Archive of Our Own

Outskirts of Gotham City, 2:38 am.

“Red Robin. Come in. Are you in position yet?” Oracle’s voice crackled through the headset in Tim’s ear, slightly distorted with the usual sounds of static.

Tim let out a grunt as the grapple in his arm hooked onto the railing of the next rooftop building, using the stored momentum to swing across the air, landing soundlessly with a precise roll. “Almost there,” he whispered back.

The freezing air sliced against the exposed skin of his face, ruffling through his hair as he clambered down the fire escape, reaching a ledge that allowed him to step over to the adjoining warehouse roof. Tim wrinkled his nose as a gentle gust of wind wafted the tell-tale scent of stagnant dust and gasoline that plagued the dingy industrial districts towards him. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, crouching low to avoid detection as he mindlessly adjusted his domino mask, suppressing the urge to yawn.

It had been 38 hours since he last slept properly.

He tried to ignore the throbbing within his skull and his aching limbs that felt heavier than lead. Every single blink felt like dragging sandpaper across his eyeballs.

Tim ran a hand over his face, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. Focus, he chided silently. You’re on a critical mission. There’ll be time to rest later.

This particular investigation had already stretched on for months, way longer than any other Batfam member had predicted, wearing all their patience (if they had any left at all) thin. What seemed at first only to be a simple case of illicit underground fight clubs had spiraled into a deeper conspiracy, ultimately culminating in the unveiling of a state-wide human trafficking ring.

Well, Tim had long lost track of how many nights he’d spent wasting away at the batcomputer, prying for clues of the elusive culprits behind an operation of such a scale, clawing for any resemblance of evidence, sometimes to the verge of passing out. For such a large ring, they sure hid their trails well. Every time he thought he’d finally captured the ones guilty, they slipped away, just out of his grasp.

A grim sense of satisfaction bloomed in his chest as he scanned the street below, his vantage point offering a clear view of the road. At last, after the indefinite stalemate, they’d tracked the most prolific criminals to a trade at this very location.

A meeting was scheduled for 2:40 am at this very spot, and if they executed it perfectly, they could capture all the people responsible in one fell swoop.

“I’m in position now,” Tim affirmed into his headset, rubbing his hands together to stave off the chill. At least he was alert enough — the entire can of an energy drink he chugged beforehand would ensure that.

As he scanned the surroundings, he could see the faint outlines of his fellow vigilantes tucked away in various other corners — a flash of Nightwing’s blue unitard on the building opposite him, the glint of metal from the nearest alleyway flashing as Red Hood methodically polished his gun (filled with non-lethal rubber bullets). And on the derelict stairwell a little further away, a tuft of black hair shifted as Robin surveyed the surroundings, thoughts likely racing through that tiny head. And Batman… Well, Tim couldn’t exactly see him, but he knew he was there.

Bruce had called in everyone in the area who was available to fight. After all, he didn’t want to take any chances of letting a crook slip away. So the whole team was there, whether they liked it or not. In the face of justice, they all had to put personal grievances aside.

One hell of a family reunion.

“Oi, Red Robin. Stop fidgeting, I can see the red of your costume flashing like a beacon from over here,” came a snarky, disinterested voice, snapping Tim out of his daze.

“Says the one who has a bright yellow cape,” he mumbled in retort. Ugh, Damian. Not a moment passed without him trying to pick a fight.

“Gentlemen, please,” Oracle’s exasperated voice was dripping with sarcasm, accentuating the first word with contempt.  “Let's focus on the mission at hand.”

Guess Tim wasn’t the only one in a cranky mood.

“Tch,” Robin tsked dryly, but refrained from antagonising any further. A stiff silence settled across the vigilantes present, all completely focused on the street below. Any moment now.

Sure enough, a heartbeat later, a nondescript, poorly modified black van with heavily tinted windows rolled up and parked onto the curb, the idling engine purring in the night, followed closely by a smattering group of cars.

2:40. Right on time.

“I’ve just run all the plates through the police database,” came Oracle's voice. “These cars have all been reported stolen within the last two months. These are our guys.”

Ha! Tim did a mental fistbump of triumph. Hours spent bent over scraps of intel and interrogation and burning his fuse down to essentially nothing finally paid off. He hoped the takedown would be straightforward: he needed an easy win after… Well. After everything that had happened.

“Thank you, Oracle. Stand by and wait for my signal,” Batman ordered.

Tim’s vision sharpened as he watched the door slide open and several masked figures slipped out of the van, met by the others who emerged from the cars. The group of about a dozen briefly greeted each other, but Tim was too far away to hear their words.

Instead, he read them another way. Their body language was taut yet welcoming, suggesting that despite initial unease, they had shared interests and a partnership that had been ongoing for a long time. A business model based on the exploitation and trading of human lives… The thought alone was enough to leave a sickly taste in Tim’s mouth.

They had weapons concealed on their bodies, if the unnatural bulges in their pockets and hidden in jackets were to amount to anything. Not heavily armed, though, which was a relief. Still, the odd gun or knife was deadly enough to warrant at least a good chunk of his preoccupied thoughts.

“I have my eyes on the hostages,” Red Hood’s curt voice reported through the comms. “About six people tied in the back of the one van. Mostly conscious. Slow movement suggests injuries, fatigue, or being drugged, though I’m leaning towards the latter.” Jason’s tone told Tim that the older man wanted to be anywhere but here. He could relate to the sentiment; he worked better alone too.

Tim yawned.

A beat of silence passed before a familiar chuckle filled his ears. “Come on, Tim. Brighten up, don’t fall asleep on us now,” Nightwing teased, his cheery voice a little too out of place for a dismantling sting with such high stakes.

“No civilian names while on duty,” Tim chided, rubbing his eyes as the criminal exchange continued below. “And don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” Probably. 

“Alright, enough small talk,” Oracle announced suddenly. “Looks like they’ve just about finished discussing their trade. I’d suggest acting before the captured civilians are taken out. They’ll be shielded from the brunt of the conflict if they remain in the van.”

Tim steadied himself. Anytime now. 

“Understood,” Batman affirmed, and with a rustle of fabric from his cape, he descended upon the unsuspecting criminals. Tim rolled his eyes and followed suit, silently judging the group’s penchant for dramatic entrances. Yells and shouts filled the night as the others followed suit, blocking out the potential escape routes in a practised manner.

The rest felt like clockwork. Detaining such low-profile goons had almost become commonplace in Tim’s life, as he routinely knocked out any enemies that came his way with measured and certain punches, all the while scanning for unexpected developments. Something about this didn’t seem right. It was easy. Too easy.

A volley of bullets sprayed near him, sparking as they hit the cracked asphalt at his feet. Cursing under his breath, Tim ducked behind a car for cover, peering over his shoulder. To the surprise of absolutely nobody, the criminals had bought backup weapons with some extra oomph, hidden in the trunks of their cars. He rolled his eyes. Figures. The criminal underworld and its affection for over-engineered firearms. Bringing a semi-auto to a fist fight wasn’t exactly fair, was it?

No matter. They all had tricks up their sleeves, and Tim had been itching to try out some of the newer bat-gadgets. He removed a sphere from his belt, pressed down hard on a button, and hurled it toward the enemy gunfire, the overarm throw tracing a defined arc through the air. Just before it hit the ground, the ball expanded, creating a giant, weighted net that not only knocked the gun from the enemy’s hands, but also released an electrical shock that instantly rendered the man unconscious.

“Keep close. Don’t let them escape,” Batman ordered curtly, which elicited an echoed response of various confirmations from the rest of the team.

Another group of criminals had tried to climb back into their car to drive off, and Tim sighed before throwing a batarang in their direction, cutting through the tough rubber of the wheels and sending the vehicle into an uncontrolled spin, crashing into a wall and incapacitating whoever was inside. He whirled around, landing a kick in the solar plexus of another masked criminal who had tried to sneak up on him. With a strangled cry, they collapsed onto the ground.

“Attention, everyone,” Oracle sounded caught off guard, the sound of a keyboard clicking rapidly away in the background adding to the sense of urgency. “I’ve uncovered new intel. There are more hostages in an adjacent warehouse, to the northeast. Red Robin, your position is the closest.”

“I’m on it,” Tim promised as he scanned the surroundings, arm raised as he already prepared to leap into combat again, to fight through to the coordinates he’d been given—

Only to have his breath snatched out of his lungs as his eyes snagged on a messy but familiar mop of hair. The ghost of a name nearly tore itself out of his lips before Tim managed to reel it in, but only barely.

Bart?

Except, no, it couldn’t be, and it wasn’t. It was just another faceless civilian, one of the hostages who just coincidentally bore an uncanny resemblance to his speedster friend, with the same reddish hue locks swept into an effortless wave and light green eyes that were clear with terror even in the dim, flickering lighting.

It had been years since the death of Bart Allen, yet the nightmares of the other’s final breaths still clung to Tim like chains, the feeling of loss still painfully sharp in his memory.

Was the universe playing a cruel trick on him? Just when he felt ready to heal and move on, he was thrust back into the abyss of mourning by some unbidden reminder. Was he going to be constantly drowned in the relentless sting of guilt and losses, again and again, never again knowing a moment of peace for the rest of his life?

The captured man (who wore the same face from Tim’s most treasured memories) had a piece of cloth tied around his mouth and limbs bound, held at gunpoint by one of the crooks who was trying to use the hostage situation as leverage to escape. The masked man shoved the other into an empty car and climbed into the driver's seat, twisting the ignition as the engine rumbled to life. And unfortunately, in the ensuing chaos, no other member had noticed.

