Work Text:
I used to think I would spend every second I have
Right where my story began
I’d be happy here
Every day, month, year of my life
But now I’m wishing for whatever comes after goodbye
On every star in the sky
I’m dreaming of what I could become
Tim had left Gotham many times. In fact, one would consider him well-traveled if they looked at all the places that he had been. Despite his travels across the country, the world, and even the universe, Tim had never traveled just for himself. When he was young, his travels were small. A short journey to a nearby city for some gala or another that his parents wanted him to attend. The rides there and back were filled with his parents ignoring his existence unless to berate him for his behaviour. As he grew older and became Robin, his travels became training trips and missions. Sure, he got to travel further, but it's pretty hard to take in the scenery and locals when fighting for one's life. His latest travels outside of Gotham weren’t even worth mentioning, as he spent most of his time with a megalomaniac.
The one thing with all these travels was that he knew he would be coming back. Knew that a home, no matter how dangerous and dark, was waiting for him. He craved to be back in Gotham. He knew every street of the city, its high society, its crimes, and its protectors. His whole life had been planned around the city. It's where Drake Industries was, it was the location of the college his parents told him he was destined to attend, and it housed the vigilante he had sworn to protect. Everything in his life was in Gotham, and he couldn’t imagine actually leaving Gotham for real. Even when he lay broken and bleeding, Gotham was a part of him. Now, as he flew high in the sky away from the only home he had ever known, he couldn’t help but feel giddy. He, for once, had no real plan, simply knowing that he needed to leave. He had no role or job to fulfill. He simply needed to be.
This is where home will be
As long as my lungs can breathe
But my heart is dying to leave
‘Cause I know there’s more to me
Lying on his beach chair, skin slowly reddening, Tim glanced from the waves to the laptop in front of him. Open on the screen over a dozen tabs stared back at him. His eyes skimmed news headlines: “Wayne Industries in Upheaval After Teen CEO’s Resignation,” “Batman Not Seen for Weeks, Is the Caped Crusader Dead,” “The Secret Life of Timothy Jackson Drake”. A backdoor into the Justice League's systems reveals a meeting transcript detailing a vote on how to address mental health for heroes. It seemed that therapy would be mandatory for membership. A YouTube video recorded a heated argument between Nightwing and Red Hood. Their voices too far away to make out, but the end result being a shove off a rooftop. Live footage of the Batcave showed Bruce seated at the batcomputer, where he had been for the past week. The man’s eyes glued to the screen where a video of a young Tim’s training was playing. An email from Gotham Academy stated that one Damian Wayne was on suspension for violent behavior. The bats were dealing with the consequences of their own actions, and Tim couldn’t help but smile.
Pulling out a hard drive from his bag, Tim sipped from his smoothie as the laptop’s data was erased. Feet sinking into the sand, he walked slowly into the ocean water, its coolness a relief from the burning sun.
Over half of his life had been dedicated to Batman and his crusade. Bored, lonely eight-year-old Tim had taken a keen interest in the Bats of Gotham. Following their crusade gave him something to pass the time, and like with everything Tim did, he threw himself into it fully. At nine years old, he had figured out their identities and could be found chasing the heroes every night. He liked to pretend that he was a part of them, that he was a bat. At thirteen, he got that wish and learned the meaning of the phrase be careful what you wish for.
Truthfully, Tim knew that one day he would return to being a vigilante. He had put so much blood, sweat, and tears into being the best hero he could be, and he took pride in being that hero. That didn’t mean that he would ever be a bat again.
He was content with the havoc he had wreaked on those who had so consistently caused him pain, draining him of all his drive. It had been healing in a way to watch them deal with what they had done to him. But now he was ready to let them go. He was ready to move forward to see what more he could be.
With one final look at the laptop, at the connection to what could have been a family, Tim dropped it into the waves.
