Archive of Our Own

Timothy has been acting odd. 

Damian noticed it happened suddenly and quickly, the last week or so. Not odd to the point that he needed to drop everything and discuss it with father or Richard, but odd enough to know that something was wrong.

He couldn’t bring it up to anyone else initially, anyways, lest they think he was paranoid and strange. Timothy wasn’t acting bad-weird, per se, just weird. Happier and more excited than usual, appreciating the little things Richard does for him, and was way more lenient in whatever annoyances Damian or Jason throw at him. 

(The other day, Damian had shut Timothy's laptop whilst he was in the middle of a sentence. Instead of shouting and punching him, Timothy had laughed, ruffled Damian’s hair, and actually gone to sleep.)

Weirdest of all, he’d been finishing up cases and not taking on new ones. 

That was what tipped Damian truly over the edge. Timothy willingly taking a break, willingly letting others take on work he’d usually think he was more suited for—everything else that had changed was explainable, this was very clearly not. 

When he’d brought it up to Richard, the man had laughed. “Maybe his friends did something nice for his birthday,” he’d suggested. Timothy’s birthday in the manor wasn’t a huge deal, he’d always firmly argued against huge parties, but the Titans and Young Justice were different (as in, they didn’t listen to Timothy’s wishes). “Or maybe Bernard gave him another type of present,” Richard had wiggled his eyebrows at that, and Damian had ended the conversation there. 

Jason had shrugged his shoulders when Damian had caught him in one of the safe houses in the Bowery. “I haven’t noticed anything,” he’d said, and then he’d gone back to polishing his guns. 

Stephanie and Duke were playing cards, playing a game they’d invented. They both had shrugged, then went back to playing their invented game. 

Cassandra had blinked at him, when he’d asked her about if Timothy's body language showed her anything he couldn’t see, before they started sparring. “He is happier,” she confirmed, “that is good.” 

Damian hadn’t wanted to disagree. Cassandra was stubborn—even more so than him. If he’d tried to bring up something odd about this new happiness, he’s sure she would have had a new way to rebuke him. Even if she didn’t have solid proof, she’d somehow blow him off, or beat him so hard at sparring that he’ll feel embarrassed enough to never bring it up again. 

Damian huffs into his hands. He hadn’t had the time to ask father about the changes—the man was on League business in the Watchtower for the night. 

Before he’d gone, father had stared long and hard at both him and Timothy. “Keep an eye on him, Tim,” he said, and Tim had smiled and laughed, told father that Damian was perfectly capable, and then promised to keep Damian safe anyway. 

Weirdest of all—Tim had hugged father goodbye. Tim wasn’t a stranger to physical affection, not when Richard was his hero, but something as sudden as a hug goodbye when Batman was just in the Watchtower was… odd. 

Father didn’t seem to mind, and he’d gone in the zeta tube without so much as a second glance. 

Damian and Timothy had gotten to changing into their suits. Damian had watched, eyes narrowed, as Timothy messed about and added something to his utility belt—which was always perfectly stocked. 

The patrol that night was just Robin and Red Robin, since Batman wasn’t in town and two Robins patrolling wasn’t exactly… common. Nightwing and Black Bat were in Blüdhaven following a lead acquired by Nightwing’s civilian identity, Red Hood was stuck in the Alley for recon and information gathering, Spoiler was off that night for her mother’s birthday, Signal was asleep, Batman in the Watchtower—a quiet night, then. 

As much as Damian hated it initially, Timothy was the best person—other than father, of course—to work with. He was efficient, just as skilled as Damian, and had some of the same training (courtesy of Shiva being League of Assassins adjacent). They’d grown accustomed to the other’s style of fighting over the few years they’ve been working together, and it was easiest to work with Timothy, when there was silence. They didn’t need jokes, didn’t need words at all—not like he needed with Jason or Richard. 

