Did somebody order an update?
Tim had spent the entire day reading his mystery novel in his room. He hadn't come down to eat or socialize or even get a drink of water. Usually, Alfred would bring something for him to eat or at least drink. But his lack of assistance meant he wanted Tim to come down. Something that wasn't happening.
Though there were moments when he wondered if going down was really as bad as sitting in his room with the illusion.
"Speak." Tim told him, looking up from his book randomly, "Say something."
The illusion showed his teeth as he smiled brightly, but he said nothing, like this was all a game to him, and he was winning.
His illusion hadn't said a word since Tim had gone down to breakfast. Now, he just walked around the room. He looked out the window. He stared at Tim. He even used the bathroom, once.
It made Tim shut his eyes and shake his head. He referred to the illusion as an illusion because he knew it wasn't real. Though it felt real, it wasn't. Though it looked real, it couldn't be. Yet, every minute, Tim seemed to forget that a little more and his illusion seemed to become just a bit more real. A bit more relatable. And honestly, his illusion was kind of funny. What, with his smile and eye rolls. He was sarcastic, which Tim thought humorous. And clearly, he was braver than Tim.
Tim would never call Jason a douche bag to his face.
Tim hadn't seen anyone besides his illusion all day, but nearing the end of the evening, Alfred came up to personally instruct Tim to come down for dinner.
"Alfred, please." Tim begged, "Please don't make me go back down there."
"Five minutes!" Alfred called over his shoulder as he headed back down the stairs.
He knew Tim would follow. And Tim hated himself for doing just that. He was willingly feeding himself to the lions. But with any luck, he would go ignored, and every one would carry on around him like they used to. And that would be that and he could eat and pretend like everyone at the table didn't hate him.
Why did everyone think putting Tim back into these situations would somehow cute and fix things? Why did Dick and Alfred think talking about things and expressing himself and being forced to be with Bruce and Damian and Jason would just make them come together and be friends and family?
In the dining room, Dick had set the table, clearly. Plates were put as if he'd thrown them. Forks were to the left of all the plates. Napkins were definitely tossed. Cups were all over the place. Alfred would permit the sloppiness only because this was honestly Dick's best effort. When it came to food, he was typically in such a rush to eat that nothing else made sense or mattered. Making him reset the table would only lessen his effort.
"I found my 16th century assassin," Jason said, taking a seat at the table, "His head was cut off. I found his body two blocks away."
"Ew," Dick said, "Decapitation isn't really dinner conversation."
"It is in this house." Damian said, "What cut his head off, Todd?"
"Some kind of curved sword," Jason shrugged, "I found that down one of the sewers."
Tim managed to get placed between Dick and Alfred, no doubt their attempt to make this easier and possibly more normal for him. The moment Bruce joined the table, though, there was something off about him. He kept his head down. He had little wrinkles between his eyebrows. He didn't look at anything but his folded hands on the table.
Tim saw it easily on Bruce's face, and it seemed that Alfred had also taken note. But neither said a word. Instead, Tim watched Bruce silently as his brothers ate and bickered lightly.
"...I just didn't like school that much," Dick shrugged. "I don't see you fighting to get into college."
"I've seen enough preppy rich kids to last me two lifetimes." Jason retorted, "So no 'effin way."
"Maybe you'll like it, though." Dick suggested, "Police academy was… kind of fun."
"That requires me getting up early, which is already two strikes in my book."
"Todd is incapable of regulated schedules." Damian spoke up, and Jason smacked the table, smiling.
"Thank you, demon child." he said, "See? I don't do schedules."
"But police work is a great cover up for a hero." Dick suggested, "You could be a detective. Or a cop."
"I'm not gonna be a freakin' cop with you, so stop it."
"We can all be cops!" Dick tried, and Jason just groaned massaging his temples.
Bruce cleared his throat, suddenly, and the table went quiet.
Tim had been waiting for Bruce to say something. He hoped it might be along the lines of a vacation. The family could use one. Maybe Tim could take that time to reset himself. Get himself back on track.
