Work Text:
It started as most things in Gotham do: with a headline.
One that made Bruce question if he was going crazy or if all of Gotham had actually collectively lost it.
"Wayne Heir's Iconic Curls vs. Vigilantes' vivacious mane! Who has the best Hair in Gotham?"
On a random day in March, it was officially decided that Tim Drake-Wayne's hair placed him in the number one spot on the list of "Hottest IT-Boy" according to the Gotham Times.
But more than that, they were convinced that it had range- and more importantly, it made him place above Nightwing (yes, even with his long hair) and Bruce. It took a day before countless fan accounts tracked and rated his various public appearances.
L'Oréal called.
Not once, but fifteen times.
And somewhere between making sure that nobody connected the dots between Red Robin's windswept hair and Tim's "showstopping curls," it had, of course, become a joke.
Steph told a journalist that his "secret sauce" was washing his hair with unfiltered Gotham Harbor water. That was promptly followed by a press release clarifying that Tim thoroughly condemned coming into contact with any unfiltered water in Gotham- especially from the harbor.
Duke posted multiple tweets, swearing that it sparked under the right light. And Dick kept ominously retweeting them with shocked emojis and a #slay.
Even Damian admitted that his hair follicles seemed to "exhibit a strangely persistent vitality." Whatever that meant.
Cass got voted "Hottest It-Girl" shortly after.
But as much as they liked to joke- it was kind of true that Tim's hair was just … really good. Shiny, but not so shiny that it looked greasy and incredibly soft to the touch. Always slightly tousled- but just right- like he'd just come back from a photoshoot or escaped a fight- maybe even both.
And even with all the teasing, it sort of began to draw the eyes of the inhabitants of the manor to him. Because it was always there- to ruffle or pet. To jokingly tug at. And to absentmindedly breathe into when hugging Tim.
Dick
He had always admired the ability of babies to fall asleep pretty much everywhere. Because honestly? Sometimes it felt like there weren't enough hours in a day to sleep, work, meet his friends, check if his family is still alive and not trying to kill each other, stretch before going on patrol, find some alone time, and somehow remember to eat a bit of fruit every once in a while. And while he had mastered a semi-survivable routine to fit everything he needed to do into his day, he hadn't mastered one thing.
Sleeping when he actually wanted to.
Tim, on the other hand, was a master at it. Similar to babies, or maybe a cat- he could fall asleep anywhere.
In or on the Batmobile, rooftops, the kitchen counter right next to the loudly gurgling coffee maker, the floor- If there were any horizontal surfaces Tim had yet to fall asleep on, Dick would honestly be surprised.
Which is exactly how he found him tonight.
Half sprawled across one of the beds in the med bay, which he seemingly pushed against the wall to make into a makeshift couch. His head tilted at a simply ridiculous angle, which would leave Dick in a neck brace, probably (definitely). All while his laptop was open on his lap, the blue light of the screen was casting a soft glow across his neck and face, painting his skin in cool shades of calm.
Dick stopped to watch.
He was exhausted, rain still clinging to his hair, and his body sore from patrol, but somehow watching the image of a slumbering Tim seemed more important than going upstairs. His plan had been simple: blow-dry his hair, sneak a sandwich from the kitchen, and sleep for maybe a century if he could get his head to shut off. Instead, he stood there, watching the almost adult whom he had met when Tim was just a scrawny little genius, who knew too much.
He looked peaceful, his hair nothing but a dark halo against the white walls.
The words "peaceful" and "Tim" usually didn't exist in the same universe, but right now, Dick wondered if that was something they had all gotten wrong before.
A stray strand of hair fell into Tim's eyes, and Dick reached out to brush it back. The hair was soft, it always was. Unfairly so, because why did the universe decide that out of all people, Tim "I wash my hair with 15 in 1 shampoo" Drake-Wayne should have the kind of hair that hair stylists have wet dreams about.
