lucifernme

[lucifernme]

Part two of Tim drake angst.!!

Thank you so much for your patience and support❤️

The Batcave was quiet.

It had been that way ever since they brought Tim home.

Not “peaceful” quiet—no, this was the kind of silence that clung to the walls like mildew. The kind born from guilt, and grief, and the paralyzing realization that no one had noticed he was gone for four days.

Jason hadn’t been able to sleep since they found Tim. He hovered like a ghost in the background, watching Damian spar, watching Cass pace, watching Bruce analyze DNA samples for the hundredth time, trying to prove to himself that he hadn’t failed—when all the evidence said otherwise.

No one said it aloud. But they all felt it.

We left him there.

Tim didn’t speak.

He moved. Ate. Showered. Functioned. But he didn’t speak.

Not unless directly asked. Even then, answers were clipped—two or three words, max.

When Bruce asked him if he remembered what happened, Tim looked him dead in the eye and said, “Don’t worry. I catalogued everything.”

That was worse than no answer at all.

At night, they heard him.

Tim’s room was insulated, protected. But trauma didn’t care about soundproof walls. Some nights there were muffled gasps, sometimes quiet sobs, sometimes… screaming.

Once, Bruce found him huddled in the hallway at 3 AM, pressed into a corner like he was trying to vanish into the drywall. His knees were up, arms around them, forehead resting on bone.

He didn’t even flinch when Bruce approached.

“I was trying to get water,” Tim had whispered hoarsely, eyes hollow. “But I saw the window. And I—”

He couldn’t finish.

Bruce didn’t ask him to.

The tracker had worked the whole time. That was the part that cut deepest.

“They knew, Bruce.” Tim’s voice cracked during his first full sentence in days. “I left it in. They should’ve found me. I… I waited.”

Jason had punched the wall so hard it broke. He didn’t even register the pain.

Tim wouldn't go to the med bay anymore. Too sterile. Too many flashing lights and quiet beeps that reminded him of the room Ra’s had kept him in after the third day.

So Alfred moved everything up to Tim’s room. Medications. IV stand. Monitoring equipment. Everything.

But none of it could measure what was really broken.

One night, Dick brought Tim a stack of case files. Nothing urgent—just puzzles. Things Tim used to love.

Tim looked at them for a long time. Then he said, “You want me to help you?”

Dick frowned. “No—no, that’s not why I—”

“You want me to be useful again.”

“Tim, I—”

“You don’t know how to be around me if I’m not working. If I’m not fixing things. Solving the shit you guys always fuck up.”

Dick opened his mouth, but Tim just laughed. A brittle, joyless sound.

“I was dying, and all I could think about was how many problems were gonna pile up without me. And guess what, Dick? I still wasn’t enough to come for.”

Dick left the room shaking.

Cass was the first one he let touch him.

It wasn’t planned. Just… happened.

Tim had fallen asleep in the library, wrapped in a blanket, fingers twitching from some half-dream. When he startled awake, body tensed like a coiled spring, Cass was already there. Sitting beside him.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t ask.

She just slowly reached over and brushed the hair out of his face.

Tim didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

But his eyes welled up, and he turned toward her and sobbed into her shoulder.

She held him until sunrise.

Bruce wanted to kill Ra’s.

Not arrest. Not interrogate. Not outmaneuver.

Kill.

But Tim stopped him.

“I need him alive,” he said one day, unprompted.

Bruce stared at him. “Why?”

Tim’s voice was flat. “Because if you kill him, then I never get to win.”

They had to tell the League.

Not everything. Not the details. But enough.

Enough to know that Ra’s had crossed a line, even by their standards. A child. Tortured. Violated. Not for power. Not for leverage.

But because he could.

Diana had tears in her eyes.

Clark had to leave the room.

“Have you remembered everything?” Bruce asked quietly one night.

Tim looked up from the mug of chamomile tea Alfred forced him to drink every evening.

“Yes,” he said. “But I’m not giving you all of it.”

Bruce blinked.

Tim didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

Some things weren’t for justice.

Some things were for survival.

They tried to schedule a therapist.

Tim didn’t go.

Jason offered to take him to his own trauma counselor, a woman who’d helped him years ago.

“I’ll think about it,” Tim said.

He never brought it up again.

The nightmares didn’t stop.

But one night, he didn’t scream. He sat up, panting, heart racing… but he didn’t cry. Didn’t shake. He got up. Got dressed. Walked downstairs.

Bruce found him at the training mat. Fists clenched. Mouth set. Eyes burning.

