Chapter Fourteen: Of Scars and Promises

Dick had called; he'd kept his word.

When he'd revealed himself, Tim had assumed that things would have changed between them, something drastic and notable. And in part, things did change—but the best pieces stayed the same: There was still the usual lineup of vigilantism, Blüdhaven's Nightwing shadowed by a teenager who now wielded a staff. The change happened somewhere else, somewhere between the crime-fighting and the whirl of action and adrenaline. There were breaks in those "somewheres," times where they could just be.

It'd been a week of it, and Tim didn't think twice anymore when his first thoughts of the man stopped being "Nightwing" and started being "Dick," his brother. There were times intermittently where that was all the man really was…

"Orange, you said? Is it that sign over there?"

"Yeah," Dick admitted with a scowl, seated on an overhang beside Tim while sporting his Nightwing costume. Their feet dangled off the ledge, and the glowing city lights swam up to meet them half-way. "How're you still so good at this?"

"It doesn't help that you looked right at it!" Tim laughed. He hadn't done that—hadn't laughed—for a long time, but it came naturally now; it felt good. "I think you're going easy on me. That's why I've been winning."

"Whatever," the man waved off with a hand, his smile betraying him. "It's your turn."

It was some silly road-trip game Dick had proposed that evening. It'd led them to the shopping district, tall buildings flashing with advertisements and commercials while late-night pedestrians trickled by down below. Dick had said that was the best place to play his game since there were so many colors, and if that wasn't true, Tim didn't know what was: The bright, flamboyant signs were stubborn enough to shower their faces in the same vibrant hues—even from where they sat ten stories up.

They'd been visiting new areas each night between their usual activities, looking for anything that might jog Tim's memory. The man had suggested that something in one of the commercials might do the trick ("It's a good way to get some variety. Who knows?"), cajoling Tim into agreement with the promise of a game to while away time. Tim hadn't played it before—or at least, he couldn't remember having played it before—although he had to admit that the game was already getting a bit old. But Dick seemed eager to introduce him to anything new or fun, so Tim played along, if nothing more than to make the man happy.

"Earth to Tim," Dick sang, shaking a hand in front of the teenager's eyes. "I'm not getting any younger over here."

"Alright, alright," Tim scoffed, swatting away the limb. It didn't take long for him to decide. "I spy something…green."

Dick was instantly scanning the streets, a comedic determination about him that almost convinced Tim that his brother was taking the competition seriously. The man glanced up after a moment, pointing to a spot below. "It's that tree over there, isn't it? The one on the sidewalk?"

"You are going easy on me, aren't you?" Tim groaned. "You've been guessing the obvious ones all night."

"Okay then, what about that billboard there?" Dick tried again. "The background's green—or does that look blue to you? Maybe aqua?"

"Nah," Tim muttered blandly, taking a sip of the bottled water Dick had shoved on him earlier. The owl mask sat off to the side, more or less forgotten. "You were right with the tree before. I was just giving you a rough time."

A playful slap to the shoulder almost caused Tim to spill his drink ("What? I never said you were wrong!") before the two were laughing again, the noise gradually dissolving into comfortable quiet. It always felt like that now, and Tim was questioning how he'd ever survived being alone all the time that he had, always suspicious—even of Dick; it felt like a lifetime of difference looking back on it then.

The quiet stretched, and the two were content observing an advertisement play on one of the screens. It was a basic, nonessential product, simply something to look at, and Tim tried to envision having seen commercials like these before, tried to imagine living a life where things like that were normal.

"Hey, Tim?" Dick started unexpectantly. In contrast to a minute ago, he sounded a bit somber, maybe even sad, his mouth pulled to the side and his gaze distant. "Can you promise me something?"

Tim inclined his head, innocently asking more.

"Can you…promise me you'll stay like this?" the man murmured, eyes pinned to the street below. He was watching a group of people rip-roaring over something. They were probably drunk, leaning against each other for shaky support, but they seemed to be having fun as their shadows hobbled down the sidewalk, hooting like banshees.

