Archive of Our Own

Tim is zipping through the Gotham skyline when it happens.

It's quick, very, very quick. The speed with which it all goes wrong is something he won't be able to get his head around for a long time afterwards.

He's Robin, he's flying, and it's the best thing, and it's life and it's wind kissing the apples of his cheeks, and it's the city lights all around him, like diving into an ocean of stars. It's so, so good.

In these moments, Tim remembers, briefly, that life can be something worth holding on to with both hands.

If you asked him why, after it all went belly-up and shrieking, Tim would say he thinks he trusts too easily, and that's why it all happened the way it did. Batman keeps him safe, and Batman gives him his tech, and so those two things kind of merged into a frankly ridiculous faith in anything bestowed to him by the Bat's hand. Batman keeps him safe. His tech will keep him safe. He thinks no more about it.

And that is where it goes wrong.

His grapple is loosely held in his grasp, and he hesitates to press it's trigger, leeching all the adrenaline and vitality out of his brief freefall, and then, finally when he can push it no further, he extends his wrist and shoots, waiting for the spinning rushing sound of the line firing.

The sound doesn't come.

The night shrieks a terrible silence. Tim presses down again, hearing the firm click of the trigger as he pushes down harder, more desperate.

Nothing.

Click. Clickclick. Clickclickclick.

Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick

Nothingnothingnothingnothingnothingnothingnothing.

Okay. Okay. Okay. This will be fine. Maybe.

Probably not, really.

The street is getting very close. He'd leaped when he'd left the rooftop, but not high enough to give him time. Not high enough.

Tim doesn't really know what to do. He's going to die, or at least be tremendously and totally maimed if he doesn't do something, pull something, anything to help himself. But he doesn't.

He can see people's heads beginning to turn, getting a last good look at him before he becomes a colourful splatter on the sidewalk.

Later, when people ask about it, Tim will say that, yes, he was scared. Of course he was.

So, they will ask,

Then why didn't you scream?

…

And, well, the thing is this:

Tim is a liar. He is practiced, and experienced, and good, very very good.

Every time he offers some round, meaningless platitude, didn't I? Oh I thought I did, and I was probably just too scared, I was falling too fast, It all happened so fast

The truth, a thing so ugly and raw that Tim can't hide it from himself, is that he wasn't scared.

Not really.

He was relieved.

A sick, dizzy bloodrush as he spun, relief so raw it cut through all the chaos. The profound, everpresent knowledge that he was going to die, here, in this awful way, and the equal, beautiful realisation that it would all be over. It would really be over, and he could finally, finally find it.

Peace.

For as long as he lives, Tim knows he will chase that feeling of plummeting to your doom. That feeling of supreme, unending peace. All worries disappear and nothing matters because it ends, everything that you were and are, everything you broke and mended. It ends here, and dies with you. And all that is, is now.

The street is so close that Tim can count the cracks in the pavement, can practically taste the gum that's melted into them.

He shuts his eyes. He will die, here.

He will find peace.

And then he is moving, sideways this time, skidding across the street, pulled by an unknown force and when his momentum has halted and his vision stops spinning, he sees that it is Batman who has saved him, dark arms like they were made from the night itself curled protectively around his form.

His grapple is lying on the street, truly broken and utterly useless. He is a little disappointed despite himself. It had been really, really good up until right now. And he liked that it was all scuffed up. Well-loved.

Batman is holding him very tightly, grip almost painful. This close, he can see the too-quick rise and fall of his chest. Tim feels shame, hot and awful curdle behind his ribs.

I did that.

And I wasn't even sorry.

They remain like this for a long time. Tim tries to gently wriggle out of his grasp, but it's no use. Batman isn't staring at him at all, gaze fixed firmly on the slab of concrete that Tim was so sure was going to be his final resting place mere moments ago. Batman is staring at it like it's alive, and for a second, Tim watches it too, trying to see what he sees.

But then it all kind of hits him at once, and he thinks about the long jagged line down the middle of the path that he'd seen as he fell and thinks huh, that's probably where some of my brains would've went, when they slipped out of his shattered skull and trickled down a bleeding river into the very foundations of the city itself and suddenly he feels very nauseous and doesn't want to think about it anymore so he turns to hide his face in the dark safety of Batman's cape.

Later, after Batman has stopped staring and Tim has stopped thinking, they are sitting in the Batcave. Tim, on the side of a cot with his legs dangling over the edge, and Bruce, sitting, head in hands, in a pulled over chair across from him.

Tim is plucking at the fabric of his costume, anything to avoid looking at Bruce's grief-heavy shoulders.

The silence stretches on for a long time. Neither say anything. Tim thinks, if he leaves now, Bruce might not even notice, and tomorrow they could meet for patrol and pretend nothing even happened. Which by all accounts, it didn't. Not really.

As if sensing his thoughts, Bruce gives a great deep sigh, and finally raises his head to look him in the eye. Tim continues to tug at random loose threads on his sleeve.

"Tim," Bruce begins, and already it's way too emotional. Nobody has ever spoken Tim's name with such weight and emotion before, least of all Bruce and it's so startling that Tim can't help but look up and meet his eyes.

"Tim," He starts again "Why—What happened?"

It's a weird question, from the world's supposed greatest detective, and Tim frowns.

"I fell."

"Yes, but why?"

"My grappler, it— I dunno, it jammed or something, and I was just—"

Free.

"—falling."

Bruce's face contorts a little before it smooths back into it's usual restrained impassivity and he sighs "But Tim, why didn't you scream, or call out for me, or something, anything? Why didn't you call for help?"