“Teach me how to beat him,” Tim said. “The right way. No swords. No assassins. No League tricks.”

Bruce hesitated.

“I won’t be a victim twice.”

And Bruce nodded.

Every step was a fight.

But Tim Drake had always been stubborn.

Ra’s had taken everything.

But he hadn’t taken Tim’s mind.

He hadn’t taken Tim’s fire.

And he sure as hell hadn’t taken Tim’s family.

Not for good.

[lucifernme]

Tim drake angst<3

78 hours, 30 minutes, 28 seconds.

That’s how long it’s been since Tim was captured.

4 whole days of pure torture and chaos, it was insane. Tim was smart, he had figured out 3 ways to escape, the promblem, after each shot of sedation, Tim’s room and the guards, changed. Whoever had captured him wasn’t stupid.

Tim tried and broke his roped but being injured,tired and hungry was no match for brute strength.

On the third day of his capture his roped were switched to chains, how lovely. Tim tried to keep track of time but this room, had no clock no windows.

And the worst fucking part?

They had only found one tracker. And for some reason they didn’t see nor find the skin colored stud in his ear, a moni tracker.

Which meant one thing.

Everyone knew where he was.

But they hadn’t come.

Nor did they care.

—————-———-

Wayne manor, 9:31 PM. Dinner time.

“Where’s master Tim?”

Alfred asked setting the crock full of pot roast on the table.

Everyone paused.

Uh Tim? Where was he? No clue.

When was the last time they’d even seen the 16 Yo?

“I’m sure he’s just causing trouble somewhere,”*damian said, no emotion in his voice. He earned a glare from cass. But ignored it.

“Master dick have you seen him?” The butler asked once more.

“No sorry Alfie, haven’t seen him.”

“I haven’t seen him since he left for school Monday.”*jason spoke as he poured some roast into his bowl.

Bruce looked utterly confused. “I don’t recall getting a text or anything-“

“Didn’t you get one yesterday old man?” Jason hummed grabbing a roll and biting into it.

“Shit.”

“Language master Bruce.”

“Sorry.” Bruce grabbed his phone immediately going to his missed calls.

Xx-xxx-xxxx.

3 missed calls.

Bruce quickly called back, putting the phone on speaker.

“Ah, Mr Wayne how nice for you to call back. We’ve called to inform you that Tim drake hasn’t been to school all week, he never arrived on Monday and he’s never missed any days, so we got concerned.”

Bruce froze. Tim didn’t make it to school?

What the fuck is going on?

————————————————-

A plate of food was placed infront of him, along with a plastic fork. It didn’t look half bad.

“Eat.”*one of the guards said. And despite everything telling him not to, he grabbed the fork with his free hand and began eating.

---

Tim’s body ached as he ate, each bite feeling like sandpaper scraping his throat. The food was bland, the texture rubbery, but he kept going. Anything to stave off the growing hunger. His body wasn’t his own anymore; it felt like the world had pulled a veil over his senses, blurring everything to the point of being indistinguishable. Every thought, every shred of hope, felt like a flickering light in the storm.

He had been here too long.

The guards didn’t talk to him much. They watched, silent and grim, as if they knew something he didn’t. Sometimes, they’d taunt him, calling him names, poking fun at the fact that they were so close to breaking him. But Tim wasn’t broken. Not yet.

Not until they had started to take more from him.

The pain had been steady, the beatings frequent, but it was Ra's al Ghul who truly seemed to understand how to destroy someone. He knew the mind, how it cracked, how to manipulate it, how to squeeze someone’s spirit until it shattered. He didn’t have to physically break Tim; the mental games were more than enough. Ra’s was obsessed with Tim—perhaps more than Tim himself fully understood. It wasn’t just about the body, it was about the mind, about taking him apart piece by piece. And Ra's knew exactly how to play this game.

Each day felt like a year. He had no idea how much time had passed anymore. He had been in this cold, sterile room—no windows, no clock, nothing to measure the passage of time. Just him, his pain, and his captors. The chains had been added on the third day, after he broke his ropes in a moment of desperation. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t fight through the fatigue, the hunger, the constant beatings. His body was fragile, even without the spleen he’d lost after the last time Ra’s had tested him. The wound had never truly healed.

And now, it was worse. Every movement felt like it would snap him in half. He could feel the blood pooling in his abdomen sometimes, a constant reminder of his vulnerability.

But there was one thing he kept holding onto—he knew they had his tracker. The tiny one embedded in his ear. It was still active, still working. Someone—someone—would find him. They *had* to.