It was weird, going from straight up violent towards each other, to a soft and understanding ally-ship, to straight up good partners. Damian never told Timothy this, of course—he had dignity to maintain. But it was… implied, through his non-existent resistance to going on patrol alone with him, his willingness to follow orders (ones that weren’t straight up stupid, of course).

The patrol goes quietly. There’s nothing major—even the muggings were lowkey and easy, and no major criminals were playing. They dropped by Crime Alley to hand Hood a thumb drive they’d gotten from a drug dealer that they suspected was involved in the case he was currently working on. They’d also taken the drugs he was dealing—more than enough to kill a man. They were going to keep hold of those and analyse them, to make sure nothing overly harmful was laced through them and thus circling through different drug rings in Gotham.

“Thanks, squirts,” Hood had said, as he ruffled both their hair. Damian had slapped his hand off, and Timothy had laughed, seemingly completely unbothered. 

“Yeah,” Timothy had said, still grinning, and then grappled off when Hood had returned to his generals. 

Damian scrunches his face, watching the progressively smaller Red Robin silhouette move away. He grapples off after him. 

They land on the rooftop opposite of a batburger, and Timothy nods vaguely towards the door, smiling wide, asking. They’re near the end of their patrol anyways, so food to end it is an easy choice. 

They eat on the rooftop of the burger place. They’re sitting on the ledge, a gargoyle on Damian’s right, in a gap between the parapets. Damian’s sitting crosslegged, and Tim’s legs are hanging off the roof. 

Timothy finishes his burger quickly, and dusts his hands off. He slowly takes sips of his milkshake, and then watches the barely visible moon as Damian finishes his own food. 

Damian tears off bits of the burger bun to throw towards the raven that’d landed near them, and Timothy had smiled softly as he’d handed him the rest of his fries to feed to the bird.

They sit in silence for a bit. 

“I’m…” Timothy begins, a couple minutes later. Oracle had given them the all-clear on patrol just minutes after they’d sat down to eat, and they were meant to get going soon. They’d come in each on their own motorcycle—Timothy on Redbird, and Damian on his Batcycle (technically Richard’s old bike refurbished, but Damian didn’t mind—he’ll come up with his own name when he moves on past Robin). 

“What?” Damian asks, not looking towards him. The raven was getting closer, Damian could almost grab him. Timothy would know to continue, anyways. He knows what Damian’s dismissal sounds like, and knows this is not it. 

“I’m going to kill myself tonight.”

Damian stills, the raven along with him. He doesn’t reply, just waits. Waits, because Timothy must be joking, must be using metaphors, must have an explanation as to why he’s saying—planning, because Timothy Drake doesn’t confess to wanting to do things on a whim. He would do them without telling anyone. Or he tells someone when he has a plan, a plan he isn't willing to divert from.

“I don’t know how,” Timothy continues, as if he hadn’t just shattered Damian’s world, alongside causing his heart to almost stop. “Maybe something strong from the medbay. Maybe I’ll overdose on the drugs we busted tonight. Or I could use a batarang. That’d be poetic.”

Damian turns, ever so slowly, to stare at Timothy. The other boy is not looking at him, simply staring still into the Gotham sky, following the moon. His face is awfully serene and happy, considering his words. 

“I didn’t want to risk it by jumping off a building,” Timothy continues, unbothered, bringing his legs off the ledge and tucking his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them. “I’ve survived so many of those. Seems too likely I’ll survive if I try to fall for real.”

He turns, smiles all soft and sweet at Damian, and tilts his head. “What do you think?” There’s almost—there’s almost a laugh in his tone, playful and energetic, as if they aren’t discussing ways on how to kill himself. 

Damian presses his lips together, feels the heat rush up his neck and onto his face. If this is somehow a convoluted prank, if Timothy is using this as a way to humiliate him—Damian shakes the thought. This isn’t something Timothy would joke about. Especially not in front of the boy who has already died. “What?”