His face develops a grave sadness, and his next words are so steeped in guilt that Tim almost flinches.

"Did you not think I would come?"

Tim gapes for a few seconds, reeling. He doesn't know what he should say. He can't let Batman take this on his shoulders. He can't risk sounding stupid and losing Robin. He can't tell an outright lie.

"I— no. It just— I don't know."

I didn't really want you to come.

"I wasn't really thinking."

I think I kind of wanted to fall.

"It was kind of hard to think about anything."

I've never felt that good in my life.

"I'm sorry. I'll do better."

I think I'll be chasing that feeling forever.

Eventually, after a thorough fussing over by both Bruce and Alfred, Tim is allowed to go.

On the winding path home, he stops at the closed doors of his house, and gazes up at the large oak that swallows half the property in it's shadow.

So high, he thinks, almost absentmindedly, staring at it's branches as they reach far into the stars,

High enough.

And then he goes inside, and then he sleeps, in an empty bed, in an empty house, with a loneliness so heavy it sits like a physical weight on his chest, and dreams of a peace that feels like flying.

The second time it happens, it's not quick at all.

Or, well, it doesn't feel quick.

It's like those stupid movie cliches, where the whole world stops and time stands still, everything narrowing down into a single, pure, moment.

All Tim can see is the car.

It's just a car, maybe a Honda, he thinks it's a little H that he can see, glinting on the rapidly approaching bumper.

Yeah, as it gets closer, he can really see it. Definitely a Honda.

Huh. He hopes they won't be fussy enough to include that on his headstone.

Timothy Jackson Drake, probably loved son. Death by Honda fucking civic, driven by someone who he's pretty sure is on their phone.

What a way to go.

He should really move out of the way.

It's just, it had happened so fast. Not now, not here, in the middle of the street, but all of the before.

Tim had been walking out of school, staring at his shoes as he weaved through the hoardes of Gotham High's most prestigious youths, all crowding and coagulating together on the steps. He wasn't in a rush, per se, but he still didn't trust Gotham buses to ever be on time, so he was in a little bit of a hurry. He was hustling. He was moving a little faster than he should be.

He was also, and this was important, not looking where he was going.

Or even really thinking about it.

He was thinking about what he was going to do later, making a comprehensive plan of exactly what he'd do when he got to his empty house. Homework was up there on his list, but there was also this drug smuggling case that had been nagging at him all day, and he was sure if he gave it another evening of intense study, he could find something that could help, even just a little.

Without his thought or attention, his feet were taking him towards the bus stop.

The bus stop across the street.

He didn't see it.

Well. He did and he didn't.

He didn't see it, until he did.

The car.

It was coming at him fast, driver not even looking, head bent like they were fiddling with their glovebox, but they were probably just texting, or scrolling, or some other inane, non-essential thing that people just needed to do while driving.

He had stepped well into the firing line by the time he noticed, and when he did he just… sort of froze. Rooted to the spot like he was made of stone, waiting for the car to come and smash him into tiny smithereens.

He needs to move.

He doesn't.

He needs to move, needs to move like, yesterday, and the car is really going to hit him if he keeps standing there, but he just can't, can't move, can't think, can't breathe. Can only stare, and wait.

And hope.

He feels it again. Like flying.

Hope.

Maybe it will hit him.

A part of him, the large, animalistic part of him, the part that insists he engages in such time consuming activities such as eating and getting enough sleep, the part that he tends to shove into some distant recess of his mind, is screaming at him to move. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears, the adrenaline itching in his legs, ready to carry him to safety.

Tim is a creature of habit. He doesn't listen. He just stands.

It's a giddy sort of feeling, anticipation. At any moment, the driver could notice him, slam on the breaks and this whole moment will leave no impression on the earth besides a startled driver and an equal parts startled and disappointed Tim.

The other option, wherein nobody notices and everything keeps moving, well. That would leave an impression. Most certainly.

He braces for the hit. It'll be sore when it happens, most definitely.

And then it won't be anything.

There is someone shouting, very loudly, all of a sudden. It's a garble that's familiar for a reason that he can't explain, until he realises it's because it's his name that's being shouted, and just as he turns to see whoever is shouting, there is suddenly a hand snatching him by the scruff of his sweater, and pulling him onto the sidewalk.

The car drives past with little affair. The person behind him, still holding the back of his sweater in a vice grip, stretches an arm into his eyeline to flip off the driver. They just honk back, and then they turn the corner, and are gone. Huh.

Tim stares at the corner where the car disappeared from, and feels strangely wishful. If he ran fast enough, could he catch up? Maybe they'd still be on their phone, if he was lucky.

But then the hand around his collar tightens, and he knows he's missed his chance.

Tim has a few seconds to try and guess how much shit he's going to get for this before the hand finally speaks. He hopes to whatever God is out there that it's not somehow Alfred. A stranger is clearly the best option, but Tim knows he's not that lucky. He hopes anyway.

The hand tugs and spins him around.

Fuck Tim's life.

Dick is looking at him with equal parts annoyance and concern. His mouth is hanging open, like he tried to say something but the words died before they could get out. His brow is furrowed, like he's confused, but at the same time impossibly angry. Tim thinks it can't really get any worse.

He's looking at him up and down with a clinical eye. When he's satisfied, he meets Tim's eyes again. Tim is trying very hard to appear startled like he was just pulled from his absentminded thoughts, and not startled like he was pulled from his half-assed suicide attempt.

