#r1fics

[anghraine]

OMG! i am so glad you liked the Rogue one, the moment i saw it i wanted to know what you thougth of it!!! and you just loved the same ships i did, which is a blessing because being the awesome writer you are, you would make the greatest cassian/jyn fic ever to destroy what's left of my heart! i love you! you are just a gift for every fandom you are in! you should also consider making a R1fic recomendation! but just a suggestion! :)

Much later: thank you very much! I did end up writing quite a bit of Jyn/Cassian fic, haha.

My rec list is here, btw.

[thingr1]

oh well, i guess we’re gonna pretend

Rating: T

Warnings: Blood and Injury, Torture (non-graphic, mostly implied)

Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd

Summary: Robin!Tim gets caught and help comes from an unlikely source.

Cross posted: FFN and AO3. (A/N found on both sites)

For: @lurkinglurkerwholurks for the prompt: A character flipping into hardcore MINE mode over another when the latter is in danger or threatened (bonus points if the two characters are currently on the outs but nevertheless go totally Ride Or Die)

~o~

This was bad.

This was the kind of bad that Tim had managed to avoid so far since taking up the role of Robin.  He’d only hit the streets officially for the first time three months ago, post-many months of intense physical and mental training.  This was exactly the second time Batman and he were apart for longer than a couple of hours at a time.

It was almost funny, actually, how fast Tim managed to screw everything up.  After all, he took on Robin in order to stop Batman from spiraling into a hole he would likely never escape from alone after the death of his partner.  The death of his son.

As far as Tim was concerned, he had one job: Don’t die.  He would also be the first to admit that that was harder than he’d thought it would be.

He’d made a mistake.  He’d gotten caught.  He’d been—was being beaten.  And he wasn’t sure if Batman even realized he was gone.  They’d separated earlier in the night, exactly according to plan.  Tim on recon on one end of town, Batman on the other, chasing two different leads on the location of a major arms deal that was supposed to go down the next night.  They would then continue on their normal patrol routes, Tim flying truly solo for the first time, and meet back in the Cave afterwards.  It was a first flight.  A test of trust on the Bat’s end and independence on Tim’s.

Problem was, the empty warehouse Tim was supposed to investigate hadn’t been empty when he’d arrived.  Either someone tipped the mooks off that the Dynamic Duo was onto them and they’d moved up the date, or Batman’s information had been faulty.  Tim was leaning towards the former.  However, before he could comm the Bat and warn him of the change, someone had clubbed him from behind.

Tim wasn’t supposed to check in for…maybe another hour?  Two?  He wasn’t sure.  Time seemed to be dragging by unnaturally slow, and there wasn’t exactly a clock he could check himself on.  He’d passed out a few times, too, which didn’t really lend itself to accurate time keeping.

His only frame of reference?

The bruise count.  Turned out, baseball bats hurt when they were swung into flesh and bone rather than rawhide.  His ribs could attest to that.  The more time passed, the more aches and pains he accrued.

The other hint that he’d overstayed his welcome: He could no longer feel his hands.  They were strung up somewhere above his head, metal cuffs digging into exposed wrists and holding him up so his bare toes barely grazed the ground.  Come to think of it, he couldn’t feel those either.  Which was…concerning.

But on the plus side, if he couldn’t feel them, they couldn’t hurt.  Unlike his rib cage, twinging and protesting at his current position and every subsequent movement.  Actually, his cheek hurt now, too.  Which…ow.  Ow.

Tim’s head snapped to the side with the force of the next blow, and he groaned as that set his whole body rocking, reigniting the pain signals through to his brain.

“—listening, brat?”

Tim blinked his eyes open—when had they closed?—squinting under the pale yellow glare of the stereotypical bare bulb abandoned warehouse lighting and into the leering face of his captor.

Miles Bandini’s gold tooth glinted a tad too bright in the dim light.  A greasy combover made his forehead appear entirely too large, and a domineering sneer that could put Two-Face to shame completed the mob boss look.

The best part was, there really wasn’t anything special about this guy.  He wasn’t a psychopath, didn’t have a PhD in some random field, and hadn’t assigned a colorful, inappropriate persona to theme his wrongdoings.  He was just another crime lord who’d taken a shine to Gotham and the ease of criminal activity therein.

And Tim, like an idiot, ran straight into his trap.

Noticing Tim’s attention, Bandini’s sneer somehow deepened.  “I guess you’re still alive, then.  For now.”

Tim remained silent, mustering what energy he had left to raise his head and glare.

This seemed to amuse the crook.  He patted Tim’s cheek, right on the bruise one of his goons had left behind.  “Wonder where your big friend is, hmm?  It’s a shame he’s left you alone for so long.”

The henchmen chortled behind him.

“Look, Robin,” Bandini drawled.  “You seem like a nice kid.  So I’m going to give you one last chance to walk out of this building alive.  Answer two questions for me, would you?  Just two, and you get to see the sunrise.”  He leaned forward, hook nose only centimeters from Tim’s.  “Where is the Batman?  And how much does he know about us?”

Tim licked his cracked, bloody lips.  Tongue working in an effort to muster up what moisture he had left.  He opened his mouth.

Bandini leaned forward eagerly.

Tim spat in his face.

The man recoiled with a cry, hand flying up to where a mixture of Tim’s blood and spit now coated his cheek.  Beady black eyes met his, a murderous expression twisting the man’s features.

Tim barely had time to think “uh oh” before the crook pitched a roundhouse into his stomach.  Something in his chest shifted.

Pain exploded as every broken bone, every abused muscle, every organ screamed in protest, even as his voice choked out nothing more than a strangled unf.

Tim couldn’t breathe.  Tim couldn’t breathe.  What air he managed to pull through his mouth came in short gasps and wheezes, not remaining long enough or deep enough in his lungs to perform the appropriate gas exchange.  Spots danced before his vision, fuzzy black creeping in on the edges.

Bandini was yelling, the words distant and muffled as if through fabric, gesticulating wildly with something suspiciously shiny, silver, and gun-shaped at Tim.

With a detached sort of panic, Tim realized he was going to die.  Either from his injuries, or from the bullet the crime lord was prepped to gift him, didn’t matter.

Only a year into the job and he’d already failed his main objective.

Something cold and achingly familiar pressed into his forehead.  The barrel of a gun.

Tears prickled in Tim’s eyes.  I’m so sorry, Bruce.

The gunshot echoed through the warehouse.  Tim flinched.  The gun barrel slid away from his forehead.

Wait…Tim shouldn’t have been able to flinch.  He was…not dead?  For sure, everything hurt too much for him to be dead.

A low, ominous chuckle burst through the ensuing silence, echoing through the warehouse and sending a shiver down Tim’s spine.  The sound of something heavy landing on concrete slammed into his eardrums.

Welp.  Only one way to find out.  Reluctantly, Tim pried his eyes open, blinking in an attempt to bring the world back into focus.

The first thing he noticed was Miles Bandini collapsed on the ground at his feet, blood pooling around him from the hole in his chest.  The second thing was the bright red helmeted figure standing in the center of the room, back towards Tim.

“Well, well, well,” the Red Hood drawled.  “What do we have here?”

Whatever shock Bandini’s mooks seemed to be in began to wear off, half pulling their weapons, the other half taking an uncertain step back.

“Get him!” a voice—ah, the second in command accountant in the tweed jacket—screamed.

Quick as lightning, the Red Hood swung in Tim’s direction, gun hefted in one hand, knife in the other, and Tim flinched.   If he wasn’t dead before, he was definitely screwed now.  Hood pitched the knife in his direction.  But instead of slicing into Tim’s chest, it collided with the cable holding him up, cutting through the metallic fiber like butter.

Tim hit the ground with an oof, what little air he had managed to suck in abandoning him in one pained puff.

Ow ow owowowowow.

Fire lanced up his arms and shoulders as they were released from the strain of holding his weight, joining the steady inferno of what had to be at least two or three broken ribs in his chest.  His vision whited out as agony encompassed every inch of him, making him uncomfortably aware of every little hurt he’d received since being strung up.

Okay, Tim.  Breathe.  Breathing was good.  Breathing was life.

It really shouldn’t have been this difficult to pull in air.

Around him, gunshots rang off the walls and old shelving as round after round was shot off at the lone figure devastating their ranks.  Despite everything, Tim’s inner fanboy lit up.  This was as cool as it was dangerous—for the crooks and Tim alike.

It had been years since he’d last seen Jason fight.  Rather, fight in a way that didn’t involve Tim actively defending himself.  Jason was all muscle, visible beneath even the thick leather jacket, and yet he had the deadly precision of an expert marksman and the grace of a martial artist.  He used all of those things to his advantage as he tore through the mob, laying waste to everyone within his rather large range.  After all, how many people could claim to have been trained by Batman and the League of Assassins?  These amateurs didn’t stand a chance.

Tim just wished he had his camera.

And then, as quickly as the bloody battle started, it ended.  The Red Hood loomed in front of him, hovering almost protectively, gun pressed against the forehead of the last perp standing.

“The only one who gets to take a potshot at my replacement,” Hood hissed, “is me.”

Tim shivered.  From Hood’s tone, or the blood loss, he wasn’t sure.

Then Hood leveled a kick into the man’s rib cage, an audible crack sounding through the warehouse as the man fell to the ground with a howl.

“Tell your friends,” Hood said lightly.  Then, when the man gaped up at him: “Unless you’d rather join them…?”  He gestured at the limp forms of the bullet-riddled, definitely dead crooks scattered around them.

The guy was gone next time Tim opened his eyes.  Huh.  That was fast.

A brief thrill of panic shivered up his spine as Hood’s blank lenses suddenly leveled down at him.  Tim silently cursed himself.  He should’ve used the distraction to escape, should have unpicked the cuffs and scooted out of here before Jason turned on him.  Problem was, he didn’t think he could move even if he tried.

Jason cocked his head—almost considering.  He sighed, the sound echoing strangely through the filter and voice modulator.  “Guess if you bled out now, there would be no point, hm?”

Tim stared.  Not quite comprehending as the former Robin crouched beside him, rolling him over onto his back.  Which actually helped the breathing issue, but….

“I’m going to move you, Pretender,” Jason warned.  “This building’s rigged to blow, and that perp’s got the trigger.  Try to stay loose.”

One arm tucked under Tim’s neck, the other under his legs, and wow, okay, apparently they broke his tibia.

Tim blacked out.

He came to blinking up at the stars through a fire escape in an alley he recognized to be near the docks.  His body instantly protested his very existence, screaming as though he’d been dropped into a compactor and then thrashed in a woodchipper.  Dimly, he became aware of a shadowy figure over him, of gloved hands tightening a pressure bandage around his thigh.

