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Fifth, Tim was smart. Matter of fact, he was a genius. Revealing a secret identity of the world's greatest detective by the age of nine was indeed a big achievement.
An even bigger achievement was to get to Batman. Physically it was already quite complicated, Tim had to go through hell and high to get support from overprotective Nightwing, then even more overprotective Alfred, and fight tooth and nail to get at least a chance to talk to Bruce. Mentally it was almost impossible, because this man completely refused to listen.
"I don't need a new Robin!" Bruce growled, rushing around the Batcave like a hunted animal. His mask was taken off and thrown on the floor, his cloak fluttered furiously, imitating the mood of its owner.
They already had this dialogue. Exactly the same dialogue they had before and probably would have later. Bruce's reaction never changed, Tim didn't give up anyway.
Gotham needed Batman. Batman needed Robin. It was so simple. Why didn't he understand? Why didn't he want to understand?
Bruce was a stubborn, stubborn idiot. Reckless and deadly, he was a threat to himself and others, too proud to ask for help, too self-sabotaging to accept it.
Unfortunately for him, Tim was more stubborn.
"You need a Robin!" He highlighted, knowing damn well he already said it. The feeling of déjà vu had been haunting him for the last month, but Tim wasn't one of those who gave up so easily. He would make Batman listen or die trying.
“He has a point, Master Bruce.” Alfred's cold-blooded calmness was not shaken by Bruce’s murderous gaze. He didn't even blink. “You are becoming self-destructive.”
"I know what I'm doing." Bruce wasn't screaming, but his voice was bubbling with cold anger. His face contorted, and his eyes glowed with fury enough to scare any sane person. Good to know, there wasn't any in this room.
“Like hell you do!” Dick intervened, as always, appearing at the right time. He was still in full gear, but Tim didn't notice any serious damage.
Dick rarely showed up at the manor, but when he did, it was something. He said he was too busy, Titans and other solo-hero stuff, and it sounded almost plausible, but Tim was sharp enough to see through the facade and knew perfectly well that the reason was much deeper than just being busy.
“Because hysterically destroying everything in your path and yourself along the way is a completely rational grown man behaviour.” The sarcasm in Dick's voice was mixed with venom, and it was difficult to distinguish one from the other. “He knows, my ass.”
“Dick.” Bruce growled warningly. Dick, obviously, didn't listen.
“It’s selfish, you know that?” Dick tore his domino mask off his face and irritably threw it on the floor. His eyes were burning with something unspoken. Like father, like son, Tim thought untimely. “You are fucking selfish, Bruce.”
“Dick.” This time it was more of a threat than a warning, Bruce's voice was seething with authority. Dick ignored him again.
“You don't care about yourself, fine.” He threw up his hands. He clearly wanted to punch something. Or someone. “Think about people who love you.”
“Think about Alfred, think about me ... ” Dick’s voice cracked on the last word. He bit his lip, not wanting to finish this sentence, but Tim could guess what he wanted to say.
"I can't bury you both." Dick let the words hang in the air. Tim could hear Bruce's jaw clenching, Dick's tense breathing, Alfred's back straightening up and his own heart bit. “I can’t… I…”
The atmosphere in the room had changed and Tim couldn't help but notice it. It was personal, almost too personal. And although everything that Tim did recently was mainly violating personal boundaries, even he had limits.
“I can’t lose you too…” Dick’s voice softened to a whisper. “Please.”
There was another pause during which Alfred put his hand on Tim's shoulder so suddenly that he almost jumped, “That’s enough for today, Master Drake.”
Dick turned in his direction, almost surprised, as if he had just noticed Tim, which was a bit bitter but not unexpected. He forced a guilty smile and waved goodbye, Tim waved back.
Some nosy, fanboyish part of him wanted to stay, but he was sensible enough to give them some space and wasn't stupid enough to argue with Alfred. The hand on his shoulder didn't disappear, so he let himself be led out, lost in his own thoughts, when he was abruptly stopped by inertia at the beginning of the stairs.
“Merely think about it,” Alfred glanced over his shoulder, meeting Bruce's gaze to solidify the thought, “sir.”
They continued walking, and their footsteps rumbled noisily through the Batcave. Two pairs of eyes silently watched them go, seeming to burn a hole in Tim's back, but he was too busy to focus on it.
New Robin. These words were spinning in his head nonstop, as they slowly climbed the stairs and passed through the labyrinths of the manor. Tim felt it in his guts, the solution was very close, he just couldn't figure it out.
New Robin. Batman didn't want a new Robin. Batman definitely didn't want Tim to be the new Robin. Batman wanted his Robin. Batman wanted Jason.
Then it dawned on Tim: he couldn't replace Jason, he had to become Jason.
* * * *
Fourth, Tim was good. He wasn't an arrogant person, but he was pretty good at anything he was passionate about. And God sees, he was passionate about this specific task.
