Chapter Text
It’s, surprisingly, Alfred that kickstarts one of the worst days of his life.
Tim had already been so tired. Ever since Bruce had come back, it was like he’d lost the very purpose that had kept him going, and life had kept going. His friends were still dead, his parents were still gone, he still kept going day in and day out trying to get through his never ending slog of responsibilities-
And he’d come straight to the manor from a day at WE, had wanted to touch base with Bruce about something before patrol, and he hadn’t been at the manor in a while so he thought it would be nice to drop by and eat dinner with whoever was around before they went down to the cave.
He’d been almost excited despite his overwhelming exhaustion to go back to his old room, had made it there without encountering anyone on the way, which was okay, he would see them soon, and he’d smiled a small smile at the pile of clean laundry on his bed and-
The flash of fabric folded in, peeking out from under what Tim recognized as his favorite green sweatshirt, has Tim doubling back from where he’d headed to throw his suit jacket onto the comfy chair in the corner.
He stares numbly at the pile, jacket falling to the ground, swallows reflexively.
He looks for a really long time, like the fabric will just change in front of his eyes, like it won’t be-
Trembling fingers snatch it out of the pile before he registers moving, and his dad’s old shirt, pale blue and white, crackles with static.
His dad’s clean shirt. The one thing Tim had kept of his. The one that still smelled like him.
It was admittedly a weird thing to keep, when Tim had a manor full of belongings of his parents that he’d chosen to donate, but this was the one Tim had latched on to, because he remembers his Dad wearing it on a handful of happy moments and in none of their bad ones. When his dad was in his coma, every memory of his dad that had Tim crying - because they didn’t only have bad times, they had good ones too - every single memory had his dad wearing the striped polo in his hands.
He buries his face in it desperately, and he can’t remember why he’d left it out, he usually put it back into the bottom of his dresser, childishly trying to preserve the smell, but he can’t remember-
It smells like laundry detergent. It smells like wildflowers, and it doesn’t smell like his dad.
Tim pulls his face back with a wretched gasp and tears fall on the fabric before Tim realizes he’s even crying, and there’s a small flash of panic in his chest before he has to remind himself it doesn’t matter, the damage is already done.
Tim had shown Alfred the shirt a few months ago, when he’d stopped by to grab something on a bad day in a series of bad days and hadn’t been able to resist pulling the shirt out to smell it. Alfred had caught him, and Tim hadn’t been able to stop himself from sharing, like he could make sense of it if he just talked it out, because Tim’s dad didn’t do physical affection so it’s not like he could associate a particular smell with him anyway, but it still smelled like him and it was just a piece of fabric, he knew-
Alfred had cut off his rambling with a gentle hand on his shoulder, and told him he understood, and Tim had shut up and Alfred had just stood with him for a bit as he clutched the polo to his chest.
It’s one of the only nice recent memories Tim has in the manor, because he really did think Alfred understood-
He silently clutches the shirt to his chest for a long time.
He has no clue how much time passes before he goes downstairs in a fog, confident that no one can tell anything’s wrong, he’d double checked in the mirror. He just looks tired, slightly dead inside, all of which is normal for him anyway.
He almost just walks out the door, onto his bike and back to his apartment, safely nestled in his favorite sweatshirt that he’d pulled on once he’d decided to finally move, leaving the striped polo on the bed carelessly. He almost makes it out, but Alfred sees him and Tim feels himself smile mechanically at the older man, who seamlessly hands him a dish of something green and tells him to take it to the table, nothing in his face betraying any concern at anything unusual in Tim’s demeanor.
He wonders when he got so good at that, thinks its slightly concerning that he can make himself believe that the elderly butler in front of him wasn’t the same elderly butler who had ripped away one Tim’s most prized possessions, enough that said elderly butler doesn’t even pick up that he’s upset at all. He’s trained himself to hide away so much that those closest to him can’t even tell what’s real anymore.
Those closest to him. Family. His family.
This is his family now, he thinks numbly, as sets down the dish and takes his seat with Bruce and Dick, both of whom greet him before going back to their conversation, taking Tim’s smile as a good enough greeting.
