Nobody cares about Tim Drake (Not even Himself)

by Amazingly_Simon

Summary:

He’s ruining himself from the inside out and knows it. Knows he’s spiraling, knows it’s not sustainable, knows he’s heading toward something irreversible. And he swears to Alfred, quietly, almost choking on it, that he tries.

He knows they don’t care.
Not really.
Not about Tim Drake.

Because nobody cares about Tim Drake, Not even Himself.

Chapter 1

 

Remembering is a curse

 

---

He wakes up late.

Like always.

Eyes crusted, limbs heavy, mouth dry. The sun has long since disappeared behind the skyline, but he doesn't move. Just lays there, staring at the cracked ceiling like it might split open and finally swallow him whole. Sometimes he eats. Sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he drinks water, sometimes he forgets for hours, days maybe, lost in another half-finished case file, another unsolved thread to keep his mind busy enough to not rot from the inside out.

 

And it's not that he doesn't care.

(He doesn’t.)

It’s just—what’s the point?

 

Then it’s 4 a.m. again, somehow. The Batcomputer is too bright, humming like it’s trying to remind him he's alive. It burns his eyes, makes his head ache in that familiar, empty way. His body screams for sleep but his mind keeps going, running in circles, bruising itself on every memory it trips over. He doesn’t remember how the day slipped through his fingers, but it’s gone now, and he’s still awake.

 

He does it all over again.

And again.

And again.

 

He doesn’t know how to stop.

Maybe he doesn’t want to.

 

He doesn’t have the energy to do anything anymore. Not really. There’s this part of him, quiet and deep, that just wants to collapse right where he's standing, wants to lie on the cold floor and never get back up. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Gotham needs him. Batman needs Red Robin. So he stays.

 

But deep down, he knows

they don’t care.

Not really.

Not about Tim Drake.

 

Because no one cares about Tim Drake.

 

He’s a shadow at the corner of every mission debrief, a name skipped over in the thank-yous, a seat left cold at the table. His presence feels like a burden, his voice too loud even when he isn’t speaking. No one says it, but he can hear it anyway.

He remembers dying to bring Bruce back from the time stream.

No one talks about that either.

 

And he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that kind of silence.

 

He thinks- no, knows -he’s ruining himself on purpose. Slowly, deliberately. Bit by bit. Just to see if anyone notices. Just to see if anyone cares enough to stop him.

 

But they don’t.

 

Because he’s Tim Drake.

He’s supposed to be independent, resilient, intelligent. Efficient.

He’s not supposed to need help.

He’s not supposed to break.

 

But he is.

 

The things he keeps trying to forget,

they won’t leave.

They claw their way back in when the room is too quiet, playing on repeat behind his eyelids like a film he never agreed to watch.

 

It’s a curse, he thinks,

to have a mind this bright

and a heart this restless.

 

He keeps imagining things.

Moments that didn’t happen but could’ve.

Should’ve.

Didn’t.

 

And his brain won’t shut up.

And his chest won’t stop hurting.

And he doesn’t know how to breathe without pretending.

 

He just wants it to stop.

All of it.

 

But he gets up.

Keeps going. Keeps moving. Because the Drakes don’t get to fall apart. They don’t get to feel bad. They get up, they keep walking, they try until they win or they die trying. They don’t cry over what could’ve been. They step on it, crush it down like a weakness and keep moving like it was never real, like it never mattered in the first place. That’s the rule. That’s how they survive.

 

You don’t break down. You don’t slow down. You keep your head up, your mouth shut, your heart locked away where no one can touch it.

 

And if a Drake breaks?

He pretends he didn’t.

He smiles. Lies so well he forgets it was a lie to begin with. Doesn’t name the feeling, doesn’t look at the wound. Just wraps it in silence and keeps walking like it’s not bleeding through the bandage. Like it won’t soak through.

 

Jason tried to kill him.

So did Damian.

 

He has a scar on his neck that he still feels when the air hits it wrong. A phantom pressure that never really goes away. But he doesn’t care. He can’t care. He has to not care.

 

He doesn’t shake when Jason’s close.

He doesn’t flinch when he’s alone in a room with Damian.

He doesn’t leave when Dick raises his voice, even though his whole body tenses like it’s bracing for something.

 

Because he’s not supposed to care.

Because if he does, it means it hurt. And it’s easier to pretend it didn’t.

 

But he does feel it.

Every inch of it. Every glance, every silence, every memory no one else talks about or apologised for.

And he hates that he does.

Hates that it still lives in him like a second pulse.

Hates that all the armor in the world can’t cover what it did to him.

 

But he won’t talk about it.

 

He never does.

 

He’s ruining himself from the inside out and knows it. Knows he’s spiraling, knows it’s not sustainable, knows he’s heading toward something irreversible. And he swears to Alfred, quietly, almost choking on it, that he tries.

 

But no one knows that he can’t stop being scared.

 

That he doesn’t know how to stop remembering.

 

He buried it. He swears he did. Pushed it so far down it should’ve died from lack of air. But it keeps coming back. Digging its way to the surface with bloodied hands and broken nails, showing up in the corners of his vision like it never left.

 

It claws at him.

It waits behind his eyes, patient and cruel, until he’s too tired to hold the door shut.

and then it whispers.

 

And he can’t block it out.

 

Suddenly he’s not in the cave anymore, not behind the screen, not holding himself together by the thin wire of Red Robin’s mask. Suddenly he’s back at Drake Manor. Alone. Small. Crying into a pillow he never liked. And he has to stop, he has to, because it didn’t happen.

 

Right?

 

Because how do you leave your child alone with their abuser?

 

How do you look at a shaking kid and say, “You’ll be fine”?

 

How do you go to parties and business meetings and luxury vacations and leave him behind like he wasn’t even there?

 

It must’ve been a dream. That’s the only way this makes sense.

 

That’s why no one talked about it.

That’s why the silence felt so heavy, so final.

Because it didn’t happen. Because it couldn’t have.

 

Because if it did—

then what does that say about them?

 

The Drakes are dead. They’re gone. And maybe they left him alone more times than he can count, but they were important. They were powerful. Their names meant something.

 

So they couldn’t have let that happen.

 

Because in his family, you don’t speak against power.

 

You don’t call things what they are.

You don’t admit when something hurts.

 

You swallow it.

You wear the mask.

 

You don’t cry, and you don’t stop.

 

But he wants to.

He wants to stop.

 

He wants to hide, somewhere small, somewhere quiet. Somewhere warm enough to pretend it’s safe. Even if it’s fake. Even if it’s just for a moment. But he can’t find it. There’s nowhere left that doesn’t feel sharp around the edges. Nowhere that doesn’t echo.

 

And he’s scared. All the time. In this low, constant way that buzzes under everything, like a wire pulled too tight.

 

He saved himself. He knows that. But it doesn’t feel like saving.

It just feels like surviving.

And he doesn’t know what that’s supposed to be worth anymore.

 

He’s alone. Dick left.

Bruce forgot about him the moment Jason came back, like his story was over, like he was a placeholder until the real son returned.

And even Alfred doesn’t seem to care now.

 

And he’s not fine.

He’s breaking.

And no one’s coming.

 

And that’s when the spiral started.

 

His face came up on a file. Just a name, a picture, a set of dates and numbers. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But it did.

 

And Tim? He froze.

 

The man? He’s fine. He’s out there living a normal life. Probably doesn’t even remember what he did. Probably never even thought twice about it.

 

The one who hurt him is still out there like the world owes him nothing but comfort. 

 

But Tim remembers.

He remembers everything.

 

Every second.

Every sound.