But as the days blurred, and his body weakened, doubt crept in. The pain from his wound was gnawing at him. His mind felt fragmented, losing its sharp edges. And then, *the thought* hit him, sharp as a knife.

*What if they don’t come?*

What if no one cared? What if they had already moved on without him? He had always been the one who pulled through, the one who figured it out, the one who saved the day. But what if they didn’t notice he was gone?

The quiet despair began to weigh down on him, heavier than the chains around his wrists. His family… they hadn’t come for him. They *hadn’t come*.

The thought that they were out there, eating dinner, going on with their lives without him—it gnawed at him in ways he couldn’t even express. He felt his chest tighten, the room closing in. Was that all he was worth? Just another forgotten face?

His stomach twisted at the thought, and a cold, terrifying realization settled in. He wasn’t important to them anymore. Maybe they never had been. He had always been the one trying to prove himself to them, trying to be more than just the kid who didn’t fit. Maybe he wasn’t worth saving.

Ra’s al Ghul’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts. “You’re weaker than I thought,” the villain said, standing just outside the bars of the cell. He didn’t even need to be close to Tim to be menacing; his presence loomed like a shadow, cold and suffocating. “I expected more from you, Drake. I thought you would fight. But this? This is a disappointment.”

Tim swallowed, ignoring the pain in his side, the burning hunger in his stomach. He glared at Ra’s, but there was no fire in it anymore. He was tired. So tired.

Ra’s leaned in, his eyes glinting. “You’re already broken. You just don’t know it yet.”

The words hit Tim like a physical blow. He could feel his resolve crumbling, piece by piece. He had held on for so long, had believed that they would find him. That *someone* would come. But now, now he wasn’t so sure.

The chains rattled as one of the guards entered, breaking the moment. “Time to eat again,” the guard said, indifferent, shoving a tray of food into Tim’s weak hands.

Tim didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to fight anymore. But his body, weak and failing, needed the sustenance. The moment he picked up the plastic fork, his hand trembled. He almost dropped it, but somehow, he forced himself to eat. Slowly. Reluctantly.

Every bite was a reminder of how far he had fallen.

He thought of them—the family he had fought so hard for. Bruce, who always expected so much from him. Dick, Jason, Damian, and Cassandra… Did they even think about him now? Did they care that he was gone? Or had the world simply moved on without him?

It didn’t matter.

Tim Drake had always been the one to solve the problems, to be the hero when no one else could. But this… this was the one problem he couldn’t fix.

And as his body grew weaker, and the world around him seemed to fade into darkness, the last thing he thought of was them.

And then, everything went black.

When Tim woke he felt disappointed. Damn, no easy way out for him.

But soon the ache settled in his bones, he was in a bed?.. still chained- Tim looked at his body- he was naked- had bruises from where hands had gripped him- bite marks and a mysterious liquid that Tim didn’t want to know what it was.

Tim’s mind slowly dragged itself from the fog of unconsciousness, each second feeling heavier than the last. The dull throb in his head was the first thing he became aware of, but it was soon replaced by the ache that settled deep in his bones. It was the kind of pain that came from being pushed to the limit, from being broken in ways that weren’t just physical.

He tried to move but stopped when he felt the cold, biting sensation of chains pulling at his wrists. The sharpness of the metal was a reminder—he wasn’t free. Not yet. He tried to shift his body, his muscles stiff and uncooperative, and that’s when the rest of the world seemed to come into focus.

Tim blinked, his vision blurry for a moment, but as his eyes adjusted, he realized something that almost made him wish he hadn’t woken up at all.

He was in a bed.

It wasn’t the cold, concrete slab of a cell he had been expecting. It was softer, more comfortable, but it was still the same prison. The chains were still there, digging into his raw skin, keeping him bound.

Tim looked down at his body, his chest tight with dread, and immediately regretted it. He was naked—completely exposed. The bruises were there, some deep and purple, others just beginning to fade, but they were all over his arms, his torso, his legs. The marks of hands—familiar, rough hands—gripping him like he was nothing but a possession.

But it wasn’t just the bruises.

There were bite marks on his skin. Small, jagged impressions that made his stomach churn. His throat felt dry, and the taste of bile crept up as he noticed the mysterious liquid on his body. He couldn’t bring himself to analyze it further. He didn’t need to know what it was. He could guess, and the thought alone made him want to crawl out of his own skin.

He’d been violated in ways that went beyond the physical. Ra’s had made it clear from the moment he was captured that he would break Tim in every way possible, pushing past every limit until there was nothing left. But Tim refused to be that weak. He *refused* to give in.

