Tim has a suicide note on his laptop.
He first wrote it way back when, back when his mom and dad were captured by that psycho, Tim can't even remember his name… oh yeah, Obeah Man. Flawless fucking recall, thanks. He'd had an early draft running around in his head before that, but he never put figurative pen to paper until his parents were kidnapped. If they die, I'm going to do it, I'm actually going to do it, he remembers thinking.
But only his mother died, so he decided to only half do it. He became Robin.
In all the comic books, when Spider-Man or whoever put on the costume, they always said that it made them feel alive. Funny, because Tim felt the exact opposite. He felt like a part of him was dying, the part of him that was in pain and wondered what his obituary would read like. Variations, too. What it would read like if they figured out he was Robin, what it would read like if he was killed in the line of duty but Bruce covered it up, that kind of thing. When he's Robin, there's no past or future, just the present. Just the moment passing by, tick tock, then it's gone.
That's how he met Stephanie.
Goodbye cruel world…
God, when was the last time he'd updated this thing? Could he have ever thought that was a good opening to a suicide note? "Here Lies Tim Drake, Walking Fucking Cliché (and he thinks mentally swearing makes him seem tough as well)."
Backspace backspace backspace.
Dear friends and family and those of you somewhere in between
There. That was good. Way to let the Batclan know he was talking to them too. He skimmed the rest. Most of it still held true, although he noticed a few spelling errors. And a dated pop culture reference that he promptly deleted. Yeah, "I choose to vote myself off the island." That would let him keep his dignity in death. What had he been thinking?
I find the loss of my dear Stephanie…
Backspace backspace.
of Stephanie Brown…
Backspace backspace.
my girlfriend, Stephanie Brown
Backspace.
Steph.
He hid the file deep down in his C drive, the file extension changed to a dll file in the midst of a thousand others just like it. Encrypted as well. After Steph, when he puts on the suit again, he expects that aching part of him to go dead, just as usual. Instead, it just gets more painful.
I am doing my dead girlfriend's job. I am answering to her name and wearing her skin. She's corrupted this part of my life, infected it down to the core. Every time I do this, I will think of her.
At another time in his life, that thought would've struck him as sweet.
Dear friends and family and those somewhere in between,
I find the death of my father, Jack Drake, too much to take. As of late, it has seemed like my life is a textbook case of going from bad to worse. I've peaked. Things have gotten as good as they can get for me and everything from here is downhill; a steep decline at that. So I've decided to take my own life and save everyone the…
No, no, no, no! What was that!? Save everyone the trouble? What is that, some sort of sixth-grade "you'll all be sorry when I'm gone" crap? Tim sighed and shut the laptop. He wasn't (hypothetically) doing this to get back at someone, he was doing this to escape. Of course, he wouldn't be around to make sure people figured that out. Not to mention he'd have to phrase it so that they wouldn't figure out he was Robin, yet still get his signal across to Bruce and the rest.
Maybe two separate notes…
The cruise was the worst part. Dick was a walking trauma case, pretending that ring on his finger made it alright. Bruce was worse, born-again zeal infecting everything he did with an uncharacteristic optimism. Like that ever lasted. Could they stop pretending something good was going to come out of this? Just let things settle down to normal. As much as they let it scab over, the moment they set foot back in Gotham the bandage would be ripped off and everything would be right back the way it was. Like they had a choice in the matter.
Dick – I'm sorry. You were a good brother. Treat the next one just like you treated me and he or she'll be fine.
Bruce – This isn't your fault. Do me a favor and don't make it your fault. And don't put my costume in a vault either. I always hated having Jason's in the Batcave anyway.
Kon-El – Whatever you
Shit, he was dead too, wasn't he? How long had Tim been up? He was getting confused. God, who was left? Cass? He should leave a note for Cass. He didn't think she'd ever confronted suicide before, it'd be hard for her to grasp. He should explain it, just in case…
So there they were now, Tim and Barbara, looking at the latest draft on her computer.
"You've actually been adding to it," Barbara said.
"Yeah. Every time I get close to a final draft, someone else dies and I have to rewrite the whole thing. Very frustrating." Tim sat down on the floor, back against a desk. "You gonna tell Bruce?"
"You think I should?"
"Well, obviously you're not going to let this go just because I say it's an academic exercise."
"You're thinking of killing yourself." It wasn't an accusation, just an insight.
"You telling me you don't?"