The way the air felt.

The way the silence tasted.

 

He sees that face, and suddenly he’s nine again. And he can’t breathe.

He can’t move.

He just wants someone, anyone, to pull him out of it.

 

But no one’s coming.

 

He walks the manor at night, checking doors, checking locks, checking the time. Obsessively. Repeatedly. Just to make sure.

And no one’s home. Not even Alfred.

 

They’re all too busy to notice him.

 

He wakes up soaked in fear, heart racing, hands shaking, and he doesn’t even know what for anymore.

The danger’s gone, right?

It’s over.

It’s been over.

 

Right?

 

But his body doesn’t know that.

His brain won’t believe it.

 

It keeps the loop going like it needs the pain to exist.

 

And his parents,

they told him to let it go.

Get over it.

That was the line. That was the expectation.

 

That’s what the Drakes do.

That’s the script.

 

But he can’t.

 

He can’t when part of him is still there.

 

Still trapped.

Still shaking.

 

Still waiting for someone to say, “I believe you.”

 

He can’t when his parents didn’t.

He can’t when no one did.

He can’t when he doesn’t even believe himself some days.

When the memories come and he wonders if they’re real or just another way his mind is trying to destroy him.

 

Because if it wasn’t real,

Why does it hurt like this?

 

He doesn’t want to do this anymore.

He doesn’t want to carry it. He doesn’t want to feel like this, like he’s seconds away from shattering, from screaming, from disappearing into nothing.

 

But he’s scared.

And he’s alone.

 

And he doesn’t know who’s going to protect him now.

Because no one did then.

And no one will now.

Not even himself.

 

And the worst part is, he doesn’t even want to be here anymore.

 

But he does the only thing he can.

 

He breathes.

Tries to.

Tries to take in air like it’ll save him. Tries to count, stay grounded, remember the steps from the coping worksheets Dick emailed him once.

 

But every breath makes him feel worse.

The air feels thinner. His chest tightens. He gets paranoid. Like something’s coming. Like someone’s watching. Like the danger never left.

 

He can’t escape.

 

He hears voices.

He swears he hears footsteps.

Someone is approaching.

 

And he’s scared. And he’s alone.

 

So he hides.

 

He gets up and stumbles, shaking, through the dark hallways of the manor. He knows it better than anyone. Still, it feels unfamiliar. Unsafe.

 

He locks himself in the bathroom. His hands are shaking so bad he almost drops the bottle.

The pills are supposed to help him sleep. That’s what Bruce said when he handed them over.

 

He doesn’t count them. Just empties the bottle into his palm.

And swallows.

 

He tells himself it’s not about dying.

It’s about escape.

 

If he dies before the man finds him, then at least he won’t have to feel it.

Won’t have to know what happens to his body.

 

Maybe Bruce will find him in time.

Maybe there’ll be enough evidence.

Maybe they’ll catch him.

Maybe then someone will do something.

Maybe then he’ll matter.

 

Maybe.

 

He curls up on the bathroom floor.

It’s cold.

It’s quiet.

It’s not safe, but it’s still better than being awake.

 

And so he drifts.

 

His body gets heavier. His thoughts start to slow. His breathing turns shallow. He doesn’t feel the fear anymore, just the numbness.

 

And in that moment, all he hopes is that someone finds him.

Not because he wants to be saved.

But because if he disappears without anyone noticing then maybe he really never mattered.

 

And then.

 

darkness.

 

 

Chapter 2

Summary:

Tim is on the floor.
The pills are gone.
And he can’t breathe.

Notes:

Heyaa, chapter two, I felt inspired to write it and so here it is, I love cliffhangers, and I like making people suffer with writing so there's that, I love using dashes to connect words ("—" this things) but some people claim that AI uses them with writing so I tried using them less this time around, ofc there's parts where i feel like only they fit, but that's just my writing style unfortunately.

 

Seeing as they are short i'll try post one every day or every two days depending on my schedule, do enjoy it (〃'▽'〃)

Breathing is a curse

---

 

It was 8?

No, 9 p.m.

Definitely 9.

 

Dick Grayson squinted at the clock on his dashboard, the numbers glowing dimly against the slowly darkening skyline as he crossed the county line into Gotham. He sighed, easing his foot off the gas just a little. He wasn’t in a rush, not really.

 

The drive from Blüdhaven to Gotham had become something like a ritual. Two hours of winding road, flickering streetlights, and pop songs playing from the radio channel that he never bothered to change.

 

They had Zeta Tubes.

They had teleportation technology.

 

And still, he had to drive two whole hours just to get home for the weekend.

 

It was sort of funny, in an unfair, mildly inconvenient kind of way.

 

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, shifting lanes as muscle memory kicked in.

 

The city lights were starting to appear in the distance, faint glimmers like stars falling back into place.

 

He liked days like these. Calm. Predictable.

No emergencies yet. No one calling him to solve a family problem. Everything was great! 

 

Except it wasn’t.

 

Well… he doesn’t exactly know how to describe it.

 

It’s like this feeling, quiet, dull, gnawing at the edge of his awareness. Like a thread tugging from somewhere in the back of his brain, whispering that something’s wrong, even if he can’t prove it. And maybe that’s what’s bothering him the most. He knows everyone’s fine. They should be fine.

 

But are they?

Really?

 

Sure, Damian’s relationship with Tim is still rocky, there’s always tension when they’re in the same room for too long, but even that’s softened lately. The kid is changing. Trying. Still rough around the edges, but growing into something steadier, more thoughtful. Dick’s seen it.

 

And Jason.

 

Jason is actually trying, too. More than ever. The sharpness is still there, but it’s not as bitter anymore. He joins them for meals sometimes. He answers texts. He hasn't killed anyone in months.

 

They’re his brothers, and no matter what they've done or how bad things got, he’s proud of them. Watching them fight their way back from everything and still be here, it means everything to him.

 

But…

 

Tim.

 

That’s the piece that doesn’t sit right.

 

Ever since Bruce disappeared then came back…

something shifted between them.

 

They don’t talk as much.

Tim doesn’t call anymore. Doesn’t text unless it’s mission-related.

 

And Dick told himself that was fine.

Tim’s growing up. He’s almost an adult. He’s allowed to need space.

 

He’s always been independent, even as a kid. Always had this stubborn streak of self-sufficiency, like asking for help was some kind of crime. Dick figured it was normal, part of who he was.

 

But lately, it’s different.

 

There’s a distance between them that wasn’t there before. Not tension. Not conflict. Just absence.

 

And Dick doesn’t know what to make of it.

 

He can’t help but freak out a little every time he’s away from home.

He tells himself not to, reminds himself they’re fine now. But still, that itch doesn’t go away.

 

Because as good as things may be, they’re still out there every night.

Patrolling. Fighting. Disappearing into the shadows like it doesn’t cost them anything.

 

And he can’t be part of it all the time.

 

They have lives now.

Separate ones.

Individual plans and priorities and problems.

 

They’re not all kids anymore, and he’s trying to be okay with that.

 

He really is.

 

He’s learning to let go. To give them space. To stop acting like the older brother who has to fix everything.

 

He’s learning to be fine with that.

Or… as fine as he can be.

 

Tonight, he knows exactly where everyone is.

That helps.

 

Tim’s home.

Jason’s out on patrol with Damian, covering for Bruce.

Bruce and Alfred went to see Cass perform in one of her ballet shows downtown.

 

Dick had smiled when he got the update. Cass had been practicing for weeks. Bruce showing up was a bigger deal than he probably realized.

 

And he only knew any of that because Babs kept him in the loop better than anyone else could. She had this lowkey, godlike omniscience about their family, somehow always three steps ahead with info.

