I love this ship so much. *grins*
Warning: Violent character deaths. And swearwords.
Also: Sorry about the whole thing being divided into so many parts. I just couldn't figure out how to do scene transaction without making everything awkward….
Nine hours, and thirty-four minutes.
Damian looks away from his watch, and back at Drake again. It has been approximately ten hours since the diseased civilian had spat on Red Robin, meaning about another two hours or so before the virus kills him. He glances at the clock again, mentally working it out. Three hours, and twenty-six minutes, precisely.
His gaze shifts to Drake again. He is lying limp on his bed, spread-eagled like a corpse. (Okay. He takes that back.) He has been that way since he first stumbled to the Batcave, and promptly collapsed. Damian dragged him onto his bed, and ran the tests his Father had taught him, before he died.
Father, of course. Not Damian.
Damian is, for some reason, immune to the Apocalypse virus, and he's not sure whether that's fortunate or not. He glances around him. The rest of the Bat family is dead, their bodies in a freezer below the cave. Their equipment lies in piles across the room, free for all to use. Anyone's who's still alive, anyway. By the time Star Labs discovers a cure, he's not sure if anyone will be.
He steals another glance at Red Robin. It's way too late for him now.
He does not understand why Grayson had insisted that he make friends, socialize. Affection would only result in pain at their inevitable deaths. Why would anyone voluntarily bring pain upon themselves? Why add more grief to their already miserable lives?
"Because, Dami. This is what humans are supposed to do. Without interaction, there's no point in living, is there?"
He had not understood at that time. He had thought that others were unnecessary, just road blocks that needed to be eliminated. Nothing more than a challenge. Now, after his death, Damian is finally starting to understand. Shame there was no one left to interact with.
Grandfather would have considered his thoughts as weakness. He would have had his head for them. Hell, once he would have done the deed himself.
Everything hurts. His feet, his chest, his arms, his head, his mouth― especially his mouth. It was raw at the corners, and it tastes metallic and dirty. And it's throbbing. The sensation doesn't help the ache pounding in his skull.
He wearily blinks open his eyes, but the world is upside down. It takes him a moment to realize he's tied up, there's a gag in his mouth, and he'll soon die of the blood rushing to his brain.
He's not the only one hanging, though. Jason's dangling by his wrists, albeit right way up. Stephanie's sideways, feet and arms secured by shackles. Nightwing's dangling from the freaking ceiling, head lolling forward.
There's no sign of Damian or Cassandra.
He forces down the panic threatening to overwhelm him, and tried to think like Batman had taught him. Analyze the situation. Okay. What exactly happened? He screw his eyes shut, trying to remember exactly what had happened after the whole plan just flopped.
"Run! Spread out!" Nightwing.
Stumbling over roots, branches stretching as if purposely trying to rip him up. Mindless blundering. Cracking twigs. Hunting hounds. More mindless blundering.
Tripping. Falling. Being tackled into the rough grass. Ow. Hand twisted into his back.
"Gotcha." A rough voice in his ear.
The cold metal barrel shoving into his mouth. Hitting the back of his mouth. Scratching it.
"Come out! I've got your friend, and he's going to get a bullet in the brain if you don't come out now!"
"Okay, okay!" Stephanie.
"Don't hurt him." Nightwing.
"Get your fucking hands of him." Obviously Jason.
Holy shit.
He was the first to be caught, and then used as leverage to draw the others out. He was the mistake that cost them the mission. Without his blunder, they would have escaped, all of them. Tim groans, and if his hands were free, he would have buried his head in them.
Damian. He and Cassandra are still out there. They could get help! He feels a surge of hope, warm in his chest. Maybe not everything was ruined after all.
Then there's a jangle of keys, and the door is flung open. His heart sinks a bit.
Cassandra's dragged in by two guards, wrists bound. One of the guards grabs her and throws her onto the floor. She doesn't protest, allowing them to cuff her ankles together. And besides, her suit is too ripped up to be of too much use anyway. There are many ways to hurt them without weapons, but it's obvious that Cassandra is too tired for that. Plus, Tim's pretty sure she's been drugged. They tie her up like a Christmas turkey, then leaves her curled up between Jason and Tim's own feet. The door slams.
Jason stretches out a foot and gently kicks her. She's unresponsive. Drugged for sure.
Tim looks up to meet Jason's eyes. Unsurprisingly, his eyes are full of blame. "You little asshole," he whispers.
