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meterokinesis · 4 years

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Stars as Sharp as Knives

Read it on AO3

Prompt: stabbed

TW: Violence, PTSD, Disassociation

Summary: Tim remembered getting stabbed in vivid detail. The images were horrifying on their own, but together they formed a sick film that played on loop in Tim’s mind. Even after waking up the next morning, and the morning after that, he kept wondering: why am I alive?

Tim remembered getting stabbed in vivid detail.

In a job like this, where you either saved the day or ruined it all, he was used to cuts and scrapes and wounds. He anticipated them even, which the first aid kid he kept in his utility belt could attest to. But getting stabbed that night in the desert was something else.

The sound of steel through flesh. A cruel whisper. Blood, warm and sticky. Sand in his nose and eyes. Cool near-winter wind that ruffled through his hair. Dirt under fingernails. The weight of a body dragged behind him. Brick walls with metal stairs. A soft bed, with downy pillows stained rust.

The images were horrifying on their own, but together they formed a sick film that played on loop in Tim’s mind. Even after waking up the next morning, and the morning after that, he kept wondering: why am I alive?

This was a question he’d been asking himself for longer than he cared to admit. He was alive because no one had managed to kill him yet, and no more. If the universe had its way, he would be dead eight times over. Tim was just lucky, he supposed. But not lucky enough to escape the nightmares.

He remembered while attempting to sleep in the lavish jail cell Ra’s al Ghul concocted for him. He remembered while training with high level assassins, every time they went for a jab at his stomach. He remembered when Tam hugged him, and his reflex was to make sure she didn’t have a knife. He remembered on his first night back in Gotham, when he had to update his medical records to say “Patient has no spleen after a traumatic injury to the abdomen.”

The nightmares were the worst. They played out the scene in gory detail, each time with a new sort of reverence for Tim’s suffering. It wasn’t always the Widower who stabbed him; sometimes it was his father, or Jason, or Damian, or the mugger that killed Bruce’s parents. On bad nights, it was Bruce. On worse nights, it was Stephanie.

The nightmares persisted long after he defeated Ra’s al Ghul at Wayne Enterprises, long after Bruce finally returned and Tim was welcomed home with open arms. No, they lasted for months--every night a sick remembrance.

____________________

The first time he sparred with Dick after ending Ra’s plot, he used the new skills he picked up at the Cradle. At first they traded blows lazily, wearing down the floor by walking the same steps of a familiar dance. Then Tim dared to spin out--try one little move--and the game was afoot.

Tim didn’t pretend that he was better than Dick--he knew he wasn’t. But he had more range and was the better strategist, so at least their spars were interesting. They danced around the mat, neither submitting. Like all of their practices, it went until someone gave in or passed out. The Waynes never called out.

Dick went for Tim’s shoulder with his escrima sticks, which Tim blocked with his bo staff. By the time he registered the other stick moving toward his stomach, it was too late.

Forgoing all sense of etiquette, Tim roared and swung out with his staff, trying not to relish in the feeling of it connecting with Dick’s head.

“Jesus, Tim, what was that?” Dick’s voice floated from somewhere above. “I know we didn’t specify ‘no headshots’ but it seems like a giv- holyshitareyouokay?” It was then that Tim realized he was sitting on the ground, his head between his knees and his hands protecting his neck. In a way, he looked like the tornado drills they made him do at school, even though Gotham never had tornadoes. His body didn’t feel entirely real, like instead of inhabiting it like always, he was merely borrowing it for a second.

Dick’s voice, no doubt saying something reassuring, murmured in his ear. The words all blended together in a soup of pleasant sounds, one that Tim didn’t even attempt to decipher. Somewhere in the haze, he heard the telltale click of the comms, followed a few minutes later by heavy footfalls.

Bruce’s gruff voice took over for Dick’s soothing one, asking him questions that he didn’t know how to answer. Even if he could, he wasn’t entirely sure his mouth was still a mouth, let alone one that could form words. Instead, his brain gave him a front-row seat for the premiere of his least favorite movie in existence, where Dick stabbed Tim in the abdomen, his face contorted into something evil and totally unlike Dick. The Not-Dick didn’t stop after the first time, of course. Instead the scene rewinded over and over again, like a broken film from a museum about the tragedies of war.

Tim didn’t remember anything past that.

____________________

Tim woke up in his bed at the Manor, his heartbeat thunderous but slow. He opened bleary eyes to see Bruce sitting in the armchair near his window, reading a copy of the Wendy the Werewolf Stalker comic tie-ins Bart had given him last year for Hanukkah.