Tim stalked, no, stalked was an ugly word, observed Jason for years. Studied his behaviour, explored his habits, knew him like people knew their family old friends. Sometimes Tim liked to pretend that they were friends.
So yeah, Tim was good. He walked like Jason, joked like Jason, he even tried to modify his own voice to sound like Jason. He thoroughly remembered every gesture and catchy phrase, knew how his nose wrinkled in irritation and how his fists clenched in fear.
Physically they weren't so identical, but Tim tried his best. His suit covered most of the dissimilar musculature and bone structure. His eyes, not blue enough, were hidden under the domino mask. He curled his hair once, hoping that he would ruin it by the end of the night, but Batman strictly forbade him to do this ever again, then locked in the office for a day and didn't talk with Tim a few more.
In his head, he tried to address himself exclusively by Jason. At some point Tim got used to Jason’s name to an extent when genuinely forgot his own and it took him a few seconds to realize that he was called. It was good for his role and bad for his own personality, but he couldn't make himself care. If he had to destroy his entire identity in the name of the greater good, he would do it without hesitation.
Then Tim started looking weird. Every time he saw himself in the mirror, he felt like something was off. His face looked wrong, his body looked wrong, something in his appearance did not sit quite right. Not that he liked his appearance before, he surely cared about it, as much as his parents told him to, but he was pretty neutral about it. Now, however, it didn't fit him anymore.
“I hope you don't hate me,” was the first thing Tim said to Jason's grave, when he officially became Robin. He didn't know how to properly apologize for stealing somebody’s personality, but he knew Jason would understand. He was a good guy, after all.
Tim was there before, he visited this place more than he probably should, but now it felt different, more significant, more relevant. It wasn't just a lonely child talking to his idol, it was new Robin talking to the previous one. It was the only place where he didn't need to be Jason. The only place where he could be Tim.
He caught himself visiting Wayne's memorial more often than it would consider normal for a person who wasn't a relative or a close friend, soon he started hanging around almost every day, telling about Bruce and Dick, Alfred and in good days himself. He tried to accurately convey every detail of the patrol or the case they were working on, especially if it seemed curious to him. Tim probably overshared, but Jason never complained about it. He was a great listener.
Then it became a routine. Nobody was looking for Tim, so he could spend as much time there as he wanted. Sometimes he brought flowers, sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he could not shut up for his life and sometimes he just sat there quietly out of pure habit. Tim didn't really believe in the afterlife, but if it existed, he hoped that Jason looked at him with a smile.
The most complicated part was to play Jason outside the suit. Tim did his research, after all he was responsible, memorized every article, burned every photo on his memory. Jason wasn't featured in the newspapers that much, less than Dick and especially less than Bruce, besides, Tim was living evidence that a public persona can be strikingly different from a real human being, so this task was more difficult than it supposed to be. He superimposed Robin he knew to Jason he imagined and prayed to be right. Tim hated making mistakes.
Still, he made them a lot. Otherwise, how to explain why Dick's smile became strained, why Bruce's eyes turned cold, why the corners of Alfred's lips dropped every time Tim acted like Jason. He simply wasn't good enough.
Sometimes Tim succeeded, Bruce's gaze clouded and a smile touched his lips, but every time some part of Tim inevitably slipped and Bruce came out of the trance. His shoulders tensed, his pupils narrowed and he looked sick to his stomach. After such incidents, Bruce ignored him for a while, then the cursed cycle repeated.
Tim tried, he tried hard to stay in the role, grow together with it. He did everything possible and impossible to be a perfect carbon copy, put all his time and effort, everything that he was into it and still failed miserably. Batman handled it better, Bruce handled it worse.
Every time Tim was hurt, even slightly, during the patrol, Bruce freaked out and wanted him to quit. Tim heard how things fell to the floor with a crash or hit the wall with a thud. Bruce was angry, obviously, angry about the mistakes that Tim made. Mistakes that Jason would never make. Because Jason was better. Because Jason wouldn't screw up.
Tim had to try harder.
* * * *
Third, Tim was selfish. Naturally, his ideas were quite altruistic, he wanted to help Gotham in the first place and Bruce in the second place, but to say that he didn't get any benefit from it would be wrong.
Sometimes, more often than he was ready to admit, Tim pretended that they loved him. That Dick hugged him after returning to the manor. That Alfred made breakfasts, adding a certain amount of sugar to tea, specially for him . That the soft smiles and the proud pats on the shoulder were addressed to him , Timothy Drake, not Jason Todd.
Tim remembered how it started. Even if it was pathetic as hell, he remembered. Remembered because he marked it in his notes and wrote it down in his calendar. Remembered because it was one of the happiest days of his life.