Tim couldn’t wipe the expression of unbridled fear he had seen from his mind. It had already been seared into memory, fresh like the feel of sharp metal slicing through flesh.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was idiocy. But… If Tim could rescue that man, maybe it would be a way to help mend the cracks he’d harboured in himself for so long. Maybe he could finally learn to let go.

But to go now would be to disobey direct orders. 

The conflict brewed in Tim’s sleep-deprived mind. The bats would stop him. They would tell him that it was insane to split off from the main group, and the criminal would slip away. Who knows what would happen to Bart— No, not Bart. Just a stranger. Stay professional. Stay detached. He couldn’t afford to let the mask he’d donned for eternity slip now.

The man he was trying to save was just like any other hostage. And Tim was just a vigilante, doing his job. That was all there was to it.

Right?

“Red Robin? Where are you going? Stay with the rest of the group. Come in. Hello?” Barbara’s voice was muffled in his ears, like listening through a message underwater.

Judging from the unamused flatness of his voice, Bruce was not pleased. “Tim. Do not stray from the plan, do you hear me?”

“Anybody have eyes on Red Robin?” Someone else spoke through the voice channel, but Tim could no longer distinguish who they were. Probably Grayson, though he wasn’t sure.

“I have to go,” he murmured, knowing that the simple statement was nowhere near enough to atone for his next actions, yet unable to form a coherent thought to convince himself to stay. They were capable, and would be fine without him. And he could take care of himself, as he’d always done.

Tim ignored the chorus of panicked and angry voices, reached behind his ear, found the headset switch, and flicked it off. Instantly, his world plunged into a blissful silence. He took a shaky breath, climbing into another empty car left strewn on the sidewalk, flooring the gas, tyres leaving dark burns against the road as he sped into the night in pursuit.

The criminal had a head start, but Tim was a quick driver, and not afraid to run the occasional curb or cut corners. The palms that pressed into the steering wheel were damp with sweat, so he had no choice but to wipe his hands against his costume and press on. Dammit. With a hostage in there, Tim couldn’t even throw a bomb or attempt to sabotage the other vehicle. 

Just when he thought he was about to gain on the other car, it turned down a narrow alleyway and merged onto a busier street. Tim blinked in alarm, clearly not expecting the sudden lights and noises that rushed into his senses as the brunt of Gotham City’s nightlife ambushed him. He let out a swear word under his breath before following, blocking out the series of honks and beeps that he received. 

He chased the car futilely for a few more stretched minutes, always just a step behind, always just out of grasp. Granted, he had other tools to help him and perhaps, in hindsight, many smarter ways to approach the situation, but he was already too far gone to give them even the slightest consideration. 

They skidded off the main road into a different industrial block.

He didn’t even know why he was so determined to do this one thing. Perhaps all the times he suppressed his stress, ignored the nights of despising himself, of pushing away his thoughts of just not having the will to live on finally caught up to him. The cracks were always there, and now they were spreading. It was only a matter of time before they became visible.

Nothing made sense. His world was shattering, or perhaps it had already long broken. All he knew was that now, in this precise moment…

He just had to rescue that man. To just prove to the world and himself that he wasn’t… Useless.

He squinted to readjust his vision. A cold shiver doused over him as he finally resigned to reality; he’d lost the car. Fuck. 

He released the gas pedal, letting the momentum of the wheels wear off as he lost speed, gaze flicking everywhere as he tried to look for a clue, desperation heaving inside his chest.

There. An entrance to a warehouse, the rusty door hastily pried open just moments prior if the broken fresh metal underneath was any evidence. He slammed his foot down as hard as he could on the brake, body jolting forward with the momentum. Without even bothering to turn the car off, he tumbled out and sped as fast as his legs could take him.

He burst into the warehouse, his entrance making an echoing bang across the dusty air. Under normal circumstances, a more discreet appearance would be wiser, but he just couldn’t get the hostage’s face out of his panic-riddled mind. 

It overlapped with the last expression he had seen on Bart before he lost him forever, disintegrated by his own powers he’d been so proud of. Then, unbidden, came the memories of his other friends too. Kon, his face purple and empty eyes glassy after being exposed to lethal amounts of kryptonite. Cass, sacrificing herself to protect him in a battle above his paygrade.

He pushed the rest away. Now wasn’t the time to be spiralling.

Tim took a deep breath, in hopes that it would help his collapsing mind. It didn’t do much, but at least he was aware enough to function again, bringing himself back from the brink of hyperventilation. 

He crept deeper into the warehouse, hand gripping tightly on his staff in preparation for the inevitable confrontation.

Except… The warehouse seemed empty. Almost tantalisingly so. Just as Tim was about to give up, believing he’d come to the wrong place, a muffled yell caught his attention. Without thinking, he sprinted towards the sound.

Please don’t let him be late this time. Please. Just let him save one more.

There. In the middle of the warehouse, illuminated by a singular dingy bulb, was the dishevelled hostage bound to a rickety wooden chair. He was still gagged, and tears had stained his dirt-stained cheeks, leaving glistening trails against the skin.

“Mrngnn!” Spotting Tim, he let out a strangled yell, incomprehensible words muffled by the scrap of fabric. “Eghit’s uh tawp!”

“Hey, hey,” Tim raised his arms slightly into a less threatening gesture. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help; you can trust me.”

The man just cried and shook his head some more, choking sobs unnerving Tim more than he could care to admit. Tim took a step forward, and the man shrunk back as far as the ropes trapping his body would allow, as if the action had physically burnt him.

“I promise I’m going to get you out safely. But I need you to calm down,” Tim tried again. He was only, what? A couple dozen steps away? In a few lunges, he could reach him. Maybe less.

What was the hostage so scared of?

The man pushed back, and Tim finally saw it. He had missed it before because of the disorienting lighting, but it was tantalisingly clear now. A flashing, red light strapped to the backside of the chair.

A bomb—

Before he could even finish his thought, he was thrown back by the fiery shockwave of the explosion, his back hitting the metal storage shelf behind him. 

His world snapped to black.

—

Gotham City’s Industrial Area, 3:01 am.

When he came to, a hellish landscape greeted him. For the briefest moment of bliss, he wondered if he had died, and this was the justified punishment that awaited him.

But no, the ringing noise in his ears and thoughts rushed back like an unstoppable tidal wave, and he remembered how he had gotten there. Mission. Warehouse. Hostage. Explosion. He struggled to sit up, to habitually assess the damage on his own body, and a wave of nausea washed over him, his weak body slumping back down bonelessly.

Yep. Definitely hit his head too hard.

Every breath felt like dragging his lungs through gravel. His whole body screamed in protest as he strained his muscles, trying to pinpoint the severity of his wounds. It was hard with every part of himself in blinding hot agony, but he was certain something was broken, at least. With herculean effort, he managed to prop his upper body up…

And instantly choked on a lungful of foul black smoke.

The explosion must have set off a fire in the warehouse, because around him, the hungry flames were licking the rooftops, molten material collapsing as the roof groaned, threatening to collapse in on itself at any moment. In the distance, a set of sirens wailed feebly, still too far away to be of any help. He was only out for a few brief minutes at most, but the inferno was already consuming the entire warehouse, trapping Tim within.

Tim held back tears. He knew without looking that the hostage was long dead. He hoped at the very least it was painless.

He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hands, unsure of whether the fluid flowing down his face was sweat or tears. Probably a mixture of both… Until he pulled his hands away and they came back bloody.

That meant he had hit his head hard enough for it to have split open. Not to mention, his mask was missing from his face, though that was the least of his worries right now.

Swallowing the sudden urge to puke, Tim summoned enough courage to crane his neck just enough to survey the damage to his lower body, and nearly let out a sob.

Oh god.

His left leg was relatively unharmed, but it was the right one that made his heart drop to his stomach. The heavy structure he’d been thrown into had collapsed, one of the supporting metal pillars pinning his limb under its crushing weight.

“No, no, no, no…” Tim gasped weakly, his own voice impossibly shaky in a way he hadn’t heard it for years. Trembling fingers already slick with blood tried to twist around to pry the beam off, to no avail. And the most despairing of all, his comms were lost, likely destroyed in the initial explosion. “Help! Can anyone hear me? Help!” He screamed, though the smoke had rendered his voice hoarse, unable to be heard over the cacophony of the destruction around him.

He was alone. Trapped. And the fire was only growing closer.

Gritting his teeth, Tim tried to tug his pinned leg out from under the metal, and he was rewarded with a blindingly sharp jolt of pain, enough to send stars sparking in his already faltering vision. Brute force would get him nowhere. He had to calm down.

Come on! He was a detective. He was smart. He could find a way out of this. He always did.

If he was going to die, it would be on his own terms.

Despite the heat and toxic smoke, Tim willed his body to fall still for the briefest moment as he collected his thoughts. The only way out would be to lift the shelf, which was impossible for him to do so in his current state. Unless…

Tim spotted his trusty staff, which had landed an arm’s length away from his body. Steeling himself, he reached out a hand to grasp it, only to fall into despair when he realised he was only a couple of centimetres short, his fingertips grazing uselessly against the ground beside it. Screw this, he thought in desperation as he lunged forward once more, this time putting more momentum despite the stabbing ache of his body. He had just closed his fist around the trusty staff when a sickening series of cracks came from his pinned leg, and he had to muffle a pained yelp by biting on his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. If his Tibia wasn’t completely shattered before, it definitely was now.