Bruce spent the first month that Tim was gone simply sitting in the cave. Batman did not patrol and Brucie Wayne was seen at no functions. Without Alfred’s diligent care, the man would have forgotten to sleep and eat, too wrapped in his thoughts. Bruce couldn’t bear to move; he couldn’t find the point. He had failed one of his sons once more. Instead, he obsessed over the boy he had lost.
The media uncovered further details about Tim that his data dump had not presented. They ran articles about the four consecutive wins Tim had in Gotham Academy’s Annual Art Fair for his photography, from ages thirteen to seventeen. These articles highlighted the lack of Wayne family attendance, in contrast to the near-complete Wayne attendance at Damian’s first entrance to the Art Fair this year. Bruce could only hold his head in his hands. He knew that Tim did photography, that's part of how they met, but he had never realized how dedicated Tim was to it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a memory niggled at him, a tiny Tim timidly approaching him, flyer in hand. The boy had barely gotten out the request for Bruce to come when he had growled at the child that he didn’t have time for meaningless events. The worst part was that the boy had apologized and promised to prioritize better.
More articles focused on Tim’s coming and goings. Pictures of Bruce Alfred, or even Dick, in more recent photos, taking Bruce’s various children to school and their extracurricular activities. All of his children featured, except Tim. These photos were followed by pictures of Tim on the public bus or skateboarding. Questions were thrown about why Tim was left to fend for himself. All Bruce could respond was that Tim hadn’t seemed to need any help; he was always so independent. Looking at a photo of a fourteen-year-old Tim skateboarding through Bristol, arm in a cast from a gang bust gone wrong, Bruce knew that wasn’t the truth. Tim had only seen responsible because his parents and Bruce had made him that way. He hadn’t wanted to have to worry about Tim. Hadn’t wanted to get too close after Jason. And even as that pain was no longer all-consuming, he still hadn’t bridged the gap. He hadn’t even known that Tim could skateboard.
He had had Tim in his care for years, even before he had legally become his. Yet looking over everything he had dumped and others had found, Bruce felt like he barely knew Tim. And the only one he could fault for that was himself. So there he sat in a quiet cave, grieving the loss of a boy, a son, he never even knew.
I don’t wanna live with “What ifs, might haves”
“Could have been if I had only tried, not held back”
Oh no, that’s not a part of my plan
That’s not the me that I, that’s not the me that I am
Tim doesn’t think the soup is supposed to look like this. A gloppy brown with specks of white and black, it is far from appealing. Glancing at his neighbors’ pots, he sees just how off his looks. Mentally, the boy shrugs. The teacher had given them a lot of leeway with this dish; it’s expected that they would look different. Tim had made sure to get all the essential food groups in the soup, no need to make even more dishes if you can get everything in one go. Besides, it all came down to taster.
“Oh my god,” the teacher gasped, having just taken a spoonful. “Alvin, what on Earth did you put in there?!”
Tim shrugs, “a little bit of everything. It's got some beef, spinach, potatoes, strawberries, chocolate, nutmeg…”
“No, just maybe next time try another recipe,” the teacher says, walking towards her desk and grabbing her glass of water.
Dipping his spoon into his soup, Tim takes a taste. It's no Alfred’s cooking, but geez, it's not that bad. Way better than the dishes Tim first made when he was left alone. And the dish was so efficient.
Ultimately, Tim decided when the class is done to note cooking as a maybe. He stares at his list of hobbies proudly.
Skateboarding, yes. Tim hadn’t been able to skate in a couple of years, at least not seriously. He was pleased to see that he still retained most of his skills.
Painting, no. He wasn’t sure if it was a matter of skill or the reminder of Damian, but Tim did not enjoy the class. Looking at the Great Wall and its surroundings, he found himself wanting to take a photo rather than finish the painting.
Dancing, maybe. His parents had insisted on dance lessons when he was young, preparing him for future galas. He hadn’t been half bad, and he’d retained some of the skills. The problem was that the salsa required him to work closely with his dance partner, and he just couldn’t get comfortable around the other.