He was too tired to move and too exhausted to care, he wanted to close his eyes just for a few seconds, so he completely missed the moment when he fell asleep in the Batmobile. He woke up, slightly disoriented and not fully aware of his surroundings, only to realize that Bruce was carrying him to the manor.
It was unbelievable. Not in the sense that it was impossible but in the sense that Tim couldn't foresee it. His parents never bothered to carry him, his nannies, while they still were there, moreover. Tim saw, with his own eyes a few times, Batman carrying sleeping Robin or giving him a piggyback, but Bruce never did it with him .
Since this day Tim tried not to think about it too hard, and still he did more than he could confess. Because if he was honest with himself, Tim wanted to be taken care of. Waking up after another nightmare, their amount increased when he became Robin, he wanted somebody to talk to, somebody who would tell him that it was alright, somebody who would sit with him until he fell asleep.
Bruce ruffed his hair a few times and Tim felt phantom touches for several days. He knew that it wasn't normal, he wasn't dumb, but he couldn't do anything with that either. “Touch starved” read the first link on the Google search. Tim was touch starved. This information didn't change his life, didn't affect it even, but it was good to know, he supposed.
The knowledge, however, didn't make him feel better. In fact, it somehow managed to make him feel more pitiful than he already was. He was lonely and miserable to the point when it became something like a disease, with symptoms and other shit. Just great. He didn't think he could go any lower, but he must have underestimated his abilities.
He wanted to be loved to the point when he could physically feel it. And if this wasn't pathetic, Tim didn't know what was. He felt it under his skin, like a constant itch, it was always there and wouldn't go anywhere, no matter how hard he rubbed. Sometimes it got so bad that he wanted to bang his head against the wall or cry until he choked on his own tears.
He wanted to be loved. And Bruce loved Jason. Tim wasn't sure how parental love actually looked like, but he assumed it was it. Nobody loved Timothy Drake. Most of the time even his own parents didn't want him to be around, and that said something. Maybe, he was the problem.
Timothy Drake was unlovable. It was a fact. He understood this from early childhood and learned it by heart with age. He had trained himself not to count on anyone's love and still clung to the first opportunity to get it. It was pathetic, no matter how he looked at it. Maybe Tim indeed didn't deserve sympathy. Maybe he didn't. But Jason Todd totally did.
Then Tim started eating with Bruce, dinner and breakfast. It was a deal for which Tim had to bargain almost as much as he bargained for being Robin. Again, originally his intentions were pure, Tim made it for Bruce to minimize his self-sabotaging eating habits, it just so happened that he fell into his own trap along the way. What luck.
Initially Tim received silent treatment, he was used to it anyway, so it didn't really upset him, not even slightly surprised. However, as time passed, Bruce began to ask questions. Tim didn't know how Jason would answer, so he answered as briefly and corny as these questions were, Bruce hummed meaningfully, and they continued to eat in silence. Then it became a routine. Bruce barely talked about himself, but he always asked how Tim's day was. Sometimes, Tim allowed himself to enjoy the attention. Sometimes he allowed himself to forget about his role and talked about his life.
It was nice being asked, even if it was basic questions like did he eat today or did he sleep well. It seemed that Bruce cared. It wasn't true, of course, Tim wasn't an idiot, he understood it perfectly well. Still, it was nice to know that someone would care if something happened to Tim.
Rarely, very rarely, Dick joined them. That meant he either was injured or checked on Bruce. It was usually breakfast, and, as everything else, Dick made it better. Sometimes he chatted with Alfred about all sorts of trifles, sometimes he acted childish and annoying on purpose to make Bruce express at least some human emotions, sometimes he even teased Tim in the way people teased their siblings. On days like this they looked like a family. Tim pretended that they were.
When he got particularly lonely, when his parents found another stupid reason not to come home, Tim liked to close his eyes and imagine that he had a family. Family that loved him. He knew that wasn't the case, they loved Jason, not Tim, but technically Tim was Jason, so it probably counted. He counted it.
Tim was going insane. Still, he couldn't make himself care. Sometimes it became hard to separate his own thoughts from Jason's, to distinguish whether this specific thought belonged to Tim or he thought that Jason thought so. It was so weird, definitely unhealthy and possibly incurable. But Tim wasn't scared. He was anything but scared. Because becoming Jason Todd wasn't a curse, it was a blessing.
Tim was envious, and every time he thought about it, he felt like an awful person. Being jealous of a dead boy was already a terrible life choice, being jealous of the dead boy you pretend to be deservedly sent Tim right in the hell. Still, he couldn't stop thinking about it. He wanted to be Jason. He wanted it so bad. And if the price for this love was death, he would pay in a heartbeat.
He didn't want to pretend anymore, he wanted to be Jason. Because Jason had everything Tim wanted to have and was everything Tim wanted to be. And the greatest thing was that he didn't have to try to achieve it. He didn't have to go out of his way to earn love, he didn't have to pretend to be someone else to be worthy. He was an amazing person on his own, and that was their main difference. Tim wasn't a good person. Tim barely was a tolerable person at best. Nothing to compare with Jason.