His fingers lingered for just a moment while he gently whisked against Tim's forehead, enough to feel the warmth of skin and listen to the rhythmic exhale of breath, before Tim stirred.
"Y're here?" Tim mumbled, thick with sleep.
"Yup," Dick said quietly. " Scootch over."
Tim agreed with a small noise, which was more a hum than an actual word, closed his laptop, and shuffled until Dick could sit against the wall beside him. Within seconds, Tim shifted again, his head finding a pillow in Dick's lap like it was instinct.
Dick huffed out a soft laugh, brushing a hand through Tim's dark hair when a small pearl of rainwater slipped from his own hair and plopped onto Tim's face.
"Urghh," Tim groaned, "You're wet."
Dick grinned, "Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."
"S'fine…", came the sleepy reply.
Dick reached out to gently swipe the water drop from Tim's forehead couldn't resist ruffling Tim's hair again. "So this is what Bruce meant by saying you were basically a sleeper agent, huh?"
That earned him a snort before Tim drifted off again with his breath evening out.
Dick stayed there, warmth seeping through, almost grounding him in a way, like it was a sleepy kitten in his lap, not his younger brother. He'd seen Tim fight gods, evil geniuses, and the endless war against his own exhausted self, but this quiet, shared moment of rest felt weirdly more satisfying than any won battle.
He kept cradling his fingers through Tim's hair, almost automatic, half out of habit, half out of proof that this was real. It proved that he was alive, warm, and breathing right in his lap.
Often enough, silence didn't mean safety. Stillness could mean a thousand horrifying things in their line of work- No, in their life.
But right now, the ridiculous stillness of domestic peace only meant that they were both alive and comfortable. And that was enough to lull Dick to sleep, too.
Jason
Jason wouldn't say that he gets joy out of watching people get hurt. But watching Tim get his bell rung by a two-by-four definitely ranked in the top 10 funniest yet scariest moments that he witnessed on patrol. He wasn't sure where exactly it ranked, but probably somewhere in between catching two goons making out and one shooting the other in the foot by accident as soon as he dropped into the alley and watching Scarecrow trip on an electrical wire and eat shit.
Anyway, one second, Red Robin was mid-rant, trying to lecture him about arrest-to-conviction ratios within the Gotham PD, and the next, there was a blur of motion and a splintering craaaack.
The attacker went down, and so did Red Robin. The hit knocked Tim flat on his ass. And while it had taken Jason about 3 seconds to handle the goon that decided that splitting a piece of wood on a vigilante's head was a good idea, Tim definitely didn't look so good.
"Jesus-" Jason kneeled down to Tim and gently shook him. "You good? Hey, Red, talk to me."
"'m fine," Tim groaned and blinked like he was trying to blink the last remnants of unconsciousness out of his eyes. Also? "I'm fine."? Jason would have laughed at the standard answer for all cape-wearing, mask-having crime fighters who were incredibly embarrassed at getting surprised, if Tim wasn't actively bleeding on him.
Jason just rolled his eyes so hard that it almost hurt. "Sure you are, and were actually on the fucking moon right now." He hauled Tim upright, slinging one of the younger man's arms over his shoulder, looking around for more goons. "C'mon, let's get out of here," he huffed, before turning coms on, "O, Red Robin and Hood turning in for the night."
They limped across two rooftops, dry but cold wind biting at them. Tim's boots stumbled across the gravel, and his weight against Jason became heavier with every step.
"Hood, I can walk-"
"Yeah, you're doing great, dude." Jason tightens his grip. "Next destination: The hall of fame for Idiots who don't wear helmets while crime fighting."
By the time Jason had hauled Tim up the fire escape stairs and they reached the safehouse, Jason had barely enough patience in him to kick the door open and gently guide Tim down onto the couch.
"C'mon, sleeping beauty," Jason grunted as he opened the med kit stashed in the living room. There was a cut on the back of Tim's head that had already stopped bleeding, but turned the hair on the nape of his neck even darker with blood. Gross.