But now he had a plan. Ignoring the pain, he twisted around and inserted one end of his stick under the shelf, propping it up like a lever using a scrap of debris. Bracing the staff under his body, he used what strength remained in him to press the staff down.

Just a little further. He just needed to hold on a little bit further. 

Incrementally, the weight on his leg lifted, and with effort, he managed to clear his leg out of the way before letting the shelf drop back down unceremoniously. The straining had nearly drained all of his energy, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

As if to taunt him with the threat of imminent death, a flaming wooden pillar from above crashed only a few strides away from where Tim was lying, its heat singeing his skin. He forced himself not to flinch. One problem at a time.

His newly freed leg was bleeding profusely at an alarming rate, so he had to take care of that first. He reached to his back and tore out two pieces of fabric from his cape, using one as a tourniquet on his leg to ensure he didn’t die from hemorrhage. The other he tied around his nose and mouth to protect his respiratory system from breathing in too much of the toxic smoke.

He forced his panicked breaths to slow. Deep breathe in, deep breathe out. Ignore the building panic. Clouding emotions could only bring ill results. After all, it was running after the hostage without alerting anyone else that got him in this mess in the first place.

Tim let out a grunt. He could atone and mourn later; there were bigger fish to fry.

By now, visibility was even poorer than before and the heat approached utterly unbearable levels. Running or even walking was completely out of the question, so Tim could only awkwardly commando crawl on his stomach, letting instinct and memory guide him towards where he remembered the entrance was. One bit at a time, he inched forward on shaking arms, every shift agonising in ways he had never known before.

His vision was starting to fade from the blood loss, and the roar in his ears was almost loud enough to contend with the fire. He paused every so often to wipe away the trickling blood from his forehead that had reached his eyes. God, it hurt so much.

But he couldn’t cry. Not yet. Red Robin was strong, a figure of hope for the entire of Gotham City. Vigilantes were supposed to be heroes. Invincible. Untouchable. And yet, here he was, crawling through ruins like some powerless abomination, tittering on the impossible edge of unconsciousness. 

Pull yourself together, Drake. Stay awake, goddammit.

The fire spread. It was hot enough to redden and curdle the skin, to leave behind deep red marks and bite into the topmost layers of flesh, leaving behind blisters and stripping it raw.

Enough. No more, please. He… He had enough. He just wanted to go home. Someone, anyone. Somebody help him.

…Please?

But no one came. Just like it always had been and always would be, he was utterly alone. So Tim did what he did best: he shut out his emotions and pushed on.

By skill or sheer luck, Tim managed to avoid all the largest patches of fire and blindly fumbled to the entrance, pushing it open with his shoulder and tumbling outside, utterly strengthless and ending in a collapsed, rag-dolled heap on the concrete. He wheezed, breathing in a fresh, cold gulp of air, filling his charred lungs. Behind him, he could absently hear the creaking and telltale sounds of metal warping and collapsing. The roof was finally caving in. He’d made it just in time.

The last thing he remembered was the fluttering sound of fabric as a black-cowled figure landed beside him, before his eyes rolled back and he sank deeper into the blissful darkness as a pair of urgent arms enveloped him.

—

Wayne Manor, the next day.

Ow. Ow ow ow ow…

Before even opening his eyes, Tim already felt the killer of a headache building up in his skull. He let his other senses acclimate, lest he become overwhelmed from the excessive input. It was… Quiet. There were soft, fresh sheets against his skin, and the air smelt like antiseptic and gauze bandages. Slowly, he cracked his eyes open, hissing slightly at the bright and unexpected burn in his retinae. 

Huh. He was in his own bedroom in the manor, the curtains drawn but leaving a big enough crack to see the bleached sky, painted a beautiful orange by the sunset. A glance at the clock told him that it was around 6 pm, though Tim couldn’t quite make out the exact time, as his eyes were still having trouble adjusting. He’d been changed out of his Red Robin costume, and now wore a light blue hospital gown, tied loosely in the back. Gingerly, he raised both of his arms in experimentation. Almost the entire length of the limb was bandaged in thick fresh white strips of fabric like some wicked, twisted version of a human piñata, and stunk of pungent rubbing alcohol. It seemed like all his wounds had been treated when he was out.

Someone cleared their throat, startling him out of his thoughts. He slowly sat up straighter, wincing as he jostled his still fairly fresh wounds.

“Master Tim,” Alfred addressed him from his bedside table in a chair, a pair of knitting needles and a half-knitted yarn scarf in his lap. “I see you’re awake. Would you like some painkillers?”

Tim gratefully took the two white pills and the glass of water offered, swallowing them without a second thought. While he took a few more careful sips of the water, Alfred continued, worry evident in the knitted crease of his brows. “I hope you didn’t mind me bandaging your wounds while you were unconscious. You’ve received multiple first and second-degree burns, a severely broken right leg and heavily bruised ribs, as well as numerous other ailments. I would suggest you remain in bed.”

Tim hummed, only half-listening to Alfred’s words. He wondered what happened after he passed out. Did they manage to capture the rest of the criminals? What happened to the one he was in pursuit of? Were there any more civilian casualties, or did they manage to rescue them all?

A wave of guilt washed over him as he recalled the man who was caught up in the explosion. He’d even tried warning him before… If only he hadn’t been such an idiot…

“Master Tim,” Alfred gently urged, laying a hand over his ones wrapped in white gauze. “I can see that your thoughts are preoccupied with your previous mission, but I must insist you lay them to rest. Everything went smoothly after you lost consciousness, I can assure you.”

Tim swallowed dryly, then nodded silently. No use dwelling on the past; he couldn’t change it anyway. As much as he wanted to.

“If I may…” Alfred cleared his throat once more, signalling that he was about to breach into unfavoured topics. Tim winced and braced himself for a telling-off, a scolding he more than deserved.

Alfred paused, then gently chuckled. “Oh, you silly boy,” he chided gently. “It’s not my place to reprimand you. I’m sure Master Bruce will give you more than the required share in that manner. No, I wanted to talk about your… Late friends.”

A fast exhale of shock left Tim’s lips, which sent him into a coughing fit, thanks to the new injuries in his smoke-agitated lungs. Alfred sat by him quietly, patting his back and handing him a handkerchief as he hacked out a mouthful of thick, sticky phlegm. 

“Easy. I don’t mean to pry, but… I feel like their deaths have weighed on you more than you have let on,” Alfred pressed on, gentle but firm. “Yes, it has been years, but you’ve hardly been given a chance to take a breath, thrust into one mission after another. I dearly treasure Master Bruce like my own son, but his obsessive work habits are not to be envied, and unfortunately it seems like you’ve also inherited the same trait. Some wounds cut deeper than others, and I can’t help but believe you haven’t healed.”

“... How do you know that?” Tim whispered back, nothing more than a hoarse suggestion. He hadn’t told anyone, and didn't want his family to worry or add to Bruce’s huge plate of troubles. Not a living soul. So how could…?

Alfred’s answer was simpler than Tim had expected. “You were muttering their names while asleep.”

Oh.

“And I’m afraid I also discovered something else,” Alfred murmured, reaching for Tim’s bandaged arms.

Tim’s eyes widened instantly, and he snatched his hand away from Alfred’s grip, breath suddenly laboured and voice sharp once he realised what he was talking about. “How—”

The butler sighed and merely gestured to the inner side of Tim’s forearms. “I inevitably discovered them, I’m afraid, when I was bandaging your wounds. I wish to apologise, Master Tim. It was never my intention to breach such a personal topic, but the dire situation called for it. I can assure you, though, all I’ve done is cleaned the scars thoroughly, and no other member has seen them. Your secret is safe with me.”

It was always so hard to stay angry with Alfred, especially when his tone was so sincere. Tim’s sudden surge of outrage quickly doused into simmering guilt as he clenched the bed sheets tightly, balling them into creased circles.

The unspoken words and questions hung heavy between them. Tim Drake, the quiet, dependent and genius vigilante, found actively harming himself? The thought was almost laughable. But it was a genuine struggle he had been battling for longer than he cared to remember. 

“It’s clear you’re not in an ideal state to discuss this thoroughly, so I will drop the topic for now, but I hope you know that this conversation is far from finished.” Alfred fixed Tim with one of his signature piercing gazes, managing to convey both worry and sternness all in one look. “As I said, I will not tell this to anyone else. But I must urge you to at least reach for support services,” the butler bowed his head. “There are plenty of anonymous options.”

Tim closed his eyes, wishing he could be anywhere but here. “I know.”

“Will you at least promise me you will try to reach out?” Alfred’s tone was soft, almost coaxing.

“... I’ll try.” It wasn’t much, but it was a promise. A start.

Alfred leaned back, satisfied for now, though concern still clouded his features as he tidied his knitting tools and stood up. “I will take my leave now, Master Tim. I must inform you, however, that Master Bruce wishes to speak to you in private as soon as you wake. I imagine he will be giving out a strict reprimand.” He offered Tim a small smile, the lines creasing around his eyes and smile lines a familiar sense of comfort.

Tim returned the gesture half-heartedly, more out of necessity, a grimace rather than not. 

“And one more thing…” Alfred began just before he reached the door. But he paused, and after a beat, shook his head, deciding against whatever had just occurred in his mind. “Never mind. Have some rest for now; Master Bruce will be with you shortly.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment further. He knew this would come sooner rather than later, and he’d rather get the unpleasantries over and done with. At least, after they exchanged a few yells and barbed insults, he and Bruce could settle back into their weirdly detached, almost professional relationship, to the usual status quo. At least the pleasant buzz of painkillers in his system would filter out the most bitter parts of the conversation. 