 

But it’s weird.

Tim hasn’t gone on patrol in two weeks.

 

Two weeks.

 

When Dick asked him about it, Tim had just shrugged and said he needed time to “crack down some cases” to sharpen his skills, to “exercise his brain a bit.”

 

And okay. That wasn’t entirely unusual. Tim’s always been more of a detective than a bruiser. He’s the only one who actually likes combing through data.

 

But still…

 

Staying home for two weeks straight?

That’s not very Tim of him.

 

He doesn’t sit still.

He doesn’t rest.

Even when he’s supposed to.

 

And it’s not that Dick doesn’t appreciate having at least one of his brothers safe at home. Because he does.

 

But this feels different.

 

The good thing is, he’ll be alone with Tim for at least an hour, assuming he’s still awake.

And judging by the time —10 p.m.— he definitely should be.

 

Tim barely sleeps before 3 on a good night. Always working, always thinking.

 

Dick actually finds himself looking forward to it. Just the two of them, for once. Maybe they’ll talk. Maybe they will only keep each other company. But either way, he’s hoping to figure out what’s going on underneath all that silence.

 

He pulls into the driveway, the gravel crunching under his tires as the manor finally comes into view, quiet, massive, and bathed in shadow.

 

He parks, kills the engine, and steps out. The air is heavy. Still.

 

The front door looms, familiar and too large like always, but he doesn’t hesitate. Slips the key into the lock, turns it, pushes the door open.

 

And frowns.

 

It’s quiet.

Even for the manor.

 

Too quiet.

 

And it’s warm. A little too warm, like the air hasn’t moved in hours. Stale. Close.

 

He wrinkles his nose slightly. Probably just means the windows were left shut all day. Wouldn’t be the first time. Bruce gets paranoid. Understandable, considering the company they keep, and with Tim staying in, he probably kept the place sealed up tighter than usual.

 

Still, it feels off.

 

Dick steps inside fully, letting the door close behind him with a low click.

 

The lights are off.

 

He pauses.

 

It’s not weird, necessarily, but it’s enough to raise a small flag. Tim always leaves some light on when he’s up late working. At least the hallway one. Or a lamp. Something.

 

Dick flicks on the lights and slowly starts making his way upstairs, his footsteps soft against the polished wood.

 

The manor creaks around him, the way it always does, but it’s got a different texture tonight. Heavier.

 

He drops his bag in his room, rubs the back of his neck, then heads down the hall.

 

Stops outside Tim’s door.

 

The light underneath it is off.

That is weird.

 

He raises a hand and knocks, gentle.

 

"Timbers? You there?"

 

No response.

 

He frowns, tries to brush it off, but something doesn’t sit right.

It’s too quiet. Too still.

 

He considers checking the cave. Tim could’ve snuck down there, maybe got lost in some case again. That would make sense, he tends to do that.

 

But something in Dick’s chest twists. Tightens.

No, he needs to look for Tim in the house first.

Now.

 

“Tim?” he calls, louder this time. Another knock, sharper. Faster.

 

Still nothing.

 

And it’s getting quieter. Somehow. Like the whole house is holding its breath.

 

He’s freaking out now.

 

"Tim, I'm coming in!" he says, voice a little too loud in the silence.

 

He pushes the door open.

 

The room is dark.

Empty.

 

The bed’s untouched. The chair by the desk is pushed in. No glow from the monitor, no scattered papers.

 

Just emptiness.

 

He flicks on the light, 

like it’ll make a difference.

 

But the room’s cold now.

And that tight feeling in his chest turns into something sharper.

 

Panic.

 

“Okay, okay,” he mutters to himself, backing out of the room. “No big deal. Maybe he just went to the library. Or the cave. Or something.”

 

But his steps get faster.

 

He starts checking rooms. First the nearby ones, guest rooms, study, hallway closet.

 

Nothing.

 

He calls Tim’s name again.

Still nothing.

 

Then the bathroom across the hall.

Empty.

 

Downstairs next, skipping steps now. He checks the kitchen, the den, the smaller sitting room no one uses. Opens every door, every hallway closet.

 

Even the first-floor bathrooms.

 

Empty.

 

Everything is too empty.

 

And every second that ticks by feels louder than the last.

 

Each one a needle digging into his chest.

 

He’s more agitated now. His voice is rising in his own ears. His breathing is getting sharper, quicker, like he’s been running for miles but hasn't moved fast enough at all.

 

A part of him—just a small part, tucked behind the panic, tells him he’s being dramatic. Overreacting. It’s Tim. Maybe he went out, maybe he's in the cave with his headphones on, maybe he got so hyperfocused he forgot to answer.

 

That part of him wants to believe this is normal. Wants to believe he’s wrong. That nothing is happening. That this is just Dick being Dick, always the worried older brother.

 

But the other part? The louder part?

 

The one that’s been gnawing at him since the drive started, the one that hasn’t stopped screaming ever since he walked through the front door?

 

That part tells him: No. Something is wrong. Something is really, really wrong.

 

So he moves. Fast.

 

His feet pound against the manor’s wooden floors like a warning drumbeat. He checks the cave, just in case, opens the hidden door and descends into the darkness.

 

And yeah, Tim’s been here. The place is messy, scattered with papers and open files. Tim’s handwriting is everywhere. Notes, half-scribbled post-its, printed files spread across the table and the floor. Some are marked, others circled, and one folder is still open on the main workstation, the screen still faintly lit.

 

Dick steps closer.

 

A man’s face stares back at him from a scanned newspaper clipping about Gotham Elite. Middle-aged. Clean-cut. The kind of forgettable rich man face Dick had seen too many times at galas and donor events. A name sits bold beneath the photo, but Dick doesn’t even read it.

 

Because his stomach has already dropped.

 

Something about it makes his skin crawl, but he doesn't look closer.

He doesn't want to know.

 

He doesn’t need to know. Not right now.

He came here to find Tim.

 

And Tim isn’t here.

 

He’s not in the cave, or behind the bat-computers, or at the weapons lockers, or even hiding in the darker corners like he sometimes did when he wanted space to think.

 

The panic comes back full force now.

 

So he sprints out.

No longer walking.

No longer hoping.

Just searching.

 

Where is he where is he where is he!

 

He's already checked the bedrooms. The kitchen. The den. The closets. The side rooms.

 

The second floor. He hadn’t checked the bathroom in the deep corner. The one no one uses. The one that’s always too cold, too far from everything.

 

The door is shut.

 

His heart stutters.

 

He takes two steps closer.

 

“Tim?” he says, voice barely above a whisper this time.

 

Nothing.

 

His hand shakes as he reaches for the knob.

 

He opens the door slowly. The hinge groans.

 

And then—

 

He finds him.

 

Curled on the cold bathroom floor. Limbs tucked tight. Like he’s trying to rest. 

 

For one moment, just one.

 

Dick feels relief.

 

The kind of laughable, shaky relief you get when you see someone you love in a weird place and think “Oh thank god, he just fell asleep. Weird kid. Classic Tim.”

 

But then-

 

He sees the bottle.

 

It’s lying on its side just a few inches from Tim’s hand.

Empty.

Completely, horrifyingly empty.

 

And suddenly Dick can’t breathe.

 

 His voice catches in his throat.

 

“Tim?” he says, louder now. Urgent. Shaky. “Hey—Tim, hey, c’mon, wake up, baby bird, wake up—”

 

He shakes him gently at first, then not so gently.

 

Tim doesn’t respond.

 

His skin is pale, way too pale. His lips slightly parted, dry. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. His breaths are shallow. Barely there.

