Chapter Text
Bruce has many regrets. When you reach his age, it’s hard not to look back and wonder why he chose a specific course of action over something far, far better.
He regrets acting in such a way that made Dick feel he was unwanted, unloved, causing a rift in their relationship that has only recently begun to heal. He regrets being suspicious of Jason, seeing his anger instead of his joy, refusing to listen to him out of fear and concern until he left and died without ever knowing just how much Bruce loves him. He regrets being curt and cruel to Stephanie, ignoring her concerns and attempts to help, and instead focusing on her faults and flaws until she jumped into a situation she didn’t understand. He regrets keeping Damian at arms-length, watching him closely and disapprovingly, always expecting the worst even as the child, his child, was so desperate to please him.
He is grateful they have remained in his life despite his screw-ups. That he isn’t too late to try again and do better this time.
But for all his regrets, Tim is... not exactly one of them. Bruce feels guilty that the way he acted in his grief made a little boy with too-sharp eyes come to his front door to scold him, but it gave him Tim, and he can’t regret that. Even when he was cruel and hurting, trying desperately to push away another child who might worm his way into his heart the moment he acknowledged him, he cannot regret it. Because Tim is stubborn, perhaps more stubborn than any of them, and he knew exactly what Bruce was doing.
He looked Batman in the eye when no-one else would, and told him to pull himself together.
“You can’t be a grieving father and a grieving vigilante at the same time. Not without destroying yourself and Gotham. So either you go to grief counselling or you discover just how exactly I got a cease and desist letter from the Justice League,” he’d said seriously, mouth pressed into a thin line with eyes too old to belong to a twelve year old.
It was a childish way of looking at grief, and Bruce had yelled at him for that, had said several cruel things, but Tim stood his ground. The boy had looked at him with that dissecting gaze, wordlessly telling him that he knew exactly what he was trying to do and that he wasn’t going to let Bruce self-destruct out of grief. More than that, Tim made sure Bruce understood that he was ready and willing to be the biggest thorn in his side until he made a decision.
Tim showed up every day. Alfred never barred him entry, even after Bruce explicitly told him to keep the boy out. Any attempts to call his parents were met with a dial tone or a harried secretary telling him that they were unavailable. Meanwhile, Tim would leave pamphlets and flyers everywhere, and Bruce still doesn’t know how exactly he managed to roll some of them up in the toilet roll. He made spreadsheets and graphs, had Alfred trick Bruce into sitting down for seven hours as the tiny boy lectured him about healthy grieving mechanisms and the damage he was causing to minor criminals.
He had made an information packet that was 270 pages long, and ended with a quiz.
Bruce went to grief counselling.
He’s never admitted it, but the stubbornness of a little boy who saw things with old, old eyes probably saved him.
Tim has always been remarkably resilient, no matter his age. And while Bruce mourns the things his boy must have gone through to turn out that way, he cannot deny that it forced him to heal. That it helped not only him, but Alfred and Dick and Barbara and everyone else in his life. He remembers how he would trick Dick into coming over, how he’d connect Barbara to their coms over and over, no matter how many times they changed the frequency. He stuck to them like a burr, unflinching in the face of sharp words and casual cruelty as he donned the Robin costume with grim determination.
But Tim’s independence has always been a double-edged sword.
Shortly after Jason died, Bruce had been in no position to parent another child, and Tim’s acceptance of his detached approach to the boy had been a relief at the time. He’s ashamed when he thinks back on it, knowing full well that he had been distant on good days, and downright cruel on bad ones, telling himself that refusing to let Tim in was for the best. That Bruce couldn’t damage him if he stayed away.
Except he got attached. Of course he did. How could he not? It was impossible not to get attached to such a brilliant and ridiculous boy, a boy who would scold him and force him to eat, who made it his personal mission to bother Bruce until he went to counselling, who would eagerly help with whatever he could without a single complaint.
No matter what he did, Tim was here to stay, and there was nothing Bruce could do to stop it. And after realising that trying to push Tim away would be futile, Bruce has tried to be more present in his life.
Which meant Tim’s prior independence, something that had been a boon before, became... difficult.
Having raised two boys starved for attention and willing to reach out for affection when needed, Tim’s distance has always sat awkwardly in comparison. But Bruce repeatedly told himself to give it time. He knows enough about his son’s childhood to understand that he is unused to parental supervision and supportive presences in his life, and therefore doesn’t know how to respond to it beyond confusion and trepidation.
Jason was the same when he first arrived to the Manor, but he had at least some experience with his mother doting on him in her lucid moments. Exposing him to Dick’s easy affection, Alfred’s gentle hands, and Bruce’s own presence had made him relax and recognise them as family. Tim, in comparison, has never had such a reference. Beyond that, Bruce can admit that he’s never been the best at making Tim feel welcome, and only really began to try after his mother’s death. Even then it had been quickly cut short by Jason’s appearance.
And during the time Bruce was gone, it only seems to have gotten worse.
Tim has always been independent, but his distance has turned into outright avoidance. The first few weeks after returning to the correct time, Bruce had been too exhausted to think much about it. He’d asked after him of course, but Dick and Barbara explain Tim’s pivotal role in bringing him back, that he pissed off the League of Assassins in the process and is making himself scarce until Ra’s al Ghul calms down.