Still doesn’t make the process pleasant though.

—

Bruce, dressed simply in a cream shirt and loose slacks, stood at the foot of Tim’s bed, arms crossed and silent with a scowl plastered over his face. The usual intimidation tactic.

It wasn’t the first time Bruce had pulled the trick on Tim, but it was unnerving nonetheless. Stubborn as he was, though, Tim didn’t let an ounce of fear or hesitation show on his expression, schooling it into something carefully blank. 

Of course, it wasn’t enough to convince Bruce. 

“You ran off in the middle of a mission. Despite my explicit orders.” Bruce recounted, blunt and unforgivingly curt. 

Tim paused, choosing his next words carefully. “One of our targets was running with a hostage. You said to not let any escape, so I made my own informed judgment and gave pursuit.”

A muscle in Bruce’s jaw ticked. “You also ignored Barbara’s intel, blindly running off by yourself. Not to mention the disabled comms. If not for the tracker in your uniform, we would never have found you in time. Imagine the consequences; you’d be bleeding out in the open, unconscious and without a mask on. The consequences could have been devastating… You not only endangered yourself, but also those around you, your family and your associates.”

“I had no choice!” Tim defended, fumbling for purchase against the relentless attack in Bruce’s words. “If I hadn’t gone—”

“— Then the hostage might still be alive,” Bruce cut in impatiently, and Tim felt his insides turn cold. 

Low fucking blow, Bruce. 

“The point is, you were reckless. You rushed in without a plan, without observation, fueled by blind emotion rather than logic. I thought I raised you better, Timothy.” The full legal name felt foreign to Tim’s ears. It had been so long since it had been used… And it only fueled his anger. 

“How you raised me? Please. You didn’t raise me. You just nurtured the skills that were already there. And you were never there when I needed you most, so I don’t want to hear about it from you,” Tim spat, raising as much spite in his voice as his tired body could muster. 

“Is this about your friends? Because I’m sorry for your loss.” Bruce said, a poor imitation of emotion in his voice. “But that was years ago, Tim, and it doesn’t excuse making such a monumental blunder. A civilian died in that mission, Tim. A man with a job, a family, a life. That loss is on you.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Tim’s tone reached so high it cracked, growing more frustrated by the second. “You don’t think I’ve already blamed myself a million times, over and over again in my head from the moment that bomb went off?”

“Blame’s no use in the face of death.”

“Cut out the philosophical crap, Bruce. You think even you could just watch an innocent person being dragged away at gunpoint without instinctively reaching out to help them? Especially when the aforementioned person looks the same as your deceased friend?”

A pause. The tension was so thick in the room, Tim could have sliced it with a Batarang.

“Well, no matter what the stranger looked like, it’s not worth obtaining a life-altering chronic disability over,” Bruce snapped as he raised his voice, and whatever retort Tim had prepared died in his throat. 

… What?

Bruce registered Tim’s blatant, undisguised shock and faltered, bringing his thumb and index fingers to his face, gently massaging the bridge of his nose, sighing. “I guess Alfred didn’t tell you, then.”

“Tell me what. Bruce, what do you need to tell me?” The words came out less like a question and more like a demand.

“I don’t know if I’m the right person to ask.”

“I don’t care. I’m tired of all your cryptic nonsense. Tell me the truth.”

“Right…” Bruce unfolded his arms and began to pace around in Tim’s room, looping strides like the restless steps of a caged lion. A terrible foreboding blossomed in Tim’s chest. Bruce always paced like that whenever a serious topic or seemingly impossible case approached, ones that even left the most gracefully articulated human stuttering. 

“It’s about your right leg,” Bruce revealed at last, settling down stiffly in the chair Alfred had sat in before. His tone dropped into something dangerously unidentifiable. A tinge of regret, guilt, even. Almost… Pity. “We rushed you to the ER as soon as possible. The best doctors there did everything they could but… Tim, you have to understand. Whatever crushed your leg did irreparable damage.”

Tim found himself drowning again. He couldn’t breathe, as if the oxygen itself had been sapped out of his body. “No,” was all he could manage, a feeble plea of denial in the face of reality.

He had known it was a possibility, and that his line of work was dangerous. But knowing in theory and experiencing it were two very different worlds. 

Tim had a sudden urge to cry, even if no tears fell from his dry eyes. Instead, he sat there numbly, his rattling chest heaving with barely restrained panic.

“The bones in your leg are near unsalvageable, nerve damage permanent, and the muscles torn into shreds. Even with the best technology or surgeries I can access with money couldn’t fix that. Right now, we can’t even rule out the possibility of amputation. Likely, you’ll never walk normally again, if at all.” 

Tim gaped, unable to believe the words that fell from the other man’s lips. “Never? What about public appearances for Wayne Industries? And vigilante work? I can’t just give that up. Red Robin is who I am! Gotham needs us to protect it. It needs me.”

Bruce lowered his gaze to the floor, and for the briefest moment, looked genuinely vulnerable, a slip in the persona the billionaire shrouded himself in. “... I’m sorry.”

Tim’s fingers found the edge of the blanket that was draped over his lower half, and with shaking care, peeled it back to reveal the worst of his injuries. Of course. How could he have expected otherwise?

His leg lay motionless, held stiff by a splint. Some parts were carefully bandaged, but the swollen exposed skin revealed heavy bruising across all of his skin, revealing an ugly mix of purple, blues and sickly yellow, navy surgical thread pulling skin flaked with dried blood taut in places where it had been split open. Tim tried to wriggle his toes.

No response. Even the pain seemed strangely detached, like he was watching the leg of another person instead of his own. He let out a huff of disbelief, still too overcome with shock to have any other reaction.

Sure, Tim had racked up his fair share of injuries throughout the years, from missions gone wrong, carelessness on patrols or even purely because he was a dumbass and forgot safety gear. But he’d recovered from them all. He’d bounced back. 

So he wasn’t sure what to do about… This.

Bruce leaned back in his seat, the furniture creaking under the shift in weight. Tim’s eyes flicked in his direction, and for the first time since Bruce had entered his room, he had a proper look at his adoptive father’s face. His eyes were sunken, bags infinitely darker than Tim remembered, and he watched silently as the grey that peppered through his hair caught the dying rays of the sun, almost translucent in the gentle glow. Bruce looked so much more tired than usual, and that was saying something. Tim was certain that if there was a mirror in the room, he’d found that he looked pretty dishevelled himself.

“Why’d you do it?” Bruce questioned at last, the venom long lost from his voice. Tim’s eyes snapped away, settling instead on the curtains on the far side of the room, stubbornly avoiding both eye contact and the question. If he had to be honest, he didn’t quite know himself.

“You’re not normally one to be overly emotional, so it couldn’t just be because of a lapse of judgement. So why? Pursuing that criminal to… Prove yourself?” The other pressed further.

Tim frowned, picking absentmindedly at a stray piece of bandage that had come loose around his fingers, now staring at his own fidgeting hands. “Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t. What difference does that make to you?”

“Tim, I thought we had already gone over this conversation. You are my son. You have nothing to prove to me. I know you are perfectly capable,” Bruce raised a brow, face a blank slate save for the slightly confused look. “There’s no need to throw yourself into needless danger just to cement your abilities; I already believe and trust you.”

“Really?” Tim’s head snapped up, molten eyes staring at Bruce’s with unexpected intensity. He was too tired, too hurt and drained to have a conversation. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like you’ve acknowledged it. Because this whole family’s too emotionally constipated to talk about something as useless as feelings.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Well, it may appear that way, but I assure you that’s not the truth.”

“Save the sweet talk, father,” Tim growled, satire coating the honorific title. “At least have the dignity to admit it’s much too little, too late. Or are you going to start lying to your children now?” 

The accused covered his face in his hands and let out a groan, clearly disgruntled by the antagonising tone in Tim’s voice. “I’m not lying to you, Tim. You know that all of us have an unconventional manner of expressing vulnerable thoughts.”

“Well, I’ve had enough of allusions and vague metaphors, so I’d be damned if I don’t set things straight right now.” Tim wasn’t really sure where he’d summoned the sudden courage. Was it from the painkillers and drugs in his system that loosened his tongue? Or maybe it was with the revelation that his leg was all but lost, his final line of patience had snapped, the normally logical restraint he held himself with worn away to nothing. After all, what would Bruce do? Ban him from missions?

Haha, very funny. 

“I’m one of the reasons you were discovered in the past and rescued out of the time stream, or have you forgotten that too?” Tim soldiered on, a sense of grim satisfaction igniting in his heavy chest as Bruce sat taller, this particular accusation finally catching the man’s attention. “Do you know how hard it was, living in a Gotham that had lost its most important protector? This precious ‘family’ of yours practically disintegrated. Dick refused to take on the Batman mantle, so I had to take your place, all the while trying to find the tiniest shreds of proof that you were still alive. They all told me I was crazy. And, like always, I was alone.”

Bruce stayed silent, expression unreadable. 

Tim sneered at the lack of response. Typical. “And even after the whole ordeal, what did I get? Barely a shred of recognition. ‘Good job, Tim. You saved the day again, Tim,’ they said. Then, you came back and carried on as nothing happened. No apologies, no heartfelt reunions. You just continued with your life, as if you hadn’t just gone and practically died on us. Do you even know how much we mourned you?”

