Archive of Our Own ^beta

(You think you have it when you don’t, and you don’t think you have it when you do. What is it?)

A clown and a bird walk into a bar to kill a bat. Only the bird and the bat walk back out, while the clown is left on the ground bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. Blood and laughter and laughter and blood—the laughter doesn’t stop and the blood doesn’t stop and the tears don’t stop and it won’t stop, it won’t stop—

Sanity, Tim answers.

Tim thinks he’s okay. Maybe. (Maybe?) Maybe.

Maybe he’s okay.

“You’ve lost, Batman. Robin is mine. The last sound you hear will be our laughter.”

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Tim (JJ?) didn’t know what was so funny. Or did he? He was laughing, so it must have been hilarious. Everything. It was the most hilarious everything he’d ever seen.

“Here you go, sonny-boy!” A gun dropped into JJ’s (Tim’s?) hands. “Make daddy proud. Deliver the punchline.”

The blood pooling beneath Batman’s leg was funny. The weight in Tim’s hands. The giggles burbling from his own throat. It was all so funny, and JJ laughed. He laughed and laughed, taking aim.

Ha.

Ha.

BAM!

The blood gurgling in Joker’s throat was the funniest nothing JJ had ever heard.

It’s been eight months. Thirty-two weeks. Two hundred and twenty-four days. Five thousand, six hundred and seventy-six hours, give or take. Since.  

Bruce thinks Tim is okay. Dick knows he’s not okay but likes to pretend that he is. Tim pretends too.

He might be okay. By technical definition, he’s healed; the fissures in his sanity are stuck together with honey and glue sticks, the voice telling him to kill everyone in the room is swaddled in cotton, and his skin has regained most of its color.

So, yes. Tim thinks he could be okay. Except for the scars, scars, scars. They hold him down and make his heels sink into carpet like sand, even when he knows for a fact that’s not the case. But he still feels the weight.

Everyone has only just begun to treat him normally again. Some days, Tim can almost pretend it’s not there: the trauma. The voices. The scars. Some days he bickers with Damian and spars with Cass and helps Duke with his math homework in exchange for video game cheats. Some days he feels like a real person again, and not just a fabric doll whose button eyes lost their shine and whose seams have been snipped.

(I am played with strings but make no sound.
What am I?)

Other days he’s not so real anymore.

A puppet, Tim answers.

(He’s found that it’s easier not to ignore the voice.)

The first few weeks Dick had taken to sleeping in Tim’s room until he could be trusted not to take a letter opener to his throat when left alone for a minute, which was a situation no one wanted a repeat of.

(One more scar to match the rest), JJ says.

It had scared the hell out of Dick when Tim woke up screaming that first night, struggling against hands that weren’t there and voices that couldn’t be heard outside the confines of his own mind. It had taken ten minutes of consoling to calm him down, but an hour later the same thing happened again. And again. And again.

Nowadays, it’s just another fact of life. As logical as the knowledge that Bruce Wayne is Batman. Tim has nightmares, and that’s fine. Fine, fine, fine.

This is just a setback, Dick had told him the third week into the sleepless cycle; while he sat on the edge of Tim’s bed, trying to coax warmth back into cold fingers. Healing takes a long time, and we’re going to be here for you for as long as it takes.

But how long will that be? Tim didn’t say it, but he thought it. Thinks it. Thinks it with a brain that isn’t his own anymore, but it’s the only one he’s got, so he makes do.

Like most mornings, images of blood and white skin and green hair are burned behind his eyelids, even after he opens his eyes. At least he’s not screaming this time. On days like this the terror mixes with the low, low, low and creates a comfortable numb. So he doesn’t scream. Doesn’t even laugh.

Tim gets out of bed, stretches until his shoulder blades creak, and steps around the broken glass on his bathroom floor. Doesn’t look at the empty space on the wall above the sink. JJ laughs in the back of Tim’s mind.

(Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.)

He’s quieter these days. Resides shrouded within the depths of Tim’s head, barricaded with steel bars until he is little more than a thrum synched with Tim’s consciousness. The family doesn’t know that Tim still hears him. (Right?) Right.

(…Maybe.)

Tim knows that if they find out he’s been lying about being mostly-sane rather than completely over the edge and swimming in insanity, they’ll send him away. Lock him up in Arkham with the other crazies, because that’s what Tim is now. Crazy. He’s pretty sure he is.

(You are. )

You’re the crazy one.

(My presence alone must mean something, right?)

No.

(Denial is an ugly color on you, little bird.)

It’s frustrating. There is no way to know for sure if you’re insane or not since having the semblance of mind (whose mind?) alone in order to consider the possibility must mean that you can’t possibly be insane. Right?

And yet. Tim finds the question ruminating in his mind constantly, circling like an eternal washing machine cycle. Nothing but bubbles and bubbles and bubbles.

He goes downstairs for breakfast. There is a spot on the wall in the hallway where a mirror used to hang—one which Tim would purposely avoid looking at every time he passed it. Alfred must have taken it down last night. That was nice of him.

