Chapter Text
Snow had been falling since morning. By six o’clock, the city was buried under its own exhaustion; streets swallowed by ice, alleys glazed in dull silver, rooftops bowed under layers of weightless white. Gotham’s winter didn’t shimmer like it did in postcards, but it clung, heavy and gray, its beauty stifled by the smell of exhaust and the murmur of loneliness that never quite left the air. The snow here didn’t fall softly; it descended like ash.
Wind scraped through the narrow veins of the city, dragging bits of paper and frozen leaves down streets lined with flickering lamps. The light from each bulb was weak and yellowed, more like a bruise than illumination, which cast long shadows that stretched and broke across brick walls slick with ice. Christmas Eve in Gotham had its own rhythm: slower, colder, but stubbornly alive.
Cars moved cautiously, their tires hissing against wet asphalt. The distant sound of traffic pulsed in the air, a low, steady hum that mixed with the faint ringing of bells somewhere blocks away. A handful of street vendors lingered by the sidewalks, breath ghosting in front of them as they sold roasted chestnuts and cheap scarves, their chatter lost beneath the whistle of the wind. Steam rose from subway grates like the city was breathing through its wounds.
Everywhere, the cold had teeth. It bit through coats, seeped through gloves, and crept down collars. The people of Gotham walked fast, shoulders hunched, heads down, chasing the warmth of windows glowing amber behind frosted glass. Cafés, small restaurants, and corner stores, each one pulsed faintly against the dark, promising heat and company. Inside, laughter bounced from walls, and the air smelled of cinnamon, coffee, and something sweet enough to make strangers linger longer than they meant to.
Children clutched their parents’ hands as they passed toy shops with bright displays, pressing mittened palms to the glass, eyes wide at mechanical trains and stuffed animals they’d never hold. Couples walked slowly, fingers interlaced, sharing scarves or steaming paper cups. In the distance, the faint echo of a choir drifted through the snow, voices trembling with the wind; carols sung too softly to belong to Gotham, yet somehow surviving here anyway.
And above it all, the city stretched tall and unyielding, its towers like monuments to both hope and ruin. Windows blinked with electric light, reflecting the snow in fractured gold and white. Somewhere far below, sirens flared, but their wails were muffled by distance and weather. Gotham never stopped, not even on nights meant for peace. It only slowed, holding its breath for a moment before the next storm.
A clock struck six from the tower in Midtown, the sound echoing through the frozen air. People paused, just for a breath, before continuing on. Taxis crawled down the main avenue, their headlights slicing through the falling snow. Bus stops were crowded with figures bundled in scarves, faces turned toward glowing screens or the promise of arriving warmth. Holiday advertisements flickered on digital billboards, with smiling families bathed in gold light, their joy almost obscene against the gray streets below.
Somewhere above those streets, on the eastern edge of the city, a window in a narrow building stayed dark. It was wedged between two taller complexes, one half-abandoned and the other gleaming with glass and marble. The old apartment stood like a forgotten tooth, its bricks darkened by years of rain, and its windows streaked and cracked at the corners. Snow gathered on the ledge, unmelted, because there was no heat from within to chase it off.
Inside, the air was still.
The apartment was small, too small for a man who had once lived in mansions, but too large for someone who had stopped filling the space with living. The first thing that met the eye was clutter. Piles of paper covered the small dining table near the window; printed reports, half-scribbled notes, and open files marked with colored tabs, all coated in a thin layer of dust. Coffee cups, at least a dozen, sat scattered among them, some with old stains, others filled halfway with cold, black liquid, and the rims marked by fingerprints.
The floor near the couch was a patchwork of laundry and discarded fabric: shirts, jackets, and a forgotten scarf crumpled underfoot. A pair of gloves lay by the radiator, which hadn’t worked in weeks. The air smelled faintly of coffee grounds and something metallic, the kind of scent that settled in when cleaning became a memory instead of a habit. The windows were fogged over, though the fog wasn’t from heat, it was just the residue of breath that lingered too long in still air.
A cracked mug balanced on the edge of a desk near the wall, dangerously close to a stack of photographs turned face down. An empty plate sat beside it, the crumbs long hardened. The only sound was the faint hum of a malfunctioning refrigerator and the slow ticking of a clock that had been set wrong months ago. It was dark, not just from the absence of light, but from neglect. The overhead bulb had burned out, leaving only a floor lamp flickering weakly in the corner, which cast long shadows that made the place look smaller.
The couch, threadbare, with the color long faded, was draped with a blanket too thin for the weather. Books were stacked in careless towers beside it, a mix of old case files, scientific journals, and worn novels with creased spines. The spines themselves told a story, pages revisited out of habit, not comfort. A camera sat on the coffee table, the lens cap off, and the battery long dead. Near it, an ashtray overflowed with burnt matches, though there were no cigarettes in sight; just the remnants of something someone once tried to light, maybe just for warmth.
In the kitchen, the sink was crowded with dishes that had stopped being washed sometime last week, maybe longer. The faucet dripped, slow and rhythmic, into a pile of unwashed utensils. The counter was a battlefield of empty containers and half-used instant coffee jars, and the smell was so ingrained it had become part of the walls. A small note was pinned to the fridge, the handwriting clean but fading, a grocery list that hadn’t been followed: Bread. Milk. Sugar. Things untouched.
The air in the apartment carried the ghost of winter; cold, dry, the kind that crept into bones. The heater hadn’t been fixed, and the window seals were thin; every gust outside made the curtains tremble. On the sill, a line of frost had begun to form, delicate and sharp as glass. From the outside, the apartment looked abandoned. From the inside, it felt that way too, except for the faint signs of movement: the dripping faucet, the ticking clock, and the whisper of a draft under the door.
