A/N: It's DONE. FINALLY. Little over a year later, but...
Sorry it took so long to get this out, but I swear, writing this was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Meaning, the second Dick and Tim interaction (you'll know it when you see it), and the final scene which, due to Doc Manager being phooey, is now going to be an epilogue to be posted within a week. I literally had writer's block for around eight months on that aforementioned interaction, both due to order of events and believable character progression (emotional!Tim is uuuurrrrgggghhhh), before it suddenly just CLICKED. The struggles I had with the epilogue afterward paled in comparison, but were still enough to keep this thing against the grinder for another four months. I've reread/rewrote/rearranged/edited this more times than I have any fic of mine so far; I've actually gotten to the point where I'm probably overthinking things, so I'm going to quit while I'm ahead and post it.
After all of y'all's AMAZING responses on WoW, I wanted this one to be perfect. You guys absolutely blew me away with your positive feedback. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your support this past year! I hope this meets expectations! :)
IMPORTANT: This is the third installment of the "Where the Healing Begins (Fix You)" series. "Of Milkshakes and Marathons" (first in the series) is referenced and therefore recommended, but not necessary in order to understand this story. However, this is a direct sequel to "Weighing One's Worth," and as such, WoW should be read before you attempt this one. Finally, I have a Spotify playlist for this series called "Weighing One's Worth," if y'all are interested. More info on my profile.
WARNING: Rated HIGH T for a referenced past suicide attempt, semi-suicidal thoughts, and just depression in general.
Now that those are out of the way, please enjoy the long awaited sequel to "Weighing One's Worth."
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.
A/N: Keep an eye out for the epilogue. :)