"I don't mean exactly but…" Dick continued, "you used to smile a lot more. And I get that things have been tough for you the past few years—as much as you don't remember it right now." The man gave a rueful chuckle. "Heck, you've lived through more things than anyone should have to. But still…I've missed this: you and me, just goofing off. I really have."

Tim kept quiet. He wasn't sure what to say.

Meanwhile, Dick looked morose, like he was battling with himself over saying something more.

"I'm worried for you, actually," the man admitted, almost a whisper, "if—when it all comes back, you know. There's a lot of dark stuff that's probably gonna come up, and I just hope…" He sighed. "I hope you'll feel okay talking about it with me or…anyone. You've got a lot of people who love you, Tim." Dick cast him a glance. "I don't know if you see that—or if you ever have—but you do. You really do."

Tim continued to hold his silence, eyes meeting Dick's for a hesitant second. "I'll try," he voiced tentatively, because that was the closest to a promise he could get.

Dick smiled wryly in reply, his concern still evident. But the emotion was broken by a long exhale, the man stretching out his arms, nice and slow, before lacing his fingers behind his head. "Good," he nodded, sounding a little cheerier, "cause you're gonna give me gray hairs if you don't. So, when you feel like clamming up, remember that, alright? The gray would show in the black something awful, and that'd be a real shame."

Tim squinted at him dubiously, but he settled for shaking his head with a snort. "You're so weird."

"Hey," Dick shrugged, grinning, "I'm your brother. If I didn't embarrass you, then I wouldn't be doing my job." He arched his back in another stretch before getting to his feet. The grin faded. "…I take it you didn't remember anything?"

Tim kept quiet for a moment. There was a flower on one of the advertisements, petals white as snow, that he found he'd couldn't look away from…

"No," he whispered, "still nothing."

"We'll keep trying."

Tim wasn't so sure he wanted to.

Memories came up on occasion, strange things as fickle as smoke, like if he moved the wrong way or tried to touch them, they'd vanish. But he could still make out the indistinct shapes, swirling around him with a toxic air: corpses and failures, lying and being lied to, and the last hugs he could remember giving someone before, somehow, he knew they were gone from his life. They were always as vague as a dream, but still, he could feel a lingering hurt from deep inside him that he could never quite grasp, dissolving as soon as he thought he could close his fingers around it.

It told him that…maybe remembering wasn't what he wanted anymore.

Tim wanted the good things: the smell of carpet from his childhood home, the smooth surface of a keyboard beneath his fingertips, and the familiar lilt of a voice over breakfast, wise and kind and…English (He didn't know why.), but the rest? He wanted it, but at the same time, he didn't. Bad follows good; that's the way life goes. And Tim might have been selfish in wanting pleasure without pain, but who could blame him, really…?

Tim sighed. He needed to stop thinking so much.

"Break time's over, bud," Dick's voice cut in followed by the sound of a grapnel gun snapping into place. "Got a robbery a few blocks away."

Tim snatched his mask and jumped to his feet. It'd take his mind off things, he told himself. What'd come would come, and he'd be there when it did.

Tim liked to think that afternoons in Gotham could be fairly entertaining. There were parks and museums and restaurants lining the streets, all fun things that normal people did. Tim couldn't help wondering if he'd had many friends to do that kind of stuff with, back before things changed—

Another rock sailed through the hoop.

—Probably not. Dick made it sound like Tim was more of a loner, someone who kept to himself and didn't let people in. His brother wasn't wrong to imply that, either: Dick was his only friend right then, and Tim had already blocked him out once.

There was that ever-present tug along his back when Tim grabbed another stone from the dwindling pile beside him.

He should have told Dick, told him about the scar. For whatever reason, it'd seemed so personal, though, like the world would end if he just told him about it, been honest and opened up about something that still bothered him every time he moved his shoulders just so. That secrecy was probably a personality trait embedded deep in whoever Tim had been before.

He weighed the rock for a moment in his hand, admiring how the afternoon sunlight caught on the porous edges.

