Chapter Text
Timothy Drake-Wayne was haunted by the scent of eucalyptus. That relaxing, comforting minty-pine scent, tangy and crisp, with just a bit of sweetness, always made him think of home and love and kindness. It haunted his thoughts, his dreams, his night patrols, leaving him breathless whenever it filled his lungs. He knew it would haunt his future, too. It was a scent that he loved so dearly and longed for so desperately that his entire being ached in craving, eager to catch just the slightest whiff at any given opportunity.
It was the haunting scent that first greeted Tim when Dick opened the door of his Bludhaven apartment that night.
“Tim? What are you doing all the way here?” Dick asked him with a concerned frown.
The question hit Tim strangely. When was the last time his presence in Bludhaven was considered such a peculiarity to illicit inquiry? He could not remember and that fact was at the root of Tim’s concerns.
The signs were all plain to see. Dick’s hair was disheveled, his hands having clearly run through those soft strands numerous times the past few hours. There were dark circles under his eyes, a slight redness to his sclera, and his too large sleeping clothes — a white shirt, a navy colored Superman hoodie, and simple gray pajama pants — were far too wrinkled. He also wore his indoor socks — the Batman-themed ones that Dick refused to “soil its coziness” by wearing it anywhere but his apartment; it was a comfort item Dick was drawn to whenever troubles plagued his mind.
And yet, though the exhaustion marred his features, Dick still looked stunning as the warm light of his apartment embraced him from behind, giving his features and figure a soothing allure. Then again, Tim suspected that there would never be a time when he gazed upon Dick Grayson and was not left in awe of his beauty.
Tim tried his best to give Dick a reassuring smile.
“It’s Tuesday, Dick.”
Dick’s eyes widened. His cheeks were suddenly dusted with a cute rosy color that caused Tim’s heart to swell.
“Oh! Oh, of course! I…” Dick stepped aside, gesturing for Tim to come inside. “I completely lost track of time! Didn’t realize what day it was. Sorry, Baby Bird. I’ll make us something warm to drink and then… Then we can order the pizza? Or would you rather go out?”
The scent of eucalyptus reigned with might inside Dick’s apartment; as Tim crossed the threshold into its territory, it took far too much self-control not to succumb to its allure by taking a long, noticeable and far too indulgent inhale.
“We can stay in today,” Tim avoided giving Dick’s socks a pointed look. “I’m in the mood to just relax at home.”
Dick nodded in agreement. To anyone other than a Bat, his relief would have been well-disguised.
At seven o’clock on a mid-autumn night, Dick’s living area showed all the signs of a restless mind. The dinning-room table was covered by his laptop, papers, maps, a legal pad, and four different pencils with no sharpener in sight. There was a fluffy queen-sized blue-and-black blanket draped over the rightmost seat of the thread couch, and another red-and-black one — just as fluffy and just as big — bundled on top of the middle seat; usually, both items would have been neatly folded beneath the coffee table. The curtains were drawn shut, Dick’s phone charged by the TV, screen faced down, and a pillow was propped against the couch’s armrest. In the kitchen sink, a sauce pan still encrusted with oatmeal soaked with some green eucalyptus-scented dish-soap. Dick’s only other meal in the last twenty-four hours appeared to have been the half a package of mass-produced shortbread cookies still sitting on top of the counter.
Tim walked further into the space, his hands going inside his pockets. He knew it. He knew that the last case with Scarecrow had gotten under Dick’s skin, he knew that the effects of Crane’s latest Fear Toxin strain still lingered despite the antidote having long been administered.
Usual protocol required surveillance of those inflicted by Crane’s concoction for at least a fortnight. It was a precaution instilled into Batman’s operandi before Tim became Robin as a way to ensure no side-effects would develop without someone’s notice. And while yes, Dick had undergone those two weeks of mandatory observations in the Manor, Tim had been surprised when Bruce agreed to let him return to Bludhaven without insisting on further tests or treatment.