No talk of a vacation went up, though. Instead, Bruce put his water down, folded his hands, and looked at Tim hard.
Tim swallowed, putting his own fork down. This was the most attention he'd gotten from Bruce in what felt like a long time. In his mind, Tim heard Bruce apologize for his cold and demeaning behavior. Tim heard Bruce say that he was sorry for his actions. Tim heard Bruce say that he wanted things to go back to the way they were. Tim heard heard Bruce say that he was glad, lucky, even, to have Tim on his team.
The illusion had been standing behind Tim all of dinner and had been easy to ignore, but now he walked around the table and stood beside Bruce. He watched Tim from there, and Tim focused on not staring at it. That would be obvious, and Tim didn't need his family thinking he was seeing things in addition to all his other problems.
"Tim," Bruce, said, and Tim sat up straighter.
He put the illusion from his mind and got himself prepared to forgive Bruce. Prepared to smile again. Prepared to blush at the attention of everyone at the table. Prepared for Damian to roll his eyes. For Jason to snort. Prepared to have Dick clap, or something else more extra than Tim required.
"Tim," Bruce said again, his eyebrows furrowed, and Tim couldn't help a small, miniscule smile.
Bruce was seriously having a hard time apologizing. It was sad, but also a little amusing. Touching, too. Tim must have honestly meant something to Bruce for Bruce to apologize so publicly and vocally. This was not a mere pat on the shoulder. This was a freaking Grammy.
"Tim, you're father is dead."
Dick reacted first, with a disbelieving gasp. The glass he'd held in his hand shattered as he dropped it to the floor.
Alfred covered his mouth, looking back and forth between Bruce and Tim.
Jason and Damian, for once, said nothing. They didn't stop eating, but they didn't say anything either.
Tim blinked at Bruce. Once. Twice. A third time. His small smile fell and he repeated the sentence again and again in his head, but it seemed like he just couldn't quite wrap his head around it.
'Tim, you father is dead'. That was so straightforward. So direct and precise. Exactly how he liked things. There was nothing else the sentence could mean, and yet, Tim found himself slow to understand it.
His father… was dead. Dead. Dead. Not alive. Deceased. Unliving, which wasn't a word, but Tim found it oddly easier to believe.
"How long ago?" Jason asked, his mouth full of food.
Tim turned to him slowly, a question forming in his mind in slow motion. What did Jason care?
"A nurse stopped by yesterday." Bruce said, "She mentioned Jack had only a short time left. He died early this morning."
And then Tim was propelled into the future, and time was restored.
"You knew he was dying?" Tim asked, quietly.
He spoke slow, and softly, and everyone at the table looked at him with wide eyes. Looked at him like he were a caged animal. Like he was a crazy, suicidal man on the edge of a building. Like at any moment, he might snap and explode or jump.
"You knew he was dying," Tim repeated, his statement no longer a question. "And you didn't tell me. You knew he would die yesterday, and you didn't tell me."
Bruce said nothing. His face didn't even change. The illusions face, on the other hand, lit up with mirth.
"That is the worst thing he's ever done to us." it said, happily.
The illusion leaned over Bruce, picking a scallop off of his plate and eating it.
"But you know what's funny? Bruce with a shrimp scampi hat on."
The illusion grabbed Bruce's plate and flipped it upside down on Bruce's head.
Tim's eyes widened. His illusion had never interacted with anyone directly like that, and Tim wondered how Bruce would react. But even though noodles were sliding down his hair and suit jacket, Bruce didn't seem to notice, and that… was kind of funny.
"Think Dick wants a shrimp scampi hat, too?"
Shrimp was actually the one seafood that Dick didn't like. It was why his plate was void of them. But it was funny to see the illusion flip Dick's plate on his head too. It was even funnier when the illusion flipped Jason's and Damian's plate on their heads.
"So the old man's dead. Big whoop, how long has he been dead to us, honestly? No, what we need to really focus on, is why Damian's eating that noodle in his nose."
Tim looked to the youngest, and sure enough, he was eating a noodle that dangled straight from his nose.
