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Chapter 7

Curse

"A curse?" Tim asked warily. He hadn't even considered the possibility. "Like yours?"

"No. This is not how our curse works." Bruce frowned. "I've never seen this specific pattern of marks before."

"How do I break it?"

"There is no single solution to breaking a curse. They're each unique. Sometimes they go away on their own. Sometimes they can be overridden by a more powerful curse. Sometimes they're attached to an object that can be destroyed or purified. Sometimes–"

"I get it." He was going to have to figure out how this had all started, because it was too much to hope the curse would go away on its own. Still, at least he knew what he was dealing with now.

"How long has it been like this?" Bruce asked.

"Four days," Tim replied. He didn't need the little indicators—the tightening around cold blue eyes or press of lips or agitated stir of shadows that always swirled around them—to know where this was going.

"At this rate you'll be consumed in another three."

"My birthday," Tim confirmed grimly.

"Can anything be done to stop it?" Dick asked.

"Without knowing the details of this particular curse—who cast it and why—any meddling on our part could have unexpected results."

"What if we overrode it? Cancel one curse with another?"

"You're suggesting we change him," Jason replied, frowning. "Make him one of us."

"No!" Tim was starting to panic at the direction the conversation was headed.

"It could work."

"I'm not Timothy. I'm not." Tim shook his head, backing away from them, all standing there staring at him. Four pairs of unblinking eyes in perfectly porcelain faces. He was suddenly acutely aware that he was the only normal human in the room. It was Dick who moved first, slow enough that Tim could track it, beaming as he stepped closer.

"Our little human brother." Dick reached out. "Won't you join us?" It was hard to put a dampener on the face of such exuberance. Tim caught himself feeling guilty about disappointing the other boy. He wouldn't let Dick's natural gift for persuasion affect him this time, wouldn't let that smile disarm him. If they changed him, he really would be Timothy.

"No. This isn't my home."

"But it could be. You could belong here." Dick reached out to ruffle his hair, rest a hand on his head fondly, and that warmth, that physical contact, just made it all so much harder. They wanted him to be part of their family. Dick already treated him like a brother, but as nice as that was, he knew it was a different brother the other boy wanted. He couldn't be what they wanted him to be. But…

The offer made him acutely aware of how much he missed being part of a family—where there were people who cared about him, where he was safe, where he was wanted—and how long it had been since he'd lost those things. It was a void he had refused to acknowledge, filling that hole with comforting, cold, predictable data, with work and school.

It would be so easy to accept Dick's offer anyway. To take Timothy's place. Because Timothy had everything Tim had lost. Still, he wouldn't trade one curse for another.

"No."

Dick looked like he might protest, but Jason got there first.

"Give the kid some space, Dickster." Jason clapped a hand on the other boy's shoulder, restraining. "You're drowning him." Dick practically pouted at him, but he backed off. Tim was obscenely grateful for that space.

"We'll search for another solution for now." Bruce looked at each of them in turn, gaze finally falling on Tim with all the weight of inevitability. With those eyes on him, he felt a renewed surge of that panicky, unreasonable fear he was coming to associate with the man and being in his presence. "If it comes down to it, you should be prepared to make a choice." Tim nodded gratefully. If Bruce had decided to push the issue, he didn't know what he would have done. Not with all of them there to catch him. Even the capsule Dick had given him—never out of reach—would have been insufficient by his calculations. Luckily, it wouldn't be necessary. For now.

He was so relieved to know that they were still giving him a choice, it took several seconds to realize the man wasn't done.

"…stay inside from now on." Bruce's tone brooked no argument. "No more excursions."

"You can't just–" But Bruce had already whirled on his heel and headed toward the door. "Wait!" Tim dodged Dick, scurrying to catch up with the older man, unmindful of the "Bets on B" whispered behind him. His hands curled into fists at his side as he reached the bottom of the stairs five steps behind Bruce. "You can't do this!"

Bruce stopped, turning to look down at him, expression flat. "This decision is final."

"You can't keep me here like some kind of prisoner!"