“I mean,” Timothy says, turning away again. “Would you prefer finding me—like, I don’t know. Bloody, or pale?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Timothy smiles again, so small it’s barely visible from where his head is tucked almost between his knees. “I wanted to write a note,” he confesses. “But. I don’t know. That felt—weird. Impersonal. I think if a note were left, everyone, especially Bruce and Dick, would go crazy, convinced that someone somehow managed to kill me and then replicate my handwriting to make it seem like I did it myself. They wouldn’t rest until they found someone—and since they wouldn’t ever find someone, they’d kill themselves trying.”

“So, what?” Damian asks. “You think they’d trust me?”

“Dami,” Timothy says, and he turns to him and his eyes are glossy. The name sounds so emotional in his voice—like it means so much more than Damian thinks it does. “Of course they’d believe you. You’d never—you’d never be dismissed, when it comes to this. They love you, of course they’d trust you.”

“But why me?” Damian asks, and finally properly turns towards his brother. He feels his emotions rise, rise, rise in his chest, and everything feels bleak. “Why not Richard, or Cassandra—hell, why not father?”

“You’re the only one that I knew would respect my decision,” Timothy says, easy and slow. “You know how Dick is, he wouldn’t let me. Jason’s the same, despite whatever the hell he has going on. His whole thing is no more dead robins,” Timothy laughed loudly then, as if that was the funniest thing. “Cass and da—Bruce would convince me to go therapy, or get on some new drugs. They’d work for a while, but…”

“What about the Titans, Young Justice?” Damian asks, desperate. He's not—he’s not meant for these kinds of conversations. He’s gotten better, definitely, but—nowhere near this good. He lifts a hand, slow and careful, and places it on Tim’s shoulder. “They’ll be devastated, they won’t… won’t…”

“They’d get over it,” Timothy says, and suddenly he’s not laughing. Everything drains out of his face, and his eyes are more lidded than before. Damian feels as though the mask has slipped like snow off ice. “They’ll—get over it.”

The silence lingers, Damian’s hand is still on Tim’s shoulder and they’re facing each other on the ledge. One wrong move, one wrong word, and—

Timothy rumages into his utility belt. He pulls out—pulls out his favourite camera. “Here,” he tells Damian. “I was—I was just going to leave it in my room, but it’s a waste to let it rot. Maybe you can use it. Learn to use it.” He places the camera into Damian’s lap.

“You were wrong,” Damian says, and brings up his other hand to hold Timothy’s other shoulder. “You were wrong about me.”

“What?” Timothy seems genuinely confused, as if he’d actually believed—believed that Damian would—

He hisses the next few words, gripping Timothy by his shoulders. “I’m not going to respect your fucking decision.”

The world tilts—sudden and inconsequential and invisible to everyone but them two—and Timothy laughs, quiet. “Oh, yeah?” he asks. “I’d like to see you try and stop me.”

Damian huffs out. Timothy was always underestimating him, even when they got better. It plays into his advantage now. The whole thing begins slowly—almost unsure, and Damian jumps and pushes Timothy away, so he’s not in danger of jumping off the roof. It wasn’t a long fall, not even remotely fatal, not by a long shot, but he wanted to be safe. He’d also gotten hold of Timothy’s camera and tucked it safely into his favourite compartment in the utility belt—making sure it’s off the floor, not at risk of being broken or forgotten or stolen, because—and Damian almost shouts this in his brain, almost announces it to the whole world out loud—Tim will be getting it back.

They’d landed not too far from the Alley when they sat down to eat, so he’d pressed the SOS button his communicator with Jason as soon as he’d made his decision to disrespect Timothy’s decision—as he had put it—a few seconds prior. Jason would be here quickly. Damian was strong, of course, but Tim was resourceful. He’d been trained by Batman, by Shiva, he was almost Oracle’s match. His intellect was comparable to those of the greatest minds in the world.

“Damian,” Tim calls, hands up in a sign of surrender. “Don’t—don’t fight me on this. You know this is right.”

“Like hell it is,” Damian says, loudly. “I was dead for a year, Tim. I know that death is not worth it. I know you would regret it, as soon as it was irreversible.”