How much I wanted to give up, lie down, close my eyes and just join you? But those words were left unsaid. Tim wasn’t quite ready to share them just yet.

“And even before that… When my only true friends died off, one by one, leaving me alone to drown in the void left by their absence, beyond scarred and impossibly alone. The rest of you didn’t even try to help. How could you all, when you were all busy dealing with your own emotional baggage? Perfect Boy Wonder Dick had run off on his own in Bludhaven; Jason ruling as Crime Lord on the streets, and ruthless Damian playing sidekick with the permanently brooding Batman. But I was just a kid, Bruce. Barely a teenager who didn’t know anything else instead of the encompassing loss that had already defined his life. What right did you have to abandon me?”

Bruce was about to interject, but Tim cut him off before he could, a self-deprecating smile playing helplessly on his lips as his voice rose high enough to border on a scream. “Oh, yes. The Bats, always the heroes. Always there to save the city, saving the helpless civilians. But what about me? Who was there to save me?” Now, real tears were brimming in Tim’s vision, and he blinked them away without another word. “Answer me, Bruce! Is it too much of an ask to be selfish for just this one moment and, as your son, pine for even a fraction of the same care you display for this wretched city?”

Tim paused, giving himself a chance to breathe, his entire calorie-deprived body shaking with the effort he’d just exerted. When was the last time he’d eaten something? His voice dropped to a hushed whisper, barely audible, but he knew Bruce was latching onto every word. “Maybe… Maybe I thought if I pushed myself further, learnt why you gave so much to this damn place, then I’d understand you. Or if I saved one more civilian, you’d finally view me as an equal, instead of an inferior underling you can boss around, and prove I’m independent enough to make my own decisions.”

For the thousandth time, stinging silence descended between them, drawing open an invisible chasm nothing could even hope to bridge between.

Bruce opened his mouth and closed it again, speechless, trying to find the right words to defuse the situation, to fix the decades of damage he’d unintentionally unleashed on the broken boy in front of him. “I… I apologise, Tim. I really do. I didn’t know you felt so strongly that way, and if I had, I would’ve tried to fix my mistakes a long time ago.” He stumbled awkwardly over his own words, clearly not used to being so transparent. “I don’t expect you to forgive me immediately, or even at all. But…”

He rubbed his temples, hesitating. “I want you to know that any time I pull away, it’s not because I don’t care about you. Quite the opposite, in fact. I want to protect you, shield you from the worst of this life. But looking back, I’ve realised I failed miserably, and my blunders have scarred you in the process.”

Tim’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the sheets, suppressing the exhale of shock that balanced precariously on his lips. Was this it? Had closure been so easy all along, just… To yell all his regrets and deepest guilts at Bruce?

“You have to understand,” Bruce cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m scared to lose more family. When I heard that explosion last night, it was like my worst nightmares all over again. I was reminded of the first blunder I made, the mistake that still haunts me… Jason’s death. I couldn’t go through that again—”

Of course. Of fucking course. Tim was a fool to get his hopes up. After all, Batman could never change.

“For heaven’s sake, Bruce! Do you still not get it? This isn’t about them, or about you. I’m the one with a life-changing injury, I’m the one sitting powerless on this bed, and I’ve always been the one hiding in the shadows, playing whatever part you assign me. All I ask is just, for once, a moment without being overshadowed. But apparently even that’s too much!” Tim denounced bitterly.

Bruce closed his eyes, as if already regretting the lapse of judgment. “Wait, Tim. I didn’t mean it like that—”

Tim, on the other hand, had no more energy or patience to entertain Bruce’s presence any longer. “Get out. I don’t want to ask another time.”

“Tim, please.”

“Leave.”

Bruce slowly stood from his seat, dusting off the invisible imperfections on his pants, more out of nervous habit than necessity as he made for the exit. “Right. Okay. I’ll go now, but remember, Tim. If you feel like you’re ready to talk about… anything, I’ll always be here.”

Tim nodded curtly, though his thought had already been solidified. There wouldn’t be a next time.

His head spun as he tried to process everything that had happened in the span of minutes, pulling the blanket back over himself, even if it could only provide so much physical comfort. Now alone, all the thoughts that had been at the back of his head rushed forward, and fear weighed heavy in his heart, the walls of his room seemingly crushing him within, an invisible force suffocating his presence. 

It sounded like he wouldn’t be able to fight again.

He’d gotten sloppy. Not just from this instance alone, though. Over the past months, he’d returned from fights more bruised and roughed up than usual, wounds each more severe than last. But even so, had no one noticed? But most importantly of all…

When had he stopped trying? Tim could only wonder. Perhaps his carelessness was even on purpose. Maybe he was deliberately messing up more, in a futile effort of hoping that one day, whatever weekly evil the bats were fighting would kick him down hard enough, and he’d stay dead for good. No Lazarus pit, no strings attached, no more agony. Just eternal rest.

At least, leaving in that way wouldn’t let him become a burden, a failure to his crime-fighting family. If it was fast enough, violent enough, a death that rendered his body into nothing but wafting, bloody mist, then at least he could die recognised, honourably, a martyr in battle, buried in the Hall of Justice. Remembered as Red Robin, instead of the cowardly Tim Drake that hid behind the flimsy mask.

After all, wasn’t that the only viable, guiltless escape from more pain?

… He wished, more than anything, that he could join his friends. 

But even that opportunity had been robbed from him. He glared at his useless leg, now a worthless torn clump of meat attached to a broken body. If what Bruce said really was true, then he would never set foot on the field again. He couldn’t think of a more torturous fate. How could he just stay here hidden in the shadows, forgotten by the world while his siblings kept on fighting? He was alone, yet it felt like a thousand eyes were piercing his skin, leaving prickling scrutiny in its wake. Weak. So weak. Couldn’t even keep his will to live alive. So what good could he do? A hollow shell filled with nothing, merely a container, a vessel for another’s fury. Useless, unneeded, worthless, worthless, worthless.

… Huh? Something felt damp.

The unexpected thought snapped Tim out of his downward spiral. Slowly, he forced his eyes open and relaxed his entire body. In his panic, his hands had latched onto his own arms, sharp nails digging into the white strips of fabric hard enough to reopen his wounds and rip open stitches, the blood staining Alfred’s pristine bandaging a blooming crimson.

Tim let out a wet gasp as he gingerly tried moving his arms again. Jesus, that hurt. An incredulous huff bubbled out of his throat. Couldn’t even keep himself alive or let his wounds heal. “You’re a dumbass, Drake,” he whispered into the darkness as he swivelled his head around, letting out a sigh of relief once he spotted a spare roll of gauze and a bottle of ointment lying on the nearby table. With shaking hands, he unwound the ruined bandages and replaced them with fresh ones. Even though the wrapping technique was terrible and was nowhere as neat as Alfred’s, it would do for now.

Tim flopped back down onto his own bed, utterly exhausted and defeated, aching from both his wounds and the draining conversations that left his bleeding heart more broken than not. And when sleep came, it wasn’t a surprise that it was once again plagued with the usual nightmares.

—

Wayne Manor, two weeks later.

Recovery was always the worst part of an injury, even worse than the moment of sustaining it.

At least, that’s what Tim had learnt from many times of first-hand experience. Unfortunately, as per Bruce’s predictions, they were eventually unable to save the infected leg… Leaving Tim awkwardly trying to adjust to having just half a bandaged stub of thigh where his limb once was, throwing off his sense of balance entirely.

He’d cried alone in the dark more times than he wanted to admit.

And as if that wasn’t already tormenting enough, he was also juggling several other fractures, unhappy lungs and one killer of a concussion, which was more than enough to keep him bedridden for almost the entirety of the two weeks. Though, with some shameless pleading and clever words, he did manage to convince Alfred to up his anaesthetic dosage administered through an IV drip stuck in the back of his hand. So, the time he didn’t waste on silently wallowing in his laughable fate, running through terrible scenarios in his mind, doing various physiotherapy stretches or half-hearted scrolling through old case files on his laptop was spent floating in the blissful, fuzzy land of semi-consciousness, fueled by drugs that were probably very unhealthy to sustain for long periods of time. 

Of course, the good times never lasted.

So now, Tim was staring at the ceiling in boredom, too tired to do anything productive yet not able to fall asleep thanks to the dull throbbing throughout his body magnified by the lack of painkillers. At least some of the smaller bandages had come off, revealing newly grown skin and ugly scars across his entire body, so he’d opted to dress in a plain sweatshirt for the day. It was still a pain to make any sort of movement. But he did have something to look forward to that morning. That’s right, Barbara had called ahead and promised a visit, since she’d managed to score an entire day free from her day job at the library.

These days, the list of things that got Tim genuinely excited wasn’t long, so he treasured this opportunity above everything else. Since… Well. More or less, the ex-Batgirl had experienced almost the exact thing before.

As if right on cue, a crisp knock echoed on the door of Tim’s room. “Come in,” Tim glanced over, not even trying to hide the grin plastered across his face.

The door creaked open, and a familiar head of amber coloured hair pulled back into a ponytail greeted him. “Hey!” Barbara chirped, slowly rolling into the room, a contraption towed in the back of her wheelchair. “Surprise! How’s Mister Red Robin feeling today?”

“Better, I suppose,” Tim shrugged, though the gesture was more playful than deflective as he absently rubbed at his bandaged leg stump. “Still getting used to being mono-pedal.”