"Are you really going to make me enforce this?" Bruce's eyes were an icy blue, and Tim realized too late that he couldn't look away. The realization sent his heart racing. Even the voice in the back of his head panicked, whispering about ruined plans. He struggled to move his legs, willing himself to turn around, do anything, but he could only stand there, waiting for the words that would fall like bars. "You will not lea–"

Someone jerked him around, broke the connection he was incapable of breaking himself, so that the end of Bruce's sentence went unheeded. "–ve the manor." He was surprised to find it was Jason. Jason's arm coiled tightly around his shoulder blades. Jason pulling him close, out of Bruce's reach. This time, Tim didn't mind Jason's restraining hold.

Dick was a second behind him. Both looked furious.

They didn't say anything, just stared up the stairs at the man standing there. Tim's fingers curled tightly in the safety of Jason's shirt, eyes wide. The older boy smelled faintly of blood and leather, and somehow Tim found that calming just then. Each breath was a little steadier than the last. He swallowed, and it was only then he realized he was trembling—the finest of shivers in his grip on Jason—and he wanted to believe it was rage, but it felt more like fear. When he dared to glance back at Bruce, Jason's grip tightened to stop him, pressing his head against the older boy's chest, keeping him from fully turning. He couldn't completely see, but out of the corner of his eye, he thought he made out a slight softening in Bruce's expression. Only a second's worth. It almost looked like remorse. Then the man was gone, fading into the shadows at the top of the stairs.

Watching him go, there was a very unhelpful voice in the back of Tim's head, whispering, "He used to be happier. So many things have changed."

It was only then Jason's grip loosened.

"He was always protective," Dick said, "but now…"

"He's a monster," Tim finished.

"He cares about you, kid. He's just bad at showing it."

Tim shuddered one last time. It had nothing to do with the prickle of fear he always felt around the man. He just didn't always much care for Bruce's way of caring.

Tim woke up panting with the feel of cold steel slicing through his skin. Suddenly the blankets were too heavy, the shadows in the room stifling. They felt like hands, still grasping him, still holding him down, still lifting him up. He threw them off, scrambling to get off the bed.

He'd known better than to try sleeping. Anymore the nightmares were always right there, waiting for him when he closed his eyes: the slide of shadows closing in. But he'd been so tired after everything that had happened, he couldn't concentrate.

Something moved out of the corner of his eye, a stirring in the darkness—not the strange shift of shadows that always accompanied the other members of the household but more like that night on the roof. And just like before, there was nothing there when he turned to look, except… were the shadows thicker? Yes, he could see it now, the way they bled black across the floor and along the wall, bleeding together, taking on new shape. And suddenly the shadows were hands, fingers like claws, bulky shoulders, burning eyes. Tim blinked, trying to dispel the vision, trying to make the hulking nightmare in front of him turn back into the dresser shadow it was supposed to be. It wasn't bad enough he had to see them when he slept—they had to follow him awake now too?

They closed in on him, reaching for him with those nightmarish hands, and Tim wasn't claustrophobic, but it felt like suffocating all the same when they closed off the gaps, encircling him in a solid black ring of smoldering heat. He gasped for air—hot, acrid air—and inhaled cinders. Then one of those grasping hands wrapped around his forearm, a fever heat licking his skin. He was going to pass out. He was going to…

Someone flung the door open, letting the low lamplight from the hall spill in, and the hulking shapes in the darkness dissolved with wordless howls. Tim gasped as he dropped to the floor.

Dick had probably been watching over him—they'd decided to take turns guarding him, despite his protests. He'd thought it would be awkward, an infringement on his privacy, but right just then he was glad. Glad, because it meant Dick was right there, unblinking in the doorway. The other boy had probably heard the scuff of his feet the minute they'd hit the floor, the too-quick gasp of his breaths.

Seeing Dick always involved hugs or hands or kisses or some other form of physical contact. Tim had always born it with a measure of patience, resignation and fondness, even when it was unwanted. At that moment, skin still burning from the flesh-memory of the blade and the heat of the shadows, he was only glad when Dick took one look at him and wrapped him into a crushing hug. It didn't matter if it was too tight. Tim couldn't have breathed just then if he'd wanted to.

It hurt how much he wanted to trust Dick just then—trust this family, even with all their flaws, even after they'd nearly turned his freedom into a democratic vote.

"What…?" Tim fought for words past the constriction in his throat and the trembling. "What was that?"