Bruce knows there’s something they aren’t telling him, and yet, as agonising as it is not to interrogate them for the information, he’s been trying to trust his family more. So he accepts their words and tries to wait for them to come to him with the truth.
Even when Dick comes back one day, tight-lipped and furious, he doesn’t ask.
But as Bruce slowly gets his strength back and Tim continues to stay away from the Manor, he knows he has to do something. He tracks his son down, tries to tell him that he’s proud of what he did to get Bruce back, that he’s missed him and wants him home. Tim doesn’t give any indication of wanting too much physical affection from Bruce, so he clasps a hand on his son’s shoulder and tries to convey just how much he is loved without words.
Tim looks at him with something fragile and desperate, and Bruce is about to drag him into a hug anyway, but-
The moment is shattered by an alert. Crime never sleeps after all. But he trusts Tim. Trusts that his boy will come to him when he’s ready, just as he always has.
Even as the months go by without a hint of Tim outside of WE or patrols, Bruce waits patiently. He waits and waits and waits, and slowly, the waiting fades into the back of his mind as he deals with the Justice League and Arkham breakouts and settling back in. And just like that, there are other pressing matters to look at, and he knows that Tim will understand when he comes back.
Because he’s always come back, no matter what.
That all changes on a Thursday evening, shortly before dinner. Damian is wrestling with Titus on the floor, a documentary about lead makeup playing in the background. Alfred is in the kitchen finishing up the last few dishes, and Bruce is sat in the living room, watching his youngest sons fondly. Dick had promised to show up after patrol, and he thinks he might be able to entice Jason to join them as well. Steph is currently on holiday with some school friends, and Cass has finally confirmed that she’s finished up most of her business in Hong Kong.
A recent Arkham breakout makes it unlikely that any rogues will stir up trouble, and patrol promises to be fairly straightforward.
It’s a nice evening.
It doesn’t last.
The sinking feeling in his gut starts moments before Barbara calls him.
“Tim’s civilian beacon just went off,” she says in lieu of a greeting, and Bruce immediately heads towards the BatCave. Damian looks up as he exits, but makes no move to follow. Alfred stares at him disapprovingly, but a quick hand signal explains the need for his absence.
“Where?” he asks, and Barbara hums.
“The tracker says he’s in Gotham City Hall. Social media has picked up on something going on there, but there haven’t been any- never mind, I stand corrected, an alert just went out. Apparently there was a construction failure in the building causing one side to look dangerously close to collapsing. Currently there’s no reported fatalities or injuries,” she explains, voice ever so slightly confused and exasperated. “Is Tim really calling for our help with something like this?”
“It could be the work of a rogue,” he suggests, pulling out his suit. “Any Arkham breakouts?”
“Nope, none recently. Harley and Ivy are still out, but they’ve been on the down low for a while. It could be Penguin, but there hasn’t been any chatter about a hit on the City Hall recently,” she explains, “though it could also be a set up to distract from an impeding breakout.”
Bruce grunts as he finishes suiting up.
“Would that be a sufficient excuse to explain Batman’s presence?” he asks, and she makes an affirmative sound.
“It would be plausible, yes.”
“Good.”
With that, he starts up the Batmobile and gets ready to head into Gotham, only to pause. He closes his eyes, and makes a mental note to apologise to Alfred for his childhood.
“Damian,” he finally sighs out, “I need you to stay here.”
His youngest son, already in his Robin suit, glares at him from the backseat, his lips turned-down into a scowl.
“If Drake is incompetent enough to fall into a civilian trap, then he will need my presence to remind him of his failures,” he explains haughtily, nose stuck in the air, but Bruce has come to know his son. And he knows that the tremble in his lips isn’t from annoyance, but worry.
He’s vaguely aware that Damian had some sort of confrontation or discussion with Tim that left him unsettled and off-kilter, though it was hardly noticeable at first. But the boy has stopped insulting his estranged brother any time his name comes up in conversation. He no longer scoffs or makes derisive sounds when Tim speaks on the coms, as rare as that has become, and instead silently assists him when needed.
The concern in his youngest son’s eyes suggests that whatever happened between them was a bit more severe than an earnest heart-to-heart, but until either of them tell him what happened, then he’ll just be happy that they aren’t at each other’s throats anymore. But regardless of their truce, Bruce can’t take Damian with him. While a part of him wants to assemble their entire forces for Tim, he has to remain calm. Tim chose to reach out to him, chose to activate his civilian emergency beacon. As much as he wants to race to his son with all his might to protect him, doing so would draw far too much attention to Tim and any possible connections he may have with Batman.
“I know, kiddo,” he says gently, “but you can check over him when he gets back. Besides, you have an exam tomorrow.”
Before he was lost in the time stream and got to know his son, he knows that Damian would have argued. Would have scoffed and pretended to accept, just to sneak out on his own later.
This Damian, however, grimaces, which is his version of a pout. Bruce hides his smile, and ruffles the young boy’s hair instead.
“Fine,” Damian grits out, “but you will alert me the moment you return, Father.”
“Of course, son.”
It’s a compromise. But given that only a year ago even that would have been impossible, Bruce thinks he’s allowed to be proud.
Grumbling silently, Damian exits the Batmobile and makes sure to slam the door with force. Alfred pops his head through the window.
