a case where nurture won out. No matter how much potential they had to be good people, they would always be stuck in the middle. They were heroes, they saved the world, they were good to everyone, except those close to them. I suppose it’s one of the sacrifices of being a hero— estranging your ‘loved’ ones. 

      “Oh no, am I acting displeased? My mistake. Clearly, this is nothing to be upset over. Not as if something I gave my blood, sweat, and tears for–oh, and let’s not forget my spleen–is being taken from me and given to someone who couldn’t be any more undeserving if he tried. No, absolutely not, that’s not what’s going on.”

      Ok, so I might have overreacted, but I just sealed my death warrant for this godforsaken family. What do I get for it? Nothing. I should look on the bright side; I won’t be here to see my wannabe murderer take over. If I had known that Damian would end up taking over Wayne Enterprises, I wouldn’t have taken it from Hush; I would have just destroyed it. No, you wouldn’t, you’d do the exact same thing. Pathetic. What does it say about me that I’m not even mad that one of my ‘brothers’ is constantly trying to kill me? I can’t be mad about it, because I understand it. I can see where Robin is coming from. He sees me as a threat. A threat to his inheritance and his pride. I understand that it was how he was raised. I can’t fault him for it. He’s just a kid with no control over his life. 

  “Sigh– Timothy, listen. You have done a great job managing the company– you really have. It’s just that the investors would be so much more comfortable if Damian ended up leading WE. You know that. Besides, you have your own future to look forward to. There are so many opportunities for you, WE is just holding you back,” he says as if this decision was really in my best interest, like it was made to help me.

      Ya, leading a multibillion-dollar company is just such a waste of my time. I did more for that company in two years than anyone else had done in a decade. All of my hard work—my strategies and my plans—mean nothing now. I’m tempted to use my last five weeks in this universe to burn it to the ground– all of it. 

      “I get it, Bruce, I really do. It’s important to look after your family.”

      With that, I walk away, heading straight for the front door. I have a lot of work to do– some of which needs to be done in the cave, but I can’t even think about being productive right now. I just want my Nest. While I know that I probably won’t sleep a wink when I get back, this conversation is bleeding into the ‘crying your eyes out while you try to convince yourself you made the right choice’ timeslot. I am an avid time-blocker and follow a very strict schedule; I can only set aside so much time for mental breakdowns. For the next five weeks, I might have to take some time from WE to use for dissociating. According to Bruce, it would just be a waste of time, anyway.

— – — – — – — –— – — – — – — – — – — – — – — –— – — – — – — –— – — – — – — –
      Opening the door, I’m greeted with my absolutely freezing apartment. Just how I like it. I keep the thermostat as low as I can; it helps ground me when I’m having a panic attack or am overstimulated. 

      My brain gets the best of me a lot. It’s my greatest strength, but sometimes it feels more like a weakness. Compared to the other Robins, it’s a standout flaw. Amongst perfect examples of athleticism and intellect, my stature and disa– differences often make me feel like a second-rate Robin. Logically, I know I am the best detective out of the four of us, but my intelligence comes with drawbacks. It took me so much longer than others to figure out just how feelings work. Compared to the others, my physical abilities leave much to be desired. Apparently, a lack of nutrition during one's formative years can lead to a rather short adult height. That’s what happens when you leave a four-year-old alone for extended periods: you end up with a height of 5’4”. I couldn’t even reach the food, how was I supposed to eat? I’m still growing, of course, but I doubt I make it past 5’7”. 

      Lady Shiva was the only one who taught me how to use my body. I wasn’t as strong as Batman and Red Hood, not as flexible and long as Nightwing, and I sure as hell wasn’t trained by assassins since birth like Robin. She taught me my size could be turned into an advantage, something no one had ever told me before. 
I remember the looks of disappointment Bats would give me when he noticed that I wasn’t growing nearly as much as I should have been. He had taken me to Dr. Thompkins with the hope that there could be an easy fix. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew it was likely due to my childhood. That wasn’t a good enough excuse, though. Hood grew up on the streets, with little food, but he still ended up built like a fucking brickhouse. I’m holding onto the fact that I’m still taller than Damian, but probably not for long.

      My apartment is decorated in what looks like a nerd’s paradise. Fictional weapons and props are all around the apartment on tables and in cases. They look like very real replicas. What no one knows is that I spent insane amounts of time creating each one to be as dangerous and useful as possible. Every single one does its purpose, or at least as close as I could get, which is pretty damn close. I consider them my version of sleeping with a gun under your pillow. I’m surrounded by experimental weaponry in every room, yet I never feel safer than when I’m in my Nest.

      The only place that could possibly measure up is my burrow. Robins don’t have burrows; they live in circular nests. I call it the Burrow, because when I’m in it, I’m not Red Robin. I like to imagine I’m another vigilante in a whole other universe. 

      When I was younger, I never really considered Robin as a possibility until Jason died. Before that, I wanted to be someone's Guy in the Chair. Like Ned from that Spider-Man movie. My dream was always to create the tech for heroes, to help guide them. Now, I can’t imagine just sitting in a chair. I don’t trust anyone to do what I know I can do. I’ve seen how other heroes treat their tech and guide people. I would have crashed out on the first day.

      When I finally reach my bed, I collapse onto it. I can feel the tears start to wet my face and the pillow. Letting the emotions wash over me like a wave, just as I was taught in therapy. Ok, so I didn’t go to therapy, but I could basically have my PHD in psychology by now if I wanted to. Everyone’s deaths flash in my head, like some kind of sick highlights reel. Everything I saw on the monitors is just swirling around in my head, over and over again. Their voices wrap around me like a shroud. I start thinking of all our interactions. I felt sick from our relationships. I knew I was part of the reason I didn’t get along with any of them. Maybe I should have tried harder. Maybe I should have pushed past Alfred's polite but distant approach to me. If I had told Batman all my concerns, would he still have hurt me? Damian might have– no, there was nothing I could do about Damian. Or Jason. He tried to kill me before I even knew he was alive. I still wonder what would have happened if I had said yes to being his Robin, though. How different my life would be.

      All of these thoughts and more swirl through my head as I let sleep take over me. Everyone assumed I never slept, that I couldn’t sleep. It’s not true, though. I sleep too easily. I'm constantly fighting to stay awake. Being constantly exhausted, sleep finds me easily. So no, it’s not falling asleep that’s the problem. It’s the nightmares.

Chapter Text

      The weeks pass in a blur. I spend so much time preparing for not only the invasion, but also my eventual departure. There are failsafes already prepared for my inevitable death, but this feels different. I’m not dying– I’m leaving. A younger me would have expected that my ‘death’ would be by my own choice. Alone in that empty house, I’d fill notebooks with potential ways I could die, and how my parents would react. Naively, I’d imagine that my death is what it would take for them to realize how much they messed me up. I’m not an idiot, I’ve been saving children from unsafe homes for years now– I recognize the signs.

      In my head, they would stand at my grave and apologize for all the times they left me alone, all the times I had to cry myself to sleep because there was no one there to comfort me. Now, it’s Bruce and the others whom I imagine. Would I even be buried with the Waynes? Jason wasn’t. Knowing Damian, he would probably protest my inclusion. The whole ordeal would dredge up old feelings between Jason and Bruce. Jason would likely end up going on a Gotham villain-killing spree. Dick would attempt to mediate, trying to convince Jason that Bruce was a good person—a good father. Because he was, just for Dick.

      The original Batman and Robin, the perfect duo. They were practically made for each other. The way they bounced ideas off each other, the way they worked in perfect coordination. Maybe it wasn’t a strictly healthy relationship, but it’s what worked for them. It wasn’t the same with any of the other Robins. Jason was too untrusting and angry– he and Bruce clashed. I was too independent to be the perfect and obedient Robin that he wanted me to be. Damian– well, that’s kinda self-explanatory. He reminds Bruce of something terrible that happened to him.

      I can’t really blame Dick. In his eyes, Bruce really is a great father figure. He remembers him as a steadfast and safe presence. I don’t have the heart to tell him that was a singular experience. Even though Dick is very much an adult. Though clearly, some childhood trauma lingers, making him unable to differentiate the Bruce he knew from Bruce now. I mean, it must be the reason, right? Otherwise, how can he not see how Bruce treats us?

      My apartment is covered in sticky notes and papers– taped to every available surface. It looks like a serial killer’s hideout. I can relate to the manic rush of adrenaline they must get. I feel this way any time I get caught up in something. My hands almost move on their own, my brain going a million miles an hour. I get out of breath, even though I hardly move. I’ll usually end up crashing at the end and waking up with a feeling of wanting more. More feelings. I want to chase the high of when my skin feels like it’s being– well, it's hard to explain. It’s like my skin is slowly leaving my body. There’s no tearing feeling, just like for once my bones get to feel air.

      I’ve just woken up from one of my post-’I don’t need sleep, I need answers’ freakouts. That feeling of wanting, needing, a sensation I can barely describe, is already crawling into my mind. Thankfully, chasing this feeling for the last three weeks has made me extremely productive. WE is ready for Damian to take over, all my cases are closed, and the plans are ready to be put into action. All that’s left is to tell the others. One last thing on my list is to make a final draft of how I am gonna say goodbye. I’ve written over a dozen possible starters and over twice as many responses from the others. So far, I’m leaning towards not telling them I’m about to get yeeted across the multiverse and instead fake my death. Yes, it would be extra work, but I’d be able to avoid unwanted feelings.

      Tonight is the night I am telling everyone about what will happen in two weeks– if my plan doesn’t work. I am almost positive it did, but I won’t get confirmation for at least one more week, and if it didn’t, then that’s not enough time to get everyone ready.

      My plan is pretty simple. It only required a bit of research, a phone call, and about 50 million dollars. The Green Lantern Corps did most of the heavy lifting. When united, there are very few forces that could beat them. The issue is that there are only so many in one sector at any time. And if there is an emergency, it takes too long to gather enough members without advance notice. So, I gave them advance notice, as well as detailed information on the ships, strategies, and weapons they used. I also bought them a property to use for ‘team building retreats’. I don’t know why the fuck they needed that. Especially on Earth. Aren’t we, like, one of the shittiest planets? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s what convinced them to follow a tip that had no proof. Of course, I have numerous contingencies in place if they fail.

      I’ve been hoping beyond hope that I will hear from them soon. If I know that the problem’s been fixed, I won’t have to tell Batman or the others about it. Avoiding that conversation really is one of my top priorities.