The room was dim, and he crouched in front of Tim, scowling simply because it was easier than letting the panic show.
"Alright, genius eyes on me. You know the drill. What's your name and birthday?"
"Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, July 19th," came the automatic reply.
"Good. You remember where we are?"
Tim chuckled, "Uhh… Gotham. Your safehouse with the ugly purple kitchen cabinets."
Jason smirked as he flicked the little flashlight in front of Tim's eyes, "Follow my finger."
Tim's gaze tracked a little slow, but his pupils were responsive.
"No double vision?"
"Only one of you, luckily."
Jason sighed, carefully pressing one of the sterile bandages against the side of Tim's head. "You got lucky. If he'd hit you a little harder, you'd be drooling on my floor right now. "
Tim blinked up at him, groggy but still fighting to stay awake. "That would have sucked."
"Yeah, 'cause then I'd have to explain to Bruce why I let his other son redecorate my couch with brain matter."
"Funny."
"Shut up. Mr Second Grade concussion."
He reached out to check the wound again, gently brushing the long strands of hair away with gloved fingers. There seemed to be no wood lodged in the wound. The blood had matted the hair around the wound together, and Jason clicked his tongue.
"Unbelievable. Even with a head injury, your hair still looks like you could be in a shampoo commercial. What are you, sponsored by Pantene?" Jason said in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Tim made a weak sound that barely sounded like a laugh, or maybe it was a sign of brain damage. "Jealous?"
"Of your inability to perceive wooden planks angling for your head? No. Of the hair? Maybe a bit." Jason grabbed another clean bandage and the saline solution, trying to gently flush the cut. "Hold still, Rapunzel."
Tim winced. "You're terrible at bedside manner."
"Please, if you wanted someone to care about patient satisfaction scores, you should have gone to The Pitt."
"You watch The Pitt?" Tim snorted, which turned into a wince as Jason flushed the wound again.
"It's a good show. Now, stop moving, Timmy." Jason grabbed a compress and angled it against the wound.
"You're enjoying his, huh?"
"Of course I am. It's not every day I get to watch The Greatest Detective's little apprentice get his clock cleaned." Jason wrapped another bandage around Tim’s head, tugged it secure, and finally leaned back with a satisfied hum. "There you go." He reached up to brush some hair away from Tim's eyes, just to check his pupils again. "I swear to God, did you pay a fucking Etsy Witch to get your hair to be this soft? What do you use for it?"
Tim smirked half-lidded. "Dish soap."
Jason stared at him. "You're lying."
"Am not."
Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Fucking unreal. You make the rest of us look like cavemen with dish soap?"
"A mullet wouldn't suit you anyway."
"Neither would dying, so let's stay awake here."
Jason snapped his fingers in front of Tim's droopy eyes three times. "No sleeping with a concussion, pretty boy. You take a nap, and I gotta explain to Bruce why one of his kids bit the dust in my safehouse, and no amount of therapy could make me emotionally equipped enough for that conversation."
Tim chuckled and his eyes opened again, " You caaare."
Jason just rolled his eyes. "Don't make this any weirder, please."
"Too late."
"Lemme check your pupils again," Jason said, but not before letting out a deep sigh. When he put the flashlight away, he also finally felt his own heartbeat slowing. The danger had passed. Probably.
"Alright, buddy, I'm calling it. You'll live to piss me off another day."
Tim gave him an exhausted thumbs-up. "Best news I've heard all week,"
Thank god. Jason stood up, stretching his back, then patted Tim's shoulder, just because he could.
"I'm gonna change really quickly. If you feel like you need to puke, do it not on the carpet, please." He grabbed his phone on the way and angled it just right to snap a quick picture of Tim sprawled on the couch, bandage in stark contrast against his black hair, and looking like the album cover a half-dead indie musician would put a blurr filter on.
Jason snorted under his breath, "Perfect."
"What?" Tim called from the couch.
