Author notes: Okay, so actually the story won't be posted by August 17th as you might have noticed. But, it's not dead either. I'm just editing it still in between assignments so it may take a bit more time to post, but nothing that bad, I swear.

This part has actually been the hardest to write. I had an idea in my head and wrote it. Then hated it and deleted it. I tried again and that one was worse. So then I tried the original one more time and that still didn't work. Finally, this version came about. It still seems to be missing something, but I cannot figure out what it is so for now this is the post. It means that there will probably be an addition to the last part of the story to fit in the stuff that I missed from this version. Or maybe not. I did like this more the second time I read it. I must warn you, it's a swirl of emotions that aren't always clear as to why they happen, but this is a terribly stressful time for Tim and, having used my own very emotional experience of winter to play into this, I think it is fairly true to form in ways conversations can go.

Enjoy!

Masquerade

Part Thirteen

…….

Tim knew he would be killed if Bruce checked in on him, but it was too late to truly worry about that. He had made up his mind and, once that was done, nothing was going to stop him. He knew he was being stupid and, even worse, he knew what he was doing was dangerous to his health. But, those rational facts aside, this was something he had to do and so, very carefully, he made himself rise from the bed, crutch his way to one of the many cars in the Bat Cave, and drive away.

Parking in front of the apartment complex in the stolen Jaguar, the teenager stared at the entrance. Now that he was here, Tim felt doubts begin to creep into his mind. What, in all honesty, did he hope to accomplish? His father had already said all he wanted to say and, included in that was goodbye. Tim realized that what it came down to was he didn't accept that. He didn't accept his father leaving him, he didn't accept that he'd been given no say, and he didn't accept Jack's cowardice in leaving every thing in a letter. Resolve somewhat firmer, Tim made his way inside the complex and, before he knew it, stood in front of his apartment door. Swallowing, Tim knocked.

Jack Drake opened the door looking more haggard and older than Tim ever remembered. For a moment, Tim's father just stared with an open mouth at his crutch-wielding son. He finally shook his head and asked in disbelief, "Timothy?"

"Yeah, Dad," the teenage responded weakly not sure what to say suddenly. Everything he'd rehearsed in his head over the last day flew from his brain. Tim stood, leaning heavily on his crutches staring at his father and suddenly felt eight again. As he looked at Jack, all the teenager wanted was for his father to put an arm around him, help him inside, and just sit with him. The young man gave his father a weak smile because, in actuality, that was the closest he could presently get to asking for all those things he longed for.

When Jack laid eyes on Tim he instantly was struck with how young his son looked. After learning about Robin, Jack saw his son as much older then his sixteen years, but now, as Tim stood in front of him pale and bandaged, but weakly smiling, his realized his son was a mere child.

An abused and tired child.

"Can I come in?" The young man asked and Jack moved aside without a word. The older man watched as Tim slowly, and with ragged breathing, made his way into the apartment. Once inside, the teenager turned back to his father and stood a bit straighter, taking some of his weight off the crutches. The smile vanished and a look of anger crossed over the teenager's face. Tim stared directly at his father and Jack noticed that it was as if Tim had finally come to a conclusion.

"I got your letter," the teenager said in a clipped tone that barely escaped from being a growl. The voice surprised even Tim who was taken-aback by the sudden change in his temperament. Tightening his hands around the handle of his crutches, the young man resolved to try and keep the fluctuating emotions in check.

Jack, for his part, winced at his son's statement. "I'm sorry," the older man muttered while looking at his feet. He wasn't certain what he was sorry for; was it the letter itself, what it explained, perhaps leaving, or, probably more on the mark, everything.

Tim said nothing to his father's apology, but instead asked the one question that had been on his mind since he'd read the note: "Why?" Within that question were a variety of smaller questions: why did you leave, why didn't you tell me, why didn't you tell me to my face, why wasn't I good enough…

Jack flicked his eyes up to his son's and then back down. "I just…I couldn't look at you and know that I was the reason why you were lying in bed with a shattered leg and a bullet wound in your stomach. I couldn't stand to stare at you and listen to your ragged breathing knowing none of this would have happened if only I had been stronger." The older man wrung his hands in duress. "And I couldn't tell you about it to your face and see disgust in it."