Further exploration reveals that the mirrors in all the hallways and sitting rooms have been either removed or covered up with a dark sheet.  

The kitchen is full by the time Tim gets there, which in and of itself proves a deviation from Tim’s new definition of Normal. Most days he is the first to wake—if he slept at all—and first to the kitchen, grabbing his coffee and a small breakfast before sweeping out again like a phantom.

He ignores the others as he walks straight to the coffee maker, which already has a warm pot waiting. Damian, Cass, and Duke are at the table, fighting over a plate of Alfred’s sticky buns while Bruce reads the paper. Dick is at the counter working on a bowl of cereal, and Jason is watching Tim.  

“Morning,” he says, giving Tim what he thinks is a subtle once-over. Bruce must have told the others about last night. Reminded them to treat Tim with kid gloves, just in case. Is he mad about that?

(Yes.)

No.

Maybe. He lives a life in the Maybe.

“Morning,” Tim says as he passes him to the cupboard and grabs a mug.

(One of those butter knives could cut through
a finger as easily as a carrot), JJ says.

Tim ignores him.

Looking for a distraction, Tim listens in on the morning banter. Bruce is scolding Damian for feeding Titus table scraps, which is rebuked with a protest from Dick. “Let the good boy eat the bacon, Bruce.”

“He’s a dog.”

“And he deserves love, dammit.”

(They’re watching you.)

Tim doesn’t flinch.      

So?

(That drawer is filled with knives.)

I don’t care.

(You should take one.)

And do what?

(Anything you want.)

I don’t want to do anything. I’m not like you.

(Take one.), JJ says.

(Now. Do it.)

(Do it.)

(DO IT —)

“Tim?”

Tim’s head snaps up, pulled from his thoughts like a beached fish. “Yeah?”

Jason looks pointedly at Tim’s hand, eyebrows crinkled. Tim looks down.

“Oh.”

He didn’t even realize he’d snapped the handle off his mug, and now the floor is covered in ceramic shards. One glance proves that everyone is staring as well. Staring at Tim. Crazy, crazy, crazy Tim.

Jaw tight, Tim drops the remains of the cup onto the counter and stalks out of the room. No one follows him.

(Crazy, crazy Tim), JJ sings.

Tim used to pride himself on his brain. These days, he doesn’t know if there’s anything left to be prideful of.

Tim hasn’t stepped foot in his apartment since Before. He’s been living in his old room at the manor and tries not to wonder if it was his own choice or if Bruce wanted to keep an eye on his only(?) insane son. 

He can probably go back if he wants to. Recovery had (has) been a shitshow, but the past few months have shown only a handful of setbacks. Excluding last night. For the first time in a year, Tim is starting to feel like himself again.

(And who is that?)

The first week was bad. As were the second and third and fourth because how can one possibly recover from something as terrible as what Tim went through? Judging from the whispered conversations Bruce and Leslie had whenever they thought Tim wasn’t listening, it’s a miracle he isn’t catatonic right now.

Tim’s not certain if he’s truly okay or just lying to himself, but he’s better than he was before, and that’s something. He lies in the uncertain purgatory between Terrible and Getting By. He’s getting by.

Last night had been a bad one.

These days, Tim’s episodes are few and far between, but that doesn’t mean extinct. Episodes when It builds and builds and builds until laughter bubbles from his throat like champagne, dribbling down his vocal cords and making the scars on his face ache. Last night had been in the between.

The scars have healed, for the most part. Alfred’s stitch work did its job, but even he isn’t capable of miracles. The jagged lines cutting through Tim’s cheeks aren’t going anywhere, and makeup can only do so much to hide them.

Last night he’d been brushing his teeth in the bathroom mirror, staring through his reflection rather than at it. Then JJ spoke up.

(Why so serious?)

Tim nearly dropped his toothbrush.

(That sick smile looking back at him. The Joker’s smile. Joker’s face, Joker’s laugh, Joker Joker Joker—)

“Why so serious, birdy?”

Tim closed his eyes.

“Good boys smile when Daddy tells him to.
Looks like someone needs to learn a lesson.”

His hands tightened on the countertop.

“There, isn’t that better?” Joker said, flicking blood 
off the pocket knife in his hand while he stepped
back to admire his work. “Now we match.”

His knees shook, and Tim wondered absently how he was still standing until suddenly he wasn’t anymore.

“Hush little baby, don’t say a word—"

“Deliver the punchline—”

“Tim—”

Tim’s eyes were closed but he saw swirls and swirls behind his eyelids, and fireworks popping in red and blue and yellow and it was funny, it was so funny—

“Sorry, little bird, but your precious Batman
isn’t coming for you this time.”

(Told ya.)

By the time Bruce ran in—he must have heard the ruckus—he found Tim on the floor, surrounded by broken glass with blood running down his knuckles and dripping onto the shiny, tiled floor. His hands were pressed to the sides of his head, making blood clump in his hair.