“I will ensure the young master stays put, Master Bruce.”
Bruce sighs.
“Thank you, Alfred. I’ll be back soon.”
“Of course, sir.”
And with that, he rolls up the window, and heads off to collect Tim.
If the police and firemen are surprised by his presence at the city hall, none of them show it. In fact, a lot of them seem relieved.
“Preliminary reports suggest structural damage, but I ain’t taking any chances,” one of them says. Batman rumbles out a silent confirmation.
“Reports say the east stairwell collapsed, but apparently that area had been sectioned off for repairs,” a fireman offers.
“That would check out. East stairwell is where his beacon is,” Oracle adds on quietly, and Bruce grunts out an acknowledgment to both of them, heading over to the cordoned off entrance. No-one attempts to stop him, too used to his presence to protest.
“We haven’t gone in yet, but it seems to have stabilised for now,” a woman in specialist gear says to him as he ducks under the tape. “If you want to check out the scene, then go ahead, but stay... uh. Alert.”
She seems to realise how superfluous her warning is, but he’ll take it regardless.
“Understood.”
The interior of the City Hall looks wrecked, but that isn’t exactly anything unusual. It’s always in some state of disrepair, and he notes the crumbling concrete with distaste. The east stairwell is partially blocked off by a bent steel beam, and it’s a squeeze to make his way past it. The rest of it isn’t any better, and he turns on his night vision, carefully climbing up the groaning beams to the first floor.
As he studies the debris to assess his next steps, something drips down to his feet. He looks down, headlamp immediately lighting up.
A crimson stain shines back at him, surrounding a small mass of flesh and shards of bone. Distantly, he notes the shape resembles a shattered piece of the lower thoracic spine area. It would be excruciating.
He looks up, just as another drop of blood falls and splashes against his boots. A metal beam has punctured the ceiling, bloody gore dripping from the end.
Something in Bruce’s chest stutters.
He’s seen many awful things in his life, but there’s a particular sort of agony in knowing that the person on the other end is almost certainly incapable of surviving such damage. He can only hope that it isn’t Tim, and that sends a specific sort of agony through his chest. But he forces himself to ignore the jarring sense of wrongness, the soft jab that it might be Tim on the other end. With practiced ease, he squashes the thoughts. He has to trust that it isn’t Tim.
Instead, he takes a deep breath and tries to steel himself for what is about to come, before he starts to climb up again. Bruce pushes through the debris, ducking underneath exposed rebar, as his eyes stay focused on secure grips and weak areas. He boosts himself up and lands on stable ground, sweeping the immediate area for any potential danger.
Instead, his gaze hits a lump.
Please, a soft, desperate part of him begs. Please.
His headlight bounces against glistening metal, blood reflecting from the surface, and he takes a step forward. There’s a body there, pinned into place by the beam, face turned away. And yet, despite the damage, a faint wheezing sound rings out, the final strangled gasps of a dying person.
Bruce walks closer, eyes caught on the damage done to the fragile body before him. It’s fatal. Even if he was able to remove the beam, the hole it would leave behind would kill the person in seconds. The most he can offer is comfort in their final moments. He takes a careful step forward, hand outstretched to gently turn their head towards him.
Please.
His glove makes contact with tacky skin, and dim blue eyes open to gaze at Bruce.
“Hey B,” Tim - his son his son his son - gurgles out, blood coating his teeth. “Sorry to call you for this.”
And Bruce’s world shatters to pieces all over again.
He doesn’t remember dropping to the floor, a shaky hand cupping a too-pale face. He can distantly hear Barbara calling out his name, trying to get an update, but he can’t answer her. All he can focus on is Tim, the wet whistling sound coming from his lungs, the bruises under his eyes and the thinness of his body.
He’s not even 18 yet.
He’s still just a boy. His boy.
“No,” Bruce heaves, voice strangled as he cradles his son’s head. “Please, no, not again.”
“S’alright, dad,” Tim slurs out, “but you have to... to do one thing for me.”
Bruce can barely hear him, already fumbling with his com for backup and digging in his utility belt for a blade saw.
“Oracle, get Kal on the line, now, we need an emergency extraction from-,”
A hand grasps his own, gently pulling it away from the com. Tim looks at him with dazed, unfocused eyes, but there’s a twist to his lips that could almost be called a smile. Bruce wants to scream, wants to bundle him up in his cape and take him home, keep him safe and sound and-
“Stop,” his son whispers, “they can’t do anything.”
Tim tries to say something else, but his voice can barely make a whimper, and Bruce has to force down a whine. He wants to protest, wants to argue and command Tim to fight, wants to promise that everything is going to be okay, that he can fix this somehow. Because that’s what Batman does. That’s what Batman is meant to mean.
And yet-
He can’t fix this.
He can’t fix the giant hole in Tim’s torso, can’t glue his shattered spine back together, can’t carefully slot the burst organs on the floor below back into their rightful home. Because there is a hole in his son.
There is a hole in his son and he is dying.
“B,” Tim finally manages to get out. “Dad. I need you to trust me. I need you to... to take my body back to the Cave. Not the hospital or the morgue, but home. No ambulance, no morgues, no-,”
He chokes on a globule of blood, threads coating his teeth as he coughs. Bruce lurches forward and cradles his son’s head, tries to stop him from losing strength, but the hand around his tightens.