Somewhere deeper inside, a kettle rested unused on the stove, its handle cold to the touch. A single light flickered in the hallway, buzzing every few seconds before dimming again. Dust drifted through the air, visible in the weak glow from the lamp, tiny, weightless particles dancing in silence. Everything about the place felt temporary, as though its owner never truly lived there, but just existed between nights.
The walls bore faint marks: a photograph once hung, with a nail still in place; a frame had fallen and never been replaced. The few pictures that remained faced inward, turned toward the wall. Even the clock seemed reluctant to move forward, its ticking unsteady, skipping every few seconds like it, too, was tired. Near the window, the snow outside glowed faintly under streetlight, reflecting off the glass and throwing pale light across the room. It caught on the edge of a coat draped over a chair, dark fabric, clean but unworn, and made it shimmer for a moment before fading.
A gust of wind pressed against the window, rattling it softly. Somewhere outside, the sound of church bells drifted faintly, echoing between the buildings. The city below was celebrating: people laughing, children shouting, and music spilling from open doors. The sound reached this high up, distant and muffled, and was stripped of joy. Here, it was just noise. Here, Christmas Eve was another cold night in a city that didn’t forgive or forget.
The apartment didn’t have decorations: no tree, no lights, no warmth; just the same emptiness it had carried through every season. The shadows lengthened as the streetlights outside dimmed slightly, the snow thickening, and covering the city in another layer of silence. Somewhere, a siren flared again, brief, sharp, and gone. The sound faded into the wind, leaving behind only the steady ticking of that broken clock.
It was a room that had seen too much and held too little, a place where time didn’t move, only settled like dust. The kind of quiet that didn’t comfort, but it accused. It whispered of years spent running, of wounds left open too long, of someone who’d learned how to live among ghosts.
And in the middle of it all, behind that closed bathroom door, someone moved, slow and deliberate, like they were learning how to exist again.
The bathroom light flickered once before settling into a dull, sickly glow. It hummed faintly, the sound threading through the quiet like a mosquito that refused to die. The mirror above the sink was cracked in the upper corner; a spiderweb of thin lines spreading like a wound that never healed. The air was cold here too, damp with the ghost of steam that had long since disappeared. On the counter, a toothbrush lay next to a comb, toothpaste uncapped, and a small collection of skincare bottles; some nearly empty, some untouched, stood like sentinels in a row of glass.
Timothy Drake stood in front of the mirror, his reflection almost unrecognizable to himself. The fluorescent light made his skin look pale, almost translucent, his features sharper under the shadows that clung to the hollows beneath his eyes. He looked older than seventeen; the kind of tiredness that didn’t belong to youth, the kind that came from years of fighting things people didn’t see. The mirror reflected not the boy he once was, but the sum of sleepless nights, stitched wounds, and quiet endurance.
The sink was half-filled with cold water; he had run it minutes ago, then forgotten. It reflected the dim ceiling light in broken patterns, trembling each time the faucet dripped. Tim reached for the water, splashing his face once, twice, and the chill bit into his skin like needles, but at least it made him feel alive for a moment. Droplets clung to his jaw, sliding down his neck, soaking into the collar of the plain undershirt he still wore. He stayed like that for a while, leaning over the sink, both hands braced on either side, head bowed as though he could wash away exhaustion.
He couldn’t.
When he finally looked up, the person staring back still looked hollow. So he reached for the next tool, the one that had become part of his routine before public events, meetings, or anything that required pretending. The makeup bag sat beside the sink, half-open: Foundation, concealer, powder, a small brush, which were utilitarian, not decorative. He wasn’t doing this for vanity, it was armor.
He unscrewed the concealer first, dabbing it under his eyes, over faint bruises that never fully faded. The skin there was delicate, blue-tinted from lack of sleep. The cream masked it well enough, blending into something that looked closer to healthy. A thin layer of powder followed, brushed over sharp cheekbones and pale skin to dull the hollowness. His fingers moved with mechanical precision, not the careful artistry of someone learning beauty, but the efficiency of someone used to covering up damage.
He added a touch of color to his lips, not red, just enough to erase the grayness. It made him look human again, almost. He fixed his hair next, wetting his hands and pushing the strands into place, taming what he could. It was a small act of control in a life that had long since spun out of it.
The reflection stared back: composed, careful, constructed. A version of Timothy Drake that could walk into a room full of people who didn’t want him there and not fall apart. But under the faint color and clean lines, the fatigue was still there, the kind that no amount of makeup could hide. He looked at himself for a long moment, and something in his chest tightened. This wasn’t preparation; it was camouflage.
The shirt he chose was simple: crisp white, ironed weeks ago, still smelling faintly of starch. He buttoned it slowly, fingers trembling slightly from the cold or maybe from nerves. The tie came next, black silk, formal but impersonal. He looped it carefully, eyes half-lidded as he worked through the familiar motions. Then the jacket, charcoal gray, slightly too big on his frame, with the shoulders hanging just a bit off. He didn’t have many suits, and this one was from last year’s board meeting, barely worn since.
He looked formal, but not festive. The thought of wearing something colorful, something bright, had never even crossed his mind. He had no idea what Christmas attire was supposed to look like. Red and green felt like foreign languages, symbols of a world that had never included him. All he knew of Christmas came from what he’d seen in other people’s windows: the glow of lights, the hum of music, the laughter spilling from dinner tables, things that looked so easy from the outside, things that had never belonged to him.