It all came back in a rush—his capture, the fight, Red Hood—and Tim instinctively scrambled back from the man looming over him, heart pounding out of his chest.  He regretted the movement instantly as it jarred his broken body, his wrist apparently some degree of broken as it caved under his weight so he flopped gracelessly back against the pavement.

“Oi, hold still,” Jason snapped, “you’re making yourself worse.”

Tim froze at the command, staring wide-eyed at the crook who had himself beaten Tim to a bloody pulp only a few months ago.

This image didn’t fit.  It didn’t make sense.  There had to be some ulterior motive to saving him, perhaps some mind game to mess with Bruce.  What else would motivate Hood to help him out of the blue?

Resolve flared, hot and fast.  Tim wouldn’t allow himself to be used against the Bat again.

But Jason just continued twirling the fabric around Tim’s leg until he was apparently satisfied, snipping off the end and tying it off.  He snagged another pressure bandage and began work on Tim’s shoulder.  Not speaking.  Not even looking at him.

Slowly, Tim allowed himself to relax, mind spinning in confusion.

“W—Why?” Tim wheezed.  Wishing he could muster something a little more intimidating than the dry, barely audible croak that squeezed out of his throat.

Jason continued wrapping the bandages, quiet for long enough Tim figured he hadn’t heard him.

But then, “No one deserves to die without having a chance at fighting back.”  Quiet.  Angry.  And…if Tim didn’t know better, a hint of the growl Batman always got when he was feeling particularly protective.

Jason tied off the last bandage with a couple quick motions and stood.  He unslung Tim’s utility belt from over his shoulder, pressing the emergency tracker embedded in the side.  How did he know where—?

“Bats should be here soon,” Jason said, voice flat, which didn’t match the gentle pat he gave Tim’s uninjured leg.  “Don’t wait up.”

The older teen stood, his combat boots retreating down the alleyway the last thing Tim saw before his eyes closed against his will.

“Oh, and Replacement?” Tim heard, almost as if through a tunnel.  “Don’t expect a repeat performance.  This doesn’t change anything.”

Despite his swollen cheeks, Tim grinned against the pavement.  Of course not, he thought.  Inexplicably giddy.  Why would it?

Tim passed out to the sound of a grapple fun firing off into the distance and the rumble of a familiar engine echoing into the alleyway.

[thingr1]

(this is how you) bring me back to life

Rating: General Audiences

Characters: Dick Grayson, Alfred Pennyworth, Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Tim Drake

Summary: Dick gets comforted by his siblings after a bad day.

Cross posted: FFN and AO3. (A/N found on both sites)

For: @alannaofroses for the prompt: Dick gets comforted after a bad day.

~o~

It was one of those days where nothing went wrong...but nothing really went right either.  One of those days where nothing terribly awful happened, but there were enough false alarms and close calls to keep him on his toes.   Until suddenly he couldn’t keep the pose anymore.

Looking back on it, Dick couldn’t quite determine what had brought him to this point.  Maybe it was the eight-year-old girl trapped under a beam while the house burned around her that he’d barely reached before everything collapsed at four in the morning.  Maybe it was the desperate bullet from a cornered bank robber that shot into his police vest mere centimeters from his exposed neck, leaving a painful, purpling bruise this afternoon.

Or maybe it was all the little things in between; the rush hour traffic when he couldn’t drag himself up early enough after crawling under the covers only an hour before, the empty fridge after work since he forgot to stop for groceries, his TV going up in smoke mid-cartoon.

Whatever it was, Dick was drained.  Past exhaustion, past coherent thought.

Of course, he’d realized this only after Alfred texted to remind him of family dinner at the Manor tonight.  Even Jason was supposed to be there, which was a blessing and a curse in itself.  When the invitation had come last week, there really hadn’t been a reason to say no.

So now here he was, squealing up Wayne Manor’s driveway with eyes half-lidded and pop music blaring in a vain attempt to keep himself from passing out from sheer “doneness with the world” mid-drive.

He ground the car into park, the engine giving a splutter of protest before going silent along with the heavily autotuned singer from the radio.

Dick sagged against the steering wheel, groaning into his frozen fingers.

He couldn’t do this.  He was too tired.  He couldn’t face his family right now, couldn’t handle the drama that was sure to drown him the second he walked through that ridiculously fancy door.

Dick loved his family.  He did.  He did.

But dealing with them on a good day was hard enough when all they did was make each other miserable.  With only Dick to act as mediator.  It was exhausting.  Dick hated picking sides, hated that it was necessary.  Hated that Bruce always mysteriously, conveniently disappeared before he could be dragged into the mess.  Finding middle ground took patience and energy Dick didn’t always have.  Now, would be a good example.

He loved his family.  But the thought of walking into a storm of petty arguments and insults made his stomach twist.

Dick sighed into his hands.  He couldn’t hide out here forever.  Alfred would come looking.  If anything, Dick could just…sleep.  Sink into his bed and not get up until his brain and body had reset into some semblance of functional humanity.  Retreat into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness until he was ready to take up the older brother mantle again and be the responsible adult for a spell.

Yeah.  Bed sounded good.


Now he just needed to get there.

“Okay, Dick,” he whispered.  “Baby steps.”

Step one: Take hands off wheel.

He pried his fingers up—one by one by one—until finally their death grip on the pleather ring was relinquished.

Two: Exit car.

He fumbled with the handle, tugging it so the door unlocked and cracked open.  He nudged it with his foot so it swung out all the way with a dull thud.  Cold, damp air flooded the interior, making Dick shiver.  He swung one leg out, then the other.  Stood up.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, made him stumble back against the car, head heavy and blood rushing loud and fast in his ears.  Whoops.  He remained still, blinking until the spots left his vision.  Okay?  Okay.

Three: Knock on front door.

Muscle memory had him shut the car door, press the lock button on the fob.  He must’ve spaced out for a sec, because the next moment he was up on the porch, hand wrapped around the knocker.  The brass handle barely touched the plating before the door swung inwards.

Dick blinked owlishly at the sudden empty space in front of his fist, at the butler standing just inside.

“Master Dick,” Alfred greeted.  “Do come inside.  The weather is dreadful.”

“Hey, Alf,” Dick mumbled, tongue strangely uncooperative as he shuffled into the front foyer.  “Made it.”

The butler’s eyebrows furrowed.  “Are you quite all right, Master Dick?” he asked, a touch of concern audible in his tone.  “You seem a bit out of sorts.”

Dick nodded numbly.  “M’good.  Promise.”

Alfred frowned deeper at that, wrinkled hands grasping Dick’s wrists to check his pulse.

Dick sagged against the door frame, allowing the butler to fret over him; brush his knuckles to his forehead, check the dilation of his pupils.

“Alf, I’m fine,” Dick croaked; tone dry and cracked even to himself.  “Just tired.”

Alfred pursed his lips.  “If you say so, Master Dick.  However, I must insist that you remedy this situation before attempting any of your extracurricular activities.  Dinner won’t be ready for another hour or so.  Go rest.”

Dick nodded; more of a droop as his head sagged to his chest and stayed there.  “‘Kay.”

Step…four.  Five?  Go to bed.

The walls spun lazy circles around him as he plodded down the hallway, every footstep dragging as if cement had been sealed into his feet.  At some point he stumbled through an open door as his hand (when’d he put it on the wall?) suddenly didn’t support him.

Blinking, he realized he’d wandered into the main living room.  Didn’t exactly process more than that, hazy vision zeroing in on the couch.  Shuffling across, Dick flopped bonelessly onto the beautiful beautiful silk, sagging into the cushions with a muffled groan.

Just five minutes.  Five minutes, and then he’d slip upstairs and hide in his room before any of his siblings caught him like this.

He was fine.  He just.

Needed…

Five.

…

Dick couldn’t call it sleep, exactly.  That is, he never lost consciousness and fell into the peaceful, black abyss of nothingness.  He just kind of…drifted.  Not fully aware of his surroundings.  But not completely oblivious to them either.

It was almost like he was…floating.

A distant part of his mind prompted a word for the sensation, but the far greater part was content with just…existing.  Not thinking.  Not processing anything.  Just drifting through a hazy gray fog.

Dick would rather just be asleep.  But it seemed his body wouldn’t let him.  So this would have to do.

As if through cotton, he thought he caught snatches of phrases, whispered words echoing around him.

“—when did he—?”

“How long—?”

“—moved at all—?”


“—imbeciles do to Grayson?”

The words became clearer, louder; persistent enough against his senses that Dick began to lose his grip on whatever gray area between sleep and awareness he’d found himself in.

“—you must have done something.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault now, is it?  Newsflash, brat: This is the first time I saw him today!”

Nope.  No.  Dick didn’t want to hear it.  Wanted instead to sleep and float and forget for a minute how useless he was, how selfish he was to purposely ignore his siblings, how much he wished for a moment he didn’t have to exist until he was ready to face the world again.

He turned his nose into the fabric of the couch, squeezing his eyes so tight he saw stars, attempting to block out the invading sounds without actually moving his limbs to do so.

The whispers, which had been growing steadily louder, stopped.

Crap.  Had they noticed him move?  Please don’t drag him into whatever this was.  Not now.

Then, “Dick?”

Soft.  Concerned.

Dick almost (might have) whimpered.

There was a beat of silence.  Two.

“You good, Goldie?” Gruff.  Somehow gentle, in its own way.

Dick shook his head before he could think the gesture through, huddling deeper into the couch with a shiver.  He was okay.  He just needed to rest, to sleep, and he would be fine.  He…he needed…

He almost jumped at the feeling of small hands on his arm, of a leg looping over his waist.  A familiar small figure climbed over him, pushed at his torso and tugged at his limbs until suddenly someone was wedged in between the couch back and Dick’s chest, both arms wrapped around him in a hug.

Dick blinked down at the spiky black hair—the only part of the barely teen visible since his face was buried in Dick’s shirt.  Slowly, hesitantly, Dick’s arm squeezed back where it had been maneuvered around Damian’s waist.  He pressed his chin into the soft raven crown and closed his eyes.

Damian relaxed into the hold, pressing his nose under Dick’s collar bone.

This.  This was nice.

But before he could settle again, process the new sensation, revel in the warmth radiating from his littlest brother, another hand tapped his knee.

“Oi, Dickhead, move your feet,” Jason griped.

Confused, brain still not quite present, Dick shifted his feet back slightly.  Jason snorted.  And then hands wrapped around Dick’s ankles, hauling them into the air.  Dick felt the brush of a shoulder on the underside of his calf, heard a muffled grunt, felt a dip in the couch cushions.  And then his feet were rested on someone’s—Jason’s—lap.