“This is important. Listen, you can’t- you have to take my body home,” Tim says desperately, eyes suddenly clear and focused. “And then things will be... okay. Call Pru for more answers. Use my phone. Two-one-three-eight-two-seven-oh-seven-nine-six. I... can’t explain more, but I’m going to be okay.”
How, Bruce wants to yell, how is anything ever going to be okay again? But the sharp gaze of his son forces him to nod, his other hand shaking as he reaches up to stroke his cheek.
“Alright, Tim,” he promises hoarsely.
His son doesn’t reply.
The wheezing has stopped.
Bruce shuts his eyes and holds Tim tight, tears finally escaping from his mask, before turning his mic back on with trembling fingers. He switches to the general channel, and immediately, the noise of the others fills his ear.
“B?” Nightwing- Dick asks, “Everything alright? Did you find T?”
Bruce’s hand flinches from where it’s buried in Tim’s bloodied hair, and tries not to scream.
For a moment, the world falls silent.
For a moment, Bruce holds his son, and weeps.
“Code white,” he finally rasps out, “convene at the Cave immediately.”
He barely notices the large hand that gently clasps his shoulder, the quiet strength of his best friend as he arrives to help remove his son from the wreckage. Bruce’s chest spasms as the beam is carefully removed from Tim’s body, flinches at the wet sound it makes as it slides out. Black blood coats the metal, and he tugs his son into his lap, cradles him close and trembles, pretending that there is no gaping hole in Tim’s torso, that his own gloves aren’t slick with red.
“Come on, B,” Clark says softly. “Let’s take him home.”
He doesn’t let go of Tim as they discreetly exit the building, away from the police and firefighters and reporters. He doesn’t let go as Clark gently urges him into the Batmobile, taking the driver’s seat as Bruce sits in the back. He doesn’t let go as the city lights of Gotham streak past them.
He doesn’t let go.
He’s still too late.
Jason’s always had trouble with slow days.
On one hand, slow days were the best days for a street kid. Shops were a little less cautious, gangs were a bit more lenient, and cops were in a better mood and unlikely to beat the shit out of you for ‘loitering’. As Robin, and then the Red Hood, he’s learned differently. Slow days usually mean something nasty is being cooked up for the evening and or night, and given the nature of his job, it eventually ends up being his responsibility in some way or another. The last slow day he had was ended by a team-up between Hatter and Scarecrow, and he’s very much not eager to find out how tonight is going to go.
So he tries to take advantage of the daylight to relax a bit. He hands out clean needles for distribution, helps deliver a new batch of the insulin he’s been making in B’s basement, and he cooks a big meal for the homeless kids living in the building close-by. There have been no major incidents or scuffles in his territory beyond an argument over who got the last pack of tampons from one of the freebie bins he’s set up, and that’s hardly difficult to resolve. He promises to increase the amount of personal hygiene items he normally puts in the bins, heads to a nearby pharmacy and buys out the whole period section, and everyone leaves happy.
By the time the evening rolls around, he’s cautiously optimistic that patrol tonight won’t be a hellish experience.
Of course, that gets dashed as he’s suiting up. He’s barely placed his com in his ear before it’s turned on, Oracle speaking up immediately.
“Hood, you there?” Oracle asks, and Jason grunts, body tensing at her unreadable tone.
“What’s the sitch,” he asks, pausing at her answering sigh.
“RR’s civilian emergency beacon went off, we’ve narrowed its location to the city hall. Nothing to worry about, really. Would you mind taking over the beginning of B’s patrol route while he sorts this out?”
If it were anyone else, then Jason would complain a bit, but begrudgingly do it. If it were anyone else, he would make a snarky comment about others not being able to handle the heat.
If it were someone he hadn’t killed with his own bare hands, he wouldn’t be swallowing down bile right now.
“...his civilian beacon?” he finally croaks out, and Oracle makes an affirmative noise. She sounds bored, almost annoyed, and entirely unaware of the fact that Jason can’t breathe.
“And you’re sure it’s nothing?” he forces himself to ask, and Oracle sighs.
“Look, it isn’t anything dire. Reports say it’s just some issues with construction at the city hall. T probably asked for assistance in helping civilians out,” she explains impatiently, and it does absolutely nothing to calm him down.
“Give Dick the route,” he says instead, “I’ll go assist.”
“What? As Red Hood? No, J, the place is swarming with police. Just go do the route as I asked-!”
He switches his com off, unable to care about the consequences Barbara will unleash on him for cutting her off. He can handle a few cops, he just needs to go and see that Tim is okay. He won’t take long. After that, he’ll grovel and bribe Babs with whatever she might want.
He’s out of the door in seconds, heading to another location to finish getting ready, before he’s on his motorcycle and speeding through the streets towards Gotham City Hall.
Logically, Jason knows that he’s overreacting. He sincerely doubts that there’s anything actually wrong, but he hasn’t seen Tim outside of the Red Robin gear in a while. Neither Babs nor Dick would explain where he went during Bruce’s disappearance, and they stayed quiet on why he never showed up after his return either. Not even Alfred said a word, his lips pressed tightly together whenever someone asked after Tim. To most people, it would have looked disapproving. Except Jason knows Alfred. And he knows when he’s worried.