When he was a child, the house had been enormous, too big for one boy. The Drake Manor had echoed with silence so heavy it sometimes pressed against his ears. His parents, Jack and Janet, had been gone long before the snow ever started falling each year: Egypt, Tibet, Rome, always somewhere else, chasing artifacts and history and prestige. When they left, they’d told him he was brave, mature for his age, and that he could handle it. He was four.
The housekeeper came once a week, on Saturdays. She would bring groceries, clean, and leave before sunset. The rest of the time, it was just Tim and the empty house. No tree in the corner, no decorations on the stairway, and no lights. Christmas passed each year like a rumor, something that happened elsewhere, to other people. He’d seen it on television: children laughing, tearing open boxes wrapped in red paper, parents smiling over cocoa. He’d sit cross-legged on the floor, the TV flickering blue light across his face, and wonder what that kind of noise must sound like in real life.
Jack and Janet didn’t call, not on Christmas, not on birthdays. The phone would ring maybe once every couple of months, Jack’s voice always brisk, asking about grades, and Janet occasionally reminding him to eat vegetables, as though that counted as parenting. There were no letters, no postcards, and no gifts. They had long ago stopped pretending. Archaeology was their passion, and he, their son, had been an unintended responsibility that could wait. Love was a word they never used.
He learned to fill the silence on his own: books first, then computers. He found comfort in logic, in information, in control. Emotions were unpredictable, but knowledge wasn’t. When snow fell, he watched it from the second-floor window of the manor, pressing his hand against the glass until his skin went numb. It was quiet then, peaceful almost, until the emptiness settled back in. Every Christmas blurred into the next, identical in its stillness.
He had never opened a gift with his name on it.
When Bruce Wayne entered his life, he thought, briefly, that things might change. Not because Bruce was warm or affectionate; he wasn’t. But he was there, present, even if in fragments. When Tim was ten, he became Robin, too young, too determined, and too desperate to prove himself. Bruce had been distant then, lost in grief after Jason’s death, but Tim had been the one to pull him back. He found Batman when Gotham needed him most, and brought him out of the darkness that threatened to consume him. It had felt like purpose, maybe even a connection.
But connection wasn’t the same as love.
When Bruce finally adopted him at twelve, Tim didn’t expect a celebration. There was no party, no dinner, and no family photo. The paperwork was signed quietly, with Alfred standing by, and Bruce saying something polite about responsibility. Tim had nodded, said thank you, and meant it. It was still more than anyone else had ever done for him. But even then, Christmas came and went without mention. Bruce had League meetings, Wayne Enterprises functions, and there was always something else, someone else, some crisis more urgent than a boy waiting in the manor.
The first Christmas in Wayne Manor had been colder than the Drake one, though not in temperature. Alfred had tried, setting out a small arrangement in the foyer, candles on the dining table, even baking something that filled the air with cinnamon. But Bruce hadn’t been there. He was halfway across the world on League duty. Dick had been in Blüdhaven. Tim had spent the night studying case files in the cave, the sound of the computer fan humming in place of carols. It didn’t bother him then; he told himself he didn’t need things like that.
He told himself he was used to it.
The next Christmas had been the same: Patrols, Missions. Gotham didn’t rest, and neither did its soldiers. Alfred was busy maintaining the manor, caring for the injuries Tim came home with, and patching what Bruce overlooked. Tim never complained; he didn’t know how to. There was a rhythm to being unnoticed that became easier with time.
Then came one year, he couldn’t remember if it was the third or the fourth Christmas, when Dick returned unexpectedly. It was late, close to midnight, with snow still falling outside the manor gates. Tim had been in the cave, sitting before the giant monitors, half-dozing between lines of data. He’d almost missed the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.
When he looked up, Dick Grayson stood there, smiling in that effortless, big-brother way of his, coat dusted with snow, and hair damp from the weather. He’d carried a small box, wrapped in uneven paper, with corners torn. “Hey, kiddo,” Dick had said, his voice warm. “Merry Christmas.”
Tim had blinked, slow, not sure if it was a joke. No one had ever said those words to him before. Dick had grinned at his confusion and handed him the box anyway. Inside had been a simple thing, a compass, old-fashioned, brass, the kind that clicked softly when you turned it. “For when you get lost,” Dick had said. “Not that you ever do.”
He’d stayed maybe twenty minutes. Then duty called: Titans, global mission, something important. He left as quickly as he came, his voice echoing up the stairs, promising they’d hang out when things settled down. Tim had nodded, clutching the compass in his hand long after the sound of the motorcycle faded.
That was the only Christmas gift he’d ever received.
The compass still sat in the drawer of his nightstand. It didn’t point north anymore, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.
Now, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he thought about how a single moment of kindness could stretch across years like a fragile thread. He straightened his tie, adjusted his collar, and stared at the person looking back. The foundation had hidden the dark circles. The lipstick had returned color to his lips. The reflection looked polished, professional, like someone prepared for a party. But the eyes, they betrayed everything. They were the same hollow gray-blue of Gotham’s winter sky.
He smoothed his jacket one last time, brushing invisible lint from the fabric. His fingers hesitated near the lapel, trembling faintly. Somewhere behind the bathroom door, the apartment groaned: wind against glass, the soft thud of something settling. The cold crawled under the door, touching his bare ankles, reminding him that warmth was always temporary.
He took one slow breath and glanced around the room. The counter was still cluttered, the mirror still cracked, and the light was still buzzing. Nothing changed, not really. He looked presentable; that was enough. That was all it had ever needed to be.
Outside, the city was celebrating a holiday he didn’t understand. Inside, Timothy Drake was getting ready for a family he didn’t believe in.
And the mirror, faithful as ever, reflected both truths: the mask, and the boy beneath it.