"Nothing." He called back as he tapped out a message to the family group chat.
Red Hood: Red Robin vs. Wooden Plank — 0:1 {photo attached}
Nightwing: IS HE OKAY??
Spoiler: lmao
Red Hood: concussed enough to admit he washes his hair with dish soap. but other than that, fine
Spoiler: pls tell me someone got that on video
Robin: At this point, his brain must have evolved to withstand blunt force trauma
{3 people reacted to this message with: 👍}
Oracle: Keep him awake, Hood. Check every 20 minutes and DON'T let him outsmart you into falling asleep first.
Red Hood: ok, btw if he pukes on my couch, I'm sending the dry-cleaning bill to B.
{4 people reacted to this message with: 👍}
Jason pocketed the phone and turned back towards the living room, where Tim had already slipped down the couch, eyelids heavy.
"Oh no, you don't," Jason said, pulling him up by his armpits. "Doctor Babs just told me no naps for Head Trauma Barbies."
Tim groaned, "You're a tyrannical dictator."
"Well, this tyrannical dictator is bored, and since you can't watch movies right now, you gotta entertain me."
"Entertain…you?" Tim blinked at him, dazed.
"Yup." Jason kicked his feet up on the couch and leaned back. "You're gonna tell me your own top five Headlines about you. And we'll go through the entire family. If you can actually name 5 for everybody, I'll get off your case. If not, I start singing the Mean Girls musical."
Tim blinked, clearly torn between disbelief and amusement."You wouldn't," he grunted in pain.
Jason smirked, "Oh, I would."
Tim sighed in resignation and rubbed at the bandage. "Alright then… There was that one time when people thought I knocked Steph and two girls from school up, when I was like fourteen-"
Jason snapped his finger and snorted. "Classic- they published that about me, too. Vicky Vale special, I'm assuming."
"- And another fun one was when I got into internet beef with Robin."
"Like Damian?" Jason asked.
"No, myself. I got bored during lunch at school."
Jason barked out a laugh. "Keep talking, Boy Wonder the Third. We have six more hours in front of us before I'm allowed to let you sleep."
Damian
It had been a simply unbearable morning.
The kind that started with Alfred already politely implying his excellent aim with a shotgun, if anyone so much as wrinkled their shirts before the guests arrived.
Brunch.
The first time he had heard of such a concept, he had not been convinced of its efficiency. Now that he had lived through multiple "business brunches," he was convinced that this was what modern torture looked like.
Father insisted on calling them "casual brunches" instead of addressing them for what they truly were. The opposite of casual- it was sharp, rehearsed, and deeply unpleasant to sit at a table lined with investors, trustees, and people who acted like his presence alone was too offensive for their sensibilities.
Grayson slipped into his usual role of a crude flirt, too busy charming everyone within a fifty-foot radius to care about the unpleasant company. Duke made polite conversation and timed his smile perfectly. Todd and Cassandra did not deem it important to show up, which he sensed was for the better of this agonizing event. And Drake… well, Timothy had done as he always does, smiling through the headache of talking to rich ingrates while simultaneously projecting the picture of him being the biggest and sneakiest ingrate of all.
They had all been instructed to wear tailored navy suits. But instead of making Timothy look as ridiculous as Damian felt, it made him look even more like a living magazine spread rather than an actual human being. His hair was styled, his normally straight and flappy strands were curled into soft waves, but only just enough to make it look windswept.
Ridicoulous.
It was simply ridiculous. The man looked like his picture could be hung in a museum, and yet he found no better use of his time than to discuss the quarterly philanthropic spending of Wayne industries like it was all he could ever talk about.
Around late afternoon, the last guests were finally gone, and a merciful silence engulfed the manor again. And it was as if Damian could finally breathe again. Alfred retreated to clean up in the kitchen and firmly forbade him from helping. Grayson went down to the Batcave as soon as he changed into comfortable clothes to work on his cases with Duke, and Father went to his office with an exhausted expression to make a few obligatory calls related to the talks over brunch.
