When Bruce finds him, he is pale, tiny, shivering, his lips are blue and his eyes pale and unfocussed.
He looks dead.
Bruce instantly wraps his arms around him, feeling dread pooling at his stomach as he desperately searches for a pulse and finds it faint and beating against his fingers, weakened.
He is on his way to the Batcave within seconds.
He won't let him die.
—-
Dr. Fate appears behind him just as Zatanna pronounces Tim's condition out of her range of magic and Bruce's heart sinks – because he has done all in his power, in his knowledge, and nothing seems to make it better, nothing seems to help Tim get any warmer and he is desperate – his hands tightly holding his charge's smaller one.
"It is fortunate that I found you Witch of Words," Dr. Fate says ominously, walking towards the woman, only to stop at the gurney still holding the still teenager, his head tilting to the side.
"I'm kinda busy right now, Dr.," Zatanna scowls, her ruby lips pursing in distaste.
Dr. Fate doesn't seem to be listening to her any longer.
"Fate?" Bruce asks, red-rimmed eyes locking onto the other man's own.
"You must forgive me, Man of Bat," the magician apologizes, his hand hovering over Tim's blue lips and sallow skin. "It has been centuries indeed since I've laid my eyes upon a Child of the Fae. I thought the extinct from this plane of existence."
Zatanna's eyes grow wide.
"A Child of the Fae? Impossible!" she gasps, turning to stare at the unconscious teen.
"Is it?" Dr. Fate asks back, his fingers pulling Tim's hair back and examining the gentle curve of his ears, and how they seem more pronounced than they used to, how they appear to compliment his pale skin in their minuteness. "This boy is a Child of the Fae alright, most likely brought upon this land by the tears of a maiden, judging by the shape he has presented himself in."
"Child of the Fae," Bruce snaps. "Stop the riddles and explain, Fate."
It is Zatanna who replies, however, her eyes wide in awe.
"When a woman of a pure heart cannot be granted the joy of motherhood she so seeks," she recites from memory. "She might be chosen by the Goddess with a Child of the Fae to fulfill her wishes, a child of two world brought upon as the one that will change the tides and heal the wounded."
Bruce's eyes widen and, of course, he should have known all along that something about Tim was different from his other Robins.
No one in the world should be so forgiving and resilient, so loyal and…
No, of course Tim had to be special.
He will think about the implications later.
"How do I help him?" he asks, his fingers caressing the back of the teen's frozen hand.
Dr. Fate turns to him, his hands folding behind his back.
"You must understand, Man of Bat, that this is a child born to love," he explains patiently. "And it is love that has been keeping him alive to this day, without the love of those around him, he is to wither and return to the fae where he belongs."
"He's dying?" Zatanna interrupts her eyes wide.
"Without the thing that sustains him, of course," Fate replies.
"Love," Bruce repeats.
Fate nods.
"I do understand that you and your family were not sent to this plane to love, Man of Bat, but I also understand that allowing a Child of Fae to wither is a crime against all the realms, and thus I see myself forced to remove him from your care and to a more suitable environment for his recovery."
Fate cannot take a step forward before he finds himself a Batarang at his throat and Bruce's arms protectively wrapped around the limp body of his son.
He blinks.
"He's mine," the man hisses at the magician, his voice full of passion. "You won't touch him."
Dr. Fate stares.
Bruce's brows furrow in thought and, with a sigh of relief, Zatanna whispers to Fate that everything will be alright.
The Child will survive and flourish, she is sure of it.
—-
Tim opens his eyes, confused and dizzy to realize he's back at the Manor, the pale light of winter sneaks into the room through the window – and he is particularly sure they were in summer just a second ago, he could swear it even – and the cold of the snow is warded off by the mountain of blankets piled on top of him unhelpfully.
"Huh?" he asks, frowning. "This isn't my room."
"It is now," Bruce's voice replies and Tim feels his whole face flush in embarrassment when he looks up and realizes his comfortable pillow is really his mentor's thigh and how on earth did this happen? "Don't move, you are still sick."
"I'm… sick?" Tim whispers back, trying to sit up and realizing he has been strapped to Bruce's massive bed in a way, because his chest is heavy and he can't move his arms.
"You worried us to death, Tim," another voice whispers in his ear and suddenly the straps holding him are caressing his arm and, really, he should have realized it's not a strap but Dick's muscled arm holding him against his side.
"Dick," he says, confused.
"You slept for almost a year, Tim," Dick pouts, his eyes dull and wounded. "I thought you would never wake up."
"Don't scare us again," a third voice calls, and Tim is now terribly away of the soft breasts pressed against his left shoulder and the slender fingers caressing his hair.
"Cass," he says, gulping.
"Little brother must rest," she whispers, kissing his hear. "We love you."
Dick laughs in relief, snuggling to Tim's right side at the same time that Cass nuzzles his hair with her nose and he really, really wants to call out for help because, Bruce! They are practically molesting him, but the older man is just looking at the three of them with a small smile of satisfaction on his face that seems more dangerous than anything Tim has ever seen.
He remains silent and lets them, not sure he wants to know why.
—-
It takes him a week to start walking again and most of the time a little excursion through the house leaves him winded and tired, and he could swear he can see Bruce writing on a little pad some notes about 15 or so years of neglect against overdosing on needed spiritual nutrients but, of course, he must be mistaken because Bruce has never been the religious type and he is most likely indulging the rest of the family of their fright of losing another child and yes, he won't be the next Jason Todd if he can help it.
And speaking of Jason…
"Baby Bird, you can't go running around without your shoes," the other teen growls, just as Tim feels strong arms wrapping around his legs and pulling him towards one of the fussiest carpets of the house, gently depositing his body on the couch and bundling him up in one of Alfred's usually crocheted blankets like a little worm-and/or-baby.