"Demons," whispered the voice Tim had come to associate with Timothy, sounding somewhere between troubled and derisive. "Nothing but shadows of soulless men, slaves to a master. Will-less, pathetic creatures." Tim tamped down on the hysterical little laugh that bubbled up.

"Right. Demons. Of course. Why didn't I think of that?"

"What are you talking about?" Dick pulled away enough to really look at him, worried, because of course, he couldn't hear the little voice. Tim forced a reassuring smile, shoving all his troubles over for the moment. He wasn't ready to let them know how much he was losing it.

"Just…" It wasn't hard to look exhausted. "Nightmares." Dick hesitated and Tim had the feeling he hadn't completely fooled the other boy. Not surprising. The Waynes could all read him uncannily well—a feat he suspected only partially owing to their powers of perception and more due to how well they knew him, or knew Timothy.

Ultimately, Dick nodded, accepting the explanation, and guided Tim to a settee in the hall, settling them both comfortably on the cushions. It was so easy to let Dick sweep him along. He really was exhausted and overwhelmed.

Dick's fingers brushed his cheek, tracing lines along his jaw up under his eye, and Tim knew without asking that it was worse again. If he looked, there would be inky lettering following those lines across his face.

Tim pulled away, wrapping his arms around his knees, back pressing into the pile of pillows in the corner of the settee. If he touched his face, he wouldn't feel anything, but he felt tainted anyway.

"We'll stop this." Dick placed his hands on his lap—possibly to keep from reaching out and touching again, reassuring the way he knew best with presses of fingertips and tousled hair. "We'll figure it out. We won't let the curse take you away."

"I don't think…" The feel of cold steel embedded in his abdomen was still stark in his mind. "We don't know if the curse will kill me."

"It's awfully convenient timing either way."

Yes, because if it wasn't the curse, then something was killing him, or someone—there had definitely been something in his room a minute ago, demons or not—and he had enough to worry about already without adding to his troubles.

Tim startled at the particularly obvious flicker of a shadow at Dick's side, settling only when he was sure it was just part of the normal misbehavior of shadows around the other members of the household. He was still jumpy from the episode in the bedroom.

"Why do they do that?"

"This?" Dick followed Tim's gaze and squashed one of the shadows with his hand, proving that it was indeed flat, despite the fact that it shifted belatedly to fit between his splayed fingers. "Bruce thinks it's a defense mechanism. It distracts people from focusing on us." He rolled his hand, watching the bits of darkness cling to his fingers drunkenly. "I've always thought it was a reminder that we're cursed. Even the shadows know we're more a part of their world."

"Do you regret it?"

"No." Dick smiled knowingly. He'd probably figured out why Tim was asking. "It's difficult to lose friends, to watch everyone else grow older and die, but then, I never would have met them in the first place if I hadn't accepted Bruce's offer."

"And you have the others."

"And I have this family," Dick agreed, looking at him significantly. "The ones who have stuck around."

It occurred to Tim that it must have been twice as hard for Dick, who was already so dependent on attachments to friends and family, to lose one of the few people he thought would stay with him forever.

He shook his head, shaking off his contemplations. This wasn't getting him anywhere. He needed something to focus on.

"Tell me… Tell me about Timothy. What was he like? How did he die?" Was he stabbed?

"What is there to tell?" Dick hummed, a pleasant sound that somehow eased more of the tension from Tim's shoulders. "He was a lot like you. Clever. Resourceful."

"What about morally? Would he have sacrificed someone else to save himself?" Maybe the voice wasn't Timothy, but if there was even a possibility that it was, or that he was Timothy reincarnated, he had to know what kind of person he was dealing with. Dick didn't take offense at the slight to Timothy's memory. He shook his head.

"If anything, he would have sacrificed himself to save everyone else."

"Even if–"

"No matter what." Dick shook his head again. "That's what we did. That's what we do, every night: risk our own lives to save others. Maybe Timothy took fewer risks than the rest of us, that's all."

"What do you mean?"

"Timothy didn't jump into situations. He thought them out. He won fights before they started, calculated courses of action with near infallibility, and it only got worse when he accepted the curse." There was something of fond reminiscence on the other boy's face.

"Worse?" Tim pressed.