He lingered there for a moment longer, eyes fixed on that reflection, watching the faint fog on the mirror fade until only his face remained. The foundation did its job well enough; his skin appeared less pale, less haunted, and less like the kind of person who forgot what sleep felt like. But no amount of concealer could hide the exhaustion buried deep behind his irises, the gray-blue edges of his stare that even now looked like winter itself had taken residence inside him.
Tim exhaled slowly and turned away. His bedroom was dim, the kind of dimness that wasn’t deliberate but habitual, with a single desk lamp left on out of necessity rather than comfort. The light cast soft, tired shadows across the stacks of paperwork that littered his desk and floor. They were half-read, half-abandoned, the same way his thoughts often were. An invitation lay there too, sitting atop a heap of neglected reports from Wayne Enterprises, and its cream-colored paper was the only thing that seemed untouched by dust.
He glanced at it, felt the dull sting of recognition in his chest, and then looked away again.
It was absurd, really, that something as thin and fragile as paper could feel heavy enough to haunt an entire room.
He moved toward it with a kind of reluctant inevitability, each step echoing against the wooden floor that hadn’t seen polish in months. His fingers brushed the edge of the letter before picking it up; careful, as if the words inside might burn through his skin.
The Wayne family’s Christmas Eve dinner.
He almost laughed. Dinner. As if there were still a table there for him. As if there ever had been.
Tim dropped onto the edge of his unmade bed, elbows resting on his knees, the letter pressed loosely between his fingers. The fabric of his dress shirt crinkled faintly when he sighed, and for a brief, ridiculous moment, he imagined just tossing the entire thing into the wastebasket beside the desk. It was already overflowing with crumpled notes and empty coffee cups, and one more thing wouldn’t make a difference.
But he couldn’t.
He didn’t even know why.
Maybe because curiosity was still his worst habit, the same one that made him dig into secrets no one wanted unearthed, the same one that had led him to the Batcave all those years ago. Or maybe it was something uglier: that quiet, humiliating part of him that still wondered what it would feel like to be wanted.
He shook the thought away quickly, as if ashamed.
The envelope was thick, expensive, and hand-addressed. His name written in Bruce’s handwriting, that heavy, angular script that tried to disguise feeling behind precision. Timothy Drake-Wayne. He could almost hear the weight in the name, the formality of it. Bruce had always used it like punctuation, as if reminding Tim of his place was the same as acknowledging him.
He slid the letter out again. It was folded cleanly, meticulously, the kind of thing Alfred might have ironed flat before sealing. But the handwriting inside was unmistakably Bruce’s.
Before he could read it again, his mind drifted back to that morning.
Wayne Enterprises was always quieter in winter. The city below the office windows looked distant, like something frozen behind glass. His secretary, a woman named Eleanor who’d learned not to ask questions, had greeted him with her usual soft professionalism: a polite smile, a “Good morning, Mr. Drake,” and then the envelope.
“This was delivered for you last week, sir,” she had said, offering it like something delicate. “It seems to have come from Mr. Wayne personally.”
He’d stared at it for a long time before taking it.
Personally. That word had stuck with him the entire day. Bruce Wayne didn’t personally do anything anymore, not when it came to him.
He remembered sitting behind his desk, the same one Bruce once owned, staring at the envelope as the hours passed. Emails piled up. Calls went unanswered. He didn’t open it until the sun started to fall.
And when he did, he read it fifty-nine times before the clock hit midnight.
The Letter
Tim,
I don’t know how to begin this, so I’ll start with the simplest truth: I miss you.
Things have been distant between us, and some of that’s on me. Maybe most of it is. I won’t pretend I’ve handled everything right; you deserve more than silence and absence.
You’ve always been the one who saw what others didn’t, even when you shouldn’t have had to. You’ve carried more than any of us realized. I should have said thank you long before now, for everything, for bringing me back when no one else could, and for keeping the mission alive when it would’ve been easier to walk away.
I didn’t say it then, but I’m saying it now: I’m proud of you.
I know this invitation is unexpected, maybe even unwanted. But it would mean a lot to me if you came tonight. The family will be here: Dick, Damian, Cassandra, Jason, and even Duke. I know it’s been years since we’ve all sat down together, but it’s Christmas Eve, and I’d like to think there’s still room for one more seat at the table; yours.
I don’t expect you to forgive me for everything, or even to stay long. Just, come home, Tim.
Gotham’s colder these days, and the Manor feels even colder without you in it.
Bruce
---
He’d read those words so many times the ink might as well have been tattooed into his memory. Every sentence carried a strange kind of stiffness, the kind that only someone like Bruce could write: formal, awkward, too careful. It was an apology dressed in business language, sincerity filtered through restraint.
I miss you.
The words looked wrong, foreign, like someone else had written them.
Tim snorted quietly, shaking his head. “Sure you do.”
It was absurd: Bruce Wayne writing heartfelt letters, Bruce Wayne inviting him, Bruce Wayne missing anyone. The man couldn’t even say “good job” without sounding like he was evaluating a report.
Still, Tim couldn’t deny there was something about it: the unnatural softness between the lines, the hesitant phrasing, the subtle hints of vulnerability Bruce probably hadn’t even realized he’d revealed. To anyone else, it might’ve sounded genuine, maybe even touching.
But Tim knew better.
He’d lived long enough under Bruce’s shadow to recognize the difference between real warmth and strategic compassion. This wasn’t love; it was guilt wearing a suit.
And yet, he couldn’t stop rereading it.
Each repetition brought the same ache, the same whisper of a hope he refused to acknowledge.
He folded the letter again, careful not to tear the edges. His hands trembled faintly.
