A/N: *Shuffles out of the high grass, waves, and ducks back into the high grass again*
Clack.
The gentle sound of a corelle plate being placed atop others resounds through the apartment, all else muffled. Dim lighting ekes its way through the overcast clouds and half pulled blinds into the apartment, the dust the sunlight would have filtered through having been cleared away. A refrigerator hums, free of magnets and pictures, set into hibernation mode. A steady drip drip rings throughout the apartment and the occupant sighs, moving from the cabinets to turn the tap fully, halting the noise, and then leans on his hands against the sink.
All is still.
Tim sighs again, running his hands over his face, how often has he been doing that these past few weeks now, anyway?, and running them through his greasy hair, tugging on the strands slightly before letting go, and letting his arms fall limply at his sides, surveying his surroundings with a dull gaze.
Furniture has been patted down and placed in full order, the floors of the apartment vacuumed. An outline stands around where Tim's fishtank was, tank and fish included having been given away to somebody who would be able to look after them. The TV has been dusted, black screen reflecting the now meticulously kept apartment. Highschool books line the book shelf in order of height, then colour, then alphabetically by subject. The skateboard normally kept near the front door has been tucked away beneath the small side table in the kitchenette, its worn marks and sun faded bold colours a stark contrast to the untarnished, pale oak table.
A picture of Tim and Kon, one of the old Polaroid kinds, sticks out of the top of a cardboard box by the sofa. It's well worn, taken after a baseball game where he'd screamed himself hoarse Kon had invited him to back home, and all he'd received in return was a tomato red 'tan' but still smiled for the photo all the same, Kon with an arm slung over his shoulders and grinning beside him. Kon had bought the camera as a gag gift, but they ended up taking it to the game anyway lest one of Tim's higher spec cameras get damaged in the chaos and excitement of the game.
Moving away from the sink and to the box, Tim crouches onto one knee, bare feet making a shuf shuf sound across the hardwood floor as he picks up the photograph, thumbing over a dog eared corner with gentle consideration. He hesitates for a moment before standing, pulling the picture closer to his chest before heaving a sigh and tucking it back in the box, this time fully covered, the muted light of the apartment no longer reaching it.
"No time like the present..." Tim mutters to himself, voice reverberating from the empty surfaces as he makes his way into his bedroom, pushing the halfway open door back. Poster marks and white tack litter the walls, there are vacuum lines on the carpet, the glass of water on the bedside table is empty, and his laptop has been stored away on his desk. A lone picture frame stands on the other bed table, a small white business card tucked beneath it.
He sits on the end of his bed, fresh sheets crinkling under new use, and pulls out a pair of grey woollen socks from the drawer in front of him, pulling them up over his feet before putting on a pair of hiking boots and lacing them up. Tim bends over and grabs a large black hiking backpack from beneath his bed, heaving it up with a grunt before placing it on his bed.
The sound of Velcro being opened and sealed repeats, compartments checked, money counted, chargers packed, clothing rolled up. A spare jar of peanut butter here, a cooking element and matches tucked into the bottom corner, a small comb, a little Rubik's cube, a toothbrush, floss and toothpaste. A little handbook of edible wildlife is slipped into a side compartment along with a beaten paperback of 'Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy' and a birthday card from his parents, also years worn. A first aid kit is the last item added, other items squished down first before the drawstrings are pulled taught, and he fastens the bag with a quick succession of snik snik of the clips.
Tim heaves the bag upright before placing it on the floor beside his bed, and moves to his wardrobe, opening up the door and pushing a row of coats to the side with his arm. A small, unassuming box lies at the bottom. Tim crouches down, again hesitating as he moves the lid, the well worn and familiar red and black peeking out to greet him, and instinctively he starts to pick up the material, running it through his fingers.
"How can you let him wear that costume, Dick? What earth are we on that you choose him over me?"
Gritting his teeth Tim shoves the uniform back into the box, placing the lid over it securely and shoving it towards the back right of the closet, pulling down a spare comforter over it. As he moves to stand he glances towards his left, eyes catching over a waterproof jacket and he opts for that instead, grabbing a black hoodie first for good measure and pulling that over his head first, shucking the jacket on after.
Tim moves from the closet and bends to pick up his backpack, the early dusk lighting catching on the glass of the photo frame on his bedside table, and Tim pauses, and-
"Come on, Alfred! Party poppers are what makes parties, parties after all!"
Gentle golden afternoon light streams through the large bay windows, illuminating the spread of cake and finger food. Boxes adorned with bright wrapping paper sit at the adjoining table, curled ribbon around them and all.