No, “surprise" was not the right word for it. Tim had been baffled and horrified and outraged to the point that even Alfred was caught off-guard by his outburst. Though his cheeks warmed with shame when he thought of how his worry for Dick manifested in such an explosive tirade, Tim knew he was well justified in anger towards Bruce. Considering Dick’s unusual relationship with Fear Toxin and how strong his reaction had been this time and considering how distant Dick had become since he woke up after the antidote had been administered, could Tim really be blamed for worrying about his brother, his friend, his partner, his—
It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because people’s movements, Tim had discovered very early in life, were usually as predictable as clocks. It was easy, through detached observation, to learn exactly what made a person tick, what winded them up, and how one could tinker with the cogs and springs to achieve any desired outcome. And if people and the world were like clocks with gears, then Tim was an expert clockmaker; there was not a mechanism he couldn’t understand, not a gear he couldn’t manipulated with his tools to achieve his desired outcome. As long as he remained in control, nothing was beyond repair for him.
If Dick still wasn’t alright, as it was clearly the case, then Tim would do everything in his power to do what Bruce didn’t and help him get better.
“Would you prefer tea or coffee?” Dick asked after having locked the door behind him. He headed to the kitchen, opening a cabinet and picking up two mugs. He seemed to have forgotten about the one sitting in front of a pushed-out dining chair, still half-filled with cold tea.
“Do you even have to ask?”
Dick snorted.
“According to Alfred, it’s polite to do so,” he replied. “No cream or sugar, either, I suppose. Just plain bitter coffee, right?”
“If I wanted to have something sweet, I’d have a milkshake or a hot chocolate,” Tim walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. He itched to brush away the hair strands that gently fell over Dick’s eyes in such an unfairly pretty manner. Even as the smell of coffee grew stronger when Dick opened the pot filled with gourmet beans, it was still the scent of eucalyptus that Tim’s mind grasped at. “Adding all that stuff ruins the taste of a well-brewed cup.”
“And that’s why people call you a coffee-snob,” Dick laughed.
Despite his words, Dick still put the coffee beans in the grinder Tim had only mentioned once in a conversation months ago. Thought Tim doubted Dick ever used the little machine for himself or his other guests, it, along with the Tim’s favorite gourmet Arabica coffee beans, was always brought out whenever the younger man visited.
Tim shrugged unapologetically, “it’s called having good taste.”
“Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
“It’s not like you ever complained. Didn’t you say that Elisa’s Brew serves the best coffee you ever had?”
“I never denied that your snobbery didn’t yield results,” Dick set the kettle to boil. “It’s just that it makes it harder for us, poor peasants, to brew a cup that fits your standards.”
“You’re getting there. You certainly got the technique down.”
“Now it’s only a matter of perfecting it, right?”
“Right. Oh, and speaking of snobs,” Tim reached for the short bread cookie package. “You know how disappointed Alfred caught you eating these?”
“Are you calling Alfred a snob?” Dick raised an eyebrow.
“When it comes to baking? Absolutely.”
Dick laughed. It was an honest, joy filled laugh that stole Tim’s breath away. He wanted pull Dick into his arms, to kiss him, to swallow that enchanting sound until it filled every empty space inside of him.
The kettle screeched. Dick set it aside to rest before grabbing his two stainless-steel pour-over cones.
“You’re having coffee too?” Tim asked.
“I’m sure you noticed I’m going over a new case,” Dick added two tablespoons of grounded coffee into each of the cones. “Feeling kind of tired, so I think I need it to get me through the night.”
“Maybe what you need is sleep. Ever thought of that?”
Dick gave Tim the most unimpressed look Tim had ever seen. In response, Tim grabbed a cookie from the package.
“I don’t think you’re the best person to make that suggestion, Tim,” after wetting the coffee, Dick waited for it to bloom. “And didn’t you just say Alfred would be upset if he knew I was having those?”
“He would,” Tim grabbed another cookie. “But I don’t care. I’m a coffee snob. Not a baking one.”
Dick laughed again. He poured the water in a circular motion, carefully watching his task, oblivious to how attentively Tim watched him.
“Point made. Just don’t spoil your appetite — we still gotta order our pizza. Do you have something specific in mind for us to watch, or do we just want to browse for an hour before settling on another baking competition?”
Tim shrugged. He grabbed two last cookies before setting the package aside.
“It’s been three weeks since our last pizza night, so I’m sure there’s something new for us to watch.”
Dick winced.
“Yeah… Sorry it’s been so long.”
Tim frowned, “it wasn’t your fault, Dick. You were recovering.”