As disgusting as that was, the want to laugh at that was nearly overwhelming, which was weird and strange. Here he'd just been told his father was dead, but honestly, he felt no earthquakes of emotion. Only pain at suppressing his laughter.
When had his father ever put him first? Isn't that what parent did? They put their children first, didn't they? From the moment Tim could come to his own conclusions, he'd known that counting on Jack Drake would only leave him disappointed. Jack didn't care or love him. Jack was selfish. He was stubborn. He was prideful, and rude, and he didn't think anything through. He was exactly what Tim strived not to be. His death meant as much as a strangers death did.
Unfortunate, but not worth any more thought than what he'd already given.
No, watching Damian eat noodles out his nose, as childish as it seemed, was so much more entertaining and humorous to think about.
A small chuckle escaped him, and he covered his mouth to try and stifle his smile and small laughs. His eyes welled up from trying so hard to hold back, but it was futile, and a hiccup and finally a chuckle got out.
Everyone was staring at him- his eyes lit with mirth, his hands failing to cover his grin- and it was the last push he needed to let out a full blown (extremely inappropriate) laugh.
He got up from the table quickly, despite Alfred's call of 'master Timothy', Bruce's raised eyebrow, and Dick literally trying to reach out to grab him, and ran down the hall and up the stairs to his room where he slammed his door behind him. He didn't let his hands fall from his mouth until he was safe in his own room and laughed good and hard for all of 30 seconds.
"I don't think I'll be eating noodles for a while now."
Tim sobered up suddenly, and everything crashed on him in a slow, building, wave.
He could see the table now: Bruce and Alfred raising an eyebrow at each other. Damian shaking his head and continuing to eat. Jason laughing at his weirdness. And Dick most likely on his way up at that very moment.
Bruce announced his father was dead at the table, which first off, was not cool. But Tim had laughed. He'd laughed a real, full blown laugh. Everyone had to think he'd cracked.
That outburst of Tim's was enough to have him breathless and his stomach muscles hurting. But now that it was over, he felt tired and… sick. Very, very sick.
This realization was a bit of a shock, and he hurried into his bathroom, slamming the door behind him again to vomit into the toilet.
A light knock came to the bathroom door, and Tim knew it was Dick immediately.
"Yeah," Tim called, weakly, "I'll be out in a minute."
Dick had probably gone and sat on the bed at that point, but the moment Tim had ceased vomiting, he'd felt the need to do it again. And again. And again. And then the knock came again, but firmer, and Dick just came in.
"Timmy?" Dick said, "I'm concerned."
"Yeah," Tim sighed, getting up and flushing the toilet, "Me too."
Tim grabbed onto the tub, the wall, the shower, as he made his way to the sink to wash his face and brush his teeth. He knees were shaking and his legs felt nearly nonexistent. He was gasping for air, a fact he tried to conceal from Dick, who was watching. And he could feel sweat rolling down his back.
How had he gotten so sick, so fast?
"Tim," Dick tried, before biting his lip and looking away, "Tim, I'm… I-"
"Don't." Tim interrupted, "Not now."
He didn't want to hear how sorry Dick was. He didn't want to hear anything else about his father right now. He didn't want to think about how he'd always trudged to the hospital with reluctance. Or about how he'd always yelled at his father when he'd asked about the bruises Tim 'mysteriously' got. Or about ignoring his father when he spoke, fearing any response would just cause an argument.
And he definitely didn't want to laugh. He didn't want to cry, either though. He just wanted to be left alone to think.
"I don't think Dick's smart enough to just leave us alone." the illusion sighed, sitting on the edge of the tub and cleaning under his fingernails. .
"What was with the laughing?" Dick asked in a burst, "You don't even laugh like that. That wasn't your laugh…"
"See? Not that smart."
Tim ran his cold rag over his face, which felt good, and looked at himself in the mirror. A startled gasp was stifled by his rag, and he looked through the mirror to see Dick wasn't watching him, but was staring at the floor, his arms folded as he thought.