He scowls.
"I'm perfectly capable of walking myself, Jason," he says, his voice still a little raspy with disuse.
"And yet you don't take care of yourself," the other man says, plopping by his side. "Plus you should stop the Demon Brat before he makes my ears bleed."
Tim sighs and will not comment how unnerving is that Jason moved back to the Manor and is always hanging around him whenever Dick and Bruce are busy, making sure he eats and always has a thick blanket around himself.
He thinks Jason must have been frightened by the thought of another falling to his fate – replacement or not – and is pulling all the repressed needs of his to be a protector and needed and focusing them on Tim's weakened body and, yes, Tim feels bad and at the same time grateful because it took his near death experience to get Jason and Bruce to stay in the same room without coming to blows and yes, he is happy for them.
"Todd, you are definitely going to suffocate Timothy if you continue," Damian scolds as he enters the room, a book held carefully in his hands.
Tim has to smile because, while Jason is a little sad bundle of issues and psychological trauma, he can only feel warmed by the care Damian uses whenever he approaches him, gently holding his hand to check his temperature and his pulse while he rests on his knees by the couch, reverently staring at the older teens.
Despite his assassin upbringings and all, Damian is still a child and must have been scared when the whole house went mad with grief over little old Tim, he must have never faced death of a family member quite like this, a non-violent, agonizingly slow death-prospect and yes, he is flattered their Demon Brat did a three-sixty and is now constantly hanging around, asking for his advice.
No, might feel guilty, but he will not complain.
"What happened?" he asks.
"Todd is making fun of my pronunciation," Damian frowns, his cheeks flushing. "Father will be meeting Mr. Saravia soon and it is unacceptable that I cannot hold an intelligent conversation with the man while father plays the fool."
"But he speaks so funny Saravia is going to laugh his ass off!" Jason chuckles, lighting a cigarette and standing to walk towards the window, if only to keep the smoke away from their frail Timothy.
"Let's hear it," Tim says, straightening a little.
Damian sighs, opening his book.
"Considerandoh ell direccion del proyecto ojetivo," Damian tries. "La mejor opción seria Catalonia."
Tim tries to keep his smile at bay while Jason openly and loudly laughs, hand slapping his own knee in mirth.
Damian flushes, hands tightening.
"It's not bad," Tim sighs, pulling the book from Damian's tight fists. "But you are trying too hard on the Latin American pronunciation while it would be logical of you to lean towards a more Spanish lisp. Considering you have been with your mother for most of your life and she is not from the continent."
Damian's eyes grow wide, his knees pulling him closer to the other boy as Tim patiently explains where he has failed and gently coaches him on every vowel and consonant until the words are flowing easily from his lips.
Tim won't admit it – not even under torture and threat of death – but the superior smirk Damian shoots Jason when he has been deemed perfect fills him with infinite warmth, especially when the boy's fingers caress his own and his head rests on Tim's lap in gratitude.
And all it took for him was to die, apparently.
—-
Tim has become accustomed to his new routine by the end of the fourth month, he spends his day with Alfred or Jason or Damian, studying, working on W.E. or even relaxing in the gardens. Once a week he endures Leslie's prodding and poking and pretends to preen under her proud exclamations over his fast recovery if only to see Bruce's chest swell with pride.
At night he goes on patrol with someone else from the family, usually Dick or Cass and whenever he is needed at the Titan's Tower Damian holds his hand and demands that the clone and the others show respect for his older brother.
Once his day ends, he will always fall asleep cuddled to someone, be it Dick, Cass, Jason, Damian or Bruce himself, depending who is available and who has caught more rouges during the night – and no, he won't think himself a tasty treat to the winner, he's not that conceited – and he has realized he never slept as well as when there are muscled arms wrapped around his waist and powerful legs tangled with his own.
How come he lived for so long with this kind of contact?
He is not sure, but a year ago he would have shied away from them all with all his might and, most probably, a panic attack to boot.
He guesses dying and coming back in a non-lazarus induced rage has its perks.
For now, though, he patiently listens to Alfred as the old man teaches him how to sift the earth around the roses in the garden without damaging any of the delicate roots because the Englishman has really wanted to do this for a while, but his bones are not what they used to and his back aches after a while and sure Master Timothy's delicate hands are better suited to this job than Master Dick's overzealous ones.
Alfred blinks, eyeing curiously the way Tim's fingers seem to carefully run over a shriveled stump of dried branches and thorns, examining the plant curiously.
"Hey! Tim!" Dick calls suddenly, breaking the afternoon quiet with its warm boisterousness. "Your friends are here!"
Tim's eyes light up as he sees Kon and Bart standing behind Dick, waving video games at him with twin grins of delight.
"Go, Master Tim," Alfred says, smiling. "I'll bring you a snack as soon as you and your friends are settled in the sitting room."
"Thank you, Alfred," Tim's smile is sunny in its shyness and the old man feels the urge to run his aged hands through his black hair, which only makes his foster grandson flush before running to join his friends.
From the window, Bruce observes their interaction, his own lips curling into a satisfied smile as he notices that the branch Tim had been caressing, all dried and dead, is slowly sprouting the greenest leaves and small ruby red petals once again.
"We're making it," he whispers to the others in the room with him. "He's never going to die."
Jason nods from his seat at the foot of Tim's bed, his arms wrapped around the teen's pillow. By his side, Cass nods as well, her head resting on Jason's shoulder comfortably.
Damian sighs, wondering outloud why they have to share their Child of Fae with those buffoons Tim calls friends but is resigned when his father's scowl mirrors his own.
"For now, Damian," he says. "But one day, we will move forward."
The rest of the family's eyes glint in the shadows, untold hunger sparked by a desperate need to protect.
"Tim will never need for love again."
