He knew he should sleep. He should put down the stupid laptop and sleep. But it wasn't that simple. It never was.
He had photos of her smiling, laughing, being happy. And now she was in critical care and he didn't know if she'd live. So he dealt with the pain in the only way he knew he could; he worked on cold cases and evidence. But he hadn't slept for a week. He really should sleep.
But he couldn't. And every time he tried, he thought of her some more. Stephanie.
Tim couldn't take it any longer. He threw the laptop across the room, listening to the satisfying thump as it hit the wall and the screen shattered.
He wanted to let go, just this once. He wanted to not be the perfect child his parents expected. To scream, to shout, to break down. To anything.
"Timmy?" Tim should have realized the noise the laptop would make. He shouldn't have broken it.
"Go away," Tim replied despondently, staring at the wall. He would have said it was Dick, or Alfred. But the footsteps weren't even, like the butler, or soft and gentle on the carpet like the former acrobat's steps. They left their own mark on the world, silent and deadly. A hand, large and calloused, reached out to his shoulder.
And suddenly, Tim was crying into Bruce's shirt. It smelled of cinnamon, just like on that night.
And Tim remembered that it was this that he loved, it was this that caused him to meet Steph, and it was this that she was dying from. And he hated it and loved it, the addiction of adrenaline and the ability to make a difference.
Of all the 'ifs', this was the biggest.
And suddenly, when he realized Bruce might be crying too, he decided, maybe, this was the one thing he would never take back.