“You don’t know how I’d feel,” Tim snaps back at him. “You don’t know anything. You don’t understand—what it’s like—” He snaps his mouth shut, and looks away. His eyes are watering. They’re red, and glossy. Tears are threatening, but not quite coming out. 

“I don’t understand what? Explain it to me, Tim. Explain it to me, convince me, and then I’ll considering respecting your fucking decision.” He wants to know, of course, but also—it’d buy him time until Jason got there. Buy him time to make sure Tim doesn’t—die. 

“You wouldn’t get it,” Tim says, and his voice shakes. “You wouldn’t get what it’s like, always being the odd one out in this damn world. In the hero world, in this family, in my own damn life.” He hiccups, and he’s genuinely crying now. 

“Tell me how any of that is true, Tim,” Damian challenges, and glances around. No red. Not yet.

“I wasn’t ever meant to be Robin,” Tim says, and Damian rolls his eyes. This again. “I stole the uniform whilst Jason’s body was practically warm. I forced Bruce to take me on—my parents were alive, and I was so ungrateful I still wanted me. I was greedy. I wasn’t even good at it. Still aren’t.”

“Fuck you,” Damian says. “Fuck you,” and he takes a couple steps forward, almost stalking, and Tim’s eyes widen, like prey that knows it’s about to be eaten. “Thinking you could force my father to do anything? That you would be as great as to—what, bring Batman down to his knees? Fuck you, Drake.”

Tim’s face turns red. “Fuck off,” he says, his voice quieter but just as angry. “You know damn well I was good, more than good—”

“Why do you distrust father’s decision to take you on, then? If you were able to best him, to checkmate Batman, then—what, are you implying that father is so puny he was able to be bested by a child? One that’s so unworthy he still isn’t good enough, after years of training?”

Tim doesn’t reply. 

“Jason forgave you,” Damian says, almost casually, shrugging one shoulder. “Just like Richard forgave him.” Damian takes a stray breath, and his lock gazes on Tim. “Just like you forgave me.”

Tim shakes his head. “Dami, you know what I mean. I wasn’t ever meant for this life. I had luxury, had money enough to never worry again. I was small and weak and strange. Vigilantes aren’t—any of those things.”

“They are. You are proof enough for that.”

Tim shakes his head again. “You’re not understanding me. You’re Bruce’s son. You were trained to be his sidekick, his partner. You always knew your place. I never did—i thought I did, when I took on Robin, but—” He swallows. “But clearly not. No room for us both, you know?” It’s a weak joke—one he can barely smile at. 

Damian scowls. “So what? No Robin, so you’re going to kill yourself? Are you as petty as to die simply because you can’t have a title that doesn’t even belong to either of us?”

Tim shakes his head again, more vigorously than before. “It’s not that. It never was. I just—it was the one thing, holding me together. But, it doesn’t need me anymore, so—so I fall apart.” He looks at his hands a second, and smiles for a second. “That was so cringey. Don’t tell the others I said that.” He’s laughing quietly and quickly, and it’s his real laugh, however brief.

Damian fights a small smile. Steps in the right direction. “I will, if you don’t come home alive. If you don’t stay alive. If you don’t listen to me.”

“Dami—”

Red Hood jumps on top of Tim’s body, and he lets out a low oof sound as he crumbles beneath the larger man. “Fatass!” Tim calls, flailing uselessly under the larger man. “Get off of me.”

“Yo, baby bat,” Jason says, taking off his helmet. “Want my help?”

“Please,” Damian says. “We need to get him back to the cave—safely.”

Damian can’t see Jason’s eyes, but he’s pretty sure the man winks at him. “Sure thing. Let’s go, Small Red.”

They have to restrain Tim greatly—he’s bat-trained, obviously, so only the best restraints can hold him. They manage well enough, with all of the different tools they have, and throw and strap him on the back of Redbird as Jason drives. They make it to the Cave mostly unscathed, bare of course Tim’s useless wriggling around the back of the bike. 