"He once said it was like he could see all the possibilities mapped out before him, the course most likely to be taken. He had an… uncanny capacity to prepare for probable outcomes."

"But he still died." That might have been a little cruel he realized, when Dick winced at the bluntness of the wording. So Tim softened his tone when he asked, "How did it happen?"

"He was poisoned."

Tim frowned. Poisoned. What was he seeing in his nightmares then? Memories? Warnings? He had to know. He had to know.

"Dick." He took a steadying breath. "Will you do something for me?"

"Anything."

"I want you to ask me some questions." He paused. "I want you to… make me answer them."

"No." Dick inhaled sharply, pulling back. "How can you ask me that? After what happened last time."

"Please."

"We don't even know what went wrong last time. This whole situation… it's unique. Messing with it could be dangerous."

"Bruce asked the wrong question."

"And you think you can ask the right ones?" If anything, Dick's scowl deepened. "You think you can do better than someone with centuries of practice?"

"He asked me what I remembered." Tim took a deep breath at the memory, fingers digging into the upholstery of the settee. "But the memories he wanted were buried. When he asked, it brought those memories to the surface." All at once. One blinding heap of pain and fear, living and dying. Years and years worth of information. He couldn't have communicated it all to Bruce if he'd had the rest of his life. He'd lost himself, drowned in the deluge, and had only managed to reassert himself by blocking it all out, rebuilding the wall it had come through. A wall he'd never before realized was there, but now felt acutely aware of. Only the damage had been done, and the images kept coming back through, creeping into his mind via nightmare and bouts of déjà vu. He couldn't shut them out now. "That is to say, I don't know what's going on, but…" It was time to tell someone what he didn't even want to admit to himself—time to trust one of the people he wasn't sure he could trust, because he didn't have time not to trust them. "But I think Timothy does." Dick went carefully still, all the little shadows stilling around him.

"What do you mean?" he asked warily. "What do you mean, Timothy does?"

"I can hear him. He says things. At least, it has to be Timothy." He leaned forward, not releasing those shocked blue eyes, willing Dick to understand. They could do this. They just had to be more specific about their questions. "Please, Dick. I need your help."

"Oh, Tim." For a minute he thought the other boy was going to hug him again—wrap him up in strong arms and make it all magically better—but he only said, "You won't like it if I do it." Dick didn't look right without his smile. It was unusual to see him so somber. That gave Tim pause more than anything, but...

"There's no one else." The thought of asking Bruce sent unwanted shivers down his spine. Jason was unreliable—who knew when they'd see him again. He'd probably call Tim an idiot for asking anyway. And Damian was out of the question. There was no way he was letting that little brat poke around in his head.

"If I think for a second this is going south, we end it." Dick turned on the settee so he was sitting cross-legged facing Tim, looking every bit as beautiful and deadly as he was. "Turn around." Tim complied, turning so his back was to Dick. "Now, tell me what you want me to ask." So Tim did, letting the hands on his shoulders pull him back, guiding him down until his head rested on Dick's lap. If any of his questions surprised the other boy, it didn't show. Those crystal blue eyes stared down at him, regarding him calmly.

"I'm ready."

It wasn't like the time with Bruce. In some ways, it was easier. He'd made this choice. He'd told Dick what to ask. It was the reassuring thought that sustained him when he felt Dick's will superimpose his own. The change was subtle, not anything obvious. Even that was different than with Bruce. He didn't have to answer Dick. He wanted to. It was a spreading restlessness along his limbs, the need for contact to ground him…

Tim felt the tiniest thread of worry as he realized what Dick had tried to warn him about, and then it was too late.

He lifted his head. One hand hooked around the back of Dick's neck, threading through dark locks of hair, trying to press them closer together, needing that contact.

"Tim." Dick's hand went to his shoulders, carefully pressing him down with a fond smile. "Focus." Easier said than done, and anyway, it was useless talking to Tim, because he wasn't the one answering anymore. He ignored the directive, turning his attention instead to the hand holding him down, tilting his head to brush the thumb with his cheek.

"Timothy." Reluctantly he turned to look up at the crystal blue eyes staring down at him. "Is that your name?"