 

“Oh my god—oh my god—okay, okay, okay—”

 

Dick scrambles. His hand digs for his comm, for his phone, anything.

 

“Babs—I need Dr Hawkins at the manor now,” he says into the comm, voice cracking. “It’s Tim- he—he took something- sleeping pills—he’s breathing but I don’t- I don’t know how long—Please call…call Bruce—”

 

He cuts himself off. Pushes back tears he doesn’t have time for.

 

He drops the comm on the floor. Tears open the medicine cabinet. Doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. Activated charcoal? Something to make him throw up? It’s all spinning.

 

And he can’t breathe.

Chapter 3

Summary:

He feels like a failure.

He doesn’t pray.
But if he did, he would.
Right now, he would.

But all he can do is sit there.

All he can do is be Bruce Wayne.

Notes:

Heyaa, if anyone already figured it out congrats! I'm making each POV of different characters at the same time, ofc as time advances this will be harder given they will all be together, but yeah. Someone pointed out in the previous chapter, but this family does suck at communication, and it shows, given everyone has a different perspective on the general idea of their family, specially Tim.

I'll try to post whenever an idea comes to mind (which is usually 4 am???)

Being is a Curse

---

 

He has never been one for emotions.

Not openly. Not visibly.

 

At least not since the night it all broke apart.

Since the night blood spilled over pearls.

 

Since the moment time cleaved into a before and after.

 

There are things Bruce Wayne buried so deep he doesn’t even feel their absence anymore. Grief shaped him, yes, but silence was the clay that hardened the rest. And in time, the softness shriveled. Grief became bone. Silence became armor.

 

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel.

 

He still does. 

 

But when he cries. He cries alone, when no one can see him breaking.

 

Like he cried when Jason died.

 

He still remembers it.

The silence of the manor after that happened, and the way the grandfather clock ticked. The way Alfred stood near him, but not close enough to touch.

The way everything hurt. And how angry he was at the world. Even at people just trying to help like Tim.

 

He doesn't forget pain. He files it. Stores it.

Carries it like a weight folded into his shadow.

 

But he is cold. He knows this.

He has been told. By Alfred. By enemies. By allies.

By Dick. By Jason. By Damian.

 

It’s not that Bruce thinks he’s above emotion.

God, no.

He just doesn’t know what to do with it.

What would happen if he let it out.

 

So he learned to wear it like a second cape, stoicism. Precision. Control.

 

But that doesn’t mean he stopped trying to show it.

 

He tries every day.

 

He tries to be the father his children deserve.

He tries to show up.

To be better.

To be present.

 

He’s spent the last few years fighting for that.

 

Jason is home again.

Living in the manor.

Not in a safehouse. Not in the shadows.

 

Not yelling. Not running.

Just… home.

 

Bruce still wakes up sometimes afraid it’s not real.

That one wrong word, one wrong glance, will unravel it all.

But he thinks it’s working.

Slowly. Delicately.

Like rebuilding the wings of a butterfly from ash.

 

They’re talking.

Not always easily, not always well,

but talking.

 

And that’s more than he thought he’d ever get.

 

For the first time in a long time,

he thinks maybe, just maybe, he’s getting this right.

 

He's striking a balance.

Patrolling each night.

Showing up as Bruce Wayne when the world needs him to smile.

And more importantly, being there when They need him.

 

He hasn’t always been.

He knows that.

He has failed.

So many times.

He still fails.

But he’s learning.

 

He’s trying to meet them where they are now, not where he wants them to be. He doesn't push, just waits.

 

Tonight, especially, he feels the swell of something he hasn’t let himself believe in for a long time: peace.

 

Cass is dancing.

 

His Cass. His daughter.

His beautiful, graceful, fierce Cassandra.

 

She’s seventeen now.

So much older than the girl who didn't know she had a voice, who flinched at kindness, who carried the weight of guilt not hers to bear.

 

Tonight, she dances like the world is light. She glides across the stage like the air carries her. Every movement precise, but not cold. Every spin filled with something that makes Bruce’s throat ache, grace, yes, but also freedom.

 

She’s happy.

You can see it.

 

And Bruce sits in the velvet-lined seat beside Alfred,

watching the stage with his hands folded tightly in his lap,

and for once he lets himself feel proud.

 

He doesn’t deserve to feel this proud.

 

But he does.

 

Cass twirls again, landing perfectly in the center of the stage, and Bruce’s lips tug into the faintest smile.

 

He looks to the side. Alfred is watching him.

 

The old man doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t have to.

 

Bruce can read it in his eyes. The way they soften. The way the corners of his mouth twitch, like he’s remembering something 

 

He’s remembering a boy.

 

A little boy who once sat in a velvet chair too big for him, legs swinging, hands sticky with candy, watching ballerinas dance across this same stage with a look of wide-eyed wonder.

 

That boy is still here, somewhere.

 

“I didn’t think she’d want us to come,” Bruce says, voice quiet.

 

Alfred hums. “She wanted you to see her.”

A pause.

“She always does.”

 

Cass Smiles.

 

She is having fun.

 

And he swallows hard.

Because fun was stolen from her so early.

And now it’s hers.

 

He could cry.

He won’t.

But he could.

 

And beside him, Alfred doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t need to.

 

She finishes the piece with a final flourish, and the crowd erupts into applause.

 

And Bruce Wayne, stoic, billionaire and father, claps along with them, more proud than he’s ever dared to admit.

 

Today, he’ll have a full house.

 

That thought sticks with him more than he expects.

 

Dick is probably home by now. Ten o’clock on the dot. He always tries to be punctual when the family is all together. Bruce has learned to stop being surprised by that, Dick may joke, and tease, and wander, but he always shows up when it matters. He’s always had that quality.

 

Cass is already backstage now, or maybe making her way to the lobby. He’s not sure. The crowd is thinning out by now, parents chatting among themselves as they wrap scarves tighter, tug on gloves, herd kids out into the cold. There’s the low hum of pride in the air. Recital nights always have that glow: camera flashes, hushed praise, big bouquets held up by smaller hands.

 

Bruce lingers a moment longer by the seats before heading out into the hallway. It’s the kind of quiet after a show that doesn’t feel heavy, just winding down. He almost smiles to himself. 

The performance was beautiful, Cass was beautiful, and tonight felt like something close to normal. Not perfect, not calm, but something... good. He doesn’t get many nights like this.

 

Alfred is already on his way to prep the car, discreet, punctual as always. He catches his butler’s gaze briefly before Alfred disappears through the side exit. They don’t speak, but the understanding is there. He’ll meet them out front.

 

Bruce makes his way into the building’s hallway, holding the bouquet he picked up earlier that evening. Lilies and violets, her favorites, handpicked in soft purples and blues. Not wrapped in anything dramatic, just a simple ribbon. Cass doesn’t like too much fuss, and he remembers that. He remembers more than people think.

 

There she is now, Cass, just down the hall near the lobby, already changed into more comfortable clothes. Her bun is still tight, but a few wisps of hair have escaped it. She’s signaling something to another girl from her class, subtle, not overly expressive, but warm in her way. That quiet connection Cass learned to build over time.

 

She hasn’t acknowledged he is there yet, but he knows she already noticed. He’s about to call out to her, to meet her by the doors, maybe even walk her out and hand her the flowers. Tell her how proud he is. Not just for tonight, but for everything.

 

Then his phone rings.

 

It buzzes sharply in the inside pocket of his coat. He doesn’t recognize the feeling immediately, he told everyone he was off-duty for the night. No patrol. No Wayne business. He had one night.

