Chapter 3

Nightmare

It was a nightmare. A fragmented nightmare, broken into a thousand shards.

He was alone in the alleyway, darkness wrapped cellophane-tight over the corners and crags. No, he lay curled under the covers, listening to the shouting from the other side of the thin wooden door. Or maybe it was outside the local library, a notebook and a dozen printouts covered in various red pen marks clutched in a backpack against his chest.

Tim tossed back and forth, lost among the patchwork pieces of a million dreams.

He could feel the asphalt through the holes in his shoes. No, it was the rough scratch of cheap bedding. Or maybe the cold wind through his thin jacket.

Someone had dumped out a dozen thousand-piece puzzles and there were no edge pieces with which to start.

When he caught glimpses of himself reflected in dark windows and dirty puddles, there were inky-fine markings spider-webbing the pale skin around his neck. They were black, like the flourishes of a brush, twined around his fingers where they tugged miserably at dirty sheets. The long sleeves holding the backpack to his chest covered the fine march of crisscrossing spirals up his arms.

The shadows thickened in the alleyway, multiplying along the brick walls and broken crates. No, they condensed in the dark corners of the room. Or maybe they flickered between the broken guttering of the next streetlight.

He knew who was waiting for him in the darkness, unseen until the last minute, but inevitable. No, he was caught unaware.

He'd known for a long time. He'd just figured it out. He'd die never knowing.

But he was sixteen. He was sixteen. He was sixteen. And there were those markings, markings, markings.

The attack never came from the direction he thought it would. Not from the thickening shadows, shredding strips from the world with black claws as they reached for him. By the time he realized where the true danger lay, it was too late.

Then there was the flash of steel and sharp, burning pain.

Where he lay curled in the darkness, Tim jerked, certain he'd been stabbed.

Sometimes someone caught him—large hands catching him up—only to lower him into white death. Sometimes they let him fall. But it was always dark at the end. And it was always cold. And there was always that dispassionate voice last of all:

"It is done, Timothy."

He woke up only once, shivering in the middle of the night with the taste of death still thick on his tongue. It was too dark to see anything, but he could feel someone stretched out beside him, weight tilting the mattress ever so slightly. He seized up, memories painting movement in the darkness with the colors of nightmares. Then someone put a large hand to his forehead, concerned, and the terror faded. Teeth clattering, he curled into the warmth of the bed, head buried in thick blankets, and fell asleep to the lulling of fingers through his hair.

There were no more nightmares after that.

When Tim woke up, it was to an unfamiliar ceiling in an unfamiliar bed under unfamiliar sheets. The last thing he remembered was Bruce's eyes, deep like wells to drown him—eye's burning into him, dragging answers out. The image followed him up into wakefulness. He paused in the middle of throwing an arm over his eyes to block the usual morning light, as much because he suddenly realized his bed wasn't under a window where the light could hit it or wake him up as because he'd sunk into the sheets when he'd stretched—sheets to drown in, fitting to him when he moved. It had been years since he'd slept in a bed even half that comfortable.

Not his.

His eyes flew open, taking in first the three inches of downy blankets covering him, a weight practically pinning him in place, embroidered and tasseled in red, just like the pillows, more of them than he could ever use. Then there was the elaborate headboard, stained dark red mahogany, and the molding along the edges of the ceiling. It was all wrong. Dizzily familiar, and wrong.

If there had been someone beside him through the night, there wasn't now. He sat up, hurriedly pushing the unfamiliar comforter off, only to find that his jeans and jacket had been removed and replaced. Considering what they'd been through, it probably would have been only sanitary to burn them, but that wasn't the point. He'd been put in someone else's clothes. That was worse than the room and the bed. Worse than if it had just been some random spare room and bed.

He could tell by the little things on the dresser, the personal possessions, carefully protected and preserved despite the obvious wear of age. It was that feel of having been lived in and loved in that permeated the walls, hung thick and heavy in the air. The room belonged to someone else.

It wasn't hard to guess who.