"You know it is, Richard." He frowned and stretched—a slow coil of muscle that couldn't relieve the need to touch and feel and hold—and concentrated instead on the silky black hair between his fingers. "I hate it when you do this to me. I know what you're doing, and I can't… hnnn." The restlessness was driving him crazy. All of his rigid control neatly undone under Dick's thrall. He was going to kick the older boy for this later. He was. Even if it broke all his toes.

"Timothy," Dick breathed. "Timothy." A deluge of expression flitted across his face—relief, joy, confusion. It was more emotion than Tim had ever seen on his face at once, on any of the Waynes. Maybe Dick hadn't believed him up until that point, or maybe he just hadn't dared hope, or maybe hoping and knowing were two different things. Dick opened his mouth. He looked like he wanted to ask something, everything—all the questions that were bundled up inside him. A century of questions.

And Tim could tell he was in imminent danger of being hugged to death. This was getting them nowhere.

"Richaaaaaard," it was meant to be a complaint, a warning when the older boy started to pull Tim more completely into his lap, wrapping him up as if he'd never let go, but it came out more airy and desperate. That was the severe constriction of Dick's arms pressing on his chest, surely. He jerked mercilessly on the strands of hair he still had in his possession to make his point.

Luckily, Dick took the hint, easing up if not completely releasing his possessive hold—Tim could forgive him for that considering the situation and the other boy's need to touch things to assure himself they were real—and finally got around to asking the questions he was supposed to be asking.

"How did you come by the curse you're under?" He untangled Tim's hand in his hair, threading his own fingers through it instead and gently pulling it away. On some level, Tim knew he'd be glad for that later. Right just then he frowned in dissatisfaction.

"I was born with it." That was one answer. But not the one they needed. Dick corrected the question.

"How did you originally come by it?" With his free hand, Dick cupped the side of Tim's face, keeping him from stretching up by tapping fingertips under the delicate curve of a jaw.

"I was stabbed." Tim turned his face into it, murmuring softly, and Dick gave up, obligingly offering his thumb for inspection, humming when it was taken between tongue and teeth.

"How can it be broken?"

"The seventh sacrifice must be made, or the corruption must consume the host, or the curse itself must be–" Dick interrupted him hurriedly.

"Are there any options that don't end in death?"

"The source must be destroyed."

"Source?"

"What are you doing?" Damian stood several feet down the hall, scowling at Tim where he lay in Dick's lap. The unexpected interruption startled Tim. He blinked, trying to push himself up, but firm hands on his shoulders kept him down. Tim squirmed, suddenly awkward, suddenly acutely aware of his position.

"Damian," Dick acknowledged. "I wasn't expecting…"

"Isn't it my turn to guard the freak?" he snapped. "Like I don't have more important things to do than keep some pathetic idiot from getting himself killed." Dick's smile was warm and all for Damian.

"I appreciate it, but I'll stay with him a little longer." For some reason, that seemed to upset Damian more than his half-hearted complaint over guard duty. The look he shot Tim was feral, half contemptuous, and Tim tried once again to get out of his awkward position in Dick's lap. A distant part of him wondered idly if it was bad that he had come to accept awkward situations as the norm when dealing with Dick.

Before he could make any progress, Damian turned fluidly on his heel, all dark grace even in his anger, and stalked away without a word.

Dick watched him go, then turned back to Tim, bright smile spreading across his face. Tim could feel it too: the contagious warmth of hope.

"So we're looking for a cursed object capable of stabbing someone?" Dick asked, and Tim felt some of the exhilaration drain out of him, remembering where he'd heard of such an object.

"I know what it is."

It didn't take long to find Bruce so they could fill him in. Dick had only to listen for the sound of the man's heart—a lulling sound as familiar as his own, always on the edge of his awareness—and follow it to the computer in the cave, Tim at his heels. They weren't the only ones who'd been working on the problem.

"Any luck?" he asked, coming up behind the large figure backlit by the glow of the screen.

"Not yet," Bruce grunted, and then turned to regard the pair of them expectantly, perhaps having caught Dick's good mood. "What did you find?"

Tim got straight to the point, opening the red laptop he'd dragged along and pulling up the information. It spilled across the screen.