Tim chooses to ignore that, knowing full well it was all just Jason's bullcrap. "Is Stephanie still alive?"
"You tell me. You're closer."
Tim rolls his eyes, but reaches upward to poke her. She mutters, and tries to roll over, except she's hanging sideways. "I think so. Nightwing?"
"Listen, kid, I've been drugged as long as you have. And since we're both alive, I'm going to go on a limb here and say they are too."
"Can you do anything without a smartass answer?"
"Not really."
On the ceiling, Nightwing groans. "Stop arguing."
He breaks out in a relived grin. "Nightwing! You're awake!"
Jason scowls. "Welcome back to the land of the living, sleeping beauty."
"Thank you, Jay. Why am I hanging upside down?"
"Timmy got us all captured. Bullet through his brain, remember?"
"How's Steph and Cass? And where's Dami?"
"Steph and Cass are alive. For now. Steph will wake up soon, but Black Bat just got dragged in, so not sure on her front."
"But they'll probably want us all awake at the same time," Jason interjected. "For some kind of sick torture, maybe."
"True," Tim agreed. "Damian's MIA. Have any of you seen him?"
"No."
"Last time was before the mission," Dick mused. "Maybe he escaped before―" he trailed off, but Jason shot a look at Tim anyway.
Before I managed to trip the security while hacking the central alarm. "Yeah, yeah, i know," he muttered.
"If anything happens to Damian, you little shit―"
"Jason!"
"Cease your screams," Ra al Ghul announced grandly, flinging open the door. "No one can hear you."
Jason sneered at him. "What screaming, dickface? They're your guards, crying for mercy like the boneless cowards they are."
"Yeah," Tim joined in. "Robin might be devil spawn, but he can kick ass when he wants to. And he usually does."
Ra stared a moment. "You think, Damian is going to save you. My own grandson?"
"He might be your grandson," Dick lifted his chin bravely. "But he's our brother."
"Well, not strictly speaking, but―"
"Jason!"
"You should be afraid," Tim assured Ra, trying to keep his attention while Damian (hopefully) a)busted them out, or b)Got Babs or even Bats to help. A low-handed, completely overused trick, but hey it worked. Especially on big-headed ones like Ra. "Very afraid. Damian's going to show up any minute now, and you're going to join your guards in the dungheap labeled sniveling cowards."
"I believe I have rubbed off on you."
"Damian!" All three boys cried in unison.
Robin stepped calmly forward to stand beside his grandfather. "Though preferably not vice versa." He turned to face Ra. "What do you think, Grandfather?"
"Damian! Yo, bro! You're on our side, remember?" Jason burst out; pretty much summarizing Tim's thoughts.
Damian looked at him disdainfully. "Told you he was the dumb one."
"What do you mean, Damian?" Dick's voice was calm, but Tim could detect the edge beneath that heralded storms. He was pretty sure Damian heard it too.
Damian sighed, looking once more like the conceited, self-righteous child he had been when he first came to Gotham. "Grayson, it means that I am, in fact, and have always been, on my grandfather's side. Blood overrules adoption, I should think."
"You're a spy?"
Damian grinned widely, the smile reminding Tim vaguely of Joker. (Stopping that train of thought: now.) He crouched until their eyes were at the same level. "Always the smart one, aren't you?"
He resisted the mother urge to spit in his face. "Even fools are better than traitors."
Damian shrugs. "I own no loyalties to you, nor Grayson, or Brown, or Todd, Cain."
"Your father?"
"My father was missing for a good half of my life, Drake. And even when he isn't, it still feels like he is." He stands, brushes off his knees; force of habit, maybe, or just a sign of disrespect for Tim. "I have nothing to do with that asshole."
"And yet again, you display your brilliant grip on English."
Damian doesn't rise to the bait. "You have been practicing, Drake. I am touched by your efforts, however vain." Before Tim can snap anything back, he has turned back to Ra, who has been watching this ordeal with a combination of exasperation and amusement. "You may awaken the two girls now."
Ra nods, for some reason following Damian's commands. On cue, a troop of soldiers march in, metal buckets in hand. Tim personally thinks it's overkill. They empty the water on Cass and Steph. Steph comes to first, spluttering and cussing, in a fashion that would have made Jason proud. Cass wakes up more quietly, though immediately straining against her bonds, almost choking herself. Tim has never been so happy to watch someone choke.