He was wearing Timothy's clothes.

The room shifted sharply, the disorientation he was beginning to associate with bouts of déjà vu, and no, no, no, he did not want to find anything there familiar. He stumbled to his feet, sinking into the interlocking red lines of the carpet, and then he was headed for the door, through the memories that weren't his—couldn't possibly be his—sticking like cobwebs to his hands and face. They were thick enough in that room to suffocate, whispering from bookends and dresser drawers. Darkness clawed away bits of his vision, and it wasn't until he'd slumped to his knees in the hallway outside, door firmly closed behind him, that the dizziness abated.

For a few minutes he crushed the rough tufts of carpet between his fingers and let it ground him. He was still kneeling there on the floor when a shadow fell over him.

"Master Timothy, are you alright?"

"Tim. It's Tim." He was replying before he even looked up. The man standing impeccably in front of him was older, gray hair cropped short, blue eyes worried. Neatly folded in a pile atop gloved hands were a familiar shirt and jeans. "My clothes!"

"I had them washed. I thought you might find your own things more familiar?"

"Yes." Tim could have hugged him, but settled for taking his clothes back instead. "Thank you, um…"

"Alfred. You're quite welcome. Breakfast is waiting, when you're ready." He waited for Tim's nod before turning back down the hallway, steps clipped. Tim stood there for a minute afterward, clothes pressed protectively close to his chest before turning into the bathroom across the hall.

It was only after pushing through the door that he froze, one foot on the cold tile, wondering how he'd known it was a bathroom. An unsettling shiver rippled down his spine.

He'd always been prone to bouts of déjà vu—little, unexplainable bits of knowledge, frequently regarding a particular street or the lay of a building. Since last night, since he'd first looked at Jason, he'd done nothing but run headfirst into uncomfortable bouts of familiarity. This place, the manor, seemed absolutely riddled with triggers, but it was one thing to suspect that room on the end was a study or there had once been a standing mirror in the corner, quite another to walk around like he'd lived there his entire life.

It didn't matter. He was going to get out of there. He'd be back home soon, away from the manor with its too-familiar rooms, and too-familiar faces, haunted by the ghost of a dead boy.

Resolved, he hurriedly pulled off the offending pajamas, letting them pool on the floor while he tugged his own shirt over his head. It was just then, with one arm in its sleeve, the rest of the shirt bunched up around his neck, that he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror… and froze. Reflected there, along the pale expanse of skin, was a mark like someone had nicked him with a pen—a black smudge hugging the curve of his side.

He forced himself to take a deep breath. It was nothing. Some blemish darker than he'd expected. Surely.

Quickly he jerked his shirt the rest of the way down. He had to get out of there.

It felt good to be back in his own clothes at least—safe somehow, like he'd lost part of his identity without them.

Afterward, he found his way back to the foyer, and if it was a little easier than it should have been, this time he could blame it on the aroma of fresh pancakes. He had just started down the stairs, one hand on the ornate rail, when a portrait on the wall startled him.

The boy in the picture was porcelain-perfect, marble-skin painted flawlessly. It could've been the artist instilling that cold beauty, but from the look of the other boys in the household, Tim didn't think so. It was real. The blue eyes in the painting were a little more distant, a little more haunted, but they were Tim's. So were the locks of ebony hair framing that too-familiar face.

He'd never wanted more to take scissors to his own—to hack it off until he looked nothing like the boy in the picture. He hated how much he resembled a dead boy, how well the pajamas had fit.

"I see you found your way just fine."

Tim jerked out of his reverie to look down at the fondly smiling butler standing at the foot of the stairs… between him and the door.

"I really need to be getting home."

"Master Bruce requests you stay in the manor until an arrangement regarding accommodations can be made."

Tim's grip on the banister tightened.

"I'm not staying here!" He couldn't stay there. He had to get back home soon, not just because he was losing his mind in that place. They had to understand.