"This is what we're looking for." There wasn't a picture. The report was too old. But the description was clear enough. It was a dagger, stolen from the Museum of Antiquities a century ago.

"Hey! Wait a second…" Dick said, looking closer at the screen. "Wasn't there some rumor that that dagger granted immortality? It caused all sorts of trouble before it was stolen. Timothy worked that case. It was about a week before…" He petered off, but Bruce's lips had already thinned, gaze gaining that hooded, moody look he always had when someone brought up Timothy's murder.

Tim nodded, unbothered.

"I happened on the report while looking up some information. The problem is this: the dagger was never recovered. It's been so long since it was lost, it could be anywhere."

"Time isn't always an enemy," Bruce replied. "Try a search. Someone may have found it in the century since." He started to place a hand on Tim's shoulder, but aborted the gesture halfway, folding his arms across his chest instead. Tim didn't catch it, focused as he was, but Dick did. In that moment, he wanted more than anything to tell Bruce what he'd found out about Timothy—that he'd been right, that Timothy was alive, alive!—but he knew the man wouldn't believe him without a hardcopy of the proof.

"Already on it." Tim's fingers flew across the keyboard, bringing up new screens. Dick watched from over his shoulder for a few minutes before slowly turning to his own thoughts, troubled by earlier events.

"Bruce." Dick caught the older man's arm while Tim was distracted, absorbed in the search. He kept his voice low, not wanting to disturb the boy. "There may have been demons."

"Here?"

Dick nodded, watching the shift of nearly imperceptible emotions over Bruce's face in the slight indent of a frown and calculating slide of eyes, finally settling into hard resolve.

"There are a couple leads I need to check into. Cover my shifts. Find Jason if you have to. I want someone with him at all times." Dick's mouth curved into a smile at the mention of Jason. He'd seen more of the other boy in the time since they'd found Tim than in the decade before that. Something told him Jason would be more than willing to help.

"That, I can do."

Author Notes: This. This family. It's got my kind of dysfunctional written all over it. I am sooo going to have to repair Tim and Bruce's relationship at the end of this. Or will it be Timothy and Bruce? Hmm. It's not strictly stated, but I feel that using powers on another member of the family without their knowledge or permission is highly frowned upon. As for the dagger, it was mentioned earlier in this story. Did you catch that? I was shocked to discover several weeks ago that there really was a dagger stolen from the Museum of Antiquities in the comics! This is not the same dagger, but I did pattern the description after it in later chapters because I was so excited when I found out about it.

Just watched the Son of Batman movie, and I am in a mad must-post-Tim-fics flurry to make up for the blatant removal of Tim's role in the film (his suit wasn't even with the cases!). I did like the blander, not-completely-detestable Damian introduction they revamped. But that is beside the point. The point is, due to my… screaming internal fangirl over the lack of my favorite Robin, I am determined to try to post a chapter every week until the actual release date of the film—assuming I figure out my ch. 8 hang up before next week.

I noticed that there wasn't any competition in guessing the antagonist: everyone guessed Ra's. I can tell you only this: Ra's is indeed in this story. Also, I couldn't write ninja seriously, so I had a stroke of inspiration and turned them into demons. What does it say about me that I can write demon without laughing but not ninja?

Lastly, ever since ffnet added the review reply feature, I've honestly been trying to use that, buuut this one user has their PMs turned off and won't allow me to reply, and I really wanted to respond. So:

Obsessivebookdiva: Oh! There are other vampire Batfam fics that are decent! If you're looking for Tim fics, then admittedly there are fewer of them. I can't link these here, so you'll have to do a search if you're interested. Safe-ish fics first: Like Father and its sequel, Like Son (Jason/Dick, on Tumblr), Play Me A Song (Bruce, Dick, on ff. net), Driven to Distraction (Bruce, Tim, on Tumblr). Un-safe-ish fics: The Low Bar (Tim/Jason, on ao3). If I'm not being picky about reccing vamp fics, I have an entire master list of vamp!batfam fics I've found. Also, I have more vamp!Tim fics I've written myself on Tumblr, (okay, the one I like best isn't posted yet because it's incomplete, but...) which is where I post (incomplete/tiny/cliché/slash/not-good-enough) anything I don't deem worthy to post here. I don't broadcast that as much, but it's there.