Tim had spent so much time throwing himself into Robin, into the caped crusade, that he had found himself losing more and more of himself, with all that remained a good soldier. He gave up his hobbies, his education, his friends, the vigilante life was all there was for Tim.
Leaving it behind, he honestly wasn’t too sure what to do. Who was he now without the cape? He didn’t know, and so the list was compiled. He would work his way through, trying anything he could think of until he knew who Tim Drake is.
Dick felt defeated, but he couldn’t give up. He needed to find Tim, apologize, and somehow make things right. He wondered if this was how Tim felt on his quest for Bruce. God, his poor baby brother. He knew things hadn’t been perfect between them, but he never thought it was this bad. Looking back, he should have known.
“How could you?”
That simple question haunts Dick. Muttered with such an absolute look of betrayal, Dick had no good answer for Tim. He had tried to explain that Damian needed Robin, that Tim was his equal, not his Robin, but none of it seemed to register to his little brother.
“Why don’t you believe me?”
Tim looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and for all Dick knew, he hadn’t. Dick knew what grief looked like, how it felt. He couldn’t say how many times he had hoped, tried to believe, that Jason hadn’t died. But he had seen Bruce’s body, the entire Justice League knew he was dead. Dick was drowning under the weight of Batman and caring for Damian, he didn’t have the time or energy to entertain Tim’s delusions.
“Are you going to do anything?”
Damian had once again insulted Tim. Dick couldn’t even remember what exactly he had said that time; he used too many insults to track. And Dick, well, Dick was tired. He knew what Damian said was wrong and had been trying to teach him better. But compared to the "don’t murder or maim" lessons, this one just didn’t carry the same importance. Bruce would be back soon. Tim had brought the necessary evidence. The man could take some of this burden, and then they could work on Damian’s lesser issues.
As Tim’s questions haunted him, a soundtrack of his own failures, Dick added one of his own. What if he had done better?
What if he hadn’t taken Robin, had believed Tim, had curbed Damian? Would Tim still be here?
Silence was his only answer.
This time there’s no looking back (no looking back)
I’m crossing things off my list (crossing things off my list)
Don’t wanna run out of time before I wake up and find
There was a life that I missed
My limit doesn’t exist
“I’m sorry, sport, but our proposal for the dig in Greece just went through, so we will be heading straight there. We will see you in three months.”
“Honestly, Timothy, enough with the pouting. Your father and I were offered an amazing opportunity in Peru. This is for the good of the company. We will celebrate your birthday when we get back.”
“Hello Tim, your parents wanted me to let you know that they are extending their trip as the Chinese government has granted their request. They say they have deposited your allowance in your account and to behave.”
Throughout his childhood, his parents had been jetting around the world, leaving him alone at home. Each place they visited, they would send him a postcard. A quickly scribbled note stating how much they were discovering and a warning to behave. Little Tim had held these postcards close to his heart, a link to his distant parents. He carefully stored them in a scrapbook, pulling it out when he felt lonely. As he grew, the postcards became a source of anger. All he was worth to his parents was a 99-cent postcard you could get anywhere? Fine, he didn’t need them anyway. The scrapbook was pushed to the back of the closet.
And then his parents were gone. He honestly didn’t know how to feel. He knew he should be devastated, but he wasn’t. He barely knew them; they weren’t home long enough for him to. And when they were home, they were more often than not mad at him. Instead, he felt more of a longing for what could have been. He had pulled out the postcard scrapbook and flipped through, imagining what it would have been like if he had gone with them. If he had the chance to experience these places beyond a single photo.
Setting up his camera to the just-right settings, Tim double-checked the postcard in his hand to ensure it was perfect. When he had started his travels, he had been wandering aimlessly, going wherever there was a flight to. That changed as he stared out at a square in Italy, something about it niggling at his brain. It wasn’t until he was about to leave that he realized why. Pulling out the old scrapbook, he flipped to the page he needed. There it was, five years prior, his parents had visited here and sent him a postcard of this exact square. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to, but Tim set up his camera to capture the same shot as the postcard, but this time with him in the photo. Once developed, he placed it beside the postcard he had received years ago.