“Up and at ‘em, Timberlina,” Jason says, as he picks up Tim. He starts walking in the direction of the medbay. “I don’t know what you’ve been hit with, but it must be bad if Damian’s called for help.”

“Oh,” Damian says, as he walks alongside Jason, Tim snapping at them even with his mouth covered. “He’s not been hit with anything.”

“Is he rabid, then?” Jason says, laughing, and places a wriggling Tim onto the medbay bed. “Why’s he trying to bite me?”

“He wants to make some stupid decision,” Damian begins, turning to the cabinets and locking them firmly, placing the key into his breast pocket. Then, louder, as if to make sure Tim overhears, “That I damn well sure am not going to allow him to make.”

Tim glares at him.

“Well,” Jason says. “Do you need me here? Or are you okay alone? I still have some business with my guys, so—”

“You can go, Jason,” Damian says. “I’ve got him handled.”

Once Jason’s gone, Damian’s eyes harden. He stares at the now still Timothy, still restrained and sitting up on the bed. “So, Tim,” he begins. “Are we going to have a civil conversation about this, or will I have to lock you in the containment cells and inform father of your decision?”

Tim’s eyes widen. He stares, for a second, and then sighs under the cloth over his mouth. He nods. Damian doesn’t need to be Cassandra to read Tim’s body language. He understands that look well enough. He begins to take off the restraints. 

“That was so unnecessary,” Tim says, as he’s rubbing his fingers around his sore wrists. “Like, Jason? Come on.”

“At least I didn’t tell him what you were planning to do,” Damian snaps back, leaning against the medbay wall, and that shuts Tim up quick enough. Damian sighs, angry seeping out with each breath he lets out. “Tim. I need—we need to tell someone. I’m not equipped for this. You know that. That’s why you told me.”

Tim doesn’t answer. 

“I know this is… difficult,” Damian begins, carefully. “I cannot say that I understand you, or your reasonings, but I can understand the hopelessness, at least.”

“It’s more than that,” Tim says, and lies down on the bed. He blinks at Damian, eyes suddenly becoming hazy. “It’s just—rational. At this point.”

“Dying is rational?” Damian asks, unimpressed. 

“When it comes to me,” Tim’s answer is simple. 

“What about me, or Jason?”

“That’s not the same.”

“Like hell it isn’t.”

Tim glares at him. Damian glares back. “What if,” Damian says. “What if a civilian tried to jump off a roof during your patrol?”

“That’s not the same, and you know damn well it isn’t,” Tim says back, turning over so his back was against Damian’s face. Leaving himself open for attack.

Damian sighs. “If they gave you the reasoning you are giving me—”

“It’s different.”

Damian feels himself sigh internally. “It is not.”

“I don’t—” Tim stops for a second, and his shoulders shake. He’s still laying on the bed, back towards the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms around his legs. “I don’t think it’s the same, Dami.”

“It is,” Damian insists. “You have not given me reason to think it is not.”

Tim is shaking openly now, and when he speaks his voice is tired and almost shattered. “I don’t think it’s worth it anymore.”

“What? What isn’t worth it anymore?”

“Civilian work. Hero-ing, just—” he waves his hand around vaguely in front of him, barely visible to Damian who is staring at his back. “My life. I guess.”

Damian’s own heart softens, and he kicks himself off the wall. He takes the few steps towards the bed, and then sits on the edge almost—almost gingerly. He lets his hand hover over Tim’s head for just a second, and then he lets it land and he pets the boy’s head slowly and carefully. Gently. “It is hard. But it is worth it.”

Tim shakes his head against the mattress, and Damian peers over to see tears in his eyes. “‘S’not. I’ve thought about it, and when I thought—well, maybe if I just died—and it all made sense. Clicked into place. Like—like—it felt right.”

Damian swallows. “Is that why you were acting so happy the last week? You thought you figured it out?”