Tim denied these thoughts. He shoved them into the dark corners of his subconscious and locked them up to rot. It was wrong. He was wrong.
He reminded himself, like a mantra, like a prayer, again and again, sleepless nights and lonely days he reminded himself why he started it. Why he kept going.
For Gotham. For Bruce. For Jason.
* * * *
Second, Tim was strong. How long he lasted in this role was proof. Not that he could hang it on the wall as a trophy or brag about it to anyone, but he was proud nonetheless. It almost made him feel valuable.
Bruce had fallen into another depressive episode. They happened a lot lately. Not like he didn't have them before, everything in his life after Jason's death was an emotional mess, but that one seemed to be the most healthy of all.
Batman still needed Robin, it hadn't changed yet. However, he didn't need Robin as much as he used to. Bruce was getting better, Tim liked to think that he had a hand in it, but, if he was honest with himself, it didn't make him feel as good as he expected.
It was… Complicated. On the one hand, Tim was glad, happy even, it was his goal from the beginning, right? He helped Batman, he helped Bruce. He should be happy, he had to. And he was. Kind of.
On the other hand, Tim didn't feel anything but overwhelming sadness chaotically mixed with anxiety. As soon as Bruce stopped needing him, it all would be over. He knew that. Batman knew that. Everybody around them knew that. It was an unspoken truth, obvious and therefore unvoiced.
The problem was that Tim didn't want it to be over. No matter how pathetic it sounded, he liked it there. He liked to be Robin, even if Batman didn't think of him as such, he loved this family, even if they didn't like him back. He was something bigger than Tim Drake, something better. He was important, he pretended to be. And he liked it, even if it wasn't true.
He and Batman split up about… Half an hour ago? Tim wasn't sure, time seemed abstractly liquid and he couldn't keep track of it. His head hurt. His body seemed too heavy for his weakened limbs, and colours swam before his eyes. He leaned on the wall.
He felt sick. Well, he was sick, it wasn't a big surprise. Tim was confused because his pills didn't work. He definitely took a few before leaving the house, he was used to self-medication, he knew how to take care of himself. He didn't understand what went wrong.
He looked around. Well, he tried, but his body immediately protested against sudden movements, and he had to cover his mouth with his hand to avoid vomiting. He was in some kind of warehouse-like room, probably abandoned, and fortunately alone. Tim leaned back against the wall and rolled down. He needed to catch his breath, just a little bit.
Going on patrol with a fever wasn't his brightest idea, but he didn't have another choice. Batman didn't need Robin, who couldn't fulfill his duties. Jason wouldn't give up because of a stupid illness. Neither could Tim.
You are not a baby, Timothy, the voice sounded in the head, he didn't know his father or his own. Stop whining.
Whoever it was, he was right. Tim could handle it on his own. Of course, he could, he already did it more than once. He didn't need an adult to help him, he wasn't a child, especially a needy one. He could do it by himself.
Tim tried to stand up, but his body refused to work properly. His hands didn't obey, dangling senselessly from the sides, and it took him too much effort to make them move even a little bit. It seemed to him that he was on fire and the stone wall gave off a pleasant coolness on the back of his head.
Tim knew he could handle it. He could, truly he could, but… He simply didn't want to. He didn't want to be on his own. He didn't want to face his problems alone. He didn't want to be strong anymore. He wanted to give up.
And once Tim realized that, this confession sent a wave of anger and disgust through him, covering him with guilt and self-pity, and guilt for self-pity. He lost control over his mind and all the suppressed emotions busted out, turning into one continuous contradiction.
He wanted to be saved. He didn't deserve to be saved. He wanted to cry. He couldn't cry. He didn't know what he felt. He understood it perfectly. He couldn't think logically, he couldn't think at all, all he could do was feel, and that was the worst thing that ever happened to him.
Then he saw it, a reflection in one of the metal boxes, indistinct and far, but it was enough to make him want to tear his eyes out, make him want to scratch his face. He hated it, with burning passion he hated the person he saw there. Because from the reflection at him was looking Timothy fucking Drake.
He wanted to break out of his body, to destroy, to rip this useless shell, he wanted to leave his skin, to fly away, to do something, he wanted to change every part, every cell of his body and take a new form. Right at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be Jason.
Jason, who everybody loved. Jason, who everybody cared about. Jason, who was grieved more than Tim ever would.
He saw something out of the corner of his eye, red, green and yellow. Or it seemed to him. He wasn't sure. He was no longer sure of anything.
Then he heard a laugh. He would have recognized that laugh anywhere. Even with his eyes closed, even if he was dead. Tim never managed to sound as sincere.