The teenager shook his head in disbelief. "I wouldn't have done that," he said. "You should have stayed." Tim didn't add that for the last twenty-four hours all he had wanted was his father by his side. Alfred was kind and considerate, but it wasn't the same. Bruce had yet to be around when Tim was either conscious or willing to talk. And Dick would never fulfill a father position. All the young man had wanted was his dad to just sit next to him and say things would be alright. It didn't matter that Jack had never been what a "real" father should be; he was Tim's dad and that was what mattered. But instead of that, Tim had been given a letter; a letter that told him his father would never be by his side again.

"It was for the best, Tim, don't you see?" Jack said in a tone just shy of pleading. "I can never be the person you want. I can never be the person you need me to be."

"I just need you to be my dad!" Tim cried and felt his eyes well with tears. "I just need you to be there," he added.

Jack stare at his son finding his own eyes watering. Tim just didn't understand. He didn't understand that Jack was a terrible excuse for a father and that he knew he'd never change. Tim didn't understand that it was for the best, for his son's sake, that he left.

Tim didn't understand that he still had to leave.

Jack had to leave in order to let his son be who he needed to be. Jack had to leave in order to give his son the freedom and life he deserved. He had to leave because, every time he looked at his son, all he saw was his failure to protect the one person in his life he had loved unconditionally. In some weird part of Jack's brain, he realized that Tim had outgrown him and there was nothing Jack could offer his son to better his life.

"I'm sorry," Jack muttered and turned away from his son.

Tim watched his father for a moment before, as quickly as he could, he moved in front of Jack. "No," he said in his 'Robin' voice and watched his father start slightly. The teenager regained the balance he lost in his swift movements and starred his father in the eye.

"You can't just leave me, Dad. Look at me," he gestured minutely to his stomach and leg.

And Jack did look and, as he had every time before, felt guilt swell inside him. "I am looking," he said and sighed. He stopped talking for a moment as he took deep breaths to try and steady his voice. "All I can see is how this is your fault."

Time stood still for a moment in the Drake apartment. Tim instantly felt his heart rate increase and breathing become shorter while Jack reacted more outwardly and threw a hand to his mouth.

"My fault," the older man said while shaking his head. "MY fault."

But the damage had been done.

Tim gave his father a sad smile. "I see," he said and looked down at the floor.

"Son, I didn't mean that. It's been a difficult week." The older man was surprised when a laugh spilt forth from his Tim's lips.

"Son? You should make up your mind." Anger flowed from the young man's words though neither Drake seemed that surprised by another shift in the emotional energy. In the past, arguments between father and son would go from regular talking to yelling to near breakdowns at the drop of the hat. Though being Robin had helped Tim control his emotions better, when dealing with his father it was easy for the teenager to fall into old habits.

Jack, however, had not yet reached the same anger level that Tim had and spoke softly. "Tim, just… let's talk."

"No, Dad," the teenager said bluntly. "You didn't give me the chance to talk earlier and I'm not giving it to you now." All the pain he'd been feeling early came rushing back and Tim no longer felt the need to have his father be with him, but rather, felt a desire to hurt his father as badly as Jack had hurt him rise in him.

Shutting off his brain, Tim let his mouth do the leading. "You blame me still. You can't stand the fact that I lied to you. That I took your trust and threw it back at you."

"No, Tim, really, I just misspoke."

The teenager shook his head. "You didn't, but I bet you wish you did! Or… or maybe you did misspeak, but," the young man looked at his father and narrowed his eyes, "I bet some part of you reasons that I lied first. I bet that's how you justified you keeping your problem a secret." Tim's voice took on a mocking tone. "'Oh, Timothy lied first and his was much worse. I just have a little problem, no need to concern my family with it.' But look at what happened, Dad! Look!" Tears suddenly fell from Tim's eyes. "They broke my leg with a hammer. A hammer! And I got shot because you lied!" The teenager shook his head, "And then you just leave me with a letter saying you have to let me go. You must have thought you had yourself convinced everything was your fault. But, obviously, not quite enough. You just can't be the man you should be and tell me the damn truth."

