Chapter Text
Tim was tired. Not the “I need another cup of coffee” tired, but a bone deep exhaustion that plagued his every waking moment.
Everything he did felt pointless. The rogues were always breaking out of Gotham, an endless loop, with people dying no matter what he did. He could never be a good enough vigilante to save everyone. He couldn’t even be a good enough vigilante to save his dad from Boomerang of all rogues. What kind of hero was he?
Not to mention the fact that he wasn’t even meant to be a hero. Just an interim, shoving himself into Batman’s life while he was grieving and never leaving, even when Robin was taken away from him. Even when no one believed him when he told them Bruce wasn’t dead.
Yes, they had needed Tim when Jason died and Bruce was grieving, Batman going insane on the streets. He was killing himself and no one was there to stop him aside from Tim. It was a last resort.
Yes, they had needed Tim when Bruce was missing, Dick was drowning under the weight of the cowl, the entire family falling apart, and Tim knew he was alive. He was able to find him, even if no one believed he could.
But now? Things had been shaky for a while after Bruce came back, but they’d pretty much settled down at this point. Tim was a redundant system, an extraneous file that needed to delete itself. He tried to be helpful, he really did, but the truth was they didn’t truly need him anymore.
It didn’t matter if he worked himself to death, he could never be good enough. There was always something he missed, and people always suffered for it.
The point being, Tim was tired. And rightfully so, he had a lot on his mind.
He knew what he really needed was a break. But what he wanted was far more permanent than that. He knew he should feel guilty about thinking it, that it may compromise the emotional stability of his teammates, but couldn’t he be allowed one selfish thing, after a whole life of serving everyone else? Not that it would matter how they felt after the fact. He wouldn’t be around to face the repercussions, if he did it right.
He was going to die.
Thinking it, he felt a strange, giddy dread pool in his chest. The simultaneous fear of the unknown which is natural to all human beings, and the anticipation of relief from the crushing weight of his life.
He'd planned it all out. Being a vigilante, it was easy enough to gain access to the chemicals, which, at the right dose, would end it for him. It would be painful, sure, but that was all he deserved for being so selfish anyway. It was an equal trade.
So, he left the Batcave early after patrol one day, giving hasty goodbyes and excuses as he made his way back to the Nest.
The whole way back, that giddy feeling of dread continued to mount in his chest, almost making him sick as he drove. He tried to take deep breaths, but couldn’t seem to fight down the feeling. It was fine, he was almost there.
He pulled into his driveway somewhat haphazardly, spots dancing in his vision, which was definitely concerning, considering he hadn’t even done anything yet.
Pushing away the feeling as best he could, he walked up to his empty house. The dark windows stared back at him, reminding him of a time where things were simpler. Yes, he was alone then, too, and sad a lot of the time. But he had simple goals and desires. He wanted his parents to come home, for his house to be less empty. And he wanted to take pictures of Batman and Robin, to imagine he was free like a bird. One of those things was possible, and that ended up leading to him discovering Batman’s identity, which later led to…everything else.
No, definitely not a better time, but Tim appreciated things that were simple. Binary.
But he shouldn’t allow the past to distract him from the task at hand. He wanted to get it over with quickly, knowing it would take a while for the medication to actually set in all the way afterwards. For him to die.
It would be simpler to just steal a gun and shoot himself, but something about that option repulsed him, despite it being way less painful. It reminded him of a night in the Titan’s Tower, when he was still Robin. The moment when he truly realized he was just an interim Robin. One to stand by Batman until the true Robin came back.
Except he didn’t come back, not really. He wasn’t the same, he was in pieces. So Tim kept Robin a little while longer, only for the cape to be yanked away shortly afterwards.
It truly was a night for reminiscing, apparently. Tim simply could not bring himself to focus. Frustrated he brought his palm to his temple with a harsh force, feeling the impact reverberate through his skull to the opposite temple. The pain and blurred vision helped him focus.
He took a bottle of pills out of his utility belt, measuring out a dose.
Then another.
Then another.
And so on.
Eventually the bottle was empty. It came from a shipment of faulty pain meds, ones that were causing people to OD even at the proper dosage. Taking the whole bottle, on the other hand…
It was practically a guarantee.
Suddenly, he felt as if he needed to get out of his Red Robin costume. He didn’t want to die as Red Robin, a vigilante. He wanted to die as Tim, just a boy, who was way in way too deep long ago, no matter how good he was at staying afloat.
After stripping the heavy red and black Kevlar and changing into his usual lounging clothes, Tim laid down on his bed, contemplating his ceiling with the gravity only those who know they are about to die have.
The swirling giddy dread returned at full force, and he allowed himself to be swallowed in it this time.
Tim stared up at the ceiling for what felt like a long time, but could have been mere minutes or seconds, before his phone started ringing from where he had left it on his bedside table before patrol.
He groaned, but ignored it, continuing his dutiful watch of the ceiling. Finally, the ringing stopped as the call declined. Tim sighed with relief, relaxing for a moment.
Then, the ringing started up again. He let it die. It came again. He groaned, turning over in bed to see who was calling him, feeling more sluggish than normal. It was Bruce.
That was strange. He should probably answer so that Bruce wouldn’t show up to his house or something. Or be concerned that something had happened to Tim. If he was repeatedly calling him, it was probably important.
With a big sigh, Tim picked up the phone.
”Hello?” He said, groggier than he had intended. How unprofessional. Stupid.
”Tim. Do you know anything about the missing medication from the shipment we picked up today. I was going to run tests on it and noticed that the crate was not completely full, which I thought was strange, given the previous records of these deals.”
Tim felt vaguely ill, stomach beginning to church, his voice wavered slightly as he spoke. So much for all that Bat training. Apparently it didn’t work when trying to lie to the Bat himself. Go figure.
”I don’t know, Bruce. One of the goons could have stolen it before we intercepted, not knowing it was tainted, or it fell out or something.” His stomachs was beginning to churn more and he realized he was about to throw up. This was bad. He really needed Bruce to hang up now.
”Hn. If those pills are still circulating, this could become a problem.” Hang up, Hang up, Hang up.
”Is that all you needed?” It seemed like a lot of effort to call Tim three times just to ask about something he didn’t know for sure that Tim knew about. But this was the Bat, so that was pretty much normal operation for him.
”Ah no. Tim I wanted to ask you— how have you been? You’ve seemed…distant, lately.” There was clear hesitation in Bruce’s voice, and god Tim wishes he would just hang up.
“I’m—“ Tim was going to say he was fine, but he was cut off by violent puking. He quickly emptied the contents of his stomach, continuing to dry heave afterwards. He coughed so hard he was worried he would start spewing blood soon. Shit. It was starting, and Bruce was still on the phone. He definitely heard that.
“Tim? Are you all right?” Bruce’s concerned voice came through the phone.
Tim tried to respond ‘Yes, I’m fine just a little sick to my stomach is all.’ But he could only muster up another cough.
”Hold on Tim, I’m on my way.”
No, no, no, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all. He had a plan.