Feverish hallucinations, flashed through his head. He was going crazy. Going crazy sucked.
His thoughts were incoherent, mixed up and scattered. He tried to catch them, to pick out at least one of the fast endless stream, but they slipped away, like blood, through his fingers. A deafening squeak sounded in his head, and the single name was repeated over and over again, drowning out everything else. Jason.
Jason. Jason. Jason. Jason. Jason.
And in the confusion of his own thoughts, he was painfully aware of how much he wasn't Jason.
Dumb Timothy Drake. Weak Timothy Drake. Useless Timothy Drake.
Unworthy. Unwanted. Unloved.
How could he compete with Jason Todd? Smart and kind Jason Todd. Funny and determined Jason Todd. Better son, better Robin. Everything Tim wished to be. Everything Tim wasn't.
"Robin, answer me." Batman shouted from the communicator. Did he ask before? The command implied that he did, but Tim couldn’t remember. Bruce's voice seemed to break through the water column. "Robin!"
Tim wanted to answer, but his mouth was full of cotton wool and his brain refused to put words into sentences at all. He wasn't here, floating somewhere above his body, not conscious enough to respond meaningfully. He tried, he truly did, but it wasn't enough.
Or maybe he didn't want it enough. Maybe he didn't want to be rescued. Maybe he didn't want any help. Maybe he didn't want to survive.
"J... Tim, hell, answer me!" Bruce used real names. He didn't do it, he never did, but it slipped off his tongue only at the fateful moment. Batman was terrified, and for some reason Tim was amused by this thought.
Some vile and vindictive part was thrilled that Bruce would have to recognize him. They all would have to, all without exception. They would have to write something on his grave, they would have to admit that this dead Robin was called Timothy Jackson Drake.
He lost consciousness, wondering if Batman would carry his corpse like Jason's. Would he cry? Would he bury them near?
Tim hoped so.
* * * *
Tim woke up with a wet rag on his forehead and someone's weight on his wrist. Initially, he understood that he wasn't dead, then that he wasn't sure how it made him feel. It probably was something worth exploring, but Tim didn't want to do it. Tim didn't want anything, actually.
He laid with his eyes closed, listening to his own heartbeat. He had a residual headache, his thoughts moved slowly, as if in a quagmire, and the minimal movement hurt his whole body, but there were no more hallucinations, at least sound, and Tim could think. Barely and painful, but could. Thanks to life for the little joys.
He assumed that it was somewhere early in the morning, and from the darkness behind the eyelids guessed that the curtains were closed. Where was he? That was a good question. How did he get here? That was another good question. He didn't really remember anything but darkness after he passed out, and didn't believe in himself enough to think that he changed his location by himself.
It wasn't Drake's mansion, he was convinced. Tim didn't have a proper medical education but guessed that he couldn't get there in his condition. So Wayne's. Maybe Batcave, but he didn't feel the light of the infirmary and didn’t hear the characteristic squeak of the devices. Everything he could hear was his own breath and heartbeat. It was surprisingly smooth, Tim didn't feel like he was dying anymore, which meant that he, apparently, had slept some time, although he didn't feel rested. He tried to move his arm to check the pulse and only now paid attention to the weight on his wrist. Right. Apparently, he wasn't alone.
It took him more time than usual to come to this conclusion, and was actually embarrassing for a person who considered himself as a detective. Tim went over all the options in his head: it couldn't be Dick, he was too far from here and didn't plan to show up in the next few weeks, it could be Alfred, but he was too Britishly polite to invade somebody's personal space, thus it left only one logical candidate. Batman. Bruce.
Why was he there? Tim could guess. It wasn't for him, obviously, this silly thought went away as quickly as it appeared. It was for Jason. Unconscious Robin lying on the floor probably triggered some bad memories, leaving Bruce no choice but to keep an eye on him. Still, it was nice to have someone on his side. Someone who cared enough to stay.
Tim knew that he should show that he was awake, show that he wasn't Jason, so there was no reason to worry about him. He knew that he should, yet he was just a human. With a twinge of guilt he allowed himself a moment of weakness, just for a few minutes allowed himself to imagine that Bruce was there for him.
Then Tim opened his eyes, it was harder than he expected, everything looked too blurry and he had to blink often to adapt to a new environment. He didn't recognize the room, not that he knew a lot of them anyway, he was not given a tour, but he was sure he would remember this one. It was weirdly inhabited and empty at the same time, as if all the things had been suddenly put away. The only signs of life were old, battered books on the shelf, the spines of which had suffered from frequent re-reading, and framed photos on the table, showing Bruce at different ages and with different people. There was also a glass of water and a bottle of pills, which seemed somehow organic in this place. A few frames laid down on the table: too dear to put away, too painful to look at. Tim didn't need to be a genius to know who was pictured on them.