And Drake had disappeared somewhere.
When Damian found him, it was a rather unexpected sight.
Timothy was in the sunroom, sprawled across one of the long chaises- the kind that looked like it belonged in a Renaissance painting- his tie was loose around his neck, shoes still on, and as Damian silently watched, he could hear the beginnings of a snore trying to escape.
The afternoon sun filtered through the window and got caught in the dark hair until it gleamed almost in a bronzen shade at the edges. The styled hairdo had loosened, and the strands of hair had softened against Timothy's forehead.
And Damian just stood there in the doorway for a moment. Torn between disgust and a tiny and reluctant speck of curiosity. It was interesting to watch. Almost artistic in a sense. The way Drake's curls looked splayed against the deep crimson pillow.
He needed to stop wasting time.
"Ttch- Typical Drake," he huffed, and yet his eyes stayed on the sleeping figure.
He had better things to do. He should have gone to the training room or taken Titus into the garden to play fetch. He was sure he could scrounge up some homework, or could've tried to get ahead in his class's curriculum. Instead, he found himself in the armchair across from Timothy, sketchbook in hand and watercolor pencils set right next to him on the oak table.
It was purely for practice, of course.
A study in anatomy and proportion, with a good amount of light and dark contrast- nothing more.
The human figure at rest was a notoriously exacting subject, and Timothy, for all his flaws and annoying tendencies, was… a conveniently available sitter.
His pencils scratched quietly across the first page, tracing the general form of the body on the chaise. The way the arms and legs were comfortably splayed across the furniture. Then came the suit and the way the warm sun cast deep shadows where it couldn't reach.
On another page, he began to gently draw the loose fall of swoopy strands, and the faint crease between Tim's eyebrows that never seemed to smooth away, even as he slept. And as Damian began to trace a different angle on another page, he realised that there was something frustratingly gentle about the scene in front of him. Especially after Titus padded into the room and, instead of lying down by him, he decided to sniff at the sole of Tim's shoes and unceremoniously flop down in front of the sleeping figure.
Damian even halted his activity to frown and mutter a quiet, "Traitor," to his dog before continuing.
On the next page, he added Titus sleeping form into the scene.
Damian found himself getting lost in the silence of the room, or maybe just in the way the evening sun began to tint the entire room as if dipped into gold. His shading got more careful, intricate, smoothing every curl and trying to capture even the smallest details.
He felt the air shift as his father carefully stepped into the room behind him. "You're drawing him?"
"It's a study," he said, voice blasé and unshaking. "He's still when he sleeps. Good for practice."
Bruce made a sound that might have been a laugh, or a proud keen, before resting a hand on Damian's head.
"He'll like it."
"He won't see it," Damian muttered, a little embarrassed, but his pencil didn't slow down.
Duke
There were three holy rules to movie night at Wayne Manor.
-
No work or cape talk
-
As long as there is no nuclear threat, everyone stays in the media room- no exceptions.
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No commenting or questions on the plot, if the comments or questions could prove you'd solved the entire plot in the first thirty minutes, TIM!!!
Duke had learned to respect these rules. Not because Bruce enforced them on him- he wasn't even sure if Bruce knew about them. No, because Stephanie Brown knew how to throw popcorn with sniper-level accuracy, and she always aimed for the eyes.
The movie was something older- mid-2000s, horribly color-toned, and with awkwardly inserted CGI that made all of them chuckle a little. Duke, Steph, Cass, and Tim were sprawled across the manor's media room. Across the couch, you could barely make out their silhouettes amongst the blankets, bowls of popcorn, and other snacks that Duke already knew would leave sticky stains on the blankets if even one of them moved wrong.