Damian waves them away. "That will be enough." They nod silently and troops out of the room. "Now that I have your full attention―"
"What the heck, Damian? Why are you not helping us, but making that long-ass speech?" Tim winces at Stephanie's mouth; its as sharp as any of the Batarangs. And often way more inappropriate at important times. Like now.
Dick winces. "Damian is a―"
"Cowardly," Jason breaks in with a growl, "Self righteous, utterly self-centred, vain, proud, conceited―"
"Traitor," Cass finishes for them. Tim inwardly cringes at that. Black Bat could hardly carry a decent conversations without charades, but she was extremely familiar with the word traitor. Ouch, family, ouch.
"Hello? Right here," Damian waves, a gesture he used often when trying to emphasize a point without standing on a chair. Tim feels his heart twist.
"Like anyone could forget, after your annoying brat tantrum." Jason snickers.
Damian reddens considerably. "It seems that someone has decided to fill your annoy-the-hell-out-of-Damian shoes, Tim. I preferred them on you."
"Yes, wit has always been my color."
"That would explain the complete lack of color on both you and your life."
"As opposed to being mistaken as a traffic light every time you step out the door."
"Girls, girls, you're both pretty." Tim hadn't heard Talia enter the room. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She rested her shoulder on the door frame. "Wait, I take that back. Father, can we start with the fun now?"
Tim was pretty sure the Arabic word for fun didn't have a secondary meaning, especially one that meant the torture and possible deaths from fear of three boys and two girl.
Ra Al Ghul laughed. "Let the games begin."
On cue, Damian reached out a hand and ripped Jason's head clean off his shoulders.
TWO HOURS, AND FOUR MINUTES LEFT
The screaming has started.
Tim is arching straight of the bed, his body practically forming a U. He's balancing on just his head and toes, and for a split second Damian thinks he's going to tip over. He considers grabbing both arms and tying him onto the bed, the way they do for lunatics during their fits.
Then Tim quiets down, his body laying down flat again. He looks so peaceful, slumbering, that Damian feels a glimmer of hope that the worst may be over, and Tim would live after all.
And down the screams rip themselves out of Tim's throat, and it's earth shattering to hear.
Damian clamps his hands over his ears like ear muffs, screwing his eyes shut to block out the horrible, horrible noise. Each one is a long, aching, guttural shriek, incredibly nerve-racking. In his career as Robin, and before that, he had heard a huge amount of screams: from mothers, father, wives, husbands, children, elderly, widows, widowers. But it's not very often he hears one that is for more than one loss, and even less frequently from someone close. His friends, his family, they're all heroes, with more than sufficient ability to protect themselves. Hardly anything made them cry anymore; they had seen more than enough tragedy to last them a lifetime. The Joker, the Riddler, Scarecrow, Penguin… they had nothing on them. No, the one person who could hurt them was themselves.
And Tim was hurting himself. Hard.
"Don't touch her! Please!"
Words. The screams were starting to become coherent.
"No, no, please! Kill me instead!"
On the other hand, maybe it was better if they had remained incoherent.
"Stop! God, please stop! Don't hurt him!"
It's just an illusion, He reminded himself. The worst would be over soon.
He is sobbing. "No, Damian, please! Don't hurt her!"
Damian. He must be dreaming of something about him.
His worst fear...
Oh Lord. No. No way Damian had something to do with Red Robin's worst fear. No. Absolutely not. Hopefully not.
Tim is thrashing again, struggling against invisible bonds. "No! No, no, no!" he weeps again and again, until his pillow is drenched, and Damian's heart is basically crushed.
So when Tim breaks his yells for a tremendous sob, and his mouth forms "Damian" again, he does the only he can think of: climb into bed and wrapping his arms around Tim.
Tim quiets down instantly, though his sobs still rack through Damian's chest. Tim wraps his arms around Damian, and squeezes him so tightly the other boy thinks he'll never let go.
He honestly doesn't know who he's doing this for: Red Robin, or himself. He cannot bear to spend another night alone.
It's been two days.
Two days of running from Ra's warehouse.
Two days since Damian had killed Jason and Dick. And maybe even Cass and Steph. Don't think about that. At all.
He's freezing. It's raining; it's been pouring for an hour now, but he's holed up in a cave just off Gotham, and the fire helps too. But there's a small birch that leans into the hollow, and the small leaves drip water down his back in a icy trail.
He shivers, then shifts a bit, until the droplets don't fall down his shirt anymore. The sandy floor is scratchy, but he'll take what he can get. Inching closer to the fire, he draws his knees to his chest. It's been how long since he last slept? Maybe a week, or two. That probably isn't healthy, even for a Bat.