Bruce's reddened eyes followed every Tim's movement intently. Tim never saw him like this. Bruce looked bad, his hair was in a mess, his clothes were rumpled and didn't match each other, the bags under his eyes were bigger than usual. He was sitting on the chair in front of the bed, his position didn’t look comfortable to be in and he himself didn't look like he had any sleep today. Tim was ashamed that it made him a little bit happier.
“Hey,” he said barely audibly. It took more effort than it deserved, his throat was sore, and his voice seemed hoarse.
Bruce squeezed Tim's wrist slightly, apparently, not quite noticing it. His posture changed, everything in him, his whole being relaxed, softened, and the corners of his lips lifted in a gentle smile. “Hey.”
They didn't talk any further. Bruce, according to his look, was deep in his thoughts, unconsciously swiping his thumb in a circle. Tim did not move, he hardly breathed. He was unhealthily aware of the calloused skin on his pulse and how much comfort he found in this simple gesture. He didn't want to ruin this moment, he didn't want Bruce to leave.
Only now Tim noticed that the clothes he wore weren't his Robin suit. It was a pyjama in superman style, soft and bigger than his own, it hung on the sleeves and covered the ankles, it probably belonged to Dick. Socks on his feet, similar to the ones Alfred had been knitting for the last week, fit him perfectly. The blanket he was lying on was mushy and the pillow felt fluffed up. It was the sweetest thing that an adult ever did for him, and Tim wasn't sure what it said about his life.
He tried to hold back his cough, but his lungs started burning and it burst out in an untimely torrent, long enough to make Bruce wary. He removed the wet rag, which had already become warm, from Tim's forehead, and threw it into a bucket of water to the left of his feet, which Tim didn't notice before. Bruce put his hand on Tim's forehead, probably to check his temperature, and Tim clung to the touch before he realized it.
Shit.
He had to get out. Tim had to get out before he let himself believe in it. He moved sharply, taking a sitting position, his movements were uncoordinated and shaky, but he didn't have time to think about it. He rapidly put his feet on the floor and almost stood up when Bruce, gently but firmly holding him by the shoulders, forced him to sit back down.
“We need to talk.” He said seriously, and Tim felt his heart sank.
Panic squeezed his throat, provoking a fight-or-flight reaction. Bruce didn't talk, Bruce especially didn't talk to Tim. It must be bad. Really bad. A catastrophe.
He was rapidly going through his memories, trying to figure out what had gone wrong, he felt fright spreading through his body, engulfing him from his already confused thoughts. And then Tim realized, with crystal clarity and every cell of his being, fast as an electric discharge and as agonizing.
He fucked up.
He had failed a mission, put himself in danger and forced Batman to clean up his mess. He behaved like an irresponsible, hysterical child. Of course, Bruce was disappointed. He saw the real Tim, needy and pitiful, too different from the boy he was pretending to be. Bruce saw Tim with his ugly sides and uneven edges, the way he really is, and finally realized that Tim wasn't Jason. Never was and never will be. Batman didn't want him anymore. Bruce didn't want him.
Batman wanted his Robin. Bruce wanted his son. Not some random child, getting in the way. He tolerated Tim because he was a complete copy of the child Bruce actually loved. Now, when Tim had shown his real face, there was no point in keeping him around. That was the moment Tim would be disposed of like the trash he was. That was the moment Tim would be kicked out.
“I… It's…” Bruce growled in frustration and tried again. “I mean…”
Bruce squeezed his shoulders a little harder and tried to convey the message with an intense look. Tim didn't blame him, the farewell speeches were hard for most people, and for a such nonverbal person like Bruce, it must have been hell.
"I can't make my words make sense..." Bruce snorted self-deprecatingly. Communication never had been his strong side, but he tried to find the most painless way to say it anyway. It was adorable, and Tim kind of hated it. He would prefer him not to, he knew what was coming, he wanted an ugly truth. “I try to say that…”
Tim wanted it to stop. It was torture, slow and excruciating, how pulling out nails one at a time. Waiting for the blow was more terrifying than the blow itself. With a distant concern, Tim realized that he would prefer Bruce to silently hit him instead of conducting this dialogue. It would be easier to take a slap in the face than a soft, gentle goodbye.
His eyes stung, a pitiful sob threatened to escape from his throat, his nails painfully dug into his palm, leaving traces. Tim couldn't be more miserable right now. It was his fault. He chose that. He had doomed himself to such a result and now whined over the consequences of his own actions.
He was falling apart, he felt it with every cell of his being. He tried so hard, went through all the circles of hell, broke every bone in his body and tore out his soul by the roots in order to turn into someone he could never be. Still, it wasn't enough. Tim wasn't enough.
He wanted to dissolve, sink into the ground, disappear from the world forever, he wanted to scream, cry and bang his head against the wall. His teeth were clenched tightly, his hands went numb from the pressure and every short breath was arduous.