Tim had made it about forty-five minutes into the movie before his head fell back against the couch, and Duke noticed the small rhythmic snoring next to him. He glanced over, and sure enough, Tim Drake, Gotham's one-man espresso destruction machine, was in deep sleep. His head was tilted back just enough that his mouth fell slightly open and his hair covered his eyes in that perfectly messy way that made Damian rant about "media bias towards aesthetically pleasing ingrates" at breakfast.
In an almost silent scene, Steph turned towards the sound while devouring a handful of popcorn. "He out -?" She asked while chewing.
"Lights out." Duke chuckled back. "Completely. Dude's been running on fumes and caffeine gum since Thursday. I was worried that he was trying to recreate the Russian Sleep Experiment."
Cass hummed softly, now also turned in their direction. "He's dreaming," she said, like she was seeing into Tim's head.
"Yeah, about more espresso and studded leather jackets," Steph said, while wiggling her eyebrows.
Duke snorted, "Nah, he's mentally preparing to steal the Batmobile and reworking its interface." He watched Tim scrunch his nose before leaning against his shoulder. "Oh, there he goes, he just figured it out, guys. Tomorrow we're going to the moon."
"Y'know, he actually embezzled one." Steph suddenly said.
Duke just looked at her. Nope, not going to ask about that…
They turned back to the movie with Tim hugging Duke's arm like a teddy bear, and as they watched the credits fade into black, Steph decided to break the silence with a devious grin on her face. "Okay, we're gonna do something now."
Duke just raised a questioning eyebrow, "Like what? Tuck him in? He's been drooling on me for the last fifteen minutes."
Steph giggled silently before reaching over the couch and rummaging through her hoodie pocket with the grace of a magician trying to pull a bunny out of a hat. "Nope," she said, procuring a black Sharpie out of the depths of her pocket.
"Why do you even have that on you?" Duke grumbled.
"Bruce basically adopted me. I'm prepared for an alien apocalypse at all times," Steph whispered, uncapping the pen with a soft plop. "You wanna do the honors?" She asked, holding out the pen towards him. He didn't understand how exactly a sharpie could help Steph in an Alien apocalypse, but there were bigger things to worry about right now.
Duke grinned. "You're terrible. He'll never trust us again."
"I know. You in or out, Signal?"
Cass just grinned from her blanket cocoon.
And that was that.
Between muffled giggles, all three of them leaned over him like predators with their prey. Duke held his breath, trying to steady his arm as much as possible.
"His eyebrows are like- perfectly symmetrical," he whispered. "Kind of impressive when you think about how many times he's probably broken a bone in his face.
"S'also the reason he snores." Steph said, "Deviated Septum." She explained in the same breath, before she leaned in, curling the end of one of Tim's eyebrows onto his forehead. "Now he's got expressive eyebrows.
Cass stifled a laugh behind her blanket. "Masterpiece," she just said, almost curling into a ball from laughter as Steph added an even more expressive mustache right above Tim's upper lip.
Then, in an impossible moment of shared horror, Tim snorted in his sleep and stirred. They all froze and held their breath. But instead of waking up, he just shifted slightly, mumbling something about "needing to cross-reference" something and snuggled against Duke's chest.
They exhaled together, silent laughter shaking the couch, while Duke tried his best to remain still, so as not to wake Tim.
"Oh, he's gonna kill us when he sees this."
Steph shrugged. "Totally worth it though."
Cass nodded along, adding a giggly, "100 percent!"
Duke quickly fumbled for his phone and snapped a quick selfie while throwing up a peace sign.
Duke: Joint effort {photo attached}
Dick: ?????????
Steph: Yes I'm available for commissions via dm
{one person reacted to this message with 🙅♂️}
Jason: WHOEVER GETS ME FOR SECRET SANTA I WANT A PRINT OF THIS.
Jason: framed.
Bruce: Please don't use permanent markers on your brother.
{5 people reacted to this message with: 👎}
Bruce
It didn't feel real.
Not the way the sun still rose when his entire world had collapsed. And not the people crowding around the manor.