Jack wasn't certain what path the conversation had taken, but the end it had come to made his heart stop. The older man staggered away from Tim even as the young man called after him finally realizing the intensity of his words. Jack moved away until he reached his bedroom and was able to shut the door behind him. Tim tried to follow his father, crying apologies after him, but it was no use. The shutting of the bedroom door ended all the teenager's pleas instantly. Tim looked at the bedroom down and knew that he had somehow made the terrible situation even worse. Any hope he'd had of coming here and fixing things went out the window as the pain he felt transformed themselves into words, which he flung at his father.

Of course Jack had misspoke. Of course he didn't blame his son for the kidnapping and what followed, but on some level Jack still blamed his son for many, if not most, of the family problems. And, though stated much more harshly than it should have been, Tim had been right about part of Jack's mind-frame while dealing with the guilt of lying. Everything had turned into a nasty cycle of lies and hurt price and distrust that, in the end, brought father and son to the place they currently stood.

The teenager felt his stomach tighten and wondered how their family had become so shattered. They had never been perfect, far from it, but they also had never been the mess they were now. Deep inside Tim knew that, in many ways, his run as Robin had been the cause of so many problems and, perhaps, had been the catalyst that lead them to their present situation.

Tim looked at the shut door once more and then turned away. Some part of the teenage accepted defeat and understood that too many hurtful things had been said and done for things to ever be right again. Feeling empty and exhausted, the young man made his way to the street just as a ringing sound caught his attention. Ceasing his hobbled walking, Tim pulled the cell phone out of his pocket. When leaving the Manor, the teenager made the one educated decision he had made that evening: to be prepared with his phone. Now, as he answered it, regretted it.

"Hello?"

"Where the hell are you?"

Tim cringed at the worried voice of Dick yelling over the phone. "Uh…"

"Do you have any idea how worried I was? I come over to see how you're doing and you're gone! You were shot- your leg is shattered- you don't just get up and walk away when you feel like it!"

"I was just had to do something," he gritted out not wanting to say anything more.

"Do something? What did you have to do: run to the store!"

Tim scoffed at that. "No, you…you just wouldn't understand, Dick! I had something I just…I had to do." The teenage felt his head swim dangerously as a wave of dizziness pass over him. Maybe this hadn't been a good idea. No, Tim thought as the ground began to tilt before his eyes, this had been a very bad idea.

Feeling his emotions suddenly drain out of him, Tim became aware of how tired his good leg was and how badly his left leg ached. He also noticed that his stomach was burning. "Dick," he said weakly into the phone. Tim had planned to ask Dick to help him, but the words died on his lips as he watched the ground rush up at him.

Dick heard his name and then a thud. "Shit," he swore knowing the young man had probably passed out. Shutting the phone and putting it in his pocket, Dick raced to the Bat Computer knowing Bruce had at least one tracker in his brother's clothing. Finding Tim's location, with a mental cringe at where that was, Dick jumped onto his bike and made his way towards the teenager.

By the time Dick came to Tim's side, the young man had three concerned citizens standing over him. Removing his helmet, the older man made his way through the crowd.

"Hey, who are you?" Someone questioned at Dick.

"I'm his brother," he answered with pause. "He was on the phone with me as he passed out." The crowd seemed satisfied with this answer and slowly parted ways. Not overly concerned, Dick thought as he noticed no one bothered to call an ambulance. The older man bent over Tim and noticed the boy already had a lump forming on his forehead.

"You'll have a headache in the morning, Timbo, that's for sure," Dick said as he looked the teenager over once more. Thankfully, the stitches held even though there was some stretching and spotting of blood. Moving further down, the older man couldn't see anything wrong with Tim's leg although he knew the stress of walking and the fall certainly hadn't helped anything. Sighing at Tim's stupidity and feeling sympathy knowing that, whatever the young man had hoped to accomplish at his father's house, hadn't gone through, Dick picked up Tim.

Spying Bruce's car, Dick made his way over there and situated Tim. Getting in himself, the older man spared one more look at the teenager's prone form. "Bruce is gonna kill ya, kiddo," he said as he pulled away.

…