Reasons. There were always reasons, not because he wanted to go, but because the world was cruel enough to demand it.
Because Alfred would notice if he didn’t. The man might not say anything, but he’d know, and Tim couldn’t bear the disappointment in those eyes.
Because Bruce would take it as defiance, not pain.
Because Dick would smile and pretend nothing was wrong, and Tim would be too tired to argue.
Because Damian would gloat if he didn’t show.
Because Jason would call it proof that Tim didn’t have the guts to face them.
Because no one else would understand the silence he lived in.
Because he hated being predictable, and they all expected him not to come.
Because deep down, he still wanted to see if Bruce meant it.
Because he couldn’t stop himself from hoping, even when it hurt.
He rubbed at his eyes, feeling the faint sting of fatigue behind his lids. The letter sat beside him again, its folded edges too clean, too precise, just like the man who wrote it.
Wayne Manor.
Even the thought of it made something sour twist in his stomach.
That place had never been home, no matter how many times Bruce called it one. It was too big, too empty, too cold: a mausoleum pretending to be a mansion. Every portrait on the walls reminded him that he didn’t belong to the bloodline, no matter what the paperwork said.
The Drake Manor had been different.
Lonely, yes, painfully so, but at least it was his. The silence there was honest, not performative. When the housekeeper came on Saturdays, she didn’t try to talk to him about “family dinners”. She just cleaned, stocked the fridge, and left him to his solitude.
At Wayne Manor, even silence was heavy; it came with expectations.
He thought of Bruce’s study, all dark wood and colder marble, with the fireplace always lit but never warm. He remembered the dining hall that could seat twenty but rarely hosted more than one. He remembered laughter that never reached him, conversations that started without him, and eyes that never quite met him.
He remembered what it felt like to be useful, not loved.
Tim sighed again, shoulders sagging.
The letter was still there, taunting him with its falseness: a white piece of paper pretending to be forgiveness.
He stared at it for a long time, listening to the quiet hum of the city outside: cars passing below, the faint whistle of winter wind against his window. Somewhere out there, Gotham was celebrating something pure, something bright.
Inside, he sat in the dark, rereading a letter from a man who’d never really seen him.
And the worst part wasn’t that Bruce had written it; it was that Tim still wanted to believe he meant it.
For a long time, Tim didn’t move. The letter lay beside him again, its edges faintly creased now from where his thumb had pressed too hard. The hum of the city outside filtered faintly through the dirty glass of his window, but inside, the apartment felt suspended, a place where time had forgotten to pass.
He pressed his palms together and stared at the floor. There were so many things he could be doing: Paperwork, reports, another caffeine run; anything but this, sitting here trying to convince himself that walking into Wayne Manor tonight wouldn’t feel like stepping back into the same fire he’d burned in for years.
A question formed quietly in his mind: What am I really accepting by going there?
It wasn’t a dinner invitation; it was walking back into a house that never wanted him.
He imagined the moment he’d cross the threshold of Wayne Manor.
He thought about the front door: heavy, ancient, with the same creak that used to echo through the halls when he came home from patrol at ungodly hours. That sound used to mean safety once, but it didn’t anymore; it just meant he was about to see faces that looked at him like he didn’t belong there.
They would all be inside, performing the same theatre they called a “family.”
He could almost hear Bruce’s voice first, low, detached, and formal even in what was supposed to be warmth. Bruce would greet him with that practiced look of concern, the kind that never reached his eyes. “Tim,” he’d say, maybe even force a smile, but it would vanish before Tim had time to respond. Then Bruce would turn away, talking to someone else, proving that even his attempts at kindness were reflexes, not feelings.
Tim exhaled slowly. No matter what the letter said, Bruce Wayne would never change. He was a general calling back a soldier from leave, never a father welcoming a son home.
He pictured the conversation before it even began:
“How have you been?”
Alive.
“That’s good.”
You didn’t ask because you cared.
Every word between them was scripted, predictable, and hollow.
Nothing more. That letter’s feigned warmth wouldn’t exist in his tone. There would be no I’ve missed you, no I’m proud of you, just the same detached civility Bruce reserved for ghosts that refused to stay buried.
Because that’s what Tim was to him now, a ghost.
He almost smiled bitterly. “Yeah, Bruce, sure. You miss me.”
Maybe Bruce thought words on paper could undo years of silence. Maybe he believed a single invitation could fix what was broken long before Tim ever set foot in Wayne Manor. But Bruce would never change, not for him, not for anyone who wasn’t carved from his bloodline.
The unwanted son, Tim thought. The soldier who outlived his usefulness.
The next image came easier: Alfred.
He could see him perfectly, standing near the dining table, adjusting silverware, the same quiet dignity in his movements that Tim used to find comforting.
Alfred wouldn't say much either, but his eyes would. There'd be a flicker of recognition there, maybe even guilt, though he'd never voice it. Instead he would smile, soft and tired, his voice steady as he asked if Tim had been eating well, offer him tea and make a polite attempt at normalcy.
Tim might nod, lie through his teeth, and watch the relief flicker briefly in Alfred’s eyes. Alfred never pushed too far, never pressed. Maybe he knew Tim’s answers were all fabrications; maybe he simply chose to pretend.
There was no anger for Alfred, just distance. He was the only one who had ever looked at Tim with something like compassion, but even that compassion was duty-bound, tied to the Manor and the man it served.
Tim wasn’t Alfred’s boy; he was Bruce’s project, and when the project ended, Alfred’s concern quietly folded itself away.
Tim rubbed his hands together, trying to push away the cold, but it stayed, an ache under his skin.
Then there was Dick.