Dick stares at him for a few seconds, then:

"What the fuck, Tim?"

Tim blinks. He resists the urge to reprimand his swearing.

"Nice to see you too."

He's trying for part fun, part deflection. It doesn't land. Dick looks ashen, properly shaken up, the hand that's still resting on his nape is trembling.

"Tim." And oh boy he shouldn't have tried to be cute about it. Dick is seriously pissed. He swallows.

"Look, I just wasn't paying attention—"

"Bullshit." Dick's mouth is pressed into a thin line, eyes hard "That's fucking bullshit, Tim, and you know it."

Tim really hates that he knows so many detectives, sometimes.

Yet to his core, Tim is a liar, and so he does the only thing he can think to do. He lies.

"What? I was just distracted, there's this case me and B are working on, and it's hit a wall, and I just didn't notice—"

"Oh come on. I saw you, Tim. I saw you stop and look at the car, and I saw you just stand there. I saw you! I saw you."

And, hey, you can never say Tim is a quitter, in for a penny, in for a pound. Different tactic, same deflection.

"Well, I— why are you even here anyway? I thought I was getting the bus."

"I was picking you up, as a surprise, because I know you hate the bus—"

Tim bristles "I don't hate the bus, I just—"

Dick ignores him, "—because I know you hate the bus, and it was actually out of my way,"

"Then why did you bother? I don't need a ride home."

"Well I'm glad I did bother, because apparently my little brother likes throwing himself in front of speeding cars on his way home! What the fuck is that about Tim?" He tosses an arm up in exasperation, but he keeps the other one firmly planted on his nape, like he's worried if he lifts it, Tim will just turn and throw himself under the next set of wheels.

A rise of indignation flares in his throat. Maybe he will. That'll show him.

But—No. It wouldn't be fair.

He wouldn't make Dick watch.

Tim takes a second to look at him properly, take in his ruffled hair, how his work clothes are still on, the deep bags under his eyes. He's clearly exhausted, and Tim knows things aren't easy right now for Nightwing either.

A sharp stab of guilt cuts through his gut. Dick has enough shit going on in his life, enough things, enough people to worry about. He doesn't need Tim, acting out and pulling stupid self-pitying stunts and making everything harder for everyone around him.

He'd be better off if you weren't around, a little voice sings, in the back of his head, everyone would be.

Shut up, Tim says back, even though he knows it's right, shut up shut up shut up.

He takes a deep breath, forfeiting their staring contest in favour of studying his shoes.

"I'm sorry." He says, and he means it.

Dick sighs, and Tim has that awful feeling that he just made everything worse again, that even when he tries to be better, he cannot help but fuck it all up anyway.

The hand on the back of his neck squeezes "You don't need to say sorry. I'm just worried, is all."

Tim's heart does a funny little jump "You don't need to worry about me. I'm fine, I swear."

He risks looking back into Dick's eyes, trying to show him that he means it. Dick's mouth twists

"Oh Tim. I don't think that's true."

And before Tim can protest, he's tugged into crushing hug, face smushed against Dick's shoulder.

They stay like that for a moment. And for a moment, Tim let's himself really think about it. Not fine. Not fine. He is behaving like a not-fine person.

His throat closes up almost the moment he thinks it, so he stops, and just lets himself be held.

Eventually, Dick releases him, and ushers him into the passenger seat of his car, parked a few minutes away.

On the ride home they talk about lots of nothing at all, school and patrol and all the nooks and crannies of their cases. Tim offers some input for one of Dick's robbery cases, and Dick smiles and thanks him like his opinion is worth anything at all to a years trained vigilante. He nods at the returning praise anyway.

They do not talk about earlier. Dick clearly wants to, and his fingers drum against the steering like they always do when he has something to say. He manages to keep his mouth shut, somehow.

But when they finally pull up at Tim's house, all closed doors and shuttered empty windows, Dick's face falls again. He turns to Tim in the passenger seat.

"You can come home with me, y'know. Everyone would love to have you there."

Tim frowns, something twisting and churning in his chest at the offer.

Dick goes in for the kill "I'm pretty sure Alfred is making cookies today. You could even stay for dinner."

It's tempting. It's so tempting, and Tim knows the food will be so good, and the house will be so warm and alive, and it'll be great, and he'll be happy.

But then he sees how worried Dick is, poorly hidden and revealed in his still-tapping fingers. If he goes with him, they will have to talk about it, and Tim isn't really ready for that yet. He forces a smile.

"No sorry, I have a lot of homework to do. Thank you though, take care."

As he's moving to shut the door, Dick reaches out to catch his wrist. He looks up at him earnestly "We're going to talk about it Tim, okay? I'll come find you on a day when you're free, and we're going to sit down and talk about it, okay?"

"Okay." Tim smiles again "Bye Dick."

He watches the car drive away. Then he goes inside and makes sure he's busy for the next few weeks, or as long as it takes for Dick to forget about it.

As it turns out, it takes very little time for Dick to forget about it. He's inundated with texts for the first week, and random calls and earnest checkups, but by the second week, some gang had surfaced in Bludhaven, and then Dick doesn't really text him anymore.

It's fine, Tim tells himself, and pretends he's not disappointed. Dick knows he's fine, because he is. Everything is fine.

Nobody cares about him, that's fine. That's how it's always been.

It's better than fine.

It's easier, actually. It means nobody will miss him, anyway, if it happened that he actually wasn't fine.

Which he is.

He still doesn't look when he crosses the road.