“Yeah, but we could have still done something at the Manor. It wouldn’t have been the same, but it would have been something, right? Even with Bruce hovering about worried or Alfred nagging us about the pizza being too greasy, we could have still done something.”
Tim pressed his lips together into a thin line. Being at the Manor, Alfred’s possible culinary interference, and an unwanted interruption from Bruce would not have made their usual pizza nights nearly as strange as the one they were currently having. Since becoming a habitual part of their routines, few were the Tuesdays when Tim didn’t receive at least twenty texts from Dick referencing their get-together. The older vigilante would constantly message Tim with questions about whether they’d go out or stay in; whether they’d watch a movie, binge a series, or go see what was showing in the nearby cinema. The ceaseless notifications never failed to make Tim’s stomach bubble with giddiness as he read proof that Dick was almost as excited as he was to spend time together.
Today, there had been no messages. Despite the fact that Dick had been the one to make Pizza Tuesday Nights a thing for them — he claimed it was needed, as Tuesdays were unquestionably the worse day of the week, and so pizza was required to make it bearable — the older vigilante had forgotten all about it.
Worry and hurt prickled Tim’s heart. It was proof, he knew, that Dick still hadn’t fully recovered from the Scarecrow incident.
“I can hear you thinking, Baby Bird,” Dick said, giving him his coffee. “It’s like hearing the sound of a clock ticking. I’m fine. I’m sorry I lost track of time, but you don’t need to read more into this. It won’t happen again.”
Tim frowned. Like the mug’s tingling warmth, Dick’s words did little to soothe his concern.
“You say that, but you know if it was me, you’d be worried too. You probably wouldn’t leave my side even after Bruce cleared me.”
“Yes,” Dick set the little kettle aside by the sink. He held his mug between both his hands, just as Tim did. “But this is different.”
“How?”
Dick shrugged.
“It’s different because I’m fine. Really, Tim, I promise you.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“Keep using that language and I might confuse you with Jay.”
“I’m serious, Dick,” Tim’s hold on his mug tightened. “I’m worried about you.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Dick said. “I’ve been dealing with Crane for nearly twenty years at this point and—”
“That doesn’t make it any easier, though! You told me that, remember? When I was upset that time because my gas mask broke and I started hallucinating? You told me — you told me — that I shouldn’t be angry at myself because Fear Toxin never gets easier to handle. Never. In fact, you said it only gets worse as Crane gets better at creating these damn things!”
Dick stared at him in silence. Though his expression was troubled, the slight wrinkling of his nose indicated he was no closer to telling Tim what was wrong.
It wasn’t just that Dick had forgotten about their their usual Tuesday get-together. In the last year, before the latest incident with Scarecrow, few were the mornings when Tim didn’t wake up to good morning texts from Dick, or when he didn’t receive a call late into the night reminding him to sleep. At least once every weekend Tim spent the night at Dick’s place, and at least twice a week Dick came to Gotham so they could have lunch together. At the Manor, they always partnered up whenever the family went on missions, and they always sat side-by-side when watching movies or having a family dinner. Red Robin was now as familiar a sight in Bludhaven as Nightwing was in Gotham, and at least once every three days the two of them would patrol side-by-side.
And yet, if Tim were to check his phone at that very moment, the last text he received from Dick would be dated to Thursday, the day after he returned to Bludhaven… The day Tim found out Bruce had wrongly discharged Dick even though Dick was clearly pulling away from them — was clearly pushing them away.
Tim knew he was right. And Bruce did too. The pained and mournful expression that flickered over Bruce’s countenance when Tim demanded answers out of him proved that Tim was right, that Bruce knew it and still chose to do nothing, allowing Dick to play pretend, to act like everything was alright when it clearly wasn’t.
Tim wouldn’t be like that. Tim refused to be like that. He would help Dick. He would fix this.
“Please, Dick,” Tim implored. “I don’t know what you saw, but I know it got under your skin and that it’s still bothering you. I don’t want you to believe whatever lie the Fear Toxin fed you. If you’d only trust me—”
“It wasn’t a lie.”
Tim stopped speaking. He waited. Dick sighed.
“It wasn’t a lie,” he repeated, his voice rough. “Not this time around.”
Tim’s frowned. He set his coffee aside.
“I know it may not feel like a lie,” he started, gently. “But you know how the Fear Toxin has—”
But Dick was already shaking his head.