This is his family now. Most of it anyway. He doesn’t know where Damian is, didn’t expect to see Jason or Cass, but –
There’s no one else. This is it. These are the people who are family now, and Tim thinks he could spin a completely fake story right now and they would believe it. He could tell them anything – maybe he’ll tell them about how he went to California over the weekend on a whim to go hiking, and fell into a puddle but it was still one of the most fun times of his life, and they would believe him.
The world’s greatest detective, and his wonderful older brother who he’d hero-worshipped forever, and their loyal butler who was like a grandfather to him, would all believe him, because Tim has hidden away so much of himself he doesn’t think they know who he is anymore.
He doesn’t know who he is anymore. Is he someone who would go hiking in California? He doesn’t know.
But neither do they. He could be anyone, he could do anything, and he thinks they wouldn’t be surprised, because –
Because Tim is just there. Tim is reliable and dependable and he is there.
Do they wonder, he thinks numbly as he watches Bruce and Dick continue to talk. They're both wearing near identical shirts. Alfred sets another dish in front of him and some water and leaves for the kitchen again. Do they wonder if I’ve changed? Or did they ever notice who I was to begin with?
You need to make an observation to get to a hypothesis, his brain supplies helpfully as he takes a sip of water. Bruce and Dick could be speaking in Mandarin for all that the words are making their way through his head, like they’re crashing through waves before they get to him.
You need to have noticed someone to begin with to notice if they’ve changed.
It’s simple. Logical.
But Tim has been here, all along. And he’s worked himself to sickness and hidden away and withdrawn himself to the point of being almost unrecognizable and why? So someone would chase after him? Had he hoped that at some point, someone would make the extra effort to just ask him if he was okay?
Tim thinks he’s heard enough that your family is the only one that will ever go the extra mile for you, that family is the end all be all, and the only ones who will ever love you for you-
And Tim has to call bullshit, has a real bone to pick with pop culture, because this is his second try, and -
If this is it, and this is family, he’s not-
He’s not really sure what he’s supposed to do with this realization.
“Tim?”
Tim looks up from his haze, where Dick’s holding out the green dish to him expectantly. Bruce is looking at him too. Someone had clearly said something.
“Sorry, what?” He sounds very normal.
“Do you want some Kale?” Oh that was the green thing. He nods automatically, takes the dish from Dick and starts putting some on his plate.
He hates Kale.
“Everything okay, Tim?” They’re both looking at him, he can feel it as he ends up with an unreasonable amount of kale for someone that hates it, but he passes the dish back with another mechanical smile.
“Yeah, sorry, just tired.” He says, wanting nothing more than to sink through the floor and maybe never wake up again. Ask me what’s wrong.
Bruce grunts, like he’s a normal dad. Tired, slightly disappointed by the habits of his kids. Concerned.
“Have you not been getting enough sleep again?”
Tim shrugs. Thinks of the night’s he’s spent recently, glued to his laptop with burning eyes and cramping limbs trying to make sure he gets everything done, or lying in his bed staring at his ceiling while his brain doesn’t shut down.
He hasn’t gotten enough sleep in months.
“…you know it’s really important to keep regular sleep habits so you’re at your best out in the field.” Oh, Bruce is still talking. Tim blinks at his kale, pushes it around with his fork like he doesn't want to puke at the sight of it. “You’re too old for me to be telling you this anymore, Tim.”
He was 17 the last time Bruce nagged him about his irregular sleeping habits making him sloppy in the field, before he disappeared, and Tim is just barely 18.
He doesn’t think Bruce knows where he lives.
“Oookay B-man, we don’t need a lecture when Alfred isn’t even done finishing up dinner.” Dick says, and Tim looks up to see him shoot Bruce a sharp look.
"I'm not lecturing." Fond, almost, that quirk of his mouth. "I'm reminding."
Just ask me how I am. Ask me what’s wrong.
“Timmy, I hope you don’t mind.” Dick continues, like nothing had happened, turning back to Tim. “Damian really needed some swim trunks and yours were the closest ones in his size, so I had Alfred wash some of your things-“
Tim almost drops the glass of water he’d picked up to have something to do.
“You did what?” He blurts out, gaping at his older brother.