So, Tim Wayne had been the type to keep closed off.

But was that who Tim was?

He exhaled slowly, appreciating the way his breath swirled white in the gelid air as he bounced the stone in his hand. November had since bled into December, frost coating the rooftops in the mornings, and the added cold encouraged people to stay indoors. It made it easier for Tim to move around outside, trapped like a fixture in both time and his thoughts.

And he had a lot to think about, reflecting on who he'd been before and who he wanted to be.

That was the most common skein of thought that Tim found himself caught in whenever he was alone. It was an unvoiced pressure eating at the teenager, because although he never let it show, Tim was slightly defensive when it came to his identity. Sometimes, it was like he was being confused for someone else, like Dick was wanting him to be someone that he couldn't be.

Dick had lost his brother. Of course, the man's response was natural, excited and hoping that the person he'd once thought was dead could be brought back. But Tim still needed time to find himself again, maybe even redefine himself, and so he was all right continuing to spend his days outside in the daytime, just thinking.

He pulled back his arm, feeling his shoulder tense from the pressure, and let the stone loose. There was the expected delay, stretching long and eager across the cement court before a dull thunk sounded: The stone had nicked the rim of the hoop and spiraled in through the netting.

Admittedly, it wasn't the most interesting thing to be doing, not considering Tim was apparently a high-school dropout with a million-dollar career. But Tim Wayne was still off in Berlin, so appearing publicly in Gotham wasn't exactly the best course of action to take. So, there Tim was, tossing stones sideways through a basketball hoop from a nearby rooftop. He was twenty for twenty at the moment, although no one was there to see it.

Days usually went like that. Dick was busy, as expected, and Tim did need the space, needed time to consider his life and the small things he could recall. There were always those details, flashes of an image, still as a photograph—like that white flower he'd seen the other night.

He should have told Dick then. He should have told him that he remembered seeing something like that before, but it was just an image, same as always, and there just wasn't much to say. Dick probably wouldn't have minded but…nonetheless, it was something personal, something he found he didn't want to share.

Of course, there was that same thing again, that secrecy Tim and his past self had in common.

They were strangers, really, people who'd never met but happened to have similar personalities and share the same body. Overall, it made for a bizarre feeling, one that Tim still wasn't quite sure how he felt about. That was why he was out here, tossing rocks like each shot could bring him closer to some conclusion.

He spent a moment taking in the small collection of stones he'd thrown. They were staring up at him from the pavement, silently passing judgment on how he spent his free time, and Tim couldn't fight back the dull pang of shame.

He had one person that he trusted, and that was Dick. Only one friend, and to be honest, it wasn't even his own, just someone tied to forgotten memories and a loyalty Tim couldn't remember.

The slip of paper crinkled when Tim pulled it out of his pocket: a string of digits scribbled there along with words Dick had told him the other day. "I get it if you're a bit antsy about Bruce," the man had admitted, pressing the paper into Tim's palms, "but if you can't reach me and need help, call this number, alright?"

The memory vanished, leaving Tim alone with the paper and the name written there: "Alfred."

Whoever that was.

He shoved the paper back into his pocket and reached for another rock, rolling it through his fingers. Maybe it was a dumb thing, one of those thoughts someone has when they're by themselves and willing to put a childish stake in something, but Tim held the stone for a while and left a hope embedded in its core.

He didn't really have anyone to call his own, all friends borrowed from his past. And right then, he wished for someone else, someone who hadn't been friends with Tim Wayne, like he could distinguish himself through them, like he'd have made a friend on his own as just Tim, just himself.

He spent another minute memorizing the heft and the curve of the rock, the divot in the middle and the way it bent at the tip. There was that pull of skin on his back, and he let the stone fly, watching it arc for a long three seconds before there was a sharp clatter of something skittering across the pavement.

Of course, that had to be the only shot he missed.

AN: This was originally supposed to be linked with the next chapter, but it was getting kinda long, so in the meantime, enjoy this bad foreshadowing.