"If it's a matter of contacting someone…"

"I have to get back to Dana. She needs me." What if she thought he'd left her? What if she'd found his room and the gun still lying there on the floor? Something of the urgency in his voice must have gotten across, because Alfred nodded.

"I see, sir." He paused. "Shall we leave after breakfast?" The man was relentless, but it would take him some time to find his way home on his own, and it would be faster to accept the offered ride, even if it came with a delay. A few minutes wouldn't hurt.

"Alright."

Alfred was true to his word. Not an hour later, Tim was staring out a tinted window, watching the gloomy streets of Gotham roll past: the newer sections where things had been rebuilt after one attack or another dwindling into the decayed older sections where no one had bothered to rebuild. The limousine attracted more attention than he was used to, but he wasn't complaining.

As they neared his apartment, traffic slowed to a crawl. Impatient, Tim peered through gaps in the line of cars. That's when he saw the lights: rotating blues and reds scraping over the buildings ahead. Time slowed, forced to a crawl through the traffic, turning to watch the bright lights like everyone else.

Not again.

The lights flashed sickeningly, blue and red, drenching the world in shades of blood. Sticky blood, coating his hands and knees, and…

Not again.

His hand flew automatically for the door handle. The next second he was out of the vehicle, pushing past people on the sidewalk, shouting Dana's name.

"Master Tim!" He heard Alfred shouting after him, but it was lost in the din. Much louder were the bits of conversation around him—scattered words like "break-in" and "attacked." Everything blurred—it seemed to take forever to get to his apartment complex, but at the same time, he couldn't remember the first ten steps out of the vehicle. Someone caught at him, arms closing around his waist just yards from the door, but before they could close tight, Tim twisted, knee catching his would-be captor solidly in the side, knocking him away. The man cursed as he went down.

Tim made it another five feet before a second and third were on him, trying to restrain him, trying to keep him from seeing Dana. The second went down with an elbow to his back, and Tim was just turning to deal the final blow to the third when the very first one caught back up and grabbed the arm he had drawn back for a solid punch. Between the three of them, Tim couldn't break free, couldn't get to the woman he could see lying flat out on the stretcher. The fall of blond hair around her pale face was too familiar.

"That's my stepmom!" he shouted desperately, pulling at the restraining arms holding him back. "That's my stepmom!"

Someone must have heard. Someone must have understood, because finally he was released and allowed to run to Dana's side. Still the lights flashed, blue and red, painting her that awful color. Tim caught her hand, clasping it between his own as he called her name frantically, but the black crescents of her lashes lay as still as ever against the fair skin of her face.

She didn't stir.

Someone put a supportive hand on Tim's shoulder. If there were encouraging words accompanying the gesture, he didn't catch them. All the useless noise was a roar behind him: meaningless compared with the prospect of losing the one person his father had charged him with protecting. He couldn't—he wouldn't break that promise. The last one he'd ever made.

He did hear when someone said, "She's going to be fine," and that was all that mattered.

Bruce knew Tim was sitting on a chair by the hospital bed, motionless in the darkness, before he'd even entered the room. It was the sound of that living heart that gave him away—a resolute beating easily discernible, even through the thick doors of the hospital.

The one he'd failed.

He still wasn't convinced Tim was somehow their Timothy reincarnated, but their family was so close-knit—a closeness born of shared sorrow and long decades together and well-oiled repetition—he knew them all in ways beyond words. By smell and feel and taste. In the unique shift of shadows as they moved. By gesture and habit. And all of them—every instinct Bruce had—said Tim was the real deal.

But for all that, what worried Bruce the most were the differences. Tim was more vulnerable, slower, more easily broken, life tied to the thread of blood through that heart. Bruce would have done anything to keep the boy safe, anything to keep from losing anyone else. Because heaven help him if he was wrong, Tim already felt like one of them.

And yet changing him would not make him a part of their family again.

He turned his attention to the woman lying on the hospital bed, deep asleep. Mrs. Winters-Drake hadn't suffered any injuries from the attack, but the first responder had found her in a state of agitation. She was still sleeping off the sedatives they'd given her. Bruce was more concerned about the older notes in her medical record.