So yeah, Jason is concerned. He knows he has no right to be, not when he hasn’t ever actually spoken to the kid properly. But as long as he can make sure that Tim is alive, then he’ll deal with the guilt and the flashbacks.
He skids into an alleyway near the city hall, dumping his motorcycle with little care before he’s scaling the wall and roof-hopping towards the main plaza. He can see why Babs wanted him to stay away; Gotham PD has pulled out all the stops this time. In the distance, he spots various news reporters and TV stations, each speculating and commenting on why parts of the east stairway has collapsed.
Jason’s stomach twists.
He can’t see Tim or Batman anywhere, and he has a sinking feeling that they’re both inside, which is... not great for his PTSD.
Yeah, he really gets why Oracle didn’t tell him anything. But he can handle it. He has to.
This isn’t Ethiopia. Bruce will get there on time, Tim is alright, and nothing is wro-
His com crackles.
“You better have a good apology lined up, Hood,” a cheerful voice comments.
“Get off the line, Dickwing,” Jason groans out. Nightwing chuckles, and he can just picture his older brother’s smug grin.
“No can do, I’m afraid. Oracle wants us all on the same channel for now to coordinate tonight’s patrol, as someone threw off her original plans.”
Jason swears.
“Really? I told her I was gonna check out the city hall, you know I’ve been looking into the dodgy construction deals going on in the Alley,” he bullshits, and Oracle finally chimes in.
“I do believe that’s a collaborative effort, Hood. N is right though; you better be prepared to grovel,” she says waspishly, and his face automatically grimaces.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll plant the bugs you’ve been nagging me about.”
“Oh no, I want more than that. I want Johann Thurm’s hard-drive in the Clocktower this time tomorrow.”
Jason grits his teeth. It’ll burn several favours he’s owed, but what Babs wants, she gets.
“Fine.”
She chuckles, and exits the general line, heading back to do whatever Oracle has to do. He can hear the quips of his brother through the com as he stops a robbery or some goons looking to cause trouble.
In that moment, everything is fine. He can picture B and Tim wandering out from the wreckage with barely any scratches, a sheepish grin on the younger’s face while their father scowls back, barely hidden relief in his eyes.
For a moment, he can believe that everything is going to be okay.
His com clicks. Bruce is on the line.
“B?” Nightwing asks, “Everything alright? Did you find T?”
He doesn’t reply immediately. It takes several seconds for him to say anything at all.
And then-
“Code white,” Bruce forces out, voice wrecked, “convene at the Cave immediately.”
His com beeps as the connection is cut off from Bruce’s side.
There’s silence for a moment.
And Jason is moving before he knows it, vaulting over ledges to speed back to his motorcycle, uncaring as he slams into multiple people on the way.
Code white.
Code white.
Code white.
Civilian death, his brain helpfully chimes in, sending a wave of some tangled emotion down his spine. He thinks he hears Dick having a panic attack over the coms, and Jason is close behind. His bike glints underneath the Gotham street lights, and just as he reaches it, his older brother appears out of nowhere, hurling himself at him with trembling hands and panicked breaths. Together, they stumble, and Jason unleashes a torrent of swears.
“Jason,” Dick warbles out, fingers digging into his jacket. “Jason, I can’t-,”
“Neither can I right now, okay?” Jason snaps back, electricity surging through his veins. “Fucking- pull yourself together!”
He says it to Dick as much as he says it to himself.
Jason has no clue how they make it back to the Cave without getting into a road accident, given how quickly he speeds, but in the moment, he can’t bring himself to care. All that matters is getting to his father.
All that matters-
All that matters is-
He slams on the breaks as they arrive, already tossing himself off the bike and moving, Dick bolting past him. And then he stops suddenly, and Jason skids to a stop.
Alfred is waiting for them.
Alfred is waiting for them, eyes sunken and cheeks gleaming in the light of the Cave.
“Boys,” he rasps out, sounding older than ever. “There’s has been... an unfortunate accident with... with...”
And Alfred- unflappable, unsurprised, stoic and ever polite-
He chokes. Covers his mouth with his hand as he gasps around a sob, hunching over himself as he turns away from them.
Jason stops breathing, heart thundering in his ears, and he has to force himself to stay upright.
Meanwhile, Dick vanishes, faster than he’s ever seen his older brother move.
Jason takes a step forward. And then another. Reaches Alfred and clutches his grandfather to him as he weeps quietly in his arms. He waits for something to tell him that this is dream.
Instead, a wail bounces against the unforgiving rock of the Cave. Dick is screaming in the distance, and it pierces his skull like a cold, cold crowbar. He blinks, and suddenly, Jason is outside the medbay, Alfred nowhere to be seen.
Dick is cradling the pale body of Tim in his arms, face screwed up as he sobs and sobs and sobs, chest rattling with too few breaths. There’s blood smeared on his cheek as he clutches his little brother to his heart, and Jason can hear him begging Tim to wake up over and over. Barbara sits in the corner, head in her hands, glasses tossed uncaringly to the floor. A wounded noise rings out, and Jason’s eyes swivel to the side, catching on the sight of his father hunched over.
Superman is there, Jason notes distantly, holding Bruce up as though he’d collapse into dust if he let go.