“No, Tim. You don’t get it. I know how Fear Toxin works, and this strand was… It was different. It didn’t just prey on my fears, it….” Dick ran the hand not holding the mug ran through his hair. “It made me relieve my worst memories as if they were happening right then. It’s… How can I explain it? It was like having all that old stuff brought to the surface. I think Crane was trying to replicate a flashback. Like when someone has C-PTSD and they’re badly triggered? It was like that. ”
Tim took a moment to digest his words.
“The Fear Toxin didn’t alter anything? Heighten the emotions, change the scenarios? Didn’t add any hallucinations?”
Dick shook his head.
“If Crane was planning on eventually adding more stuff to this strain to make it worse, I don’t know. He clearly didn’t want to use it yet since when we busted his makeshift lab, it was still contained. Who knows, he might have still be tweaking it. But that doesn’t matter. Not for this conversation, at least. The batch I was exposed to… It… It was somehow… I don’t know… It felt more real? Immediate? Urgent? It’s hard to explain how it differs from usual other than it just didn’t twist anything. It didn’t need to do so in order to be effective. It wasn’t a hallucination of my worst fears, but rather, it forced my mind to relieve my worst memories as if they were happening in real time. And it’s not like we have a shortage of bad experiences for it to draw from, you know?”
Anger and worry flared inside of Tim. Bruce should have never discharged Dick. In his mind, Tim remembered a crowd watching as a couple in colorful clothing flew through the air. Unlike the rest of those who surrounded him, three year old Tim’s eyes had been fixed on the young boy on top of the platform — a boy of only eight years of age who was already engulfed by the scent of eucalyptus, and who, somehow, had already managed to become the mainspring which wound-up and powered Tim’s entire world.
That, Tim knew, was only one of Dick’s countless traumas.
“Did you tell—”
“I told Bruce. He’s aware of what happened, of what… What I saw. It’s why he didn’t put up much of a fight when I left.”
That makes no sense, Tim wanted to snap. If Bruce knew that Dick was struggling after being forced to experience a life’s worth of trauma, then why would he let Dick go?
“What… What did you see?”
Dick took a sip of his coffee, the question lingering in the air.
“That doesn’t really matter.”
“Dick—”
“I’m serious, Tim,” Dick said, this time with more conviction. “It was a bunch of stuff that I had long gotten over, and now my brain just needs a little bit of time to remember that. It’s stuff I dealt with a long time ago on my own. I’m fine.”
Tim’s frown deepened. When he was younger, he had not realized that Dick never truly dealt with things; instead, the older man just… Held it all. Like many species of eucalyptus trees that retained their dead bark when a new layer was gained, Dick kept old hurts and weaved them together with new sorrows to create his smiling facade. Despite always being willing to help those he loved, Dick was never willing to ask for help. And while a younger Tim had soaked in all of Dick’s affection with the voracity of a starving man, now that he was older, wiser, and his love had matured as it grew in intensity, he wished for nothing more than to finally — finally, finally finally!! — be there for Dick as Dick had always been there for him.
Dick was lying. He was not fine. And Tim, the expert clockmaker, was determined fix this.
Dick smiled once Tim did not reply, “Pizza?”
Tim waited a beat. His temper, which had started to slip from his control without his notice, deflated as soon as he saw that smile. How could he ever say “no” to that smile?
He sighed.
“Plain cheese. From Giovanni’s.”
Dick nodded, still smiling as he set his mug aside and went to grab his phone. Tim drank the sight of him with both reverence and concern. He would ask the question again. Later. He wouldn’t let this go, he just… Just needed to get his bearing back for a bit, to regain control. He would not be able to fix this if the gears in his own mind stopped working because his emotions got the better of him.
Their dinner arrived after forty minutes. During that time they browsed through different streaming services for exactly twenty-six minutes and forty-eight seconds before agreeing to watch another baking competition. With the pizza box laid open atop of the coffee table and each of them holding a plate, their conversation naturally drifted towards the case Dick was working on.
“The seeds are not even the weirdest part, but they’re definitely the most random,” Dick said. He sat crossed legged on the far left of the couch while Tim, who was originally on the far right end, managed to slowly lessen the gap between them as they talked. He now sat on the middle seat. “Three bodies so far, all within the last three weeks. Amy hasn’t been able to give me any of the evidences to run my own tests yet, but from what I’ve seen in the reports, none of the seeds found are native to this part of North America.”