      I’m swinging through the air, feeling weightless. You always make me feel better, Gotham. I can almost feel her hands brushing through my hair, her whispers telling me she’ll keep me safe– telling me I’m treasured.

      I’m at my highest when something feels wrong. Snap. I begin to fall before I realize what's happening. My line snapped. No, our lines are too strong and well tested to just break on us. My stomach feels too empty and too full when I figure it out. Someone cut my line.

      In midair, I drop my grappler and reach into my pocket for a box-shaped device. Quickly, I pull it out and unfold it. In my hands is now a long rope with a sharp claw at one end. Aiming, I throw it and am able to get it to loop around a fire escape. I can feel my shoulder jerk out of place when the rope yanks taut.

      The whole ordeal must have been less than five seconds, and that’s what it felt like. Pulling myself up, I bring myself up to sit on the fire escape rail. I was with the rest of them, swinging and getting ready to separate into teams for patrol. Once a week, Dick insists we all start our patrols together. I was going to use tonight to tell them about our maybe impending doom.

      I decide to wait until someone notices I’m not there by reducing my shoulder. I relax my muscles as much as I can, something I’m very good at. I do it to calm myself down, slowly tensing and relaxing each muscle. Sometimes, I’ll pick a fun order to do it in, like alphabetical. Bringing my shoulder around to the back of my head, I reach for my opposite shoulder, feeling it pop back into place. In my utility belt is material I use to make a sling.

      Contrary to popular belief, you can't just pop your shoulder back into place and be all good. It takes not only a period of immobilization, but also physical therapy to regain a full range of motion, which you need for grappling. I’ll have to get a scan back at the cave. I don’t think any muscles are torn, but I can't be sure.

      “Red Robin, we’re assigning patrol buddies. Where are you?” my comm buzzes to life with Nightwing’s voice.

      I reply, maybe a bit too joyfully, I can overdo it with tones sometimes when I’m not focused. “My line broke. I dislocated my shoulder. I’ll be working on cases in my Nest for tonight.”

      “How did your line break?” Batman interjects.

      “It was cut.”

      “Very few knives can cut through our lines,” Nightwing supplies. Like, ya, we went through this whole thing with the Red Hood.

      “I know,” I leave it at that. It shouldn’t be hard to put two and two together. Might as well call Robin four.

      “Sigh… Head back to the cave to get it checked out by Agent A. I’ll have a discussion with him,” Batman says, signaling the end of the conversation. Hey, it went longer than they usually did.

      I want to say I’ll stop at Dr. Thompkins on the way to my Nest, but I really need to tell everyone about the alien invasion subplot that’s going on. If I go back to my Nest, I won’t work up the courage to go to the cave and tell them before we all become slaves to our new alien overlords.

      Making my way carefully to the ground, I call for my bike. Usually, I’d feel guilty for ending patrol early, but tonight I’m telling myself that all the crimes I prevented with my foreknowledge can excuse this.

      I still feel guilty.

      It’s early morning by the time everyone is back at the cave. Because tonight was the weekly ‘family patrol’, everyone returned to the cave together. When Batman sees that I’m still in the cave, he looks a bit surprised. Or, as surprised as Batman can look. He knows I wouldn't spend an extra minute here if he begged. The others seem to notice too, bringing their eyes to rest on me.

      I’m sitting at the big monitor, the one reserved for those leading a mission. They should be able to tell something serious is going on. Hopefully, this will be easier than I have imagined. I’d bet Ra’s’s obsession that it would be. I’m counting on losing that bet.

      Everyone gathers by the monitors as I pull up the recording I have prepared. While the invasion was going on, I pulled all the footage I could from the dominoes before I went back in time. Any information could be invaluable. For this showing, I edited out any deaths. They didn’t need to see each other fall brutally in combat. When I press play, they look confused, but their expressions quickly change to surprise and then horror.

      “What- where did you get this Red Robin?” Nightwing manages to get out, but it seems the video had its intended effect: it scared them.

      “In two weeks, Earth will be invaded by an alien force. On that day, our cities will be destroyed and our forces crippled. It will be a crushing defeat for us. Many fall in preliminary strikes, the rest slowly in combat. The last I saw was a couple of rogues holding on,” I let what I say settle over them. They need to realize how important this is. Part of me, though, knows that the reason I need them to believe me is so they will recognize how traumatic it must have been to see them die. I should know by now that validation is not what I need, but I still crave it. I’m sure there’s some sad indie song that relates it to empty calories or something.

      Red Hood’s face is covered by his helmet, but I would guess that his expression is somewhere between Nightwing’s look of terror and the anger that rests on Damian’s face. Batman, stoic as ever, remains silent, staring at the screen as if his gaze alone could suddenly fix everything.

      “When did you come back?” Batman’s words are the first to break the silence that has settled over us since the footage ended.

      I’ve been dreading this question, but I answer anyway, “Four days ago.”

      My face remains still– it's the most natural position. He'd better not see through this lie. Of everything he could’ve called bullshit on, this is like the only one I want him not to notice. The bastard ignored all of my other lies; can’t he ignore this one, too?

      I search his eyes for any hint that he knows I’m lying. All I see is his usual slightly displeased blank stare.

      Moving to get up from the chair, Batman moves to block me. I rub my hand across my face and sigh, “Look, I’ve alerted the Green Lantern Corps about the issue two days ago. They should intercept the ship shortly.”

      “You told the Lanterns before you told us?” Dick asks, sounding slightly offended.

      “I had to make sure that this was my universe before I told you all, but I couldn’t afford to wait to tell the Corps,” I answer.

      Robin speaks up, “And is it?”

      “Is it what?” I reply.

      “Your universe.” My arm jerks, forcing me to rein myself in. I want nothing more than to move my arms and legs. There’s this feeling in the joints, like they need to move. It’s almost painful, but I force myself to settle.

      “From what I can tell, yes.”

      “How did you get back?” Red Hood finally voices.

      If I tell them about the DTD, they’ll know that I’m lying about when I came back. Batman knows how the device works. He knows that it takes you five weeks back. That means he also knows that I will get transported to another dimension. I can’t let him find out. He can’t stop me. This was supposed to be my one chance out.

      I must have taken too long to answer because I hear Robin’s voice, “Well?”

      “I-I’m not really sure, it’s all kind of a blur. I just remember watching your screens black out and then an explosion. When I woke up, I thought I was in some version of hell,” I say, trying to distract them by garnering pity.

      “Oh, Red, I’m so sorry. I just wish you had told us sooner. We could have helped. You didn’t have to go through that alone,” Nightwing offers.

      “What’s done is done. For now, we have to prepare, “ Batman interjects.

      “I’ll let you know when I hear from the corps. Everything else is on the drive,” I say before turning to leave, almost running.

      After changing and making my way up to my room in the manor. Lying on my bed, I can finally listen to the feelings in my joints. I let my limbs move as they want, the sliding of the comforter against my clothes the only sound. It almost hurts to hold in the sounds that want to come out of my mouth, but I’m already allowing myself this moment of weakness, I don’t want to push it. I don’t breathe for what feels like minutes, just letting my senses calm down before I resume the arduous task of timely breathing.

      Finally, my mind blanks and my body stills. It feels like, for the first time in the last couple of days, I can breathe. My arm burns; I shouldn’t have moved it, but it was too hard to resist the pull in my joints. The night's events sink in like a heavy cloud. I shouldn’t be surprised by Robin’s actions. They weren’t out of the ordinary. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t personal; I was just his chosen target to take out his feelings of helplessness and weakness on. His feelings had little to do with me, but it still stings just a little.

      I pull myself into a tight ball with my eyes closed tightly. My throat feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. Hiraeth. A longing for a home that doesn’t exist anymore, or maybe never did. That’s how I feel. I glance at the door, and I feel just like I did when I was a kid waiting for someone, anyone, to walk through the door.

      It seems my prayers have been answered because Dick walks through my door. He’s in civies, and I can’t help but think he looks wrong. Dick was Nightwing, Nightwing was Dick. It’s weird to see him as not Nightwing; it always has been.

      “Hey Timmy, thought I’d check on you. You seemed a bit down. It’s understandable, though. You’ve been through a lot. I just wish you had told us,” Dick says with concern.

      “I wanted to, but I was… It doesn’t matter,” I try to say, but it comes out wrong, muffled almost. It feels wrong to talk. I don’t want to, I just want to be quiet. My mouth feels like it wants to stay closed.

      “You were what, Tim? Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you trust us?” His voice sounds almost angry at the end, like I did something wrong. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to make him upset. I could feel my brain start boiling over. It burns.

      “I was– I just,” I start, but I can tell I was mumbling and stuttering. It feels so difficult just to make my mouth form around the sounds.

      “What, Tim?!” he shouts. He freezes after he realizes he’d raised his voice. My eyes are wide and I could feel tears. I’m not usually this weak, but everything feels like too much. I can feel the panic sink in. I want to hyperventilate, it feels like that would soothe my burn– the sharp breaths.

      I somehow find my voice, but it feels empty and brittle. “I was scared you would think I was crazy again.”

      That was something I haven’t even admitted to myself before. I told myself it would make the plan simpler if they didn’t know, but deep down, I knew it was because I was scared. Scared I’d be called crazy again. Scared they would leave me again. I don’t think I could handle that.

      Dick seems to have nothing to say. This has to be a first. He doesn’t say anything, he just turns and leaves.

Chapter Text

      I’m counting down the days until I’m out of this hell. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything is just getting worse. Maybe my impending doom is getting to me. The idea of disappearing from this universe is both a comfort and absolutely terrifying at the same time. 

      My heart's been beating too fast and too slow. Every time I blink, I feel like I’m losing minutes. Something has to be wrong. The nightmares have been getting even worse lately. This isn’t my normal.

     Maybe it’s some kind of cruel trick. Like, ya, you get five weeks in your universe, but you go crazy before the end of them. That doesn’t make sense, even to my sleep-addled brain. Is this what insanity feels like?

     Lying awake, staring at my ceiling in the hope that I’ll see something– anything– that will distract me. The TV doesn’t work, nor do logic puzzles– I can’t even focus long enough to solve any of them. I pull the covers off and move to stand up, but I don’t even make it that far. Before I can sit all the way up, I get so dizzy I’m not even sure where anything is. Which is saying something– I have everything memorized so I can walk blind through the apartment. Call it paranoid, I call it PTSD. Oh, wait, paranoia’s a symptom of PTSD. Fuck this man, I’m too tired. 

     I should probably get out of bed and deal with the fact that I’m leaving this earthly plane in four days, but I’m trying to convince myself the dizziness is some kind of sign from the powers that be that I shouldn’t tell the bats anything. 

