Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or affiliated characters, events, or settings; all rights belong to DC and their respective creators.

Cover art by Phoebe594, who is incredibly patient with my pickiness and who was willing to do this one even though she's not a fan. She's amazing, you guys.

Trigger Warning: Depressive thoughts. Poor Tim.

"Why do you do it?"

The thought stopped him cold, momentarily halting his tracks as he prepared to turn away from the civilian he had just rescued.

Why did he do it?

Did he even know anymore?

It had been simple when he started: because Batman needed Robin and no one else had been willing or able to fill those shoes.

But if he were honest, it hadn't been quite that simple even then, had it?

Yes, it was true, Batman needed Robin: to ground him, to keep him going, to be his light and his balance; and the city in turn needed Batman. Ironically, Batman was the closest thing to a light in the dark this cesspool of a city had. Gotham's citizens needed the hope that Batman brought into their grey existences, the promise that one day the fog that had oppressed their city since it began might one day be lifted enough for them to breathe freely. The GCPD needed the life-preserver that Batman tossed them every time he stopped someone they couldn't, saved someone they couldn't, eased the overwhelming pressure the few good cops in this city faced from all sides; they needed someone they could trust to have their backs when they couldn't trust the cop next to them. People like Dick had needed Batman, needed justice for the things that had been done to them, needed things to be fixed. Kids like Jason had needed Batman, hungry and cold and scared, but still able to fight for a better life because someone else out there kept fighting against the hopelessness. They all needed Batman and he needed Robin, and that was the reason he'd given to himself and everyone else when he started.

But it had been more complicated than that. More selfish. He'd needed Batman, and Robin, too. He'd needed those nights with something to look forward to, needed to know that his natural empathy and need to help others hadn't been as alien a concept as his parents had led him to believe, needed to know that someone else could see how deeply this city was broken and how badly someone needed to do something. And once he'd broken his own cardinal rule and told Batman that he knew, then he'd hoped beyond reason that Batman would care about him and see how scared he was that he was broken and that Batman, the world's greatest detective, would know how to fix him. So yes, Batman needed Robin, but he needed Robin too, and Batman, and beyond that he'd needed something to fill that aching hole in his heart that had been there for as long as he could remember.

It hadn't worked though, and part of him had lost that idealism that anything could be fixed. If he were honest with himself, he didn't know why he did it anymore and he didn't know when that had changed for him. He'd sacrificed so much to this life; he sacrificed still every day. Why? He went without rest, without food, without meaningful human contact until he broke time after time. He gave absolutely everything he had and more to his city, to his family, to the Titans and beyond, in both identities, and all he got in return was poor health and cold shoulders and murder attempts and people utilizing him like he was just another tool in Batman's utility belt.

He would never be able to replace Dick or Jason—hadn't really even tried, despite how constantly he was compared to one and blamed for replacing the other—and he would never be the true son like Damian and some days it felt like he got punished for it from all sides no matter how much he tried to just do what was needed and be what was needed.

He didn't matter to anyone now any more than he ever had.

So why did he still do it? Why hadn't his drive faded with his conviction? He liked to tell himself that he did it because it needed to be done, but he thought the truth might again be a little more complicated and a little more selfish than that: he did it because he needed to. Because he'd built this life for himself out of the scraps he was given and poured everything into it and now it was all he had and all he was; because he didn't know what he would be without these carefully crafted identities; because he didn't know how to live any other way anymore, maybe he never had. Because some small, pathetic part of him still hoped that someone would recognize him within the mess of his life and the layers of masks he'd formed so carefully like protective walls around himself and care about him in spite of all that he was. Because he still hoped, as he'd always done, that he could somehow earn the love and affection he craved. Because he knew that if he stopped or even slowed for just a moment, the hollow, aching emptiness that hung over his head with a weight it shouldn't have would catch up and he didn't know that he would be able to find his way out of it and that scared him more than anything.

(Objectively, he knew how unhealthy all of this was, mentally and emotionally—at least as unhealthy as everything else in his life—but much like every other negative part of his life, he would ignore it for as long as possible.)

"Because it's the right thing to do," he finally answered. He hoped the words didn't sound as broken and empty and utterly lost to the civilian who'd asked as they did to his own ears.

Thanks for reading through to the end! As always, comments, critiques, and constructive criticism are more than welcome as I am always looking to improve.

Have a brilliant day!

M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ng