Tim looked back at himself in the mirror before leaning down to splash more cold water in his face. Obviously, he was seeing things. But no, when he looked back at himself in the mirror, his eyes were indeed, green.
Tim's legs buckled, and he would have fallen had Dick not caught him.
"Whoa, whoa, kiddo." he said, picking Tim up and carrying him out the bathroom, "You are obviously sick."
He put Tim in his bed, but Tim pointedly refused to look at him, less his brother see his eyes. Logically, something told him he ought to show his brother, but subconsciously, he refused to let himself appear any weaker than he'd already been made out to be. Laughing at dinner. Green eyes.
Could that be any more of an alarm?
"Let me take a look at you, Timmy." Dick said, laying his hands on Tim's cheek and forehead.
"Let's look at him. I wanna see his face when he notices."
Tim refused to turn and look at him. He couldn't let Dick see his eyes. He couldn't let the one who cared about him most see this fault in him. The only logical explanation was that this was some side effect of whatever the Joker had done to him. His eyes hadn't just changed from blue to any old shade of green. His eyes had been vibrant, almost aglow. And Joker was the only one who had eyes like that.
"What is going on with you, Tim?" Dick asked, still trying to make Tim face him. "Just let me… check… your… pupils."
Dick had ditched the 'good/gentle brother' approach and had climbed onto the bed to literally try and force Tim to look at him. But it turned into an all out brawl as Tim denied him that.
Tim pushed and hit at his brother tactfully but blindly, refusing to look at him, and Dick tried to catch his hands to stop him. Even crawling on top of Tim, cutting off his ability to kick him, didn't yield fruitful results.
"This is better than wrestling." the illusion laughed.
"Timmy, stop." Dick tried, "Just let me - ow- I just want to - hey! - Timmy, quit it. What is the matter with you?"
Tim refused to say, and he refused to give in, when Dick brought his feet in (a sure sign that he was done playing games) he was able to pin Tim's shoulder down with his foot, pin Tim's arm down with his hand, and made Tim turn his head to look at him.
Tim screamed at him, fighting to break the hold, but Dick was stronger.
"Aww," the illusion pouted, looking at Tim over Dick's shoulder, "They're blue again. I liked them green."
Tim relaxed tremendously at that, and Dick did too in retaliation.
"He hasn't let you go." the illusion warned, suddenly.
Tim didn't understand the significance of that until he realized Dick had grabbed his shoulder tightly.
"You don't have to let him…"
Dick was pressing on several pressure points, and Tim knew immediately why he was relaxing so quickly, now. Those pressed pressure points would put him out for a few hours.
"You don't have to let him make you sleep," the illusion repeated, "You can break his hold. Just break his wrist and you win!"
No. Maybe sleep was good right now. Maybe he needed some rest. His father had died and he'd laughed about it. In front of everyone. Dick had come to check on him, and he'd fought him about it. He and Dick never fought.
Who's to say the green eyes he'd saw wasn't just another illusion anyway? How could he know it was real? By trusting another illusion's word?
No. Sleep was a good idea right now, and he welcomed the darkness.
When Tim woke, the illusion was the first thing he saw. It sat beside him, and put a finger to his lips to make sure Tim didn't speak.
"They're talking about us."
Tim sat up onto his elbows. He could hear Damian's voice right outside his door.
"Can't we all just admit it?" Damian asked, "Drake has cracked. He's absolutely lost his mind."
"Don't say that," Dick whispered, "Tim is just under a lot of stress right now. And to be honest, you and Jason aren't helping."
"Leave me out of it." Jason threw in.
"Now," Dick said, "There's nothing wrong with Tim. He just needs some time to adjust. He's just lost his father, or did you all forget?"
Dick said he was fine. Damian said he was crazy. Which one was it? While Tim hoped it was Dick, he could not deny that something was wrong with him. The laughing. The illusion. He was losing touch with reality it seemed. But maybe he was just stressed.
Calming down and maybe some meditation would help fix all of that then, right?