He was sitting against the sink with his knees pulled in close, rocking while he laughed and laughed and cried and laughed. He kept his hands in fists, gripping his hair tightly because he didn’t trust himself not to grab one of those glass shards on the floor and jam it into Bruce’s neck the second he got close enough.

The worst part of it all? Bruce had long since stopped being surprised whenever this happened. Wasn’t even scared as he crouched beside Tim and pulled the boy in close, settling in to wait it out with him until the episode had passed.

The last shred of clarity in Tim’s head wondered, since when had this become their new normal?

(Since you stopped being normal.)

Oh. Right.

He takes his laptop to the laundry room. Steph often compares him to a cat whenever he goes, and to be fair she isn’t that far off. But it’s warm down here, and it’s secluded, and it smells like Alfred’s fabric softener which settles Tim’s nerves as easily as a handful of Xanax.

And it’s quiet, which is simultaneous relief and curse. The good part is he can think. The bad part is he can think. Alfred put a sofa down here last month, so Tim settles himself in for a while.

An hour passes. Two. The small clock at the bottom of his computer screen is the only reason he knows this—otherwise, it would feel like a minute or a day and nothing in between. Damian’s cat wriggles out from a tipped-over laundry basket and comes to sit at Tim’s side, purring while Tim absentmindedly scratches the space between Alfred’s ears.

He sends his third email, eyes on the screen. “You’re losing your touch, Dick. Heard you coming before you crossed the doorway.”

Dick slithers further into the room, trademark terrible cologne permeating the air. "I figured it might be best not to surprise you.”

Tim pauses for only half a moment. “Appreciated.”

In the back of his mind, Tim wonders if this is real. He once had an entire conversation with his dad before Cass had come into the room and asked who he was talking to. Insanity frequently filters ghosts into his delusion of reality before being swiped away to mist. It’s irritating, not knowing what’s real or not.

(Is delusion interchangeable with insanity? Or is the real delusion merely the act of convincing yourself that you’re okay?)

Dick sits down and kicks his feet up so that they’re on Tim’s lap. It makes Alfred poof up and reposition himself grouchily, so at least that proves Dick isn’t a hallucination. Tim adjusts and rests the laptop on Dick’s ankles. “How are your hands?” Dick asks.

Tim changed the bandages himself this morning, not wanting to bother Alfred with it. “Fine. Stings a little.” Dick just nods, and Tim cuts his eyes toward him suspiciously. “Did you need something?”

“Just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”

Tim’s fingers jab at the keyboard harder than necessary. “You can tell Bruce that I don’t need a babysitter. That was my first relapse in weeks. It’s fine.”

(He thinks you’re crazy.)

So? He’s not wrong.

(One ticket to Crazy Town, admit one.)

“Tim.”

He looks up. “Sorry. Zoned. What were you saying?”

Sometimes Tim floats. His brain fuzzes and his vision fuzzes and his hearing fuzzes and everything goes fuzzy, fuzzy, fuzzy. To keep himself solid, he digs his fingernails into his palms and clings to that feeling like it’s the lone cord tethering him to the earth as he tries to focus on Dick’s voice.

“I was thinking we could go to the pier today,” Dick says.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“People will stare.”

Dick sucks on his tongue. “I know you don’t like going out, but it might be time to start. You could use some sunlight, kid.” He reaches over and pinches Tim’s arm, and Tim bats him away.

“I’ll buy one of those lizard lamps if it’ll make you happy.”

Dick drops his head back with a sigh. “You’re going to have to leave the house sometime.”

“And I will,” Tim replies. “Just…not yet.”

He doesn’t tell Dick his reasoning, but he doubts he needs to. The explanation is carved into his face. It’s written in the mission report from the night the Joker died.

While Tim was missing, the press had a field day with it. Speculations regarding which mistress he’d run away with. Which gang had kidnapped him to satisfy X agenda. What terrible accident the Wayne family was covering up to preserve their own prestige and dignity.

Every time the family was bombarded with questions about what happened to young Tim Drake-Wayne, they kept their mouths shut and refused to comment on the matter. Lucius told the shareholders that Tim was on vacation until further notice. Some people assumed he’d had a mental breakdown, while others were sure he was in rehab. Many thought he was dead.

(Aren’t you?)

No.

(Are you sure?)

No.

Even after Tim was back home, the rest of the world wasn’t made aware of his return until months later. Until the physical changes had gotten relatively under control. Until Tim could hold a conversation without stuttering into giggles and choking on imaginary blood running down the back of his throat.

No reporters were allowed on the grounds, and all the Waynes divulged in their forced interviews between walks to the donut shop was that Tim was home and well. They let the press come to their own conclusions.

Then—by some terrible stroke of misfortune—a photo was leaked to Gotham Times, showcasing Tim’s new look, and it spurred a wildfire of gossip across the city. Because with one look, every soul in Gotham knew which monster had mutilated Tim Drake’s face.

Billionaire Prodigy Kidnapped By The Joker?