The fire is burning lower, its embers smoldered red-gold. Tim tosses a handful of twigs into the fire. The flames flare briefly, before settling down again. Mossy wood isn't the most flammable of materials, but it was all he could collect before the rain wet everything. There isn't much left anyway; maybe two more branches, but he'll have to make it last the night. He cannot go to bed cold; he would never wake up.
He curls up, draping his cloak around him. It's a small comfort, but one nonetheless.
"Tim! Oh thank goodness you're alive! We were so worried!"
Tim smiles down at her. It's been at least half a week since anyone's said anything nice to him. "Babs. Where's Bruce?" His voice comes out strained.
Barbara's smiles fades a bit. "You don't know, do you?"
He frowns. "Know what?"
Her smile drops completely. "That Bruce, Batman― You know what? You'd better come in."
She rolls back her wheelchair, allowing the door to swing fully open. Tim steps in. She shuts the door. "Come on. I've got to show you something."
She backs up, then guides her chair into her dining room. Tim follows reluctantly, his shoes loud and echoing on her wooden floor. "Uh, Babs? Does Batman know that Dick―"
She stops in front of an armchair. She spins her chair around to face him. Her face is shrouded by shadows, most of her features in the dark. But as far as Tim can see, her face is completely stoic. "Yes. Jason, Cass, Steph too."
"And Damian?"
She looks away, bending forward to retrieve her laptop. Her answer doesn't come for a moment. "Yes." She boots her laptop, and her face is washed in the blue glow as she types in her password.
"How? I only just got here, and no one else was there."
"This." She turns her screen towards him.
It's a YouTube page, Tim notes. The video starts, and―
Oh god. They uploaded it onto the Internet. Damian. Tim was the one who had taught him.
The video is from a high angle, and Tim can see a peek of Nightwing's hair. Though off-screen, Ra's voice is clear. "Let the games begin." Damian's hand reaches for Jason.
Tim wants to slam the laptop shut, or stop the video, or screw his eyes shut, and stick his fingers in his ears like a kid, or something. Anything. But he's immobile, his limbs refusing to work, his head refusing to turn, his eyes refusing to even look away. His eyes stayed glued to the screen.
There's no sound as the skin separates. Blood spurts everywhere, spray-painting the wall in loops. The floor is blanketed in crimson, the color thick and velvety. Tim can practically smell it, metallic and salty and wet. It's blood. Jason's blood.
Damian stands drenched in it, and the twerp isn't even blinking. The Robin suit is soaked in the front, and clings to his skin. He wipes a gloved hand across it, sprinkling the red drops all over the floor.
The video has been silent so far, but now the screams kick in, like they had only just fully processed what's happening. Nightwing's screams sound the loudest from here, but it may be just the placement of the camera. Even Cass is screaming, her voice shrill and cracked and unused. It isn't until his throat is raw and burning that he realizes he's screaming too, and each cry sounds bloody and hurts.
Babs reaches over, slamming shut the computer.
"You okay, Tim?" She asks gingerly.
Tim wants to yell back, Of course not. How the hell am I supposed to be fine, after that? I watched my family die. Stay strong, dude. Don't let it get to you. He lets out a shaky breath. "I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Bruce. Has Bruce seen this?'
"Yeah."
"Where is he?"
She drops her gaze. "On a rampage through Crime Alley."
"What?"
"The video. It―it scared him, Tim. A lot," she wrung her hands. "And― and―"
He was gone before she could complete her sentence. Besides, he had a horrible suspicion what it would have been.
"Where's Ra?"
The crook slams into the wall, chest heaving. "I― I swear I don't know!"
Batman leans forward, digging the Batarang edge into his ribs. His breath is heavy on the man's ear. "Lie to me again, and slamming face-first into a wall will be the least painful activity of your evening."
"I swear, dude! I don't know! Scout's honor!"
Batman laughs, the sound cold and flat. "You have no honor." He digs the sharp edge into his jacket, and Tim can practically hear the knife cut into the man's shirt. He couldn't help it.
"Bats! Stop!"
Bruce spins around, and the man takes the opportunity to slip from his grasp. Bruce lunges at him, pinning him back onto the wall with a stranglehold before turning to Tim. "Red Robin? What are you doing here?"
Tim ignores his question. "Don't kill him, Batman."
Batman shrugs. "I might, might not. Is there a difference?"