“You’ll adjust, I promise. It might feel like everything’s pointless now, but not all is lost,” Barbara promised solemnly, though her expression quickly shifted back into a happier one. “But enough depressing talk, I’m sure you’ve already had your fair share of doom and gloom lately. Today is about celebrating milestones!” She clapped before reaching into a tote bag slung across her body, pulling out a dollar store confetti cannon.

Tim stared incredulously at the unexpected object. “... Seriously?”

Barbara gestured around at the chaotically organised room around them, first to the white, empty walls, then to the tables cluttered with several monitors, stacks of books and metallic scraps of tech Tim had been tinkering around in his free time strewn everywhere. “Please. Practically everyone knows you are in dire need of a splash of colour.” 

Tim snickered. He’d normally only seen a professional and serious side of Barbara, but he couldn’t say he minded this more carefree demeanour. Even if it was just an attempt to cheer him up. “Oh, really? What’s the special occasion?”

“Celebrating you finally being released from 24/7 bed rest, what else?” Barbara quipped back, twisting the cylinder and sending out a burst of thick, colourful strips of tissue paper, landing messily on every exposed surface.

“Oh, Alfred is not going to be happy,” Tim huffed, picking up a bright red rectangle that had landed in his lap, twirling it between his index and thumb.

“Alfred will have to forgive me; it’s for the greater good.”

“So, did you only come here to shoot confetti at me, or was there something else on your mind?”

“Right. I do have a present for you,” Barbara shoved the now empty cannon back into her bag, twisting around and reaching for the compactly folded contraption behind. Undoing a few clasps, she spun it around, setting it down onto the ground. Tim watched intently as, with a few practised flicks, she unfolded it to reveal… Another wheelchair? Noting Tim’s confusion, Barbara offered the much-needed explanation. “Even with your leg amputated, you’ll have days where you have chronic flare-ups in other parts of your body or phantom limb pain. Not every day is a prosthetic or crutches day, when you eventually get them. And, right now, you’re in no state to walk. So, I’m here to teach you how to use a wheelchair so you can at least move around in the manor by yourself.”

“Oh. Thank you, uh. That’s really thoughtful of you,” Tim hummed, feeling strangely touched. He hadn’t even started to consider accessibility options.

“Let’s get you out of bed first,” The redhead encouraged as she held out her hands, and so began the extremely lengthy and awkward process of shuffling down the side of his bed. Fortunately, the accident hadn’t taken away Tim’s trained flexibility, so it was only a matter of time before he successfully manoeuvred into the chair, fingers running against the spokes of the wheels. The seat was quite comfortable, despite what he’d assumed; the back was supportive, and cushioned with plenty of firm, shapely padding.

Once Barbara showed him how to undo the wheel locks, Tim gave the metal handholds of the wheels at his sides an experimental push, grinning as he scooted along. “Hey, this isn’t so bad.”

Barbara trailed after him, her reassured and practised posture contrasting against his uncertain and jerky movements, giving instructions as they moved out from his room and down the long hallway. “When pushing, you want to keep your elbows slightly bent, close to your body to reduce the strain on your arms. Traditionally, instructions recommend gripping the wheels at the 11 o’clock position, pushing forward and releasing at the 2 o’clock position, though this can alter for every individual and preference.”

“Got it,” Tim murmured as he mentally stored the information. 

“Your current wheelchair is manual, though I’m sure Bruce had already made arrangements for a custom-made electronic one as soon as possible.” She paused as they reached a slight downward slope in the hallway, a mischievous grin in her eye.  “Now, shall I teach you how to go downhill?”

Tim let out a laugh that bubbled deep from his chest. “Oh, hell yes.”

So just like that, he spent the rest of the day zooming through the manor on his new wheels, and when he got tired, they retreated into one of the many study rooms, playing with codes, machinery and chatting about anything that came up in conversation.

Just like old times.

—

Wayne Manor, 10 am the next day.

The giddiness still hadn’t left Tim’s buzzing mind even after an entire night had passed. Barbara was right — it was a delight to be finally up and able to travel around on his own, even if it were only temporarily in the confines of the tall rooms of his home. The new freedom of movement opened an entire new world; he could get whatever snacks he wanted by himself, check up on mission statuses by taking the elevator down into the batcave, or even just wheel himself out into the garden to enjoy the bask of sun.

There was still one single downside, though. A wider range of movement increased the likelihood of encountering other members of the Batfam. It wasn’t Jason or Damian he was worried about; he was sure that without prompting, they’d give him a wide berth. After all, they already did that even before the incident. No, what he was worried about was that Mr Goody-Two-Shoes Richard Grayson would come running his way, descending upon him like one intense, overbearing thunderstorm of blue and black spandex.

Look, as much as Tim loved his older brother figure, there was just so much mother-henning he could stand. But evidently, he couldn’t avoid Dick forever.

Case in point: he was just rifling through the kitchen pantry looking for snacks he could bring back to his room, when he heard a set of measured, muffled footsteps approach from behind. He recognised them immediately, a resigned look on his face as he gripped the handholds of the wheels and spun himself around. “Geez, at least announce yourself before you sneak up on me, before you add ‘heart attack’ on the list of medical problems I currently have. It’s not like I can just run away to avoid you now,” he joked, somewhat dryly as he gestured to his chair.

Dick stood awkwardly, a tentative smile on his face as he looked down at Tim with guilty eyes. “Hey. Sorry I couldn’t check up on you sooner; Alfred told me to give you some space, and we were all pretty busy tying up loose ends for the mission afterwards. I think you’ll be glad to know that all the bad guys that were responsible are now behind bars.”

Tim closed his eyes. Yet another reminder of how his well-being and importance always seemed to weigh less than missions. He tried to ignore how much the feeling stung, especially since it was coming from one of his closest family. Instead, he let out one long, measured exhale. “And the man who set off the bomb?”

A pained look flashed across Dick’s face. “Tim, please.”

“It’s not that hard, Dick. Tell me.”

“Okay,” Dick muttered. “He… Uh. He wasn’t an experienced explosive handler. An amateur at best. I guess even he didn’t gauge how big that explosion would be… He was hiding in an adjacent room when the bomb went off, and died in the initial blast.”

“...Dammit.” Tim cursed under his breath, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He’d broken the no-kill rule twice in one night. That had to be a new record. Go figure. “So why’d you drop by, huh? Aside from rubbing my failures in my face.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You know what I mean.”

Dick sighed, long used to Tim’s sardonic, if not overtly dark sense of humour. “Well, we wanted to check up on you.”

Tim’s eyebrows shot right up. “We?”

A pause. Then Dick shrugged, gesturing towards the empty space behind him. Two figures emerged from the shadows as the atmosphere tensed, becoming less awkward and leaning towards borderline hostile, as if the two were being led to their slaughter instead of meeting with an injured family member.

At least, judging from both Jason and Damian’s respective expressions, that’s what they were thinking.

Instantly, whatever good mood Tim previously was in dissipated, leaving behind an ice-cold, sceptical shell as he eyed the newcomers. There was no doubt in it; Dick had somehow convinced (more likely dragged) the two along during his checkup to try and create the illusion of a somewhat supportive family. Tim wasn’t pleased, to say the least. He was not in the mood for a fight.

Tim turned to the two, his tone dry with fabricated professionalism. “I don’t need you two to pretend, for me or Dick. If you don’t want to be here, you’re free to leave. It’ll spare all of us the effort.”

Facing this dismissal, Jason was the first to respond, the stiff clench of his jaw slightly distorting his words. “Look, Tim. I know we might have started on pretty rough footing and never seen eye-to-eye in the past, but I hope that we could put it behind us. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

“I’m not,” Damian snarked. “Grayson may have sweet-talked Todd into playing nice, but I’m not one to sugarcoat reality. You put the entire mission at jeopardy. What you did was a mistake, and as everyone knows, mistakes all come with their consequences. It’s only a pity that yours was so costly.”

“Damian,” Dick hissed pointedly. “Could you please try and read the room —”

“Well, it’s the truth. You wanted my heartfelt words, and you have received them,” Damian replied matter-of-factly, before his sharp green eyes flickered to Tim. “I’m sure Drake over there will appreciate your flattery much more than I will. I have no use for needless chitchats.”

“I told you trying to pry emotion other than sarcasm out of the little shit would be pointless,” Jason added, giving Dick an exasperated side eye.

“What in tarnation did you just call me, Todd?”

Tim watched silently as his two hostile brothers bickered in front of him, while the eldest tried his best to mediate a reasonable peace, though any attempts were quickly proved futile and abandoned halfway when the hurled verbal insults threatened to escalate into something physical. 

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense. There is still this evening’s patrol as well as many more crucial matters I must attend to, and staying here is little more than a waste of time,” Damian spat angrily, turning on his heels, clearly about to storm away towards the Batcave.

Jason crossed his arms, a sneer on his lips as he watched Damian stalk away. “And there the kid goes…”

“Dami, come on, please don’t—”

The boy tsked impatiently. “Don’t pull authority on me, Grayson. You may be the eldest here, but that still gives you no right to command my actions. I will decide my own actions as I please.”

As the overlapping voices grew louder, Tim finally could take it no longer. “Will all of you please SHUT THE HELL UP?!”

That froze everyone in their tracks. Tim wasn’t the type to raise his voice out of the blue. He had always been the logical one, the quiet loner who never participated in petty arguments unless he was being goaded into it, so the sudden scream came as a surprise to Tim himself. Even Damian had the decency to at least turn around, mouth hung slightly open, as if he’d momentarily forgotten about Tim’s presence entirely.