CEO Of Wayne Enterprises Held For Ransom By Gotham’s Worst Psychopath.

Tim Drake-Wayne’s Grotesque New Look—The Joker’s Doing, Or A Psychosis-Fueled Cry For Help?

Exclusive With Vicki Vale: “Tim Drake’s Downward Spiral Is Something We All Saw Coming.”

Attention Whore Or Victim?: The Scoop On Tim Wayne’s Horrifying Return.

Tim has been on the front page off and on since the day it was publicly revealed that he was alive. As much as they tried, his family couldn’t hide the newspapers and magazines from him all the time. He saw the headlines. He knows what people are saying about him, and he should probably be offended that they think so little of him as to assume he’s just another attention-seeking celebrity, mid-breakdown.

He can’t blame them, though. Because one: they’re right about the breakdown part. And two: he wishes he would have been in rehab or Arkham or the fucking Bahamas—anywhere other than where he actually was during his time away. He wishes the articles were right, and this was all imaginary.

But it wasn’t. Isn’t. And deep down, he knows people know. This godforsaken city has been through enough to recognize a Joker victim from a mile away, and it’s ample proof to give entire city blocks the heebie-jeebies.

As far as the world knows, it’s undetermined whether the Joker is truly dead this time, or simply went into hiding after Batman no doubt rescued poor Tim Drake from his mad clutches. The city as a whole hopes Batman finally put an end to that psychopath, but without a body there is no way of knowing unless you were there.

Tim was there.

The Joker is dead. Tim killed him. He doesn’t feel bad about it.

(The person who makes it doesn’t keep it.
The person who purchases it doesn’t use it.
The person who uses it doesn’t know they need it.
What is it?)

“That’s not funny. That’s not—"

A coffin.

Tim knows he should feel something. He took a life. He crossed the line he’s been forbidden to cross, and that is something he will never be able to take back.

So why does satisfaction curl in his heart every time he pictures the Joker’s bleeding, lifeless corpse?

(Because you’re a killer.)

He was a monster.

(He’s not the only monster.)

 It was self-defense.

(We’re both smart enough to know that it wasn’t.)

“What are your plans for today, then?” Dick asks, unaware of Tim’s internal battle. He even has the decency to pretend not to notice that Tim’s no-longer-tapping fingers now grip the sides of his computer hard enough to make the plastic creak. “Since you’re so dedicated to the Boo Radley gig.”

“Don’t know yet.”

Dick’s lips are pressed together, eyes drilling into Tim as if he can take him apart, remove the damaged parts, and put him back together again like a puzzle. But Tim isn’t a puzzle. He is jagged shards of a snapped coffee cup. He is a vase shattered on the floor, swept and replaced a day later.

(All the best people are broken.)

Dick pats Tim’s knee before getting up, reminding Tim of an old man. “Try to get out of the house if you can. You know I worry, little brother.”

He calls Tim that more often now. A reminder and a prayer at the same time, like he’s secretly wishing for the person who used to be his brother to come back and replace the damaged scarecrow before him now. It stings as much as it soothes.

Is Dick’s little brother gone? Or just cracked?

Tim has been working behind the scenes for Wayne Enterprises as of three weeks ago.

In his absence, Bruce didn’t let the board replace Tim as CEO, and they still haven’t. Lucius has taken over all of Tim’s responsibilities that require a physical presence in the workplace, while Tim sticks with his laptop and handles everything else. It’s an efficient system.

He’s reviewing a report from the production division, fiddling with a pen as he scrolls through the charts. His reflection looks back at him in the laptop screen, and the image alone gives him chills. Even after all this time, he hasn’t adjusted to seeing it. Seeing him.

(Smile for the camera, Timmy.)

Tuning out JJ has gotten easier with time, and before long Tim’s found a rhythm that allows him to work on autopilot with his mind blissfully empty for a while. Until.

(You should shove that pen through your hand.)

Tim freezes. Body taut.

No.

(Why not?)

Because that’s crazy.

(So? So are we.)

Not we.

(We’re the same.)

“We are not the same. You’re in my head.”

(So are you.)

Tim throws the pen across the room and doesn’t watch to see where it falls.

Conner visits when afternoon rolls around, and the pair plays a videogame in Tim’s room. They don’t talk as much as they used to. The air is thick, cloying with an awkward energy. Tim knows he makes his friends uncomfortable, and it’s not his fault, but still he feels guilty.

Every time Bart staunchly keeps his gaze on anything but Tim’s mouth; every time Stephanie jolts microscopically when she sees the face of the Joker where her boyfriend’s unscathed skin used to be. It stings.

“How are you feeling?” Conner asks eventually. His eyes are trained on the game, rather than on Tim.

I don’t know.

“Fine.”

(Strike one, liar.)

“The Titans miss you. Cassie won’t stop moping around, complaining that it’s too quiet without you going on about all your conspiracy theories and weird ideas in the middle of the night. Have you given any thought to coming back to the team?”