"Yes! You're Batman! What happened to your morals? No killing, right?" Great, Tim. Jump straight to the point.
Batman snorts. "No killing's overrated. The world would be a better place if lying scumbags," he squeezes the neck of the crook, still pinned against the wall, and the poor guy's eyes almost pops out. "Were all dead and gone."
"That's Jason's screwed-up logic. Killing them makes us just as bad as them. Don't you remember, Bruce? Everything you ever taught us?"
"Jason was right all along, Tim!" He growls. "All these years, his ways had been more effective. Saved a lot more people. He was right, Tim." He turns to Tim, the man in his hands forgotten, his gaze venomous. "And now, thanks to you, he'll never know. Gee, thanks."
"It wasn't my fault!" Even as the words leave his lips, not even he himself believes it.
Of course, that particular detail doesn't escape Batman. "Look at you. Pathetic. You can't even convince yourself. How can you hope to convince me?"
"I'm convinced!" He insisted desperately. (Oh, why wasn't he born with brilliant acting skills?) "Very, very convinced."
"I have no time for this." Bruce turns away, back to the man, and before Tim can protest, he plunges the Batarang into him, gutting him like a fish. The man lets out a strangled gasp, and his eyes roll. Batman lets go of him, and his limp corpse slides sideways, collapsing on the wooden floor of the apartment, trembling. Blood leaks out, a surprisingly small amount for a fatal cut. (Of course. Bats must have pierced a lung. The unidentifiable cut would have made it harder to trace it back to the Batarang.)
"Bruce!"
"Only hero names on the field, Red Robin." Bruce doesn't look at him, just cleans the blood off on the wall.
"Why?" He asks. He's pleased and surprised that his voice comes out steady. "You killed the only other person here."
"Nonetheless, protocol."
"But why?" He knows he sounds like a whiny kindergartener, but right now he doesn't care. In fact, he wants to be one again: able to curl up in his parent(s)'s grasp, and bask in their infinite warmth and protection. "You used to let me call you that all the time, patrol or no patrol."
"Things change," he says stoically. (Still not looking at him. Huh.)
"Not everything!" Right?
"Nightwing, Steph, Cass are dead. Jason's dead. Again. Damian is a traitor. Alfred's dead. My whole family is gone. Everything has changed, Red Robin." Batman finally lifts his head, and his gaze is full-on Batman, cold and analytically. It takes Tim a minute to realize he's giving him the Batglare, the one he reserved for the lowest of the low-lifes that made up Gotham City.
He doesn't think; the words spill out of his mouth, overflowing before he can stop them. "But what about me, Bruce? What about me?"
"You?" Batman pauses, then laughs, hard. Harder than Tim had ever heard him laugh. "You're nothing. What are you, compared to Nightwing, with his acrobatic skill? Damian and his training and intelligence? Steph's instincts and street smarts? Cass's gifts? Jason's rage and resources?" He pauses again. "Hell, you're not even equal to Barbara, and she's crippled!"
"I have talents! I can fight, defend myself. I can hack into any computer! I- I'm a better detective than Damian or Jason, or Dick, or Stephanie!"
"And how do you have all your skills, Tim?" Bruce growls. "Training. My training."
"But what about all the times you told me that you care, that you'll always be here, that-" his voice cracks. "That you'll never let anything hurt me? What about all that? Bruce. Please!"
"Secret identity, Drake."
He ignored him. "What if I asked you? What if I asked you to just stay together, go back to your old ways? What if I pleaded you to come home? Am I enough?"
Bruce seems to consider it, but his answer is curt and firm. "No. You were- are never enough."
Tim tips his head back, allowing the beer to slid down his throat. He gags. He doesn't understand why Jason enjoys this. The beer is as bitter as hell.
He sets down the bottle with an audible thump. The bartender grins and leans forward. "Can't take the drink, get put of the bar."
"Shut up," he mutters. "I'm paying you. That's all that matters, isn't it?"
"Sure thing, kid."
He scowls at him, but the guy just grins. God, he hates that smile.
And the next thing he knows, he's straddling the man to the floor, with his leg around him. He has twisted his arm to his back, and the man is straining against his grip. His head hurts; not the hurt when you get whoped in the head, but the kind when you have a headache. He releases his arm, stumbling off the poor bartender. (Did he just seriously beat up a random guy with an awful smile? He didn't even know the guy's name.) The bartender flops like a fish, panting for a moment before rising to his feet.