     Yet again, I try to make my body move. Gravity’s on my side this time as I’m able to sit up. Well, not so much sit up as kinda scrunch up enough, I’m able to keep balance and not fall over. There’s no noise as I sit, planning out my next couple of steps. 

     Nothing feels natural anymore. It’s like I’m out of time with everyone else. I feel like I’m moving between seconds, but not in the cool speedster way. More in a ‘losing touch with reality’ way. 

      Finally getting to my feet, I head out of my room and make my way to the kitchen. I make my absolutely favorite breakfast: two energy drinks that may or may not be legal in the US, as well as some caffeinated water to water it down. I gotta pace myself, you know? I say right before guzzling it all. Maybe that exceeds the recommended 400 mg, but the side effects are issues with sleeping, anxiety, and hallucinations, and I already got all of those. I might as well get something out of the deal. 

      My apartment still looks like it's been taken over by a crazed psychopath, which isn’t all that far from the truth, according to some, ahem.  Barely managing to avoid tripping over some books on string theory, I reach my front door, which I might have barricaded in a paranoid frenzy. Yaaa, I am not doing ok. I have reasons to be paranoid, though. There are literally people out to get me. I have a list.

      Moving aside the furniture and undoing the multiple manual locks– I don’t trust technological ones, and the idea of being locked in here when something goes wrong is definitely a nightmare of mine– I leave my apartment, ready for the day.

      After making it outside– and then looking at my watch– I realize it’s actually four in the afternoon. I’m leaving in four days. “Once is happenstance. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is enemy action.” Four must be even worse. Why is it always four? Am I looking for fours? No, no, I’m just more aware of them now.

      Maybe walking wasn’t the best idea. My legs are responding too slowly, and my breath keeps escaping me. I don’t think I trust myself to drive right now, but I need to go somewhere. Anywhere that doesn't remind me of the multiversal horrors I’m about to face. 

      By the time I reach the corner, my bones have melted and my eyes aren’t far behind. I’m a puppet with my strings cut. You might as well take away the last four days if this is what they’ll be like. None of my usual crutches are working. Nicotine patches don’t feel like they used to. Alcohol just makes it worse. Even pain doesn’t snap me out of my fits like it usually does. 

      I’m getting weird looks at this point. This might not be the nicest area in Gotham, but it’s sure as hell not the worst. It doesn’t concern me too much. This is Gotham, they’ll see something stranger in, like, two minutes. 

      Old Gotham holds so many memories for me. I say I moved here to be closer to Wayne Tower, but I know there’s more to it than that. It’s the farthest I could be away from Wayne Manor while still being within Gotham’s arms. It’s close to the Clock Tower, so I can stay in touch with the others, but distant enough that I’m usually the only one patrolling there. It’s my territory. Mine. There’s a feeling of comfort in the idea that I have something. I have it. I have a place. 

      Even if I feel like a whisper when I’m with the others, in Old Gotham, the gargoyles know my name. They tell Gotham what I’m up to when she’s too busy with her other knights. I’ve been on every roof, walked every road. I grew up climbing the fire escapes and hiding in the trees.

      All of these roads are ingrained in my brain. 

      I don’t even know where I’m going at this point. My feet are no longer connected to my brain. They move me down the familiar paths. I let Gotham guide me as she wishes– she usually knows best. I wonder if Gotham will like me in the other universes. I like to think I’ll always be her knight, no matter what universe we meet in. 

      Before I know it, I end up in one of my old spots. I used to get great pictures from this place. In front of me, there’s an old tree that has managed to grow almost as tall as the buildings on either side of it. When I was younger, I would climb it and nestle myself in between two branches that had just enough cover so that no one could see me, but I could see everything. 

      It’s a hard place to be, with my current situation. I wonder if this place is supposed to make me regret my actions that have led to my hopeless state. Maybe that’s what the ice in my throat is. I swallow, trying to dislodge the ice cube. It doesn’t move, it just gets bigger. 

      In front of my eyes, I can see a smaller me scamper his way up the tree and cover himself with the leaves. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a camera that is way too expensive for any kid to have– expensive gifts totally make up for missing my birthday, Mom and Dad. 

      Should I chalk the hallucinations up to too much caffeine or too little sleep? 

      I find myself walking through the city, ending up at different spots I used to visit as a lonely kid and then a lonely kid in a cape. Each spot brings up a new sensation I find myself trying to describe, if only for me to understand it a bit better. The sun’s set at this point, and everything feels like too much. 

      I wanna go home. I want my burrow. My nest. Anything that’ll make me feel calm. All the feelings from the sights are building on top of each other and are about to fall on me. 

      The next place my feet stop is a small photography shop. One I frequented often when I was young and trying to buy supplies with cash my parents left. The doors are closed and the windows shuttered. It must have closed a couple of months ago, by the looks of it. Hopefully, the old woman finally retired to Palm Springs like she always talked about.

      My hands move before I realize. I pull lockpicks out of my shoe– I don’t have my usual ones in my pocket– and start on the lock. It clicks within seconds. After I finish the padlock on the doors, I start on the one in the door. 

      I’m walking through the doors, all the way to the darkroom in the back. That room is where I would develop some of my earlier photos. It was before I had the equipment at home– before I even knew who Robin was. Younger me makes another appearance. He walks out of me and heads to the darkroom door, opening it and turning to look back at me. He wants something, I know he does. I just don’t know what. 

      The disappointed look that flashes over his face causes an ache in my spine. I can feel it behind my stomach, it feels like cracking. That look is one I’ve seen so many times in the mirror. It’s the look that I always had when I got the message my parents weren’t coming home after I’d spent hours and hours waiting at the door in my best outfit, my posture perfect, and a smile that quickly turned painful. 

      I want to follow him– see what he sees, but I know if I do, I’ll just end up alone in the darkroom, crying my eyes out. 

      My feet are glued to the floor. I can feel ice start to grow up my legs, holding me in place. My teeth throb and ache as I open my mouth to try and say something to him. I reach towards him with my hand outstretched, but he closes the door before I can do anything. 

      Everything’s a blur as I exit the store and head back to my apartment. I feel like I missed something– like that was a crucial moment that could have changed everything. It’s probably the lack of sleep, but my head is spinning and I can barely remember how to walk.

      Before I know it, it’s dark, and I’m still no closer to my apartment. I should be getting ready for patrol right now. My suit and staff are waiting for me.

      This last week, I haven’t been able to bring myself to go to my Nest. All of my gear is stored in a small safe room in my apartment. The last time I was in my Nest, I started packing up my things. I’d brought boxes and everything.

      I don’t know what came over me. It’s like I had this subconscious need to pack up my whole life– to make it easier on everyone when I’m gone. It shouldn’t be easy for them, though. I want them to sift through all of my things, remembering painful times, or bringing up past regrets. I need them to mourn me. I need it. 

     The streetlights are all on– at least the ones that work– but I still can’t seem to see anything. Everything’s bleeding together until it all mixes at the bottom of my eyes into a black boiling mess. I’m moving my feet, but I’m not going anywhere. All of the scenery is on replay. Trees and buildings I know I’ve seen before keep coming back into my vision. 

      I’m walking in a daze as I notice a sign reading, “Shappell Cemetery.” Maybe I’m feeling sentimental– or simply emo– I decide it’s the perfect place for me to spend the night. 

      If I go to my apartment, I don’t want to know what my sick mind will think of to occupy my time. I don’t have enough time to go on a bender and lose a couple of days.

      Inside the cemetery, I wander to the back where a brick wall looms over the graves and mausoleums. Right in front of me, there’s a moderately sized, simple structure. It’s made of Belgian Black Marble, making it stand out against the others. The stark color draws me in, but its disrepair leaves me pondering. I wonder if this is what my grave will look like, if anyone would take the time to think about what kind of marble I would like, if anyone would get it right.

      I read the name inscribed on the plaque and whisper it to myself. Thinking of who lies forgotten in this cobweb-covered mausoleum, I find myself tidying up around it. The idea that I might be the only one still saying their name makes me whisper it continuously to myself. 

      Delilah 

      Delilah

      As I’m cleaning up, I notice a girl who’s probably in her mid twenties fade through the door to the mausoleum. She’s wearing what looks like a white church dress, covered in lace. Her dark hair fans out behind her, as if in the breeze of some unseen wind. Her gaze scans the cemetery until coming to rest on me. 

      “You cleaned it,” she says in a voice that sounds almost disapproving.

      “It was dirty,” is the only reply I can muster, having to quickly move past the whole “she’s a ghost” thing.

      Her nose wrinkles and her upper lip curls. It’s not in an unkind way. It’s more in a “what is this dirty little thing and why is it bothering me?” 

      “I- I, uhm, thought you’d appreciate if it was clean. You know?”

      Her eyes roll, “No, I do not know . You shouldn’t go around touching other people’s graves,” she sniffs, “Mine was exactly how I wanted it.”

      “Oh, umm, I can put the trash back?” I say, with a smile that looks similar to a grimace. 

      “No, how it is now is fine,” she rushes, “I just liked it a bit more before, but this will do, too.”

      “So, we’re cool then? Ar- are you even real?" Fingers crossed she’s a ghost and not a hallucination.

      She gasps, “How dare you? You can’t just ask a lady if she’s real!”

      Fuck me, she’s probably a hallucination. I know there’s an easy way to find out, but I don’t want to look into her. If I find out she’s a hallucination, I- I just can’t bring myself to think about that right now.

      “One more question, is it chill if I sleep here for the night, like in that tree over there?” I ask, pointing towards a tree about twelve feet away from her dwelling place.

      She just looks at her nails and replies with a small glance up, “Hmmm? If you’d like, it’s not my tree.”

      With that last reply, she walks back into her mausoleum and it was like she was never there to begin with. 

      It was a ghost, it had to have been a ghost. 

      I know I saw visions of a younger me, but that was different. Those were memories, this is a whole person I’ve never met. If she’s a hallucination, then I don’t have control over my mind anymore. There’ve always been times when my head gets away from me (a lot of times), but this? This is a whole new level.

      My neck twitches to the side a couple of times in quick succession, almost giving me whiplash as it snaps my head rapidly. The weight of what just happened is settling over me like a wet blanket. My spine compresses, the vertebrae getting closer and closer to each other until, finally, one of them snaps and sends me standing up as tall as I can, an arch in my back.

      I tell myself I’m fine and should really head back to my apartment, but the idea of four walls surrounding me– four very reinforced walls– almost sends me spinning.