Jason patted his leg a couple times before propping up his forearm on Dick’s calf.  Dick heard the familiar crackle of an old paperback being opened, the slide of a bookmark being removed from yellowed pages.

There was a rustle by his head, fabric on fabric as someone—Tim, it could only be Tim—sat down in the armchair by Dick’s head.

Thin fingers brushed against his scalp, began to card through his hair; gentle and unsure at first, gaining confidence as Dick instinctively angled into the touch.  It had been years since he’d been on the receiving end of this, of someone gently stroking his hair and massaging his scalp.

A memory, brief and hazy, of a larger hand mimicking the same path through his curls as Dick lay injured and feverish in his early Robin years came to him.  He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this till today.

How much he’d missed being held, being pressed into by people he loved on all sides, sharing a space too small to reasonably contain them all.  If there was one thing Dick missed the most from his circus days, it was the touching that came with shared love, affection, and not enough room to do anything but express it.

But that was the circus.  The Manor was different.  Larger, emptier, easier to escape in the aftermath of disagreements in.

Dick minutely braced himself for the words to start.  For the chatter that would inevitably escalate to something sharper, something louder, and ruin this moment.

But it was quiet.

Well…relatively.

Dick could hear(feel) Damian’s breath against his chest, each puff warm and slightly tickle-y.  Could hear the sshhhk as Jason turned a new page in his book, an occasional quiet whistle or snort through his teeth as he read.  And of course, Timmy clumsily typing with one hand at speeds that still defied all human logic, the other one still curling in Dick’s hair.

No one arguing.  No one speaking.  Just…being.

It was…peaceful.

Dick.  Dick could handle this.  This was good.  This was nice.

Slowly, surely, Dick relaxed.  Damian pressed tightly into his torso.  Jason’s legs bouncing up and down beneath his calves.  Tim’s hand scratching through his hair.

Tears rose unbidden to his eyes as a knot in his core he didn’t even know existed began to ease, warmth taking its place.

Overall, it had been a cruddy day.  But if this could be how it ended…surrounded by family, not bickering, just enjoying one another’s presence…maybe it wasn’t so terrible after all.

[thingr1]

Rating: PG

Warnings: None.

Characters: Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Everyone (basically).

Summary: For the record, it was all Dick's fault. If Dick hadn't convinced him to go to a stupid Christmas party, Jason would never have left his apartment. If Jason hadn't had to stop for gift wrap, he wouldn’t have rode up as two bank robbers turned the corner. If Dick hadn't lived up to his name, Jason wouldn't be bleeding out from a bullet hole in an alley on the other side of nowhere.

Also Found On: FFN

[thingr1]

Rating: PG

Warnings: None.

Characters: Tim Drake, Dick Grayson, Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne.

Summary: In which Tim's lonely Christmas takes a turn for the better. (Aka, the one in which Tim's first Christmas as Robin was setting up to be pretty quiet until a certain acrobat knocks on his door.)

Also Found On: FFN

[thingr1]

Weighing One’s Worth (1/2)

Rating: T

Warnings: Depression, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt.

Characters: Tim Drake, Damian Wayne.

Preview: There was a beat of tense silence, during which Tim could feel the youngest Wayne's gaze boring into him, taking in the scene before him. He lowered the gun, an admittedly useless gesture: Damian had already seen him.

Then, "What are you doing?"

Cross posted: FFN and AO3 (1-15-16). (A/N found on both sites)

Prequel: Of Milkshakes and Marathons. (Not necessary to understand story.)

Second Chapter: Here

Sequel: Focus on the Fallout

So you thought you had to keep this up


All the work that you do so we think that you're good


And you can't believe it's not enough


All the walls you built up are just glass on the outside

~"Healing Begins" by Tenth Avenue North

There were good nights. There were bad nights. There were somewhere in between nights. There were great nights. There were horrible nights. And then there were nights when you really began to wonder if it was really even worth the fight at all.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Everyone copes with things differently. Tim? Well, he typically ended up curled up in the tiny space between his bed and the wall, cynically considering his options. One of which included a handgun tucked away in a shoebox under the floorboards.

A handgun that now found itself hanging heavy in his hand.

There were definitely other, less violent ways to end it all. Downing a couple pills, braining himself on the bedside table, slitting his wrists and bleeding out on the bathroom floor... But Tim didn't need any more time to think. Nothing was faster or more efficient than a bullet to the head. It was also less painful, though he tried not to think about the selfishness of that.

Not to mention the irony of using a gun, the start of Batman's career and, in essence, the beginning of Red Robin's.

Tim had thought it through. He had never been one to rush into something, especially such a life-changing—he held back a snort—decision as the one he was about to make.

The best part? No one even knew what Tim really felt.

Because Tim was an expert liar. Actually, better than expert. It came as naturally to him as breathing. He supposed that should probably disturb him, but it didn't. It happened to be a very useful skill in the face of nosy coworkers, friends, and relatives. Lies were nearly always easier to face than the truth.

Hiding his true feelings was one such lie. Facades and masks defined him, his true emotions corked tightly within a bottle inside, never ever to see the light of day; only the waning moonlight filtering through the curtains of his apartment, or, at the moment, his Wayne Manor bedroom. This practice of falsehood had extended to himself, almost so he was convinced he was okay; that he could handle the horrible stress and pain that was life.

He remembered the time when he'd hated the lying involved with the mask: to his father, to his friends, wanting nothing more than to give them a straight answer for once. But now...

Well. There comes a time when even the best liars start to crack.

And if Tim was being honest (haha), he lied to himself as often, if not more frequently than he did to his friends and...family.

Could he even call them his family? Sure, it was all down on paper, but just like blood, ink wasn't what made a family family.

His fingers ghosted over the safety mechanism, hesitating before flicking it off.

Replacement. Pretender.

At least Jason knew what Tim really was.

Tim had practically forced his way into this secret life in his desperation to be Robin after Jason's death. He had never been Robin; not really. He had been (still was) unwanted and unchosen. The outsider in Bruce's hand-picked family. Why should he even bother sticking around if no one had ever really wanted him in the first place?

A harsh laugh escaped his throat. After all the pain, all the danger, all the narrow escapes brought on by patrolling the streets of Gotham, the mighty Red Robin was going to go down via a handgun by his own volition. The irony.

Rock steady, he raised the gun barrel to his temple, the cold tip pressing against his scalp. He couldn't fight this feeling anymore. It was better for everyone this way. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his finger around the trigger.

"Drake!" called a familiar voice, shattering the previous silence as Tim's room door flew open (hadn't Tim locked it?) and slammed into the opposite wall. Before Tim could overcome his shock and slide the gun under the bed, footsteps echoed across the room.

"Grayson is..." The pompous voice trailed off, a tiny shadow stretching along the wall pausing at the foot of the bed as its owner halted his footsteps.

There was a beat of tense silence, during which Tim could feel the youngest Wayne's gaze boring into him, taking in the scene before him. He lowered the gun, an admittedly useless gesture: Damian had already seen him.

Then, "What are you doing?" Damian asked carefully, cynically—uncaringly.

"It's...it's not what it looks like," Tim managed, cheeks flushing at being caught by the brat, of all people. Well...the brat was better than Bruce or Dick. At least Damian wouldn't try to stop him. "Go away."

"It looks like you're about to do something either profoundly smart, or ridiculously stupid," Damian said, completely ignoring Tim's last statement.

"And why would you care?" Tim countered, finally glaring up at the smaller boy.

Crystal blue eyes stared down at him, not a single emotion crossing the 10-year-old's face. He didn't respond.

The minutes ticked by, Tim's initial discomfort being overcome by anger at Damian's lack of response. "Look," he snapped, "my business is my business. You can stay or go away, I don't care. But staring at me won't get you anywhere."

No reply. Well, he'd given him a chance.

Damian watched him in continued silence, eyes narrowed as Tim double-checked the safety was off, raising the barrel to his head.

Briefly, Tim wondered if this was really appropriate to be doing in front of a 10-year-old. He immediately dismissed the thought. This was a baby assassin who'd been killing since birth and who'd been not-so-secretly wishing Tim's demise since the day they'd met. To him, this would be a show.

Why not go out entertaining the brat? If he couldn't satisfy his peers, why not the son?

His finger tensed on the trigger.

"Stop."

Tim flinched at the sound. It wasn't quite an order. Damian almost sounded...young. Like his age, for once.

"If you're insistent upon doing this," Damian said, tone deceptively flat, "you'd better have a good reason, Drake."

Tim blinked. "It's not that simple."

Damian folded his arms over his chest. "I've got time."

Surprised, Tim hesitated. The truth pressed up against the lies, squeezing under his skin and begging to be set free. But after all these years, could he really just let them go? "No one would notice if I was gone anyway," he murmured, bidding for time.

Raising an eyebrow, Damian said, "Care to elaborate?"

Before Tim could make up his mind whether to actually answer the brat or not, his mouth decided for him: "From the beginning, Bruce never chose me as his Robin. I had to force him to take me on, to give me a chance. Heck, even Dick didn't want me to be Robin. I had to earn the right to the role."

Tim ran a hand through his hair, taking a shaky breath. "In a way, I was proud. Dick and Jason became Robin because Batman picked them, trained them, taught them everything he knew because he wanted to. I proved myself to him, showed him I could do everything...well, nearly everything that Dick and Jason could do and live to tell the tale. But that came at a price: Bruce refused to accept me completely as his partner.

"To him, I was—am—just an expendable asset, another soldier in his endless, self-driven crusade. I don't think I ever made the rank of equal in his eyes. Not like Dick and Jason did."

Impassive blue eyes stared down at him. Tim imagined he heard the brat mutter under his breath, "That's not true," but Tim was already launching into his next justification, unable to stop the flow of words now that he'd finally loosened the cork on his pent up emotions.

"I'm just a packhorse. The one in charge of all the projects nobody wants to do. Even as I sit here, the work keeps piling up. I just can't deal with all this anymore. Patrol, Wayne Enterprises, the Teen Titans, Bruce's cases..." He closed his eyes, pressing the palm of his free hand into his eye, fighting back the overwhelming pressure of panic squeezing his heart. "Too much. Nothing I do is enough, never satisfy anyone, never good enough. I can't..." He huffs, breath hitching slightly on the intake. "As you've kindly pointed out on multiple occasions, no one will even notice when my incompetency is gone."

Out of breath, he glared at the 10-year-old mulishly. "And why am I telling you all this? You never wanted me to exist in the first place."

Damian made no move to either confirm or deny that fact. Not that it mattered. Tim could practically see the gears turning in his little head as the demon attempted to drop the blame on someone else.