He noticed them, of course, he did, they were loud, even their dimmed whispers felt like sirens in his ears. But rather than knowing why they were here, he was vaguely aware of them, like he was aware of the weather.
It was all wrong. They didn't belong in his home. But they were here for a reason. Even if, with every one of their movements and murmurs, he felt like he was going to collapse.
Black suits. Black dresses. Perfectly polished shoes on the manor's polished floors.
Someone was speaking, and while he tried to listen, he just couldn't.
He couldn't comprehend any of the words. He couldn't comprehend what happened.
It was wrong, so, so wrong.
The entire world felt distant, like he was underwater.
No one dared to touch him.
No one even spoke his name.
He sat frozen on the chair, someone had guided him to earlier, and as the last squeak of steps disappeared, his vision tunneled into one thing only.
The casket placed at the front of the room.
But it wasn't closed, like it had been with Jason.
It was open.
He didn't want to see. Didn't want to go closer.
But his feet carried him anyway.
The white pillow-like lining of the casket gleamed like mother-of-pearl under the too-bright lights. And yet they were a cruel white instead of a comforting cream, just like the skin of the person inside.
And against the white.
Black strands of hair.
Splayed just the same perfect way they always were when he slept.
Only they were wrong.
No, no, no, no, they were all wrong.
Too still and flat.
No movement where there should have been a slight uptick in breath.
No stubborn curl refusing to stay out of his eyes.
Bruce gasped for air, and his knees almost gave out.
Tim's face was unmarked except for the faint yellow bruise along his jaw, the one that would have healed if he had lived for another day. His expression was empty.
That was the worst part.
It didn't look like Tim. It couldn't be Tim.
Bruce reached out, hands shaking and fingers hovering just above Tim's face.
He didn't dare touch.
He couldn't.
It was wrong. It looked wrong. His face- his hair.
It was dead hair.
He heard a strange gurgling sound and then a sob tried to claw its way up his throat. There was no air in the room for him to breathe, nonetheless, he tried to swallow the sound.
Absurdly, his head went to their last mission.
There was no reason for Tim to die. None.
It was a standard drug bust, almost routine, predictable, ordinary by all means. It was the sort of mission Bruce could run half asleep. He had done a thousand like it. And Tim had too.
Nothing about it should have gone wrong.
Nothing about it should have killed him.
Bruce tried to replay it in his mind, but the memory was twisted and only half there. He couldn't piece it together. What happened at the end, again? Did he get knocked down? Had Tim seemed too tired? Off-balance? Had his voice sounded strained over the comms?
Bruce tried to remember.
But he couldn't.
He needed to remember.
He remembered Jason and how he was too slow, too far away, too late.
He remembered finding his son's body, that was barely a body anymore. And now all he could think was-
I did it again.
He must have missed something. A cue. A shout. A cry for help. He must have let his guard slip. Got too arrogant and comfortable. Because Tim was too meticulous, careful- too brilliant. Tim didn't make mistakes like this.
Not unless-
Not unless he had failed Tim first.
There was only his own voice in his mind, turning everything that had happened around over and over again, mercilessly.
You should have double-checked for heat signatures. You should have checked the building for structural issues. You should have made sure the blueprints were definitely the right ones. You should have been faster, smarter, closer. Should have learned.
You should have learned from Jason.
You promised that there would be no more dead Robins.
You-
The thought wouldn't finish. He couldn't let it.
The guilt tightened around his neck like a noose. Cutting off his air with every breath.
The lights flickered.
Bruce's hand finally landed on the top of Tim's head- barely. He gently brushed his fingertips across the black hair-
So cold.
Not just cool.
Cold.
There was no holding back his sobs now.
"- Bruce."
He barely registered the voice in the room.
"Bruce."
The casket in front of him blurred, and black spots danced at the edges of his vision.
"Bruce. HEY- Bruce. Wake up."
Bruce
A gasp ripped out of his chest.