"The doctors inform me that Mrs. Winters-Drake is suffering from some form of post traumatic stress." The woman was in no condition to take care of anyone. How long had Tim been managing for both of them? That was the resourceful boy he knew. "I've arranged for her to stay at a clinic in Bludhaven."

Tim frowned slightly.

"We can't pay…"

"It's taken care of." He waited for the accepting nod. "I've also contacted your employer to inform her of your leave of absence." At that, blue eyes flashed angrily.

"What?!"

Bruce held up a hand.

"You're lucky I didn't tell her how old you really are." True, the boy was only a week away from being legitimate now, but he hadn't been when he'd started. "Whoever broke into your apartment wanted something, and they didn't take anything valuable or harm your stepmother. They weren't after her." He paused to let that sink in. "I have the right to take authoritative action where your safety is concerned."

"No." Tim was on his feet, staring Bruce down, and didn't that take courage? Especially from someone who had experienced first-hand what he could do. Timothy hadn't been afraid either. "You obviously had authority where Timothy's safety was concerned. You have no rightful custody over me."

In a fair world, sure. But due process didn't mean much in Gotham. There existed only power and those who possessed it. Minds could be changed. Records could be fixed. He hadn't expected Tim would like it. He was stripping the boy of any control he had over his own life, but Tim could hate him for it later. At least he'd be alive to do so.

"I think you'll find I do."

Tim stood in the second-floor bathroom again, a single duffel bag on the floor at his feet, back in the manor. Bruce hadn't given him a choice, had he? The man had neatly cornered him, eliminating his options one by one: he wasn't responsible for Dana anymore (at least she was safe), he no longer had a means of supporting them, and with the break-in at their apartment, he had nowhere to stay. Except the manor.

Bruce had won. This round.

The boy in the mirror was frowning slightly.

Tim jerked his shirt up, revealing the smooth curve of his side, and nearly tripped over his own duffel bag as he staggered away from the reflection in the mirror. Where the single black smudge had been that morning, now there was a nightmare sunburst of minuscule markings, like the fine strokes of a brush seeping up through the skin. They radiated out in dark lines, fainter strokes accenting a circle here or crescent there, trailing off toward the smooth expanse of his abdomen and curve of his hips. Only a few faint marks had found their way below his waist. He scraped at the skin, half expecting the black to bleed off on his fingers, like someone's idea of a joke with a marker, but it didn't. His nails raised black-marked welts.

The next second he was fumbling for soap and water with shaking hands. He scrubbed until his side felt raw and he was sure he'd taken off a layer of skin with his efforts, but still the marks remained. It was as he stood there, pink-tinged cloth dangling uselessly from one hand, staring in horror at his reflection in the mirror, that he heard the voice, identical to his own, whisper with grim finality:

"He'll be coming soon."

Author Notes: And so we begin to see hints of the terrible title coming into play. Yes, I had to go back and change a line in the previous chapter, and that's what I get for posting before I'm ready. Pft, when I said I was hoping to post for Halloween, the 2013 holiday wasn't what I meant. A year late, and nearly a beta short, but there's hope on the horizon. For those who haven't read the little notes I keep leaving on my profile, yes, I have a lot done. I was hoping to have enough to start posting regularly, but even at nearly 27,000 words, I'm still not close enough to being finished to make promises. I do NOT want to have to go back and change anything else—I find the idea tacky—or lock myself into a box trying not to make changes to the pre-established structure. However, I feel safe guaranteeing it won't be another 6 to 8 month wait.

I cannot begin to tell you how encouraging and helpful your reviews are, and if anyone's wondering, I promise Dick and Jason will return next chapter. There will be tons of them from here on out. (some Damian too, Schnick. More than you already know about)

Oh, someone commented on how Tim recognized Jason and not Dick. There's actually a really straightforward answer to that: Too much deja-vu in one chapter! It's coming… slowly. Just not everything he's capable of remembering at once.