“It’s a strange signature for a killer to have,” Tim mused. “I’d say it might give a clue to their identity, but you said they were different every time?”
Dick set down his pizza slice on the plate. The playful banter of the contestants on the TV, the low humming of the kitchen appliances, the occasional car driving down the street below or thud from a neighbor outside... All of these sounds of mundane domesticity accompanied their grim conversation.
“The first murder had seeds from a type of birch tree native to China, Korea, Japan, and East Russia. Second one was from this berry from the Amazon which is sometimes used as an ingredient to make energy drinks or sodas. Third murder, rosemary seeds,” Dick cleaned his fingers on his napkin. “If there’s meant to be a correlation between them or the order in which they were used, it’s too early to say.”
“And you don’t want to get more data to figure out the possible pattern.”
“Not if it means another body.”
“Could the seeds relate to victims? Or maybe the murder scenes or something else about the crime?”
“It’s definitely a theory I’m working on. But so far, nothing I dug up seems promising.”
Someone on the TV cursed as they realized their cake was not rising properly. Outside, two people went down the stairs, one of them — a woman — laughing. The fridge continued to hum.
Tim reached for another pizza slice as he tried to consider the information given. It was nearly impossible to do so, though, when he kept getting distracted by the upturned curve of Dick’s nose, the gentle slope of his round jaw, the way his lips parted ever so slightly when not speaking, the long and elegant slenderness of his neck.
“And you’re sure Ivy is not behind this?”
“Positive,” Dick said. “Definitely not her style. Nothing about it screams eco-terrorism, and Ivy… She’s not exactly subtle when it comes to her motives, is she?”
“If these guys were linked to environmental crimes, she’d want everyone to know that was the reason she killed them,” Tim agreed as he slid just a bit closer to the left. “What else did the police reports say?”
Dick fell back against the couch, frustrated.
“Nothing very useful. I went to check out the scenes for myself on Thursday night, but—”
“But by that point, most of the evidence had been collected or disturbed,” Tim took a bite of his pizza and chewed slowly. “So I’m taking you found nothing useful, then?”
Dick looked at Tim with a raised eyebrow. Those rebellious strands that insisted on falling in front of his eyes made Tim’s breath catch in his throat. He was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to run his fingers through them, to press his nose against the crook of Dick’s neck and inhale that eucalyptus scent, to lick the skin and discover if it tasted as good as it smelled, to pin Dick beneath him and grind their hips together until he drew out long lewd noises from Dick’s stupidly kissable lips.
“What do you think, Baby Bird?”
“Point taken,” Tim swallowed, somehow managing to keep his cool as he slid just a little closer to Dick. “And you’re sure they’ll strike again this week?”
Dick nodded.
“That’s what the time line suggests. If they keep to the current schedule, the next body is set to drop between Thursday and Saturday.”
“Which means they’ll be finding their victims between tomorrow night and Thursday morning.”
Dick gave a humorless laugh.
“I have a long patrol ahead of me.”
Tim nodded, “Dusk till dawn.”
“At the very least,” Dick rested his head against the top of the couch’s back so that he was looking at the ceiling. “I’ve been trying to come up with the best route given the information I have, but even with how I narrowed things down, it’s still a lot of ground to cover.”
Tim had finished his slice — his third one while Dick’s first still sat on his plate on top of the coffee table. By this point, the two vigilantes were side-by-side, their legs almost touching. Annoyance, hurt, and worried threatened to bring the gears of Tim’s mind to a halt. Ordinarily, Dick would have already brought out the files for Tim to read. Ordinarily, Dick would have called Tim within hours of having taken up the case on Thursday. Ordinarily, Tim’s involvement would have been an assumed given for both of them. And yet, Dick talked as if he did not expect Tim to join him — as if he was going to handle a city-wide hunt for a serial killer all on his own. Tim didn’t factor into his plan at all — in fact, the younger vigilante had a gut-wrenching suspicion that, if he hadn’t showed up that night, he would not have even known about the case.