He bolted upright on the chair in front of the batcomputer, heart hammering, breath ragged, tears staining his face, and the metallic taste of grief still choking in his throat.
But he wasn't alone, because a warm and steady hand was on his shoulder.
Not strong or heavy, just familiar. Alive.
"B?" The voice was soft, careful. "You're okay. It was just a dream."
He blinked hard and his vision cleared just enough to see-
Tim.
Bruce took in a long shuddering breath.
It was Tim, who stood next to him in the dim glow of the monitors, with his hair sticking up in directions only sleep and aggravated hair ruffling could produce, wearing a creased sweater and sweatpants like he had crawled out of bed just to find Bruce sleeping in the cave again.
Alive. He's alive. Thank God.
"…Tim."
"Yeah," Tim said quietly. His thumb brushed over Bruce's shoulder, as if he was trying to ground him. " You were…uh. Saying my name."
Bruce swallowed hard, trying to find the words, but his brain just didn't seem to want to cooperate.
"Nightmare," Bruce finally managed to rasp out, with his voice cracking. "It was-" He stopped because his voice gave out. But even explaining what he dreamt felt like a danger, as stupid as he knew that, that was. The words had no power to pull him back to sleep.
Tim didn't push him for an explanation. He never did.
He simply nodded, silent and knowing. Tim's look softened, and his face shifted into the kind of expression that only someone who had survived the same kind of nights. The kind that haunted you for years. The kind that didn't let you breathe.
And maybe that hurt more than it comforted Bruce. His fault.
Tim gently patted his arm. He didn't say anything, just gestured for Bruce to get up with a nod of his head.
And to his own surprise, Bruce stood- unsteady and with hitched breath- and just as he thought he might fall, Tim stepped into his space before Bruce could even reach for him.
Before he really knew what he was doing, his arms closed around Tim in a desperate and crushing hug. Completely unlike their usual quick embraces. No, he knew he was clinging to the proof that his world hadn't ended tonight. Tim was alive. All of his kids were.
Tim returned the hug firmly. It was almost like he was holding Bruce more than Bruce was holding Tim.
But he held him. Silent, steady, and alive.
Bruce pressed his face into the top of Tim's hair and blinked the tears of relief away. He breathed in the smell of familiar shampoo and rain almost desperately. Like he needed any more proof that the Tim standing in front of him was real and not just another screwed up dream of his.
He pressed a kiss to the crown of Tim's head, barely there, almost like a wish- or maybe a silent prayer. To keep Tim safe.
And Tim remained there. Arms tightening and with his cheek resting against Bruce's now steady breathing chest. When he eventually pulled back- it was only enough to slip a hand down towards Bruce's elbow and to hook his arm into it gently.
Tim led them up the cave steps into the quiet warmth of the manor and out of the shadows lingering in the cave, with Tim steering them towards the kitchen with a determination that Bruce couldn't really place.
"Tim, it's almost four in the morning." He blinked,
Tim chuckled, switching on the warm kitchen light, "Which is the perfect time for all sensible people to make a cup of tea for their PTSD ridden father-figure."
Bruce huffed out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh, but seemed close enough for Tim to finally let go of his arm and to turn towards the kettle. "You really don't need-" Bruce started.
"B, from what I heard, your dream was bad. I'm making you tea."
He couldn't argue with Tim any further, not when he was standing next to him, wearing mismatched socks and mullet sticking off in all directions on the back of his head, like the last remnants of Tim's sleep still clung to the ends of his hair. Both of them still stood next to each other, and Bruce rested a hand on the counter, trying to get rid of the lingering pressure of his nightmare, while Tim waited and watched, leaning against the opposite counter.
When the kettle clicked off, Tim wordlessly poured the boiling water into two mugs and pressed one into Bruce's hands. The heat against his palms seeped through him.
"Thanks," Bruce said, quiet but sincere.
Tim's eyes flicked up towards him, "Anytime," he replied with the faintest hint of a smile.