Tim backs away. "I- I-"
The crowd starts cheering; Tim hadn't even seen them crowding around him. "Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight-"
"I'm sorry," he managed, stuttering like hell. "I didn't know what I'm doing. I didn't mean it. I-"
"Shut up," the bartender mutters. "Get out."
"I'm sorry, sir, really-"
"I said get out!"
He stumbles away. The world is spinning, his mouth taste like dead fish from the alcohol, and the bar is hot and airless. The people press towards him, booing and begging for a fight. It's all making him feel cramped and claustrophobic.
He needs to get out of there. He needs air.
He pushes through the crowds. The people part, protesting. He doesn't care. He doesn't give a damn how much people he's pissing off, and how much he destroys the Wayne reputation just by being here.
Stop thinking about that. You're not a Wayne.
He half-walks, half falls out of the bar, his legs buckling under him. The people in the bar leave him be. He places a hand on the wall to support himself, his palm scraping the bricks. Leaning against the wall, he limps into a random alley. His head hurts too much to analyse much, but he at least checks to see that there is no immediate threat. He lurches forward, splashing water on his face from a random puddle. He doesn't care that's it's probably germ-filled; he can wash up later.
The waters runs down his face, cool and refreshing. He looks down at himself in the puddle. The ripples have not yet settled, and his image is distorted and ugly. Droplets disturb the water. He wipes a hand across his wet forehead, and wipes his hands and face on his shirt.
When he looks again, the water has stilled, and his face is hovering in it, still trembling slightly. His hair is plastered to his forehead in a soaking mess, slowly dripping down his face and into the collar of his shirt. The front of his shirt is drenched, plaster to his chest, the sky-blue now deep. There are bags under his eyes, ringing them with black. His skin is sallow, a sickly sort of yellow, and he's more gaunt and ragged than he had ever let himself be. He doesn't look like Tim Drake, the adopted and prodigious son of Bruce Wayne, or Red Robin, the military strategist famed through the superhero world. He looks like a hobo, or one of the thieves that steal even from the dead.
How did he become this mess of a person?
It's disturbing, being shocked awake by a scream in your ear, and landing on your butt.
It kinda hurts, too.
Nonetheless, Damian stumbles back to his feet, and scrambles to kneel at Drake's bedside. The vigilante is thrashing about again, screaming. Only this time, his yells are absolutely coherent.
"Damian! What the fuck are you doing?" he lobs one of the pillows at him.
Damian ducks. "Drake, I was merely trying to prevent any further injur―"
"Don't pretend you care, you son of a bitch! You don't, and you know it! You betrayed us, you fucking asshole!" He squirms around, and Damian realizes he's struggling to sit up. He hurriedly pushes him down again. Drake yells, straining against his touch, and when that doesn't work, flails his arms wildly. It's only his training that stops Damian from being whacked in the face.
"Stop fighting! I'm only trying to help!"
"Liar! You killed them! All of them, Dick, Cass, Jason, Steph!"
What? Damian glances at the clock. The time reads, seven forty-eight in the evening.
Ah. The last half-hour of consciousness. Dick had had a similar situation in his last thirty minutes. Damian had watched Bruce deal with, watching from the shadows, too scared (Not that he'll ever admit something like that.) to step forward. Dick had protested too, fought with all his might. He wouldn't tell Bruce why?, though.
A hands slaps him across the face, and on instinct, his head darts out to grab it. Tim stares at him, blue eyes wide and glittering with genuine fear. He tugs at the hand, but Damian clings on to it. He forces the hand down onto the sheets.
"Drake," he says. His voice comes out flat and cold.
He clears his throat. "Red Robin. Drake. It was all a nightmare. Whatever you saw happened, did not, in fact, happen. I'm still on your side, and―" he hesitated. He didn't want to lie to Drake. "I did not kill Nightwing, Red Hood, Batgirl, or Black Bat."
Drake stares at him, eyes still wary. "How do I know you're telling the truth?'
"If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it in your sleep."
"Point taken." Drake visibly relaxes. "One more thing. What were you doing in my bed?'
Damian feels his face flush. "I cannot believe you asked that."
"Just answer the question."
"You were crying okay? Screaming? Reports show that human touch is helpful when dealing with trauma, maybe more than a psycholog―"
Drake bolts straight up, making Damian almost yelp and jump back. "Ha!"
"Lie down, before you injure yourself further," Damian mutters.
Drake turns to him, a triumphant smile plastered on his face. It's been so long since he has seen any smiles at all, it looks pretty much fucking beautiful, even on Drake. It's enough that he allows Drake enjoy his smirk for a while more.