"Nobody will miss me much," Tim said matter-of-factly, hammering the final nail in his own coffin. "I mean, they might be sad for awhile, but they'll get over it."

There was a tense silence, two pairs of blue eyes glaring stoically into each other.

"Father will mourn you till the day he dies," Damian stated flatly, startling Tim at the sudden interruption from the formerly impassive boy. "Grayson will go crazy with guilt and grief, berating himself for not being a better big brother before he falls apart completely. Todd will blow a gasket and murder every criminal in Arkham. Cain would distance herself and spend years trying to figure out where she went wrong. Pennyworth's heart would break into a million pieces—again." The young hero fixed Tim with a glare worthy of the Bat. "And I would hate you for destroying our family with your selfishness."

Tim swallowed thickly, hesitating. "You already hate me," he offered weakly.

Damian tutted. "What does my opinion matter? You have won the affections of Grayson, my father, and a whole team of young superheroes. Not to mention Cain and Todd. What do you think the latter two would do if they caught you like this?"

Tim winced at the mental picture.

"Especially Superboy," Damian added. Then, not quite an afterthought: "Even I don't actually hate you."

At that, Tim shot him an incredulous look.

"That much," the baby assassin corrected.

Their eyes locked, blue on blue; one pair challenging, the other stubbornly stoic.

Tim huffed. "Fine." He allowed the barrel of the gun to drop, swinging it to face the wall. "Funk over. You can go now."

"Give me the gun, Drake."

Tim blinked. "Why?"

Damian snorted. "If you're truly not planning on blowing your idiotic brains out the moment I step out of this room, then give. Me. The gun."

Tim hesitated. It couldn't be that simple...could it?

No. It was too late. Damian already knew, so if Tim didn't go through with this he'd run the very high risk of the rest of the Bats finding out. Tim didn't think he could stand that; he could practically see the disappointment in Bruce's eyes as yet another of his soldiers failed his mission...

Almost absently, he buried the gun barrel back into his hair. His finger tensed on the trigger.

Missing nothing, Damian's eyes flared. "Very well, Drake," he announced imperiously. "If you're going, you're going to have to take me with you." Before Tim could blink, a knife was in the child's hand, the gleaming tip pressed against Damian's jugular.

"If you refuse to believe everyone—and I mean everyone—will miss you, think of what my father and Grayson would do if they saw me dead," Damian challenged. "And don't think for one second I won't go through with it if you dare pull that trigger, Drake."

Of all the ways this could have gone down from the moment Damian walked through the door, Tim would never have thought of this outcome in a million years.

Tim blinked slowly.

But no. Damian still stood before him, the razor sharp knife pressing dangerously into his own neck, an almost wild glint in his eyes.

"Because people will miss you, Drake," Damian continued in a strange, almost choked tone. "I only have Grayson and father. But you...you've got actual friends and family who love you not because of what you can do, but just because you're you. And that's good enough for them."

Blinking rapidly, Damian's eyes seemed to be shining a little brighter in the lowlight.

"They accept you for who you are, and when you make a mistake, they forgive you," he continued with a barely noticeable sniff. "They cry with you when you are sad, and laugh along when you are happy. If that's not love, then my interpretations of the concept are inaccurate. And I am never wrong."

"Damian," Tim sighed shakily. "You don't know what you're doing. Put the knife down."

"No, it's you who doesn't know what you're doing, Drake," Damian growled. "If you die, everyone is going to shatter with you. And if the only way to make you see sense is to threaten my own life, then so be it."

Tim stared. And then it clicked. "You're trying to guilt trip me," he realized.

Damian smirked savagely, a sick, twisted little smile that had no place on such a young face. "I refuse to let you break this family," he said levelly. "It's the only family I have left. So you remove your fingers from that gun, and I'll drop the knife. It's that simple."

Tim hesitated. The gun suddenly seemed very there in his hand; the solid weight of the warming barrel pressed against his head and tickling his scalp, the pad of his finger wrapped around the trigger. He became aware of every breath in his lungs hissing through his larynx to his nose, of his heart beating slightly faster in his chest. All of his body parts functioning as one in a beautiful creation for the sole purpose of keeping Tim alive.

Doubt crept in at the edges for the first time since he'd made his life-changing—ha, still funny the second time 'round—decision. Maybe...maybe this wasn't the answer he was looking for.

Staring up at Damian, Tim could swear the demon's lower lip was trembling slightly. "Go ahead," the boy challenged, steel blue eyes sending him a silent challenge over the glistening edge of the knife digging into his skin. "Prove how much of a coward you are, Drake. Do it."

Blood pumping through his veins, hairs on the back of his neck bristling at a phantom chill, sweat trickling down his forehead, sweater rubbing irritatingly along his collar bone...

The family would be devastated at another death, especially if it was at Tim's own hands rather than an actual Gotham villain. After all, yourself wasn't supposed to be included as a "flight risk."

Damian was right. Tim was a selfish coward. Selfish to believe that his death would affect no one, that his work would take care of itself if he were gone. A coward because he was desperate enough to try and take the easy way out rather than suck it up and face his mountain of problems.

Maybe...maybe he didn't have to go through life alone.

If Damian, of all people—the one who'd tried to kill him when they'd first met, the one who threatened to murder him on a weekly basis, the one who daily insulted Tim's very existence—was trying to talk him out of it...

He cared. To some degree, the one Tim was sure hated his guts cared whether Tim lived or died.

And at that moment, Tim had never felt more alive.

Almost numb, his grip loosened on the weapon, fingers shaking as his muscles mushed into jelly.

Before he'd dropped it hardly an inch, the gun was snatched from his hands, the former assassin snapping open the cartridge and emptying the bullets onto the floor with one quick motion. With a look of utter distaste, Damian tossed the weapon into the corner, along with the knife that had somehow slipped past both Bruce's and Alfred's scrutiny.

Silently, Damian dropped to the floor at Tim's side. What he did next took Tim a moment to process: the Bat's son scooted closer, leaning forward and pressing his cheek against Tim's chest, even as one arm snaked around Tim's middle to grasp firmly at the fabric of Tim's sweater.

Tim stared. Damian...was cuddling?

The bundle of assassin huddled at his side radiated heat, slowly warming against Tim's side. He hadn't realized how cold he was until the little furnace decided to crawl up next to him.

It was...nice.

"Don't kill yourself," Damian whispered, so low Tim could barely hear him. "I would never forgive myself."

Not Dick. Not Bruce. Damian would never forgive himself.

"You've been spending too much time with Dick," Tim managed weakly.

"Tt. Just shut up and go to sleep, Drake."

[thingr1]

Focus on the Fallout (1/2)

Rating: T

Warnings: Depression, suicidal thoughts, past suicide attempt.

Characters: Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd.

Preview: Why was this so hard? Just walk into the room, talk to Tim, make sure everything's cool...

Who was Dick kidding.

How were you supposed to act around someone who'd secretly tried to kill himself not even 48 hours ago?!

Cross posted: FFN and AO3 (6-9-17). (A/N found on both sites)

Prequels: Of Milkshakes and Marathons (recommended, but not necessary) and Weighing One’s Worth (essential to understanding story.)

Second Chapter: Here

Lights will guide you home And ignite your bones And I will try To fix you

~ "Fix You" by Coldplay

Dick hastened down the hallway, the faintest hint of worry fluttering in his chest. Okay, make that a sinking Titanic full of worry.

It had been almost two hours since he'd asked Damian to go upstairs and see if he could find Tim. Although he knew his second brother had arrived sometime this afternoon to spend the weekend at the Manor, Dick had seen neither hide nor hair of the teen despite Alfred's assurances that he'd arrived in one piece.

Of course, Tim was infamous for disappearing for hours on end, caught up in some aspect of his work. But he usually at least said 'hi' first.

Reaching Tim's ajar bedroom door, Dick peeked around the doorframe, squinting into the dark chamber for any sign of a tell-tale lump on the bed. Nada. A quick glance told him that Tim's desk was empty, too, and the light in the adjacent bathroom was off.

Frowning slightly, he pulled his head back into the hallway, prepared to check the living room when a quiet, breathy sigh echoed from the opening behind him. Dick froze, whirling around to probe the shadowy depths for any sign of the source. But his probing gaze still found nothing out of the ordinary.

Unless...

Utilizing every ounce of his training, Dick crept back into the seemingly empty bedroom, tiptoeing around the foot of the bed. He peered around the corner into the space between the wall and the mattress—and promptly had to stop his jaw from dropping at the scene in front of him.

Tim, of course, was wedged tightly within the small space, head drooping in sleep. The surprise came from the fact that one arm was wrapped around the compact little ball that was Damian Wayne, who, for lack of a better word, had curled around Tim like a baby koala, hand fisted almost protectively into the front of Tim's sweater without any hint of malice or attempted strangulation.

His little brothers were...snuggling?

Despite himself, a huge grin spread over Dick's features, and it was all he could do not to coo aloud as he carefully backed up from the scene, phone raised to snap a photo (read as, 'collect blackmail') of this momentous occasion... Only to nearly slip and fall onto his butt as his foot tread on something hard and round.

Soundlessly regaining his balance while mentally screaming curses, Dick bent down to grasp the cold, metal object that had nearly sent him flying.

Squinting, his heart stuttered in his chest as the thing glinted in the pale moonlight wafting between the curtains. It was a bullet.

Immediately on alert, Dick glanced at the window, searching for any signs of forced entry. None. Nevertheless, he swept his eyes over the room again for some indication that there was an intruder hiding in the shadows, double checking for any blood visible on either the floor or his two brothers. Nada.

Another glitter of metal twinkled in his peripheral vision, and he whirled around to face the corner. Five more bullets lay scattered on the floor. In addition to a presumably empty gun and a familiarly patterned knife.

But...these weren't bullet shells; they were complete bullets, meaning they hadn't actually been fired at anything. Which probably ruled out an intruder.

Taking a quick glance to ensure his brothers hadn't stirred, Dick ghosted toward the corner, crouching beside the two abandoned weapons.

With unerring certainty, he took in the design on the hilt of the knife: The symbol of the house of Al Ghul. This was Damian's knife. And the gun...he'd never seen the gun before.

The pieces slowly clicked into place in his mind, but Dick refused to acknowledge the horrific picture they were building.

This couldn't be right. He needed more evidence. There was no way…it wasn’t right, it…

Dick’s eyes wandered to his peacefully sleeping brothers. No. Before he dared draw such a terrible conclusion, he needed proof. He needed a witness.

And seeing as Damian was the one who'd walked in on Tim...

Creeping from the bedroom, Dick carefully eased the door closed behind him. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow, he was going to find out exactly what happened between his two youngest brothers.

