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Tim keeps losing track of time. It’s a mixture of exhaustion and whatever gas his kidnappers keep pumping into the room. He hadn't slept in about 48 hours prior to being taken, and the gas is keeping him paranoid and loopy. Adrenalin keeps rushing through his veins, and he has to remind himself that Timothy Drake-Wayne can’t suplex someone.
Whoever’s nabbed him is being disgustingly smart about it. They’re all wearing gasmasks, for one thing. From the moment of picking him up off the street, in front of Wayne Enterprises in broad daylight, to coming to check on him to make sure he’s not “up to something”.
What Timothy Drake-Wayne would be “up to”, he’s not sure. His public persona isn’t anything like Brucie Wayne. As far as the public knows, Timothy is a normal kid who likes skateboarding and is, at worst, a bit of an adrenaline junkie. Timothy Drake-Wayne has a good head on his shoulders. He doesn’t take unnecessary risks. He keeps Wayne Industries on top of the leaderboards and the stock market.
Which is why he has to keep it together. Until Bruce answers the ransom call or Batman comes to save him. One or the other will happen. Or both. Bruce is going to come get him. He just has to— has to—
A shadow in the corner shifts and a clawed hand reaches for him.
Tim closes his eyes.
It’s not real. The gas is causing him to hallucinate.
Someone whispers in his ear, their breath ticking his skin. “You’re going to die here. They’ve forgotten you again.”
He jerks his arm to slap a hand over his ear, but his arms are still tied to the arms of the chair. Tim opens his eyes and glances behind him.
Nothing.
Of course there was nothing.
He’s in a room alone. A tiny storage room, probably in some abandoned warehouse. It’s always an abandoned warehouse There’s only one door, no windows. He’s tied to a chair in the center of the room and can see the door from where he’s sitting.
Tim would know if someone came in. He’d hear it. See it.
No one has come in for at least an hour, maybe two.
A hand wraps around his throat.
“Should’ve taken care of you when I had the chance,” a voice says. “Little cuckoo in the nest, you’ve overstayed your welcome.”
Not real. It’s not real.
The hand squeezes, cutting off his air. He can’t— he can’t breathe.
(Yes he can. It’s not real.)
There’s a soft click and the door creaks open. Heavy, filtered breathing fills the air.
“Detective,” someone says. “All trussed up for me. I hope you’ve reconsidered my offer.”
“Kid’s out of it. No need to worry.”
“I’m gonna gut you, kid. String you up. The Bat has to learn someday”
Something nudges his foot. Tim tries to jerk away, but the ropes just cut into his skin.
“Anything you want to say to Daddy Warbucks?”
“Honestly, Detective. You’ve really let yourself go. Just look at that parlor. Hardly the ideal vessel.” Ra’s steps in front of him, but all Tim can see is his cloak swirling around his ankles. “Perhaps my grandson truly is the best host for me.”
“No,” Tim croaks, “don’t touch him.”
Someone laughs, somewhere, behind him or in front of him. It morphs, growing louder and harsher, echoing off the walls. He’s in a cavern, maybe. A large cave when endless twists and turns. He’s going to die down here.
“Better cough up the money if you know what’s good for you.”
“Little birdy, all alone,” the laughing voice says. “Batsy should learn to keep better track of his things.”
No one’s coming for him. Mom didn’t answer last time he tried to call her. He’s too needy, too much. His parents are sick of him, that’s why they never come home. That’s why Bruce sends him away every night. He can’t even stand to look at Tim.
“I told you to quit, why didn’t you listen? He doesn’t want you here. Nobody wants you here.”
“That’s not true.” Something caresses his face, it’s too dark and he can’t see what it is. “I want you, Detective.”
A door slams shut, somewhere.
A sickly sweet smell fills the room, and it’s a little hard to keep track of time again after that.
Tim loves his family.
There’s something about growing up in a quiet, mausoleum of a home that makes him appreciate how loud and rambunctious they all can be. Whether it’s training down in the cave, or if they were all sitting together for dinner. There’s arguing, there’s yelling, but honestly, Tim wouldn’t have it any other way.
Even at night, when Dick is home for the weekend and Tim can hear him talking on his phone down the hall, or when Damian stays up late to do art, with the light peaking under the crack.
Or Cass and Steph giggling together in the late of the night, music just a bit too loud.
He loves it.
There’s none of that now.
Because Tim is alone.
