A/N: Heeeyy, it took me over a year, but I'm back! With angsty Tim. Of course.

Had this idea two years ago; had the same couple hundred words in the document until tonight. Had the idea as a way to vent; finished it in order to vent. And because I've been struggling to write again for MONTHS now. "Focus on the Fallout" honestly drained me so much, I just didn't/couldn't write for months, and when I finally tried to come back, I'd forgotten how. So I apologize if this is awkward, as I'm trying to find my writer's voice again.

Timeline wise, somewhere in/after the Red Robin series.

Alsooo...I have a tumblr now! You can find me as thingr1, if anyone's interested. :)

Anyway. Hope you enjoy, if you can.

It had been…a week.

A month.

A year.

(A life.)

Tim wasn't exactly sure what happened; couldn't outline the exact events that brought him to this point, couldn't describe the feelings squeezing his chest to where he could hardly breathe.

Everything was a blur. An achromatic slideshow of black and white and grey flitting behind his eyelids, making him pause. A thick, heavy fog clouding his mind, spreading through his limbs, locking him firmly in the place.

Whatever it was. Tim couldn't move.

Water pounded down all around him, hot to the point of scalding, hard to the point of desensitizing, loud to the point of deafening.

Tim couldn't move.

Time was irrelevant. He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing beneath the brutal spray, knees locked, head drooped over his chest. Through the curtain of scraggly wet strands of hair, he thought maybe his fingertips were wrinkled. Couldn't be bothered to twitch enough to find out for sure. Wasn't sure he could if he tried.

Tim…was tired.

Of fighting. (Endless battling, wrestling monsters both physical and in his mind.)

Of trying. (Always working, always striving, still never being enough.)

Of…breathing. (It shouldn't be this hard to inhale, shouldn't be this tight and heavy in his chest; squeezing his lungs, forcing the air out, not letting it back in.)

Tim couldn't move.

Couldn't if he tried.

He just…he just wanted it to stop.

Somehow, someway, a voice pierced through the dark cloud of his thoughts; quiet, yet rising above the drumming of the water against the stone: "Tim?"

And…Tim recognized that voice. Should be able to identify it, but couldn't quite place it. A dim flicker of panic pinged at the back of his mind. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be making them (who?) worry. Move. Move.

Tim couldn't move.

"Tim…?" the voice called again. "You in here, little bro?"

Yes, Tim thought, a tinge hysterical (movemoveMOVE). Yes…no. I don't know, we talking physically or mentally?

"Tim?"

Tim couldn't move.

A faint rustle behind him—the shower curtain. A soft sigh.

And then a hand reached around him, calloused and agile, twisting the shower knob to the 'off' position.

The silence that followed was almost deafening in its own right, Tim's body tingling strangely at the sudden lack of stimulation.

Tim shivered reflexively as the heat from the water began to seep from of his skin, the source of it having left him to swirl down the drain through the pipes and cold, damp, cave air rushing in to take its place. Tim…couldn't bring himself to care.

A faint rustle of fabric sounded behind him; a weighted flap as something large was shaken out.

And...Tim is 17, he's not a child…not Damian, he can take care of himself, and…Dick (of course it was Dick) didn't have to, shouldn't be…

A familiar weight draped over his shoulders, soft, heavy fabric rippling around his body. In his periphery, Tim recognized it as the plush, off white thing (towel) whose width reached neck to knees that Dick had fondly dubbed the 'Tortilla, ready to make Batburritos at a moments notice.'

"Come on, buddy," Dick coaxed gently, firm hand at his back, guiding him from the stall. Patiently steadying him as Tim stumbled as legs stiff from standing straight so long buckled beneath him.

Once they'd reached the small locker room located outside the shower stalls, Dick stopped them, turning once more to face Tim.

He began rubbing Tim's arms through the towel. Firm (grounding) but not rough, soaking up excess water drops, coaxing warmth back into skin chilled from the damp cave air; worked his way down Tim's torso, down to his legs, even rubbing the tops of his feet with a dangling corner of fabric.

Finally (too soon), Dick sat back on his heels, nodding in satisfaction. Tilted his head back up to meet Tim's eyes. Smiled, small. "You okay?"