“Relax, would ya?” Dick says teasingly, although Tim picks up the hint of warning in his tone through the sudden roaring in his ears. “He just took a pair you’ve obviously outgrown. We just didn’t have time to go to the store for some new ones.”
“What, pray tell, was the swim trunk emergency?” Bruce quips, amused. Tim’s ears blaze as he stares at Dick, watches him turn to Bruce.
“We wanted to do cannonballs in the pool! He’s never done cannonballs Bruce. Imagine!”
“I quiver at the thought."
“Anyway, it was really cute-“
“You had no right.” He blurts out, looking at Dick with what he knows is pure shock written on his face. He can’t even believe-
His dad’s shirt is ruined. For Damian.
“Tim.” Dick says, with a hint of impatience, of don’t start again. “It was a load of laundry-”
"It was my stuff. Not - you could have asked me!"
"Come on, Timmy, it was just a bunch of old clothes you don't wear anymore!" Dick says like he's 5 and protesting bedtime, but it sounds like he's very far away now, like he's almost speaking mandarin again, which was one of the languages Tim never got around to learning. "He even helped Alfred fold it all back up, and -"
The glass Tim had still been holding shatters in his grip, the sharp pain jolting him back to reality.
“Tim!”
Tim numbly looks down at his hand - he opens his palm and slowly drops the pieces and they land with a squelch in the water now spilled on the pleasantly peach placemat, the gashes on his palm oozing blood. There's water in the kale.
Bruce’s hand grabs his wrist with a hiss, examining the wounds.
“Tim, oh my god, what-“
“What was that?” Bruce demands, cutting across Dick. It hurts, and he thinks it should hurt more, and Bruce's palm burns like a vice around his wrist, and Damian folded up his dad's shirt-
“Tim.” Bruce demands, shaking his wrist lightly, and Tim looks up to meet his eyes numbly.
“Bruce, lay off, his hand’s really bleeding-“
"Answer me!" Bruce says, only slightly more gently, eyebrows turned down in a frown. "Are you alright? What was that?"
"Nothing." he mumbles, automatically. His lips are tingling. The bleeding continues, but it's barely oozing now. Nothing to worry about, for a family like theirs. "Nothing. I didn't mean to. I just-"
He realizes his mistake as he says it, knows he didn't throw Bruce off the scent when the older man sighs, resigned and impatient at the same time, and it cuts through Tim like a knife.
“Tim, do we need to talk about controlling your anger again? I understand you and Damian don’t like each other, but he is your brother.”
“Bruce!” Dick snaps off to the side while Tim and Bruce continue their staring match. Tim desperately tries to read through the apathy in those eyes.
"Timmy, come on. Let's get you down to the cave for some stitches."
Tim shakes his head. "No. It's fine. I can do it."
"I-"
"I don't want you to do it, Dick." He spits, relishes in the wounded look his older brother shoots him, petty and small. "I can do it."
"How are you going to do stitches one handed?" Bruce asks, casual, calm.
"I've done them one handed more times than I can count, Bruce."
That seems to throw Bruce. "When?"
"When I patrolled by myself. When none of you were around, because I don't live here anymore. I-" He stops.
“When you came back from being lost-” He says instead, before he even thinks of the words. His mind is blank, and words are shooting out of him like he's possessed. “-did you wonder why I wasn’t Robin anymore?”
Dick sucks in a breath, but Bruce arches his eyebrows at him, like Tim is just a spoilt child egging on an argument for the sake of it.
Did you even notice?
“Tim. I know you and Damian have had your rough patches –“
Tim scoffs out a disbelieving laugh, because he thinks Bruce may be the worlds greatest detective, but wow does he miss the point a lot.
Bruce presses on sternly. “He is a child, Tim. He’s trying.”
“I was a child too.” He says, tremor in his voice finally leaking through. He doesn't know why he's saying all this even as he says it, even as he knows why he's saying it. “He was trained by assassins. And he tried to kill me. And he got to be Robin after.”
Tim looks at Dick, who looks like someone's kicked his puppy. “What, were we not supposed to talk about that yet? Was it only gonna come up if he’d managed to actually kill me, or maim me a little?”
“Tim-“
“See, he only tried to poison me a handful of times. Almost stabbed me a bunch. And then you gave him Robin as a little reward.”