"I implore you to forget about the laugh, master Dick." Alfred whispered. "Master Timothy is very ill. He cannot be held accountable right now for his behavior."
"I can't forget it," was Dick's reply, "Did you hear him? At first, I didn't think that was Tim's laugh at all. It sounded weird and strange, but then I thought about it, and I'm not even sure of the last time I'd really even heard him laugh. I don't know what it sounds like!"
Dick was shushed, and the conversation continued on too low for Tim to hear.
"That is pretty sad," the illusion sighed.
Tim just laid back, hoping sleep would overtake him again.
It didn't. And well into the night, he found himself trying to think of things to clean and reciting pi. He'd done the spice cabinet a few nights ago. And he'd reorganized the filing cabinet and the weapons wall. His clothes were pressed and neat. His books as organized as possible.
"I'm bored." the illusion sighed, making Tim jump.
Tim hadn't seen it in the far corner.
"Let's go out and do something."
Tim groaned at the onset of a headache. He closed his eyes, trying to sleep, but jumped yet again when the bed bounced.
"Get up!" the illusion yelled, jumping on the bed, "Come on, there's a million things we could be doing! It'll be fun!"
Tim wanted to shush him, but decided it best to go back to ignoring it. He acknowledged it once, and now, it wouldn't shut up. He mourned silence.
"At least use the bathroom first." the illusion said, jumping onto it's back, "We both know you'll lay there and pretend you don't have to go until you really have to go. Just get it over with."
That was really true, actually, so begrudgingly, Tim got out of bed. A bathroom in his room was always a godsend.
"With the old man dead," the illusion mused, as Tim used the bathroom, "We won't have any reason to go out during the day, which'll do wonders to our complexion. Robin only works at night, so, hello pale-town!"
Tim focused on not looking at the illusion as he washed his hands. He was feeling nauseous again, and his hands shook under the warm running water.
He looked at himself in the mirror and jumped, then frowned. His eyes were green again and he looked crazy. Livid. His hair wild, his clothes wrinkled. If there was one thing he hated, it was a mess. And right now, he looked it.
"I think you look great." the illusion said, looking at Tim through the mirror.
Tim shook his head. He wasn't listening. He wasn't looking. This was all in his imagination.
"You are not creative enough to conjure up someone as awesome as me," the illusion said, striking a pose in the mirror, "Now, why don't you stop your pretending, acknowledge me, and come out on the town with me. Come on, we'll paint it red!"
Tim wasn't listening. He wasn't.
"It's not like you have anyone else to go with. Who'd even care if they found your room empty?"
He wasn't listening.
"You've got no guts. No backbone, as Damian'd say. You don't belong here. You belong out there, with me!"
Tim seethed, and in a fit of rage, he punched his mirror, shattering the reflection of the illusion and cutting his knuckles. The illusion burst into a fit of laughter, but Tim looked down at his dripping, bloody hand.
He was definitely in shock. This was not like him.
"Kind of reminds me of slime." the illusion laughed, looking up in the broken the mirror, "Red slime. Imagine this poured on Jason's head."
Tim laughed suddenly at the blood dripping down the broken mirror. Jason would act brave, but he'd be totally creeped out.
Dizziness hit him hard and he grabbed the edge of the sink for balance. He couldn't stop his laughter now, and he put a hand on his tight stomach. A headache came full force and he let go of the sink, backing up against the wall behind him and sliding down the wall and onto the floor. His ribs hurt, and his head hurt, and he felt like passing out and throwing up at the same time.
"I love people that laugh at their own jokes." his illusion said nonchalantly.
Tim looked up through tears to see the Joker version of himself staring at him through the shattered remains of the mirror. His smile permanently plastered on his face, he turned to Tim slowly.
"Whatcha laughin' at?" he asked, and Tim shook his head.
That boy was imaginary. He was not real, so it was not sensible to acknowledge him. It was not logical to speak or interact or even look at the illusion. So Tim put his head down and into his knees. His laughing was dwindling down, finally, and he was gasping for air.
"Ignoring me again, eh?" the illusion sang lightly, "That's not gonna work."