In his mind, Dick’s laughter filled the room, too bright for someone who used to share silence with him on rooftops.
Once, long ago, Dick had been the closest thing to warmth Tim knew. But that was before the others came back, before Jason and Damian took up all the space that used to belong to him.
Now, Dick would smile that awkward, too-wide smile, pretending nothing had changed. He’d say something like “Hey, Timmy!” as if the nickname still meant affection and not pity. Dick had chosen them, his real brothers, and left Tim behind, not with cruelty but with indifference.
Tim had learned that indifference hurt worse.
He could already feel how Dick’s arm would wrap briefly around his shoulder, the way people hug strangers they once loved. That short contact, that polite warmth, was like flicking on a light only to turn it off again.
Tim had watched it happen, the gradual shift, the way Dick’s laughter brightened when Damian entered a room, the pride in his voice when he said “my little brother.” Those words used to belong to him.
Now, Tim wasn’t even sure Dick remembered why he ever said them in the first place.
Because I replaced a dead boy, he thought grimly. And then I got replaced too.
Jason.
That one was harder, not because he didn’t know what to expect, but because he knew exactly what to expect. Jason Todd, the man who came back from death just to make everyone else bleed for it. The one who looked at Tim and saw the proof of his own disposability.
Jason never called him by name: "Pretender," “Replacement,” “fake Robin,” or “wannabe,” take your pick. Every encounter between them had been a reminder that Tim’s existence was a wound Jason refused to let heal.
And Tim understood, in some dark, detached way. Jason hated the symbol, the idea that he could be swapped out, erased, and continued without permission. But understanding didn’t make the hatred sting any less.
Jason’s presence would poison the air.
There was no pretending there. Jason didn’t fake civility, didn’t bother with small talk. He’d glare from across the room, maybe mutter something sharp under his breath. The first time Jason had tried to kill him, Tim had convinced himself it was grief, trauma, and confusion. The second time stripped that illusion away. Jason hadn’t seen a brother, only a thief wearing his old skin.
And even now, years later, Tim could still feel the ghost of Jason’s hands around his throat, the dull crack of his own ribs, and the smell of gun oil. Those memories didn’t fade; they lingered like bruises that never healed.
He wondered what Jason would do this time. Maybe nothing. Maybe a smirk, a scoff, or a threat disguised as a joke. Maybe a jab about the suit, about the company, about how Tim was still pretending to be one of them.
Jason didn’t need to pull the trigger anymore; his existence was enough to remind Tim of his place: the stand-in who overstayed his part.
Then Damian.
Fourteen now, still sharp as glass. The boy had been trying to kill him since their first patrol together. Tim could still see those green eyes, feral and superior, filled with the certainty that he didn’t belong. Damian didn’t need words to cut him down; the contempt in his posture did enough.
Bruce called it “brotherly rivalry.”
Tim called it attempted murder.
He’d learned to dodge the physical attacks, but the psychological ones landed deeper. Every sneer, every insult—impostor, pretender, mistake—had carved itself into Tim’s mind until he almost believed it. Damian was the blood son, and Tim was the ghost occupying borrowed space.
Damian would smirk the moment he saw him, that sharp, cruel tilt of his mouth that never quite reached his eyes. He’d probably start with a comment about “bloodlines” or “inferior stock,” because that was his favorite refrain. The little prince of Wayne Manor, always so sure the world revolved around the blood in his veins.
It was strange, really, how much venom could fit inside someone so small.
Tim didn’t hate Damian because he was cruel. He hated him because he believed in cruelty. Because every word that came out of Damian’s mouth was something the rest of the family quietly agreed with but never said out loud.
He’d been reminded of it for years. Every time Bruce chose patience for Damian’s violence, every time Dick excused his behavior, and every time Alfred sighed and said, “He’s still learning.”
Tim had stopped learning a long time ago. He’d just adapted.
He rubbed at his temples, feeling the dull pulse of a headache brewing there.
Stephanie.
Her name alone made his chest tighten. If there was one person he wished he'd never see again, it was her.
Once, she’d been light, messy, chaotic, and human, and for a while, he thought they could save each other. Then she betrayed him, not with a dagger or bullet, but with the one thing he’d always feared: indifference disguised as love.
She’d cheated, lied, smiled through it, and when he fell apart, she called it a misunderstanding.
Now she acted as though none of it had happened, pretending friendship, pretending care. Tim loathed it: the hypocrisy, the way she spoke to him like the wound had healed when it never would.
He didn’t want her friendship, her pity or her guilt. He didn’t want her forgiveness. He wanted her to be absent.
Cassandra would be there too, silent as ever. Her quiet had once been comforting, but now it felt like avoidance. She rarely looked at him anymore, never spoke unless necessary. Tim couldn’t even hate her for it; he understood too well. People looked away when they saw someone broken, they were afraid to recognize the reflection.
Barbara would act like he wasn’t in the room. She’d keep her eyes on her tablet, her conversations quick and efficient. He used to admire her mind; now it felt like she’d turned that sharpness against him, cutting him out of every plan, every conversation, until he was no longer necessary.
He didn’t love her. He didn’t hate her either. He’d simply stopped expecting anything.
Tim ran a hand through his hair, staring at the floor. His thoughts looped endlessly, like an old recording playing back every betrayal, every silence. He could see it all before it happened: their words, their glances, the careful avoidance of anything real.
He would walk in, smile politely, and answer when spoken to. Pretend he was fine. Pretend he hadn’t spent months drinking coffee instead of eating. Pretend the scars under his shirt didn’t exist. Pretend he hadn’t spent entire nights convincing himself to stay alive.
It was easier that way.
If they wanted the illusion, he would give it to them.