"And here I was, thinking you don't care."
Damian snorts. "I don't."
"Riiight."
"Shut up Drake. I saved you from bleeding out on the streets."
"Hmm. Thanks for that," Drake leans back against his pillows, resting his head on the headboard. "Just admit it, Robin. You're not as heartless as you want to be."
"No," Damian agrees. "Not at all."
Drake shoots him a funny look.
"What? You're about to die, Drake. I have the right to be fully honest with you."
"I appreciate that."
He pauses. "I don't mean to intrude, but what did you see in your hallucination?'
Drake's gaze darkens. "It started out with all the Teen Titans dying. You know, Superboy, Bart, Beast Boy. Then we, the Bats launched an attack on Ra. I tripped the security system while hacking it. Then we got chased into the woods, and we would've gotten away, but I got caught, and used as leverage." He lowers his head, as if speaking of real mistakes. "Ra taunted us for a bit, and then you showed up. And," he swallows thickly. "You ripped off Jason's head."
Damian winces at that.
"I don't remember much about the other's deaths, though. I do remember watching their blood pool on the floor, and the crimson staining it." He takes a deep breath. "And then I ran. I managed to break out of the warehouse, and trekked back to Gotham, only to find the Batcave empty. So I went to find Babs―"
"Dead too?' Damian guesses.
Drake shakes his head. "No. Alive, but there are things worse than death. Sitting in that chair all day is one of them."
"She has her duty―"
"And she showed me a video," Drake continued, totally ignoring their last bit of conversation. "It was a video of you killing Jason, and Dick, and Cass, and Steph. Turns out Bats took it too hard and was rampaging through the Crime Alley, killing people. I went to find him, and― and―" his voice cracks slightly. "He told me I wasn't good enough. That I was nothing compared to you guys. That I wasn't enough for him, not for Robin's legacy, not for anyone. I wasn't good enough to keep him sane, Damian."
"No," Damian declared. "You are plenty good enough."
Drake grins hazily at him. "Your slight Gotham accent is showing."
"I do not have a Gotham accent."
Drake's voice drops again. "Besides, you're wrong. I never am good enough."
"You are," he insists. "You're Red Robin. You have your skills, your brains―"
"What?" Drake mumbles bitterly. "Run out?"
Damian decides Drake isn't going to spend his last― he checks the clock― seventeen and a quarter minutes moping over his mistakes in a hallucination. He seizes his shoulders, standing up abruptly. The other boy is forced upwards. "Listen to me, Drake. You're not worthless. You―" He sighs. Why couldn't Nightwing have been here? "You were the only one who listened. Who took me seriously. Grayson treated me as a child, too young to know about life and handle her problems. Todd saw me as the same, only my naivety was just a chance for mockery. Father saw me as his unwilling clone, and the shadow of my Grandfather. Mother thinks me as her pawn, a chess piece to be maneuvered and sacrificed if needed. You see me as my own person, judging me by what I do, not what I am. Your hatred is, refreshing, Drake."
That hazy smile returns. "It's Tim."
"What?"
"My name. It's not Drake, it's Tim."
"I just told you the exact reason why I enjoy your presence at all, and all you gather is that I refer to you with your last name?"
"What? It's disturbing. I don't want to die in the arms of someone who calls me Drake."
"You are not going to die in my arms!"
"We both know full well I probably am," He says calmly. "So you better start praticing now."
Damian scowls, but says all the same, "Very well, Tim. If only to fulfill the wishes of a dying man."
"Thank you."
They sit for a moment in companionable silence. "What about you? What do you think of me?" Damian finally blurts out.
Tim continues to stare at a blank spot on his wall. "I do think that you're a good person, if that's what you're worried about."
"I am not worried. Just curious."
"Well, what else are you curious about?"
"I am curious," he admitted. "About us."
"Why?"
"You spend your time yelling at me for minor offenses, and constantly lecturing me about disgracing the Robin legacy. Yet you think me as a good person. How is that possible?"
Tim snorts, and sits up. Damian doesn't stop him. Drake peers down at him. "Seriously? If you're wondering about me, how about you? You stay at my bedside, take care of me, and tell me that my hatred is refreshing, yet you still insist that you do not care. What's your deal?"
Damian sneers. "If you still truly believe I do not care, Drake, you are a fool . Of course I care. You're the only family I have left. Forget it. What's between us, whatever it is, does not matter. You are going to die in-" he glances at the clock. "Eight minutes and fifteen seconds."
