Chapter Text
Tim thinks he’s done a fairly good job, as Robin—now Red Robin—of keeping Bruce from spiraling. After all, he’d become Robin for that sole purpose hadn’t he? To keep Bruce from doing something he regretted, from giving into grief and pain and breaking his one concrete rule.
And then Jason was back and very much alive, which meant Bruce was no longer in danger of getting out of control. He’d attempted to give it up then—the mantle—but Jason hadn’t wanted it.
Jason had wanted something else entirely.
So he still kept it. He kept it—he thinks—because Jason wasn’t exactly working with Bruce, and Dick was in Blüdhaven most of the time, so Batman could use a Robin.
If he thinks he kept it because he liked it—because he enjoyed the thrill, the danger, the purpose—no he didn’t.
And then Damian had come along and Tim had been thrilled to have a baby brother, someone he could be there for. Someone to be what Robin was for him. That was, of course, before Damian attempted to kill him and broke his entire femur.
Still he’d pulled through, stubborn to give up, despite the people he’d have to work with—most of them, having attempted at his pitiful life.
And then Bruce died.
And Dick gave Robin to Damian.
And Tim’s world fractured into a million pieces, everything he had held dear slipping through trembling, desperate fingers.
He retreats, into his shell, alone to grieve his mentor. His father. His time as Robin.
But then again, he’s stubborn and bull-headed. He’s allowed to believe and hope. He believes Bruce would've left something–anything at all–for his Robin, his son to find.
He’s allowed to conspire.
And he does, until he finds a sliver of hope so slim, he almost misses it. But it’s there, and very real. He clings to it with all his might, cradling it to himself, giddy with the thought itself—the very possibility—of Batman being alive.
Just lost to the past.
He’s excited when he takes the idea to Dick, and rambles on about it. Dick looks at him with a sad little smile, perhaps finding it hard to believe—Tim thinks—that they have hope. After all, he’d thought so too.
But then Dick suggests something stupid, like therapy. He tells Tim that it’s okay to let go, to accept it and let himself grieve. He pats Tim on the back, as he tells him Bruce is gone. That Batman is dead, and he should move on.
And Tim knows then, that he's alone.
Alone in this quest to save his father.
Alone against the League of Assassins. Against Ra’s Al Ghul.
Alone, alone, alone.
But it hadn’t mattered then.
It matters now.
Because he doesn’t want to be alone again.
Alone in Drake Manor, the sole member of the family. In the Galas and high end gatherings, as he watches the Waynes take up the spotlight, smile and charm all those around them. They’d probably look to him as well with one of those smiles, or a different one for him entirely, given their history.
One that holds a secret they share and know is out of his grasp.
No, he doesn’t want to be alone again.
Not if he can do something about it.
He might’ve had a different idea a year ago, when Kon and Bart were alive.
But they’re not.
They're gone and he's still here, with people he thought he could trust– thought had his back.
Tim closes the door behind him, back at his place now, still somehow irritatingly sober and unfortunately—
Very much alive.
He pulls in a controlled breath, leaning against the polished wood.
Plan A had failed.
“Stupid.” He tells himself as he shrugs off his coat, draping it over a chair and heading for the bathroom.
“Stupid.” He mutters, as he brushes his teeth and curses Jason for not showing up to finish what he started in the Titan’s Tower.
For not… for not putting him out for good.
It would’ve been poetic wouldn’t it? To go out by the hands of his hero, the one he thought to be dead and long gone. The one he’d grieved without the boy even knowing a thing about him.
Without Robin even knowing he had an admirer right next door, someone who knew his secret.
It would’ve been…
Scary.
Scary to be at the mercy of his dead hero—“The Martyred Robin”—who is now all but a whisper of the boy he used to be. A whisper of the excitement, the pure joy Tim had seen on his face as he flipped through rooftops, teasing Batman to no end.
A whisper of the magic he used to possess.
All he possesses now are guns, the Alley and the ability to be a lowercase dick. That too for Tim and Bruce specifically.
Which had made him such a good choice.
The perfect one.
But then he didn’t show.
He’d gone through all that trouble of making his presence glaringly obvious on the Red Hood’s turf, in his bar. He’d bumped into three of his men, making sure they got a good look at his face before excusing himself and turning away.
Tim knows they must tell “big boss” Hood if they see a stuck-up rich guy in the alley. And Hood must have specified for sure that rich kid “Timothy Jackson Drake” should surely be reported.
Tim was a hundred and two percent sure Jason knew he was there.
He’d waited three whole hours.
The bar-tender kicked him out.
Was a part of him relieved? Happy? That Jason hadn’t thought him worthy of his time? Had chosen to ignore him and unknowingly prolong his existence?
Or maybe he’d realised that Tim was no longer a bat.
Breathe Tim, breathe.
The thought itself lodged into his throat and stayed. To think that Jason, of all people, would be the first to— To what? Kick him out? Rub it in his face? Enjoy the miserable sight of him without Robin to ground him?
…
As a matter of fact…
Isn't that what Jason had wanted to do in the tower? To scare his naive little replacement off from playing Robin?
His knuckles are white as he grips the edge of the drying rack to steady himself and he barely registers the squeal of metal as the bar distorts to the indented shape of his warm, calloused hand.
Breathe. He pleads with himself.
It's hard though.
“I thought so.” had been written so blatantly in bold, when he refused to show, to treat Tim like the rest.
Stop thinking.
He thinks as he gets into bed, ruffling his pillow. The crinkle of the foil from the Melatonin packet in his hands echoes throughout the room. The sleeping pill slides dryly down his throat as he swallows it, not bothering with the water right there on the table. It burns but not as much as his heart does.
It’s routine anyway.
No need to force Bruce or Dick’s hand as well. Leave, before they have to do the same.
Tim puts the blade to his wrist.
A slim kitchen knife—more of an adornment than an actually efficient utensil—he’d gotten as a set when he took the penthouse. It was a pretty thing, definitely up to his mother’s pretentious taste.
It’s a good thing she isn’t here to tell him off for using it like this.
He doesn't think. He doesn’t want to think about what he’s doing because he’s thought enough for godsake–it fucking hurts–and he doesnt want to. He planned this, he's planned this for a while now, long before he managed to drag Bruce back, long before everything went so fucking wrong.
Long before Damian severed his line or Dick threatened him with Arkham.
He can't think. He won't think.
God he doesn't want to think.
First slice. It stings, but his head goes quiet–an abrupt silence he doesn't think he deserves.
Second slice. He doesn’t feel it. His eyes trace the movement, shining silver against pale skin, the slightest opening of translucent flesh, as red bubbles up and starts seeping out.
It feels good and…
Wrong.
Done with the knife, he carefully plucks a tissue—mindful not to get the viscous liquid slowly oozing out on the table—and wipes the blade clean again and again and again, before tentatively placing it next to the water glass.
Tim pulls up his blanket, wincing as a couple heavy droplets fall on to the light wool and taint it with their bloom.
Tim faces the door as he awaits sleep, silently apologizing to whoever finds him like this. For giving them a scare they didn’t deserve.
God please dont let it be Alfred.
His eyes draw closed as he thinks, how his parents would be mad at him for tainting the Drake name with a stunt like this.
“Foolish Timothy. Senseless Timothy.”
Selfish Timothy.