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Tim was starting to think he should’ve chosen a different spot. Really, what was he thinking, doing this on top of the Wayne Enterprises Tower? He was supposed to be smarter than this.
He should’ve thought about what would happen if they found him there. Who would find him first? Would they call an ambulance? The cops? Batman?
Would he see? Would he collect evidence of a crime that wasn’t committed, not really, and use that to imagine what happened, replay it in his mind over and over again until the image was etched into his brain, use it to torture himself for months—
Tim should’ve left a note. He should’ve chosen a different building. Maybe a Lexcorp one, just to mess with that son of a bitch one last time. Then again, he did not want his DNA anywhere near Lex Luthor.
Maybe he needed to think about this some more. He had already been doing so for months — that was, if you only counted the time he was actually planning. Otherwise, it would be years.
Wasn’t that just a depressing thought.
Still, for having thought about this for that long, he was a bit disappointed with himself about the result. He could’ve thought of something better. Something less gruesome.
He could have waited for the next rogue to break out of Arkham. Suit up, conveniently forget to bring his bo staff. Fight the rogue without actually fighting them. Pretend he’s tired, take a few hits and—
It would be so incredibly, selfishly easy.
But he didn’t want to give any of the rogues the satisfaction of thinking they somehow managed to do one of the Bats in. He didn’t want everyone else to hear it through the comms.
For Barbara to see it on her monitor, for her to be able to replay it over and over again until she would have no other choice left but to believe that what she was seeing was real. That her senses hadn’t betrayed her. That her monitors hadn’t been hacked, hadn’t been taken over by a rogue or a crime lord as a part of some convoluted scheme to take down the big bad Bat.
For Bruce to get access to the footage somehow — because he would, Tim knows he would find a way — and use it to feed his already ridiculously large guilt complex. For him to treat the footage similar to how he once treated what little footage he had managed to gather from the night Jason died. At least it would affect him less this time.
At least he wouldn’t lose another Robin.
Another son.
Maybe he should’ve just nicked some pills from the infirmary in the Batcave, the heavy kind that Alfred kept a careful eye on. They all knew the heavy meds were guarded to prevent anyone mistaking them for some paracetamol and accidently overdosing. Everyone who was, or had ever been, a bird or bat was also aware of the fact that, should the need ever arise, they all knew how to get around the safety measures. They also all assumed no one would ever even think to do it. Tim was perhaps the only one who had never been able to comfort himself with that same assumption.
He could have just done that: disable the cave security systems just long enough not to immediately arouse suspicion, steal a few (or a lot) of pills, ride his bike back to his apartment with the weight of the meds burning a hole through his pockets and his conscience, thinking about how hurt Alfred would be by the betrayal, take them all at once and lie down on his bed to pretend he was merely taking a nap.
Only he wouldn’t wake up ever again and no one would know where he was or why he wasn’t responding when they needed his help. It could be weeks or perhaps even months, depending on how long it took one of them to need his assistance on a case and how likely they would be to dismiss his absence in favour of taking care of more pressing matters, before anyone would think to look for him, not to mention how long it would take to actually find him.
By then, who knew how far along the decomposition process would be? Not such a clean break after all.
Plus, he didn’t want to do that to Jason. The last thing the already pretty violent Red Hood needed was to become even more violent as a reaction to reliving past traumas.
Which was also why the idea of literally going out with a bang was off the table. Well, the combination of both Jason and Bruce’s shared trauma and the fact that Tim refused to be thought of as someone who had plagiarised his own death.
He was nothing if not original, at least.
He knew this was probably going to be gruesome, but apart from that it really was perfect. He would most likely have a heart attack before impact, making this as quick and painless as he could realistically hope for it to be. And even if he didn’t die before reaching the ground, he wouldn’t survive long enough to actually suffer through the impact beyond its immediate effect.
And he did so love feeling like he was flying.
He could stand here, on top of the Wayne Enterprises Tower and ponder forever about the method, but it wouldn’t make a difference. Not for Tim at least, who wouldn’t be around to deal with the after. It didn’t stop him from wondering about it, though.
How long would it take them to notice he wasn’t there?
Would they take note of it when he didn’t show up for dinner? Perhaps they would think he was busy and had neglected to tell them he wouldn’t be attending.
