Chapter Text
Tim stared listlessly at the ceiling. He didn’t remember how long he’d been staring, and he honestly didn’t care to. He didn’t want to remember at all.
The sheets of his bed were cold. Achingly so, even though he’d been sleeping in them all night. They were reminiscent of the sheets in hospital beds in that way, and that did nothing to quiet the sinking, hopeless feeling in his chest.
Though Gotham was always gray, dreary in a way that made you question why you ever lived there in the first place, today was much worse. The rain was beating against the window out of tune, the wind was howling instead of whistling, and the Manor moaned as if in pain.
It was as if Gotham itself was in mourning.
Tim did nothing to wipe away the tears that continued to seep out of the corners of his eyes. He didn’t try to steady his breathing with any of the dozens of ways Bruce had taught him. He just… laid there. Going through all the motions of a living person, but not feeling any more alive than his brother.
Tim was no stranger to grief. It had been one of the only constants in his life a few years ago. He had grown used to the way it had a habit of stalking you, pouncing when you least expect it, and watching as it takes and takes and takes until there’s barely anything left. This was different, though.
So incredibly, incomprehensibly different that it threatened to drown Tim in its wake.
Because he had never lost Dick Grayson before.
He had never lost someone so constant, so loud, whose very presence made a room immediately shine with a new light.
It was as if the sun had died.
Jaw clenching reflexively, Tim shifted to turn on his side. There had never been a time where he didn’t know Dick Grayson. Meeting him was Tim’s first memory. For years, taking photos of Batman and Robin swinging through Gotham had been his entire world. Dick had been his first friend, his first hero, and his first brother.
Even during that awful year that they had fought, Tim still couldn’t stay mad at him for more than a few hours at a time. Hurt? Yes. But never angry. There was just something about Dick that made Tim’s resolve crumble in a heartbeat.
How cruel was a world that could keep spinning even without him in it?
And suddenly, Tim knew exactly what Bruce felt, all those years ago. When Jason died. When Bruce’s entire world imploded.
“You’re too much like Bruce for your own good sometimes, kiddo,” Dick had told him once, laughing and ruffling his hair while Tim swatted at his hands, grumbling and pretending that he wasn’t smiling. Neither of them had really known how right he had been.
An anxious, buzzing hum makes its way from his feet, to his chest, all the way to his throat. If he is so similar to Bruce, then is he destined to repeat his mistakes as well? Tim’s breath hitched as he curled up tighter into himself.
Is he going to become the same person Bruce was, after Jason? Throwing himself into crime fighting that he forgets what makes him human?
If Tim were to go out on patrol, right now, could he honestly say that he wouldn’t do something that he wouldn’t be able to come back from?
Tim realized that he couldn’t. And that was the scariest thought of all.
Sitting up ramrod straight and throwing the covers off of him, Tim ignored the way that his chest shuddered with every breath.
Focus on the easy things. Dick had always told him that when Tim went to him after a particularly bad week. Sometimes, putting one foot in front of the other was easier than trying to tackle the big stuff.
Tim pointedly didn’t pay attention to the pang in his chest at the memory, trying not to think about how he’d never hear Dick tell him that again.
Walking quickly to the door, it takes Tim a few tries to open it correctly, hands shaking so hard that he couldn’t get a good grasp on it. Finally, it swings open, and Tim hurries down the hall, letting muscle memory guide him.
He comes to a halting stop in front of a once-welcoming door. He hesitates, gaze fixed on the doorknob with his hand half-outstretched, before flinching violently backwards. Though it has only been a little over a day, Dick’s room has already become a mausoleum in Tim’s mind.
He cannot bring himself to sully it with his presence.
Instead, he retreats down the hall and takes a sharp right until he comes to a door that had once been imposing. Raising a hand up, he knocked softly, before slowly pushing the door open.
Light filtered in from the hallway, landing on the motionless lump laying in bed. Surprise filled him, but it was soon replaced by immense relief. He had been sure that Bruce would’ve been out tonight, and–
Tim didn’t even want to think about it.
“Bruce?” Tim whispered, barely more than a breath, but the figure on the bed shifted nonetheless.
“Tim?” Bruce pushed himself up, looking at Tim with dull, bloodshot eyes. “Is… are you alright?”
Those simple words nearly brought Tim to his knees. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, his face crumpling. Tim suddenly felt every ache, every pain that he had buried deep since Bruce had brought the news that made his universe split at the seams.
“Oh, sweetheart,” A distant voice murmured, and suddenly there were arms around his shoulders (when had Bruce gotten up?) and he was being guided on shaking legs to sit on the edge of the bed.
Warm, sturdy arms engulfed him, holding all his broken pieces together. Tim felt a chin hook over his head, a hand running up and down his shoulder. Bruce didn’t mention the way Tim was heaving and shivering like a scared rabbit, and Tim, in turn, didn’t mention the steady drip of water he felt running along his scalp.
Neither spoke any words at all. This wasn’t the kind of hurt that words could fix – both of them knew that.
The only sound was two sets of lungs, learning how to breathe in this new world, devoid of their sun.