Chapter Text
The Lazarus Pit was cold.
It was an all consuming chill crawling up his spine, numbing him, seeping into his marrow, and scraping along his bones. It sank into his nerves and numbed his veins, his insides being iced over. In his mind’s eye, Tim imagined his blood turning a sickly poisonous green, the red cells being defeated by the Pit’s powers.
His organs were being pushed aside, making way for the Lazarus’ healing, another road on the highway of Tim’s blood pathways. But, despite being carved out specifically for the Pit, the space was nothing more than a yawning chasm, aching to be filled.
That chasm expanded, growing inside him like a virus or a fungus. A rot that spread, fast as wildfire. The ache gnawed at his bones, mingling with the chill that was layered over his insides. Together, twisted like two thick vines, they snaked up Tim’s diaphragm, coiling around his throat.
Tim’s head breached the surface, gasping and taking in lungfuls of air like a dying man. The green waves of the pit lapped at his neck, the water cool as it splashed him before leaving him hot and yearning for the feeling once more. His body pulsed, hot and cold, so so cold. The surface of the waves surrounded his neck, while its power grasped his red throat like an all-encompassing noose.
“Greetings, Timothy,” an unfortunately recognizable voice intoned. His words were smooth, slithering into Tim’s mind like a snake on the prowl; steady, unlike the waters Tim emerged from; and…
Completely meaningless to Tim.
Where before, the voice and its owner would elicit feelings of turmoil—rage and dread thinly veiled under the adrenaline of a good fight—, now Tim felt nothing. Nothing for the man who was such a threat to him, both in his old life and in his new one.
Well, in this new new life, the one after both time travel and death, Ra’s Al Ghul meant nothing.
Ra’s eyes, an invasive green that matched Tim’s own, peer down at him from his nose, “How did you find your swim, Detective?”
Tim blankly looked down, watching the distorted, filtered-green image of his legs treading the waters. There were skeletons in Ra’s closet, and the pit harbored many of them. How many bones, gleaming like pearls in the moonlight, were at the bottom of the pit? Did it matter when so many lives were restored? And did it matter thatTim’s life was restored, when his whole plan was to die?
He met Ra’s eyes with his own, green for green. That yawning chasm grew within him, the emptiness throbbing in his soul, in his very being.
“Lacking,” Tim rasped, no inflection at all.
Ra’s showed no reaction, unless you knew him. Tim knew him better than he cared to, and the minute tightening of the skin around his eyes told him all he needed to know.
When Jason Todd emerged from the Pit, he was fire. A burning rage and an explosion of revenge. Jason was a Phoenix rising from the ashes, ablaze with a vengeance.
When Tim Drake emerged from the Pit, he was cold. A sharp icy wrath and a biting sting of a blade hidden behind a cool facade. Tim was a shade, rising from the waters blank like a slate in every way except for his eyes: the jade green irises hiding carefully controlled intent, ready to be released with a well placed push.
Tim Drake was calm.
It was terrifying.
Anger is an emotion that is released for many reasons, and there’s always a reason, no matter how nonsensical. It is something that is provoked, that is poked and prodded.
Anger is a spectrum, so many different temperaments, so many combinations of factors that lead to destruction. Flames that are stoked to a blaze. A bomb ticking, counting down and down to an inevetable explosion. A pot boiling over, spilling its contents into the air despite the lid’s valiant efforts to contain it.
Anger is often depicted with fire, explosive and bright. It is the most recognizable because it’s impossible to miss. A flare in the dark. A message to all: pay attention to my wrath, know what you did.
Fire is destructive. It eats you, consumes all in its path, leaving nothing but ash. But we have domesticated fire, cupped it in our palms and embraced its warmth. Welcomed it into our homes.
Why? That’s simple really.
To ward off the cold.
For it is the cold, the ice, the freeze, that is our true enemy. It is the true threat. Where fire burns all to the ground, it leaves room to grow. Life blooms in a forest after a fire, but nothing is alive during a freeze. Ice sneaks up on you, slowly, stealthy, before trapping you in its embrace. Leaving behind a shell, a mockery of what once was, frozen in time.
Fire passes. Cold lingers. Fire is dangerous, but ice is deadly.
Timothy Drake is ice.
Ra’s spared no expense in his provocation. Every sparing session was seasoned with jabs at his weaknesses. Every hit was delivered with a scathing commentary on his worthlessness, a knife to the gut more deadly than any blade Ra’s swung his way.
Everything from revenge to love—or the lack there of—was explored, verbally gutted like Tim’s body must have been, judging by the autopsy scar. Tim’s unimportance to Bruce, his lack of a place in the Wayne household, the lost love between him and the Bats, the justice that was never served, all of it was poised as carefully curated probes at his psyche. Attempting to chip away at the control he supposedly had on the Pit.
And yet, Ra’s words did nothing. Created no reaction. None of it was new information, after all. Tim knew he wasn’t loved by the Waynes—well, maybe in his past life, they had held some fondness for him. As one would after having something around for so long—but in this current timeline? No, there was no lost love between them, because there was nothing to lose.
So no, Tim didn’t react when Ra’s said Bruce didn’t love him. Didn’t react when he was told he wasn’t avenged—Please Ra’s, not once would revenge even cross his mind. The old coot really was insane, huh?
Their spar had been going on for hours now. It reminded Tim of his old life—the first one—when Bruce would beat him into the mats, night after night. Never pulling his punches, breaking his bones, building up his tolerance to pain.
Tim missed the steady weight of his bo staff like a baby missed its blanket. But with every passing week, Tim became more and more skilled with blades. The clanging and scraping of metal on metal becoming an almost reassuring sound. His background in them felt like Kindergarten now, compared to the kind of affinity Ra’s was beating into him.
Still, Tim was bested more often than not, no matter how well he held his own. Fighting with his body could only go so far when his heart wasn’t in it. When there was nothing for him to live for. When he was so empty —
“—how does it feel to be replaced , Detective?” Ra’s words sent a shock through his system. The words were nothing really. Should have been nothing of note. And yet, they made memories slither into the forefront of his mind, making his previously dormant feelings begin to stir.
‘Replacement’
And despite all the training, all the masks he carefully crafted, something in his body must have betrayed him, because Ra’s stepped back, a calculating look in his eye.
“Oh?” Ra’s purred, “Did I not inform you?”
Tim didn’t respond. He never did. However, unlike every other time, Ra’s didn’t take his silence as a dismissal, but as an affirmative.
Every nudge and prod toward firey revenge did nothing. Stoking an empty hearth would lead to no results, after all. Ra’s knew this, yet he continued to test the waters, looking for that one comment that would lead him to the crack in Timothy’s facade. The key to the greatness the Detective kept locked away.
It was remarkable, Timothy’s resolve. Truly inspiring. And it will be even better when Ra’s could utilize it, make it work for him instead of against. Breaking Timothy was a painstaking process, one that required much patience and dedication.
Watching Timothy break, however, was all worth it.
A picture of the current Robin was clutched in pale hands. Eyes trained on the masked face. On Jason Todd’s masked face.
And there, right there. There was that beautiful anger. A frozen lake cracking and cracking under weight until it finally collapsed.
Behind the gifted green of the pit, those cracks finally gave way.
Behind Timothy’s eyes something snapped.