Dick looks at him, stricken, Tim thinks he's never sounded so calm.
“Timmy, that’s not what-"
“That’s a word by word play of exactly what happened, Dick.”
“Tim. What is this really about?" Bruce says finally, still calm as ever, and Tim grits his teeth. "What are you upset about?”
“I’m not upset.” He blows out a breath, finally yanks his hand away from Bruce's grip, wonders if he can just leave. He feels ridiculous all of a sudden, what is he even doing?
“Forget it. Sorry about the glass, I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll apologize to Alfred on the way out.”
“No, Tim, you need stitches.”
“I can do them myself.”
“Tim. You’re clearly upset. Sit down and let Bruce or Alfred do your stitches if you don't want me to, and we can-“
“What, talk? No thanks.”
“Is this about the laundry? Because I’m sorry, I should have asked –“
The reminder of his dad’s shirt has him choking on the urge to leap across the table and punch Dick in the face. He decides to just get up and leave instead.
Alfred is behind him when he turns around, and his eyes widen at the blood everywhere, the glass that tinkles onto the floor when he stands.
“Sorry about the mess, Alfred. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Master Tim, what on earth-“
“Tim, sit back down before you pass out, you are being ridiculous-“
“Why?" He whips back around to Bruce. "Why do you care, Bruce?”
Bruce blinks at him like he knows he's being trapped. “I don’t know how you want me to answer that.”
“No? It’s pretty simple. Why does it matter now, Bruce?”
Another blink. “It’s always mattered, Tim.”
“No it hasn’t!” He snaps, emotion bubbling up in his throat until he can’t even recognize what it is. He needs to get out of here.
Bruce stares back at him, and the tense silence builds up until Alfred moves, reaching for Tim. “I think we all need to calm down while I get Master Tim-
Tim flinches away from Alfred for the first time in his life, like he's on fire, backs up until he’s at the end of the table. It’s him versus them now, and it seems like they’re worlds away at the other end of wood monstrosity.
“Don’t!” He snaps, cradling his bleeding hand awkwardly against his chest. “Don’t touch me.”
“Tim, please don’t leave.” Bruce says, like he would to a scared child in the street. And Tim could just bolt, wants nothing more than to turn around and make his way into the hall, through the foyer, and out the door, no one is blocking his way and he’s fast, but he stands like a hunted animal as three pairs of eyes stare back at him with varying levels of shock and pity.
“Timmy, it’s just Alfred." Dick says, pleadingly, like Tim is just confused. "You’re bleeding pretty bad, please let us help you.”
The silence stretches, and finally Bruce speaks, still looking at Tim appraisingly.
“Tim. Why don’t you tell us what you need?”
It’s enough to make him want to burst into tears. He’s too close to understand why.
“I want to leave.”
I don't want to spell it out.
“Okay, let me patch up your hand and I’ll drive you back to your place.”
I shouldn't have to spell it out
Bruce doesn’t even know where he lives.
The silence stretches out, and no one wisely makes to reach for him again. He doesn’t know why he’s still standing there.
“Tim. Why is it hard to believe I care?” Bruce says finally, calmly, almost imploringly. “That we want to talk about what’s bothering you?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Tim, you’re my son. Of course I care about-“
Tim thinks his heart physically breaks, because he's been someone's son three times over now.
“I don’t believe you!” He spits. “I don’t- I don’t believe you! I don’t want to talk about it now! Where were you before, huh? When I needed you the most?”
Bruce's face falls. “Tim, I – I didn’t want to be away from you all-“
“AFTER.” Tim screams, loud and hoarse, suddenly so so angry, his face burning like someone is pulling at it from the inside “After I went through hell on earth to get you back, after I lost almost everyone I cared about, after I nearly fucking died so you could come back–“ He heaves in a sob, flashes of his parents slinging in his head, and another. “-where the hell were you?!”
Bruce finally looks upset, and Dick looks back at him from next to him with an identical expression. Tim thinks he would be moved by it, by some indication of the hurt they’ve caused him, real and tangible in front of him.