Tim shrugs. “Bruce hasn’t cleared me for hero work yet, but I’m planning on seeing if I can patrol tonight.” Because going out under the shroud of darkness in a mask is leagues easier than stepping into broad daylight, scars uncovered for everyone to see.

So yes, Tim wants to go back to being Red Robin. Wants it more than anything in the world, and he’s far enough into his recovery that he feels more than ready to don the cape and force his way back into the crevice of normality. As close to it as he can get, at least.

Conner grins, patting Tim on the shoulder. “That’s great, man. Getting back into the swing of things, huh?”

“Yeah, well. One can only have so many psychotic breakdowns before it starts getting old.”

Conner squirms uncomfortably.

“That was a joke.”

“Right.”

Tim wishes things could go back to the way they were.

(London Bridge is falling down…)

Tim isn’t allowed back in uniform yet, but Bruce negotiated to letting him run comms most nights. Baby steps, he said.

Tim hasn’t cared much what he does, as long as he can sleep at night knowing that he’s still useful. Even broken toys can find a purpose, and Tim hangs onto his with everything he has. Tonight, though? He’s going to do it. He’s going to ask Bruce to let him patrol again.

He can’t wait.

Tim is at the computer, wearing a pair of sweats and one of Jason’s old band t-shirts. He can almost feel his uniform in its case across the cave; like the energy is vibrating at a frequency only he can hear. He hasn’t touched it since the Last Time, and he knows there’s a good chance that going out tonight could be a disaster.

That doesn’t stop him from catching Bruce while he’s gearing up for the night.

“B, can we talk?”

Bruce turns, eyes down as he fiddles with his gauntlet. “What do you need?”

“I was thinking I could go out with you guys tonight.”

Bruce freezes. Looks up at Tim, brows knotted beneath the cowl. “You can’t be serious.”

Something deflates in Tim’s chest at the way Bruce says it, but he steadies his shoulders. “I’ve been taking all my meds. I train every day, so I’m physically capable. And I’ll stick with you or Dick the whole time if it eases your mind.”

“No.”

Tim expected the rejection going in, but it still stings like mirror shards. “Bruce—”

“Absolutely not. You’re not ready.”

(One little soldier boy all alone), JJ adds cheerfully.

(He went and hanged himself and then there were none.)

“I think I know what I’m capable of better than you do.”

Bruce faces him fully, every inch the intimidating Batman that terrifies thieves and burglars into cowering on the ground. But Tim is immune. “You asked me, and I gave you an answer. End of story.”

He goes to leave, but Tim steps in his path. “No, it’s not. How long are you going to keep me here?”

“Until you’re better.”

“What if I never get better? What if this—” He gestures to all of himself. “—is as good as it’s going to get? You’re just going to shelter me from hero work forever?”

“Until you’re finished recovering, yes.”

“But you have no idea how long that’ll be! If it were you who had been…” Tim bites back the flicker of memory, and his voice scratches. “If you were in my situation, you’d be back already. You would have been out there running across rooftops months ago.”

“This isn’t about me,” Bruce says, voice solid as gravel.

“So?”

“So, I’m your father, and I’m saying no. I’m not letting you get hurt again.” 

Tim steps closer, rising on his toes so that he and Bruce are close to eye level. “You’re forgetting that I’m emancipated, Bruce. You’re not in charge of me anymore. I can do whatever the hell I want.”

Bruce’s jaw works, his scowl twitching. Tim knows that was a low blow and he’ll probably regret it later, but he’s run out of sympathy. His cracked brain is dripping spice and tang, and he will not leave this conversation without getting what he wants.

It’s bad enough that he can’t go out in public without getting stared at like he’s a freak or a martyr or both. All he has left is hero work. That’s his last shred of freedom—a mask and the right to take out his overflow of Everything, Everything out on those who deserve it.

“I’m not discussing this with you anymore.” Bruce turns to leave, and Tim snaps.

He punches the wall nearest to him, letting the impact vibrate through his bones; he’s too far gone to worry about pain. “I’m not useless!” Slowly, Bruce looks back at him. His eyes are narrowed. “I’m not useless,” Tim repeats. “You’re acting like—like no one else in this fucked-up family has problems. We all have problems, Bruce. Jason coming back and Damian coming back and Dick and Cass with their trauma, and you! You dress up like a fucking bat and beat up criminals every night!”

Bruce says nothing, and Tim keeps rolling before he can stop him.

“I’m sorry you’re so ashamed of your psychotic son that you don’t want to risk me embarrassing you in front of scummy criminals. But just because I’m—because I’m crazy and messed up and you don’t trust me anymore doesn’t mean I’m going to let you keep me from doing the one thing I know I can do right. The one thing in the entire world that I have going for me right now.”

(Ha.)

Tim opens his mouth again, but it seems he’s run out of words. Shoulders heaving, he settles and feels his pulse pounding in his ears. He shouldn’t have gone off like that. He couldn’t keep himself together. There’s no way Bruce will give him the green light now—now that the fissures have opened enough to show a glimpse of what’s inside.