His father lifts his eyes to gaze dully at him, opens his mouth as if to say something, and then closes it again. He lowers his head again, and Jason watches him shake and tremble, harsh sounds escaping from him. He’s weeping, he realises slowly. His father is weeping as though nothing will ever be alright again.
Jason’s eyes gradually move to look at the boy who could have been his younger brother. He’s small and pale, still in his suit from his job at WE. A little boy dressed up like a business man. Dark crimson soaks through his office shirt, wicking up to his collar, and sticking to his hair. There’s no broken neck this time. Just a hole the size of a soccer ball in his torso.
He’s seen enough death to know that there’s no surviving that sort of damage.
Jason sways. He doesn’t know if he’s going to vomit or run away, so he settles on trying not to fall over. And yet, against his will, his fingers reach out and brush against Tim’s neck. Blood catches his fingertips, and as he presses against the cooling skin, he wonders why he expected to feel a heartbeat.
There is a hole inside his brother, and he thinks a hole has been punched into his family at the same time. And just like Tim, he doubts they’ll survive it. He lingers against his little brother’s spine, before pausing.
Then again, most people didn’t survive from a broken neck either.
He blinks.
And all of a sudden, the world clears.
“Bruce,” Jason starts, voice steady. “Dad. Did Tim talk to you before- before?”
If his father startles at his term, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t even look at him.
“’Take my body home. Call Pru,’” Bruce echoes listlessly, and Jason slides forward, trying to manoeuvre around Dick. He shoves a hand into his brother’s pocket, ignoring Dick’s sharp yell in his ear. His fingers hit a rectangle, and he pulls his prize loose.
Tim’s phone is surprisingly intact given the damage done to its owner, but Jason is pretty sure that you could drop his phone into lava and it would still come out whole. He flicks on the switch, grumbling at the passcode that pops up.
“Passcode?” he demands, and finally, Bruce looks up again, the emptiness in his eyes clearing. He shuffles out of Clark’s grip, and the other man steps back, brow furrowing. Barbara lifts her head, eyes bloodshot, and she stares at the phone in his hand.
“Jason,” she says hoarsely, “what is this about?”
“Give me the passcode, and then I’ll tell you,” he snaps back. They stare at him, and he scowls.
“Jason-,” Clark begins, but Bruce interrupts him.
“Two-one-three-eight-two-seven-oh-seven-nine-six,” he finally replies, and Jason taps it out immediately. The screen lights up, and he clicks on Tim’s contacts, scrolling down until-
Pru.
He taps call without hesitation, hitting speakerphone.
The phone rings once, twice, and then-
“If I have to kill you again, I’m making you pay double, Fingerboy,” a female, British voice snips, fond annoyance threading her tone. “And if I have to play babysitter to your flesh chunks as you regenerate again like the world’s shittiest Doctor Who, then I will personally find a way to put you down for good.”
Air floods Jason’s lungs, and he swallows down a hysterical laugh.
“I’m guessin’ you’re Pru,” Jason says drily, and for a moment, there’s silence.
“Ah bollocks,” she finally says, “he died in front of you and told you to call me, didn’t he. Fuckin’- I’m gonna kill him again, I swear.”
Distorted relief and victory runs through his veins, and he can’t stop his huff of laughter this time, eyes burning bright as he stares down at the phone.
“Join the club,” he answers, and she cackles, loud and amused.
All of a sudden, Bruce and Dick are there, cradling the phone like it’s something precious. Barbara’s eyes are wide, before they narrow, and he can tell she’s putting the pieces together.
“Explain,” Bruce demands, eyes boring a hole into him, and Jason grimaces.
“It’s complicated,” he tries to offer, but the woman cuts him off with a bark of laughter.
“Not likely. Sure, it’s complicated if you think too hard. So don’t. When Tim dies, he doesn’t have the courtesy to stay dead. This ain’t the first time, and it sure as hell won’t be the last.”
“This has happened before?” Dick whispers brokenly, just as Bruce says:
“He’s died before?”
Both of them sound like they've been shot, and he watches as Bruce stumbles, hands shaking.
‘Pru’ snorts, unimpressed.
“Yeah, sure has, Mr BatWayne. It is freaky. Fah-reaky. Have you ever cut a fella’s arm off so hard you hit his heart and then watched it regrow? Cus’ I have, and lemme tell you, worst night ever. Actually no, scratch that, having to cut off his fingers and jar ‘em like Hannibal’s pickle collection was the worst shit. Hey, now that you know, can you put him in therapy? Or like... find some way to make him less broken? He’s gonna need multiple therapists for sure, since the first one is absolutely gonna quit the moment he walks in. That kid is a walkin’, talkin’ existential crisis. For other people, I mean.”
Bruce is frozen, staring at the phone with a blank expression on his face. Dick looks torn between confusion and grief, and Barbara-
Babs looks ready to kill someone.
“The bomb,” she says steadily, even as her hands tremble with rage. “He didn’t get out in time, did he?”
Jason snaps his head up to look at her, and she steadily avoids his gaze.
When Pru makes an affirmative sound, Barbara sucks in a heavy breath. Dick collapses, making a wounded noise, and Bruce looks like his whole world is collapsing. Jason’s head feels fuzzy, the phantom echo of a bomb ticking down ringing in his ears.
“What?” he asks softly, and Barbara’s mouth thins.