It was almost two days later before Dick found an opportunity (mustered the courage) to bring it up to the former assassin. The two of them were in the library, Damian stretched out on the couch reading a book while Dick curled in a nearby armchair, fingers tapping nervously on his knee. Considering the circumstances, it was all he could do not to be more conspicuous. It was approaching their usual patrol time, the sun just visible over the horizon outside the window at his back.

Well…might as well get this over with before he did something stupid like stalk Tim across the rooftops due to unfounded paranoia.

Before Dick could fully process his decision, his mouth opened: "Damian."

The boy froze for a millisecond, fingers clenching almost imperceptibly around the edges of the book before relaxing—instant red flag. "What is it, Grayson?" Damian snapped, annoyed.

If Dick didn't know him so well, he probably wouldn't have caught the slight shrill quality in Damian's voice. (Damian may have been a good liar, but when something was pressing on his mind that he knew he shouldn't be keeping to himself, he’d never been very good at hiding his guilt.)

No point in beating around the bush; especially since it was clear Damian had more than an inkling about what was about to go down.

Dick hesitated, sucking in a breath. Half out. “I need to know what happened with you and Tim the other night."

Damian's already guarded expression completely closed off, the book coming up almost protectively to hide his features. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Grayson."

"I saw you," Dick admitted. "Both of you. Sleeping on the other side of Tim's bed. And I saw the...the things you tossed in the corner. The knife and the gun."

Damian tensed again. "It's none of your business, Grayson."

If that wasn’t a tell as to how serious the situation had been, Dick was an elephant.

"Please, Damian," Dick begged. "I need to understand. Please help me understand. I want to help you, help Tim, but I can't do that if I don't know what happened."

The child before him remained frozen, blue eyes fixed on the shadows just outside the doorway. Dick forced himself to remain silent, waiting for Damian to make a decision one way or the other.

Just when Dick thought the boy might walk out on him altogether, Damian spoke: "When you sent me to look in on Drake the night he first arrived. The door was locked. I picked it open. Then I walked in and...and he..." Damian swallowed, face momentarily twisting with some foreign emotion before settling back into a carefully blank expression. "He had a gun. To his head."

Dick sucked in a breath. He'd been hoping against hope that the obvious wasn't true; had struggled to come up with any scenario other than the one that was staring him in the face.

But apparently his striving was in vain.

"How did you convince him not to?" Dick asked carefully. There was no point in asking if Damian was responsible for Tim's change of heart; Tim wouldn’t be upstairs (alive) at the moment otherwise.

Damian hesitated.

A frozen wave of horror shuddered through Dick's chest. "Did it have something to do with the knife." Not a question.

There was a beat of silence. Two.

Then, “I may have held myself hostage until he saw sense," Damian admitted flatly, refusing to meet his gaze.

"Damian!" Dick cried, horrified.

Flashing cobalt eyes whirled towards Dick, meeting his gaze for the first time since the conversation began. "It worked, didn't it?"

"The ends don't always justify the means, Damian."

Damian's eyes flashed. "Are you saying you would rather Drake had shot himself in the head while I just sat still and watched him do it?!"

"No!" Dick protested. Ran a hand through his hair, mind whirling with the attempt to fix this. “Oh Dami, that's not what I'm saying at all. I'm just...there had to be another way."

"If you're going to say I should have attempted to talk him out of it, I did," Damian stressed. "The point is he wouldn't listen. How do you convince someone not to kill himself if he's so bent on doing it whether you're in the room or not?!"

And...Dick didn't have an answer for that. Then the words sank in fully. "Wait. Are you saying...Tim almost...while you were in the room?"

Damian's studious glare at the empty fireplace gave him his answer.

Dick's heart sank, horror fluttering in its place. "Why would he do that?" he breathed, mostly to himself.

"I'm a former assassin who hates every fiber of his being," Damian answered, monotonous. "I don't have feelings."

"That's not true," Dick interjected.

"I know that," Damian snapped. "He obviously doesn't."

Sighing, Dick pinched the bridge of his nose. This just kept getting more and more complicated, and not in a fun way. "Okay, let's back up," he suggested. "Why did Tim even try to do...that...in the first place?"

The current Robin shrugged stiffly. "I'm the last person he would tell as to his reasons. I do not pretend to watch out for his feelings."

"Which also might make you the only person he can confidently confide in," Dick theorized. "Because he thinks you don't care anyway, he'd think you wouldn't try to stop him."

"He was wrong," Damian spat vehemently.

"I know, Dami. And I'm so proud of you for it. But..." Did Tim think the same way about everyone?

"I'm going to go talk to him," Dick decided, unexplainable guilt gnawing at his chest as he stood, slipping around the couch toward the door. "See if—"

"No!"

Dick froze. Turned around. Forced himself not to snap at the stiff child before him. "No?"

Cheeks beet red, Damian shuffled his feet against the carpet. "He...he doesn't trust you, Grayson."

Dick blinked. "What?" he questioned, even as his heart sank deeper in his chest. "Why?"

Damian hesitated, actually appearing...uncomfortable. A word Dick had never associated with Damian Wayne before.

"You replaced him," Damian blurted. "After my father was lost in the timeline, Drake had a sum total of one person he cared about left, and that was you. You betrayed his trust when you took away the one thing that had been an indefinite constant in his life: Robin. A role that he admitted himself to not believing he had ever been worthy of, that he felt he had to earn along with his place at Batman's side. And even then he never believed he was good enough. You proved that to him by removing him from the costume seemingly without a second thought. He feels replaceable and unnecessary."

Damian sucked in a breath; exhaled slowly. "While I am not saying you made a poor decision, as I am clearly the better Robin, I believe that due to that instance you have as of yet to regain his trust.” Almost an afterthought: “If he'll ever give it back to you at all."

Later that night, Dick positioned himself at the end of the Manor's second floor hallway, staring at the meager band of light shining under the bedroom door a short way down. He wasn't stupid enough to sift through his thoughts in front of the actual door. They were all Bat-trained, after all.

Why was this so hard? Just walk into the room, talk to Tim, make sure everything's cool...

Who was he kidding.

How were you supposed to act around someone who'd secretly tried to kill himself not even 48 hours ago?!

In truth, Dick had no idea what he was doing; how to fix this situation, fix his brother. Tim may have had neglectful parents that the Bats could blame for Tim’s self-deprecating state of mind, but everything that happened afterward was completely on them—completely on Dick.

Because after Bruce died, Dick had scrambled to fill his shoes in every way, struggled to fill the void the Bat had left behind both in the hero world and in the family by trying to be exactly like him. Unfortunately, that included doing what was practical in the long run without considering the consequences of the moment to others’ feelings on the matter, or at least explaining his reasons properly. And part of the collateral to those decisions was Tim.

And even before that…after Jason, Dick had been so afraid of getting to know the newest Robin—so terrified of getting close only to lose a brother all over again. This fear had carried through Tim’s first couple years in the Cave, before Dick finally consolidated the fact in his mind that he would rather know Tim and lose him then simply tick him off as another dead Robin. Except that initial paranoia caused just what he’d feared, only in a way Dick could never have imagined.

He'd isolated Tim. Most recently by taking Robin from him without giving him the exact reason why. Before, by leaving him alone to deal with a closed off, grieving Bruce who could barely consolidate the fact he had lost Jason, let alone taken yet another Robin under his wing. Or rather, had another Robin force his way under his wing.

Realization dawned. That was what the problem was, wasn't it? Bruce didn't choose Tim. Tim chose Tim. Though that had never been a problem for Dick, it was in Tim's nature to keep at least a thread of doubt, even guilt, hidden away in his mind that maybe because he wasn't handpicked by the Bat, he'd never be good enough.

And now it was up to Dick to try and remove that doubt before it consumed his second brother completely…while also not letting Tim know that he knew what had happened and was trying to help him in the first place.

When Dick had asked for siblings, he'd never thought it could get this complicated.

Before he could change his mind, Dick stepped into the hallway, not attempting to hide his footsteps, but not pronouncing them either. Forcing a smile on his face, Dick burst into the bedroom. "Hiya, Timmy!"

And shoot, Dick's heart broke at the sight that greeted his eyes. The teen looked normal. Clothes slightly crumpled from the second day's wear; mouth curved slightly downward in concentration; just too long hair mussed around his face, hanging over pale blue eyes squinting at the laptop perched on his knees... Looking decidedly not like he'd been about to put a bullet in his brain a couple nights before.

Tim had always been great at hiding his feelings, at pretending certain things didn't happen if it meant forgetting and moving on to a cursory 'I'm fine' whenever someone questioned his well-being. But attempted suicide wasn't something you just forgot. Or something you could recover from alone.

Dick jerked from his thoughts as Tim glanced up from the computer, almost absently. "Hey."

And there it was. Beneath the carefully controlled facade, Dick could see the cracks lurking below the surface—the pain flickering behind the confusion in his eyes, purple bags like bruises on his lower eyelids, the empty hollow of his cheeks....

"What are you doing here?" Tim asked. And Tim shouldn't sound that surprised.

"I haven't seen much of you lately, Timmy," Dick replied honestly, trotting over to the bed and settling onto the mattress beside Tim, careful not to upset any of the paperwork spread over the comforter as he slung an arm over his little brother's shoulders. "S'okay if I chill here for awhile?"

Tim opened his mouth; hesitated. "Uh...sure. Yeah, that's fine."

For a moment, they sat in silence, Tim's fingers eventually finding the keys on the keyboard again and tapping away at some report or other.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Dick asked casually, squeezing his brother against his side and pressing his lips into Tim's soft black hair.

Minutely, almost so Dick thought he'd imagined it, Tim stiffened. Then, "Nah, I'm good. Why don't you see if the Demon Brat needs anything? I think he was complaining about some homework assignment or other yesterday."

"I will," Dick promised, deciding to let the not-so-subtle attempt at kicking him out slide. "Later. Whatcha working on?"

"Just some Wayne Enterprises stuff," Tim said, relaxing marginally as he selected an entire paragraph of text and hit 'delete.' "Finalizing the data Lucius sent me and writing it up in report format for the next board meeting. I'll need to put it in a Power Point later."

Dick hummed lightly, planting his chin in Tim's hair. "Sounds boring. We should watch a movie instead."

He was rewarded with an amused snort. "Maybe later. Deadline's coming up, I have to finish this."

"Need any help?"

"Nah, I'm good." That was a bit too quick.

"Hey," Dick said softly, rubbing Tim's arm. "You know I'm always here when you need me, right? Just...let me know if there's anything bugging you or I need to go kick someone into next week. Don't pull a Bruce and hold everything inside. S'not healthy."

Tim barked a laugh; half amused, half bitter. "Sure. I'll keep that in mind."

