fake smiles can't hide sad eyes.

"I'm fine, Dick."

Dick's fingers curl into manacles of flesh and bone around Tim's slender wrists. It's as much to keep him still as it is to keep Dick from doing something he'll regret.

Like trying to tear the facsimile of a smile Tim's wearing like a mask clean off of him.

"No," Dick says. "You're really not."

Tim arches a regal brow. The expression reads bemused , but only if you aren't looking for the seams and edges where the pieces are stitched together. The society smile someone taught him when he was far too young meets Alfred's micro-expression denoting amusement . It works. It's perfect.

Dick wants to gag with how disgustingly performative it is.

"Tim, you haven't been home in weeks," he continues when it becomes evident Tim has no plans to speak. "You've lost weight. You're clearly not sleeping. I can see you favoring your left side, don't think you're hiding it. You're not fine, little brother."

"I don't see how any of that matters."

"You don't see -? Tim, if you're not taking care of yourself-"

"Let me rephrase," he interjects. "I don't see how any of that matters to you ."

The words hit like a slap to the face.

Dick stares at Tim, at Timothy Drake-Wayne , the Robin he swore to do better by, the boy who hunted him down when all hope was lost, his partner . He stares at him and his macramé smile and wonders; when did it get this bad ?

The realization of just how long it's been since things between them were good almost takes his legs out from under him.

Tim is statue still, yet Dick knows that the moment he loosens his grip, he'll bolt. It's a risk to release even one of his wrists, but he does it anyway, one finger at a time.

He doesn't see the nerve strike coming, only notices when fingers freeze against his neck. Some part of him finds the energy to be proud. The rest of him is focused on the way his palm fits just so against Tim's cheek.

"Baby bird," he murmurs.

Tim flinches, eyes wide.

" Baby bird ," Dick repeats. "You matter to me. You matter so fucking much ."

He doesn't ask how could you ever think you didn't . He knows the answer.

"Is that right?" Tim hisses from behind his teeth. His smile is gone and there's something painfully raw on his face. "I think you've made your priorities abundantly clear. They don't include me ."

Dick can't apologize for what he's done. He still stands by the choices he made, just not how he made them.

It's a longer conversation for another time.

"Then I haven't been straightforward enough with you, because not a day goes by you're not in my head, Tim. Not a single day, do you hear me?"

Tim's hand is shaking, has dropped from his neck and curled around the hem of his shirt. The way he holds his knuckles; he's poised to drive a hit straight under Dick's ribs, take the wind out of him. Even in his moment of weakness, Tim's ready to attack.

When did he become so hypervigilant? What happened to him that's driven him so far into himself?

Dick smooths his thumb over the sharp curve of his cheekbone.

"Don't go," he pleads softly, and the words come from somewhere deep and lonely inside him. "Stay. Just for one night. Let me try to show you how much I care. Please, baby bird? Just one."

Tim draws in a breath that shakes him from head to toe. His eyes are wild and frightened, but he's leaning into the rhythmic stroking along his cheek. Like a sunflower listing towards the sun, desperate for the warmth.

"One," he whispers, so quiet Dick almost misses it. "Just one night, Dick. And then I'm gone."

And maybe he would be. Maybe this would amount to nothing at all. But Dick had to try .