Tim is no stranger to kidnapping, which should be a concerning statement, but he lives in Gotham, and just so happens to be the only son of one of the richest families there, on top of his gig as the sidekick to the city's most infamous vigilante.

Prime target, really. It just comes with the job.

This time, he's kidnapped as Tim Drake, and not as Robin, which makes it a lot harder to do anything about it. He can either hope help is coming and ham up the terrified kid routine, or forget about the risks and possibilities of the kidnappers putting two and two together and just beat the crap out of them so he can go home.

He's sticking with option one for the moment, but as the hours bleed from one day into the next, option two starts to sound real interesting.

Besides, it's not like these guys are the sharpest tools in the shed. He's tied to a chair in a dimly lit room while they continue trying to reach Tim's very much out of the country parents.

(When their company number hadn't worked, earlier, they'd demanded Tim call them from his number, to ensure they picked up. Tim hadn't the heart to tell them that him calling wouldn't make a difference. They'd probably email him next week with a one word apology.)

He wasn't exactly sure what they were going to do with him once they realised they weren't going to get a ransom, no matter what they did to Tim. They could probably keep him here forever, and unless Tim was suddenly appointed as the CEO of a multi-million dollar company, his parents probably wouldn't even notice.

The hours feel very long when you have nothing to do but sit in them. He can only see a peek of the skyline from the top of the high window in the corner. Every now and then, a bird drifts into it's view, and Tim amuses himself by trying to see which species is the most common.

He has yet to see a robin, funnily enough. A lot of pigeons. Some weird looking seagulls.

Eventually, someone kicks open the door, when Tim has been there for around 34 hours. For a second, he thinks it could be the Bats, and he could almost cry with how much relief he feels. He wants a shower so bad.

But then the dust clears, and it very much isn't the Bats in the doorway.

It's a man.

A man, with a gun.

And it's pointed at Tim.

Now, here is the moment when he should have gone with option two. He was set to escape anyhow, had the knots loosened to a point where he could slip out of his bindings in a flash. His identity wasn't as important as his life, probably.

Tim however, is on hour 27 no sleep, and he just doesn't… care. Objectively, he should, I mean, who doesn't care when they have an actual loaded gun to their head, but Tim…

He just, can't. Can't manage to do anything. Can't find it in himself to make himself care.

Like, what, is he going to fight? Beat up this guy, wrestle the gun out of his hand and then use the hilt of it to beat up the other guys that inevitably come in after him? Nobody has actually fed Tim, in his time here, and he hadn't eaten before either, and after that, if he managed to defeat all these heavy, probably armed men, then what? He had no phone, they'd probably destroyed it or made it untraceable anyway, he didn't know where he was, and he had no means of transportation out of here, aside from stealing a car or bike, which, while he would normally trust himself not to crash into a ditch, he also knew that being awake for this long and getting behind the wheel was stupid, like, killing yourself and others stupid, so that just left him here, on foot, alone, with nobody coming to help him.

Had anyone even noticed him missing? Did anyone actually care? And it was a self pitying, sad little thought, and he knew that logically, Batman probably had noticed, what with his need for his sidekick being the reason for this whole thing in the first place, but would he look into it? Maybe he just wrote it off as Tim running off, or not answering his phone. Maybe he knew, and had him on the backburner, something to sort out after he'd dealt with all the more important and urgent people. The people worth saving.

Not like Tim.

And so, he doesn't flinch, or try and jerk away. He doesn't even tug at the restraints.

He just sighs, and lets his head drop, chin bumping against his chest.

The guy is never going to shoot him, Tim knows. A dead hostage is worth nothing.

But if he turns out to be crazier than Tim thinks, he hopes he'll at least make it quick. One shot through the head, clean and easy. If Tim's lucky, he won't feel a thing.

He should know better than to bet on his own luck by now.

The guy is anything but quick. He monologues for what feels like hours, waving the gun around with this half-crazed look in his eye, and everytime it looks like it's aimed at Tim, he keeps dropping his head to give him the best shot, almost getting whiplash from how much times he needs to adjust his angle.

After a while, the not shooting becomes more of an annoyance than a calculated blessing. Like, come on. Just do it if you're gonna do it. No need to make Tim spend his last moments listening to this guy's poorly prepared monologue.

Tim huffs a frustrated breath through his nose, feeling it's warm as it rises back up to meet his face. The guy is starting to wind down, the gaps between his rants getting longer.

Okay, Tim thinks, if he's going to do it, it's going to be now.

The guy is suddenly silent, the only sound in the room being his ragged breathing. Tim on his part is holding his breath, with his eyes screwed shut.

Like a coward.

The guy takes a long step forward, standing right in front of him. Tim can feel his gaze on the top of his head.

Just take the fucking shot already.

"Are you—" and he can hear the dry smack of his lips. Gross "—are you even listening to me?"

Tim stays resolutely silent. The sooner this is over, the better.

"Answer me."

Tim bites his lip between his teeth, like that will grant him the dignity of a screamless death.

"Fucking answer me you little rich shithead—"

Shoot me shoot me shoot me shoot me.

And then the gun goes off.

All Tim knows is pain.

Pain, pain pain, burning hot, ripping screaming pain. All over and everywhere and oh god, oh god, it hurts, it fucking hurts and the lip between his teeth is all blood, and he's screaming, he realises, it's his voice that's so loud in his ears, a howling terrified thing, and he can't breathe, not enough air, no room in his chest for it, nothing but pain pain pain.