Maybe they would notice the absence of Red Robin even before the rest of Gotham would. Then again, they could think him to be on a mission or covertly working on a case. His place in the roster would be covered by another vigilante, Gotham still protected in his absence.
Maybe they would need his help on a case or need someone to go undercover, only to realise he couldn’t be reached.
Maybe they’d notice he wasn’t there.
Maybe they’d wonder where he was, just for a moment, when they needed his help.
Maybe they’d forget about it immediately after, until someone else brings it up.
Maybe they’d excuse his absence.
Maybe they’d worry.
It didn’t matter. He was doing this, today, in a way that was sure to be noticed sooner rather than later. Granted, it was Friday night, so the building would be completely empty until Monday morning, but still. The chances of a random passerby noticing him before then were there.
The Bats wouldn’t have time to wonder where he was. They would find out what happened before they even noticed he was gone.
People would mourn him. Hopefully Maybe. If they would, they would get over it fast. People are busy. They move on. The world keeps spinning.
Bruce would be… sad, probably. Tim couldn’t bring himself to hope he would be. He shouldn’t want the person who was once his hero, his mentor, his dad, to feel bad. He would be a terrible, horrible person to want something like that. Then again, he was about to make innocent people clean up his mess, so maybe he already was.
But Bruce would get over it. He still had his children — all of them, since Jason came back. Tim had known it was only a matter of time before Jason would be reintegrated into the family since the moment he found out who was underneath the Red Hood. Batman would still have his Robin. His family would be complete. And then he’d adopt another child, because he’s Bruce and he never seemed to understand that ‘finders keepers’ doesn’t actually apply to children, and his family would be once more complete, this time without having been broken first.
It would be alright.
Everything would be just fine.
He could do this.
He walked to edge of the rooftop, right up until the tips of his shoes reached the edge. It was weird there wasn’t any sort of barrier, he thought. Seriously, people could just trip and fall off. Then again, they probably would install one after tonight.
It’s sad that no changes were ever made until after something’s already happened, but, oh well— That’s Gotham for ya, alright. The rule book is written in blood and all that.
If he angled his torso slightly forward, he could see the street below over the edge of the roof. Being a vigilante who was very much used to running around on and jumping off rooftops with nothing but a grapple and his own two arms to stop him from falling all the way down, it really wasn’t possible for him to be afraid of heights.
Hell, he used to get onto rooftops without any form of armour or gadgets to follow Batman and Robin around before his age had so much as reached double digits.
It was unnerving how the height made him want to back away as quickly as possible and get down to solid ground. Why did he suddenly feel nauseous at the thought of falling down when he had willingly flung himself off of much greater heights?
He would blame it on the lack of a grapple gun if it weren't for the fact that he hadn’t had one when Ra’s had thrown him out a window all those months ago and he hadn’t felt even remotely as scared as he did now. So really, what could—
He was scared.
He was scared.
The realisation hit him like his body would hit the ground. He felt incredibly small, suddenly overcome with the urge to lie in his bed and tuck himself into a million blankets as his dad and siblings gathered around him, forming a bubble to protect him and make him feel safe in a way only family—
He didn’t want to be alone anymore.
He wanted his family.
Oh god, it was all his fault, wasn’t it? Fuck.
He fucked up.
He wanted his dad. He wanted his family.
They weren’t his family right now, but they could be again. He could prove himself worthy to be a part of their family again. Maybe, if he was lucky, they would even be willing to love him again.
He wanted to call Dick.
Dick would fix this.
Dick could fix anything.
He needed— where was his phone? He reached into his pockets, frowning when he didn’t feel anything. Had it fallen out of his pocket earlier? He turned around to look, still frantically checking his pockets, when he realised he couldn’t feel the ground anymore.
Oh.
Oh.
He was falling.
He had changed his mind and he was falling anyway.
It seemed his time had run out and fate had made the choice for him.
His mind went quiet for the first time in his life as a sense of finality washed over him.
He wanted to focus on the feeling of flying. That had been his original plan. That was what he would do. The only thing he could still do.
He closed his eyes, drowning out everything until there was nothing left but the way gravity called out to him, pulling him closer.
He was falling.
And falling.
And falling.
And—