Good, he seethed silently, relishing the shock on his sibling’s expressions. Let them be surprised. If he had a camera right then, he’d snap a photo of their stupid gaping faces and carry it around in his wallet.

Tim’s chest was heaving up and down from the intensity of the exclamation, and it took a second to regain his bearing as he cleared his throat, voice dropping an octave lower. “Just… Stop. It’s okay, Dick. Let them go; I don’t want to force them into saying anything they don’t mean. I think we’re above sharing empty words.”

He paused for a moment, waiting for anyone else to speak. When no one interjected, he let out a humourless laugh. “Oh, so now you all want to stay silent? Fine by me,” he crossed his arms, the wheelchair under him creaking slightly as he leaned back. “You were right, Jason. Despite my lingering distrust, I have moved on from the past. It wasn’t easy, mind you. Might I remember how both of you tried to take my life on multiple occasions?”

It was so quiet that Tim could probably hear a pin drop from the next room over. Damian shuffled his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the reminder of his past mistakes. Jason’s eyes darkened, not keen either on discussing what was undoubtedly a dark era for him. And Dick? Well, he looked like he just had his heart wrenched out of his chest from the way his expression crumpled. Like Tim said before: Mr Goody-Two-Shoes.

“Oh, you didn’t think I’d just magically forget? That the scars and lasting physical and emotional damage you’d left me would just vanish by some miracle? Please, we’re the Bats. You of all people should know how long we can harbour grudges and resentments,” Tim rolled his eyes, putting extra dramatic emphasis on the Chiropterian title. “Now imagine how I felt when my adoptive father, Bruce-freaking-Wayne, not only refused to protect me from my aggressors, but actively welcomed them into my own family. Imagine how I felt to have the only family I have left turn against me for murderers. Do you remember, Dick? Even you took their side in the end. Do you know how many nights I spent terrified because all I could think about when I walked down these halls was the cold burn of metal in my chest and the heartless looks in both your eyes when you were about to deal the killing blow that never fell?”

Silence, again. The topic hit too close to home for all of them.

“But no. I stood back. I swallowed my fear, pride and jealousy, and let you both into my life, not only because Batman told me to, but naively, I wanted to try. I wanted to give both of you a chance. And, as much as I detested myself for it, I knew why you both did it. I understood, because I was the same. After all, we were all just hurting children, young enough to feel powerless but old enough to already have a pessimistic outlook of the entire world, unable to fix the innards of ourselves. So we acted the only way we had ever known… Which was lashing out.”

“But that was in the past.” Tim raised his head, holding each of his brother’s gaze, one by one, lingering pointedly when he reached Dick. “Look at me now. Broken beyond repair. I’ll never be able to fight again. So congratulations. You got what you wished for in the end, didn’t you? Your sweet, sweet revenge. Tim Drake, thoroughly crippled. I’m not threatening anyone’s position anymore. You,” he nodded to Damian, “can claim your precious ‘birthright’. And you,” he turned to Jason, “finally got rid of that pesky little replacement you detested so long ago.”

“And yet, you’re still willing to fight amongst yourselves like this, to belittle me into an overlooked presence in the background. Do you really not have an ounce of shame?” Tim whispered, words carrying more weight than necessary. “Despite everything that’s happened, I’ve never asked for anything back, because I knew you’d all be too prideful to give it to me. Why don’t I go ahead and prove my point? I’m sure if I asked right now, you won’t even be able to afford an apology.”

He waited, tense with tightly coiled anticipation. “Well?”

Either they were all too surprised by Tim’s sudden outburst, or they simply did not want to address the elephant in the room. Figures. No matter how many chances or hints Tim gave his mess of a family, it seemed like they could never make the right decision. And he, for one, was sick and tired of having his hopes shattered over, over and over again.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Tim aggressively snatched the box of strawberry doughnuts he was originally looking for out of the pantry, not even sparing the trio a glance. Ignoring the spluttering protests against his back, he angrily rolled away as fast as his arms could spin the wheels.

—

Tim’s bedroom, 9 pm.

A knock. 

Pause. 

Another knock.

“It’s me, Tim. Can I come in?”

Ugh, seriously. “Go away, Dick.”

“... Are you buried underneath your duvet again? One day you’re going to accidentally suffocate yourself.” Even through the thick door, Tim could hear the gentle chuckle in his elder brother’s voice.

“Screw you too,” Tim called out, voice muffled by the fact that he had, just as Grayson had assumed, buried his face into his pillow and curled up underneath his blanket, sprawled like a dying fish on his bed.

“Well, I hope you know that I’m not leaving until you let me in,” Dick called again, and despite the teasing in his tone, Tim knew that the threat(?) was sincere. After all, the other could be a huge stubborn pain in his ass when he wanted to be. “I’m serious, Timmy. I have a whole tent pitched in the hallway. And I bought a peace offering.”

“Urghhhh…” Tim stretched out his groan to a dramatic, almost comedic effect as he tried not to let the smile show in his voice, shimmying out from under the covers. The very thought of Dick camping outside his room was hilarious, let alone with a peace offering. “Let’s hear what your offering is first.” 

“A whole plate of Alfred’s famous double salted caramel fudge cookies, straight from the piping hot oven.”

Tim bolted straight up, mouth already watering at the very prospect. “You may enter,” he announced ceremoniously, in a horrible imitation of the posh British accent.

“Okay, next time I make you mad, just get you a heck ton of food. Got it,” Dick joked softly as he slipped through the door and pressed it shut behind him with his free hand, the other balancing the promised cookies. They looked heavenly. 

“Don’t make a habit of it. And don’t blame me; hardly anyone can refuse the allure of Alfred’s cookies,” Tim shrugged, reaching out to pick one still warm treat from the plate as Grayson set the remaining on the table next to him. A bite was all he needed to melt a majority of his worries away, and it was hardly a surprise as to why; the soft, melting fudge stuffed inside blended perfectly with the generous chunks of milk and white chocolate, tied together with the wonderfully soft and decadent batter. “How the hell did you get any of this, let alone an entire batch? I’d thought everyone else would have snagged up all of the cookies almost immediately after they came out.”

“I managed to convince Alfred to make a secret second batch,” Dick winked mysteriously. “Anything for my favourite little brother.”

“... Right,” Tim raised a playful eyebrow, mumbling the word through a mouthful of chocolatey goodness.

“Hey, come on. I’m being serious!” Dick defended.

“Hmm. Whatever you say,” Tim shrugged, easily polishing off the rest of the cookie with a comically large bite. “So, Mr Nightwing. Aren’t you supposed to be on patrol right now?”

“Nope!” Dick beamed, popping the ‘p’ with delight. “I managed to convince Barbara to let me off my shift tonight. Pretty calm night, so the others will be fine without me,” he promised, walking over and taking a seat. “But in all seriousness, I’m sorry about this morning. It wasn’t supposed to go that way, I swear. I just wanted to make you feel a little better, and thought that if we all came to check up on you…” He cleared his throat. “Well, clearly, Damian had other plans. You feeling better now?”

Tim sighed. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“You sure? I’ve never seen you yell so much in the span of a few minutes,” Dick recalled pointedly.

“Well, I was expecting a morning of solitude. And you and the others practically did ambush me out of the blue without warning.”

Dick winced at the dead tone in which Tim dropped the accusation. “I swear on my mantle that I’m alone this time. But that wasn’t the most friendly or tactical option, huh?”

“No. But then again, you’ve never been the brightest tool in the Batcave,” Tim teased, which earned him a playful whack on the shoulder. 

Grayson was about to retort when an urgent ringing interrupted the conversation, tearing apart the easy mood that had settled over the pair. Dick reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, the screen displaying an incoming call from Barbara. He blinked at Tim, lips pursed into a thin line, before answering, pushing the button for speakerphone.

“Hey, Babs. You’re on speaker. Uh, I’m currently with Tim in his room. What’s going on? I thought I asked for a day off?” Dick questioned.

“Hello, Barbara. Thank you for the wheelchair tips; they were very helpful,” Tim added by way of greeting, eyes flicking between Dick and his phone in confusion, but the older man just shrugged blankly, signalling that he didn’t know what was going on either.

“As much as I regret intruding on your bonding session, we have a problem,” Barbara’s voice alone was enough to confirm that the situation was serious.

“What happened?” Instantly, Dick snapped from ‘caring-older-brother’ to ‘vigilante’ mode, all traces of playfulness gone as he sat straighter. Even Tim couldn’t help but switch into a subconsciously alert state, drilled into him from years and years of fieldwork.

“It’s Scarecrow,” Barbara sighed, and Tim could imagine the redhead on the other side of the phone, rubbing her temples in exasperation. “He’s releasing a new version of his toxin across 41st and 42nd street. The biohazard hasn’t spread far yet, but the observed effects seem even more potent than his last concoction. We need backup, Nightwing.”

The remaining sweetness on Tim’s tongue morphed into something sour as he mentally prepared for the inevitable. 

“Copy that,” Dick murmured, already standing up. “Heading to the cave to suit up now. I’ll be there in ten,” he promised before hanging up the phone.

Tim didn’t even bother trying to stop Dick from leaving. “You can go. They need you, not me. Go work your magic, Nightwing.”

“Are you sure? I can stay if you want—”

“Gotham’s the one that needs your attention right now, not me,” Tim reminded, even as the truth of the words made him sick to the stomach. He gave Dick an easy smile that masked his unease. He was getting concerningly better at that. “It’s okay. I promise.” 