Tim placed his plate on the coffee table. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the clench in his chest and the bitterness that filled his mouth; he took a deep breath and forced himself to push past the emotions that threaten to cloud his thoughts. He would not be of use to Dick if he couldn’t make sense of things. Tim would never be able to be a person Dick could rely on — a person he could trust — if he allowed the gears in his mind to constantly stop just because Dick was near him.
Another deep breath. Tim would have to push those emotions aside in order to remain in control.
“Alright,” Tim said with determination, cleaning his fingers on a napkin. “I’ll take a look at the reports and your notes, and tomorrow, we’ll patrol together. With the two of us on the ground, I’m sure we’ll find this killer before they snatch their next victim.”
Dick straightened up. The excited and grateful smile that would be the usual response to such a statement was notably absent.
“Are you sure? Aren’t you busy with—”
“Gotham has Batman and a handful of vigilantes to care for her,” Tim said. “This is more urgent.”
There was a hesitancy in Dick’s eyes that, before the Scarecrow incident, would not have been there — a hesitancy that made fear rise inside Tim’s chest, hurt blocking his airways, feeding into his worry yet again.
“It’ll be a long patrol. You sure Bruce can spare you?”
“I’m sure if you were to explain the situation to him, he would send Damian or Babs here to help as well. Maybe even Cass.”
Dick was still frowning.
“But are you sur—”
“Yes, Dick! I’m sure!”
Tim’s widened. His hands clenched around the napkin. No, no, no…. He hadn’t meant to do that, he hadn’t meant for his words to come out like that, he hadn’t meant for his fear and his worry to mutate into anger. He could already see Dick pulling away again, trying to hide his own shock, masking his emotions so Tim couldn’t get any closer, so Tim wouldn’t be able to see what was wrong, so he could push Tim away—
No. Tim had to regain control. If he wanted to be a person Dick could trust, he needed to regain control. He needed to get the clock working again, to not let his emotions overwhelm him.
Tim forced out a smiled. He pictured himself pulling at roots that had sprouted and slithered between the gear-teeth, making it impossible for them spin, preventing the clock from working properly, making Tim’s tools useless. When Tim spoke again, his voice was calm, pleasant.
“I’m sure.”
Dick still didn’t seemed convinced. Tim continued to pull at the roots growing between the gears, continued to force down the emotions that threatened to burst out of him.
“How long have I been helping you patrol Bludhaven? If we work together, we’ll have more eyes on the streets and that should make it easy to find our killer,” then, after a pause, Tim added, “Besides, aren’t we pretty great partners?”
Dick blinked. Then, he offered Tim a smile so gentle yet melancholic that it made Tim want to kiss him.
“You’re right,” Dick conceded. “We always work great together.”
Tim smiled back. With some of the apprehension over the upcoming patrol lulled away by his promise of assistance, they returned the focus of their conversation to the contestants’ struggle to temper chocolate during a humid summer day — something, Dick asserted, Alfred would have handled with grace and finesse. Though Tim eagerly participated in the musing of how the old butler would fare in such a competition, his mind was still fixed on Dick and his own love for the older man.
Three years old. That’s how old Tim had been when he discovered what it was like to be in love. Though he had not realized it at the time, the moment Dick smiled at him when they posed for that picture was the moment that eucalyptus scent stole his heart away.
It took him eight years, however, to finally understand why all the gears in brain ceased operation whenever he saw Dick from a distance, whenever he caught his image in the TV or tabloids, whenever he followed Robin through the dark mazes of Gotham. It took eight years until Tim finally understood why Dick made it so he couldn’t breathe, why he made Tim’s brain turn into mush, why his mere presence squeezed Tim’s heart so tightly it felt like it would leap out his mouth. It took eight years for Tim to understand why he could not spend an hour without thinking of those blue eyes, that kind smile, why at night he pressed his head to his pillow, closed his eyes and pretended that it was that tangy and crisp minty-pine scent that filled his lungs.
It happened during a charity gala held at the Gotham Museum of Antiquities. Tim, at only eleven years of age, was forced to attend it because his father’s company was sponsoring the event. Though his hair had been coated in gel, his mobility stiffened by the nicely pressed suit, and though he was expected to quietly do nothing as Gotham’s elite went through their well-rehearsed movements, the young boy had eagerly awaited that night the moment he learned Dick Grayson would also be in attendance.
