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Tim’s Grandmother had died at the start of summer when he was nine. It was an unassuming day, completely random to anyone who dared to look into it. His parents had been in Gotham for her death, and her funeral had been a mere two days after. Nobody looked surprised.
The weather had been dark and cold, as was normal for Gotham. Tim’s suit was stiff and heavy around him, the mourners staring somberly as the coffin was lowered into the ground. The funeral had panned out without a hitch, bookings made months in advance and speeches well rehearsed.
Tim stared at the ornate tombstone.
His Grandmother had always said she wouldn’t live past sixty. She had stated it, like it was stone cold fact. And she had been right.
The Drakes were cursed. Cursed to know the day they died.
Tim’s Grandmother had lived for sixty years. His father would live for forty three years, his mother thirty nine. There was a pattern there, one Tim didn’t like to think about. But he knew, no matter how much he tried to ignore it, he knew when he would die.
Seventeen felt too short a life to live.
Shortly after his parents left Gotham, Tim bought a camera using his parents credit card and started to follow Batman and Robin. It would be dangerous for any other nine year old, following the duo through Gotham’s crime ridden streets, but Tim was different. Tim was cursed. He knew with a certainty that he’d make it through each night, that he wouldn’t die from the criminals he encountered nor the stray bullets that flew through the air.
Tim had watched, eyes wide and finger scrambling on his camera to snap a picture, as Robin flipped through the air - once, twice, three and four times. A quadruple flip. He connected the dots. Dick Grayson, the little boy from the circus that his parents had visited before he was born, the only surviving member of the flying Graysons and the only one in this hemisphere able to do that flip, was Robin. And if he was Robin, then Bruce Wayne was Batman.
Tim watched from the shadows as the duo fell apart and fought, as Dick left the Robin mantle to make a new name for himself as Nightwing. As a new Robin donned the suit - Jason Todd.
Jason flew through the air, fought with a ferocity that Tim admired and sympathised with the victims they encountered more than the Robin before him. He became Tim’s Robin, the one he thought of when the hero was brought up. He hadn’t created the mantle, but he had managed to make the role his own.
Then Jason and Bruce had fought, and Jason had ran to Ethiopia, looking for his biological mother. And then Jason Todd had died.
Seventeen years is a very short life to live, Tim thought to himself through the grief, but fifteen was even shorter.
He stood in the rain on the day Jason was buried, soaked to the bone and shivering so hard his teeth chattered.
Tim would be fine though, he knew. He still had four years left to live.
Batman was violent in the wake of Robin’s death.
He’d left the Joker in a full body cast, and yet the man had only laughed through the pain, not a hint of fear to be found. Maybe he knew when he would die too, Tim wondered. Or maybe he just didn’t care.
Even the most common of thieves didn’t get away from the Bat without broken bones. Bruce was spiralling, and Tim had to do something.
A visit to the circus to find Dick, a meeting with Alfred at Wayne Manor and a rogue attack from Two-Face and Tim had a solution.
Tim became Robin.
He flew by Batman’s side, fighting criminals and toeing the line between life and death. This is how he would die, Tim would think. Taken down by a criminal after so many years of fighting. It would not be a bad way to go.
And then he was at Titans Tower, the lights flashing a violent red, and a red helmet was all he could see from the shadows as a figure stalked towards him. There’s a puddle of res spreading underneath his body and this time Tim has to think, maybe the curse was wrong. Maybe he would die here, instead. It seemed likely.
The figure had removed their helmet, and Jason Todd had stared back at him. He had raged and sneered at Bruce, angry at the world and lashing out as if he had something to prove.
Tim didn’t let his eyes leave the figure, not until he was drifting off into unconsciousness, the words ‘Jason Todd was here’ written in his blood on the wall.
Janet Drake’s death was fast approaching. Tim knew it, Jack knew it and so did Janet. It hurt when she decided to spend her remaining time on her beloved dig sites, but Tim didn’t say anything.
The day before her death, Tim had hidden away in Drake Manor, already grieving, when he got the news. The Drakes had been kidnapped.
Dick had driven all the way to Drake Manor from Bludhaven, settled beside him in Tim’s blanket nest on the floor of his room and whispered him reassurances.