 

But Barbara’s name flashes on the screen.

 

He stops to hold the phone.

 

She wouldn’t call him unless it was important.

 

He answers in less than a second. “Yes?”

 

“Bruce, you have to go to the manor. Now. Something happened, Tim he..did something. Dr. Hawkins is already on her way, but based on Dick’s tone, it’s... it’s bad.”

 

She doesn’t say more.

 

She doesn’t have to.

 

The name “Tim” hits like a switch in his spine. His brain immediately starts calculating routes. Distances. Options. He doesn’t even process hanging up the phone. It just disappears into his coat again, hand moving automatically.

 

His body reacts before his mind catches up. He’s walking fast now. Almost running.

 

He doesn’t say anything at first, just gets closer to Cass and gestures sharply.

 

She turns to him instantly, reading his expression before he even speaks. Her posture changes. Serious now. Eyes alert. She doesn’t ask questions, just nods. Moves with him.

 

They both sprint toward the exit, toward the car, toward Alfred, who has the door already open, keys already in hand, as if he sensed it.

 

“Drive,” Bruce orders, sliding into the back seat with Cass beside him.

 

The door slams shut.

 

And they’re gone.

 

Alfred doesn’t ask. The moment the door locks click shut, the car jerks forward and merges into the slow chaos of Gotham’s weekend traffic. It’s Friday night, of course it is. Of course the streets are full of people who don’t know their world has just tilted on its axis.

 

They pass the performance hall’s soft glow first, the echo of music and warm lobby lights fading behind them like a door closing. And then it’s all Gotham.

 

This is the real Gotham, gray, cold, metallic. Streetlights flicker on every third block. Traffic lights glitch between green and yellow too fast. Steam pours from the rusted grates near. The sidewalks are alive with movement: people going home from work, others heading into the night for drinks, for dates, for distractions. They’re wrapped in scarves and coats and knit gloves, laughing or shouting or just moving, completely unaware that something terrible might be happening not far from here.

 

Bruce sees none of it. Or rather, he sees all of it, but nothing registers.

 

Each intersection is a delay. Each red light a wall. Each cab that cuts in front of them another moment longer away from the manor. The distance feels impossible.

 

And yet they move. The city slides past the windows like a painting, neon signs, rundown diners, the glow of the financial district buildings humming too bright against the night sky. A flickering billboard shows a luxury watch ad right above a shelter with shattered windows. Gotham is a contradiction. It always has been.

 

They hit the Midtown Bridge and roll over it fast. Bruce doesn’t speak. Cass doesn’t either.

 

Every second feels louder than the last. Every bump in the road a jolt up his spine.

 

His mind is spiraling.

 

Pulling apart the week like pages from a folder, flipping through interactions like case notes, and finding….nothing. Not nothing. Just not enough.

 

He hasn’t really seen Tim this week. Not really. A conversation about the Iceberg Lounge two nights ago. A passing mention in the cave. Was it Monday when they crossed paths in the training room? Or Tuesday? He can’t remember.

 

Had Tim looked tired? Was he limping? Was he eating?

 

Bruce closes his eyes for a second, and it all starts to slip together, blurred memories stacked like cold files.

 

He’d asked Tim how he was.

 

Tim had said, “Fine.”

 

Fine.

 

He had said it like he always did. With that same strained, flat tone. Not angry. Not sarcastic. Not emotional. Just... neutral. Distant. And Bruce let it go.

 

Of course he did. It was normal. It was routine.

 

It was easy.

 

Tim always says he’s fine.

 

Bruce opens his eyes again. The city is darker now, taller buildings, fewer people. They're nearing the older industrial part of town now, cutting through the quickest route to the manor. The city thins out into abandoned factories, crumbling warehouses, buildings where streetlights have long since died.

 

The car is silent but for the engine.

 

Bruce grips the edge of his seat.

 

Why didn’t he press harder?

 

Why didn’t he see something?

 

He should have known. He should have. He’s Batman, he’s supposed to be able to tell when something is wrong. That’s what he’s trained his whole life to do.

 

But that’s the thing about Tim, isn’t it?

 

Tim doesn’t act out.

 

He doesn’t scream or throw things or storm off. He vanishes. Quietly. Slowly. He says “fine” and stops sleeping. He says “don’t worry about it” and starts skipping meals. He says “I’ve got it handled” and pulls back until no one can reach him anymore.

 

And Bruce let it happen.

 

He doesn't know what’s waiting at the manor. Doesn't know what state Tim is in, what happened.

 

He just knows that Barbara’s voice sounded controlled, but tight.

 

That Dick’s tone scared her.

 

That the words “something happened to Tim” are still echoing in his ears like a detonator that hasn’t gone off yet.

 

He thinks about the manor halls. Empty at night. The flicker of lights near the staircase Tim always forgets to turn off. How he doesn’t eat with the others unless someone explicitly calls him to. How the boy smiles with his mouth but not his eyes lately.

 

How did he miss it?

 

Bruce swallows hard.

 

The city disappears behind them now, replaced by the open stretch of road that leads to the hills, the long drive up to Wayne Manor still shadowed by trees and time. The streetlights are fewer here. The darkness more complete.

 

And Bruce feels like he’s about to fall off the edge of something.

 

It doesn't let up. Not even when they turn into the long driveway of the manor, gravel crunching beneath the tires, the familiar silhouette of home looming like a ghost against the dark sky.

 

As soon as the car stops, Bruce and Cass are out before it fully halts, doors thrown open, feet pounding the stone path with urgency that doesn’t need words.

 

Alfred parks quickly, no hesitation, already knowing where to go, what to do.

 

They all move in unspoken sync, like a long-practiced drill no one ever wanted to perfect.

 

The doors swing open. They pass the grand hallway, ignore the marble, the portraits, the old grandfather clock. Bruce doesn’t even remember unlocking it. He just hears the quiet click and the subtle grind of gears as the secret passage opens, and then they’re walking to the cave.

 

The Batcave, so large and silent and vast, and yet everything starts feeling small now.

 

Claustrophobic.

 

As if the air is denser here. Heavier. Unbreathable.

 

They run, feet hitting the metal stairs, boots slamming the grated floor. The med bay’s overhead lights are already on, too bright, sterile against the surrounding darkness of the cave. The shadows seem to cower back from them, retreating into corners.

 

Then Bruce sees it.

 

Dick is sitting in a chair beside the bed, doubled over, arms resting on his knees, head in his hands. He’s shaking, visibly shaking. His pupils are small, too small, like he’s gone into some kind of shock. His breathing is fast and shallow, mouth slightly open as he tries to pull air into lungs that won’t cooperate. He doesn’t even notice them arrive.

 

Dr. Hawkins is already there, her coat barely on, sleeves shoved up as she works with practiced, frantic hands. She’s securing an IV line into the crook of Tim’s arm, muttering something about vein stability, saline levels, vitals, but her voice is low, clipped. There’s urgency in every movement.

 

It feels like they arrived just minutes after she did.

 

Cass doesn’t wait. She moves fast, quiet, focused. She drops to her knees beside Dick and gently puts her hand on his shoulder, then his wrist, guiding him through a slow rhythm.

 

Inhale.

 

Exhale.

 

Again.

 

Dick’s hands are trembling. He nods weakly at her, his breath catching on the inhale, but he follows.

 

Meanwhile, Alfred is already glancing toward the cabinets, medical kits, drawers. He doesn’t need to be told. He knows what to grab.

 

But Bruce.

 

Bruce just stands there.

 

Because there he is.

 

Tim.

 

Lying still.