He was bad so his mom put him in the closet—she must have. He’s in time out, and he just has to wait for her to come get him, except—
Except, he can’t quite remember what he’s done. There’s just a growing sense of dread and anxiety that he can’t seem to squash down. It’s just that—it’s getting a bit hard to breathe. Tim is pretty sure there’s smoke somewhere, which means there’s a fire. So his mom has to come and open the door, but first Tim has to figure out what he needs to apologize for.
“Mom?” he tries, but for some reason his voice is weak and his throat is sore. “Mom? I’m sorry. Can I come out now? I won’t—” Think Tim, what was she mad about? “I’m sorry about the vase. I know it was important to you.”
He’d been coming down the steps in socks. Except the cleaners had just waxed the entire house so the wood stairs were more slippery than he had thought, and—
Crash.
Tim jumps at the sound.
His wrist aches from where he’d fallen on it. Years after the fact, Alfred had asked him about a hairline fracture that apparently never healed quite right. He has a strange bump now from calcium buildup. It aches in the winter.
“Mom?” Tim asks again. “Are you there? Pl—Please. I’m sorry. Please let me out.” He coughs. There’s something wrong with the air. He tries to lift his hand to his face, but can’t quite seem to manage for some reason. His limbs feel almost tied down.
“Mommy’s not coming, replacement. You’re gonna die here all alone. Just like I had to.”
Tim wishes Jason would stop talking to him. He’s trying to get his mom’s attention and Jason is just being mean. Even if he is telling the truth.
“Mom, please.”
The door opens.
Tim spends half a second being pleasantly surprised that his mom actually opened the door, before he sees what’s behind it.
It’s a demon. It has to be. A creature made of shadows with a mouth stitched closed and blood dripping down the side of its face. It reaches for him with a clawed hand, and Tim jerks back, yelling. The chair he’s sitting on—he’s sitting on a chair?—tilts back dangerously and nearly topples over.
“Calm. Calm down. Tim, breathe carefully.”
“This is the end, little bird. No where to run now.”
Tim is—he’s tied down to the chair. The demon must have tied him down, and now it’s come for him. It’s going to slit his throat, rip out his heart.
“This is what you deserve for trying to play pretend.”
“Little brother, you need to breathe.”
Tim gasps for breath, trying to twist away from the demon’s claws. “No—! Don’t—!” There’s a rushing sound in his ears, and the demon wraps his spindly hands around his neck and squeezes—
“Honestly, Cain. As if he wouldn’t be frightened of you. Did you see those canisters of fear gas? I’m amazed he’s still verbal right now. We should call in Nightwing. I don’t think either of us will have very much luck getting Drake to respond well.”
There—behind the demon, it’s—
Tim starts struggling against his bonds. He has to get out, he has to help.
“Should we cut him loose? He’s hurting himself.”
“Aren’t we lucky, Detective?”
“Tch, fine. But don’t move closer, I don’t want to cut him. I’ll never hear the end of it if I do.”
A figure moves closer, and there’s a—a sound Tim can’t quite place, but it doesn’t matter because—
“There, he’s free. Now, would you call Nightwing already or do I have to do everything—”
Tim tackles his younger brother to the floor. He scoots them to the far wall and keeps his body positioned over Damian. “You can’t—” he gasps, curling an arm under Damian’s head to pull him closer. “Don’t touch him. You can’t touch him.”
“I think you’ll find I can do whatever I want.”
“Drake, get off of me you oaf!”
“Little brother? You’re safe.”
“Call Nightwing now.”
“You can’t,” Tim yells at the demon behind him. “He’s only—he’s so young you can’t—he doesn’t understand. You can have me, just leave him alone.”
“I am not a child, Drake.”
“Timothy, please. He’s going to kill me.”
Tim clutches frantically at Damian. “Shh.” Tim’s voice shakes. “It’s ok, it’s ok. I’m here. He’s not going to get you. It’s ok.”
“I’m dying and it’s your fault.”
Tim chokes on his next inhale, tears he hadn’t noticed pouring down his face. “No, you’re no.” But it’s true. Damian has a large gash on his torso, the blood pooling over Tim’s hands as he frantically tries to staunch the blood. Damian’s been run through. There’s a gaping hole in Tim’s little brother. Damian is going to die here. “No, no, no. Dames, it’s ok. It’s ok. Bruce will—he’ll be here soon he promised. Dad is coming, it’s gonna be okay. Just—Just hold on. It’s okay.”