“Bruce is already tracking them down as we speak,” Dick said. “He’ll save them, Tim. They’ll be alright.”
Tim just turned away, squeezing his eyes shut tight as tears swam in his vision. Knowing, without a doubt, what the outcome of the mission would be. He had fallen asleep, curled up in Dick’s arms. And Tim had woken the next day to find Jack in a coma and Janet Drake dead.
Jack had woken up, recovered, had moved on from Janet as if she had been dead for years and life went on. Until it didn’t. Jack found out about Tim being Robin, and then he wasn’t anymore and Steph took over. Tim didn’t understand why he’d been made to quit. It wasn’t like he would die from it. Not yet, at least.
Jack tried to be a good parent. Tried. They yelled back and forth, voices echoing throughout the house as they argued. Jack had months left to live. They both wasted them, anyway.
And then Tim was Robin, but Jack was dead.
Tim had tried to change his fate exactly once in his life. His parents were dead, and he didn’t want to go down like them. So, he tracked down John Constantine.
The pub was small and quiet in the afternoon, but in the back corner, tucked into a small booth, Constantine sat.
Tim slid into the seat opposite him.
“What's one of Batsy’s lot doing sniffing around here, eh?” Constantine said, looking unamused. “Thought I told ‘im to bugger off.”
Tim was surprised that he was recognised out of costume, but he shook it off. There were more important things to focus on “It's not official bat business.” Tim pulled out a wad of cash. “And I pay well.”
Constantine raised a brow. “Well, colour me intrigued.” He leaned closer. “What can I do for ya?”
“I need a curse broken.”
Constantine eyed him curiously, before shrugging. “Deal. Now, tell me ‘bout this curse.”
Tim shuffled in his seat. “Its - well its been in my family for generations. Every one of them died on the same day, in the year they were born knowing they would die in. And I - I’ve got two years left to live.”
John Constantine looked impressed. “That’s a complicated little spell, that.” He frowned, opened his mouth as if he was about to say something and then shut it again. “Let me have a look - might wanna close your eyes for this bit.”
Constantine held his hands out in front of him, and Tim screwed his eyes shut. He could see the faintest hints of the yellow glow of Constantine’s magic through his eyelids, feel the warmth of the magic wash over him.
“Bloody hell,” Constantine swore.
Tim’s eyes snapped open. “What?”
Constantine looked at him, a hint of pity in his eyes. “There ain’t no breaking that curse, kid.” He stared down into his drink. “Nothing I can do to help.”
Tim slumped back into his seat. It was almost expected, really. Why would Tim be able to escape the curse that had killed every other Drake?
“You telling the Bat?” Constantine asked.
Tim shook his head, sliding the wad of cash across the table. “No. Thanks for trying.”
It hadn’t worked. Tim had two years left to live.
Steph died next. And then Kon. Then Bart. And Bruce. It was a downward spiral towards the end, Tim realised as he counted the days between now and that dreaded last day marked on his calendar in red. Everyone Tim loved was dying around him, and the last victim would be him. At least, Tim thought, they wouldn’t have to grieve him. At least in death they were spared from the pain.
It was desperation that had him clinging onto that painting in the Manor with all his hope. If he was to die, if he had only months left to live, then he would use them to get Bruce back. It was only fair.
Paris, Berlin. The assassin trio that followed him. The cave, the Council of Spiders. They passed in a blur, nothing but another thing to check off his list, another step that would take him closer to his death. And then Ra’s’ bases were up in flame and he was rushing back to Gotham.
There was a weight in his chest as he fought Ra’s. Today was the day he died. The same day that every Drake died.
Tim tore apart Ra’s’ plan. Stop the assassinations, take Wayne Enterprises away from Hush. He’d saved Bruce from the timestream and then he’d saved his business from Ra’s al Ghul.
Tim’s side hurt, blood pouring down his face. But it would be over soon. “Even if you kill me now, I’ve made sure he won’t be able to transfer anything to you. You’ve lost, Ra’s.”
Ra’s scowled. “Well done, Detective.”
Tim was kicked out of the window, and couldn't even bring himself to feel surprised.
He fell, and nobody caught him.