He knows what to expect and braces himself for it. You’re too dangerous to let out. You aren’t built for hero work anymore. I know you want to go back to how things were, but you’re too damaged now.

(Damaged, damaged, damaged), JJ singsongs.

“Fine.”

Tim blinks. “…Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not joking?” He searches Bruce’s expression for any hint of deceit.

(You forget—the only liar here is us.)

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Bruce says.

(No, but neither do I and I laugh about it constantly.)

Bruce tightens his gauntlet strap. “Dick and Damian are hitting uptown and I’m taking main. I don’t care who you choose to go with, but you’re to obey orders to the letter and not leave anyone’s side. Not until we know you can handle it. And if something goes wrong, then you’re back on comms until Leslie clears you. Got it?”

Tim tries to push down the smile tickling his lips, but he fails horribly. “Thanks, Bruce. I swear I won’t let you down.”

“Suit up. We’re leaving in ten.”

Tim doesn’t know how long he stands in front of the mirror. His suit fits just the way it used to—snug and strong and safe. He mourns the classic Red Robin mask, but because of the scars that’s no longer an option. Alfred quietly supplied him with one of Stephanie’s old masks—one which effectively covers the lower part of Tim’s face, Winter Soldier-style.

He doesn’t hate it. JJ loves it.

“Tim, you ready?” Dick’s reflection is behind him in the mirror, hand hovering over Tim’s shoulder.

Tim releases a breath. Lets the tension in his shoulders go. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

God, he missed the city. He missed the rooftops. He missed the thick darkness and the shadows covering the ground below like a swampy black lake. Nightwing and Robin’s plans for the night consist of odds and ends—whatever crimes pops up, and Tim is fine with that. Baby steps.

Like riding a bike, Tim settles into the persona easily. He’s spent so long recovering, but this feels like more of an improvement than all those months could have possibly given him.

JJ is even silent for the moment, and Tim doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or not. But it’s quiet, and he can think, and for once he can hold his bo staff without feeling the impulse to slaughter anyone who touches him. It’s a most welcome reprieve.

Tim keeps his promise to Bruce and stays by Dick’s side, letting himself take the backburner. It’s fine. It works.

“Need a hand to hold?” Damian sneers at one point.

“You offering, kid?” Tim replies. Because, mock him or not, he’s having a good time. He’s relaxed. It’s like stepping back into place after long enough that he would have scratched his eyes out if he had to stay stagnant for one more second.

He spots a mugging down below. “Nightwing. On the street.”

Dick looks down and nods, and the three of them spring into action. Four guys. One victim. She runs away, so Tim allows himself to focus wholly on the criminals for now. Three of the men are lanky and inexperienced: easy targets. The last one is bigger and might cause a problem. Nightwing takes that one out first, and then there are three.

“Shit—” one of them starts but doesn’t finish. Tim’s knuckles slam into his jaw, knocking him against the wall. His head hits the brick with a heavy thunk, and then he’s down for the count. Dick and Damian grapple with the other two, but it won’t be a long fight.

For a moment, Tim lets himself grin under his mask. This is what he missed. The sting in his knuckles feels better than anything, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins is an old friend.

Tim pulls a zip-tie out of his belt and steps over the unconscious man, grabbing his wrist to cuff him to a nearby pipe. The victim who fled must have called the police, because sirens are wailing two miles away. They’ll be here in no time.

Tim steps back, dusting off his hands. Then his eyes land on the puddle.

Even without taking into account the new mask, his reflection is…changed. Gives him an instinctive jolt in his sternum. Suddenly his head goes fuzzy, fuzzy, fuzzy and a ringing sound pierces his eardrums, which Tim assumes he owes to the adrenaline. But…his face.

Dark eyes. Pale flesh. Green hair? No. Black. It’s black. He can’t see his mouth—knows he’s not smiling nor laughing—so why does he feel champagne bubbles bursting in his blood? JJ is laughing, laughing, laughing, and Tim doesn’t know why.

“Red, you good?” Nightwing has knocked out his guy.

I don’t know.

Tim gives a quick thumbs-up, then ducks around the corner of the alley. His heart is pounding. Is this a panic attack? Another episode? Something else?

(You shouldn’t have come out tonight.)

The voice is so loud and sudden that Tim instinctively slips a throwing disk out of his belt. Then he realizes the enemy isn’t physical.

Why not?

(You can’t trust them.)

 They’re my brothers.

(Were.)

Are.

His hands are cold inside the gloves.

(They left you with the clown.)

I was kidnapped.

(They never even looked for you.)

Liar.

It’s loud. The all-encompassing Everything is so loud that Tim can’t think—can’t comprehend more than the chill in his blood and his heartbeat pounding in his chest and the laughter in his ears. In his head. There’s so much in his head.

(Am I? They know what you really are.)

Shut up.

(A monster.)

 “Stop it.”

(Weak.)

Tim shakes his head, swallowing back bile. “Stop.”

(A killer.)