"It does matter," Suddenly Tim is in Damian's face, their noses barely an inch apart. (How the fuck did he move so fast?) "If it matters to you."
Damian flushes and turns his face away. "It matters, of course, as I'm fairly sure there's an I in us-"
"Good," Tim says, eyes bright. "Because it matters to me too."
Tim is the one to lean forward first, but their mouths meet half-way.
The captain taps the sealed door to the renowned Batcave. " I don't know, Sergeant. It doesn't look like anyone's alive anyway."
The sergeant shrugs, swinging his flashlight to the ceiling. The single beam of light throws crazy shadows everywhere. "They did catch a signal, sir. Someone's in there and alive."
"It's been six months since the breakout. No way anyone's survive that long."
"Who knows, sir? Besides, we have our orders."
"Right. Orders," the captain backs away from the door. "I can't see a lock or mechanism of any kind, so I'll have to break it down." He hefts his gun and unlocks safety.
Then the door swings open, and Robin stands there. "Please, gentlemen. Refrain from breaking down the door. It is quite expensive."
The sergeant gapes at him. "You're alive!"
"I should think so. It'll be rather hard to talk to you otherwise." The vigilante says calmly. "The others are downstairs."
"The rest of the Bats. They're alive too?"
"No." He turns and leads them down the stairs. "Nightwing, Batman, Black Bat, Red Hood and Spoiler are in the freezers below. Oracle is in her work room above."
The captain feels a surge of hope. "Red Robin? He's alive?"
"No." He stops in front of another door, typing in the password. The door hisses open. It reveals a huge cave, complete with the. A huge computer spans in the left, and the Batmobile rests in the back.
Oh the right, the dominating factor is the coffin.
The sergeant walks forward, brushing his fingers on the wooden surface. "Jason Peter Todd," he reads. "I thought he'd been dead for years."
"Came back to life," Robin informs. "Clawed his way out. I thought I'd reuse it."
The captain steps to stand beside him, and shifts the lid. "Tim Drake," he breathes. "Bruce Wayne's son."
"Adoptive," Robin mutters absently. "Former Red Robin."
The captain turns with wide eyes. "Bruce Wayne's Batman?"
"Was," the vigilante reminds. "Dead now."
"Bruce Wayne was Batman?" The sergeant echoes.
"Yes," Robin says dismissively. "How much extra space do you have on your jet?"
"About enough for you, if that's what you mean."
"Enough for the coffin?"
The sergeant squints. "Probably, but barely."
"Take the coffin," the vigilante turns to the computer screen. He draws up a black armchair, abd sits down in it. He boots the computer, loading a webpage.
"The coffin?"
"The coffin," he confirms. "Give Drake a proper burial."
"What about you?"
"I'll be fine. I have work to finish here."
"We'll come back for you," the sergeant offers. "I'm fairly sure exceptions can be made for Robin-"
"There is no need. Once Gotham is opened to the rest of the world, I will ride the Batmobile out . The Batcave have many devices that are not for the public eye."
The captain scowls. "You do realize how that sounds."
"I do, and unfortunately, everything I say is true." Robin clicks open another page, one covered in html, and begins to type.
"Okay..." The sergeant glances at the captain. The man shrugs, and presses a hand to his ear. "Pilot? We have something for you. Arrange pick-up outside the Wayne Manor."
"Together," he commands the sergeant, and in uniform precision, they both kneel, hands clasping ob the coffin handles. Rising, they begin in to shuffle out of the cave.
"Wait."
The captain turns to look at Robin. The vigilante has swiveled around in his chair, and in giant leather embrace of the chair, he looks as venerable and small as the child he is.
"You will give him a funeral, right?" He asks worriedly. "You're not going to run expiriments on him?"
The captain hesitates. "I'll do my best, kid."
"Promise?" Mask or no mask, the captain can see his eyes, wide and green and childlike.
The last of an emotionless vigilante group was just a boy. A broken, fragile child, who had seen the death of all his family.
The last Bat is just a child.
"Yeah, Robin," he says softly. "I promise."
The boy turns back to the computer, a smile on his face. "Thank you."
This took way too long. Seriously. Ten days straight?
Oh, the DamiTim bit. Of course there's a long version. Vote: post or not post as the next chapter?
Special thanks to my beta, as usual. Also thanks to the kids in my class, who answered the weird question I asked them.