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Chapter 5

Secret

Tim woke up clawing at the darkness, heaving against the sense of everything closing in, suffocating him. This time the shadows unraveled to reveal watery evening, quickly waning into sunless gloom. He could have groaned. He'd tried to get a few hours of sleep several times throughout the day, all with limited success. If it wasn't nightmares waking him up, it was the sense of disquiet, of things being subtly wrong. The sleep he did get was troubled, disturbed by vague impressions of being watched—a shadow behind his closed eyes, beyond the reach of his fingertips. When he woke, there was never anyone there. Perhaps the room felt a little darker, the air a little heavier. Or maybe it was just the remnants of sleep wearing off, his exhaustion-battered consciousness still muddling details.

The first time he'd woken too early that morning, he'd thrown himself back into the search for a syllabary containing any of the marks along his midriff, determined to make headway. When he could no longer focus on that, he'd trained for an hour in the gym, and finally tried vainly for sleep again. Apparently it was no use. And yet, exhaustion still hung heavily, weighing him down.

Resigned, he got up and walked to the bathroom, where he splashed water on his face and wished it could wash away the last couple of days along with the sweat and dirt—wished he could watch it all run down the drain and find he was back in the apartment with Dana. No one mistaking him for anyone else, no markings, no…

"He knows."

Tim jerked, the water in his cupped hands splashing across the counter and floor, but the bathroom was empty. Nothing moved except for himself and his reflection, a perfect replica reflected back at him of the boy he'd seen in the painting in the hall.

"There's not much time left. He knows and he's coming."

Tim's hands clenched down hard on the counter.

"Who?" he demanded, becoming increasingly more frustrated. "Knows what? Coming for what?" But the boy in the mirror didn't respond, and there was no one else. He was talking to himself. "You're dead," he whispered, as though saying it would help him believe it. He was losing his mind. "You're dead." He raised a fist, prepared to shatter that pale imitation in the mirror, but sudden motion had him whirling toward the door instead, heart leaping in alarm. He half expected a ghost, so it was almost a relief to find Damian standing there, watching him, mouth twisted with disdain.

That relief didn't last long.

"What is wrong with you?" the boy asked. Tim hurriedly dropped his hand, even though it was too late. Damian had seen. How much did he know? How much could he guess? Sane people didn't talk to empty rooms. Sane people didn't try to smash their reflections in. If the others figured out Tim was hearing voices—hearing Timothy's voice—which one would they try to save?

Tim didn't bother answering Damian's question. It was bad enough the boy had caught him in the middle of a breakdown. He certainly wasn't going to reveal any other mentally unbalanced behavior for the night.

"What do you want?"

Damian ignored him, stepping onto the linoleum floor instead so he could circle slowly around behind Tim, studying him as if he were some enemy encampment that had unexpectedly popped up in previously neutral territory.

"So you're Timothy." The proclamation hit just a little too close to home right then, and for a second Tim thought Damian knew.

"I'm not." The denial came out a little more vehement than it should have, rushed by the brief flare of panic. Was this some sort of trick to find out the truth? But no…

"Father's investigation indicates otherwise."

"What investigation?" Because he should have known Bruce wasn't just checking out the attack on Dana. It was no more than he himself would have done—was doing, prying for information about the Waynes. What had the man found?

From the smug little smirk on the brat's face, Tim had just taken the bait. And that was how he ended up following Damian down to the cave and the computer he was beginning to think of as The Beast. Damian got there first—practically skipped ahead, movements blurring with easy speed.

"Take your time," Damian said, turning to lean against the chair as he waited. "It's not like I have better things to do than wait for you."

"Other people to harass, perhaps?" Tim asked. "Evil schemes to hatch?" He reached the computer a bit behind, but he had nothing to prove to this boy. "What's this about?"

"See for yourself." With a few clicks, Damian had a collage of images scattered across the screen: photos, obituaries, school records. At first Tim thought the photos were all of the same person, but as he looked closer at the files, he realized they all had different names, different birthdates, different obituaries all exactly sixteen years apart.

Tim began to feel sick. He sank into the chair, echoing the sinking feeling in his stomach. He didn't like where this was going. Not one bit.

Damian's smirk was self-satisfied, perched on the console, looking down at him. There was only one good thing about Damian—he never brought on any bouts of déjà vu. Looking at him, Tim felt absolutely nothing.

"It takes a truly impressive capacity for failure to die that many times. Why did you bother coming back at all?"

"Damian!" Bruce appeared at the top of the steps, an imposing figure in all black, glare leveled at the boy in question. It was that glare—the one that made lesser men turn themselves in and promise to go straight. Damian managed to look unruffled.

"I was just showing Drake his past accomplishments." He hopped down from his perch on the console, unrepentant.

"You're banned from patrol tomorrow."

"He doesn't belong here." Damian's shoulders rose defensively, leaning forward in his anger. "He's not one of us."

"Another word and I'll make it a week."