He heaves for a few seconds, gagging and gasping and choking on nothing. The man is watching him with an almost impressive level of impassivity.

For a second, it doesn't make sense. Because he'd shot him, but Tim was still very much here, aware and in pain and alive. And then he lets the pain back in, just a fracture, and he realises.

His leg. He'd shot him in the leg.

Wonderful. Fucking fantastic.

He's still gasping a few seconds later, staring at the pooling blood collecting on the ground. Fuck, that's his, isn't it? Shit.

The man's fingers tighten on the gun in Tim's periphery. He stifles a flinch.

"Now," He says, and his voice sounds as breathless as Tim feels "Are you ready to answer me now?"

Tim blinks away tears, nodding. God, he didn't know gunshot wounds hurt this bad. Jesus. Christ.

"I wasn't—, no. I wasn't listening."

The man shifts, antsy. Tim thinks he's getting scared, but the glint in his eyes is more manic. Giddy, maybe.

"Your parents didn't answer."

"Oh." Tim can't say he's surprised.

"Their assistant answered."

And oh, that is interesting. Alan is his parent's assistant, and from his limited interactions, Tim can say he's a pretty okay guy. Very efficient.

"Did he— what did he say?"

Maybe his parents did pay up. Maybe he can go home.

"The Drakes apparently have money set aside for this exact scenario."

"Was it… enough?"

The man stares at Tim, eyes wild. His face splits into a grin that just gets wider and wider.

"No. No it wasn't"

Then the gun goes off again.

This time it takes Tim a while to come back to himself. For a brief second, he wondered if that was what death was, but then he's blinking blurry tears away as black combat boots swim in his vision.

The man had shot his other leg. Great! Now he definitely wasn't getting out of here without help, which considering he was still tied up, was unlikely to be coming any time soon. Shit.

The gun is cool where it's pressed against his forehead.

"Any last words?"

And all Tim can think, is oh finally. He blinks. Last words, was he meant to have those prepared?

The man jerks the gun at Tim again, a clear speak now or forever hold your peace.

And really, Tim has no idea what he's meant to say, some sort of plea for his life? Like that would change anything. He's not that pathetic.

Instead, he says the only thing that's on his mind. Deep down, he knows he shouldn't. But he can't help himself.

"What was— I mean, how much— how much was I worth?"

"Oh Tim."

The man leans in to whisper in his ear, breath hot.

"Absolutely fucking nothing."

And then the gun goes off.

Or at least, a gun goes off.

The boots in front of Tim shudder for a second, and then they topple to the side, and the man is on the ground, twitching and gasping as he paws at a bleeding shoulder wound.

Suddenly, warm hands are on Tim's face, cupping his cheek and turning him away.

"Don't look." They whisper "Don't look Tim."

When he manages to tear his eyes away, it's Nightwing looking back at him, gloved hands around his face, holding Tim together.

Tim wonders if this is some sort of dying hallucination, that his mind is conjuring this, a last warm comfort to tide him over as he bleeds away into nothingness.

"You're here." He whispers, almost to himself, but Nightwing must hear it, because his face wobbles, and even behind the domino, Tim knows his eyes are doing that weird sad thing they always do when Tim says something particularly depressing.

"Yes, Tim." Nightwing takes one of Tim's hands in his own.

Huh. He hadn't realised he'd been untied.

Nightwing is staring at him with an impossible earnestness "I'm here. Me and B, we're here, okay? We found you. We're going to get you out, okay?"

His legs feel fuzzy, kind of like nothing at all. He can feel the blood crusting and sticking to his calf, the only real thing he can feel beyond the static.

Everything is hazy. He's probably going to pass out when he stands up. That'll be embarrassing. Not as embarrassing as managing to get himself kidnapped and shot. Oh well. Not much he can do about that now, except try his best to cling to his conscience and what little diginity he has left.

Dick shakes him out of his haze, a gentle squeeze of his fingers and Tim remembers he was asked a question.

"Yeah." He says, because what else can he say? "Okay."

He pushes himself to his feet.

And then it all goes dark.

When Tim wakes up, almost a whole day later, he is in a hospital bed. Dick is slumped in the chair beside him, and Bruce has probably been in too, if the large jacket Dick is sitting on is any indication.

His legs are swallowed in bandages, and his head is aching. He can't feel his toes, and he hopes it's just because of the painkillers. He wants to go home. He wants to go back to sleep.

He wants Bruce. He wants Dick to wake up. He does nothing to make either of those things happen.

Bruce comes back, eventually, when Tim has been staring at the light red peeking out from under his dressings for what must have been hours, and Dick wakes up then too, and they both fuss over him as they tell him about all he missed, the fight, the rescue.

The surgery.

Apparently getting shot twice wasn't just a total nuisance. It was pretty serious, whichever way the man had aimed. If he'd meant to kill Tim, he'd gotten pretty damn close.

He tries to swallow the flare of disappointment when they tell him that. Tries to keep it out of his voice when he asks the nurse to pass along his thanks to the hardworking doctors that kept him here. That stopped the one large pain just to leave him here with the thousands of tiny ones.

He probably doesn't try hard enough, because Dick is looking at him with that same look from a while back, with the car. Like he knows.

At some point Bruce leaves and comes back, armed with a smooth manilla file and a steady set in his brow that means he's proud of something.

He opens it on a stamped and signed document and rests it on Tim's lap "They got him, Tim. He's been convicted, just this morning. They won't hurt you anymore. I thought you'd like to know."