 

Hooked up to a heart monitor that beeps low and steady, a sound that cuts straight through Bruce like a knife made of static. The IV is in. The tubing leads to a saline bag hanging limp from the pole. Tim’s hand twitches once, barely noticeable.

 

He’s pale.

 

So pale.

 

There’s a tremor in his body that won’t stop, like his system is on the edge of collapse, shivering without consciousness. His lips are dry. His breathing shallow. He looks smaller somehow, younger, not just asleep, but absent. Fragile in a way Bruce never associates with him.

 

And the weight of the day hits him all at once.

 

It lands heavy in his chest, spreads across his back like iron.

 

He has seen this before.

 

Too many times.

 

He has seen his children in too many hospital beds.

 

He’s seen them pale and wired to machines, seen them broken and stitched and bleeding through gauze. He’s felt hearts stop, seen ribs be crushed, lungs collapse. He’s heard the silence after screaming stops.

 

He’s buried one.

 

Even if Jason is alive now, breathing and back and fighting, it still happened. Bruce still folded his hands across his chest. Still picked out a casket. Still stood beside a grave and heard the dirt fall.

 

He nearly buried more.

 

Cass. Damian. Stephanie. Dick. 

 

Tim.

 

There were nights they barely pulled through. Nights he sat in this very chair. Nights he walked away covered in someone else’s blood, their blood.

 

And he….

 

He can’t do it again.

 

He won’t do it again.

 

He moves to the bed slowly. Like if he goes too fast, it’ll all shatter. Like maybe this isn’t real yet. If he doesn’t blink, if he doesn’t speak, maybe it’s all just a scare. Maybe Tim will wake up in a few minutes and brush it off, say he forgot to eat, say he worked too long, say he overdid it on patrol.

 

Maybe this won’t be one of those nights.

 

But he knows better.

 

Dr. Hawkins doesn’t look at him. She’s still working, checking vitals, making notes on her datapad with tight, precise movements. She says something under her breath about dehydration, fatigue, cardiac strain.

 

And all Bruce hears is “Your fault”.

 

He was supposed to be paying attention.

 

He was supposed to notice when Tim stopped showing up. 

 

He was supposed to ask when the last time they talked was. Really talked. Not about the Iceberg Lounge, or that stolen tech in Burnley, or the schedule for patrol.

 

But about Tim.

 

How he’s doing. How he’s really doing.

 

He should have asked.

 

He should have seen it.

 

He should have….

 

He sits down.

 

Slowly.

 

Carefully.

 

On another chair next to the bed, next to the chair Dick has been using. He doesn't touch Tim. Not yet. Just looks at him.

 

Cass is still grounding Dick, whispering something that sounds like reassurance. Alfred is helping Dr. Hawkins now, quiet as ever, with his eyes fixed on Tim. And Bruce just stares.

 

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t curse. Doesn’t even breathe too loudly.

 

Because right now, Bruce Wayne doesn’t feel like a father, or a man, or a hero.

 

He feels like a failure.

 

He doesn’t pray.

But if he did, he would.

Right now, he would.

 

He would pray for Tim to open his eyes.

To speak.

 

To wake up.

He would beg for one more chance to get it right.

 

But all he can do is sit there.

 

All he can do is be Bruce Wayne.

 

And right now, being Bruce Wayne feels less like a life and more like a curse.

 

Chapter 4

Summary:

What does surviving even mean when it’s not what you wanted?

 

Are you even alive if the only thing in your chest is emptiness?

Notes:

Can't you tell he is a dramatic Jane Austen reader just by his thoughts? Because I sure can. Honestly out of everyone I think I had the most fun writing Jason (Tim is just depressing), I get to use my more poetic side while keeping free thought, and stuff I kinda just personally wanted to, Jason is such a complex yet straightforward character that I love to use in stories. depending on how much I expand myself and how much energy I have I'll add more than the 9 original chapters I was planning to so yay.

Next chapter is Damian's POV, which I'm looking forward, as I want to practice my formal speech/writing.

Hope you enjoy!

Surviving it's a curse

---

 

The night was calm, surprisingly so.

 

Even for Gotham.

 

No echoing gunshots down back alleys, no sirens cutting through the air every twenty minutes. The usual chorus of muggings, car thefts, and “general Gotham insanity” was playing at a much lower volume tonight.

 

It was the kind of quiet that would’ve made most people relax.

 

Jason didn’t trust it for a second.

 

He had to change up his usual route, too, something that already had him in a foul mood. He liked his pattern. It worked. He knew where to go, who to keep an eye on, and which back doors to kick in when the mood struck. But no. Tonight, he had company. And company meant adapting.

 

The demon spawn was riding shotgun on patrol.

 

Jason shot a sideways glance toward the kid, who was perched on a rooftop ledge like he owned it. Damian was scanning the streets below, posture stiff and focused, his expression caught somewhere between bored and coiled.

 

Jason sighed.

 

There went his plans for a lazy swing through Crime Alley, his favorite part of patrol. Crime Alley was simple, straightforward. Full of muggers who didn’t know better and mobsters who should have known better. He could work out his frustrations there, get a few good hits in, and call it a night feeling lighter.

 

But no.

 

With Damian in tow, there were rules. Rules Jason normally ignored, but the image of Dick finding out he’d taken the kid to Crime Alley to “loosen him up” kept flashing in his head.

 

He could hear the shouting already.

 

The lecture.

 

The way Dick’s voice would go up half an octave when he was pissed.

 

Jason liked pissing off Bruce. Hell, sometimes he lived for it. But Dick? No, that was a whole other headache. The guy could guilt-trip you into next week without even raising his voice. And when it came to the kid, Dick’s protective streak made Bruce look like an amateur.

 

Jason wasn’t about to poke that bear tonight.

 

So instead of drifting toward his usual haunts, he took them in the opposite direction, cleaner streets, better lighting, places where the biggest crime you might run into was an over-parked SUV or some drunk trying to climb a fire escape.

 

It wasn’t exciting.

 

It wasn’t even particularly necessary.

 

But it kept the night moving.

 

And, more importantly, it kept him out of Dick’s line of fire.

 

Jason rolled his shoulders, adjusting the weight of his jacket, and scanned the next block over. He could feel Damian’s eyes flick toward him briefly, like the kid was silently judging his every move. Jason didn’t mind. He’d been judged by worse.

 

Still... he couldn’t shake the itch under his skin. The itch that came from not getting to throw a single punch in the last hour.

 

They moved across the next rooftop without a word, Jason landing heavier than he needed to, boots thudding against the gravel, while Damian barely made a sound. Typical. The kid had been trained to be silent.

 

Jason let the quiet stretch for a while. He figured if Damian had something to say, he’d say it. The kid didn’t believe in small talk.

 

But sure enough, after they paused near the edge of the building to scan the street below, Damian broke the silence.

 

“You’ve altered your route,” he said, his tone flat but accusing, like Jason had committed some sort of offense.

 

Jason smirked under the helmet. “Observant.”

 

“It’s inefficient.” Damian shifted slightly. “We are wasting time patrolling low-crime zones when there are active hotspots elsewhere.”

 

Jason leaned an elbow on the ledge. “Yeah, and those active hotspots are places you’re not allowed to go. At least, not when you’re with me.”

 

Damian shot him a glare that could probably curdle milk. “You are not my father.”

 

“Thank God for that,” Jason said, chuckling. “But I am the one responsible for you tonight, and I don’t feel like explaining to Wing why I let you poke around Crime Alley. So congratulations, kid, we’re on the scenic route.”

 

Damian’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “You assume I can’t handle myself.”