      Making my way over to the tree, repeating the lyrics of Don’t Fear the Reaper in my head until I’m up the tree and nestled in its branches. 

      It’s as good a place as ever to fall asleep and hopefully not wake up. 

Chapter Text

3 Days

      I haven’t been back to my apartment. Everything there just reminds me of my nearing end. The half packed boxes and sticky notes trying to track events overwhelm me. 

      The Nest’s been empty the whole time too. I’m not Red Robin anymore, and I’m sure as hell not Robin. I should have let go of this part of my life ages ago. I know that, but I still want to be part of everything. No matter how obvious it was that I was getting pushed out of the family, I fought tooth and nail to try and keep my spot in. I realize now that I never truly had a spot to begin with. 

      It’s sad how counting down the days to your death changes your perspective.

      I’m losing touch. I see it every time I grab something. My hand becomes TV static, and my teeth click. Sometimes, my hand’ll flicker slightly before coming into focus. I noticed it yesterday, too. Now, though, it feels like it got turned up. 

      Paranoia stops me from resting. Last night, I fought to keep my eyes open, knowing if they closed, I’d lose time. I can’t afford to lose even a second. As more and more sand falls through the hourglass, I feel like I’m losing bits and pieces of myself.

      I know eventually I’ll have to go back to my apartment and grab the bag I’ve prepared for my ‘trip,’ but I haven’t quite worked up the courage. 

      Walking through the streets of Old Gotham, I can’t help but treat everything like it’s my last time seeing it. I- I just don’t know what to do.

2 Days

      I left Old Gotham.

      Everything carried too many memories. Memories of B and all the others, but also memories of before I even met them. I don’t know which type hurts more.

      My shoulder still aches, but I refuse to wear a sling. I tell myself it doesn’t matter in the end. I’ll be dead before it heals anyway. 

      There are infinite universes; the chance I land in one that doesn’t support human life is, not surprisingly, very high. If I’m lucky, I’ll die instantaneously. If I’m not, I’ll have to see a near perfect version of this one and slowly go crazy.

1 Day

      It’s almost here. I don’t want to admit it, but I’m terrified.

      I’ve been visiting Delilah. After I worked up the courage to venture back into Old Gotham, her grave was the first place I went. She’s comforting, real or not.

      While patrolling– in plainclothes– I’ve seen Hood on my roofs, his ruthless efficiency making appearances every now and then.  He must’ve been delegated to my territory after I missed check-ins. B probably thinks I went on a bender. To be fair, it’s not the first time. 

      I’m walking the streets when I see him. He’s just sitting on a rooftop looking down. I move to stand under an eave so he can’t see me. If I’m leaving in one day, at least let it be a day free of Hood.

      I stare at him, just like I did when we were younger. Of course, he didn’t know it then, either. Maybe this is what I was always meant to do– just watch.

      My heart skips a beat when his black lenses turn in my direction. Logically, I know he can’t see me, but tell that to my oncoming panic attack. The only times he actually looked at me were the times he tried to inflict severe bodily harm.

      I inch farther into the shadows, pressing myself flush against the wall and calling on all of my training to disappear. Gotham takes mercy and wraps her shadows around me. All I can think is that this might be the last time I feel her embrace. 

      By the time Hood’s gone, my attention’s been diverted to the current stream of tears on my cheeks. My joints unlock, and I sway until I steady myself on the old brick beside me. I don’t always know why I cry. It’s not from an exact emotion, it’s more that everything is piling up in my ribs and it’s spilling out my eyes.

      I haven’t checked to see if the Corps has tried to contact me. I figured if it was bad, the bats would have tried harder to reach me. 

      It seems stupid that my last day is being spent leaning against some old building, crying my eyes out. Who knew my demise would be so anticlimactic.

      Maybe it’s best this way. If no one knows where I’m going, there’s no way to find me. I don’t know what to do. My moral compass is calling me a horrible person. Even if this was to save the world, I know deep down I was just hoping it would get me out of here. 

      It might seem like I’m a horrible person, trying to leave behind this world just to escape my own dissatisfaction. There’s no ‘but,’ I think that too. Have I done enough to be excused from this hell? I know I’ve done more than most people. Simple logic can tell me that, but will it ever be enough? I guess I’ll find out in about seven hours.

Chapter Text

      I don’t remember what I was doing when it happened. I don’t remember how it felt or what I heard. All I know is that it hurts now. Everything feels so wrong. Moving my body makes it feel like I’m cracking each bone and stretching every tendon.

      Whatever I’m on is at least soft, softer than the benches I’ve been sleeping on the last couple nights. I never got the courage to tell anyone I was about to die. There was just never a good time. Trying to convince myself I did the right thing, I keep repeating in my head that this way, no one would try and save me. 

The bed creaks as I manage to find the strength to pull my body up, but my actions feel disconnected, like I’m just a puppet getting my strings pulled.

      I pull myself out of the bed and manage to get both feet on the ground. Only for a second though.

      I immediately eat shit.

      Great, this universe seems to hate me just as much as the last one. 

      Footsteps start towards me, the sound of the crash seems to have alerted someone that I was awake. I steel myself for whoever the fuck is gonna walk through that door. It could be anyone; someone I know, an enemy, or– and I think this is the worst option– myself.

      My heart’s throbbing in my chest. I’m trying to get up off the floor but my thoughts are buffering, it takes longer for my body to move, like my commands aren’t reaching my legs.

      I’m still on the floor when the doorknob turns. Everything’s frozen, there’s frost around my eyes and I can only see directly in front of me. I think my bones are becoming brittle and frost-bitten.

      The door begins to open and I want to just close my eyes and fade away. First a perfectly polished dress shoe enters, then a slim trouser leg, until in front of me stands a man I know I have never seen before, but is so familiar it aches. It’s in my veins that I know this man, but when I get the courage to look him in the eyes I know I don’t love him the way he clearly loves me. 

      As much as I hate stereotypes about ASD, quite a few ring true for me. Emotions have always been harder for me to understand and identify. When I feel them myself, they never feel the way other people tell me they do. This always makes me confused when I try to link a facial expression to an emotion. This makes it incredibly hard to profile, and I refuse to be bad at something. Instead, it became a hyperfixation of mine. I obsess over facial movements. That’s how I know this man feels something akin to love for me. 

      I never thought it would hurt so much to be loved by someone I’ve never met

      Guilt begins to spiral in my ribs as the man gets an almost indulgent look on his face as he gazes down at me on the floor. 

      “Too much fun last night, Tim?” he asks with a sickly sweet tone and everything I thought about this man seems to flip on itself. 

      I can’t get any words out of my mouth as I look at him. This is a different dimension. I know that. And clearly whoever this man is knows me; knows Tim.

      There’s this feeling that starts to grow from my nails inward, like I’m being pushed out. Suddenly, my body moves despite my strong desire to stay on the ground– oh god I love the ground. Dick was made for the air, Jason for the streets, and Damian for the battlefield. But me, I was made for the ground. Be it dirt or cement, I feel safest when every part of me is touching the floor. You can’t fall if you’ve already hit the bottom.

      When my senses refocus, I’m standing– albeit unsteadily–  and my mouth is moving, “-- Just a bit hungover, no biggie.” 

      Oh god, did those words just leave my mouth in what I know is an intentionally ‘ditzy’ voice. And I know it’s forced because it’s the  same voice I use when I’m undercover. Maybe that’s what this is, an undercover mission. If that’s the case, I shouldn’t mess Tim up. 

      I do everything I can to make myself as small and drawn in as I can in the body. Afterall, I’m basically squatting in Tim’s body, so I should be polite. 

      I can still hear Tim and the man’s voices, but they seem muted and disconnected. 

      “Take care of yourself, Tim. I’d hate to see you burn out at 25 and fall into obscurity,” the man says and manages to make the words feel oily and slick in a way that coats my throat and makes it hard to swallow.

      I can feel the rage that’s buzzing through my body. His body. Our body? Whoever’s body it is, it’s so cold inside, it’s burning. 

      “Don’t be dramatic, I was just having fun. You told me to loosen up,” I– Tim replies. 

      “I just meant a bit. You know I like how tight you are,” before he can even get all the words out, I’m already trying to hold in the vomit. 

      I feel that cold rage again. It bubbles in my ribs, in a special place reserved for it. It’s always there, but now it’s growing and spreading. My body feels too small for my rage, like it wasn’t meant to feel this much. It’s not just the ice cold rage, there’s a feeling of oil coating my blood. It stops up my veins, not letting the blood flow. Tim is pissed too, I can feel it, but it’s different. It’s not as strong. It feels faded and insignificant compared to mine. I hate to think that he might just be used to it, like it’s normal. 

      The longer I stay in this body, the more I think that Tim’s not undercover. It’s not just how the man speaks to him, it’s the way the body feels. There’s none of the muscle I’ve worked for meticulously. No strength behind my arms and legs. I feel weak. I hate it. I hate it so much it stings. I’ve done everything I can to not be weak, to be able to take care of myself and not let anyone control me, yet here I am; feeble and being walked all over by a man I wouldn’t have even glanced at. 

      By the time my thoughts return, I’m already moving. Tim’s heading toward another room and, whether I like it or not, I’m going with him. When he opens the door I’m greeted with photos. Everywhere I look there’s a photo hanging there. Whether in a frame or taped to the wall, they’re over every available surface. 

      I feel excitement like I haven’t felt in a very long time. Or, maybe it’s not excitement, not as everyone else feels it. It’s like my blood volume has doubled and is pushing my bones out for more space. My hands twitch, itching for a chance to hold one of the many, many cameras in the room. 

      We walk over to a table spread with photos developed in all different ways. They’re amazing, there’s a raw talent in them I can only hope to reach. Each one brims with feeling. A better word for said feeling is sickness. 

      Each photo oozes with it. Like there’s toxin spilling out of them and I’m inhaling it. There’s so much skin. Large swaths of pale skin, marred with bruises and lacking life. 

      I know they’re me. I can feel the ache of familiarity with the body in those pictures that I only get when I look in the mirror. There are no scars or tone like there is on my body, but each curve of every bone is mine, I know it. The oil is in my throat again. I can’t swallow, my mouth gets too full with what I want to go down my throat and disappear. It lingers there and prevents me from moving on. 

      I see flashes of what must be this Tim’s memories. There’s pain that I’ve never felt before, but there’s still the all too familiar aches that I still feel in the depths of my chest, ever present. All of my knowledge of profiling, of abusive relationships, all come spilling in through my eyes. 