Tim thought Damian would push it—he positively trembled with outrage—but no. Apparently even he knew the limits. After a few tense seconds, he left, lips clamped closed, radiating resentment, but still managing a proud, dignified clip as he departed. Bruce's cold eyes followed him the entire way, considering. Only once he was out of sight did Bruce turn, glancing at the incriminating evidence on the screen.

"Tim," he acknowledged. "I know you must be ups–"

"Save it." Tim shoved aside the slow creep of fear that accompanied facing the man, wearing righteous indignation like a cape, and Bruce shifted a fraction, what might have passed for awkward.

"I didn't mean for you to see this."

"So you were going to hide it from me?"

"That's not…" Bruce reached out to put a placating hand on his shoulder. It was a familiar gesture. Too familiar. Tim was blacking out before the full weight of that hand had even fully settled. He jerked sharply to his feet, knocking the man's hand away, panicked.

"Don't!" It was more than that hand he knocked away—it was the forced feelings of familiarity, the welling up of warm camaraderie, foreign feelings suddenly connecting them. He didn't want to know, didn't want to feel like they'd done this a dozen times. He didn't want to have anything to do with Bruce just then. For a fraction of a second something akin to hurt flickered in that impenetrable gaze. Then it was gone, shifting back into unreadable blue. Tim took one last look at the monitor, at all the photos of himself with different names, and felt the corners of his mouth tighten.

"Stop trying to find in me someone I'm not." He pivoted on his heel and headed out of the room.

Tim's flight stalled in the middle of the foyer, back up in the manor, everything catching up with him: all those pictures, all those faces. He had to hand it to Damian, the boy knew just where to hit to get to him. He was still reeling. Just because there were a bunch of dead boys who looked like him, it didn't prove he was… what? Timothy reincarnated? Was that even possible? Of course there were going to be other people who looked like him. With several billion people on the planet, there were only so many possible variations, but… But he didn't like the amount of evidence, all the same. Didn't like how many of them there were, how their deaths formed a perfect sixteen-year pattern, didn't like how familiar the details of their lives were. Man, what a mess.

Abruptly he turned toward the kitchen, decisive. It was a lot of information to take in, and he couldn't deal with it feeling empty and lightheaded. He needed something to eat.

A minute later found him surrounded by pristine countertops, rummaging through the cabinets for something suitably breakfast related. He could do with a bagel or some toast or… He nearly jumped when he turned to find Dick casually holding out the cereal. This family was going to be the death of him.

"You can't read minds too, can you?" he asked warily, taking the offered cereal. Dick shook his head.

"You're just the same as ever." And Tim really didn't want to think about that—that Dick knew him so well. It left him unsettled. He'd never met these people. "Bowls are in the cupboard to your right," Dick continued, flopping down at the table, where he proceeded to watch Tim lazily over haphazardly crossed arms, head resting on the wood. He made even that look graceful and art-like. Tim shook his head, gathering up the milk, a bowl and a spoon before taking up a chair opposite.

He poured himself a bowl, eating several spoonfuls before looking up. Dick was still watching him.

"Did you need something?" he asked archly.

"Actually, I came to deliver a present." Dick grinned widely, pulling said present out from its hiding spot and holding it out. Surprised, Tim eyed it curiously, setting aside his meal in favor of the more interesting, brilliantly wrapped rectangular gift. He nearly dropped it when he took it from Dick, not expecting the sudden weight. The older boy made it look light, but it was heavy—heavy enough to need both hands. With those anticipatory blue eyes on him, Tim stripped off the wrapping paper, shaking his head.

If this was some attempt to win him over…

Okay, it was working. It only took a minute to remove the packaging and then he was running his hands over the red cover of the laptop reverently, opening it to feel the weight of the keys—not too stiff, full keyboard. Perfect. Dick took his silent reverence as acceptance.

"Thought you might like it. We took the liberty of making some modifications. It can access the same systems and databases as the computer in the batcave, almost as quickly." Dick waved a hand as if to say, Laptops, what can you do? Tim struggled for words, flustered and wary. Accepting it would put him in their debt, but…

"What's the catch?" he asked finally.

"No catch. Wait, I take that back. You have to let me hug you anytime I want." Dick's grin was nearly Cheshire.

"You made that up," Tim accused, crossing his arms mock-sternly. But when Dick only laughed and wrapped him up in clingy, octopus arms, Tim allowed it, resigned. Dick's enthusiasm was contagious, and even if he felt that the older boy had the wrong idea about him still, it didn't mean he couldn't borrow that willingly offered warmth.

It had been a long time since anyone had hugged him.

"See? Doesn't this make everything better?" Dick asked, not seeming about to let go anytime soon. Tim squirmed, testing the limits of his Dick-cage.

"You never change." Tim's fond exasperation evaporated when he realized what he'd said, but Dick only ruffled his hair affectionately, hug tightening before finally easing up.