Despite not being on the best terms with Bruce at the time, Dick smiled through the night as he kept company to a newly adopted Jason Todd. Rather than awkward, the older teenager seemed entirely too comfortable and graceful in his tuxedo, his hair mostly brushed aside with just a few strands falling in front of his brilliant blue eyes. The mere sight of him had rooted young Tim to his spot, his breath caught in his throat, his heart beating erratically, his cheeks burning with something he was mere moments from identifying.
To this day, Tim still didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at Dick from across the museum’s atrium. What he did know, however, was that as soon as Dick came to talk to him, to introduce him to his little brother, trying his best to make both young boys feel comfortable in such a child-unfriendly event, was when Tim realized why clocks stopped working when nothing was broken. It was when Tim smelled that eucalyptus fragrance that any possible doubts or denials were erased from his mind. And though Tim had felt breathless, though it felt like the floor had given out from under him, it also felt, paradoxically, like a quiet epiphany. Loving Dick Grayson made as much sense as everything else in the world — no, it was the only thing that truly made sense. It was a truth that could not be denied, a universal constant Tim could never escape, it was something Tim had always instinctively known even if he had never been able to articulated it.
Tim loved Dick Grayson. Since that day in the circus, he had loved Dick Grayson. And that night, as Tim watched in utter awe while Dick did his best to entertain all the children who had been brought to the gala to act as mere glorified status symbols, Tim knew he would love Dick Grayson for the rest of his life. It had been love back when he was three years old – albeit a more innocent and tender form of love – and it was love then, as he was just entering adolescence. It would continue to be love during his teenage years, when lust and carnal desire became gears in Tim’s mind, and it was love now that he reached adulthood and matured into someone he hoped Dick could rely on.
And it was that love that led Tim to cut through the soft sounds of mundane domesticity and ask the question again.
“Dick… What happened with the Fear Toxin?”
Dick looked at Tim, as if to make sure he heard him right. He blinked, his features caught between showing his surprise, his annoyance, and the slightest tinge of something Tim couldn’t quite identify.
“Tim—”
Tim was speaking before Dick could try to evade the question once more.
“I know you say you’re ‘fine,’ that you’re ‘dealing with it,’ but whatever it was that the Fear Toxin made you relive, you’re clearly not as over it as you say you are.”
“I’m not dealing with it, Tim. I dealt with it,” Dick said. “Let it go.”
“Don’t lie to me. You said so yourself that this whole situation resurfaced old wounds and—”
“—I also said that it was all in the past.”
“—I don’t think you should deal with this on your own. To be honest, I don’t know why Bruce thought you should. You need someone to… To just listen to what happened so they can help you really work through this.”
Dick let out a long, suffering sigh — the type he usually reserved for when he felt his temper rising but did not wish to escalate the situation.
Tim sucked in a deep breath, steeling himself for a fight.
“Look, Tim, I appreciate the concern,” Dick spoke slowly, his words measured as he stood up. “But I cannot emphasize how much I don’t want to talk about this, okay?”
“So are you just going to pretend nothing ever happened, hoping it will all go away? Is that your brilliant solution?”
“Well, why not?” Dick gave him a self-depreciating scoff. “Isn’t that the Bat way?”
Tim didn’t laugh.
“And since when do you you do things exclusively the ‘Bat way,’ Dick?”
Dick gathered the dirty napkins and headed to the kitchen, “I’m not discussing this.”
“Why?” Tim didn’t hesitate to follow. “Why are you so against asking us for help? Why don’t you trust me?”
That made Dick stop. He turned around, looking at Tim horrified and… And, for some reason, slightly afraid.
“‘Not trust you?’ Tim, that’s… That’s not it at all. You have to know this. I trust you with my life. With Bruce’s life, Damian’s, Jason’s… I trust you completely.”
“In the field, maybe. But not with your problems. Not with the things that really bother you.”
Dick’s expression showed his hurt, but he did not attempt to deny Tim’s statement.
“That’s not trust, Dick. You don’t let yourself be weak with us, you don’t open yourself up, you don’t tell us your problems… How can you say you trust us when you’re scared of coming to us for help?” Tim continued. “You’re the one who is always insisting we talk about things! You’re the one who says that, as a family, we need to be more open with each other and not bottle things up the way Bruce does! But apparently, that doesn’t apply to you, does it?”