Something Tim hadn't realised was scrabbling within him eases, gets put to rest. He looks up into Bruce's warm eyes.

"Thanks, B. Really."

Bruce smiles, and he looks almost conflicted for a second before he moves, placing a large hand over Tim's own.

"I just wanted to say that I'm proud of you, Tim. You didn't fight back, you held out for backup. It was very brave of you."

And Tim doesn't have the heart to tell him that he doesn't know if he would ever have fought back, if he'd ever fight for his own life, if he ever thought it was worth the effort.

Instead, he just ducks his head, feeling his cheeks warm, "Oh. Um. It was nothing."

Bruce ruffles his hair, but just past him, Dick is staring at him, ashen.

When Tim meets his eye, he looks away.

Later, when Bruce leaves to grab some doctor or nurse about Tim's medication, Dick finally speaks.

"You didn't— you didn't fight back?"

Tim blinks, feeling shame wriggle up out from where he'd buried it.

"No I— I had to protect our identities. Besides," He tries to smile "Batman was coming."

"Did you know that?" Dick's voice is very low and fragile.

Tim swallows, and tries to breathe around the lie in his throat. The silence is oppressive, closing in on him from all sides.

"Yes." He says, eventually "Of course."

Nobody in the room believes him. Dick reaches out for his hand again, and Tim lets him, lets him press his shaking fingers against his pulsepoint, counting each beat under his breath.

Tim can't sleep.

The night is long and endless and howling with crime, and opportunity, and violence and Tim isn't there and he can't help and he can't do anything about it.

And he can't sleep.

His wound is definitely infected.

It's been a while since he got shot, and while he was lucky to emerge from that with relatively no lasting effects, it was still a long time before he could go back out on patrol again.

And then, when he was finally, finally back in a cape and domino, at Batman's side as they slunk through the darkest parts of the night, he'd gotten stabbed. In the back of his shoulder. Of course.

It was the kind of thing that would only happen to him. Leslie had clucked her tongue at seeing him back so soon, stitched him up, and told him to call her if anything felt off.

And it hadn't, at least he'd thought it hadn't, it was sore, but he'd just been stabbed, so he figured it was probably normal for it to be tender. That it would go away.

But it didn't. And every day it felt just a little worse than before. And it was definitely more red than yesterday when he caught sight of it in the mirror.

Definitely infected.

He should do something about that.

He's hot, sweating and sticking to the sheets. His window is open and his fan is on and he's so fucking warm. Everytime he shifts to get comfortable the wound aches and starts throbbing and he's warm with the blanket on and he's freezing with it off and it's all just great so great.

The wound has become impossible to put any pressure on without it becoming agonising, so he's lying face down on the pillow, trying to think cold thoughts and not suffocate to death.

He should call someone. He should call Bruce.

His hand twitches. It would be so easy. To let it be someone else's problem, just for a little while.

But he knows Bruce is out there, a shadow in the night, and the city needs him, not like Tim needs him, in his desperately needy way, the city needs Batman in a real way, a life-or-death way. A more important way.

Tim is fine. Tim can wait. He can always wait.

The night continues to linger. The pain in his shoulder is so hot and intense that he wouldn't be surprised if he looked up and saw that it had actually caught alight.

At least he could put that out. At least he could end that quickly.

He feels like he's melting. Everything feels exponentially more difficult, even to think about it. The idea of reaching for the phone to call sounds so far away now, covered and muted by layers of thick haze.

He knows, distantly, that this should scare him, that this is worrying. That this is bad, really bad.

But he's just so tired.

At some point, the tiredness overtakes the pain, and Tim can feel himself finally sink into sleep's clutches. His shoulder is throbbing and sticky. The whole area feels swollen, stiff and hard and wrong.

Infection is serious. It's really serious. What if it spreads, or goes septic? Or—

He tries to calm himself. What if I die? I could just die here, gentle in my sleep. And nobody would have to watch. I could just die here.

It's a nice thought.

A sort of hope.

He should really call someone.

But then the blackness takes him, and he melts into nothingness.

Later, it's Dick who finds him. Who gets that feeling, that prickly buzzing feeling that something is wrong, somewhere, with someone, something is wrong.

He is the one who finds him, feverish and passed out in his bed. He's the one who bundles him into the car, who speeds to the hospital and practically throws him at the doctors, talking a mile a minute about infections and fevers and glazed over expressions.

Who waits by his bedside.

Dick is there when Tim wakes up, pressing a glass of water into his hand. And he stays there the whole time. And Tim doesn't say anything.

There isn't really anything left to say.

Dick is watching him with a carefully neutral expression. Waiting for him to crack, and say something, spill his guts and tell him everything so Dick can try and fix him.

He can't. If Tim can't, he can't.

"I'm sorry." He says, after he really can't take the silence anymore. "I wanted to call you."

"Why didn't you?"

Tim's mouth is dry "I don't know. I was… tired."

"You were dying."

Tim bites back a flinch at his tone, so serious, too serious for Dick.

"I didn't—"

"Oh, what? You didn't know? You didn't know you were dying? Didn't know that the throbbing stab wound was infected? Like how you didn't know the car was going to hit you? Or did you just know I'd have a bad feeling, like you just knew Batman was going to show up right before you got your head blown off, or you just knew he'd save you right before you exploded on the pavem—"

"Stop!" the volume of Tim's voice startles even himself "Stop it Dick, I— Jesus." He swipes at his eyes "Jesus. Stop! Stop that. I— I don't know what you want from me, I don't know what you want me to say. I don't know."