On the nightstand sat a small box wrapped in plain paper. The bow was crooked, and the edges uneven. He’d bought it two days ago without thinking, before he'd even decided if he was going to go.
He was staring at it blankly.
He couldn’t even remember what was inside. Something simple. Something generic, probably meaningless. He wasn’t sure.
He stared at it for a long time, then sighed.
He didn’t know why he’d bought it. Maybe a habit. Maybe hope. Or maybe it was just one more mask to wear.
All he knew was that he regretted buying it.
It felt pathetic, symbolic of something he refused to name. He didn’t owe them anything. He didn’t owe him anything. And yet here he was, sitting in the dark and convincing himself it didn’t matter.
At least he wouldn’t go with empty hands.
His gaze drifted to the shadows in the room. The air was still, thick with dust and silence.
“Empty hands,” he whispered under his breath, his voice cracking just slightly.
“Like the rest of me.”
The sentence hung in the dark, fragile as glass, and he sat there, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on nothing. A small digital clock on the nightstand, its red numbers pulsing in the gloom.
8:12 p.m.
The light blinked once, twice, steady and cruel. Forty-eight minutes until nine, until he’d have to be there.
He could still stay.
He could let the letter rot on the desk, let the night pass like all the others, quiet, ordinary, unremarkable.
He could do that. He could stay exactly where he was, let the silence cradle him, let the hours dissolve until midnight came and went and the world went on without him.
No one would notice.
He pictured it easily: the Waynes laughing downstairs in their glittering manor, their table crowded with food, their glasses raised, their voices bright and full. And somewhere far away, in this dim apartment, Timothy Drake would still be sitting in the dark, the invitation untouched, the gift unwrapped.
Nothing would change. Not for them. Not for him.
But he knew he wouldn’t.
He wouldn't stay. He never did.
Because that wasn't who he was.
Tim had always shown up. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
The habit of duty ran too deep, ingrained into his bones, his blood, his breath. It wasn’t courage or masochism or forgiveness. It was muscle memory.
He had always been the one who showed up for the people who wouldn’t do the same for him.
His chest felt tight. The air pressed down on him, dense and cold.
The clock blinked again.
8:13.
Tim exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky.
Don’t go, his heart said. The voice was quiet, but it thudded in rhythm with his pulse. They don’t want you there. They never did.
His brain joined in, colder. You know how this ends. You’ll walk into that house and remember exactly where you stand: outside the circle.
Then his soul, tired, low, whispering like static. You’ve done enough, Tim. Stop bleeding for them.
He dragged a hand over his face, pressing his palms to his eyes until he saw colors burst behind them.
But he didn’t stop. Because that’s who he was, the boy who kept coming back to burn himself on the same fire.
The clock blinked again.
8:14.
He looked toward the letter on his bed, Bruce’s letter, its edges slightly curled from where he’d handled it too many times. The words still played in his mind, rehearsed, dissected, distrusted. I’ve missed you, Tim. The phrase sounded like a language Bruce didn’t know how to speak.
Missed him? Maybe in the same way one misses a weapon left in storage, a soldier gone too long from command.
He leaned back slightly, and the old bedsprings groaned beneath his weight. His unmade bed looked like the aftermath of a storm: the blanket twisted, sheets hanging off the edge, one pillow on the floor. His pants lay half-folded over the chair. His laptop screen blinked faintly, left on sleep mode.
A mess. But his mess.
And soon, he’d have to leave it behind.
8:16.
He ran a hand through his hair, and for a fleeting second, he imagined staying, ordering cheap take-out, watching the city lights blur through the window, pretending Gotham didn’t exist outside these walls. But that was fantasy. He wasn’t built for comfort. He was built to obey his own guilt.
Nothing good will happen, one said.
They’ll humiliate you again, another whispered.
You’ll sit there, quiet and unseen, like you always do.
You’ll see the family that doesn’t remember you.
You’ll see the family that doesn’t need you.
The family that never wanted you.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to silence them, but the voices didn’t stop.
They reminded him of truths he already knew.
They didn’t care about him. They never did.
He was just the forgotten son.
A shadow that once carried the name Robin.
His eyes flicked to the clock again.
The numbers bled red through the dark.
8:20.
He still had forty minutes. Enough time to tear up the letter. Enough time to breathe.
Instead, the memories started arriving, wearing familiar faces.
Bruce first, as always, the voice of command, the weight of expectation, the silence that followed every time Tim fell short. The man who said family but meant soldier. The man who’d turned warmth into strategy, who’d once looked at Tim like he might matter, and then forgot.
Then Dick, bright, easy, effortless Dick, the brother who’d smiled like sunlight until someone better came along. Jason. Damian. Tim could still feel that slow, cold shift in Dick’s attention, the way laughter turned to awkward distance.
Jason came next. Angry. Alive. Twice a murderer in Tim’s story. Tim didn’t even know which attempt hurt more, the first time Jason came back from the dead and almost ended him, or the second, when he said he wished he had. Jason saw him as nothing but a replacement, a cheap copy. Sometimes Tim wondered if Jason even remembered what his face looked like when he tried to crush it.
Then Damian. The heir. The prodigy. The boy who called him Drake like it was filth, who’d drawn blades more than once, who’d said, straight to his face, that he didn’t belong, not by name, not by blood, not by legacy. Tim could still feel the scar beneath his shirt, faint but real, a reminder that not all wounds come from words.
Alfred, kind, yes, but in that distant, unreachable way. Polite smiles, perfect tea, the kind of concern that never crossed the line into affection. Duty, not love. When Alfred said Master Tim, it was a formality, not a feeling. Tim had stopped expecting warmth from him years ago.