“Good morning. Or, should I say, evening. You almost slept for a full day,” Bruce said warmly, closing the book.

Tim didn’t return his tone. “Why are you here?” He demanded, clutching his blankets where they fell on his lap.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” Bruce avoided the question with trained ease, something Tim saw much too often in himself.

“I- Yeah. A little.” He remembered Dick stabbing him, but that couldn’t be Dick, right? They were in the desert, and it would take at least a day to get from the Syrian Desert to Gotham. His hand wandered over to his stomach. No open wounds or bandages, but there was a long scar.

“You disassociated. Do you know what that means?” Bruce asked, and Tim nodded mechanically. “We think that something during sparring practice triggered a trauma response.”

Tim heard the words, but he wasn’t sure his brain was following all the way.

“I’m fine, B. I just freaked out a little. No big deal.”

Bruce leveled his dad-stare at Tim. “Tim, with all due respect, that was not ‘freaking out a little.’ You were curled up in a ball on the mat, refusing to speak to us. When we managed to coax you into a sitting position, you attacked me. We had to put you in a safe hold until you calmed down.”

Tim opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“I think we need to talk about this. I understand if you don’t feel safe yet, you’ve been through a lot over the past year. I love you and I want to be here for you, but if a professional would help, we can do that too. Dick knows this guy in Metropolis-”

“No!” The word was out of Tim’s mouth before he could stop it, followed by a torrent of others. “I don’t need a shrink. I’m fine. Can I leave now? Or are you going to keep me prisoner like he did?”

“Of course not,” Bruce said, his voice heartbreakingly gentle. “This is your home, Tim. You can come and go as you please. However, I think we need to talk about-”

“Cool. Later.” Tim rolled out of bed and tugged on shoes and a jacket as Bruce tried to reason with him. They both knew that he could try to keep Tim here, either with logic or the threat of getting grounded, but neither would work. At his best, Tim was tenacious. At his worst, he was stubborn.

Tim traipsed down the grand staircase as Bruce followed behind him. Damian glowered at him from the sitting room, but at least he didn’t say anything. Dick was nowhere to be found. Tim pushed his way out of the manor, a small smile of satisfaction crossing his face when the door slammed and cut off Bruce’s pleas. It reminded him of every bad teen movie he’d ever watched, except the exhausted dad and pushy mom were replaced by Batman. Wasn’t that every kid’s dream?

____________________

He wandered through Bristol township, avoiding the spots he knew the paparazzi liked to frequent. Wouldn’t that be a million-dollar picture: Bruce Wayne’s high-school-dropout-turned-CEO son walking through the sea of McMansions in converse, a kid’s tracker bracelet, pyjama pants, and Cass’s purple NorthFace.

He was on some cul-de-sac where every house looked the same when he heard the telltale swish of someone following him. He didn’t turn around, just kept up his leisurely pace. Either they’d announce themselves, or they wouldn’t.

He got his answer when a hand snaked over his chest and a body pressed against his back, stopping him in his tracks.

“Hello, Detective,” Scarab whispered in his ear, and Tim’s veins turned to ice. Her hand cupped his face, and she slid around to his front. Tim didn’t believe in God, but he had no doubt that she was Satan incarnate.

“I have a gift for you,” she purred, her hands tracing his sides and back. He didn’t dare respond. “It’s from your friend.”

Tim swore his heart stopped. Ra’s al Ghul didn’t send gifts, he sent warnings. And threats. And death. Which is why he wasn’t entirely surprised when Scarab drove a knife into his chest with a sort of tender ruthlessness. She guided him to the ground, left a ghost of a kiss on his temple, and stepped out of view.

Tim lay gasping on the pavement, trying not to bleed out. His fingertips brushed the bracelet, weakly holding down to send out a tracking signal. If he was lucky, they’d see it. If not, then he’d die. It was that simple.

The stars here were dimmer than the ones in the desert. It was all the light pollution, he knew. Same stars, but an altogether different sky. There was a metaphor there somewhere, but he had lost too much blood to focus enough to find one.

His eyelids felt heavy, and it took everything in him to keep them open. Bruce would be here soon. He had to be. He was Batman, that’s what he did.

As Tim staggered through each breath, he couldn’t help but remark the irony of it all. He’d spent all this time worried about one old wound that he hadn’t seen the next one coming.

#whumptober 2020 #my writing #tim drake #bruce wayne #dick grayson #blood tw #violence tw

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