Dick has the decency to look apologetic, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I— Sorry. I'm sorry. It's just— God, Tim, I can't— it was so scary, to find you. To keep finding you, like that. Half-dead or almost dead and it just- I can't do it! I can't do it again. This can't keep happening. It can't. And I don't want to… I can't just stand by and let it slide as a bunch of mistakes because it isn't. I know it isn't Tim. I know. And you can say whatever you want, about being distracted, about messing up, but we both know you're too clever for that."

Tim stares at the wall, watching it blur

"I don't—" He starts, in a small voice "I don't want to die."

"But it just— I'm just so tired."

And then he bursts into tears.

The night is warm, gentle touches of the summer day sticking to Tim's skin.

He's solo again tonight, or as solo as he can be. Batman is gone for the moment, Bruce off visiting Russia or some other distant place, and in his absence Nightwing is covering patrols. He's keeping a gentle distance from Tim, which suits him just fine. It's not bad, to work with Dick. Just… awkward.

Because see, Tim has never really talked about it. The wanting. He'd just accepted it as something he'd bear alone. It made some things easier, in a way. There is a lot less to fear once you start thinking of death as a blessing. It had been peaceful, to exist like that. Safe, in a twisted sort of way.

Nothing could hurt him if a part of him wanted it to.

And Tim never really hid it, because he never needed to. Nobody really cared, because there was nothing to care about. He would never do anything about the want, it wasn't like that, he just… wouldn't stop wanting it. He wouldn't fight back. He would let himself dream, and wish, and hope, but he would never do anything about it. Much of his life had been lived this way. And nobody had really noticed, until Dick. So now he had to talk about it.

They tried, back at the hospital, after Tim had managed to stop crying. Tim had tried to explain it properly, what it was. Because it wasn't a problem, not really, and even if it was, it definitely wasn't Dick's problem. It wasn't that important. Tim wasn't that important.

But Dick had this look, like he was going to make it his sole mission to fix whatever was wrong with Tim, and it made something inside of him itch. It was wrong, none of it was right, and he wanted things to go back to normal, and he didn't know why he was crying and he wanted to tell him everything, and he was just tired.

Dick had talked too, a little, determined promises that they would figure it out, that he understood, that he got it, really.

He didn't. It didn't matter anyway.

Tim made chat with him when he visited after that, and sent him dutiful updates on his recovery, but it wasn't the same. Neither of them knew how to talk about it. Tim's confession hung heavy in the air between them, and it made Tim feel uncomfortably found out, like Dick could see all the embarrassing weakness in him, everything he'd worked so hard to hide.

So it was fine, just awkward. Which is why Tim was investigating a minor drug gang that was reported to be operating from the harbour instead of patrolling with Nightwing. It was fine.

The group of men he was surveilling all shuffled to attention as a slick black car pulled in beside them. Murmurs rippled through the group, and something glinted under the streetlights as it was passed around. Tim rolled his shoulders back, readying himself to abandon his hidden perch. The car would lead him to the supplier, he was sure of it. He just needed to follow it, and keep it in his sights. He could do it with his eyes closed, metaphorically, and a part of him was a little dulled at the lack of action his long night of tailing promised. He wasn't even meant to confront the guys, not without backup. So it would just be intel. No matter.

The car revs, sharp and impatient and whatever chatter that had been bubbling around it ceases. Tim can't make out the driver, but he can see from the dappled reflection in the surrounding water that it's just the two shadowy figures in the front.

The night was totally silent for a moment, someone in the car gesturing rapidly out the window, and all the people surrounding were wide-eyed and agape. Nobody breathed, not even Tim.

Then, a clatter.

A person.

They were just walking, foot kicking a can down the street. Wrong place at the wrong time.

Tim crossed his fingers. Please let nothing come of it. Please let them let it go.

But it was Gotham. And Tim wasn't that lucky.

A gun glinted under the streetlamps, winking at Tim as it was silently un-holstered.

Alright then. Nothing else to be done.

He shot his grapple, and soared into the night.

…

The men had fallen like dominos, the black car well and gone by the time Tim arrived.

It had been easy to beat them up, throw them to the side. They were only lower level dealers. The civilian had long ago scrambled away into the safety of the deeper streets.

The men had all fallen like dominos.

Except one.

Tim had let his guard down, just a little. He'd thought it was over, foolish. He was already planning where to go next, where the car might have sped off to, his mind several streets away.

One of the men lurched up behind him, like something undead reanimating, too quick to react, and shoved.

It wasn't that hard of a shove really. If he'd been expecting it, it probably would've only made him wobble.

But he wasn't, so he stumbles, one, two steps back.

He is flying.

And then there is nothing.

Nothing but cold, cold, cold.

Cold.

Darkness surrounds him.

He feels heavy. He's falling, in slow motion, down into an impossible emptiness. Sinking like a stone, swallowed by a water that will never let him go.

Gotham loves him, and she will hold him close, tugging him down into her silted embrace.

She will hold him there forever.

He can feel it, something tugging at his brain, a gentle urge. To sleep, to let go. To fall.

To fly.

To drown.

He can't breathe.

It takes just a moment for him to fully assess his surroundings. He's in the water. He's deep, judging by how far away the rippling light of the surface seems. He's very, very tired. He's so cold it's painful, like the tips of his nerve endings are freezing over.

He might die.

He definitely will, if he doesn't do something.

Do something, do something. But what is there to do?

Nightwing isn't close enough. Bruce is out of the country. He's alone, here.

He's free.