      Those bruises and the pain I learned from myself fit like puzzle pieces, creating a haunted picture of what this Tim’s life is like. I see myself in highschool, making excuses and using designer concealer to cover bruises, just like I did, but I know it was for completely different reasons. A sting in the back of my head makes me question if our lives are all that different. We both dedicated our lives to a man, and we both suffered for it. 

      I want to stay and protect him. I want to fix everything and let him take pictures that don’t document our pain and misery. As I stretch out my body to fill the gaps in between us, I feel my mind expand. Something is pushing the edges out, making it thinner in the space between. It stings and burns, it reminds me too much of the chip that used to be in my neck. I push that thought away and try to focus on taking over the body. Even if I don’t have the strength I used too, I was still trained by one of the few people that could beat Batman in a fight, I could take on a middle-aged predator just fine.

      My last thoughts are that I want to kill him. He hurt me. An innocent person who didn’t choose a dangerous life. I just want to capture the beauty I see in photos, but now I’m just immortalizing my own pain. Tim and I mix in a way I never thought I could do with another person. We lived different lives, but ended up in the same place, hurt and with no one to turn to. 

      I hear a knock on the door and we turn towards it. The doorknob turns, just like I saw when I woke up. The last thing I see is a face I’ve never seen in my own life, but one I will never forget. One I will blame for ruining our life. 

Chapter Text

      The next time I wake up, I’m not laying on a soft mattress, but hard wood flooring. Honestly, I prefer this compared to the weightlessness of the previous mattress. When something gives too much, I feel like I’m floating. Sometimes, I love it like this, it means I can escape just how heavy everything else is. Other times, it leaves me feeling untethered and my mind foggy.

      Feeling the flooring under my body, I try to focus on what just happened. I don’t know how much time has passed between meeting myself and waking up here. I don’t even know where ‘here’ is. 

      Pushing myself up, I notice the same feeling I did when I woke up in my other body. There’s this disconnect, like watching an old camera try to track your movements. 

      I’m able to get up on my hands and knees before I notice how ill this body fits. My mind is being stuffed into a body two sizes too small. I can feel my thoughts flow out of the gaps between the too tight flesh. My hands feel too small to grasp any coherent ideas. 

      Looking down at my hands, they look so… so fragile. I could break every finger right now with one well placed punch to the floor. I could crack them with the other hand with just the slightest force. They look familiar, like looking at a picture of a child and just knowing, deep down, it was you. 

      There are already scars marring the pale, almost translucent, flesh. I know where each mark comes from. I used to stare at these hands for hours, trying to find the answers in my palms. As if the lines my hands made could tell me what was wrong with me. When I look back, I remember just how many tears were shed, even if I didn’t know why.

      When I was younger, I would cry for what I thought was no reason. No one ever bothered to ask me why I was crying. Hell, most of the time there wasn’t even anyone there to see it. I only knew there was a pressure, so to ease said pressure, I would let out the pent up feelings inside me. It didn’t matter if I knew what those feelings were or why I was experiencing them.

      When the world finally settles, I’m able to look around. 

      I know exactly where I am. It’s where I spent most of my time growing up other than the streets (yes, I know how bad that sounds). My room was my only safe place. Neither my parents nor the housekeeper cared about my room, as long as I kept it short of a junkyard. No one saw my room, so it didn’t matter what it looked like. There was no need to put on a show, it was just mine.

      The walls are covered by photos, and I can’t help but think about the room I left myself in. I want to go back. I want to fix it. He doesn’t deserve to suffer like that.  He- he just wants to live. I know, I can feel it. That urge to survive, without even knowing why. I feel it every time I brush just a bit too close to death.

      There’s an all too familiar pressure in my chest. I blame it on the body I’m currently in. There’s not as much room for the pressure to accumulate as usual; not enough space for all my feelings. My ribs are pushing out and my heart is on fire. There’s steam coming up my throat and into my eyes. It begins to collect into drops and fall before I know what to do.

      The only thing I can bring myself to do is crawl into the royal blue sheets on my childhood bed and curl up into a tight ball, trying to keep everything inside. If it all gets out, I won’t have anything to run on. I need the steam, the pressure, everything, if I want to keep breathing. 

      So many philosophers speak of being bound to this mortal flesh, but instead, I feel trapped in a body of steel and coal. I hate how my body runs, what it feeds on. I would give anything to know what it feels like to be made of blood and bone. 

      I let my body cool down for what feels like hours before I feel that familiar sensation of being spread thin and held taught by dissection pins. There’s a fear this time, greater than last, because I know what it means. I don’t want to leave him. I don’t want him to keep living in pain. 

      Finally, I’m pushed out and I see glimpses of his thoughts. His memories seem almost identical to mine. I can’t help but wonder where our universes differ. There has to be something, some defining moment, not that I’ll see it. It could happen ten years from now, and who knows if I’ll even be here as long as I was in the last universe. 

      My body uncurls and pulls itself up into a sitting position before getting up. I move towards the closet and pull out what I used to wear every night; a black hoodie and black running shoes.  

     The edges of vision are covered in fog and I'm still losing time. Scenes blur into one and fade from memory completely before I end up on a roof. 

     I’m kneeling behind an air condition unit and aiming my camera at a figure on another building across the street from the roof I’m on. The feeling of gravel under my knees is a familiar and comforting one. The frost squeezing my hands brings my attention back to the camera and what I can see on it.

      The screen displays two figures I could draw perfectly from memory. Batman stands, shoulders back, looking off into the night. The breeze in the crisp air gives a wave to the cape, ever so slightly. Younger me would have been so proud of the composition, thinking it was the perfect shot. I can’t say I would disagree, it’s almost perfectly lined up. Almost.

      I inch closer to the edge of the roof, abandoning the air conditioner unit all together. Still on my knees, I rest the camera on the lip of the roof to get a stable shot. 

      It’s just not right. The lighting casts a horrible shadow, practically ruining the whole shot. 

      Looking across an alley to the right of me, I notice a perfect spot to take the picture. The angle, the lighting, the level, everything is ideal. I just need to get across the alley.

      I crawl over to the right side of the roof and look down over the edge into the alley. It’s narrow, no more than three feet across, more a crack between buildings than an alley. I don’t see an easy way down, and to get back to street level, I’d have to backtrack multiple buildings and walk along the streets, which is, honestly, more dangerous than the roofs.

      I can’t tell where my thoughts end and his begin. As we decide to take the chance, we are one. Both childish confidence and adolescent thoughts of superiority. Our thoughts intermingle, creating the perfect storm.

      We take three steps back before rushing towards the end. I let him take the lead, it’s been too long since I’ve moved in a body this small. Our legs hitting the roof with each step, gaining momentum, is the only noise we can hear. 

      Reaching the lip of the roof, we take our final step up and jump across the alley. 

      For a moment, we are in the air, the next, we are falling, rapidly. Our feet connect with the next building’s roof with a thud, ending with an even louder noise as our knees join them on the floor. 

      Mission accomplished, we move to the preselected spot, readying our camera. Thankfully, Batman and Robin have maintained positions, clearly engaged in a heated discussion. Batman still stands at the edge of the roof, not once looking at his ward, while Robin is angrily pacing the rooftop.

      Seconds turn to minutes as I take every shot I can, looking forward to going through them when I get home. For a minute, I’m not Red Robin, I’m not crossing universes. I’m just Tim. I’m just a kid taking pictures. And sure, a normal kid wouldn’t be hopping rooftops just to get pictures of his idol, but I’ve never once claimed to be normal.

      For once, I’m satisfied in the moment. My head is clear, I can focus on the shot and nothing more. That childlike sense of anticipation for how each picture would turn out has returned to my shoulders. I can feel them draw up at the idea of getting the perfect shot; a shot to be proud of. 

      We’re still looking at the camera after the Dynamic Duo leaves, walking towards the alley we jumped over to get here. Realizing we overestimated the jump last time, we don’t get as much of a head start and instead step one foot up onto the roof’s lip.

      I’m lost in my head, in his head. The satisfaction is gone. Now, all that’s left is a morbid curiosity. What’s different? What is so different that I’m happy? I mean, sure, I’m still a grossly under-supervised child, but the innocence is still there, innocence I know was already gone when I was this age. 

      Looking through his memories as he readies himself to jump, the only difference I notice is that he’s only been taking pictures of Batman and Robin for a few months, while, from what I can tell, I’ve been doing for at least a year at this point. 

      He’s new at this. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. My senseless confidence in my own capabilities is what pushed him to jump. He hasn’t jumped roofs before this. And he’s about to do it again. 

      Stop! I’ve never tried to think as loud as I am right now. He can’t jump, he’ll fall. I fell constantly when I was learning. But I was learning on much, much shorter buildings. 

      My ever present fear is back in full force now. I try to expand my control, but I feel the stretch again. It stings, just like last time. I’m getting pushed out.

      My eyes flash, all I see is black, all I feel is pain. We’ve hit the floor. I feel wet and warm. There’s still a sting in my mind, but it’s overshadowed by the cracks I feel in my body- in our body. 

Chapter Text

      The floor’s cold beneath me. It’s pulling all the warmth from my blood out. All of the heat seeps into it, leaving nothing to keep me warm. 

     My head aches, but my body’s even worse. I can still feel the impact from the fall last night. Was it last night? There’s no sense of time anymore. Everything is measured in lives. The lives of others I’ve intruded on. 

     I can’t help but wonder how many more versions I’ll see of myself before I’m lost in the time stream. The only ones I’ve seen all ended horrifically. Can I not be happy in any universe?

     First, there was abuse, then there was death by ‘I need adult supervision.' Who knows what’ll be next. Maybe I’ll witness myself following through with all those plans I had in my notebook when I was a kid. Maybe I’ll see a Tim that really did follow through and kill Captain Boomerang. 

     I have to bring myself back to the body I’m in. It might be my actual body, but I’m not sure. It feels like me. The bones have the right weight and my mind finally feels like it’s in a container the right size. My soul gets to settle, after a long wait and having to spend time in one too many bodies. 

     Tensing my fingers, I try to take account of where I am and what I have. There’s a bag strap in my left hand. The duffle’s laying next to me; it’s the one I brought with me. Or, at least tried to. I wasn’t sure if it would work or not. 

     I seem to be just how I was when I was waiting to be tossed through time itself, prepared with tactical gear and a bag filled to the brim with anything I could possibly need. While I have accepted that I would be perfectly fine if I died immediately in another universe, part of me was excited at the chance to live a new life. So excited my bones were buzzing and I swear my blood was moving faster.