His thoughts turned to the tracker hidden in his ear. Was it still there?

Reaching up, he carefully touched his ear, feeling for the tiny device. His fingers brushed against the cool metal, and for a brief moment, the hope of escape flared within him. Someone *had* to be tracking him.

But the thought quickly turned sour. No one had come yet. The silence from the outside world was deafening. His family... they hadn’t come.

Tim couldn’t stop the wave of panic from clawing at him. The panic that had settled in his gut like a lead weight. *What if they hadn’t found him? What if they’d given up on him?*

He tried to push the thoughts aside, but it was impossible. The chain around his wrist was biting into his skin. The room, though more luxurious than the cell, still felt too small. There was no escape, no one to help him.

Ra’s had been right. Tim’s will was breaking, bit by bit, the longer he stayed here. Every second that passed, the hope he clung to—thin and frayed as it was—seemed to slip further away.

In the corner of the room, shadows shifted. Tim’s eyes darted to the figure that appeared from the darkness. It was Ra’s al Ghul. Tim could feel the man's presence before he even looked up.

Ra’s smiled, that same cruel, calculated smile that Tim had come to loathe.

"Ah, you're awake," he said, his voice like ice. "I was beginning to think you'd never wake from your little slumber. Did you enjoy your rest, Tim? Was it peaceful?"

Tim clenched his jaw, refusing to answer. Every word that came out of Ra's mouth was designed to get under his skin. To remind him of his weakness.

Ra’s stepped closer, his shadow looming larger over the bed. He reached down, tracing a finger lightly over one of Tim’s bruises. Tim recoiled, the contact feeling like fire against his tender skin.

“You’ve been through so much,” Ra’s continued, his tone almost mocking. “And yet you still have so much potential, Tim. So much to offer me. I could break you, truly break you, and rebuild you into something far more useful. Something beyond even your own limitations.”

Tim’s heart thundered in his chest as he fought to keep his breathing even. He wanted to shout, to scream, to tell Ra’s that he would never be his. But all that came out was a rasping cough, his throat too dry to do much more than wheeze.

Ra’s chuckled softly, as though enjoying the sound of Tim’s struggle.

“We’ll see, Tim. You’ll break eventually. And when you do... you’ll be mine.”

The words lingered in the air long after Ra’s had turned away, his footsteps echoing through the empty room. Tim was left alone in the dim light, shivering despite the warmth of the bed beneath him.

He stared at the ceiling, the ceiling that had no windows, no door—just an empty expanse of stone. And as much as he wanted to fight, as much as he wanted to *believe* that someone would come for him, that hope was beginning to die, piece by piece.

And with it, so too was Tim Drake.

————

This room had windows so Tim could see the days past.

Two days. Two more fucking days.

Two days filled of being used for ra’s pleasure.

Ra’s had kept him awake the last few times.

And Tim wished he hadn’t. He would’ve rather been beaten to the point of death then be awake when ra’s assaulted him.

All Tim could feel was his hands- his..his- god he didn’t want to think about it-

Tim’s body sagged against the cold wall, the weight of exhaustion and hopelessness pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. His gaze drifted to the window—his only connection to the outside world. Days bled into nights, and nights into a darkness that felt endless. Two days. Two days of wishing for something... anything.

The door creaked open. His heart, against reason, flickered with a fragile hope that this time might be different. Maybe—just maybe—someone was coming.

Ra’s stepped in, the air thickening with his presence. His lips curled into a smile that never reached his eyes. He knelt beside Tim, fingers tilting his chin upward with cruel gentleness.

“You keep looking at that window,” Ra’s murmured, voice smooth and venomous. “As if someone’s coming.”

Tim’s breath hitched, eyes burning. Please... His mind clung to the word, even if his lips couldn’t form it.

Ra’s leaned closer, his words like ice splintering through hope. “No one’s coming for you, Tim. They’ve forgotten you. Moved on.”

The words cut deeper than any wound. Tim’s chest tightened, a choked sound escaping him as his gaze fell. He wanted to scream, to deny it—but doubt seeped in, cold and merciless.

“You’ll rot in here,” Ra’s whispered. “And the world won’t even notice.”

The door shut with a finality that echoed in the empty room. Tim’s shoulders shook—silent, broken sobs echoing off the walls. Outside, the sky stretched vast and indifferent.

And inside, hope flickered... and died.

Tim didn’t know how long he’d been lying there—minutes, hours, days. Time had twisted into something meaningless. His body ached, bruises blooming beneath his skin like dark, wilting flowers, but it was the inside that hurt more. His thoughts clawed at him, relentless.