It was all Dick could do not to cry as he pressed his lips back in that soft black hair, squeezing his brother against his chest despite the small grunt of protest as the laptop slid from the teen’s lap.

Because Tim didn't believe him. And Dick was beginning to worry that he never would.

Why Dick thought it would be a good idea to get Bruce involved, he had no idea. Desperation? Yeah, probably. Bruce wasn't exactly the go-to person for problems in the emotional department. But with Alfred off on his yearly trip to England (and Dick tried so hard to block the thought that Tim was probably counting on that fact when he decided to pick up the gun), it wasn’t like Dick had many options left.

After briefly checking the locations of the Manor's two other current occupants, Dick stepped into the passage revealed by the old grandfather clock in Bruce's study and padded down the familiar stone staircase into the dimly lit Batcave. As expected, Bruce was at the massive computer to his right, various news channels, reports, and video clips flashing on the multiple screens as Bruce worked his latest case.

Hesitating only a moment at the foot of the stairs, Dick moved to stand behind his mentor's chair, glancing at the rapidly expanding algorithm Bruce was pounding out on the main screen.

Bruce certainly looked busy. But this couldn't wait.

"Bruce."

The man grunted noncommittally, continuing his record-breaking typing on the computer. (Maybe that's where Tim got it from....)

"Bruce, I need to talk to you."

"Later," Bruce said shortly.

"It's about Tim."

"What about him?" Not even remotely concerned—either too trusting, or too uncaring. (Dick hoped the former.)

"He tried to kill himself."

That gave Bruce pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard as white lenses remained fixed on the screen in front of him. "What?"

"You heard me."

There was a moment of silence. Dick braced himself for the coming interrogation.

Sure enough, Bruce whirled in the chair, pulling back his cowl in the same motion to reveal mussed black hair and narrowed cobalt eyes. "When?"

"Two nights ago."

"Where?"

"His room, on the wall side of his bed."

"How?"

"With a gun."

A flicker of something—surprise? apprehension?—crossed Bruce's face, so fast Dick thought he had imagined it. Then, just slightly breathy: "Why?"

"I'm not sure yet," Dick admitted, starting to pace a line paralleling the massive computer terminal, but still within easy talking distance. "That's what I'm trying to find out."

"Who or what stopped him?"

Dick exhaled slowly. "Damian."

Definite bemusement crossed the Dark Knight's features. "Damian," he repeated. "How?"

Dick shrugged. "He talked to him. Somehow convinced him that suicide wasn't the best option."

Suicide. Dick realized that that was the first time he'd called what Tim had almost done for what it was. It didn't make him feel any less sick to his stomach at the admission.

Bruce's eyes flickered with...something. "I see."

There was a lengthy silence.

Finally, Bruce (miracle of miracles) was the one to break it, repeating: "Why?"

"I told you, I don't know."

"Damian must have known something if he talked to Tim," Bruce growled, back to his default Bat-mode. But when Dick glanced back into the man's cobalt eyes, behind the stubborn stoicism, Bruce's expression was anything but controlled. For the first time since Dick had known him, Bruce looked lost.

"You have to know something," Bruce insisted at Dick's hesitation.

"He feels...unnecessary," Dick admitted finally. "Unneeded, unwanted. Like he isn't even an actual member of this family, no matter what the adoption papers say."

Bruce frowned, genuine confusion flashing across his hardened features. "Of course he's wanted. Why would—?"

"He doesn't know that, Bruce," Dick interrupted. "We—I replaced him without his consent. I broke his trust, and ruined what little progress we'd made in the way of showing him he had a real family; one that doesn't believe he's just there for the grunt work and easily replaceable."

And Bruce gave him this look.

"Hey, I'm guilty, too," Dick assured, holding his hands up in surrender. "But haven't you noticed how many of your responsibilities, both Bat and Wayne, that Tim has been doing lately? Without receiving or expecting anything in return?"

The furrows between Bruce's eyes deepened, eyebrows drawing together in an almost scowl.

Dick barely resisted the harsh, 'Exactly,' that threatened to escape his lips.

"We've got to help him," he blurted instead after a moment. "But we can't make it obvious. If Tim knows we know, he'll think that we're only being nice to him because we pity him for almost...yeah." Dick paused in his pacing, turning on his heel to stare Bruce full in the face. "We have to make sure he feels wanted—loved. You have to make sure he knows that."

Bruce made no reply. Not that Dick expected one.

"Look," Dick said, placating, "I know you're not so good with telling someone how you feel, but if you could just...I don't know, actions speak louder than words? Show Tim he has a family."

"He did have a family," Bruce said.

"Yeah, but they weren't real," Dick protested. "Bruce, Tim's parents spent his childhood hopping around the world and leaving Tim to be raised essentially by the housekeeper. Not to mention all those boarding schools. Sure his dad did better in the end, but then he died and it was too late."

Dick froze. "Bruce," he breathed, cold, hard realization washing over him. "He doesn't know what a real family is supposed to look like. We can't show him what's normal family behavior if he doesn't know what normal is." He swore. "Bruce, how do we fix him?"

It was on a total hunch that Dick decided to call Jason.

He sprawled on the armchair in the Manor’s library, staring up at the white ceiling in thought as the phone rang in his ear.

It was only 1am. Jason should still be awake. The question was whether or not he was patrolling tonight. Hopefully, that would be a 'no.' Talking personal issues and all that jazz over the comms, even using their code names, had been strictly prohibited since...well, as long as Dick could remember. For good reason, too. He didn't even want to think about what might happen if someone hacked their line and discovered that Red Robin had nearly teetered over the edge from depression...

His musing was cut short as a disgruntled, sleep rough voice snapped in his ear: "This had better be good, Goldie. I was all set up for a solid 12 hours until you stuck your mighty big butt in the way."

"Tim nearly shot his own brains out, and I don't know what to do."

Shuffling was heard on the other line as Jason presumably sat up in bed. "What? Why?"

Dick shrugged helplessly, then realized the gesture was lost over the phone. "Overworked. Unwanted, unneeded. He doesn't see himself as...necessary, I suppose."

"I thought he'd gotten over that," Jason muttered.

"What?" Dick demanded, jerking upright. "What are you talking about, Jay? This has happened before? Why didn't you tell me?!"

"Cool your jets," Jason snapped. "If you're asking if Tim has tried to put a bullet in his brain on my watch, then no, this has not happened before."

Dick winced at the abrupt phrasing.

There was an awkward pause.

From the other end, Jason huffed. "Look, Dick, you remember how I told you to rearrange the kid's schedule a couple weeks ago so he could have a day off?"

Dick nodded minutely—realized Jason couldn't see him through the phone and added: "Yeah. Why?"

"I may not have told you that I found him doping up on milkshakes just before then," Jason admitted. "The kid wasn't only overwhelmed, but depressed as heck. I swear, I've seen zombies that looked more alive than he did. Myself included."

"What did you do?" Dick breathed.

"Nothing much," Jason said dismissively, though Dick sensed a slight self-consciousness in his tone. "Talked to him, dragged him to my apartment after he passed out. And when he woke up, we marathoned Sherlock for the rest of the day. He seemed happy enough when he left."

If he was happy then, what changed? Dick thought.

At the silence from the other end of the line, Dick realized he may have accidentally said that bit aloud.

"Maybe his feelings never actually changed," Jason offered, almost a question. "He just pretended they did until it became too much. Fake it till you make it kind of thing.”

"Maybe," Dick allowed. "But there has to be a starting point to all this. I don’t know, some sort of buildup. Tim's the most logical person I know. He wouldn't just throw himself into something like...like that."

"Hey, even the best of us get down and overly emotional sometimes," Jason said. "As both you and I should know, Goldie."

Dick managed a weak chuckle. “Yeah, I suppose.” Didn’t bother admitting: “Can’t say I haven’t considered jumping from a high place a couple times. Nothing new, ‘cept, y’know, I hadn’t exactly been planning on catching myself,” because that kind of feeling went without saying in this line of work. But he’d never attempted to follow through.

And that’s where the problem was, wasn’t it? Tim had.

“Bruce didn’t know what to do either,” Dick sighed.

Jason scoffed, disbelieving. “You told Bruce? The guy with so much emotional constipation it’s a miracle the Manor’s toilets are still intact?”

“Okay, first of all, ew. And second, I didn’t know what else to do,” Dick protested. “Besides, Bruce has a right to know if…”

The slightest hitch of a breath echoed from the hallway outside the ajar den door.

"One sec, Jaybird," Dick muttered. Then, louder, “Heigh ho, the hall!“

A shadow flickered in the doorway as its owner twitched.

Too short for Bruce. Too tall for Damian.

Dick’s heart stuttered, dread pooling in his stomach. Forcing levity (denying the obvious), he called: “Tim? That you?”

Jason cursed in his ear. Dick ignored him.

A moment passed.

The shadow shifted, a single wide—vulnerable—blue eye becoming visible in the crack. And then it was gone, replaced by near-silent footsteps echoing rapidly down the hall.

Dick’s turn to swear. “Jay, I’ll call you back.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, ending the call and tossing the phone back onto the plush armchair as he shot toward the door.

Dick's heart pounded wildly in his chest as he bolted up the Manor steps, chasing the fleeting shadow of a certain Tim Drake as the teen slipped down the hall out of sight.

How long had he been there? How much did he hear?

Stupid. Stupid, talking about something so sensitive in the Manor when he knew the subject of the conversation was in the house.

Whatever happened next was entirely on him.

Panicked, he crested the top of the stairs, slowing to a halt. The bedroom hallway was deathly quiet, and ominously empty. Dick's gaze landed on the third door on the right—Tim's room. No light flickered from the crack to reveal if the room's occupant was currently within.

The air seemed to hang still and heavy around him, as if holding its breath. Ha, air holding its breath...

Focus, Dick.

Slowly, he tiptoed to stand before the thick slab of mahogany, hand hovering over the brass doorknob. Bracing himself, he grasped the knob and turned.

The door wasn't locked. Dick didn't know whether that was a good sign, or a bad one. Carefully, he pushed it open, stepping through the opening and leaving it slightly ajar behind him. (The last thing he wanted was for his little brother to feel more trapped than he probably already did.)

He wasn't quite sure what he expected to see on the other side. Well, he had a couple of ideas of what he didn't want to see there. But the scene that greeted him could only be described as...neutral.

Tim stood before his desk, hands splayed on the polished surface and head bowed so his face was hidden by a curtain of black hair. Other than the tense, sharp slant to his shoulders, he seemed calm, his tone unreadable when he spoke: “Did Damian tell you?”