Tim nods silently. 

Damian sighs. “I am sorry, Tim,” he says, carefully. “I did—I noticed. But I did not know what it meant.”

Tim shakes his head again. “It’s okay. I was just—I think I—” He swallows. 

Damian speaks again, “Why did you ask me how you wanted me to find you?”

Tim huffs out a small sound, an almost laugh. “I didn’t want you to be unprepared. I know you’ve—” He winces, “—killed before. But it’s—uh, different. Different when it’s someone you know. I thought maybe seeing you in a way you were prepared for would be easier to come to terms with.”

Damian hums. “Was this always an option?”

“What?”

“Dying? Or is it—new? You fought when I first came here, and tried to—you know.”

Tim laughs, and the sound is sweeter and softer. “It wasn’t always the main plan. Like, before Robin I was always on—on the verge, I guess. But I was so scared. Then Robin gave me something to hold on to, but when—when dad got lost in the timestream it—it got bad. Worse.”

“Did you try?”

Tim shakes his head. “I couldn’t. I needed Bruce back, needed him to come back to—to all of you. I… uh, I had other ways, to, uh, to cope. So I wouldn’t try anything that would compromise that.”

Damian stays silent. Waiting. 

“I did a lot of drugs,” Tim admits. “Not like—not to the point that I was always high or on a trip, but I’d do them so often it was noticeable. I smoked a bunch, I think my lungs are brown, because I would do it like crazy.” He laughs. “Training, obviously.” He stops for a second, and sits up finally, turns to look at Damian. His eyes hold Damian’s for a second before they drop again, to his hands his lap, fingers picking at his nails. “I—hurt myself. A lot. Just for the sake of it. Because—because training wasn’t always enough.”

Damian’s breath catches. He knows what Tim means—Richard had told him about his own self-harm, back when Jason was dead—but he doesn’t know the extent. Richard’s scars were white lines across his upper arms and broken bones, because he had other people to talk to. He cannot imagine what Tim—who was alone in a completely new space—would have done. 

“Can I see?”

Tim stares at him for a full two minutes. Damian’s about to call it off, apologise, but the other, ever so slowly, begins stripping off his suit. Damian looks away, gives him privacy to do that, at least. 

When he looks back, his breath hitches. Tim’s in just a vest and boxers, and his skin is clear to see.

The most obvious ones are the two vertical cuts on each wrist—Damian had seen these before, when he responded to a distress call a girl made about her mother that an ambulance wasn’t fast enough for. He reaches forward before he can think, before he can notice anything else, and traces the lines with his thumb. 

He looks at the rest of the arms—the upper arms mirror, somewhat, Richard’s when he first showed Damian his own scars. Light scars in straight and uniform lines, like—and Damian feels bad for even thinking that—a barcode. His ankles are similar—just light lines across and down.

Tim’s thighs are so much worse—deeper cuts, longer, and all over. The inside of his thighs, the middle, the outside. They’re—Damian feels like he’s shaking. He realises with a start that he is. Some of those cuts look a day old. 

“Those are new,” he points out, hands letting go of Tim’s forearms and tracing gently across the fresh cuts on the thighs. He sees Tim wince, and he pulls away quickly, jerkily. “Sorry.”

“‘S’ okay,” Tim mumbles back. “Doesn’t hurt that much.”

Damian swallows thickly. “I am sorry, Tim. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Tim says, for the millionth time. Damian looks up at his face, and though there are tears in his eyes there’s a grin on his face. “Am I allowed to kill myself now?”

Damian feels himself burst into tears. “Tim,” he says, through tears. His voice is shaking and his face hurts and everything—everything feels wrong. Feels off. “Please do not do that. I—I love you, Tim. Okay? I love you. We all do. We love you.”

Tim, very tentatively, hugs him back. “I know,” he says, quietly. “I know, Dami. I love you too. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Damian continues to cry into his brother’s arms. Not better, but steps in the right direction. 

Just a bit more time. Another day with his brother.