There’s so much blood. Tim’s hand slip where he’s trying to hold Damian down, the blood squelching under his fingers.
“Drake, I am fine. You need to calm down. Nightwing will be here any moment with the anti-serum.”
“Why didn’t you protect me?” Damian asks. “I thought you were my brother. You were supposed to protect me.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Tim sobs. “I tried. You—just hold on. You just need to hold on. B-Bruce? Bruce!” Where was he? Was he going to miss another child dying? This time on Tim’s watch?
Bruce was never going to forgive him for this.
Bruce was never going to forgive himself.
Tim wouldn’t be able to put Batman back together again.
“Dames, it’s ok. Just keep your eyes open for me. Dad’s gonna be here any minute."
“I am not dying, you utter buffoon."
Damian’s arms reach around Tim, holding him close. “I’m scared, Timothy.”
“But if it will make you feel better, I will allow you to hold me.”
“I know,” Tim says, even as the blood from Damian’s chest seeps into his own clothes. He runs a hand carefully through Damian’s hair. “It’s just like falling asleep. I’ll be here the whole time.”
“I want father.”
Tim’s eyes sting. “I know,” he says, voice cracking. “I know you do. He’ll be here when you wake up, okay?” His hands shake where they run down Damian’s back. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“Someone order an antidote? Nightwing delivery service her and ready to—”
“You imbecile. Just get over here and administer it.”
Someone crouches next to Tim and takes his arm.
“Hey bud, this might sting a little. Just stay calm.”
“D-Dick.” Tim trembles. “I couldn’t—I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I knew I couldn’t trust you. I’ve lost another brother, and it’s your fault.”
“It’s ok, Tim, I just need you to breathe for me. You did so good.”
“Dami, he—” Tim’s voice catches, there’s a prick at his arm but he can barely feel it. Damian is a limp weight against him. “I’m sorry, there was nothing I could do.”
“There’s nothing you can ever do. You ruin everything you touch.”
Tim holds Damian’s dead body closer, like maybe that’ll help anything. “Where’s dad? Is he—is he mad? I don’t—I don’t know how to tell him.”
“Dad’s back at the cave. He was really worried about you, Tim. We’re going to get you home.”
“Of course he’s mad. He hates you. You killed his only son.”
“I’m sorry.” Tim sniffs. “I did what I could but it was too late.”
“What’s he talking about?”
“He thinks me dead, Richard. Keep up.”
“I’m sorry,” Tim says again, but it’s getting harder to keep his eyes open. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, Tim.” Something brushes over his hair. “It’s ok. Everything will be better when you wake up.”
“Sleep, little brother.”
Tim’s eyes slip shut. The last thing he feels is his little brother’s dead body being pulled away.
When Tim opens his eyes, it’s to a mop of black hair tickling his nose. He blinks a few times, trying to clear his vision, but it’s still there. Damian is laying next to him in bed, playing some game on Dick’s old Gameboy Advance. Tim has an arm wrapped around him and a leg thrown over Damian’s own.
“Uh,” he starts to say, but his voice is shot to hell.
“Oh,” says Damian. “Are you coherent now?”
“I don’t know,” Tim croaks.
“Well, if you will release me—”
Tim tightens his arms. Flashes of Damian’s limp body, eyes open and vacant, blood covering his torso.
“I suppose I can finish this level,” Damian says.
“Shhh,” a voice says behind Tim, “bedtime now.”
Tim shifts enough until he can look over his shoulder without letting go of Damian. “Cass? What are you doing in my bed?”
Cass burrows into his back. “Keeping you safe.”
Oh.
Tim turns back to Damian, watching his character jump around the screen.
“Are... Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Damian says, though he doesn’t even glance at Tim. “I am neither dying nor bleeding out.” A pause. “Father is just in the other room. He will be back momentarily.”
“Oh.” Something unfurls in Tim's chest. “Okay. Is he okay?”
“Of course,” Damian answers. “Nothing could take father down.” He says it with such conviction that Tim can do nothing but believe him. “Father will always come for us,” Damian adds after a moment. “He will never leave us.”
Tim lays his head back down on the pillow, nose brushing Damian’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, “you’re right.” And then closes his eyes, listening to the 8-bit tune of Damian’s game and Cass’ soft breathing. Tim lets the strange anxiety in his chest be washed away by the comfort of his siblings.