"Never," he agreed. Dick was the only one who didn't look at him strangely when he slipped like that, foreign memories bleeding into his own. Ever since that night with Bruce and that one awful question: What else do you remember? It had changed everything, and well, on the one hand, he was grateful to Dick for accepting those idiosyncrasies so unreservedly and not calling him out. On the other hand, he knew it was because Dick was the only one who outright thought of him as Timothy, if with some kind of amnesia, and the bits of information Tim shouldn't have been able to recall just proved his point. Tim didn't want to prove any points. He didn't want to have anything to do with Timothy at all.

He closed the cover of the laptop with a click.

"Do you believe in reincarnation?" he asked abruptly, watching for the older boy's reaction.

"No. At least…" Dick's eyes hooded for a moment, lashes lowering to shade brilliant blue. "No one I've cared about has ever come back before now." He tilted his head curiously. "What brought this on?"

"I saw the pictures."

"Oh good." Dick beamed. "I told Bruce you deserved to know." Tim didn't bother correcting Dick's notion of how he'd found out. Instead, he leaned forward.

"No one has come back before? No one at all?"

Dick seemed to consider. "I've met several people who could stretch the definition of death, and Dami's grandfather once came back by possessing his son's body. But whatever this is with you, I don't think it's so simple. Even if it is possible, what are the chances you'd come back looking the same every time?" He paused. "Die so young every time? I say there's more to it, something we haven't figured out yet."

Tim gnawed at the confirmation of his own thoughts moodily, turning the spoon over in its bowl. If they were talking about this like it was possible, then…

"They died, all of them, at the age of sixteen." He didn't have to say whom. The distracting clank of the spoon was suddenly very welcome. He didn't look at Dick. Objectivity was hard to grasp just then. "What if…?"

"No," Dick denied fiercely, reaching out to grasp Tim's arm bracingly. Tim looked at it there, warm and supportive, before following it up to finally look Dick in the eyes. "We won't let that happen. We're going to figure this out. We're going to stop it." The older boy looked dangerously close to a hug again.

Tim smiled thinly. It was too bad Dick was of the wanting-Timothy-back persuasion, because he would have liked to trust the older boy, but some things were just going to have to remain a secret for the time being. Unconsciously, Tim rubbed at his side where the shirt hid the black markings underneath. Something about his posture must have given him away, because Dick's blue eyes were suddenly searching his.

"If you remember anything…"

Tim stood abruptly, cutting him off. The spoon clattered loudly to a stop in the bowl.

"I don't."

Tim sat on top of the comforter on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, bare toes curled into the layers of blankets, brooding again. The red laptop sat to the side, open, screen glowing warmly. He'd checked it for any bugs, deleted all the history from his previous session and cleared the cache just in case anyone wanted to snoop. He wouldn't put it past certain other members of the household. He had the feeling the Waynes considered snooping a family rite, and he wasn't about to make it easier for them.

A myriad of papers lay arrayed around him in a perfect circle—hard copies he'd have to burn later. The mirror on the dresser showed how useless it all was: the depths of his failure reflected back at him in vibrant black reminders across his chest. Panic was fast becoming a painful grip.

Abruptly he jerked toward the dresser where he'd stored his clothes, wrenching the drawer open and pulling out a red turtleneck.

Papers scattered with the sudden movement, like a storm of white wings, fluttering to their death on the floor. It was amazing how much information was available through the laptop's connection with the batcomputer: a children's tape responsible for several murders across the country, a report on the apparent freezing over of hell, a cursed dagger stolen nearly a century ago—but not the answers he needed. No secret file on black markings like his.

He pulled the top over his head, the panic only assuaged when the high collar covered the faint markings he'd found that morning creeping up his throat.

And then there was the other problem. Tim would never admit to Bruce that he'd catalogued the research Damian had shown him. Even if he desperately wanted to discount it, there was too much at stake, and all those dates were too perfect, the faces too uncannily similar to be a coincidence. Whether he liked it or not, he had to admit there was a connection there.

Worse, when he looked at the names, he found he inexplicably knew little pieces of information: one had a friend he always met on the roof, one worked at the library, one's father owned a large company. His hands shook gathering the pages. He'd never felt more estranged, more alone, than kneeling there, head full of the shards of other boys' lives.

They'd all died at sixteen. Tim roughly shoved aside the analytical whisper that noted how few days he had left. He didn't have time for voices. Didn't have time to go crazy.

He didn't have any time at all.

Author Note: It's my daughter's birthday! I'm celebrating with fanfiction. Shorter chapter again, but the next one's long, and I'll try to post it a little sooner since I feel that this chapter didn't get us very far. Fear not, Jason fans, for there is a lot of him next chapter. Jason is sooo going to get embroiled in this. Yus. More Jason.

Speaking of which… If you care to answer, which character/s are you reading this story for? Wondering, because this is a Tim story, but I believe there are a lot more Dick and Jason fans than Tim fans in the world, and I'm curious.

I have created an entire excel spreadsheet detailing the activities of the 7 days leading up to the conclusion of this fic in an attempt to keep track of everything. Especially Tim's sleeping habits. Heaven help me, I hope I have it all right.