“Shut up!” He clutches his head, wanting to slam it against the brick wall as hard as he can until the everything, everything, everything is gone and empty.

(Chipped teacup, torn paper, shattered, shattered, shattered—)

Tim isn’t aware he’s on the ground until he feels cold concrete and rainwater soak through the layers of his uniform.

Everything is so cold.

JJ is laughing so loudly, and the darkness that lives in the secluded corner of Tim’s brain grows and grows and grows like a weed.

(What is as big and tall as you are but holds no weight?)

Tim can’t stop giggling. When did he start? Why can’t he stop?

Your shadow.

The darkness is swallowing him whole. He can’t see, can’t feel, can’t breathe. Tim can’t breathe. His lungs are spasming with laughter and it won’t stop and he can’t breathe—

“Red. Red, can you hear me?” Hands on his wrists, tugging.

Dick.

Help.

“Open your eyes.”

I can’t.

“You’re okay. You’re not there anymore.”

Tim wants to believe him. He wants to open his eyes and see Dick’s face in front of him, a blanket of reassurance that it’s okay, that this will pass. But doubt is acidic in his mind—sour, like lemon juice. Sour is the knowledge that knowledge itself is as good as useless when your mind is your weakest link.

“Please, just—drop the disk, all right? It’s okay.”

Drop the—oh. Tim didn’t feel the sting before, but now he can feel the throwing disk still clenched in his fist; slicing deep into his palm through the glove. He can let go. He can do that.

Hand shaking, Tim forces his fingers to unclench. The disk clatters to the ground.

“Good,” Dick is saying, a touch relieved. “Good. Can you open your eyes for me?”

What if I’m there again.

What if this is another hallucination.

What if you’re not real.

What if—

“Tim,” Dick says sharply. “Look at me.”

No civilian names while we’re in costume.

Is Dick even real? Is any of this real?

The cold is real.

The pain in his hand is real.

But nothing else.

You’re not real.

Tim used to pride himself on his brain.

None of this is real.

Now there’s nothing left to be prideful of.

If I’m hallucinating, and I’m really There, then at least I don’t have to see it.

Somehow, that thought backwardly eases Tim’s panic. Whether Dick in front of him—Dick’s hands warm on his skin, Dick’s murmured reassurances that have faded into white noise—is a hallucination or not, at least he won’t have to be there. Everything is probably fake, but a fake everything is better than There. And that’s enough.

Tim opens his eyes. Dick breathes a sigh of relief when he does, his hand tightening on the back of Tim’s neck. “Hey,” he says. “There you are. You with me?”

(Are you?)

No.

Tim nods anyway. His head feels heavy, like someone shoved a UV light through his eyes and into his brain.

Small footsteps nearby. “Nightwing. What’s wrong with him?” Damian doesn’t sound overly concerned, but he’s not overly unconcerned either. Which…is.

Dick’s hands don’t leave Tim’s wrists. He turns his head a fraction toward Damian but keeps an eye on Tim. “We’re fine, Robin. Go help the authorities round those guys up and we’ll meet you back home.” Damian nods once, lingering for only a moment before obeying.

Dick focuses on Tim again, mustering a weak smile. “Doing better?”

Tim shakes his head minutely. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

Tim curls his fingers, digging hard into the gash in his palm. The pain is distant.

Is this real?

Am I real?

Does reality even exist anymore?

Tim scrambles for an answer. “I don’t even…I don’t know what’s real anymore. I can’t tell if you’re real or if I’m real or if any of this is real and—and—”

Dick grabs Tim’s hand and squeezes it. “Feel that? Feel my hand? That’s real.” He reaches over and pinches Tim’s arm. “That is real. I promise, everything happening right now is real.”

But Tim shakes his head, throat feeling choked. “That doesn’t…it doesn’t prove anything. How do I know my brain isn’t just sending false signals to my nerves and making it register as pain?”

Dick sits back on his heels, stumped. “Well…you trust me, right?”

(You shouldn’t.)

Slowly, Tim nods.

“Okay. Then there you go,” Dick says with a comforting smile. “Trust me when I tell you that as far as I know, I’m real. And if I suddenly find out I’m not, I’ll let you be the first to know. Pinkie promise.” He hooks Tim’s bloodied finger with his own.

Tim’s hands are still shaking. JJ is still loud. But Dick’s hands are warm and they’re present and they’re (maybe) real. It’ll have to be enough.

Dick’s talking again. Tim tries to focus. “Here, let’s get you up. I’ll take you home, okay?”

Tim thinks he nods, and Dick helps him up.

JJ keeps laughing.

  (Blood clots and ink blots, broken clocks and chain locks and birdies cast from the flock—)

“You won’t tell Bruce, right?” Tim asks. Tim sits on his bed while Dick dresses his wound. They managed to slip past Alfred on their return to the manor, and Dick told Bruce over the comms that they’d ended patrol early due to quiet streets. It passes as a half-truth.

Dick thinks about it, dabbing away the blood on Tim’s hand with a cotton pad. “You don’t think we should?” He grabs the roll of gauze that Tim hands to him.