"Not lately, no. I have friends, family…"
"I have boxes," Tim said. "That's all I have left of my mom and dad. Boxes that the police gave me their personal effects in. I had to break in to Steph's home, just to get a memento. I overheard her mother, crying. Because of me. And now Kon too. It's been a year and…" Tim gulped, smiled. "You don't stop missing them. It just gets heavier, the more you add to it."
"You should… talk to someone."
Tim looked up. "I'm talking to someone now, aren't I? How'd you find it, anyway? You run a search on everyone's private files?"
"Maybe. When was the last time you thought of dying?"
Tim hemmed and hawed his head from side to side, thinking. "Last night's patrol. Typical goomba fight. Somebody pointed a shotgun at me and I thought 'hey, can't be all that bad' just before I punched his face in. Before that, I got hit with this Poison Ivy toxin. Nasty stuff. Before Batman gave me the antitoxin, I was having a little dark spell, ya know? So I thought 'I wonder if this is how Steph felt?' There've been other times, but it pretty much goes like that. Answer your question?"
"You know you have people who love you, right? People who'd miss you if you…"
"Like you and Dick. That what I have to look forward to? It looks like right now my future boils down to emotionally retarded man-child in tights. You're the most well-adjusted vigilante I know and you're in a wheelchair."
"Have you ever gone to her grave?" Barbara asked after a long silence.
"What's the point?"
"You seem to have a fixation with death that goes beyond the ordinary. It might do you some good."
"Don't you have something more important to do?"
"Not really."
Barbara and Tim were in front of the grave. Tim gave it a quick glance before he rubbed his face with his hand.
"It looks about what I expected. Can we go now?"
"Look at it, Tim."
"What is this supposed to be, cathartic? We have a good cry, go home, live to fight another day? C'mon. Let me at least have my misery to myself. I'm not going to commit suicide, okay?"
"Like you'd tell me if you were."
"I'm going to commit suicide. There, happy? Now can I go?"
Without meeting his gaze, Barbara rested two fingers against her temple. "Look at the headstone. She's buried under there."
Tim gave it a long, hard look.
"I don't know what you expect me to see."
"Her. Picture her in your mind. Just for a minute."
"No."
"It hurts that mu-"
"Yeah, it does. Can we go someplace else?"
He saw on a bench, her beside him, the two of them slumped in their seats.
"You ever think about dating again?" Barbara asked.
"Not really. What's the point?"
"Sex."
"I'll hire a hooker."
"Well, you've got things all figured out," Barbara said sarcastically.
"You're the one who said I should get into a relationship just for the sex."
"You're sixteen!"
"Seventeen last April."
"You should be having great sex. That's the point of being seventeen. Wait a while to have your big epic romance. It'll come in due time."
"Not to be unnecessarily cruel or anything, but I don't think you're the one who should be advising me on matters of the heart."
"Beats putting a gun in your mouth."
"Actually, I was thinking cyanide. Bruce has some in his crime lab. I could smuggle it out, wait until I was alone in my room, then just… you know, right on the bed. Like I was going to sleep. You ever think about it?"
"I already said I don't anymore."
"But when you did," Tim persisted.
"In the early days, when I had just lost my legs? I wanted to throw myself off a building. So I could fly again."
They were silent for a long time.
"It would've lasted, you know. Me and Steph. I don't want to think that I shouldn't make a big deal of it because we were going to break-up anyway."
"I'm not."
"I loved her."
"I know you did."
"I never told her, you know that?"
"She knew. She told me so."
"You're just saying that to make me feel better."
"She was about five foot seven, blonde hair, green eyes, 'round a hundred and ten pounds…"
Tim had a sudden flash of how she had looked. "Stop it."
"Kon was six foot three, black hair, blue eyes…"
"I said stop! You think I don't have enough trouble getting them out of my head? Why are you doing this anyway?"
"Because I don't like the thought of me dying and being the reason you kill yourself. And because I'd hate for you to miss it when things get better."
"Things never get better."
"Things get better every day. Every time someone's nice to someone, every time someone does something just to be kind, every time… things get a little better."
"Things get worse too."
"That's where we come in, son."
Night fell and the Batsignal appeared in the sky. Tim stood, his legs wavering.
"He'll need me," Tim said, no question as to who he was.
"You'd better get going. We'll talk more tomorrow."
"About what? There's nothing left to talk about."
"Then we'll talk about the day you had. See if we can figure out what got better."
Tim shrugged. "Suit yourself." He began to walk away.
"And Tim?"
He turned around. "Yeah?"
"She said she loved you back."
Tim nodded once and disappeared into the night.