A quick, amused sigh, "Master Dick, while I appreciate your enthusiasm for all things jubilant and loud, might I ask who, exactly, will be picking up the waste?"
A flash quick response, "The vacuum cleaner, Alfie!"
The group crowds around the large armchair, and a camera's timer is set, the orange light blinking impatiently.
"Alright everyone, hurry now and take your places before we have to do this one again." Alfred admonishes, tilting his head towards Dick as the man in question simply whistled and looked in the opposite direction. Bruce, sat in the armchair, simply chuckles slightly, as Alfred makes his way to come and stand beside him.
Bruce glances to his left and says, "Come on Tim, we want you in the photo as well." As if it is the most natural thing in the world to say. And Tim, at the sidelines, still unsettled and uncertain moves towards Bruce's left side, Alfred at his back and Dick on the right of Bruce. Tim places his right hand on the chair instinctively and Bruce covers it with his own, warm and weather worn. Tim startles slightly, looking to his right with a half aborted "Bru-?" which is exactly when Dick, suppressing a devious grin the whole time, whips out the last remaining party popper and pulls it above their heads.
FLASH
"Master Dick!"
"Happy Birthday Bruce!" Dick exclaims, grinning through all the carnage. And Tim turns shocked towards them, only to see Bruce starting to laugh despite the mess and paper in his hair, and Tim-
Tim breathes in, holding his breath a moment before placing the bag back down and moving towards the picture frame on the side, his wide eyed expression facing towards Bruce. Alfred is mid-motion about to put his hand to his forehead, Dick has already started laughing, the paper streams blurred by the camera's single shot, and Bruce-
"He's gone, Tim. You have to accept it. Things have to change. But I still need you."
Bruce is smiling, on his way to laughing, carefree and relaxed for his private birthday party in a way they would never see at galas, or on the job, or at Wayne enterprises. For just a moment, just a snapshot-
Tim grabs the top the the frame and quickly places it face down on the night stand, dislodging the business card beneath he had all but forgotten about. It's mostly blank, on good white quality card, reading 'Dr W. Ericsson, confidential and accessible psychiatric assistance'.
"You know how I feel, Tim...there's someone I want you to talk to, a therapist in Metropolis."
A disgruntled 'hah' slips out of his lips before Tim can help it, and he's picking up the card, folding it in half horizontally before tearing it down the fold, effectively cutting the good doctor's name in half. No hard feelings, Doc...
Bending over once more, Tim swings the heavy backpack over his shoulders and switches out the bedroom light, throwing the ripped business card into the bin liner of his freshly emptied kitchen trash can. He goes around the rooms methodically, boots squeaking sharply on the hardwood floors as he makes sure the taps are fully turned, lights switched off, heating switched to frost prevention only, internet switched off, any cables unplugged. Before he knows it, he finds himself at the front door, key half way turned before the weight of everything hits him and he squeezes his eyes shut, letting his forehead thunk against the door, relishing the cool feel of the varnished wood against his skin.
"I-I don't..." Tim's voice wobbles and he sighs, the weight of the bag straps digging into his shoulders, eyes beginning to burn before they water "What the hell am I even doing..." Hands still half way to unlocking the door, eyes roaming across to the kitchen window before stopping suddenly. His eyes fixate on the bat symbol lit up, stark against the darkening Gotham clouds.
And Tim stares at it for a moment, slack in his shock before gritting his teeth and rubbing the back of his forearm across his eyes, the fabric unpleasant against his skin. He's a Wayne too, goddammit, and they don't give up easily.
Tim unlocks his apartment door with a quick and decisive snik, pulling it towards him and stepping out into the corridor, casting a furtive glance behind himself before pulling away. The furniture is as he left it, all in order, military precision as it has never been before, like a stranger's home, like being back at Drake manor. He remembers the burning conviction when he first felt it, He's all I have, and he has to be alive, the realisation that he was, and the disbelief and opposition of others. He lets it fill him, until no other thoughts or doubts can occupy his head, and he closes the door, locking it with the swift turn of one key, and placing it in a sown in compartment under his door mat, the stitches blending in with the material of the mat.
And Tim walks away, the weight of his bag and all else on his shoulders heavy, leaving the life he has known folded neatly away in a something by something square foot apartment in a little part of Gotham, leaving it holding its breath in anticipation for its owner to come back.
...if there was anything to come back to at all.
Notes: 'I love me some Tim boy sad Drake' was the first shit that popped out of my mind after I typed this, and I found it funny enough to keep it. Trying to write again felt like chewing wood at the start, but I'm glad I did it. Hope you enjoyed!