Tim presses his lips together. “No. I’m okay.”

“Are you really?” It’s not accusatory, but it might as well be.

(Nope.)

“…I will be.”

“But you aren’t now,” Dick finishes, nodding. “And that’s okay.” He finishes wrapping the gauze around Tim’s hand—around the other bandages from last night’s episode.

(You’re so scarred, there’s almost no more flesh left.)

“There’s nothing wrong with having trauma,” Dick says. “Just because things aren’t great now doesn’t mean it’ll always be this way.”

You don’t know that.

“Healing takes time,” Dick continues. “People like Bruce and me had to learn that the hard way.”

But what if it never gets better?

What if the ghosts in my head never leave?

Tim bites his lip hard and ignores the coppery tang that bursts on his tongue. “I don’t know,” he says. “I feel like I’m losing my mind. My head is so loud.” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. The mattress dips as Dick settles beside him.  

“Is…Is he still talking to you?”

Tim manages a snort. “Right now he wants me to kill you and then throw myself in front of a bus.”

Dick falters for only a second. “I would…appreciate it if you did none of that, thanks.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve gotten good at ignoring the murderous impulses. One time was enough for me.”

This time, Dick’s unflappable mood drops altogether. His expression turns terse and earnest. “You know that wasn’t you, right? It was…I mean, you were brainwashed. Nothing that happened that night was your fault.”

“I know. Just…maybe I want it to be.” Tim avoids making eye contact. “I don’t regret killing him. I know I should, and that being happy he’s gone is probably a sign I’m worse off than I thought, but…I don’t feel bad about it. I’m…I think I’m happy. That I killed him.”

(Once a murderer, always a murderer.)

He dares to look up. “Does that make me a bad person?”

(Yes.)

Dick chews his cheek. Tim can’t tell what he’s thinking, but he’s not sure if he wants to. Does Dick hate him for what he did? Does Bruce? Should Tim hate himself for it?

And, more importantly: does it mean he’s truly fallen off the deep end if he doesn’t?

“No,” Dick says finally. “It doesn’t make you a bad person. In fact, it’s probably a good thing you killed him.”

Tim arches an eyebrow.

“Because if you hadn’t killed him first, then I would have done it. And I guarantee I would not have made it as quick as you did.” His eyes glint darkly. “I would have made that bastard suffer for what he did.”

He brings an arm around Tim’s shoulders and squeezes. “So if you think that being happy he’s dead makes you a monster, then you’re not the only monster here.”

Tim thinks about that. And knows it should make him feel better, make him feel something, but he can’t muster any emotion other than the dark certainty that he’s too broken to be repaired with a pep talk and a handful of hollow reassurances.

(Too snapped to be mended.)

“That doesn’t magically fix everything, you know,” Tim says. “Even if I check ‘horrible murderer’ off the list that still leaves ‘clinically insane’ and ‘has vivid hallucinations,’ which aren’t as fun as they sound.”

Dick shrugs. “We’ll get through like we always do. By working at it until you’re better.”

“But what if it never gets better?” Tim asks. “How am I supposed to manage something like this?”

“Mind over madness,” Dick suggests, which prompts Tim to shove him.

“That is the worst pun you have ever made.”

Dick cocks his head. “Does it count as a pun?”

“How should I know?” Tim swirls a finger in the air next to his temple. “I’m crazy.”

Dick laughs, and Tim rolls his eyes, but he lets himself spare a chuckle as well. Because he knows it’s a band-aid. That Dick has no real answer, and Tim didn’t expect him to have one anyway. So they laugh instead. Because Tim is crazy, and nothing is better, and at least a band-aid is something.

Tim doesn’t realize until long afterward that, for once, it didn’t trigger an episode. Not even a flashback. It was just laughter.

Tim goes straight to bed that night, taking the coward’s way out and avoiding Bruce at all costs. He knows Dick will tell Bruce about his breakdown—that he should tell Bruce because it could be dangerous for everyone if he doesn’t. Tim doesn’t know how to feel about it.

(Crazy, crazy Tim Drake.)

Tim stares at the ceiling, brain too loud for him to possibly sleep. His room is dark and silent aside from his own breathing. And the voices. For all he tries to hold on, Tim’s sanity keeps slipping through his fingers like sand, spilling more with each passing day.

How long will it be until it’s all gone for good? Until Tim is nothing more than a shell of his former self, filled to the brim with a swirly concoction of madness and instability? Like the Joker?

(You already are.)

“I’m not.” He’s too tired to worry about keeping his answers silent. It’s not like anyone listening in won’t already know he’s crazy, anyhow.

There is no sicker burden than being afraid of one’s own mind.

(You need me but hate me,

you trust me yet doubt me, 

and without me you would be nothing at all.

What am I?)

It’s been eight months and one day. Thirty-two weeks. Two hundred and twenty-five days. Five thousand, seven hundred hours, give or take. Since.  

“My mind,” Tim answers.