“Later,” she says, and Jason has to stop himself from storming over to her and shaking the answers out of her. He clenches his teeth, and refocuses on the phone.
“How long does it take for him to come back?” he asks, and Pru makes a non-committal sound.
“I ‘unno, he told me it can take anywhere from a few hours to a couple of weeks depending on the cause of death. Bullet to the head is the quickest, apparently,” she says, almost sounding bored. Jason tries not to think about how many times Tim must have died in order to know this information. From the look on Bruce and Dick's faces, he guesses they're trying to do the same.
None of them are succeeding at it.
“And a giant hole in the torso?” he eventually rasps out.
She hums and smacks her lips.
“Honestly, no clue. Depends on the damage. Are his organs still there?”
It's almost easy to cling onto her nonchalant tone. She doesn't sound concerned at all, and Jason grasps that unflappable irritation with everything in his soul, because if he doesn't, then he's going to start screaming.
“Nope. Part of his spine’s gone too.”
“Yeowch. Yeah, that’s gonna take at least three days, if not longer. Don’t dump him in a hospital or a morgue, because then I have to get him and watch him respawn, and once is enough for me,” she complains loudly, and Dick chokes.
“So what?” he demands, voice reedy from his crying. “He’s just going to come back?”
“Yup,” Pru replies, popping the ‘p’. “Oracle’s correct, Ra’s fucking blew him up so hard he turned into dust, and he came back in a bathtub three weeks later. Don’t question it. Seriously.”
Dick retches at that, face going pale, and Barbara doesn’t look any better. Bruce hunches over, hand gripping Tim’s tightly. Jason forces himself to keep still as the urge to hit something bubbles in the back of his throat. None of them say a word, not until Alfred clears his throat.
“Thank you for informing us, Ms Prudence. I daresay we would have been... distraught without your assistance,” he says, and Pru makes a strangled sound.
“Jesus Christ, did they bloody nick you from the BBC? Did Liz herself release you from service? Fuckin’ hell. Southern bastard,” she curses, and Alfred-
Alfred laughs. There’s almost hysterical relief lining his eyes as he chortles, even as Pru continues to complain.
“Not quite, Ms Prudence,” he says after a while, wiping a tear from his eye. “You are welcome to the manor should you ever wish for some proper tea.”
“Yeah, sure, why not. Anyway, are we done? Cause I’m done. Don’t call me again, and tell Fingerboy that he owes me extra for this. Ta.”
The call ends as abruptly as it started, leaving the six of them to stare at the blank phone in silence. Slowly, Jason turns to look at the boy he killed not too long ago.
That, he thinks, is something to process later.
For now though? For now, Jason will wait.
Dick doesn’t know what to feel. Perhaps relief would be best, but staring at the unmoving corpse of his little brother, it doesn’t quite fit. Both Prudence and Jason confirmed that Tim would come back to life eventually; however his brain has yet to comprehend it all. Grief still aches deep inside him, and he finds himself sobbing at random intervals.
He feels like he’s being torn in half, two truths clashing with each other as he sits beside Tim whenever he can.
Eventually, he settles on guilt. How many times has Tim died? How many times did it happen under Bruce’s care? His care?
Dead. His Timmy has died enough times to know how long a bullet to the head takes to heal.
Jason had already reluctantly ground out his own role in causing Tim to die, which had sent Dick straight to the garbage can to vomit. Bruce looked like he didn’t know whether to cry or collapse, and instead buried his face in his hands. Jason had stood up to leave at that point, but Dick couldn’t bear seeing another brother disappear, and instead darted over to hold him tight.
“Please don’t go,” he whispered hoarsely, “I can’t lose another brother tonight. I can’t lose you again.”
Reluctantly, he had agreed. Bruce eventually pulled his head out of his ass and clasped a hand on Jason’s shoulder, hesitant and unsure if he’d allow such a thing. And for once, Jason accepted the affection.
They stood around the corpse on the bed for an indeterminable amount of time, until Bruce murmured something about telling Damian. Jason disappeared soon after, helping Alfred up the stairs. Barbara had joined them, glasses crooked and eyes still red.
And then it’s just Dick and Tim.
He grips his little brother’s cold hand in his own, thumbing over a silent pulse point over and over as he swallows down sobs.
“When you came into our lives,” he starts quietly, “I promised myself to be the best big brother I could. I promised myself that I wouldn’t make the same mistakes as Bruce, that I wouldn’t do what I did with Jason.”
He crumples, resting his head on the cool sheets cradling Tim.
“I’m sorry, Tim. I’m so, so sorry.”
He should have listened that day. Shouldn’t have let his own anger and worry take over, should have been calm and accepted Tim’s evasions, except-
He’s so tired of having to deal with non-answers from his family. He’d been worried sick, hadn’t known if his little brother was dead or alive, and he had desperately wanted a proper answer for once. Tim used to tell him everything.
Or... at least Dick thought he did.
God, how old had he been when he first died? He must have been terrified.
Had anyone noticed? Did anyone say anything? Or did he do as he always does: keep quiet and observe until it becomes advantageous.
“I don’t understand you sometimes, Tim. I wish you knew that I want to.”
He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t.
Tim is dead after all.
He falls asleep at Tim’s bedside some indeterminable amount of time later, and feels the warm body of his youngest brother pressed against him. He cracks open an eyelid.