Pressure built behind Tim's eyes, something hot pressing at the corners of his lids.

Say 'yes,' a voice hissed in the back of his mind. Don't be a bother. You're fine, don't waste his time.

Tim opened his mouth. A shaky breath of air puffed out instead of a response, the lump lodged in his throat making itself suddenly apparent.

Something wet curled down his cheek. At first, Tim thought (hoped) it was excess water dripping off the ends of his hair.

The suspicious warmth of the drop and Dick's heartbroken gaze told him otherwise.

"Aw, Timmy," Dick whispered. Rose to his feet, taking Tim in his arms and pressing the teen's face against his shoulder.

A silent sob shook Tim's frame before he could stop it. That was the last straw for his stiff legs. They rebelled completely, collapsing so he was sagging against the other man (his brother).

And Dick—screw what everyone said about him—knew how to be quiet when it counted. Just cradled Tim against him, pressed a kiss into his damp hair, and held him as the salt trickled over his lips, desperate gasps (sobs) heaving from his lungs.

And…Tim didn't deserve this. Shouldn't be accepting comfort from his idol (from anyone), shouldn't allow Dick to come in contact with his filth.

Yet he couldn't find the strength to say 'no.' (Tim couldn't move.)

"It's okay," Dick murmured. (Tim became dimly aware that at some point they had ended up on the floor, Dick on his knees, Tim half curled and naked beneath the toga-like towel in the man's lap. Couldn't bring himself to care.) "I've got you. You're going to be okay."

Going to be.

Somehow, that hurt less than if Dick had said Tim was okay.

Because he wasn't.

Hadn't been for so (too) long.

It was…hopeful, in a way. That in the future, he could be okay.

Because he wasn't now.

He wasn't, he couldn't be, he…he…

Tim couldn't move.

Pathetic. He was…so pathetic, he…

"Sshh," Dick hushed, clutching him tighter, and Tim realized with a start that he'd said that last bit out loud (stupid). "You're not pathetic. You're Tim Drake. And Tim Drake is strong. Tim Drake is smart. Tim Drake is kind, funny, talented, handsome—"he poked Tim's side, teasing—"and has the most adorable laugh. Tim Drake is, if I had to sum him up in one word: Amazing. In so many ways." Dick's voice fell, tone turning sad. "I just wish he could see it."

Then there was a hand stroking through his hair, brushing out the tangles, massaging against his scalp.

"I won't pretend to understand what you're going through right now. But you can get through this, okay? You're not alone. We'll help you. Bruce, Jason, Cass, Steph, Barbara, Alfred…we've all got your back." Dick chuckled, warm and comforting, rumbling deep in his chest and tickling through Tim's frame. "Even Damian, though he won't admit it."

Tim stayed silent; mortified, frozen… Unsure how to respond.

"Hey," Dick pressed. "Look at me?"

No. No, Tim couldn't do that. Tim couldn't do that because Tim couldn't…

His eyes rose of their own accord, up, up, straight into brilliant blue eyes that positively lit up when Tim's reached them.

"There we go," Dick said, encouraging. "There's Timmy."

Dick leaned down, Tim unable (unwilling) to so much as twitch as Dick pressed a kiss against his forehead. "We love you, Timmy," the man whispered. "All of us. We love you so much. And that'll never change, no matter what. Remember that, okay?"

Remember.

Not 'don't forget.'

Not 'believe.'

Not 'understand.'

Just remember.

Tim…Tim could do that.

He nodded. Small. Barely a twitch. (Tim could(n't?) move.)

A blinding grin spread across Dick's features. Bright, so bright. Proud towards him in a way Tim still didn't quite understand.

Another kiss to the forehead. An extra squeeze around his waist, drawing him close(r). "Love you, Timmy."

Tim swallowed. Hands twitching up at his sides, reaching to clutch at Dick's shirt. Swallowed once more, harder. "Love you…too. Dick." Hoarse. Barely audible.

The answering crushing embrace (so at odds with the releasing tension in his chest) was enough.

Tim's arms crept around Dick's waist, squeezing back; if not as tight, as sincere.

(And it may not be perfect, it may not be complete, but…Tim could move.)