Dick didn’t say anything at first. He stared at Tim with wounded yet hard-to-read eyes, his body language closing.
“No,” Dick said, at last. “It doesn’t.”
For a moment, Tim wasn’t sure how to react. He could feel hurt and worry raging within him. His mind felt clouded, his thoughts hazy. The clocks were not working anymore, the gears had stopped as eucalyptus roots sprouted between their teeth.
“Why? Why the hell not? Why is it different when it comes to you?”
“Because it just is,” Dick said. Before Tim could protest once more, Dick continued. “I don’t want to fight, Tim. Especially not about this. Please… Can’t we just… Enjoy our pizza and move on?”
No! Tim wanted to scream. How could Dick even ask that? Dick was pushing Tim away again and the thought of it happening was— no, Tim couldn’t let it happen, he could not lose Dick like this. He wanted to insist on the matter until Dick was left with no other choice but to tell him what was wrong. He wanted to press and press and press until Dick broke, the temporary cruelty of the fight far outweighing the pain of being a spectator to Dick’s silent suffering.
But that wouldn’t work, would it? No matter how desperately his instincts yelled at him to keep going, if he lost control of the situation by letting fear and worry cloud his mind, Dick would not trust him.
Whenever Dick came to help him, he never accomplished anything by force. Even when Tim resisted, even when Tim was stubborn and unfair and emotional in a way he never was with anyone but Dick, Dick never fought him. He never demanded the truth out of Tim, it was never stubborn insistence that made Tim crack; rather, it was Dick’s steady and companionable presence, his patience, his willingness to go at Tim’s pace, and his natural gentleness and compassion that reminded Tim that he was wanted and loved. It was the coffee made just the way Tim liked, the red-and-black blanket kept in the apartment just for him, it was his favorite soup greeting him when he lost track of time pouring over a case, it was the walks they took through the Manor’s garden so Tim could get some fresh air — all of these actions were what made Tim feel safe enough to be vulnerable with the one he loved most.
Tim knew he had to be insistent on this. If Dick got his way, he would successfully misdirect Tim’s attention by having them talk about anything and everything besides whatever was troubling him. No matter how uncomfortable it made Dick, Tim had to continue to press on if he wanted Dick to finally — finally, finally finally!! — trust him.
But that did not mean they needed to fight.
“No,” Tim said at last. He took another deep breath and focused on the scent of eucalyptus before forcing the emotions that threatened to cloud his mind to dissipate. The gears were still not working, but Tim could still seize control of the situation well enough to make his voice as soothing as possible. “I can’t let this go until you tell me what’s wrong, Dick. But… But I can let the matter slide. For now.”
Dick said nothing as he slowly concealed the emotions that had been exposed during their argument. It was fascinating to watch. Rather than acting as if they had never been there at all, instead, Dick drained them away from his countenance gradually, knowing that if his expression had shifted so much so quickly, the sudden absence of the hurt and fear would have made their existence impossible to forget.
It was clever. Tim might be the most intelligent of the Robins, but he would never let anyone claim his genius rendered the others stupid in any way. And that was especially true when talking about the first Robin — the best and most talented of them all, a founding member of the Teen Titans, leader of the Titans, one of Justice League’s most trusted heroes, the incredible strategist and detective who was Batman’s brightest protegee.
“You should finish your pizza,” Tim said after another beat of silence. “Finish that slice and eat at least two others. Then take a shower while I look more closely at the stuff you have on this case.”
Dick frowned.
“I don’t need a shower.”
Tim shrugged. He took the napkins off Dick’s hand and tossed them in the garbage.
“You can never take too many hot showers. Besides, it will help you clear your mind for when we plan tomorrow’s patrol route,” Tim said. “And you do need to eat. Your metabolism is almost as fast as a Speedester’s, Dick — just half a slice of pizza is not enough for dinner.”
Dick stayed silent for a moment. Then, he sighed and smiled.
“Alright. You win this round, Baby Bird.”
Tim smiled back as they sat on the couch once again. A baking contestant had under-proofed their bread. Tim waited for Dick to pick up his plate and take a bite of the pizza. Only after he saw Dick swallow did he relax.
As the clocks ticked and as the scent of eucalyptus engulfed Tim with memories of home and love and kindness, he vowed to do everything in his power to help Dick get better.