 

“I know you can handle yourself,” Jason said, scanning the block below for movement. “That’s not the point.”

 

“Then what is the point?”

 

Jason sighed, pushing off the ledge. “The point is, if anything happens to you on my watch, I’ll have a very angry Nightwing to deal with. And unlike B, Wing doesn’t brood when he’s pissed, he lectures. For hours. And I’m not in the mood for that tonight.”

 

Damian tilted his head, considering that, then said, “You fear him.”

 

Jason barked out a laugh. “I respect him. There’s a difference. Fear is for people I don’t understand. Wing? I understand exactly what he’s capable of when someone screws with his family. So yeah, I’m not gonna give him a reason to come after me.”

 

Damian didn’t reply right away. He just adjusted his stance, eyes back on the street.

 

“Besides,” Jason added, “this route’s not a total waste. We still might run into something. Muggers, drunks, maybe a car thief if we’re lucky. And you can still get your training in without anyone pulling a knife on you.”

 

Damian’s expression flickered, barely. Just for a second. Like he wanted to fire back with some biting remark but couldn’t quite land on a solid counterpoint. 

 

So yeah, patrol was rolling along quietly, nothing worth writing home about, when the comm in his helmet crackled to life.

 

That was strange. He wasn’t expecting anyone to call in tonight. Not unless there was something big.

 

And yeah, he could ignore it, but you didn’t ignore Barbara Gordon unless you had a death wish.

 

He tapped the side of his helmet. “Oracle?”

 

He kept his tone casual, but anyone who knew him well would hear the slight shift under it, the unspoken Is something up?

 

Not that most people could tell. The helmet’s voice modulator stripped the edges from his words, made them sound as flat and even as he wanted.

 

Barbara didn’t waste time. “I don’t know the details, but something happened to RR. You need to get to the med bay in the cave. Now.”

 

Jason froze for half a second, mid-step.

 

Something.

 

Okay.

 

Okay, probably nothing big.

 

Tim didn’t even go on patrol tonight, hell, as far as Jason knew, he hadn’t gone out all week. What could’ve happened? Maybe he passed out at the computer again. Wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe he tripped on something in the cave. Or fell off the T. rex display, he’d done that before.

 

But the pit in Jason’s gut wasn’t buying it.

 

How was he supposed to tell Damian without making the kid think Tim was weak? Damian respected Tim in his own way, but the kid could turn a crack in the armor into a full weakness assessment in seconds. Jason wasn’t going to hand him that.

 

First step: calm down.

 

He could feel it, the Lazarus Pit, that creeping, unwelcome burn that crawled up his spine when panic started to set in. It made his blood feel hotter, his breath feel heavier, his fists itch for a fight.

 

Not tonight.

 

Not now.

 

He slowed his breathing, counting it out the way he’d learned to when the Pit tried to get its claws into him. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. Keep the rhythm steady.

 

Beside him, Damian’s head turned slightly, probably catching the shift in Jason’s body language. The kid had a radar for that kind of thing, like a hawk sizing up prey.

 

“Coming,” Jason finally said into the comm. His voice was flat, businesslike. No extra weight.

 

Damian didn’t buy it for a second.

 

“I take it something happened in the Batcave?” the kid asked, his tone just as neutral, but sharper.

 

Jason’s jaw twitched under the helmet. This kid is too damn observant for his own good.

 

“Yeah, kiddo,” he said after a beat, trying to keep it casual. “We have to go. Sorry, we can’t finish patrol today.”

 

Damian didn’t miss a step as they started moving back toward the bikes, but Jason caught the way his grip tightened on the handle of his sword.

 

“I suppose it is to be expected for those buffoons we call brothers to not go a day without making a fool of themselves,” Damian replied smoothly. “But as the Robin in turn, it makes sense for me to go check it out.”

 

Jason huffed through his nose. “Sure, kid. Whatever makes you feel like this isn’t just me calling the shots.”

 

It was easier to keep his tone dry than to admit that he could hear the thread of worry buried under Damian’s words. It was faint, so faint that anyone who didn’t know the kid well would miss it entirely, but Jason had been in enough tight spots with him to recognize the signs.

 

The slightly more formal phrasing. The deliberate control in his voice. The way his chin lifted just a fraction higher than usual, like he was bracing for bad news before it hit.

 

Most people wouldn’t notice.

 

Jason noticed.

 

And he didn’t like it.

 

“Come on,” he said, kicking up the pace as they hit the last rooftop before the alley where they’d stashed the bikes. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we figure out what’s going on.”

 

Damian didn’t answer this time. He just vaulted the gap to the next roof in one smooth motion, landing light and fast. Jason followed, heavier and louder, but didn’t bother to make it a competition. Not tonight.

 

They hit the alley where the bikes were stashed. Jason swung a leg over his, the familiar weight of it settling back into place, the low hum of the engine kicking to life under his gloves. Damian was already on his own bike, visor down, posture stiff and focused.

 

They didn’t waste time.

 

The moment they turned out of the alley, the city swallowed them.

 

Gotham was awake, as always, her lights and shadows shifting like some restless animal. Streetlamps flickered along cracked sidewalks, storefronts half-closed but still leaking neon into the streets. The smell of wet asphalt mixed with smoke from some late-night food stand down the block. A couple stumbled out of a bar on 9th, laughing too loudly for the hour. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed low and long before fading into nothing.

 

Jason guided the bike through the streets like muscle memory, weaving through the narrow turns and uneven pavement, each bump vibrating up through his arms. The engine’s rumble was steady, a deep growl that cut through the otherwise thin quiet. Damian followed just behind, his smaller bike zipping through gaps with the precision of someone who refused to make mistakes.

 

They passed the more polished parts of the city first, those glass-and-steel towers that pretended Gotham was respectable. Then came the older districts, where brick buildings hunched close together and graffiti coated every available surface. Here, the city felt truer. More honest. More like the Gotham Jason knew, the one that raised him and tried to kill him in the same breath.

 

And as they cut through it, Jason’s mind kept drifting back.

 

Maybe he and Tim didn’t talk much. Hell, maybe they barely got along most of the time. Tim had a way of looking at him, like he was analyzing, weighing, deciding if Jason was worth the trouble. And Jason… Jason had a habit of poking at him, pushing buttons just to see what would happen.

 

But none of that changed the fact that they were on the same side.

 

The same team.

 

Family.

 

And Jason knew Tim cared about him.

 

He knew it.

 

Not because Tim ever said it out loud, but because Tim had been the one who stepped up after Jason died. The one who put on the “Robin” mantle, kept the mission going, filled a gap no one wanted to admit was there.

 

And when Jason came back, broken, angry, poisoned by the Pit, it was Tim who took the hit. Took the blame. Tim who stood in the crossfire when Jason’s return threatened to tear everything apart.

 

He didn’t have to do that.

 

But he did.

 

So yeah, Jason cared too. Maybe it came from guilt. Maybe it came from some half-buried sense of loyalty he couldn’t shake. Maybe it was just the unspoken rule of the family: you look out for each other, no matter what’s gone down between you.

 

It didn’t matter why.

 

What mattered was that he cared.

 

Enough to push the bike a little faster.

Enough to want answers.

Enough to feel the knot in his gut tightening with every mile between them and the manor.

 

When they finally rolled into the hidden entrance of the Batcave, the echo of their engines bounced off the stone walls, filling the cavern with a low, throaty hum. Jason barely waited for the bikes to slow before swinging his leg over and planting his boots on the concrete.

 

The second his helmet tilted toward the med bay, he was moving.

 

Fast.

