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Tim Drake died quietly. He passed in his bed, in the manor, and was found the next afternoon by a man that, by all accounts, he should have outlived. No note, no clear reason why. He was just gone. Erased from the world like a stray pencil mark; put out like a match in water.
He had just turned 22.
Jason Todd does not cry. He watches as Dick falls apart, blaming himself, blaming Bruce, blaming Alfred. Damian stands to the side, eyes rimmed red, but refusing to look up from the floor. No one has seen Bruce since the coroner left. Stephanie and Cass are curled together like cats on the couch, Stephanie hiccupping as she cries quietly. Cass cries too, but she hides her face in Stephanie’s hair, gently running her fingers through the tangled blonde strands.
Alfred, too, does not cry, though his eyes are glassier than usual. Jason’s only seen him in passing, watching him escort the police, the coroners, up to Tim’s room. He’s not in the living room anymore. Either sequestered away in his quarters or the kitchen. Not anywhere that there are people.
Jason looks down at his hands. He’s already mindlessly picked off a scab on his knuckles, blood beading to the surface of the open wound. He doesn’t even really feel the sting that should be there. He’s just numb.
“Has anyone contacted Young Justice?” he finds himself saying, voice distant. It’s not really him speaking, he thinks, until the others turn to look at him.
Dick’s face crumples in on itself, new tears running down his cheeks. His hand flies up to his mouth, stifling the sobs, the agony of realizing they need to let people know. Stephanie looks stricken. Cass gently presses a kiss to her temple, pulling her in close as she shakes her head at Jason.
He nods, pushing himself up from the armchair he’d been sitting in. Everything sways a little as he stands, not real, not solid, until it steadies. “I’ll call them. I’ll let them know. Anyone else?”
Damian nods, a quick little thing. “Prudence Wood. An ex-assassin. I… met her a few times, with… Timothy,” he says. He almost sounds robotic as he says it, still not looking at anyone in the room. Jason takes a deep breath in, exhales.
“Alright. Okay. I got it.”
***
It’s been a week. Seven days and Kon still can’t believe it. The tower reminds him too much, even his room at the Kents’. He sees Tim every time he turns a little too fast. He screamed in space after Jason called, after he went to check. He’s never seen any of them like that – that broken, that shattered. Yeah, the Bats were masters of emotional repression, but this was like they’d lost their heart.
He couldn’t blame them. He had too.
He drifts slowly down to land on the roof of Tim’s Nest. He’d been drifting like a ghost through his home, through the tower, even on patrols and rescues he’s just… been a husk. Foolishly, hopefully, he figures he might feel more real if he’s in Gotham.
The city is still beautiful, twinkling under its grime and grit, and he sees why Tim loved this place, bled for it. It’s different, in a way, seeing this city without Tim to point out places he’s been, his favorite photography spots, the best hole-in-the-wall restaurants. It was quieter, he thought, than usual.
Then he caught the faintest sound of beeping, from Tim’s Nest. Which meant a window was open. Which meant someone (Tim? Is it Tim? Could he be back already? please please please) was inside. In a blink, he was inside, breathless, hoping that he’d see the flash of annoyed blue eyes and a sharp comment and–
Jason looks at him, hair a mess, a bowl of reheated mac and cheese in his hands. He’s wearing a hoodie that Kon knows was Tim’s. It was always oversized on him, concealing the muscles and bulk that Kon knew he had. On Jason, it fits perfectly.
“...you too, huh?” Jason says finally. Kon blinks. “Nowhere else feels real, right?”
Kon nods after a moment, letting himself land gently on the grey carpet. “Yeah. I’m… I dunno,” he says with a shrug.
Jason huffs out what could be a laugh. “Hungry?” he asks, still standing there with the mac and cheese. Kon shakes his head. “Me neither, but. Figure I haven’t eaten in the past couple days, so I might as well try.” He flops onto Tim's couch, settling like he always belonged. Quietly, Kon sits next to him.
They sit next to each other, silent, for what feels like an eternity. Kon stares at the walls of the living room, trying to remember every movie night, every sleepover, every debrief in this room. There's too many to possibly remember, too many that blur together.
“You loved him, too. Didn't you?” Jason says quietly. It's loud enough to startle Kon out of his memories.
“Yeah. We… dated for a bit,” he says, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. “Didn't quite work out the way we wanted it to. But… we tried, you know? And it was a good thing. While we had it.”
Jason nods a little, stirring his mac and cheese again. “Yeah. I get it,” he says, barely above a whisper.
Kon looks over at him, studies the way his face is drawn, the quiet tension in his shoulders. “What were you two? To each other?” he asks. “Tim always said you weren't his brother, but never said what you actually were. ”
Jason smiles slightly, shrugs. “I don't think we knew. We'd hook up sometimes, when things weren't bad between us. We'd fight. He took pictures of me in this damn Nest. I think we were friends. Maybe something else. I don't… know.” He puts the cold bowl on the end table, then draws his legs up onto the couch. “He told me we'd figure it out one day.”