The door creaked open. That sound—he hated that sound. His entire body tensed, instinct and dread coiling tight in his chest. Heavy footsteps echoed closer, measured and calm.

Ra’s.

Tim didn’t look up. If he didn’t look, maybe he could pretend—just for a second—that he wasn’t here. That this wasn’t happening.

But Ra’s crouched beside him, a shadow stretching long and inescapable. "Still hoping?" Ra’s voice was soft—too soft. Like silk wrapping around a blade. "Or have you finally accepted reality?"

Tim’s jaw clenched. Don’t give him the satisfaction. That voice—his own, or someone else’s—fought to keep him from breaking completely..

———

The night had settled into an oppressive silence, thick and suffocating. Tim lay curled against the cold floor, too exhausted to move, too numb to think. His body ached in places he had long stopped acknowledging, and his mind… God, his mind was barely holding together.

Then he heard it.

A whisper of movement. The soft click of a lock being picked.

Tim forced his eyes open, sluggish and unfocused. Shadows shifted in the doorway—three figures slipping inside, all dark silhouettes against the dim light from the hallway. For a moment, he thought it was another trick, another cruel mind game.

Then he heard the voice.

"Tim."

Dick.

Something inside him cracked, splintered like glass under pressure.

"Shit," Jason’s voice, sharp and rough with barely concealed rage, cut through the quiet. "Tim—"

A pair of gloved hands reached for him, steady, careful. Tim flinched on instinct, body recoiling before his mind caught up.

"It’s us," Damian’s voice—low but edged with something Tim wasn’t used to hearing from him. Concern. "Drake, look at me."

Tim blinked, his vision swimming. They were here. They came for him.

He wanted to say something, anything, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

"Let’s get him out of here," Dick said, voice tight with barely restrained emotion. "Jason, cover the hall. Damian, help me—"

Tim barely registered their hands supporting him, lifting him up. His body screamed in protest, but he didn’t care. He let them carry him, let them take him away from the walls that had suffocated him for what felt like an eternity.

The hallway was a blur—whispers of movement, the distant sound of a guard hitting the ground. Jason, probably.

Then the cold night air hit his skin. It burned and soothed all at once.

He was free.

His legs gave out, but Dick caught him before he could fall. "It’s okay," he murmured. "We’ve got you. You’re safe now."

Tim wanted to believe that.

But as they disappeared into the night, Ra’s words still clung to him like a phantom.

No one’s coming for you.

He had been wrong.

They came.

And yet, deep inside, Tim wondered if he would ever feel whole again.

———

Tim woke up to warmth. Soft sheets. The faint beeping of a monitor. The air smelled sterile—hospital, or maybe the Batcave’s med bay.

He didn’t hurt anymore. That should’ve been a relief. Instead, it made his skin crawl.

His fingers twitched against the blanket, his breath catching as fragmented memories flickered behind his eyelids.

A cold room. A locked door. Hands that weren’t his own.

Stop.

His stomach twisted. His body felt clean—too clean. His jaw clenched as he forced himself not to think about why. About what protocols would’ve been followed the moment he was brought back. The logical part of his brain whispered: rape kit. Examination. Evidence.

He swallowed hard, shoving the thought away. It was done. Move on.

His body felt foreign—patched up, put back together, but still… wrong. His fingers curled into the sheets. He needed something—something grounding, something normal.

Coffee. Food. Something that didn’t remind him of where he had been.

With effort, he pushed himself upright, his muscles protesting from disuse rather than injury. He had no idea how long he had been asleep. Days? Hours? Didn’t matter. He needed to move.

His bare feet touched the cool floor, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the blankets. He forced himself to stand, to walk. The slight unsteadiness pissed him off more than anything. He hated feeling weak.

The door creaked open before he could reach it.

Dick stood there, holding a tray. Coffee. Toast. Something that smelled vaguely like eggs.

Tim froze.

Dick’s expression shifted from relief to concern in a second. “You should be resting.”

Tim ignored that. His eyes flicked to the tray. “Is that coffee?”

Dick exhaled a quiet laugh—shaky, but real. “Yeah. Figured you’d want some.”

Tim swallowed the lump in his throat. “Good call.”

Dick set the tray down on the bedside table and hesitated, watching him too closely. Like Tim was glass

, one wrong move away from shattering.

Tim hated that look.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, grabbing the coffee before Dick could start whatever talk he had planned.

He wasn’t fine. They both knew it. But for now, coffee and food were enough.

For now, he could pretend.