     They’re buzzing right now as I try to pull myself up to a sitting position. It takes a bit for my eyes to focus, still blurry around the edges. Looking around, I could swear nothing changed and I was still in my universe. That is, if it wasn’t for the display cases holding the suits. 

     In the first case, there’s a black, yellow, and red suit. The design seems similar to the Robin costume Dick used to wear, but this one was primarily black, with darker accents of the originally bright and cheery colors. Whoever’s suit this was, it wasn’t the Dick's I knew. 

     The second case holds a damaged suit, like the one Batman keeps for Jason. Similarly to the first suit, this one also has a darker color scheme, but with slightly lighter values for the accent colors. The suit’s basically in tatters, looking as if it had sustained heavy fire damage. Oh. The realization dawned on me that this was Jason’s suit. It seemed he had met the same fate, even in a different universe. I couldn’t help but feel some kind of kinship, just like I did when I had first become Robin— before he tried to kill me.

     I stare at Jason’s suit for what feels like hours, but in (this) reality is probably only a minute. Seeing the suit, I keep flashing back to Jason– to my Jason. It feels too tight to think of him like that. He was never mine. Never my brother. Never my friend. He was only my attempted murderer. Thinking of him like that brings back some distance, giving me space to move my eyes over to the next suit. 

     This suit bears the most resemblance to Dick’s Robin costume. There’s a brightness and joviality to the suit that the other two lack. It’s small, fit for a child, just like the other two. There’s a lot less damage to this suit. Even the first one had scuffs and scrapes; clear signs of wear and tear. This one, however, looked almost new, like it had barely seen the streets.

     I’m still staring at the suits, trying to decipher who the other two suits belong to. I’m confident in my belief that the second suit belongs to Jason. The damage looks almost identical to the one in my universe. Not to mention, it’s the second suit and he was also the second Robin in my universe too. It’s the first and third suits that I’m struggling with. They could belong to literally anyone. The universe has no rule that it has to be similar to mine. 

     With my eyes locked on the displays, I hear the familiar sound of the elevator hissing down to the cave. My body tenses and becomes as small as possible. The response has been instilled in me since childhood; the smaller you are, the smaller target you make. 

     My knees are on the concrete floor, I’m sitting when I hear the doors slide open. I try to work up the courage to turn around. I need to know who it is. I need to know if they’re an enemy. It’s irresponsible to leave your back turned towards your opponent, but I can’t bring myself to even just rotate my neck. I tell myself it’s because I’m in shock, but I know it’s because I’m scared I’ll turn around and be faced with someone I know, or at least, someone who seems like someone I know.

     My eyes snap shut, not of my own accord. I try to force them open, force myself to see who it is, but they stay stubbornly shut. I hate when my body won’t listen to me. It’s a different type of burning anger you feel, when your body disobeys your wishes. 

     The footsteps get closer as I draw myself in, ever tighter, ever smaller. My breath hitches and I can’t seem to exhale. The air gets pent up and pushes down into my ribs, it fills the gaps and makes my chest tight. Step. Step. Step. I can hear them approaching. I’ve memorized the footsteps of those I know, and the characteristics that define those I don’t. The person is tall, likely male, with a confidence that borders on imperious. 

     I manage to make my arms move, but only to wrap them around myself, ever tighter, ever smaller. The person circles from my back, ending a couple of feet directly in front of me. I can hear my breath coming quickly, but I can’t feel it. My chest is still tight and my throat blocked. It takes me swallowing to alleviate the dryness in my mouth to realize that it’s not me who’s breathing fast.

     My eyes open a hint, just enough for me to see the feet of whoever’s in front of me. The breathing I’ve been hearing stilts. He seems to be holding his breath just as I was, afraid to make a sound and ruin whatever fragile peace there is right now. 

     Slowly crawling upwards, my gaze eventually rests on the man’s face. Now, it’s my turn to hyperventilate. It’s always interesting to see people you knew as kids grow up into adults. For some, you can barely see the kid they used to be. For others, it’s as if someone just dragged the corner and made the picture bigger. For Damian, it was definitely the latter.

Chapter Text

      A swift kick to my face, landing hard enough to break my nose, leaving blood trailing down onto my upper lip. I would have bet a lot of money that he would’ve done that. 

      Apparently, I would be dirt poor in this world, because all he’s doing is staring at me with an almost heart broken expression. I’ve never seen so much emotion (other than rage) on his face before. 

     He’s grown up well. His features have sharpened and he bears the look of someone who has seen one hundred too many battles. I’ve always thought he would grow to be too cruel, his love for fighting turning him into someone who sought out conflict, but now, looking at him, I’d say he’d do just about anything to avoid another fight.

     All he’s doing is looking at me, searching in my face for what I’d guess is an answer to a question I’ll probably never know. I’m just grateful I’m not bleeding and/or nursing broken bones; anything else is just extra. 

     My eyes are sweeping across his face. If I let them stay in one place for too long, I’m afraid he’ll think I’m done looking at him and he’ll start talking. 

      If there’s a way to get out of this situation without having to say anything to him, or, better yet, him not saying anything to me, I would. Every time I hear Damian’s voice, my bones try to fold in on themselves. Subconsciously, I want to take in as little space as I can, just as I’m doing right now, curled into a ball. Part of this, I’m sure, is because, usually, every conversation is punctuated by new bruises appearing on my skin. If I ever needed to know how many times Damian and I talked in a week, I could just look at my skin and count the marks. 

      Dick and Bruce always tell me that sparring and physical contact is Damian’s ‘love language.’ I call bullshit, because it always sounded like they were justifying physical abuse, not that Damian ever abused me. He just strikes me and I’ve given up on fighting back because I know, in some way, I’ll always end up the villain. It sounds pathetic when I think of it in one coherent thought.

      My eyes have stayed still for too long, he’s shifting his stance, probably to get into one better befitting a brawl. Damian’s always in a fight stance, if he thinks you’re a threat though, he’ll shift into a more obvious and defensive one. He’s since stopped from getting into a better stance when fighting me. I don’t know if I should feel offended or not. 

      I need to stop thinking of my Damian, because the one in front of me is slowly inching closer, carefully, as if I might strike at any moment. The thought is laughable, I don’t even have the energy to get to my feet. Who knew dying took so much out of you. 

      “Do you know who you are?” are the first words out of Other Damian’s mouth. I start to reply, but then realize I have no idea what the fuck I should say to that.

      The pressure to say something is mounting until I manage to say, “I mean, do any of us really know who we are?”

      He blinks, seemingly astounded by my absolute stupidity. Other Damian's mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words to whatever intro to psych 1 bullshit came out of my mouth.

      “While the subject could make for an interesting debate, I am more interested in whether or not you have the cognitive ability to tell me your name. You seem rather sedate for someone who managed to break into one of the most secure facilities in the world,” is what Other Damian eventually says. 

      I spent hours thinking about what I would do in this (almost) exact situation. While it’s taking me a bit longer to find the words, I still have the script memorized, pushed to the back of my brain by the more pressing issues. Cough cough dying cough cough. 

      “What are you talking about, Damian? Of course I know who I am,” I reply, putting on a ‘ummmm, what’ expression.

      The subtle name drop has his attention. There’s a few different directions he could take the script. My fingers are crossed that he doesn’t immediately kick my ass cause he thinks I’m, like, a spy or something.

      “What is your name,” he says slowly, with a new gravity to his tone. There’s an almost hopeful lilt to his voice, as if a certain answer could fix something. 

       “Dami this isn’t funny, what’s going on?” I choke around his nickname, forcing myself to spit it out and not linger on the bitter taste it leaves in my mouth. The word coats the inside of my throat, making the subsequent words oily and slick. I try to put on a scared expression and I might have done a bit too good of a job.

      He scrambles– as much as Damian can scramble, everything he does looks so damn intentional– to the floor, ending with one knee down, still towering over my folded-in form. While I’m sure in his eyes he’s made himself less intimidating, the position he’s currently resting in manages to block out the main lighting in the corner I’ve chosen to huddle in.

      “Everything will be alright, you just need to tell me your name. I promise, I will make sure you are okay.” 

      After he said those words, I don’t know where the fake expression ends and my real feelings begin. I’ve never heard Damian sound so soft before. If he wasn’t wearing his domino, I’m sure I would see a clean cheek, devoid of the scar I gave him the first time he attacked me, further proving that this is not the Damian I know. I knew. 

      Contrary to popular belief, I do cry. A lot. I cry silently, hidden in my closet with a T-shirt stuffed in my mouth so none of the pathetic sounds I make escape the room. For the first time in a while (since I’ve started hopping universes), I feel the tears start to fill my ribcage, the water level rising into my throat. Everything is just piling on top of each other, and Other Damian’s caring voice seems to be the last Jenga block of my unstable tower of emotions. I manage to reign it in, focusing on the role I need to play perfectly if I wanna make it out of here, out of Gotham. 

      “M-my name’s Tim, come on Damian you're scaring me.” Logically, I know the less of a threat I seem, the better chance I have of escaping, but I still hate the feeling of being weak, especially in front of Damian. 

      I don’t know if I gave him the answer he was looking for, but it sure did have an effect. His face shifts into one of perfectly controlled horror, like he’s terrified, but too composed to show it. It takes him a minute to collect himself before he manages to speak again.

      “Drake, Tim Drake?” He asks, but it comes out a bit too close to a statement. 

      Now it’s my turn to be surprised. I was almost sure there wouldn’t be a Tim in this world. I assumed that was why I was able to inhabit my own body and settle, not be half there half not. I wish I could say it took effort to school my expression. 

      “Yeah, and you’re Damian Wayne– oh sorry, I know we’re not supposed to use names here.” Every word leaving my mouth was chosen for an exact effect. Leaving out Al Ghul could make him question how I know him. Seeming ignorant of the rules’ll limit how he thinks I fit into the vigilante aspect of his life. 

      Apparently, I’m a fucking idiot cause that is not at all what happens. He lunges for me. My eyes shut tight, even though I wish they would stay open Of all the parts of my body, I have the least amount of control over them. I don’t see what happens next, but I feel it. 

      I assume the sharp crack is the sound of his knees hitting the concrete, but what surprises me the most is the feeling of his arms wrapping around me. The only times Damian’s ever touched me was to either cause pain or because there was some type of ulterior motive. 

      For once, his touch doesn’t hurt. Sure, it’s a bit heavy handed, but there isn’t an inherent purpose to harm. While I loathe to admit it, when it suits me, I crave personal contact, it can ground me– that being said it can also do the opposite and send me spiraling. 