 

Damian’s lighter footsteps followed close behind, the kid keeping pace without a word, his smaller frame cutting sharp through the shadows as they wove past the towering equipment, the computers, the trophies of battles fought.

 

Jason hit the med bay first.

 

And froze.

 

Tim was there on the bed, wires and tubes tethered to him. A heart monitor kept time in steady, clinical beeps. Saline solution hung from an IV stand, the thin line snaking down to a needle taped into the crook of his arm. A breathing mask covered his mouth and nose, the faintest fog forming inside it with every exhale.

 

No blood. No bandages. No visible wound.

 

Just a body that looked like it had given up.

 

Tim’s skin was pale, almost colorless, the kind of pale that made veins stand out faintly along his wrist. There were deep shadows under his eyes, the kind that didn’t come from one bad night’s sleep but from weeks, months of it.

 

And yet… somehow, his face looked calm.

 

Or maybe that was just what happened when someone was too far gone to fight.

 

Jason’s eyes shifted.

 

Dick sat in the chair beside the bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He wasn’t shaking anymore, but his posture screamed he had been. His eyes were the worst, narrowed and far away, not fixed on anything in particular, like someone who’d just seen hell and hadn’t had time to process it yet. A soldier’s eyes.

 

Soldier.

 

Yeah. That’s what they all were, in the end.

 

Cass was next to him, her arm looped around Dick’s shoulders, grounding him without saying a word. She was still, but her gaze never left Tim, not once.

 

At the far end of the room, Alfred moved in that same efficient, precise way he always did under pressure. He was handing Dr. Hawkins instruments, unwrapping fresh packs of them. Every movement was neat, practiced.

 

And Bruce—

 

Bruce sat on the opposite side of the bed, so close that his knees nearly touched the frame. He leaned forward, elbows braced against his thighs, his head bowed slightly. His gaze was locked on Tim. Not moving. Not blinking. Just watching. The kind of watchfulness that felt heavy, like a storm building just out of sight.

 

Jason felt the Pit before he realized it.

 

It was in the tightening of his fists, the way the helmet suddenly felt too hot on his head. It was in the urge to do something, to rip the silence apart and force someone, anyone, to give him an answer.

 

The machines hummed. The heart monitor kept up its steady rhythm. Dr. Hawkins murmured something to Alfred about oxygen levels, her voice clipped and professional.

 

Jason didn’t hear the numbers.

 

His eyes were still on Tim.

 

On the faint twitch in his fingers.

 

On how damn small he looked in that bed.

 

He became aware, in that same moment, that he hadn’t moved since he walked in.

 

Still in the doorway.

 

Helmet still on.

 

Every muscle locked in place, like stepping further into the room might make all of this more real.

 

Damian’s voice cut in, sharp and demanding, from somewhere just ahead of him. The kid had moved closer to the bed, his shadow cast across the sheets.

 

“What happened to him?”

 

Bruce didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him.

 

The silence that followed was thick.

 

Damian tried again, the edge in his voice softening, barely. “Father, I demand you tell me what happened.”

 

Nothing.

 

Bruce stayed still.

 

The silence wasn’t just quiet, it was dense. Like the air in the room had weight now, pressing down on all of them.

 

Jason wanted to let it go, wanted to stand there and say nothing. But the question was already lodged in his throat, and something in him knew he wouldn’t be able to breathe until it came out.

 

He asked anyway.

“What happened to him, Dick?”

 

The words sounded too sharp in the room, like they didn’t belong here, like they’d slice straight through the sterile air if anyone touched them.

 

Dick looked up. Slowly.

 

His eyes were tired in a way that didn’t look temporary, like the exhaustion was carved into him now. Shock still lingered there, but dulled, like it had been sitting in his chest too long and was starting to sink instead of flare. For someone who was usually all movement and brightness, the stillness in him was unsettling.

 

His mouth opened once. Closed. Then opened again.

 

“He… he took…” He faltered, and for a moment Jason thought he might not say it at all. “He took the whole bottle of sleeping pills.”

 

His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, the word bottle catching like it had splintered in his throat.

 

“I don’t… I don’t know when,” he added, softer now, like admitting it out loud made it worse.

 

Jason didn’t say anything.

 

Dick’s gaze dropped, then rose again briefly before sliding away. His voice came out thinner, strained, like it was being pulled out of him piece by piece.

 

“I found him,” he said. “Curled up in the bathroom. The bottle was in his hand. Just… just lying there, Jason. He was—”

 

The words stopped, like his mind had hit a wall it didn’t want to go through.

 

Jason didn’t push.

 

Dick’s breath caught, a sharp inhale that shook all the way through him. His shoulders hunched forward, head bowing like gravity had finally gotten to him. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes for a second, but it didn’t stop the tears from slipping out.

 

“I should’ve noticed,” he whispered, not to Jason, not to anyone, just into the space between them. “He’s been different for weeks. I told myself he just needed space. That he was working. That it was fine.” His voice broke again, and he shook his head like he was trying to clear it. “It wasn’t fine. I just….”

 

He let out a sound that was half-breath, half-sob. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to pull Cass’s arm tighter around his shoulders.

 

Jason felt… numb.

 

Like the word had a physical form, crawling into his bones and turning everything inside him cold.

 

For a minute, there was nothing but the sound of machines and shallow breathing. His mind didn’t rush, didn’t flare up, didn’t throw him into the Pit. It just… stopped.

 

Shocked, maybe. Distraught, maybe. Or just too damn surprised for his body to figure out how to respond.

 

He became aware of things in fragments, like his own breathing. The way his ribs expanded and contracted with each inhale, like it was the only thing keeping him anchored. The beat of his heart, heavy and deliberate. The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The smell of antiseptic, sharp in his nose.

 

He looked at Tim again.

 

Still pale. Still hooked to the machines. Still here.

 

Alive.

 

Still alive.

 

He’d survived. At least so far.

 

And Jason’s stomach twisted with something he didn’t want to name.

 

Because he couldn’t stop thinking—

 

Why do the people who want to live… die?

 

And the ones who want to die… are forced to live?

 

It didn’t make sense. It had never made sense.

 

He thought of the people he’d lost, friends, family, strangers, people who fought like hell to stay alive, who begged for one more second, who clawed for it until their last breath, and still, no one got to them in time.

 

And then there was Tim.

 

Breathing now because a bottle hadn’t been enough, because Dick had walked in when he did, because fate, or whatever cruel hand ran this kind of game had decided he’d stay here a little longer. Not because Tim wanted to.

 

Jason knew that feeling.

 

He knew what it was to want to go and not get the chance, to have no one there in time to pull you out. He also knew what it was to wake up when you didn’t want to, to find yourself stuck in a body you didn’t ask to keep.

 

Tim was the opposite of him in every detail, and yet exactly the same.

 

Jason had wanted to live and died anyway.

Tim had wanted to die and lived anyway.

 

What does surviving even mean when it’s not what you wanted?

 

Are you even alive if the only thing in your chest is emptiness?

 

The questions burned in his head, but there weren’t any answers. Not here. Not now.

 

Jason stayed where he was, helmet still on, hands loose at his sides, feeling every beat of his heart like it was too loud in the silence.

 

Surviving wasn’t a blessing. It wasn’t a gift. It wasn’t even a second chance.

 

It was just something you carried, every damn day, because the choice had been ripped away from you.

 

And standing there, staring at Tim’s still face, Jason knew it as well as he knew his own name: 

 

Surviving is a curse.

 

 

Notes:

Heyy, gyess who's back after a year with a new fic? This guy! I honestly don't know how well it will be received, but I have great hopes for this, is just gonna be something short, But am pouring my heart out on this one.