It could be an accident.

It could really happen, this time.

He could find peace.

It's real, here. It's happening. There's no hope.

He thought it would feel better.

His chest is heavy.

He thinks about what Dick will do, when he realises Tim is gone. He wonders if he'll find him, down in the murky blackness.

Nobody finds the bodies in Gotham harbour. There are too many to comb between.

He wonders what Alfred will do. They were meant to hang out on Sunday. Alfred had something he wanted to show Tim. He wishes he knew what it was.

Bruce will have to come home, of course. Tim wishes he wasn't dying in the suit, but his fingers are too numb to try his hand at taking it off. There won't be a Robin after him, Tim is certain. His hero dies with him. All his work, for nothing. It shouldn't matter. Why does it feel like it matters?

He doesn't want to die.

Not really. Not now. Not like this.

Maybe not ever.

He's scared and he's young and there's so much time left for him and he has so much people to love and be loved by and oh god, oh god he wants to live, more than anything he wants to live.

He won't die. Not here.

He has to live. He has to.

His legs kick out from underneath him, a twitch of a motion.

And then suddenly his whole body is moving, arms waving in a mad frenzy, anything, anything he can do to get the water under him, anything to get him out, anything to get him air. The lights above are blurring in his vision, and he feels the scrabbling need for oxygen kick up tenfold.

His whole world narrows down to a single moment, a single breath. The distance between him and the surface feels endless. His legs are burning through the freezing water. He must surmount it. He will surmount it.

He can't give up, not here, not now. He's so close.

The light of the streetlamps slices through him, he can see it, a blurry sky full of stars just out of his reach.

He's right there.

But he can't hold it, he can't, his body can't, and he feels his mouth opening and the water is rushing in and it's gross and awful and he's so close and his fingers are almost breaking the surface and he needs just one more moment, just this moment just this one tiny moment and his chest is getting heavier and heavier and he'll choke now, but he needs to get up, get out and—

Hands, like the hands of God, close around his wrists, and then he is moving, so fast it makes him dizzy and there is air, swirling around him and he is choking, and coughing against black spots in his vision. The hands deposit him on the cool grit of the harbour and then they are thumping on his back and he's coughing and coughing and tears are pricking at his eyes beneath the mask, and there's so much water and he can't breathe and—

"Shh," The hands say "it's okay, it's okay. I've got you. Let it all out Robin."

And he does. The dark inky blackness of the harbour spills from his teeth and he tastes the desperation as it comes back up, pouring and splattering all over the smooth stone.

Once he's emptied his chest of all it's sinking fullness, the hands, which are now rubbing gentle circles into his back, slow in their motions, moving to steady him by his shoulders.

"All okay Robin?" They say, and it's Nightwing that's looking back at him, worried eyes burning through his domino.

"Yeah," Tim says, "I mean, I definitely need to get some shots or antibiotics after that, but… yeah. I'm okay."

Nightwing says nothing. He's looking at Tim intently. Studying him. He wants to ask, Tim realises. He wants to know how long he'd spent in the water.

He wants to know if Tim had let it happen.

"It was an accident, I was caught off-guard. A drug dealer pushed me in."

"Okay." Dick's voice is frustratingly level.

"I didn't mean to fall in."

"I know."

"I tried to catch myself."

"I believe you."

"Do you?"

Dick's calm facade cracks then, and he looks away "C'mon Tim. I— I mean, what do you want me to say?"

"It's not like that okay? It's different, this time—"

"Look Tim we didn't talk about it, not properly, and I've been trying to figure out how to approach it, how to fix it because I'm worried, I'm so fucking worried about you Tim, and I obviously didn't try hard enough to show you that and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry but I'll make it up to you okay? We'll figure it out, together. So you don't have to lie to me anymore, or try to protect me from this because you don't think I'll care, or that it doesn't matter, because it does Tim. You matter. Nothing you'll say will hurt me as much as losing you will, okay? So just be honest with me. Please."

"No, I— Nightwing listen to me. Just listen. All of those other times, I mean. I— I don't know. I can't really explain it right now, and I don't really understand it myself, but whatever happened then— this, tonight wasn't like that. Honestly. I really— I really tried okay? I fought really hard to get back up here, and I know I didn't make it, but I tried. I promise you. I didn't— not tonight. I didn't want- I didn't want to. Not tonight."

He can't look at him while he says it, watching the cities reflection shimmer and spin. He doesn't really expect Dick to believe him. He's given him almost no good reason to. Part of him expects Dick to nod sagely like he totally understands all of Tim's incoherent phrasing while secretly marking him down in his file as ACTIVE RISK in bright red ink.

But he doesn't say anything. Tim risks glancing at him, and Dick just stares back, face twisted.

"You fought?" He says, voice lower than a whisper and there's so much earnest hope in the words that Tim has to look away. He nods.

"Like hell."

Dick sniffs then, before Tim can say anything else he's yanked, spinning off balance for a second before he's secured, captured and crushed against Dick's chest in a hug that's so full of love and desperate relief that it makes him want to curl up and cry a little.

It's damp, and cramped and smells like Gotham harbour which is to say awful, but Tim wouldn't rather be anywhere else.

He breathes against his brother's shoulder, and feels Dick do the same.

The night is dark and cold, but the stars above are beautiful and Tim might drown a thousand times over in a thousand different oceans, but he can swim.

And even if he can't, if the current is too strong, and threatens to keep him under, he has people, wonderful, lovely kind people, who will reach into the blackness, and pull him up, into the light.