Kon nods, pushing away the deep ache in his chest. “Oh. I'm sorry,” he says, mimicking Jason's posture.
Jason looks up, raising an eyebrow. “Why? You two actually dated.”
Kon shakes his head. “No. I'm sorry you two never figured it out. He… spoke highly of you. Even when we didn't like you.” He shrugs a little, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “I think he really loved you.”
Jason studies him for a long moment before nodding. “I really love him, too.”
***
Dick knows why people keep checking on him. He knows. But he just wants to be left alone. There's not much reason to get up, to see the sun. He can't.
There's no one to direct his anger at. The coroner's report isn't back, and there's no one to blame, so he just simmers. At night, he throws himself into fight after fight in Bludhaven. He sleeps most of the day. They blur together. He doesn’t remember when the month changed until the electricity cuts off.
He stares at the pile of dishes in his sink from his couch. It was the closest place to sleep after he stumbled in after patrol. Now, the afternoon sun leaks through his blinds, and he can hear the traffic down below. It all feels so distant. Like it’s not his life.
A knock on his door. He ignores it, looking up at the ceiling. Maybe being alone is better. Then it wouldn’t hurt like this. Wouldn’t carve him open. He thought he knew how to deal with grief – he thought he could function better than this.
“Dick?” Wally calls through the door. There’s no point in getting up. He’ll either come in or he won’t.
“Dick, we’re coming in,” Donna says, and then the door is open and they’re there. In his living room, looking at the mess of his apartment. He can feel the silence press into his skin, and he closes his eyes, not wanting to see their disgust – or, worse, their pity.
“You do the laundry, I’ve got the dishes,” Wally says, and Donna makes a sound in agreement. Then they split, and Dick listens to the spray of water, the scrape of sponge, and Donna’s quiet humming.
“Kori went grocery shopping for you. We figured you hadn’t been out in a while, so…,” Donna says, voice quiet with understanding.
He’s not okay. He’s not gonna be okay for a long time. But a small warmth blooms in his chest. They’ve got him.
***
Steph stares out at the Gotham skyline. Bruce has been rare on his excursions, and when he’s been out, it’s been violent. It’s been her, Cass, Duke, Damian, and Kate for the most part. The underworld knows something’s happened within the Bat clan. The only one to approach them about it was Harley.
She hadn’t been theatrical. She wasn’t over the top when she quietly asked Spoiler where Red Robin had been. She knew when Spoiler didn’t answer for too long. She’d cried too. Steph hadn’t expected her to cry.
Steph looks down at her phone, swipes it open with her thumb. Glowing up at her, like a promise, is Tim’s contact. Numbly, she presses the call button and brings it to her ear.
“ This number cannot take your call at this time. Please leave a message at the tone. ”
Steph sobs, once, and sniffles. “God, fuck you. Fuck you for leaving. This isn’t fair. You were supposed to stay . You promised. Fuck you, Tim. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” She’s sobbing, chest heaving, by the time she hangs up. She punches the concrete ledge she’s sitting on, but she cradles her phone gently. It buzzes, and she knows it’s not him, but she checks anyway, half-hoping.
[3:19 AM] cass: you okay? you’ve been out a while
She stares at the text before, finally, taking a deep breath. She wipes at her eyes before texting back.
[3:20 AM] steph!: yeah. hard night
[3:20 AM] cass: i get it. come home. you need sleep.
Steph sighs before pushing herself up to her feet. She gently runs a thumb over a small heart etched into the concrete. A small S+T stares back, and she smiles a little, a couple tears sliding down her cheeks. “See you later, ex-boyfriend,” she whispers, and disappears into the night.
***
Damian sits in his bed, legs pulled up to his chest as he stares at the ripped-out sketchbook pages scattered around him. Tear stains mar more than half, making the ink run. He’s starting to forget how Timothy looked without a reference. He doesn’t really remember the sound of his laugh.
He slides out of bed, carefully avoiding crumpling the paper. Quietly, he pads down the hall to his father’s room. The door is just barely ajar, and he stops just outside the threshold. Just barely, he can hear sobbing inside. He swallows, the ache in his chest gripping tighter.
He leaves, wanders back down the hall. He pauses for just a moment outside of Timothy’s room, looking at the stickers, the skateboard nameplate that’s been worn down. Gently, carefully, he opens the door and slips inside. There’s a fine, fine layer of dust over everything. Timothy’s camera is on his desk, next to his computer and laptop. His bed is made, perfect and red, as Damian climbs into it.
He’s the same age Timothy was when they first met. When Damian was angry and scared and hurt him, tried to kill him. He sniffles, curling around one of Timothy’s pillows, closing his eyes as he breathes
For the first time in weeks, he falls asleep peacefully, and does not wake til morning.