Cassandra. Quiet. Gentle, once. But she didn’t look at him anymore. Didn’t speak. Her silence was heavier than any insult. It said: You don’t exist in my story anymore.
Barbara. Pragmatic. Cool. Always too busy. When she looked at Tim, it was with that analytical calm that stripped him down to data. He was a file, a mission, a colleague. Nothing more.
And finally, Stephanie.
That wound still stung, no matter how many times he told himself it didn’t. Not the breakup itself, he could’ve survived that, but the betrayal. The lies. The pretending. The way she still smiled at him now, as if friendship could wash away what she’d done, as if cheating wasn't carved into every memory they shared.
His brain listed each name like evidence. His heart recoiled with every image. His soul sat somewhere deep, whispering, Don’t go. Don’t go back there.
He pressed his palms against his knees again, and his body trembled slightly.
He could almost hear them all in his head: Bruce’s measured tone, Jason’s mocking laugh, Damian’s sneer, Dick’s empty warmth, Stephanie’s feigned concern. The echo of a family that had never been his.
8:35.
Twenty-five minutes.
He swallowed hard. His throat was dry. His hands were cold.
He hated how much he still wanted to see them.
That was the worst part, the shame of it, the part of him that still wanted to be seen. To walk through those halls and have someone, anyone, say his name like it meant something.
But he knew better.
He always knew better.
His heart muttered, You’re not their son.
His brain added, You were never their brother.
His soul whispered, You’re just the shadow that filled a space.
He could still stay.
He could still burn that letter, throw it into the trash along with the coffee cups and broken pens and the remnants of his failed sleep. He could lock his door, pull the blanket over his head, and let the world fade away.
But he knew he wouldn’t. He never did.
He’d already promised himself once, long ago, that he wouldn’t run from things, even the ones that broke him. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was a weakness. Maybe it was just the part of him that refused to stop trying, no matter how many times the world told him to.
His body moved before his mind could stop it.
Tim stood slowly. His knees ached. His hands were shaking.
He reached for the scarf that lay across his unmade bed, the same bed that had barely felt warmth in weeks. The scarf was soft but cold to the touch, its fabric smelling faintly of detergent and dust. He looped it around his neck mechanically, fingers trembling only slightly. Then came the gloves, black leather, creased from overuse. He flexed his fingers inside them, grounding himself in the faint rasp of fabric against skin.
Then the gift on the nightstand waited, small, square, and meaningless.
He picked it up carefully, almost tenderly, and for a brief moment, his chest tightened. He wondered who he’d been when he bought it. A fool, probably. Someone still stupid enough to hope.
The wrapping paper had started to wrinkle at the corners. He ran his thumb over the edge, smoothing it instinctively before letting out a quiet sigh.
“Right,” he muttered, his voice hollow. “Let’s get this over with.”
He left his bedroom.
The hallway beyond was darker, colder, as though the light itself refused to follow him. His steps were soft, careful, carrying him past stacks of paperwork and the faint scent of old coffee that clung to the air.
The living room stretched before him, a mess of forgotten days. Papers sprawled across the table, half-drunk mugs scattered like relics, dust collecting on the unused furniture. The single lamp near the couch flickered faintly, its light too weak to reach the corners.
This was his home.
Small, imperfect, unclean, but his. The only space that didn’t judge him, didn’t whisper about failures or bloodlines or expectations. It had no rules, no masks. Only silence and truth.
He stopped near the doorway, his coat hanging from the rack by the entrance. It swayed slightly, as though stirred by his hesitation.
He hesitated again.
Every instinct screamed at him not to go. Not to leave this apartment.
Not to walk back into that mansion filled with memories.
His hands tightened around the small box. He could feel the corners digging into his palm.
He hated this.
He hated them.
He hated the thought of that house, Wayne Manor, waiting like an open wound. He hated the smell of it, the quiet halls that used to echo with footsteps that weren’t meant for him. He hated the way every corner reminded him that he’d never belonged there.
And yet…
He reached for his coat.
The fabric was heavy, dark, and familiar. It still held the faint smell of rain and cheap detergent. He slid one arm through, then the other, pulling it close until the collar brushed his chin. The gift remained in his gloved hand.
8:47.
He paused then.
Looked back at the apartment: the mess, the dimness, the quiet hum of the fridge, the faint smell of coffee gone cold.
His home. Not perfect. Not clean. Not warm. But his.
His mess.
His loneliness.
His quiet.
The thought of leaving it twisted his stomach. Leaving the only place he still belonged to for one night felt like betrayal.
The silence deepened. The city lights flickered outside, distant and indifferent.
He stood there, coat on, gift in hand, heart hammering.
Don’t go, his heart said again.
Don’t, his soul echoed.
You will regret it, his brain warned.
He closed his eyes. Breathed in once.
Then turned the handle.
He could stay.
He could still choose silence over pain.
But he didn’t.
The door opened with a soft click.
A gust of winter air rushed in, sharp and merciless, cutting through his coat and scarf. It filled the apartment, rattling the papers on the table, stirring the dust from the shelves. For a second, he almost thought the place was trying to stop him, pleading for him to stay.
But he stepped forward anyway.
And behind him, the door clicked shut, sealing the only home he’d ever chosen for himself.
The hallway was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your own heartbeat too loud. He adjusted his scarf and began to walk, slow, reluctant steps echoing on the old wood floor.
Every step felt like surrender.
Every breath was like walking into a cage he’d already escaped once.
But still, he went.
Because that’s who Timothy Drake-Wayne was.
The boy who kept showing up.
Even when it hurts.
Especially when it hurts.