      In this case, the weight his hug brings me is just enough to keep me on the floor and not in my mind. The pressure he applies and the silence helps me clear my mind and my brain can finally buzz. 

      I don’t know when I did it, but my fingers are pinching and twisting his T-shirt and my head is buried in his neck. It’s not till he pulls back and I see his all too familiar face that I freak out.

      The second I make eye-contact I push him away. I don’t mean to, but now that I realize who was touching me, my skin crawls and I feel bile in my throat. He looks hurt, I almost feel bad. Sure, he's so different here, but he’s still Damian. No matter what universe, I’m sure his derangement transcends dimensions. 

      “Tim, I don’t know how you are here, but we will figure it out. First, we need to get Bruce, though.” He states, so sure of himself it’s almost reassuring to hear. His confidence quells the panic gripping my heart, but the idea of seeing Bruce brings it back with a vengeance. 

      For a minute, I must’ve let my body language show too much, because now, he’s leaning back in, trying to comfort me, saying, “He never stopped blaming himself for what happened to you, neither have I. We never will, but now that you are back, we will do our best to make it up to you, even though it will never be close to enough.”

     The raw emotion in his words take me aback. Maybe there was a Tim in this world, but not anymore. I can’t help the guilt that bubbles in my stomach. I’m taking his place. He was supposed to get this Damian. This kind, soft Damian. I was meant to have to have the demonic one. I was supposed to. He deserves to be hugged and spoken to gently. I– I just wanted to be rid of all of them.

      The whir of the elevator recenters me and draws my attention away from the gaping hole the guilt is eating into my chest.

Chapter Text

      I don’t want to turn towards the elevator. I know exactly who’ll be standing there. His steps are thunder in my over-sensitive ears. They get closer and closer to me, bringing an all too familiar sense of shame with them. 

      Before he even says a word, I can imagine his voice, his tone. He’s lecturing me again, saying I should’ve done better; I needed to do better.

      His voice is still echoing in my head when a soft squeeze on my shoulder brings me back to the present. I don’t need to make my eyes leave the floor to know whose hand is resting on me. The weight is so familiar it aches. I don’t move. I can't move.  

      “Damian,” is the only word that leaves his mouth. The Bruce I know would never say anyone’s real name in the cave. It unnerves me, as if the word is tightly wrapping itself around my heart, reminding me that this isn’t my Bruce.

      The arms tightly wrapped around me suddenly withdraw, leaving me shivering in their wake. Suddenly, I'm freezing; my bones turn brittle and begin to crack. With the arms no longer around me, I slump to the floor, no longer standing on my knees, but with my weight resting on my hands and shins. I pull myself in even tighter, hoping to keep the cold out.

      My actions must have caused Damian stress, as his arms are now back on me, pulling me close to his chest. My face is buried in his shirt, the soft fabric filling my nose and mouth. The cotton stretches down into my throat, making it impossible for me to force any words out. 

      Even with the stuffing in my neck, a sob manages to wretch its way off my tongue and into the small space between Damian and I. Apparently my cry encourages him to hold me even tighter, practically squeezing tears out of my eyes. 

      He brings his hand to my tear-streaked face, forcing me to look up. I keep them closed for as long as I can, but my control over them is weak.

      “Timothy. Say something Timothy. Anything. Just tell me it’s you,” Bruce (and it is Bruce; he’s not weaning the cowl or suit- just another way I can tell he’s not the man I know) forces out with more emotion than I had ever heard from a Wayne. 

      The second I hear my name my eyes fly open and I jerk my head out of Damian’s grasp. Standing right behind him, in all his glory, is Bruce. To me, Bruce was always scarier than Batman. The perfect mix of Brucie and the Dark Night. Terrifying, with the perfect personality that lends itself to manipulation so well that it must have been a match made in hell.

      My eyes lock with his. They freeze in my skull, cold to the touch, unable to move. I see every version of Bruce I knew, and all of the ones I’ve imagined existed somewhere deep inside him; the ones I wish existed. They play like a slideshow in my head- I can’t look away, not even as he reaches out to me. All I can do is throw myself backward, practically scrambling to get away from him- from them. 

      Tears are still falling onto my cheeks. Down my chin. I hate it, the feeling of them right before they fall off my face. My hand reaches my face just a little too hard. I need the tears off me. Now. Nails are scraping at my cheeks, trying to scratch away the feeling of the tracks on my skin. I can’t get them off me fast enough. Now, both of my hands are rubbing- scratching at my face, at my eyes. They won’t stop; they’re coming faster, now.

      “Tim. Timothy, talk to me. Are…… right? I ne…….. Tim…..” Damian says. Or maybe it’s Bruce. I can’t tell. The water is filling my ears, plugging my brain. The strongest sound I hear is the sound of me swallowing. The cotton is still in my throat It’s deafening. 

      There are hands on me now. I want them off. I need them off. They’re getting stronger, holding me down. The struggle I’m putting up only makes everything tighter; there’s no room to breathe. My shoulder connects with the concrete floor. The pain blossoms outward, infecting my whole body with an ache that had only just gone away. Of course, just my luck, it’s the same shoulder I dislocated. The shoulder Damian dislocated. Damian. He’s here. His hands are on me. Holding me down. Forcing me to the floor. 

      Shut up. I need everything to shut up. The noise, the feeling of tears, the floor, the hands. Everything is too loud. Too present; intrusive. Everything is dark purple. That’s the color of the waves and shapes I see when I close my eyes. It’s the color I feel in my ears. The color of my choking throat. It’s the color of the bruises I know I’m gonna get. 

      My head. It’s not feeling enough. It’s too light. It needs heaviness. I tap it against the floor. Like scratching an itch, it helps. But not enough. I do it again. This time, harder. Again. Again. Agai-

      “Who is he then? His DNA is too similar. He responds to his name. He knows ours. How do you explain it all?”

      “I don’t know, Damian. I don’t. But it’s not him. He has antibodies I’ve never seen before. To diseases that don’t exist. Whoever he is, he’s not Timothy. Not our Tim.”

      I feel hungover. There’s always this clarity after weakness. I can look back at it in a detached, sterile way. I can look back and know that I was pathetic. That I showed everyone how vulnerable I was. How easy to attack- easy to defeat- I am. 

      My knees are locked, my elbows too. They need to be stretched and loosened. They need to slip across smooth sheets to unlock them. There are no sheets. No blanket. Nothing smooth or silky. The cold leather holds too much familiarity for me to come down from wherever my mind is. If it was anywhere else, I’d take off my clothes and let the leather slide across my skin. It would cool me down. But not here. Never here. I was never supposed to show this side of me in the cave. It was only allowed in my room. My apartment. My nest. My burrow. Anywhere where no one could see it.

      My breathing is even, the pattern identical to when I was sleeping. I would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for those meddling vigilantes. Damian lays his finger on my face, tracing a scar that goes from my temple to my jaw. There’re hundreds of them; small scars I got for each mistake I made. Sometimes, they weren’t deep enough to remind me. I had to fix them when I got them. 

      The one Damian is tracing is one that was perfect when I got it. Deep enough to always remind me of the errors I made, to remind me of why it’s right that I have it.

      I manage to stay still for a while. I’ve maintained a sleep-like state for much longer, under much more pressing circumstances. But my body doesn’t seem to understand that, as my eyes burst open the second he touches right below my cheek bone. I despise how little control I have over my eyes. 

      He jerks back when he sees my eyes open. His hand paused inches from the right side of my face. He opens and closes his mouth several times, seemingly searching for the words.

      The ones he comes up with are, “Timothy, are you alright?”

      Huh. My guy, what?. You just realized I’m not your Timothy. Where are the clone accusations? The hostility? The handcuffs? The interrogation and borderline torture. Or, well, knowing Damian it would be just straight up torture. Forget borderline, he’d jump that real quick and end up in war crime in 0.2 seconds flat.

      Apparently my confusion- and utter disbelief- is clear on my face. Whoops. 

      “Do you know where you are? How you got here?” Bruce asks, immediately taking control of the situation and shouldering Damian to the side so he was no longer leaning over me.

      I open my mouth and then realize I am utterly fucked. I knew there was a chance they would test my DNA. And I knew there was a high probability that I would have antibodies that they’ve never seen, but I didn’t think it would be so fuckin quick. There are contingency plans on contingency plans stacked in a broken filing cabinet in the depths of my brain, but apparently I didn’t factor in the fact that I’m an idiot who breaks down sobbing the second someone is nice to me. There was a plan. There was. Past tense. Fuck it, we ball. 

      “Th-this is the cave right?” I say in a way that I hope fits with the whole ‘I’m just a wet cat, take pity on me’ vibe I’ve been trying to get going. 

      “Yes, yes you’re in the cave,” Damian says in what must be the most encouraging voice I’ve ever heard come from his mouth. 

      Bruce steers the conversation again, asking me, “How did you get here, though?” 

      “I know it might sound a little crazy, but I don’t think I’m from here.”

      “Where are you from, then?” This time, Damian asks.

      “Well here. But not here here. You know?” I say, helpful as ever. It’s a bit fun, being able to play a part.

I can hear Bruce sigh, but it’s not as long and tired as I’m used to. “And by that you mean?”

      “Well, like, I’m from Gotham and shit, but not this Gotham.”

      I’m cackling inside seeing the annoyance in his eyes. Damian ruins the moment by going and saying, “You think you’re from another universe.”

      “Yeah, exactly. I know a Bruce and Damian, but they’re not like you guys. That’s why I kinda freaked out earlier.” I rub the back of my neck and look at the floor, “sorry, I-I didn’t mean to make a mess of everything like that.”

      A hand comes down on my shoulder. It’s Bruce. He says, “You don’t need to apologize, you never need to apologize for having a hard time. I’m just sorry we didn’t handle it better.”

      Damian butts in, “You ended up getting injured. We should have prevented that.”

      Bruce nods along, as if what they’re saying makes any sense. What the fuck happened in this world that Bruce and Damian are apologizing to me cause I had a breakdown? If there was a camera, I would look into, full on Office style, because what the fuck is that?

      I know my face betrays what I’m feeling. They look concerned. They look like they’re pitying me. I don’t what I hate more, Damian looking down at me or Damian pitying me. Both are demeaning, but at least when he looked down at me, I never had to pretend to be responsible for his feelings. Now, if Damian's gonna be all nice and shit, then I can’t be an asshole back. It feels alien that Damian might actually care about me. He shouldn’t. I’m not his Timothy. He should save his love, his affection for his Tim. I don’t deserve, nor want stolen, second hand feelings. 