Tim was falling apart, but he couldn't show it. Not yet. When it was over, he would cry his eyes out, but now he had to be strong for the last time. He could at least leave with dignity.
"I just…” Bruce closed his eyes and took a sharp breath through his nose. He took a few seconds to collect his thoughts and when he opened his eyes again, there was a stubborn determination in them. “I can't lose you, Tim... I can't."
Tim blinked owly, then smiled hesitantly. He didn't expect it, but it was a nice final touch. It was a good reason to be fired. It sounded like Bruce almost cared.
"Because Jason wouldn't want this." It hurt, his chest was squeezed and he had to blink quickly to hold tears back, but Tim understood. It wasn't about him. Nothing was ever about him. And it was fine, Tim was used to it. He didn't know why it still hurt.
Bruce looked at him as if trying to find something in the depths of his eyes. He licked his lips nervously, as if deciding whether to speak, his fingers tightening on Tim's shoulders. He seemed to have to make an effort to keep his voice steady.
"Because you're my son, Tim." And this sounded so sincere, so honest, that Tim couldn't breathe.
It wasn't true, it simply couldn't be true. Tim knew it, knew it as he knew that Earth was an irregularly shaped ellipsoid and that there were twenty-four hours in a day. It was basic human knowledge, indisputable facts: water was a liquid, Bruce didn't love him.
It didn't make any sense, it just didn't. Although it was impossible to deny it, Bruce had said it, Tim had heard it, he still couldn't believe it. He couldn't trust his ears, couldn't trust himself, couldn't trust anything at all. Because Tim had no right to make a mistake. Because it would be too painful to make a mistake.
Bruce called him son. Bruce called him Tim .
Tim. Tim. Tim. Tim.
“Tim?” A worried voice brought Tim back to reality. Bruce wiped a tear with his sleeve, and only now Tim felt the moisture on his cheeks. Only now he realized that he was crying
“I didn't mean to,” Tim broke free of Bruce's grip and leaned as far away as possible. He rubbed his eyes with his hands, but those stupid tears kept flowing. He shook his head from side to side, unable to utter the words. “I’m sorry, I'm so sorry, I…”
“It’s ok.” Bruce hugged him tightly, so that Tim's head was on his shoulder and Tim's arms hung limply at his sides. Tim couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't stop water from his eyes. Because Bruce hugged him for the first time. Because Bruce held him. “I got you.”
And Tim broke down.
Because, first of all, Tim wasn't Jason.
"Please." His arms wrapped around Bruce's neck, desperately clinging to everything they could grab onto.
Don't leave me. I'll change, I'll do everything, just don't leave.
"Please." His tears uncontrollably rolled down Bruce's shirt, soaking it with salt.
I'm scared, I'm so scared. I don't want to be alone. I cannot be alone anymore.
"Please." His voice broke and trembled between frequent ragged breaths.
Love me. I beg you, love me. I want to be loved.
“Please.”
At some point his words were completely replaced by sobs and howling sounds. Bruce stroked his back and hair, held him so tight that his ribs hurt. From time to time Bruce's lips touched his temple to calm him down, but it had the opposite effect, and Tim began to sob with renewed vigor.
Tim continued to cry until he physically couldn't. He wasn't sure if it was possible, but it seemed to him that he didn't have any tears left. He lost track of time, track of space too. Bruce started swinging slightly, still holding Tim in his arms, and it was really peaceful.
When Tim reluctantly got out of the embrace, Bruce kissed the top of his head, making Tim laugh wetly. The skin around his eyes was red, his nose was stuffy and he was shaking a little, but he felt surprisingly better. His eyes seemed too dry and his head still hurt, but he was more relaxed than he had in months. Crying session didn't magically solve all his problems, but it definitely helped.
“Are you hungry?” Bruce asked as an afterthought. In the general mess it seemed out of place, making Tim snort.
He shook his head negatively. In fact, Tim was hungry, but he wasn't that hungry and he didn't want Bruce to leave. It was petty, but if he could stay in this moment longer, he would use any opportunity.
Bruce frowned and Tim immediately froze in fear. He made the wrong choice. He messed up again, he ruined everything. Now Bruce would leave, slamming the door, and Tim would be forever alone, because he couldn't do anything right.
Before he had time to consider how pathetic it would be to start crying again, Bruce blurted out, “I have a KitKat.”
“What?” It was so unexpected that it made Tim snort in disbelief. Of all the things Bruce ever said, this one was the weirdest, and Bruce was famous for saying weird things.
“I have a KitKat,” He repeated. He seemed as awkward as Tim felt, and for some reason it made him feel better. “Do you want some?”
Tim never thought that he would find himself in a situation where Batman offers him a KitKat, and he thought about many impossible situations. It wasn't ridiculous by itself, but in combination with previous events it felt ridiculous. Apparently, they both didn't know what they were doing. It was comforting.