Dick hesitated. "Yes. But only because I forced him to," he added hastily as Tim's back stiffened, fingers twitching against the desktop. "I was worried about you, and after I saw...I saw the gun in the corner..."

"You saw it?!"

"I asked Damian to check up on you, and when he didn't show up for a few hours, I wanted to make sure everything was okay," Dick explained. "So...yeah."

Tim took a shaky breath. "And you felt it necessary to get Bruce involved?"

"I didn't know what else to do," Dick admitted. “He’s your father, Tim. I thought that if he knew, we could come up with something, figure out a way to help..."

He stopped short as he realized Tim had begun mumbling under his breath, "No no no no no no," steadily gaining volume until he was shouting. "No no! This is all wrong!" Tim's hands tangled in his too long hair, yanking, revealing wide, frantic blue eyes. "You weren't supposed to find out. This wasn't supposed to happen. Everyone was just supposed to...to forget and get on with their lives!"

"Forget what, Tim?" Dick asked softly, heart sinking in his chest.

Tim didn't respond.

"Come on, Timmy," Dick pleaded. "Talk to me."

"Oh my gosh, Dick, I'm fine, just please, go away—"

"No," Dick said firmly, ignoring the way Tim’s fingers curled against the hardwood. “We’re Robins. More importantly, we’re family, even if we don’t always act like it. And family always watches out for one another.”

Tim snorted. Disbelieving.

“That wasn’t a joke.”

“I know,” Tim stressed, eyebrows furrowing. “You’re right. Family’s always there.” Then, so quiet Dick had to strain to hear, Tim murmured, “Not like I ever really had one.”

Before Dick could form some semblance of a response, Tim turned, smiling tightly. “Honestly, Dick, you don’t have to do this. It’s fine. I’m over it. You can leave. Now.” Pointed. Calm.

“I’m not doing this because I have to,” Dick protested, fighting against the walls he could see just slamming down around his brother. “Tim, I’m—we’re worried about you. We just want to make sure you’re okay. We want to help.”

“And I’m telling you, your help is not wanted,” Tim reiterated coolly, spreading his arms. “I have no intention of trying anything anytime soon. I can still work. Still patrol. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Dick stared. Shocked and slightly horrified. “What can I do to convince you that I'm not doing this under any obligation?" he demanded, exasperated (scared). "I love you, Tim. We all do. And what you're doing to yourself is breaking our hearts because you're part of our family and we want to help you. But we can't do that if you don't trust us."

Tim barked a laugh. "Trust you? Of course I trust you. It's me I'm worried about." His eyes widened, whole body stiffening as if he hadn't meant to let that last bit slip out.

There was a moment of silence, so thick Dick felt like he was suffocating.

“Tim,” he tried, quiet. “What do you mean by that?”

Adam’s apple bobbing once, Tim suddenly couldn’t seem to meet Dick’s gaze.

“Tim. Please. I want to understand.” (Something he could no longer seem to do easily with Tim anymore, which pained Dick more than he cared to think about.)

A long moment passed.

Just when Dick was about to give up on an answer, Tim sighed: “I was fooling myself to think I could ever be Robin. No one wanted me; never really met the standard.” He laughed, short and bitter. “If anything, it's my judgement that's compromised. I should've just cut my losses when you both said I couldn’t do it and gone back home.” Almost an afterthought, “Would've kept my dad alive that way.”

“Tim,” Dick breathed, “I’ve done the guilt thing. Your dad’s death was not in any way your fault.”“But if I’d never tried to be Robin he never would have died, Dick!” Tim snarled. “That’s what I get for nosing around in someone else’s business. No one ever accepts me, and someone else always gets hurt. Always.”

Wiry hands twisting in too-long black hair, Tim cast a desperate (trapped) glance around the room. “I was never truly Robin in the first place. It never should’ve happened if I wasn’t even Robin… It doesn’t make any sense.”

Dick’s heart stuttered in his chest. “What do you mean? Of course you were Robin, Tim. Why would you think otherwise?”

The teen’s eyes squeezed shut. “You and Bruce said ‘no.’ You know what's best. You're always right."

"Unless we're not," Dick interjected. "You remember when Bruce was stuck in the time stream, but everyone believed he was dead? Everyone, Tim. Except you. Who was in the wrong in that instance?"

"Every ounce of logic and evidence said he was dead," Tim snapped dismissively. "I was being irrational from grief, and it just so happened to work out in the end. That hardly counts."

"But it does, Tim," Dick insisted. "You were the only one to truly believe in Bruce, to risk everything to bring him back. That kind of loyalty only comes from faith. Two-sided faith." Dick approached slowly, placing a hand on the sharp angle of Tim's shoulder. "Would Bruce have left clues if he thought no one would be looking for him?"

Tim hesitated a moment. Gave a small shake of his head.

"He knew you would come for him, Tim," Dick continued quietly. "Because he trusts you. What would have happened if you had stopped believing? Bruce would have been forever lost in the timeline. But because you, Tim, you had faith that Bruce was alive, he came back. You brought him back.

"That's why Bruce trusted—trusts you, Tim. Trusted you to be Robin, and still trusts you as Red Robin. Because he knows he can always count on you to be there when he needs you. Oh, I know he doesn't show it," he added at Tim's incredulous glance. "Bruce is funny like that. You know that. But why would he leave you with his cases—with his company—if he truly didn't believe you were capable of doing it right?”

Tim remained silent, eyes fixed on the ground.

Realization dawned. “Trust itself…isn’t what’s bugging you, is it.”

Tim squeezed his eyes shut. Swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “No.”

Dick remained silent; because contrary to popular belief, he was actually capable of keeping his mouth shut when it counted, thank you very much.

Finally, Tim spoke: “It’s…it’s more the stuff leading up to it.” He ducked his head against his chest, clarifying before Dick could summon the strength to ask: “I just…I find it difficult to…think that anyone can…can trust…love me when…when…” He swallowed again. Clearly struggling. “When whenever I think, ‘I’ve done it. I’m finally getting something right; I’ve figured it out, I know what I’m doing,’ it all gets yanked out from under my feet…because I’m not good enough. I’m not worthy enough, can’t be trusted to get the job done according to what’s expected.

“And then I’m alone again…trying to…to figure out…where I went wrong, and…how to fix it, and sometimes it feels like I can’t breathe under the pressure of having to learn a whole new set of rules and parameters, a whole new personality, and…I can’t anymore, Dick. I want to be useful, and I just…can’t. I’m not…no matter what I do it’s never good enough. What’s the point in trying anymore?”

Tim sniffled, the sound thick with unshed tears. “My parents. Bruce.” A swallow. “You. Just shoes that I never seem to be able to fill, no matter how hard I try. It’s impossible. Just when I think I finally fit, I’m…I’m just booted out before I even have a chance to truly settle in. I’m…I’m so tired of it, Dick. Of…of not belonging anywhere because after so long I’m just n-not enough anymore.”

Tears welled in the teen’s eyes, escaping down his cheeks as his eyes squeezed shut, expression twisting into something pained. “I’m there…to be whatever’s needed at the time: An heir, a partner, a harebrained quest taker. And…when I’ve served my purpose…that’s it. I’m done. There’s…no point, I…I…” His shoulders shook in a barely concealed sob.

And Dick couldn’t hold back anymore. He crossed the remaining distance between them in one stride, wrapping his shaking little brother in a hug, pressing Tim’s face into his shoulder, and burying his own chin in soft, raven hair.

“I know it may be hard to believe,” Dick whispered finally, squeezing his eyes shut against the tell-tale pressure, “especially since our little clan is awful fond of the ‘goes without saying’ habit, but… You’re part of the family, Timmy. You always have been. It has nothing to do with what what you bring to the table, or your partner status. And it kills me that you think otherwise. And the worst thing is, I know I’m to blame.”

Tim sucked in a breath, maybe to contradict him, but Dick was not about to let this boy shift the blame off of Dick yet again.

“I broke your trust when you were at your most vulnerable. When you were grieving. We all were. But in my desperation to pick up all of the slack Bruce left behind when he disappeared, I acted more like him than I ever thought I would: I put the mission before the members. And that’s never been how Nightwing operates.”

Shifting, Dick leaned back, gently guiding Tim’s head up so red-rimmed, watery (shattered) blue eyes met his.

“I trust you, Tim,” Dick insisted, soft. “I do. But when it mattered most, I didn't. I let you down. And not a day goes by where I don't hate myself for that. I don’t ever want to fail you in that way again, Timmy. I know that I’m not perfect. I know that no matter how hard I try, I won’t be able to keep every promise, no matter how much I want to. There’s only one who will never ever break your trust, and I’m certainly not Him.

“But I love you, Timmy. Nothing will change that. And though they may not be great at showing it, the others do, too. Bruce. Jason. Even Damian. We…we all love you, little brother.”

Dick rubbed his thumb against the curve of Tim’s bony shoulder, swallowing past the rapidly growing lump in his throat. “You’re not replaceable. Never have been. Never will be.” Dick pressed a kiss against the teen’s forehead. “This family only has one Tim Drake. And we don’t want to lose him, ‘kay?”

Tim’s eyes were angled toward Dick’s chest. A fresh stream of moisture curled over damp lashes and down his cheeks. He nodded, almost imperceptible.

“Hey,” Dick said, soft. “Look at me?”

After a moment, Tim glanced up. Eyes wide, wet, and so openly anguished Dick’s heart broke.

"Please, little brother. From now on, you have to promise me: Don't shut us out. We're family. I know we don’t always act like it, and we could all learn a little in the emotional department. But please. Next time you feel this way, or next time we’ve screwed up…talk to us? We can’t help if we don’t know what’s wrong.”

For a long moment, Tim said nothing. His tongue darted out to lick the corner of his chapped lips. Finally, quiet, husky from tears: “I’ll…I’ll try.”

Dick crushed him back to his chest, burying his face in his little brother’s hair. “And that’s all I can ask for.” Pressing another kiss to his (precious) brother’s forehead, Dick whispered: “We’ll get through this. We’re a family, little bro. And family means no one gets left behind. Or forgotten.”

There was a long stretch of silence, during which Dick clutched the third Robin tightly; unwilling to release him just yet as the teen’s trembling slowly ceased, body slumping farther into Dick’s embrace so Dick almost thought Tim had fallen asleep.

Suddenly, the teen murmured: “Lilo and Stitch? Knew…you were starting to sound a bit too much…like a Disney movie."

Dick blinked, thrown for a moment by his brother’s unexpected statement. Unexpected humor. Then, realizing what he was referring to, grinned. “Exactly,” Dick agreed. “This family really should take some pointers from Old Walt. Learn a thing or two about how families are supposed to act.”