That illusion was just a figment of Tim's imagination. It would go away if he willed it. If he meditated on it. If he concentrated hard enough and kept disregarding it.
Which got harder when the illusion grabbed him by his hair and made him look up.
"You can't ignore me," it said darkly, "I'm not an illusion. I'm real. And I can't hurt you."
And now the illusion was hostile. What a turn of events.
"What do you want?" Tim asked quietly.
"I want you to wake up." the boy said, letting his hair go, "Wake up from that fantasy of you and everyone getting along. They'll never accept you like you are. Batman'll never see you unless you give him a reason to. And what better reason than madness?"
"I'm not crazy." Tim said firmly.
"Yet here you are talking to yourself in an empty bathroom after a laughing fit. Sounds loony to me."
"I'm not crazy." Tim repeated and the boy just laughed.
"You're too serious is what you are." he said, "You gotta learn to see the hilarity in tragedy. You gotta learn to see the silver lining in black clouds. It's funny, kid. It's all funny. You'll see."
The illusion smiled, and winked at him.
And then blackness.
When Tim came to, he fell immediately onto his back. It'd happened so fast he didn't even feel his legs give out beneath him. He'd come out of countless comas and bouts of unconsciousness, and he recognized that awakening feeling. Yet, he did not remember ever passing out.
The dizziness was familiar, though. And that threat of vomit was familiar.
He focused on his breathing as he rolled slowly onto his stomach. His hands shook on the gritty gravel beneath him and the wind picked his hair up and made him cold. With a start, Tim realized he was not in his bathroom anymore.
Instead, he was on a rooftop. He looked down at himself, finding he was in his pajamas, though he didn't remember changing into them. So at some point, he'd showered, put on pajamas, and then… scaled a building?
Scaled a building… with no shoes on. And no mask, which meant if anyone saw, they'd see Tim Drake scaling a building… not Robin.
Bruce. Would. Kill. Him.
Tim began climbing down the wall immediately. Finding Tim Drake downtown with pajamas on and no shoes was weird. Finding Tim Drake downtown with pajamas on, no shoes, and on top of a building was weirder. He had to limit his exposure right now, and get home unseen.
Which shouldn't have been hard. He recognized the area easily and though he had no equipment or gadgets or suit, he was still Robin. And what couldn't Robin do?
As long as no one knew he was missing, and as long as Oracle didn't see a pj-clad teen with no shoes on as suspicious, then he could get home unseen easily.
He'd worry about how he's gotten out there in the first place, later.
Blackness.
Tim did not know if he'd passed out again at that point or what, but suddenly, he was sitting up from his bathroom floor in darkness. His hands were sore, and his stomach muscles hurt like he'd spent hours laughing. He groaned, putting a hand to his head, which felt like it were splitting open.
He felt sore and dizzy and nauseous. It made him feel like waking up on a rooftop could very well have been a dream. Who's to say he didn't fall and hit his head on his sink and knock himself out? His illusion was nowhere to be found and his head certainly did hurt.
Maybe he'd imagined the whole thing…
He managed to get to his feet slowly, and turn on the light. When his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he gave the bathroom a once over.
Everything was destroyed.
The mirror lay in shambles on the sink and across the floor he'd just been laying on. The shower curtain was torn and the entire room was bloody. His bloody handprints smeared red across the walls and counters, and for some reason, that was kind of amusing.
And then, it wasn't.
Tim swayed, his legs threatening to give out again, and he got down on a clear spot of the floor carefully. He crawled across the floor, bile rising in his throat, and he reached the toilet just in time to vomit.
He leaned against the tub for a while, resting his head on the cool porcelain, before he looked at the wall inside his shower.
It's Funny had been written in blood sloppily, the red dripping, and already drying brown. He looked down at his blood caked hands in disgust. He didn't remember doing any of that, and yet, there was no other explanation.
Ta-da! I'm back. Who's being thrown for a little loop here? Who here still trusts Tim's point of view? Hmmm. Interesting.
Cheers!