      “Can you focus for a bit, Tim?” Bruce asks, bringing me back to the present. The way he says it though, doesn’t sound like he is berating me or actually wants me to focus. It sounds like he just genuinely wants to know if I can.

      “Of course I can.” I reply, not trying to hide the fact that I'm a bit offended. 

      “It’s alright if you can’t right now. We can talk more later, if you’d like.” says Bruce with a tone that straight up makes me want to hit him. Or him hit me. Basically, anything that doesn’t involve talking and instead I get to feel my legs again. 

      “I can.” I urge, hoping to get this over with so I can figure out what the fuck went wrong in this world that Bruce and Damian are so weird.

      “Alright. How did you get here?”

      I swivel my head a bit, taking in the cave and noticing that Damian has taken a few steps back. “I don’t completely know. It was some kind of device. I was putting it away when it went off. It went off right where I was when I woke up here.”

      “Did you spend a lot of time in the cave? In your universe?” Damian asks, completely off topic I might add.

      “Umm. Yeah, I guess. Why?”

      “I think Damian is just a bit curious about the role you play in the… family business.” Bruce says, in that peppy voice that is really starting to piss me off. Why is Bruce A.K.A. Mr. Doom and Gloom talking to me like all the weird people at galas who don’t know how to talk to a kid who’s worth more than them.

      “Ooh. You mean like do I wear a cape and run around Gotham beating the shit out of people? No. Sorry to disappoint, I just help out around the cave. Alfred’s getting older you know, so he can’t do everything. And someone needs to make all the gadgets you guys manage to break.”

      Bruce smiles and I swear to god I want to punch him in his stupid perfect white teeth, “Really, you’re responsible for the gadgets in your universe? That’s really impressive.”

      I just kinda nod, “Sure. I guess.” 

      Damian decides this is the perfect time to show me what a weirdo he is, “You guess? Being able to design and engineer things to the caliber and expectations of Batman is a feat few can claim.”

      Genuinely, how do I get out of here?

Chapter Text

      They lead me towards the elevator and if I’m being honest, the idea of being trapped in a small box with Damian and Bruce is literally a nightmare I’ve had. With Bruce having already grabbed my bag, I have no excuse to stall. The doors open with a quiet hiss of air, revealing the sterile and gleaming silver inside. The same silver I’ve looked at myself in for the last 5 years. Ever since becoming a vigilante, the elevator- which I always insisted on taking alone- has been the space I used for my transition from Robin to Tim. Now, having to take it with two of the people I hate being around the most feels like some kind of punishment. Like the universe is saying in this new world, there is no switch between Robin and Timothy. There’s only Tim, and I need to decide fast what kind of person he is.

      I pause at the line the elevator etches into the floor. My legs won’t move. They can’t pass the threshold. The joints are stuck in my blood. It’s too thick to move through. 

      “Tim, do you not like elevators?” Damian asks with a puzzled look on his face. I can feel him trying to separate me from his Tim.

      No one has ever asked me if I like elevators. it's a weird question. There are other ways to exit the cave. Batman is too paranoid to trap himself with only one exit. The elevator is, of course, the most convenient. There are dominos and civies stashed in the panels to make it easy to switch between your civilian identity and your vigilante one. 

      Part of me wants to say I hate elevators, just to see what they would do, to see how far their kindness goes. I’ve seen too many people that drop the nice facade the second it causes them any inconvenience. 

      But what I settle for is, “No. No, it’s fine. I just feel a bit jetlagged, I guess.”

      “Are you sure?” Bruce asks. “We can take the stairs.”

      I hate it. The rage is boiling in my stomach. It’s spreading through my veins, making its way to my extremities. It burns. Like acid, it’s eating away at everything: my resolve, my focus. Whatever this is; pity, condescension, it doesn’t matter. It pisses me the fuck off. 

      “I can ride an elevator just fine.” I say with probably a bit too much emotion. The character I was trying to craft is quickly cracking away. I’m better than this. I know I am. Infiltration is one of my specialties, I can bend my personality, my body, to fit any shape, any mold. Whatever the situation calls for, I can become it. But now? I can’t even hide my own emotions.

      “I’m sure you are capable, but if you would pref-’ 

      I cut Damian off, not even letting him finish, “I said it’s fine!” 

      I’m sure I’m almost shouting at this point, but the waves in my head make everything softer, harder to make out. Every time I open my mouth, I just seem to fuck it all up even more. It makes the tension in my body build. My legs are still stuck, the joints glued together. 

      Damian and Bruce both seem surprised by my reaction, not expecting me to escalate the situation so much so quickly. I don’t know why I’m like this. Tears are building in my throat again. They sting as they rise. I force myself to swallow, not letting them get to my head. Everything just feels too much.

      I force myself to step over the crack in the floor, my legs protesting as if they have to shake off the dust that’s settled in my knees and ankles. One leg, then the other. I keep going until I’m facing the back of the elevator, my nose almost touching the wall. 

      I let my eyes glaze over so I don’t have to see what a wreck I am. Who knows what I look like, I wasn't exactly squeaky clean before I came over. The idea of showering the last couple days before I jumped through time and space was enough to make me want to curl up in a pile of leaves and just decompose. If I am the dirt, then I can’t be dirty.

      Bruce and Damian’s eyes are locked on my back. I can feel it, the oozing feeling of something sliding down my spine. 

      Bruce’s too gentle voice finds its way to my ear, “Is there anything you’d like from your bag? Anything that might make you feel better.”

      I let his voice echo against the steel, not replying. My voice wouldn’t work, even if I did want to say something. The cotton from Damian’s shirt is growing in my mouth, stretching down and invading my throat. The white fuzz pushes against my lips, trying to get me to open my mouth, but I know the only thing that would come out is a sob.

      The cotton is so soft, it reminds me of what it felt like against my cheek. Smooth, with the perfect amount of texture for me to focus on. I want to feel it again, to rub my face on it, to let it slowly sand my skin down to its barest state. 

      Someone is walking towards me. Damian. His steps are softer than Bruce's. He knows no other way to walk and, despite being much larger than my Damian (eww ‘my Damian’), he’s still shorter than Bruce. All these thoughts are going through my head until they all crash into each other when Damian puts his hand on my back. It’s just barely there, resting more in the air than on my body. 

      Slowly, it’s moving in circles. I don’t like it. I want him to stop, but I don’t know how. It feels like the only thing holding me up right now is his hand, and if he removes it, I’ll crumple and crash onto the floor. But if it stays on my back, I’m going to scream.

      My body moves on its own. Trying to shake the hand off, it quivers and shakes, like an earthquake is taking place on my skin. The silence is too heavy, pushing down my shoulders, it’s just another force trying to get me to the ground. 

      “Little bird, are you alright?” Bruce asks, the nickname slipping out somehow. 

      The cotton forces me to move my mouth, like I’m just a puppet, controlled by the plant growing inside me, “I want to go home.”

      I don’t know why I say it. My home doesn’t even exist in this world. I don't think I even had one in mine. There is nowhere to go home to. 

      “Oh, Timothy,” This time it’s Bruce grabbing me and turning me towards him, forcing me to stare at his shirt. Damian’s looked softer. Why is everyone being so physical, I want it to stop. My body jerks more noticeably this time, doing anything to get all of the hands off me. 

      All at once, no one is touching me anymore.

      Somehow, this is worse. 

      “No,” the cotton forces me to choke out. I don’t want to say it, but it’s making me. “I want the shirt.”

      “The shirt? Tim, what shirt? Is it in your bag?” asks Bruce, trying to figure out my nonsensical ramblings. 

      I want him to shut up. I don’t want to hear him talk. I want the feeling of the fabric. It’s a craving, like nothing will be ok until I can touch it. 

      The elevator walls blur as I spin around looking, searching for the fabric. 

      My eyes lock onto the shirt, it’s only a couple steps away from me. I can reach it if I stretch my arms out, but I don’t have the leverage to make them move. My body topples into Damian’s, my face finally connecting with the feeling I’ve been craving; it’s like drinking water after being in the desert for days with none. 

      Rubbing my face on his shirt, I can feel his hands come up in surprise to wrap around me. His arms are the only thing keeping me from shattering and falling to the floor. I think they’re saying something, but I don’t know what. 

      The elevator has long since opened, I can smell the manor’s air; nothing like the cave’s. There’s more light now, too. Knowing I’ll have to leave the elevator soon and step into a space much too big for how miniscule I’m feeling, I drop all my weight onto Damian. I let my legs go limp, hoping my knees will slam to the floor and I can stay there for a few decades until my body regains the strength to live. 

      Once again, I’m reminded that I’ve lost brain cells from travelling universes, and am now a fucking idiot. Damian takes the extra weight in stride, picking me up and gently pushing my face into his shoulder, still letting me feel the shirt I’ve grown emotionally attached to. 

      I can feel him taking steps, moving me with him, like I have no say in where we’re going. This feeling of being jostled and controlled, I hate it. I feel it when I spar, when I get drugged, or fight for real. All it does is remind me of how insignificant I am to others. If they can move me so easily, if I’m so impermanent and inconsequential, how much of an effect do I even have on them?

      Before I even notice, we’re in one of the more private drawing rooms, deeper into the manner so no one will intrude. That’s always how it’s been, the deeper and farther you go into the estate, the more personal and familiar the rooms become.

      I try to memorize the path we took, but all I can focus on is the feeling of his shirt on my cheek, the gentle abrasion of it rubbing against my skin. 

      Damian’s hands grasp the sides of my chest, his fingers fitting into the grooves of my ribcage. His thumbs push right where my arms meet my chest, trying to pull me away from my shirt. I push my neck out, trying to keep contact with my only source of comfort. I even bring my arms around his back, using them to pull him tighter against me so I can feel the force and the fabric. 

      Finally, catching on that I can’t be separated from his shirt, he slips his hands out of my ribs. Suddenly, we’re much lower and I can feel a cushion under me. Executing a maneuver I’m sure was not easy, he settles next to me with his arms around me, one holding me up so I don’t fall into him and the other pushing my head into his chest. The couch dips to my left, I can only assume Bruce has sat next to me. His fingers find their way into my hair, slowly combing the knots out. 

      My hair hasn’t been washed in close to a week, not even counting the other universes because I have no idea what happened to my body while I was squatting in other Tims’ minds. There are too many knots for Bruce to get through with his fingers, but he’s still patiently combing through my hair. His fingers occasionally brush my scalp, making me shiver against Damian’s shirt. I’m in the perfect middle between too much stimulation, and just enough to not allow me to focus. Just enough to put me into a haze.