A shaky snort. “You do realize…nearly 100 percent of Disney parents are dead as a plot point...right?”

“Then we should be peachy,” Dick said brightly.

The resulting (watery) huff of laughter sent Dick’s heart fluttering with excitement and relief. Maybe his little brother wasn’t too far gone. Maybe they could save him after all.

Because that was what this family was all about, right? Saving people.

It was about time they turned those efforts inwards.

[thingr1]

Focus on the Fallout (2/2)

Rating: T

Warnings: Depression, suicidal thoughts, past suicide attempt.

Characters: Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson, basically entire Batfam.

Preview: *See first chapter*

Cross posted: FFN and AO3 (6-16-17). (A/N found on both sites)

Prequels: Of Milkshakes and Marathons (recommended, but not necessary) and Weighing One’s Worth (essential to understanding story.)

First Chapter: Here

It wasn't hard to tell that something was wrong.

The family—this dysfunctional, emotionally constipated family—was acting strange. More distant than normal.

Whispered conversations that ended the moment Tim crossed the threshold. Flashes of emotion caught by the corners of his eyes every time Tim glanced away. Shadows of footprints outside the door of whatever room Tim happened to be slouched in. Flutters of movement and spots of color (black, blue, red) in the darkness, tailing him as he patrolled.

That had been Tim’s reality for the past two weeks.

Everyone trying to pretend everything was normal, yet side eying Tim like something fragile, something broken, when they thought he was looking the other way.

There was only one possible explanation for this collectively strange behavior.

They knew. Every single one. And if it wasn't for the fact that he was probably (definitely) under tight surveillance at the moment, he would seriously consider another bullet to his brain from shame. Maybe jump off the roof. That is, if embarrassment itself didn't beat him to the punch.

Sinking back against the mattress of his too-big bed, Tim sighed to the blank white ceiling.

Why? Dick's big mouth... Just, why?

Tim knew Dick was only trying to help. But the thing was, they weren't Dick's secrets to share. Heck, even Damian betrayed him in the end—to the loosest jaw of the Wayne bunch, no less—when push came to shove. Which…actually wasn’t that surprising.

He felt like he was walking on eggshells. Like an outsider—no, a pretender in his own home. As if he'd ever really called Wayne Manor his home in the first place...

Tim hated feeling this exposed, baring his soul to the world. This was going to come back to bite him, someone was going to take advantage of him all over again. And Tim didn’t think he could take it.

Because at the heart of it all, that was his problem, wasn’t it? Whenever he let anyone in, they either died or threw him away; in each sense, they betrayed him. And he was so so tired of it all. Which was a much more selfish admission than he usually allowed himself. (Then again, Tim had tried to kill himself a week ago, which kind of took the cake.)

But yet…at the same time…why did it feel like a huge weight had been taken off his shoulders? He shouldn’t be this relieved to have just unloaded his truckload of problems onto Dick Grayson’s shoulders.

Dick Grayson.

Who had taken Robin from him without even asking. Who had, how many years later, apologized for it. Had stopped pretending that everything between them was right as rain and outright admitted he was in the wrong.

It was mortifying.

Tim had failed somewhere. He had to’ve.

It probably had something to do with the fact he’d tried to off himself in the middle of the Manor, the one place where all the Bats could come and go as they pleased. The one place where there were eyes everywhere. It was careless of Tim to even think of attempting what he had in such a public place.

Unless…

Had…had he wanted someone to find him? Maybe…maybe that was why…

Tim shook his head violently, turning his face into his pillow in embarrassment.

No. He wasn’t going to psychoanalyze himself now. He’d tried to kill himself. It didn’t take. Now it was just a question of moving on.

…Which would have been so much simpler if his family’s actions didn’t make it that much more impossible to compartmentalize the self-destructive feelings back into a deep, dark corner of Tim’s mind that life usually kept him too busy to explore.

And yet, Tim couldn’t help the faint glow of hope that was slowly eating away at the darkness in his core. Maybe…maybe this time Dick would come through. Maybe this time would be different; maybe they could heal. If only that feeling wasn’t so often crushed by the realities of life. Then maybe Tim could bear to give it a chance.

No, he decided. Better to forget. Better to forget than to give his family the opportunity to screw up enough so Tim would have to juggle forgiving them (again) on top of it all, too. He’d figure this out on his own. Like he always did.

Without warning, his door slammed back on its hinges.

Tim’s skin prickled, muscles seizing, panic shredding through every inch of his flesh in the form of adrenaline as he whirled, wild-eyed, to face the intruder.

Damian stood in the doorway, arms crossed over he chest, giving Tim a strange sense of déjà vu.

"Your presence is required downstairs, Drake,” the child reported, pompous as always.

Tim glared. (Internal terror revealing itself in a rather Jason Todd style: Anger.) “For what? An interrogation?”

Damian snorted. "Nothing so crude. It is…” The boy’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “‘Family Bonding,’ Grayson is calling it. Everyone is required to attend.”

"And why should I trust you?” The words spilled out before Tim could stop them.

The former assassin’s eyes narrowed. Assessing.

After a moment, Damian’s jaw set, cobalt eyes almost glaring in their intensity. "I swear to you that no one is judging you for your moment of weakness. In fact, if I see so much as a pitying glance, I will mash that person’s nose into their face myself. Just…come downstairs. Please.”

Which was…actually half-decent as far as politeness went for the demon child.

Tim…hesitated. A trap. It had to be… No.

Those eyes so like his father’s screamed sincerity, even though Damian’s features remained studiously blank. Though he was many things, Damian Wayne was not a liar. Something Tim both hated and respected about the fifth Robin.

And after…that night…something between the two of them had changed. For the first time since they’d met, they understood each other; they’d caught a glimpse of who they were behind the masks and facades. Their insecurities exposed to the person they hated most.

It was…freeing somehow.

(Dick had always told him that all Damian wanted was acceptance; and for the first time, Tim might just believe it.)

No. Damian wouldn’t betray him like this. (Not again, anyway.) The others, on the other hand…

“Promise?” The word slipped out before Tim could stop it; small. Shaky. Weak.

Damian inclined his head. “You have my word.” Solemn. Straightforward. (So unlike his father.)

Tim sucked in a breath. Bit his lip. Squared his shoulders. “Fine.”

He was going to regret this.

The journey downstairs seemed to pass far too quickly. And yet, at the same time, it stretched long enough that Tim had far too much time to think.

Tim couldn't...shouldn't...didn't want to face his family. Didn’t want to see the looks on their faces at the realization that their toy soldier was broken; unusable.

…Was he broken? Wasn’t that the question of a lifetime. One that Tim really didn’t care to answer; now, or ever.

Moving on.

(Why’d he even bother with a gun? His own brain was going to be the death of him.)

With a blink, Tim jerked back into reality as Damian slid into the lit doorway on the right of the hallway that Tim recognized as the living room without looking back. Clearly expecting Tim to follow.

Tim sucked in a breath. No. Don’t think about it.

Do this. He could do this.

Breath huffing in an almost sigh, Tim stepped around the doorframe and…

Everyone was looking at him.

And when he said everyone, he meant everyone. Dick, Damian, Alfred, Barbara, Steph, Cass, Jason, Titus.

Bruce.

The whole gang was here.

And they were staring.

Heat barely had time to brush Tim’s cheeks before the whole room erupted.

“Timmy!”

“Tim.”

“So good of you to join us, Master Tim.”

“‘Bout time you got here, the popcorn’s almost cold!”

“Hey, mind breaking the tie for us? We’ve narrowed it down to Monsters Inc. or Frozen…”

“Frozen?! Who said Frozen? I voted Inside Out!”

Through the cacophony of sound, lights, and general confusion, Cass materialized at his side, squeezing him in a hug, whispering “Love you,” and guiding him through the mass of people, popcorn, soda cans, pillows (from the bedrooms?), and movie cases to the couch before Tim could fully process what was happening.

And then Jason was wedged on the cushion next to him, throwing an arm over his shoulders. “Come on, Baby Bird, help me out here. Inside Out or Frozen?”

Tim blinked. Still in shock. “Tangled.”

Jason scowled. “Wow. You’re helpful.” Then, serious, poking Tim none too gently in the ribs, he hissed: “Bullets have more calories than milkshakes, y'know. Talk about hard to work off."

Tim flushed, a combination anger and embarrassment snapping him from his reverie. “That bar was a one time thing, Jay! I swear, is this going to keep coming up in every conversation?"

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Just so long as I never catch you at it again.” Then, in a low mutter Tim almost had to strain to hear: ”Call someone next time you start feeling self-destructive, 'kay, Baby Bird? We’ve all been there. We can help.“

Tim ducked his head; mortified (touched). "O...okay. Yeah."

Jason slapped Tim's shoulder with his free hand, reeling him in so Tim’s face smashed into him in a…a hug. "Good. We're marathoning Harry Potter next."

And...Tim's lips quirked upward. "Haven't seen those in awhile."

"Exactly, Tim. Exactly."

Dick Grayson’s voice suddenly erupted in his ear, causing Tim to jump: “Tim! Timmy! You voted Frozen, right?”

Jason stared, stiffening under Tim’s weight. “So you’re the one.”

Dick’s eyes widened. “Uh. No?”

The second Robin growled, reverberating through his chest where Tim’s face was still half smushed. “What did I tell you about Frozen?”

Dick’s eyes twinkled with the mischievous light that always preceded a particularly self-endangering statement: “That I need to ‘let it go’?”

There was a moment of pure, icy silence. Two. Three.

Broken by a laugh.

A laugh.

From Tim’s own mouth.

Another burst from his mouth without his consent. Then another. Suddenly, Tim was gripping his sides, tears welling in his eyes, shaking from the force of his own laughter.

Everyone was staring at Tim again, this time in open surprise; joy, fondness, maybe mixed with some concern for his mental health.

And for once, Tim didn’t mind it. Still chuckling, he snagged the pillow from the couch arm and rammed it into the nearest face: Dick Grayson’s. “Stuff that in your big mouth, Dick!”

There was a pause.

Then a mad cackle rent the air as Jason Todd hefted another pillow over his head. “You deserved that, Dickie!” Slammed the stunned man’s face with the makeshift weapon so hard, the seams burst. Tim almost winced.

Almost.

“Pillow fight!” Steph screamed gleefully, swiping an ancient throw pillow and slinging it into Jason in the same instant as Damian slung a blanket into the man’s abdomen. “For Arendelle!”

The room devolved into chaos as the rest of the family joined in; pillows flying, blankets cracking like whips, popcorn scattering.

And as the feathers swirled in the air around them, laughter carrying them to the ceiling, Tim realized that maybe—just maybe—he could stand to call this crazy mess of a family (life) his own after all.