Tim nodded, trying to hold back the stupid smile spreading across his face. He couldn't copy Jason's smile even if he wanted to, and for the first time in a while he didn't feel like he had to. So he gave up and smiled, for the first time sincere and for the first time like Tim. Bruce smiled back.
He went to the bookshelf, and pushing aside one of the books, took out a chocolate bar. Tim, out of habit, estimated the reliability of the cache and snorted, almost impressed. If you looked closely, it was pretty obvious that some books were more bulging than others, but if you didn't know that Batman was hiding sweets in his manor, it was very difficult to figure it out. Tim would give it eight out of ten.
“Now you know my hiding place.” Bruce said conspiratorially, and Tim was strangely proud of that fact. “Don’t tell Alfred, tho.”
Tim nodded solemnly, for which he received a head pat along with KitKat. It was unhealthy how happy it made him, but he decided to think about it later. Now he was more focused on not leaving crumbs on Bruce’s bed. Tim wasn’t the biggest fan of sweets, he would prefer salt to sugar any day, but his dad Bruce gave him this sweet, which made it ten times tastier.
Bruce waited until Tim finished chewing, then gave him several pills of different sizes. Tim didn’t recognize them, they looked dissimilar from the one he took before, it was silly to be upset about it, still he was disappointed that he misdiagnosed himself. Bruce gave him a glass of water so he could wash them down and patted him on the head again. The action was too simple to be praised for, but Tim appreciated the gesture anyway.
They sat in silence. Now when Bruce returned to his place, the candy wrapper was thrown away and the glass was placed on the table, there was nothing to do. Tim didn’t mind sitting in silence, Bruce didn’t need to do anything, honestly, if he simply was in Tim’s space that would be more than enough. Yeah, if he actually thought about it, he had some problem, and a huge one. That was the reason he didn’t think about it too much. Just not now.
“I'll let you rest." Bruce's voice didn't sound completely confident, as if he wasn't entirely sure of the correctness of his actions. He smiled, it turned out crooked and unconvincing.
When Bruce started to get up Tim grabbed his sleeve. He acted like a child, he knew, but he really didn't have the strength to act like an adult anymore.
"Can you stay?" Tim asked before he could talk himself out of it. "Please."
There were a lot of reasons why he wanted Bruce to stay. Tim was tired, emotionally and physically. He was scared, scared that if Bruce left he would never come back. He was sick after all. And the most important, Tim was a child.
And children were allowed to be needy, were allowed to be clingy, were allowed to seek comfort. And it didn’t make them weak and annoying, it made them children. It was normal, it was natural. Children couldn’t, shouldn’t be mature for their age or act older than they were. It was the responsibility of adults to provide their emotional needs, not otherwise. And for the first time in his life Tim thought it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t a bad child. His parents were bad people.
Tim rolled back against the wall to make room for Bruce. Bruce lay down next to him and pulled him into an embrace so tight that Tim couldn't breathe. He didn't mind.
They didn't have to crowd on a king-size bed, the space they left could accommodate another person, but Tim couldn't wish for anything else. Here, trapped between the wall and Bruce's body, Tim felt safe, safer than he ever was. Tim felt protected.
He listened to Bruce's heartbeat, smooth and soothing. Bruce’s hands stroked his back rather unconsciously and Bruce's breath stirred his hair slightly. And Tim allowed himself to dissolve in this moment, let his walls down. Allowed an adult to take care of him, allowed himself to be comforted.
For the first time in his life he felt loved. Genuinely, unconditionally loved. And he was. This realization almost made him burst into tears again, but instead he just buried his face deeper into Bruce's chest.
He, Timothy Jackson Drake, was loved.
Along with this came another realization, way more concerning, if he analyzed it. He was grateful that he didn't die. It came late, but he didn't really want to die. He thought he did but in retrospect he wasn’t so sure.
It made him think about Jason. Was he scared? Did he scream for help or did he resign himself to the fact that no one would save him? Did he cling to his life or did he just accept his fate? Did he fight until his last breath or did he surrender into the abyss of oblivion? These questions didn’t have answers, because Tim didn’t know how to answer. Because, apparently, Tim didn’t know Jason as well as he thought.
"Tell me about him," Tim asked, quietly but distinctly. He didn’t want to pick a barely healed wound, but he wanted to know. He wanted to know Jason, the real Jason, wanted to understand him better than he could through his lens, wanted to see him from the perspective of the person who actually knew him.
There was no response. The only signs that Bruce had heard him were the laboured breathing and the tension in his arms. The silence dragged on, and when Tim didn't expect to get an answer anymore, Bruce spoke up.
"Jason, he was..." His voice, no louder than whisper, stumbled over the past tense. He took a deep breath and squeezed Tim tightly. "Wonderful.”