Damian isn’t looking at him.
“I don’t hate him,” he says suddenly, head ducked. “I don’t think I ever did.”
Dick hums, other hand reaching out to tug him closer. And for once, Damian lets him.
“I don’t know how to feel,” he admits quietly, and Dick chuckles sadly.
“I don’t think any of us know what to feel.”
“I keep looking back and wondering- Richard, what if I succeeded? What if I did kill Timothy, and that is why he refuses to return home?”
“Oh, Dami,” he sighs gently, pressing a kiss to his youngest brother’s hair. “I don’t think that’s why. If anything, it’s probably my fault.”
Damian squirms, wriggling out of his embrace, his eyes narrowed. He looks so young like this, even as he tries to pretend to be older.
“You do not understand, Richard,” he says, voice clearly frustrated, “I cut his line recently. I was... angry at how upset he was making you.”
Dick’s eyes flutter shut as he takes in Damian’s words. A part of him wants to yell, wants to demand why Damian thought that was appropriate, but-
He opens his eyes, and can see angry tears on his youngest brother’s cheeks.
“And you know it was wrong,” Dick says gently, pulling him back into a hug.
Against his chest, he can feel him nod.
“I didn’t want him to die,” he admits into his shirt, “as he fell, I realised I didn’t want him dead.”
“I know, kiddo, I know.”
He stays there with his younger brothers for a while, vaguely aware of the rest of his family trickling in at various intervals. Bruce sets up cameras and sensors to make sure he catches the moment Tim’s heart starts beating again. Steph shows up and weeps against the bed, unable to bring herself to touch him. Jason reads books to his quiet corpse, voice cracking occasionally. Cass appears out of nowhere, tears dripping down her cheeks as she tucks herself against Tim’s cold body and refuses to move, no matter what. Damian brings down Alfred the cat and sits close by, sometimes silent, sometimes not.
And Dick... Dick waits. Waits for his little brother to finally come back to life and fill the hole he’s left behind. But as long as he comes back eventually, well.
He’ll wait for as long as needed.
Before he had ever even met him, Damian had known that Timothy Drake would be his hardest opponent to beat.
While the reports from the League tended to describe the older boy as cowardly, if intelligent, his mother had told him differently. It was one of the rare days she deigned to sit with him, cradling him close as she stroked his hair. Neither of them had been speaking, but his mother always had wisdom to part.
“Grayson and the Todd boy hold your father’s affections,” she had said suddenly, sliding her fingers down to grip his chin. “Timothy Drake, however, holds your father’s ear. You are to obtain both, do you understand, Witwaat?”
The childish nickname made him flush in embarrassment, but he had agreed, leaning back into the loving affection she gave to him. He’d known of Drake at the time, but had fallen into the same trap as the informants in his father’s city, viewing him as nothing more than a nuisance.
But his mother is a clever woman.
He’s never forgotten her words, has always kept it in mind when approaching Drake, because his mother was right. She usually is. He observed the way his father tossed his affection towards Richard, watched how he’d always reach out to touch Jason, but pulled back at the last second.
He noticed how Drake would receive knowing glances and silent nods, how his input would always be considered the longest, how even the most illogical of ideas would be discussed with a weight he reserved for Drake and Drake alone.
Drake should have been straightforward. He was straightforward in the beginning. Antagonistic towards the threat of the blood heir, untrusting of his League background, and overly-cautious in their interactions. But despite it all, he didn’t openly obstruct Damian’s integration into the family.
And yet there was a reason he was trusted by the Batman, which made him an enemy.
It had made trying to assassinate him very difficult. Even the most elaborate plots failed, and Damian had steadily turned to focus on waging mental warfare if physical altercations were insufficient to remove Drake from the family.
Perched on the bed where his dead brother slumbers, Damian wonders how many times he actually succeeded. It’s strange to see Timothy so still. Even during the height of their, in retrospect, one-sided rivalry, he had always been moving.
The fatal hole in his torso is gone, having gradually disappeared into nothing, and yet his heart remains silent. He knows that the rest of his family has become antsy, the hope they had been clinging onto for the past week slowly waning as Timothy remained lifeless. Had this occurred prior to Damian’s most recent attack on his life, then he would have assumed the boy was doing it out of spite.
Now though, he just hopes he wakes up at all. It’s strange, how easily he has come to view Timothy as family, if not a brother quite yet, despite their estranged relationship. He had fully expected him to report Damian’s misconduct to the rest of the Bats the moment he could. It would have been his right, and the slimy guilt that continued to churn in his stomach agreed.
And yet no reprimand ever came.
There was nothing but the echo of a tired, thin voice, from a tired, young man, quietly telling him to not do it again.
Damian doesn’t understand him.
He says as much out loud.
“You are confusing, Timothy,” he admits, eyes darting to the side to make sure no-one is nearby. “You are openly favoured by the family, yet you retreat and hide when possible. Even now, you remain dead, while father and the rest anxiously await your resurrection.”
The heart monitor stays silent, and he frowns.
“If this is because of what I did, then fine. But don’t take it out on Richard. He cares for you for some reason.”
He doesn’t dare say that perhaps, Damian himself cares for Timothy in his own way as well.
But as a blue eye cracks open to look at him, he thinks that his brother already knows.