He probably would be, if he didn’t remember how it felt to see Bruce again, and to hold his breath for the man to chew him out for the risks he took to get him back only to realize Bruce didn’t know. Hadn’t even bothered to ask how he’d ended up rescued from being lost in time, had seen Tim in a new costume and legally emancipated and not living in the manor anymore, and hadn’t even asked.
Tim had held his breath for weeks, and had exhaled into nothing.
Dick, next to Bruce, looks back at him with an identical expression, just turned up to ten, because of course. Or course.
But Dick had taken Robin. Had looked at Tim during the worst time of his life, and decided that Damian was more important, and Tim had felt so shitty for being so mad, because Damian really was just a little kid.
But then Dick hadn’t believed him. Tim wants to claw that look off his face, because Dick had given up, had looked at Tim like he was insane, but now he got to sit next to Bruce and pull the same stupid face as him like that hadn’t even happened.
And the worst part is, he thinks he would have forgiven them. He’s not unreasonable and he’s always given every chance he can to the people he loves, the ones he always loves more than they love him – if they’d said anything, anything at all to let him grasp onto the belief that they truly cared, he would have let it all go.
“I don’t – I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t, I won’t, I just-“ he hitches back another sob, clenching his fist, feels the blood leaking onto both his arms against his chest, words tumbling out with the hurt he's held in for so long. “I don’t want – I want the family everyone else gets, I want the chances everyone else gets, I w-“
"Tim, you are! We're not a family without you-"
"If I did to Damian - " Even Dick looks surprised at his defeated tone. "- if I did to Damian what he did to me, or what Jason did to me – he could be out there right now, stabbing some lowlife through the face, breaking your one rule, and you – you would invite him in. He would sit at this table across from you, and you’d be so happy to have him here, and you would never –“
He heaves out another sob. He hasn't been to the manor in months, hasn't talked to his family in just as long outside of patrol. “You would never let him disappear. You would never let anyone hurt him in his own house, or Damian, or Dick –“
He turns to Alfred then, finally feels the tears overflow trickle down his cheeks, wonders how he never even realized how Alfred had maybe been the one to hurt him the most, and he'd never even realized until he'd held his dad's shirt to his nose and smelled nothing but grief.
“You let Damian try to kill me." His voice is barely above a whisper, and he doesn't think it sounds like him. The older man looks as upset as Tim has ever seen him, but he feels no remorse. "You let it go on and you - you didn’t do anything.”
This should be humiliating, he thinks. He’s spent so long only showing them the verion of Tim drake he lets people see, taking all of his ugliest insecurities and shoving them deep inside somewhere where he only lets himself peek when he’s at his lowest, but-
He’s been at his lowest, constantly, for a long time now.
“I don’t know why it has to be me. Why do I have to be the one that has to – move the whole world to just get –I don’t get it.” He sobs out, his eyes burning. “I don’t – I don’t understand what is so horrible about me that this happens to me all the time, like I could yell in your faces and you wouldn’t even hear me. And I blamed my parents for the longest time but then you took me in, Bruce, and I thought I got it. I thought if you did good and you – you cared for your family and you did things right and you sacrificed, maybe it didn’t matter if it was unconditional, that it would at least be there. When you needed them the most, they would be there, because that’s what family is, but you-“
“What is Drake being dramatic about now?”
Damian’s voice pipes up from behind Alfred as he wanders out through the kitchen and it makes something in his chest crack, because of course he’s here, of course he gets to witness one of the worst moments of Tim’s life, because he still lives here.
He grabs the first thing he can reach, a plate of some kind from the extra place settings, and smashes it into the table as hard as he can, and it hits the lip in front of him and shatters everywhere.
“Fuck you! Fuck you, Damian!” He screams, voice hoarse as it rises clear above the alarmed shouts as they duck from the flying shards. Glass cuts Tim’s face but he barely feels it, turning his full fury towards Damian, who’s looking at him with what might be the most shock he’s ever seen on that face.
Good, is all he can think even as angry tears spill over his cheeks, chest heaving, and Tim doesn’t think of himself as a violent person but all he wants is to tackle the young boy to the ground and pummel him, because how dare he get to do this to Tim again.
Dick is standing in front of Damian, he realizes, hands up placatingly even though Tim hasn’t moved an inch, and the raw fury abruptly melts into something more devastating and he’s clenching his injured fist and the pain is horrifyingly sharp and it’s all suddenly too much and he can’t be here anymore.