Grayson gave him a final worried look, but the situation was just too dire to linger any longer. “I, uh. Get some rest tonight, okay? I know you’ve been having trouble sleeping, so I dropped by the pharmacy earlier to get you some usual pills. I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised, setting a bottle next to the plate of cookies.

Then he was gone.

Tim listened until the last of the frantic footsteps faded in the distance, until he was sure Grayson had gone, judging from the roaring engine of his motorbike that rumbled down the driveway. Only then did he dare to glance over at the medicine only an arm’s length away. Unbeknownst to anyone, he’d stopped taking them weeks ago, after the last… Incident.

Tim shivered as he recalled bursting flashes of unpleasant memories, almost an entire hour of hurling the contents of his stomach along with a dozen white capsules into the bowel of his toilet after he’d ingested too many during a depressive episode. That specific attempt had failed.

From then on, he’d avoided any similar prescription drugs of the sort like the plague. Until now.

Right. Because despite Tim not at all being subtle about his crushing mental state, no one in the family had realised he was suicidal. Probably chalked it up to his personality, that was all.

And what a shining, brilliant personality he had, his inner monologue mocked. Just the life of the party. The voices in his head didn’t stop there, though. No, it wouldn’t be satisfied until he went through berating.

It was at times when he was utterly alone that he was rudely reminded of how insignificant he was compared with the other things in life. After all, all it took was a phone call for Dick to leave him without even looking back. 

A tiny part of his mind tried to fight back for control. That he was being unreasonable.

But Tim really wasn’t in the mood to listen to reason right now. Not with his life filled with everybody’s absolute crap, of lies and acts just to keep him subdued and happy, tucked away in a warm bed when he should be up and working alongside them, even if it was just manning the Batcomputer.

But no. Of course, Bruce had banned Tim from the cave for an entire month just to, what? Give him time to heal? What a hypocrite. Tim had seen Bruce working away when he had injuries worse than his. Inaction was worse than mistakes. At least if he made a mistake, he could own up and reflect. But being physically barred from participating meant that he couldn’t change the outcomes, no matter what the circumstances or situation was. 

Right now, Tim was nothing more than a burden. After all, he’d just lost the ability to fight in one night. What would he do, research and find intel? But the rest of the family, along with Barbara’s complex algorithms, already had that covered.

He was a liability at best, and expendable at worst.

Tim didn’t have to worry much, though. Soon enough, Bruce would just locate a new orphan to take in and train to replace his position. After all, Batman was no stranger to taking in new faces, and it would be no time at all before another kid gained the same areas of expertise and rose ranks. After all, just look at Damian. So hostile, yet still so loved. Everyone loved new blood. And Tim? Well, he was already forgotten enough as is. Without his outstanding fighting skills, then he’d only fade out of their memories until he became nothing more than an abstract afterthought.

Tim absently wondered when exactly the people he’d called family for so long had become alien. Maybe around the same time he started drifting away from them? Or were they always just nothing more than estranged strangers coated in a softened mask of friendliness, and Tim had just been blind to the truth this entire time, mind preoccupied with life?

He couldn’t take any more of it, that much was certain.

Not a year, not a month, not a singular day. If Tim had to experience just one more second of being someone’s second choice, of being cast away, time and time again, then he was going to go insane. 

Hm. Seeing how he was currently arguing with himself, then maybe he already was.

There was no time for guessing now. No regrets, nothing that tied him to this life. All he had, what he yearned for, was in the world after this one. And… Since he was already lying down, then he might as well make the job quick.

Tim unscrewed the lid, closed his eyes, tipped its entire contents into his mouth and waited for the black tide to wash him away.

—

Unknown location, unknown time…???

At this point, Tim would really like to say something poetic. Perhaps it was the steady, slow beeping in the background that woke him, or the gentle, sweet chirping of a songbird warbling just outside the window. Maybe even the gentle golden rays of sun kissing upon his temple, or the familiar smell of cold, sterile air filling his lungs.

But no, it was none of those options. He woke up because of some stupid, unknown pressure on his remaining leg that was heavy enough to make it prickle with the numbness of pins and needles.

And because his eyelids felt so damn heavy, he couldn’t even see what the cause of the discomfort was. Ugh. Either they were currently sewn shut, or some seriously strong drugs were pumping into his system.

…

… Drugs.

Oh, shoot.

Adrenaline flooded through his body as he slowly regained his bearings, reminded of the hazy panic of what he thought were going to be his final moments. To his right, the beeping spiked in tandem with the thunderous thudding in his own chest. Heart monitor, then. Hospital. He was in the hospital.

He was… Alive?

The sudden rush of energy his body had provided gave him just enough strength to pry his eyes open. Tim fought the urge to squint as the morning rays danced across his vision. He glanced down to see Dick slumped forward in a plastic chair at the foot of the medical bed he was lying in, head pillowed by his left leg. (Unfortunately, the sleeping arrangement meant that Tim was rapidly losing circulation there.)

It was kind of stupid, watching Dick snore slightly with his mouth open, until Tim realised the gravity of the situation and wiped the shit-eating grin off his face. Right, he’d been brought back from the brink of what was supposed to be a guaranteed death and now was hospitalised, properly this time. This meant that the whole family definitely knew about his condition.

… That was a worry for another day. Right now, Tim’s biggest priority was to get Dick off his leg before he lost that limb too.

“Hey. Grayson. Dick. Hello?” Tim whispered, his voice hoarse from unuse as he tried to wiggle his leg to jostle the other awake. Tim waited for a second. When he received no response, he repeated the same process, albeit this time more vigorously. “Dude. Wake up.”

With a small gasp, Dick jolted awake, instinctively rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he let out a hum of confusion. It took the older man a second to orient himself. Then…

“Oof! Careful on the bruised ribs, they’re still healing—” Tim managed to gasp out feebly before Dick practically leapt into Tim’s arms, embracing him tightly and refusing to let go. Tim could feel the subtle shaking from relief in Dick’s body as his older brother buried his head in the nook of Tim’s shoulder. 

When Dick finally pulled away, Tim could see the two clear streaks of tears staining his skin. “What the hell were you thinking?! Do you know how scared I was, how scared we were when Alfred said he found you in bed with almost no pulse? You had to get your stomach pumped, you idiot—” the hushed words flowed out faster than Tim could process, each more gutwrenching than the last.

“I… What happened?” Tim managed, glancing around.

Dick shook his head, clearly trying not to break down, though he was failing miserably. “Just… No. No more questions or talking from you, at least for now. Give me a moment. I just…” he hiccuped, gripping Tim’s hands like he’d never again want to let go. “I’m so happy you’re still here. I thought… I really thought I’d lost you.”

Tim blinked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Dick cry so much. Did he… Did they really, actually care?

“Why didn’t you tell us, Timmy? We… I would have done everything and anything in my power to help you. I mean it,” Dick whispered, and a part of Tim’s heart ached horribly for his older brother. “Tell me why I had to learn the truth of how much you were struggling from Alfred? We’re all family, blood-related or not. I just… Dammit, Tim. I can’t… I can’t even find the right words right now.”

Tim winced. “Huh. I guess it's my turn to apologise, then.”

“Oh, you’d better do a lot more than just apologising,” Dick replied fiercely. “I simultaneously want to throttle you for the mere stupidity of even remotely thinking that you’re unloved, and give you a crushing hug and never let go. You just had to say something to me. Anything. Just… I knew losing your leg put you in a rough patch, but I didn’t know you were considering taking your own life! And even before that…” Dick trailed off, gaze dropping to the ground. “I must be the worst oldest brother in the history of humanity.”

“Then that would make me the worst younger brother—” Tim began, only to be cut off by Dick once more.

“No. Don’t say that. Enough self-deprecation, okay? You’re not worthless, you’re not useless. You are the most intelligent, resourceful Bat I know. And above all, you are so beautifully kind, enough to take the riskiest of chances, putting your life on the line over and over again so that Gotham can sleep well at night. You forgive those who have wronged you in unspeakable ways, and you always find the good in others, whether you realise it or not. I’m honoured to be your brother, and I couldn’t imagine a life without you.” Seeing Tim’s disbelief, Dick added on another few firm words: “And no, none of the things I said were lies. I meant it all. Every. Single. Damn. Word. And I will say it again and again, until they finally get drilled into that thick skull of yours.” 

Tim was left speechless at the sudden intensity of the compliments, but the prideful part of him soaked up every word like he was starved of affection.

“Tell me, Tim. Do you hear me?”

Slowly, Tim nodded. “Yeah. Loud and clear.”

“Good. Because I’m not the only person who has some important words they want to say to you. Everyone’s been worried sick. And yes, even Damian, even though he’d rather die first than admit it,” Dick hummed as he nodded his head to the door. As if on cue, the entrance slid open, revealing the rest of his family behind it. Except… This time, no one was wearing their gear or costumes. In the light of day, they were all just normal civilians, living normal lives. Barbara watched on, sick with worry, while Jason stood beside her, an unnamable yet vulnerable look on his face. Damian was in his uniform and had his school backpack slung over his shoulder. And in the back was Bruce with the handlebars of Tim’s empty wheelchair gripped tightly in his hands. He was the only one with an unreadable look on his face, though the glisten in his eyes revealed everything Tim wanted to see.

No one had left. They had all been waiting for him. But more importantly, the simple action proved that they still cared. 

Dick took a deep breath and extended a hand towards the boy who was still reeling from the sudden realisation of it all. “Come on, brother. Let's go home.”

—

END

—