And now here he was, making his way through the years of postcards his parents had sent him. Retracing their footsteps, but experiencing it himself. He still doesn’t know how to feel towards them, it's still too complicated, but this, this project it feels settling.
Jason often wondered what his life would have been like if he hadn’t died. He would have graduated high school, gone on to college, and gotten an English degree. He probably still would have fought with Bruce, the two were already splitting on ideals before his death, but it would be nowhere near as bad as it was now. He wouldn’t wake up nearly every night from nightmares, his eyes flashing green as he gripped the bathroom sink, looking at his reflection, trying to ground himself. In all his musings, he never once thought about what his relationship with Tim might have been. Now, though, as the boy who should’ve been his brother was missing, gone after launching a grenade at the bats, it was all he could think of.
Would he have accepted Tim as a brother? He had been so mad at how Dick had initially treated him, vowing to himself that he would never do to anyone what Dick had done to him. And sure enough, he had kept that promise; he did worse. But in another life, maybe he would have been the big brother he himself had wanted.
He would have taught Tim all the tricks of being Robin, handed down the mantle when he was ready to spread his wings. Helped the kid with his English homework. Tim may be great at writing reports, but deeper digging revealed some awful literature comprehension. He could take him around Crime Alley, comparing all the best places to hide. Jason had been shocked to realize just how much time Tim had spent in the Alley while Jason himself had been Robin, the little stalker.
A bang sounds off to his left. Gotham has been teeming with crime ever since Tim left. A mix of the rogues realizing the Bats were down a man and the loss of Tim’s manpower and brains left all the Bats running around to exhaustion. Jason didn’t have time to ponder.
Besides, he knew that all his musings were for nothing. He did die, he did attack Tim, and Tim did leave. He needed to figure out how to move forward with that.
I don’t wanna live with “What ifs, might have”
“Could have been if I had only tried, not held back”
Oh no, that’s not a part of my plan
That’s not the me that I am
No “What ifs,” regrets were my strengths and weakness
I would hide my feelings
Oh no, that’s not a part of my plan
That’s not the me that I am
Rushing across a rooftop, Tim lets out a laugh. Pru gives him a look of disbelief, but he ignores her. It's been well over a year since he last flew, and he had forgotten how freeing it could be. He hadn’t felt this way in years, well before even Damian came on the scene.
Pru, one of the only people Tim had let know where he was, had approached him for a job. She had been working freelance gigs ever since Tim had blown up the league bases and had been contacted to get a kidnapped kid back. Tim was only too happy to help.
Some light hacking, possible treason, and he had quickly located the girl and her captors. It felt just like riding a bike.
He had kept up his training as much as he could while off on his adventures, but as time passed, he did find himself missing the hero life. He may have gotten into it because he was trying to save Bruce and the legacy of Robin, but over time, he had come into his own. His time away had only served to remind him of the things he liked about the job, things the bats had slowly chipped away over time.
The little girl was cowering in the corner. Pru still fought the remaining men in the background, but Tim was focused on her.
“It’s ok, Katie, you’re safe now,” he said in reassurance. “Your parents sent us. We’re going to get you home. Everyone has missed you terribly.”
A tiny body slams into his as full-body sobs erupt from the girl. He rubs her back, muttering soothing words. Tim feels a warmth he hasn’t felt in a long time.
“Not terrible for someone who has been out of the game,” Pru says next to him.
Tim remains silent for a long time, watching the family's tearful reunion below.
“It’s time I go back.” He said not just to Pru but to himself.
“To the bats? That's a terrible idea.”
“No, not the bats. To Gotham. It's time I go home. Show them just who Tim Drake is.”