If he attacked Damian, they would make him apologize.
Bruce hasn’t moved from his seat at the table, is still looking up at him with a mixture of concern and something unreadable when Tim turns away from his brothers, and Alfred finally grabs his hand as he makes to bolt. He has to leave, he has to get out of here.
He’s more than capable of jerking Alfred away, of pushing the elderly butler he’s still so angry with away, but he can’t, he can’t even hear what Alfred is saying, and he gasps out a few garbled pleas and Alfred mercifully lets go, and he’s gone past him out the other door before anyone can make to grab him.
He’s not sure anyone tried.
Tim doesn’t cry, but tears steadily leak out under his helmet until about halfway through his trip back to the city, and he rides the rest of the way in stunned silence. He wishes he could take off his helmet and feel the wind in his hair, but the somewhat sane part of him knows how dangerous that is on his bike, especially when he’s probably not in any state to be driving right now.
Everything settles into..numb, is the best way to describe it, as he drives on autopilot. He doesn’t know what to do, considers calling for Kon and asking for him to just take him anywhere away from Gotham-
Streets he’s grown up on blur together until they blur to streets he’s just recently become familiar with and with a head full of nothing but ringing and the rushing of wind, he realizes he’s at Jason’s apartment.
He sits on his bike for the longest time, right in the middle of crime alley, which is so stupid, and so reckless, but Tim half wishes someone would try something, just so he would have a reason to stop sitting there, staring at the odometer.
A raccoon or something skitters in the alley he’s in, and Tim moves, stashes his bike, limbs numb and hand squelching with blood from his wrecked hand. His face is wet under his helmet, blood and tears rubbing uncomfortably every time the helmet shifts.
He disables Jason’s security system at his window, even though he can see the man sitting there watching tv, obviously letting him struggle with it even though he could just come open it. He ends up yanking off the gloves when he starts struggling, and blood gets everywhere but he pointedly doesn’t look down at it.
A meaningless amount of time later, he’s clambering in through the window and shutting it behind him, leaving smears of red.
“Why do I have ten texts from dickhead telling me to call him if I see you?” Jason says casually, like Tim is a regular guest and he wants to know if he wants any tea.
Tim yanks off his helmet, grimacing at the cold rush of air on his still wet face, and wipes it with his sleeve.
Jason is still looking at the television, but Tim hears rustling when he lets the helmet drop to the ground with a thunk, and blearily looks down when he hears a drip along with it.
His hand is covered in blood, and it drips off his limp fingers tap tap tap onto the carpet. Is that grey or beige?
“What the fuck-“
“I –“ Tim gasps back into reality, looks up at Jason’s face, and the older man looks vaguely horrified. It would be kind of funny if he wasn’t holding back tears. “I’ve never asked you for anything. But I’m asking now-“
“Tim-“
“I’m – I’m begging. Tell Dick you haven’t seen me, and please don’t ask me any questions. Please.”
This is more than a little pathetic, but he thinks he might actually set something on fire if Jason turns him away right now.
“Please. I haven’t – I’ve never asked you for anything. I just-“ He’s gasping now, feels the tears welling up again as his eyes bore into Jason’s. He doesn’t even know what he sees, because he can barely see anything through his blurry vision. “I can’t. I can’t do this. Please?”
The only sounds for a few seconds are his stuttering breaths.
“Okay.” Jason says simply, and Tim’s face crumples and he’s stuttering out sobs, too worn out to even cry very hard. He simply covers his eyes with his hands and chokes out little gasps that sound pathetic even to his own ears, and he doesn’t-
He’s too tired to think about what Jason is going to do. He doesn’t even know why he came here, to blubber in Jason’s living room, when he’d been perfectly happy to throw his name into his meltdown earlier like a coward to make his point when Jason couldn’t even defend himself, and he’s-
He flinches out of reflex when big arms engulf him almost completely, almost awkwardly, but all he cares about is that he doesn’t have to defend himself at this very moment. The back of his fingers knock against soft fabric, and he lets himself lean into the shoulder, shuddering out sobs under the halting hand patting him on the back.