Chapter Text
Tim Drake hated the way his face looked.
It wasn’t his eyes, or his brows, or his cheekbones or even his smile that was the problem. He— liked most things about his face individually actually. But something ruined the image.
The scars. The very same ones he was now hiding with foundation because they’d trigger Jason (Jason, Jason— everything was always about Jason… Everything was always about Jason’s trauma with the Joker… What about him, what about him, the little kid that had been dragged along to be the bastards son, what about Tiny little scared Tim who didn’t think anyone would care to come for him— No… This was no time to dwell on that. He had long since accepted that he’d never be the first choice).
This wasn’t about him— this was about the scars… The scars that were reminders of Tim’s time with the Joker. (His time as Joker Junior— Tim didn’t dwell on that name for too long, too much, too close.)
He hated the smile carved into his face (“Smile Son, no one wants an unhappy clown”), the lines cut over his eyes (“Aren’t ya the prettiest son of mine. Ya know Junior, ya very well look like mq Mistah J— but ya ‘ave ya own flair.”), the way he was paler then he should be…
No— he wouldn’t dwell on it any longer. Finishing applying the concealer and foundation that kept the scars, and his pallor hidden, he finally looked at himself in the mirror, making sure everything was covered before turning on his heel and making his way to the kitchen in Wayne Manor.
(He decidedly didn’t think about the bad feeling he had in his gut, and the laughter welling up in his throat. Not now— never again. He wasn’t Joker Junior, he’d healed, he wasn’t— He was fine.)
Arriving at the Manor’s kitchen, he didn’t pay attention to who was inside as he made a beeline for the cabinet that held the caffeinated tea’s Alfred always got him (No— no matter what people assumed, he wasn’t a Coffee addict. In fact, he hated Coffee… It was more of a survival drink, something only drinkable in situations where he’d need to be up for days and even then only with a lot of milk and sugar to dilute the bitter taste. But he supposed that was just yet another thing his family got wrong about him.)
As he was steeping his tea, he finally registered the fact that Jason, Dick and Damian were in the room. “Mornin’” he muttered sleepily.
Jason froze for a bit, then shook his head. “Morning Replacement.” He said.
“Morning Timmy!” Dick cheered, too awake for the time in the morning as always.
“Hello Timothy.” Was Damian’s scathing response.
Then, all three of them went back to talking about whatever they were taking about, not paying Tim any more mind.
He was actually quite happy that they didn’t decide to talk to him more, as the accent he’d picked up in the months he was with Harley and the Joker was more prominent that day, and he felt another laugh bubble up in his throat. He pushed it down, as he always did. (He wasn’t Joker Junior— he wasn’t him— No, he wasn’t.)
Taking a deep breath Tim pointedly focused on anything that wasn’t the laughter welling up, or the accent he just couldn’t get rid of— or the fact that that day he had to work with Harley on a case… No— he had to focus on other things.
Focus on breakfast, focus on whatever Jason was complaining about— not JJ, not him, he wasn’t him. It was fine.
He just— had to focus on the smell off the tea he was brewing.
Tuning in to what his… siblings, were talking about. Tim tensed up as he realised Jason was once again complaining about Bruce. About the training he had to go through to become Robin, about why Bruce didn’t kill Joker, lamenting his experience with the Joker leading to his death— (Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, it’s not funny, you’re not Joker Junior, you’re Tim Drake and death wasn’t funny. Laughing would trigger Jason.)
He covered his mouth with his hands, trying and failing to tune out Jason lamenting his death like an old Victorian stage play ghost with a vendetta.
He very carefully took a sip of his tea, making sure his hands didn’t shake in case any of them looked his way. God he was lucky that Cass wasn’t awake yet, she would have clocked him immediately.
He hummed a quiet song in yet another attempt to block out Jason’s words, which were getting more and more grating on his ears the longer he waxed poetic.
God, he knew he shouldn’t— but he couldn’t help but compare his and Jason’s trauma… and for some reason Jason’s death didn’t seem so big in comparison to being tortured into being the maniac’s son and being told to shoot Bruce.
All that happened to Jason was that he died. And that was traumatic— but did he really have to bring it up every second of the day?! Tim’s hands clenched around his mug, placing it back down on the counter ‘lest he’d accidentally break it…
It wasn’t like Tim brought up HIS Joker trauma every second of the day like it was some sort of— trophy to show off.
He knew it wasn’t true but… sometimes it felt like Jason was rubbing his trauma in Tim’s face like ‘look how much worse I had it, you don’t have any right to complain’.
It was bullshit off course but that didn’t mean it hurt any less to hear Jason talk so openly about his trauma, complaining about it with Dick and Damian, laughing about it, it just— it hurt so much.
‘Look how much better I am’ Tim had once imagined Jason saying, ‘I can kill people and be let back into the family because off course it was the Joker’s fault. But you’ll always be on the sidelines. The forever outsider. Replacement.’
Tim knew one day he would snap, one day he would go rogue. He knew himself— there was a reason why he had the most contingency plans for himself after all, but he didn’t think it’d be so soon.
He attempted some breathing exercises, but it didn’t work. And so just before Jason was about to go off into another tirade, Tim snapped. Not fully, not ‘contingency plan’ level snapped, but his patience for the Waynes had run out.
“God can ya shu’ up!” Tim yelled at Jason. “Is tha’ all ya can talk ‘bout? Jezus fuckin’ Christ on a motorbike, it’s always, ‘I died’ or ‘I hate Bruce’ or ‘Look what tha Joker did to ya! At least he didn’t kidnap ya, torture ya, chemically whiten ya skin, convince ya tha’ Ye’re his son via electroshock therapy, cut a smile into yer face, lines over ya eyes and then tell ya to shoot B—” his voice faltered, falling silent for a few second while everyone else stared in shock. (Fuck— fuck— fuck— he sounded so much like Harley there… He’d slipped, the accent had been noticeable— He felt a laugh bubble up in his throat, pushing it down once more.)
His breathing was somehow heavy and shallow at the same time as he whispered, “I— forget I said anythin’…”
He turned on his heel and speed-walked out of the room, leaving his tea to stand there on the table , steeping with no one to check on it or drink it.
“Wait Tim—”
Tim didn’t turn around, slamming the door to his room and just, bursting out laughing. He couldn’t stop it anymore, the laugh attack had been building from the moment he woke up, fuck. He couldn’t stop laughing— he couldn’t breathe…
Tears filled his eyes as he sobbed through the laughs, becoming dizzy from the lack of air he was getting due to the constant laughing. He couldn’t— grasping at his phone he managed to call Babs just as he fell unconscious from lack of air.
And everything went black.